Never Knowing (2 page)

“Are you guys going to be home for a while? I was just going to get Ally from school and come by for a visit.”

“Not today. Your mom’s trying to rest.”

“Is her Crohn’s flaring up again?”

“She’s just tired.”

“Okay, no problem. If you need help with anything, let me know.”

*   *   *

Throughout our lives Mom’s health had been up and down. For weeks she’d be doing fine, painting our rooms, sewing curtains, baking up a storm. Even Dad was almost happy during those times. I remember him lifting me onto his shoulders once, the view as heady as the rare attention. But Mom would always end up doing too much and within days she was sick again. She’d fade before our eyes as her body refused to hang on to any nutrients, even baby food sending her rushing for the bathroom.

When she was going through a bad spell Dad would come home and ask what I’d been doing all day, like he was trying to find something, or someone, to be pissed at. When I was nine he found me in front of the TV while Mom was sleeping. He dragged me to the kitchen by my wrist and pointed to the stack of dishes, calling me a lazy, ungrateful child. The next day it was the pile of laundry that set him off, and the next, Melanie’s toys in the driveway. His big workingman’s body would loom over me and his voice would vibrate with anger, but he never yelled, never did anything Mom could see or hear. He’d take me out to the garage and list my shortcomings while I stared at his feet, terrified he was going to say he didn’t want me anymore. Then he’d barely speak to me for a week.

I started doing the household chores before Mom could get to them, staying home when my sisters were out with friends, cooking dinners that never got my father’s approval but at least didn’t earn his silence. I would do anything to avoid silence, anything to keep Mom from getting sick again. If she was healthy, I was safe.

*   *   *

When I phoned Lauren that night she told me she and the boys had just gotten home from dinner with our parents. Dad had invited them.

“So it was just my kid who wasn’t allowed over.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t like that. Ally just has so much energy, and—”

“What does
that
mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything, she’s adorable. But Dad probably thought three kids were too much.” I knew Lauren was just trying to make me feel better before I went on a rant against Dad, which she hates, but it drives me nuts that she can never see how differently Dad treats me, or at least never acknowledges it. After we hung up I almost called Mom to check on her, but then I thought about Dad telling me to stay home, like a stray dog who’s only allowed to sleep on the porch because she might mess in the house. I put the phone back on the charger.

*   *   *

The next day I filled out the form at Vital Statistics, paid my $50, and started waiting. I’d like to say patiently, but I practically tackled the mailman after the first week. A month later my Original Birth Registration, or OBR, as the woman at Vital Statistics called it, arrived in the mail. I stared at the envelope and realized my hand was shaking. Evan was at his lodge again and I wished he could be there when I opened it, but that was another
week
. Ally was at school and the house was quiet. I took a deep breath and ripped open the envelope.

My real mother’s name was Julia Laroche and I was born in Victoria, BC. My father was listed as unknown. I read the OBR and the adoption certificate over and over, looking for answers, but I just kept hearing one question:
Why did you give me away?

*   *   *

The next morning I woke early and went online while Ally was still sleeping. The first thing I checked was the Adoption Reunion Registry, but when I realized it could take another month to get an answer, I decided to look on my own first. After searching Web sites for twenty minutes, I found three Julia Laroches in Quebec and four down in the States who seemed around the right age. Only two lived on the island, but when I saw they were both in Victoria my stomach flipped. Could she still be there after all this time? I quickly clicked on the first link, and let my breath out when I realized she was too young, judging by her article on a new mom’s forum. The second link took me to a Web site for a real estate agent in Victoria. She had auburn hair like me and looked about the right age. I studied her face with a mixture of excitement and fear. Had I found my birth mother?

After I drove Ally to school, I sat at my desk and circled the phone number I’d jotted on a piece of paper.
I’ll call in one minute. After another cup of coffee. After I read the paper. After I paint every toenail a different color.
Finally I forced myself to pick up the phone.

Brrring.

It might not even be her.

Brrring.

I should just hang up. This was a bad way to—

“Julia Laroche speaking.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hi, I’m calling … I’m calling because…”
Because I stupidly thought if I said something brilliant, you’d instantly regret giving me up, but now I can’t even remember my own name.

Her voice was impatient. “Are you looking to buy or sell a home?”

“No, I’m—” I took a deep breath and said it in a rush. “I might be your daughter.”

“Is this some kind of joke? Who are you?”

“My name is Sara Gallagher. I was born in Victoria and given up for adoption. You have auburn hair and you’re about the right age, so I thought—”

“Honey, there’s no way you’re my daughter. I can’t have children.”

My face burned. “God, I’m sorry. I just thought … well, I hoped.”

The voice softened. “It’s okay. Good luck with your search.” I was about to hang up when she said, “There’s a Julia Laroche who works at the university. I get calls for her sometimes.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.”

My face was still hot as I dropped the phone onto my desk and headed out to my shop. I got most of my paintbrushes cleaned, then sat and stared at the wall, thinking about what the real estate woman had said. A few minutes later I was back at my computer. After a quick search the other Julia’s name came up under a list of professors at the University of Victoria. She taught art history—was that where I got my love of all things old? I shook my head. Why was I letting myself get excited? It was just a name. I took a deep breath and called the university, surprised when they put me straight through to Julia Laroche’s extension.

She answered, and this time I had my speech ready. “Hi, my name is Sara Gallagher and I’m trying to find my birth mother. Did you give a child up for adoption thirty-three years ago?”

A sharp intake of breath. Then silence.

“Hello?”

“Don’t call here again.” She hung up.

*   *   *

I cried. For hours. Which kicked off a migraine so bad Lauren had to take Ally and Moose for me. Thankfully, Lauren’s two boys are around Ally’s age and Ally loves going over there. I hated being away from my daughter for even one night, but all I could do was lie in a dark room with a cold compress on my head and wait for it to pass. Evan phoned and I told him what had happened, speaking slowly because of the pain. By the next afternoon I’d stopped seeing auras around everything, so Ally and Moose came home. Evan phoned again that night.

“Feeling better, baby?”

“The migraine’s gone—it’s my own stupid fault for forgetting to take my pill again. Now I’m behind on that desk and I wanted to call some photographers this week and—”

“Sara, you don’t have to do everything right away. Leave the photographers for when I get back.”

“It’s fine, I’ll take care of it.” I admired Evan’s laid-back personality in many ways, but in the two years we’ve been together I’ve learned “we can do it later” usually translates into me rushing around like a crazy woman to get something done at the last minute.

I said, “I’ve been thinking about what happened with my birth mother.…”

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering about writing her a letter. Her address is unlisted, but I can just leave it at the university.”

Evan was silent for a moment. “Sara … I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“So she doesn’t want to get to know me, fine, but I think the least she could do is give me my medical history. What about Ally? Doesn’t she have a right to know? There could be health issues, like … like high blood pressure, or diabetes, or
cancer
—”

“Baby.” Evan’s voice was calm but firm. “Take it easy. Why are you letting her get to you like this?”

“I’m not like you, okay? I can’t just brush things off.”

“Listen, cranky-pants, I’m on your side here.”

I was silent, my eyes closed, trying to breathe, reminding myself it wasn’t Evan I was angry at.

“Sara, do what you have to do. You know I’ll support you no matter what. But I think you should just leave it alone.”

*   *   *

As I made the hour-and-a-half trip down-island the next day I felt calm and centered, confident I was doing the right thing. There’s something about the Island Highway that always soothes me: the quaint towns and valleys, the farmland, the glimpses of ocean and coastal mountain ranges. When I got closer to Victoria and drove through the old-growth forest at Goldstream Park, I thought about the time Dad had taken us there to watch the salmon spawning in the river. Lauren was terrified of all the seagulls feasting on the dead salmon. I hated the scent of death in the air, how it clung to your clothes and nostrils. Hated how Dad explained everything to my sisters but ignored my questions—ignored me.

Evan and I talked about opening a second whale-watching business in Victoria one day—Ally loves the museum and the street performers in the inner harbor, I love all the old buildings. But for now Nanaimo suits us. Even though it’s the second largest city on the island, it still has that small-town feel. You can be walking on the seawall in the harbor, shopping in the old city quarter, or hiking up a mountain with an amazing view of the Gulf Islands all on the same day. Whenever we want to get away, we just take the ferry to the mainland or drive down to Victoria to do some shopping. But if things didn’t go well in Victoria this trip, it was going to be a long drive home.

*   *   *

My plan was to drop off the letter requesting information at Julia’s office. But when the woman at the front desk told me Professor Laroche was teaching a class in the next building, I had to see what she looked like. She wouldn’t even know I was there. Then I’d leave the letter at the front desk.

I slowly opened the door to the auditorium-style classroom and crept in with my face turned away from the podium. I found a seat in the back, scrunched down—feeling like a stalker—and took a look at my mother.

“As you can see, architecture of the Islamic world varied…”

In my daydreams she was always an older version of me, but where my hair is auburn, falling in unruly waves down my back, her black hair was cut in a sleek bob. I couldn’t see her eye color, but her face was round, with delicate bone structure. My cheekbones are high and my features Nordic. The lines of her black wrap dress revealed a slight boyish frame and small wrists. My build is athletic. She was probably a couple of inches over five feet and I’m almost five-nine. The way she pointed out images on the projector’s screen was elegant and unhurried. I talk with my hands so much I’m always knocking something over. If her reaction on the phone wasn’t still haunting me, I’d think I had the wrong woman.

As I half listened to her lecture, I fantasized about what my childhood might’ve been like with her as my mother. We’d have discussed art at dinner, which we’d eat off beautiful plates and sometimes light the candles in silver candlesticks. On summer holidays we’d have explored museums in foreign countries and had deep intellectual talks over cappuccinos in Italian cafés. On weekends we’d have browsed bookstores together—

A wave of guilt swamped me.
I have a mother
. I thought of the sweet woman who raised me, the woman who made cabbage-leaf compresses for my headaches even when she wasn’t feeling well herself, the woman who didn’t know I’d found my birth mother.

After the class ended I walked down to the stairs toward the side door. As I passed near Julia she smiled, but with a questioning look, like she was trying to place me. When a student stopped to ask her something, I bolted for the door. At the last second, I glanced over my shoulder. Her eyes were brown.

I went straight back to my car. I was still sitting there, my heart going nuts inside my chest, when I saw her leave the building. She walked toward the faculty parking lot. I inched my car in that direction and watched her get into a white classic Jaguar. When she pulled out, I followed.

Stop. Think about what you’re doing. Pull over
.

Like that was going to happen.

As we drove down Dallas Road, one of the more upscale areas in Victoria along the waterfront, I kept back. After about ten minutes Julia turned into the circular driveway of a large Tudor house on the ocean. I pulled over and got out a map. She parked in front of the marble steps, followed a path around the corner of the house, then disappeared through a side door.

She didn’t knock. She lived there.

So what did I do now? Drive off and forget about the whole thing? Drop the letter in her mailbox at the end of the driveway and risk someone else finding it? Give it to her in person?

But once I reached the big mahogany front door I stood there like an idiot, frozen, torn between tucking the letter into the door and just sprinting back down the driveway. I didn’t knock, I didn’t ring the doorbell, but the door
opened
. I was face-to-face with my mother. And she didn’t look happy to see me.

“Hello?”

My face was burning.

“Hi … I … I saw your class.”

Her eyes narrowed. She looked at the envelope clutched in my hand.

“I wrote you a letter.” My voice sounded breathless. “I wanted to ask you some things—we talked the other day.…”

She stared at me.

“I’m your daughter.”