Never Knowing Page 2

  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.”

  Her eyes widened. “You have to leave.” She moved to shut the door. I put my foot on the jamb.

  “Wait. I don’t want to upset you—I just have some questions, it’s for my daughter.” I dug into my wallet and pulled out a photo. “Her name’s Ally—she’s only six.”

  Julia wouldn’t look at the photo. When she spoke her voice
was high, strained.

  “It’s not a good time. I can’t—I just can’t.”

  “Five minutes. That’s all I need, then I’ll leave you alone.”

  She looked over her shoulder at a phone on a hall table.

  “Please. I promise I won’t come back.”

  She led me into a side room with a mahogany desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Moved a cat off an antique brown leather high-backed chair.

  I sat down and tried to smile. “Himalayans are beautiful.” She didn’t smile back. She perched on the edge of her seat. Hands gripping each other in her lap, knuckles white.

  I said, “This chair is gorgeous—I refinish furniture for a living, but this is pristine. I love antiques. Anything vintage, really, cars, clothes…” My hand brushed the fitted black velvet jacket I’d paired with jeans.

  She stared at the floor. Her hands started to shake.

  I took a deep breath and went for it.

  “I just want to know why you gave me away. I’m not angry, I have a good life. I just … I just want to know. I need to know.”

  “I was young.” Now her voice was reedy, flat. “It was an accident. I didn’t want children.”

  “Why did you have me, then?”

  “I was Catholic.” Was?

  “What about your family, are they—”

  “My parents died in an accident—after you were born.” The last part came out in a rush. I waited for her to say more. The cat brushed against her legs, she didn’t touch it. I noticed a pulse beating fast at the base of her throat.

  “I’m very sorry. Was the accident on the island?”

  “We—they—lived in Williams Lake.” Her face flushed.

  “Your name, Laroche. What does that mean? It’s French, right? Do you know from what part of—”

  “I’ve never looked it up.”

  “My father?”

  “It was at a party and I don’t remember anything. I don’t know where he is now.”

  I stared at this elegant woman. Not one thing about her fit with a drunken one-night stand. She was lying. I was sure of it. I willed her to meet my eyes. She stared at the cat. I had an insane urge to pick it up and throw it at her.

  “Was he tall? Do I look like him, or—”

  She stood up. “I told you I don’t remember. I think you’d better go.”

  “But—” A door slammed at the back of the house.

  Julia’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. An older woman with curly blond hair and a pink scarf draped around her thin shoulders came around the corner.

  “Julia! I’m glad you’re home, we should—” She stopped when she saw me and her face broke into a smile. “Oh, hello, I didn’t realize Julia had a student over.”

  I stood up and held out a hand. “I’m Sara. Professor Laroche was kind enough to go over my paper with me, but I should be off.”

  She took my hand. “Katharine. I’m Julia’s…” Her voice trailed off as she searched Julia’s face.

  I jumped into the awkward silence. “It was nice to meet you.” I turned to Julia. “Thanks again for your help.” She managed a smile and a nod.

  At my car I glanced over my shoulder. They were still standing in the open doorway. Katharine smiled and waved, but Julia just stared at me.

  * * *

  So you understand why I had to talk to you. I feel like I’m standing on ice and it’s cracking all around me, but I don’t know which way to move. Do I try to find out why my birth mother lied or heed Evan’s advice to just leave it alone? I know you’re going to tell me I’m the only one who can make that decision, but I need your help.

  I keep thinking about Moose. When he was a puppy we left him in the laundry room one cold Saturday when we went out, because he wasn’t housebroken—little guy piddled so much Ally tried to put her doll’s diapers on him. We had this beautiful bright-colored rope rug we’d brought back from a trip to Saltspring Island, and he must’ve started nibbling one corner, then just kept pulling and pulling. By the time we got home the rug was destroyed. My life is like that beautiful colored rug—it took years to sew it together. Now I’m afraid if I keep pulling on this one corner it’s all going to unravel.

  But I’m not sure I can stop.

  SESSION TWO

  I thought about everything you told me: how I didn’t have to decide right away, how I needed to be sure of my expectations and reasons for wanting to know more about my past. I even made a chart of all the pros and cons like we used to do together. This time I put everything in neat little columns, but I still didn’t have an answer, so I stomped out to my workshop, cranked Sara McLachlan, and sobbed my heart out while I attacked an oak armoire. With each layer of paint I stripped off, I felt calmer. It didn’t matter whether she lied or where I came from. What was important was my life now.

  I’d called Evan the minute I fled my reunion with my birth mother, so when he came home that weekend he brought me chocolates and red wine, an early Valentine’s surprise—that man’s no dummy. But smartest of all, he didn’t lecture, just gave me a hug and let me rant and rave until I ran out of steam. And I did—run out of steam. But then the depression kicked in. It had been so long since I’d had one I almost didn’t recognize it at first, like an ex-boyfriend you bump into and you can’t remember what it was about him that made you feel so awful, so angry at everything. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks later that I almost started feeling back to normal. I should’ve stopped there.

  * * *

  Evan had headed back to his lodge, and Lauren’s husband, Greg, who works for our dad’s logging company, had just left for camp, so Ally and I hightailed it over to Lauren’s for dinner. I do all right in the kitchen department if I’m not obsessed by my latest project, but Lauren’s roast beef and Yorkshire puddings put my stir-fries to shame.

  While Lauren’s two boys—towheaded, with big blue eyes, just like her—chased Ally and Moose around the backyard, Lauren and I took our coffees and dessert to the living room. I’m glad we’re having a mild winter this year, although it never really gets cold on the island, but it was nice to curl up in front of her fireplace and catch up on our kids’ latest events. Her two have usually just broken something, while mine is generally in trouble at school for bossing the other kids around or talking when she’s not supposed to. Evan just laughs and says, “I wonder where she got that from,” whenever I complain.

  When we’d scraped the last trace of chocolate from our plates, Lauren said, “How are the plans coming for the wedding?”

  “God, don’t get me started. My file is huge.”

  Lauren laughed, tilting her head back and revealing a scar on her chin from when she fell off her bike all those years ago. Of course, Dad gave me hell for not watching her properly, but nothing could spoil her natural beauty. She rarely wears makeup, but with her heart-shaped face, honey-gold skin, and lightly freckled nose she doesn’t need to. And Lauren is one of those rare people who are as nice as they look—the kind of person who remembers what brand of shampoo you like and saves the coupon for you.

  She said, “I told you weddings are more work than you think. And you thought it was going to be so easy.”

  “This from the woman who wasn’t stressed about hers at all.”

  She shrugged. “I was twenty. I was just happy to be married. Mom and Dad’s backyard was all we needed. But it will be beautiful at the lodge.”

  “Yeah, it will. But there’s something I have to tell you.…”

  Lauren glanced at me. “You’re not getting cold feet?”

  “What? Of course not.”

  She let out her breath. “Thank God. Evan’s so good for you.”

  “Why does everyone say that?”

  She smiled. “Because it’s true.” She had me there. I’d met Evan at a garage while we were waiting for our vehicles—his was in for a tune-up, mine was on its last legs. I was worried they weren’t going to be able to fix my car and had no idea how I was going to pick up Ally, but Evan assured me eve
rything would be fine. I still remember how he put the cardboard sleeve around my hot cup before he handed it to me, how relaxed and steady his movements were. How calm I felt around him.

  Lauren said, “So what do you want to tell me?”

  “Remember when I used to talk about finding my birth family?”

  “Of course, you were obsessed when we were kids. Remember that summer you were convinced you were an Indian princess and tried to build a canoe in the backyard?” She started to laugh, then looked at my face and said, “Wait, have you been searching for real?”

  “I found my birth mother a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Wow. That’s … huge.” Lauren’s expression changed from surprise to confusion to hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?” It was a good question and one I couldn’t answer. Lauren married her high school boyfriend and had the same friends she’d had in elementary school. She had no idea what it felt like to be rejected, to be alone. But the other reason was her husband. It was impossible to talk when Greg was around.

  “I needed to process everything first,” I said. “It didn’t go very well.”

  “No? What happened? Does she live on the island?”

  I filled Lauren in on the whole mess.

  She made a face. “That must’ve been awful. Are you okay?”

  “I’m disappointed. Especially that she didn’t tell me anything about my biological father—she was my only chance of finding him.” Most of my daydreams growing up were of my birth father whisking me away to his mansion, where he’d introduce me to everyone as his long-lost daughter, his hand warm on my back.

  “You haven’t told Mom and Dad, have you?”

  I shook my head.

  Lauren looked relieved and I stared at my plate, the chocolate now sour in my mouth. I hate the wave of guilt and fear that comes whenever I worry about Mom and Dad finding out, hate myself for resenting it.

  I said, “Don’t tell Melanie or Greg, okay?”