And then I finally arrive at the Port Authority terminal, a scary shit hole, smelling worse than the bus, which I didn’t think was possible. I look around with no clue where to go. The three people I ask either don’t speak English or have no desire to reply to me. I finally see a sign for taxis and follow the arrows to the street, emerging onto Eighth Avenue, which looks nothing like the New York I’ve seen on television and in the movies. Overwhelmed, I find a uniformed worker barking at everyone. She looks right through me, but I speak up, ask her if this is where I can get a taxi. She points to the back of a very long line. As I wait, I keep my eyes fixed on a homeless woman across the street. She is huddled under a gray quilt, a cardboard sign propped against her, a paper cup at her feet. I wonder if she’s my mother—maybe she’s just been evicted from the address the agency sent.
Twenty minutes later, I am climbing into a cab, which is surprisingly clean, a hopeful sign. I give the driver the address I’ve memorized as he lurches full speed ahead, stopping and starting every few blocks, the scenery quickly improving. We drive through a wooded area, that I assume is Central Park, and then emerge into a neighborhood that looks residential. A minute later, he stops, looks at me, points at the meter. It reads $9.60. I hand him eleven dollars—and remember advice my dad once gave me: When in doubt, tip. I give him another buck. Then I grab my backpack from the seat next to me, slide out of the car onto Eighty-eighth Street and Madison Avenue and look up at the residence of my birth mother.
Damn, I think. I did it.
I glance down at my black Swatch watch, nervously loosening the polyurethane strap one notch, then tightening it again. It is nearly eleven, probably too late to go knocking on her door, but I can’t wait until the morning to find out the truth. I remind myself that this is the city that never sleeps, hoping she is up, then hoping nobody is home.
I pace in the shadows of the sidewalk, my stomach in knots. It’s hard to say what I want more—for me to like her or for her to like me. After stalling a few more seconds, I finally force myself to walk to the open doorway of her building and peer around the lobby. It is fancy, with a gleaming, black-and-white marble floor and formal furniture. The crack den notion quickly vanishes, but I’m more intimidated than relieved. My heart pounding, a doorman suddenly materializes, asking if he can help me. I jump, then say hello. He says hello back, friendly enough. He has shiny black hair, neatly gelled into a low side part, and wears a navy and gold uniform with a matching hat. His nametag reads JAVIER—but for a second, I think it says “Caviar”—which I picture her eating on a high floor above me.
“I’m here to see Marian Caldwell,” I say, trying to sound more official than I must look in my jeans, T-shirt, and pilled sweater coat. I nervously pluck a few balls of fuzz from my sleeve, wishing I had Googled her, after all. Belinda was right—I should have been more prepared for this moment. I would have worn something nicer. Maybe I wouldn’t have come at all.
“She expecting you?” Javier asks, giving me a curious once-over.
I panic, worried that he has been warned about the possible arrival of a troubled teenager. Then, as I hear Belinda telling me not to be paranoid, frequent advice from her, I reassure myself Javier doesn’t know a thing about me—he’s just doing his job. Just in case, though, I smile, so as to look, at the very least, untroubled. Then I clear my throat and say, “Yes…I mean, she very well might be.”
Technically this is true. She might be waiting for me, expecting me, hoping for me. After all, she did sign the paper that said I could know her name on my eighteenth birthday—which she had to have remembered was a week ago. Surely she keeps track of my birthdays. It seems the very least a woman could do who, you know, gives birth to a child and then gives her away. She might even have a little annual ritual or ceremony she performs. Maybe she sips champagne with her closest friends or her own mother, my grandmother. Maybe she bakes a cake, adding a candle with every passing year. I wonder if she loves chocolate as much as I do. Or maybe she will tell me the sweet tooth came straight from my birth father. The answers might be seconds away.