Hold Her Heart (Words of the Heart) (2 page)

I could almost hear her. She’d tell me that my time with Carey wasn’t wasted.
Every experience has something worthwhile to teach you. Something you can carry with you into the next chapter of your life
, she’d say. I was certain about this because she’d said those words, or something close to them, so many times. Then she’d tell me again about how she’d wanted a baby so desperately and how much she’d suffered when the doctor had told her that she’d never conceive.

But Siobhan, it was such a blessing in retrospect because all along you were the daughter I was meant to have. Every piece of pain we suffer brings us a gift. You were my gift. The greatest gift I’ve ever received.

For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what life lesson Carey carried, other than I should avoid dating men like him in the future. And certainly he was a warning not to live with a guy like him again ever. Maybe I shouldn’t live with anyone again. I sometimes feel I’m much better on my own than when surrounded by people.

As for gifts, I wasn’t expecting to find one of those on my porch waiting for me. Instead, I’d found this stranger and had to deliver painful news.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. That summed up my feelings about everything that was going on today.

“No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have been more clear. I’m here about your biological mother. I met her on a front porch, too, you know,” he added as if the memory were so strong that he didn’t have a choice but to share it.

Another loud Carey-induced noise didn’t faze me in the least now. At the mention of my biological mother I froze. “How? What?”

“Listen, she didn’t send me. She doesn’t know I’m here.” Ned spoke quickly, as if afraid I’d turn around, go back into the house, and slam the door on him.

“She needs you. You’re her last best chance.” He stopped there, as if saying those five words caused him physical pain.

“I would never have bothered you if she had any options left,” he continued. “And she will never forgive me for bothering you now. I’ve decided that I can live without her forgiveness, but I can’t live without her.”

His words sank in.
Last best chance. Can’t live without her.

“She’s sick?” I asked.

He nodded. “I wanted to bring you the whole of your story, but it’s not mine to tell. Hell, even this much isn’t mine to tell. I know she’d say I was guilting you into helping her. I probably am. But I brought you this.”

He thrust some papers at me. I glanced at them. They were obviously copies of some smaller handwritten pages. I took them more out of reflex than because I wanted them. I wasn’t sure what to do with this man on my doorstep and some phantom biological mother who needed me. A birth mother who was sick.

I could see the anguish in Ned’s face, and I knew that he loved her.

Truly loved her.

“Ban,” Carey hollered.

I didn’t respond. I looked at this man whose love was written on his face. There’s no way to quantify or measure love, but if there were, Carey’s love for me wouldn’t have measured up to Ned’s love for my biological mother.

“My wife spent years writing a journal to you,” he said. “It’s in your chest with all the other letters and gifts. I copied just these few pages. I wanted you to know at least this much. I came here not to force a meeting but to ask you to consider having the tests done.”

“Tests done for what?” I finally asked.

I wondered if I should be crying. I hadn’t cried about Carey, and here I was hearing about the woman I’d always wondered about, and I still felt nothing. It was as if all my emotions were balled so tight that none of them could get through. Not pain. Not fear. Not empathy. Not . . .

I had nothing inside me to give to this man who was pleading his case. So I stood, feeling shell-shocked, clutching papers I didn’t think I wanted.

“Your biological mother, my wife, needs bone marrow. She’s on the national donor registry, but so far there’s no good match. She doesn’t have siblings, and her parents aren’t viable matches, which isn’t surprising. But you could be. The doctors said that it would be a long shot. Kid to parent transplants aren’t the norm, but a long shot is better than no shot.”

The woman I’d always imagined wasn’t someone who was sick. I’d imagined her with a large family. I’d wondered if she had ever thought of me . . . if she ever regretted giving me away.

I loved my parents and owed this woman I’d never met for that. By giving me away, she’d given me such a happy childhood. She’d given me to parents who treasured me and made sure I knew that I was loved every day.

“She isn’t asking. She wouldn’t ask. You need to understand that much. That’s not who Pip is. She’s someone who gives more than she’ll ever take. But I
am
asking. I’m not nearly as generous as she is. Standing here right now, I realize just how selfish I am. And still I’m standing here. I’m not asking, I’m begging.”

“Ban,” Carey bellowed.

Ned reached into his pocket. “I know I’ve totally botched this, but here’s my card. If you don’t call, I won’t bother you again. But Siobhan, you have to know, Pip never forgot you. You might not know her, but she built a life around you, and she’s never stopped hoping that you’d find your way back to her.”

With that, Ned Chesterfield turned and walked toward a car that was parked in front of my house.

“Ban,” Carey said from behind me. “I don’t want to do this.”

I turned. “Tough. I’m going out for coffee. I’ll be home in two hours, and I’d like you to be gone. If you’ve left anything, I’ll send it to you later. Leave your key.”

I grabbed my purse, stuffed the papers Ned had handed me into it, and walked down the block to the coffee shop. I thought about sitting inside, but I couldn’t face running into someone I knew, so I ordered a coffee, took it down a few more blocks to the park, and found an empty bench.

I set the coffee down and pulled the papers out of my purse and realized that my hands were trembling. It was as if all the emotions I couldn’t let myself feel had at last found an outlet. The paper actually rattled. I placed the sheets on my lap and took a deep breath.

I’d spent so much of my life imagining this woman, and here was something from her.

Ned had said that his wife had never forgotten me.

I hadn’t asked if he was my father. I hadn’t asked anything. But I was pretty sure from the way he spoke that he wasn’t.

After a few minutes, I felt calm enough to look at the papers. They were a letter.

Dear Amanda,

Merry Christmas. It’s evening now, and you were on my mind all day.

I bought you a car charm this year. I wonder if you’re driving. If you are, be careful. I worry. I’m sure your mom and dad do, too.

I spent the day with my parents and a man I care about. At first I worried that I didn’t feel the same passion for him that I had felt for your father, but I’ve realized that I’m no longer a child and maybe a quiet caring is better.

You’re sixteen now. I was sixteen when you were born.

My mother had written this when I was sixteen? Twelve years ago.

Some kids hated high school, but I’d loved it. Every moment of it. I’d had such a carefree childhood. But here was my biological mom telling me that she’d had a baby at sixteen.

I’d never blamed her for giving me up for adoption, but suddenly I realized that my biological mother had been just a kid when she had me. Would I have been equipped to make such a big decision? I didn’t think so.

I tried to concentrate on the words as I read on.

My biological father had denied I was his. His name was Mick Grant—so Ned wasn’t my biological father—and he played basketball. My biological mother had been a geek.

She’d gone to stay with an aunt in Ohio to have me.

She’d handpicked my parents and still had their letter . . .

I haven’t read it in years, but they described themselves as normal and average. Your father was a professor and your mother was an elementary school teacher. They sounded like my parents, and I knew I couldn’t give you a greater gift than parents who were as wonderful as mine.

I caught only a glimpse of them as they picked you up. They looked normal. Bland even.

Until the nurse handed you to your mom.

At that moment, they were transformed. Your mom was so beautiful. They were head over heels in love with you. And in that split second, I knew they were meant to be your parents.

And so I let you go.

But that briefest of glimpses has been something I’ve held on to all these years.

I hope they were—are—as marvelous as my parents are.

I started to cry. My parents had been marvelous. They’d loved me unconditionally and had supported me. Always.

After my mother died, my father limped along, half of a whole for a long time. Then he’d found Margo.

I know some people feel bitter toward stepparents, but Margo had never tried to take my mother’s place with me or with Dad for that matter. She’d offered me friendship, and over the years I’d come to count on it.

My biological mother had gotten her wish; she’d given me a wonderful family. I thought about what my mother had said, how she’d suffered thinking she’d never have children. But when she’d adopted me, she’d known that she was always meant to be
my
mother.

My biological mother had now said the same thing.

I kept reading. As the copied letter ended, I was crying even harder.

It’s midnight, Amanda. Another Christmas is over. I hope it was a wonderful one for you. I hope it was filled with love, laughter, and family.

Know you’ve been in my thoughts all day. You’re in my thoughts every day.

Love,

Piper

I didn’t have a tissue so I wiped at my face with the back of my hand. And suddenly what Ned had said really sank in. The woman who’d given birth to me and had written this letter so full of love—yes, that’s exactly what stood out in her letter: love—this woman was sick. I was her last best hope, he’d said.

There was a scrawled note after the photocopied pages.

Siobhan,

Your mother wrote an entire journal to you over the course of years. She talked to you about so many things. I pulled this one section out of context. One reason is if you never come see us, you at least have your birth father’s name. And though the journal excerpt doesn’t make it clear, your mom is Piper George. She’s Pip to her readers.

I’m sure you noticed how she addressed the note . . .
Dear Amanda
. She didn’t know your real name until I found you your senior year of high school. She held you for an hour after you were born and in her heart, you were always Amanda. She doesn’t say it here, but she called that name as the nurse handed you to your parents. The fact your parents gave it to you as a middle name, well, it says something about them. I’m hoping their generous spirit is something they instilled in you. I hope you call me and try to help Pip. She’d be the first to say that you don’t owe her anything. I’d say you owe her everything, even if you don’t know it.

If this is the only contact we ever have, know she’s loved you and thought of you every day of your life. And know that you’ve always had a home with us, a family with us, even if you never knew it.

Love, Ned

I’m not sure how long I sat there after I finished Ned’s letter. I know I never drank my coffee. My mind went in circles.

Piper George.

My biological mother was Piper George. She was the author, Pip.

I’d grown up reading her books. Now she was sick. She needed me.

Her husband loved her.

I reread the letters from Piper and Ned, and sometime after that, I walked home.

I don’t remember walking home.

I did notice that Carey’s car was gone, and when I opened the door, I saw his key on the foyer table. I waited to feel relief, or regret, but all I felt was anxious to find my books. I didn’t check to see what Carey had taken with him. I simply went up to the attic and started tearing through boxes. I finally found them under a box of Christmas decorations.

Julie and Auggie
.

Terry the Terrible
.

Beautiful Belle
.

The Hunt for Bigfoot and Other Wonders of the Eighth Grade
.

B Is for Bully
.

These books were old friends.

When I was younger, Pip had been my favorite author. She’d seemed to understand what school was like. I remembered reading
The Hunt for Bigfoot and Other Wonders of the Eighth Grade
. I’d been that girl. Tall. Gangly. And in a sea of developing friends I was as flat as a pancake.

I’d told my mom that I was pretty sure I had some horrible disease. I remember that she’d said
things happen in their own time
, and then she’d bought me Pip’s book. As a teacher and an avid reader, she’d always felt that all the answers to all the world’s questions could be answered in the pages of some book.

For a moment, I thought I’d start with that book, but then I spotted
Felicity’s Folly.
I flipped to the front of the book and found the dedication.

“For Amanda.”

Clutching the note and the book, I cried again for the mother I’d lost and the mother I’d inadvertently found. I cried for Ned, who wore his heart on his sleeve as he begged me to help Piper.

I didn’t cry over losing Carey.

“Every epic journey starts with just one step,” Patty said.

“Then maybe it’s a good thing I have such big feet,” Eileen said.

“Why?”

“Because I’ll get to where I’m going that much sooner.”

—The Hunt for Bigfoot and Other Wonders of the Eighth Grade
, by Pip

I stayed up all that night and reread every Pip books I owned. Each one was dedicated to Amanda.

I traced each letter of my middle name. I wondered about this woman who’d given birth to me and then had given me to my parents. She’s obviously thought about me. According to Ned, she’d thought about me often.