As Javier turns and pushes a button on a large switchboard, I strongly consider bolting. But instead, I hold as still as the marble statues flanking the elevator, even holding my breath as I anticipate the sound of her voice, asking who is here to see her. But there is only a loud buzzing noise in response and Javier turns to me and says, “You can go ahead up!” with a grand gesture toward the elevator.
I take this as a good sign. She is, by nature, welcoming, granting permission to visit when she has no idea who is at her door. Then again, maybe she thinks I’m someone else. Maybe she has a real daughter who ran out to the store for some gum or milk—and frequently forgets her key.
In any event, there is no turning back now. “Um…what floor?”
“That’d be the penthouse!” Javier says, pointing skyward with great flair.
I nod, as if I’m told to go to the penthouse every day of the week, but inside, the word causes panic. I readjust my backpack, swallow, and take the few steps to the polished elevator doors. They suddenly open, exposing an old man in high-waisted pants walking a tidily groomed toy poodle in a pink sweater and purple rhinestone collar. The two don’t go together at all, except for the fact that they both survey me with disapproval as I step past them. Once in the elevator alone, I take a deep breath, and push the PH button. When the doors close, I quickly practice my introduction, with slight variations:
Hello. I’m Kirby Rose. Your daughter.
Hello. I’m your daughter. Kirby Rose.
Hi. My name is Kirby Rose. I think I’m your daughter?
The word daughter seems too intimate, but there is really no other word to use (besides technical ones like “offspring” or “progeny”), and no adjective to clarify the relationship, as there is with birth mother. My thoughts jolt to a standstill as the elevator doors open directly into the foyer of an apartment. Beyond the foyer, I can see the living room with large windows covering one whole wall. Everything is neat, sleek, perfect, and there is no sign of children or babies. My relief over this fact makes me uneasy; I already care too much.
And then. There she is, walking gracefully toward me in cotton pajamas in a preppy pink and green print. They are a bit baggy, but I can tell she is slim, an average height. She looks younger than my parents, about thirty-five, although it’s tough to guess the age of grownups. She has blond hair highlighted even blonder, pulled back in a messy but stylish ponytail. Her face is thin and longish, and for a second I see myself in her. Maybe our noses or chins? I decide that it’s just wishful thinking; she is way prettier than I am.
I look down at her bare feet, dainty and narrow, her toes painted a deep plum—so unlike my mother’s broad, callused feet and oddly shaped toes. I look back at her face, into her eyes, and decide she looks kind. At the very least she doesn’t look bitchy, and she is probably smart and hardworking, too, because dumb, lazy people don’t end up in the penthouse. Then again, maybe she has a really rich family, but she doesn’t have that Paris Hilton-y, spoiled look.
“Hello,” she says, her voice light and pleasant, her expression curious. “Can I help you?”
I clear my throat and ask, “Are you Marian Caldwell?”
“Yes,” she says, and for one second, I have the feeling she knows. But then I see a flicker of impatience. The baby she had eighteen years ago is the farthest thing from her mind.
I look down at my shoes, take a deep breath, and try not to mumble. “My name is Kirby Rose.”
No reaction, of course. She doesn’t know my name. I tuck a piece of hair behind my ears and force myself to look into her eyes again. Something changes in them.
Sure enough, she says, “Are you?…”
My pulse quickens as I nod, trying to breathe, trying not to faint. Then I say the words I’ve said in my head a thousand times. “I think you’re my mother.”
Her smile fades, all the color draining from her already fair complexion, as she stares into my eyes. She looks more scared than I am, completely frozen. An eternity seems to go by before she reaches out and touches my arm and says, “Oh…Goodness. It is you.”
I smile, but my throat feels so tight and dry that I can’t speak and start to worry that I’m going to cry. I don’t, though. It feels like a pretty major victory.
“Please. Come in,” she says, backing up, motioning for me to step forward.
I take a few small steps and say, “I’m sorry to roll up on you like this. I can come back another time….”
“No. Stay. Please stay,” she says.
I nod, telling myself she means it. That she has to be at least a little bit happy to see me again.