By Blood A Novel

21.


Again the patient circled the vestibule, awaiting the elevator. As before, her breathing came toward me and faded away—toward me and away—her breaths still laden with unshed tears. Oh, how I longed to stroke those sorrowing shoulders that did not wish to be touched; how I wished she could find the way to her tears.

Suddenly the impulse to follow her took hold of me. It was as if my flock of crows—my large, fat, shiny crows, the sort that look like small vultures—as if they had flapped up from a dense tree to cut crazy angles around me and shout, Her! Her! Her! (So did the desire present itself to my imagination, which, as I have said, was morbid and afflicted at the time.) Her! Her! Her! All the many psychologists, counselors, therapists, and psychiatrists who had plied their trades upon me would have trembled to learn what had become of their charge, the ruinous uses to which their work had been put. Her. Her. Her.

The elevator was a conspirator; still it did not arrive; still the patient paced the hall; there was yet time for damage to be done.

I struggled against the impulse. I thought of the day I had first entered the building, the flash of white, the lobby as immaculate as my desire for normalcy; the cherubs who floated above, their circling eyes watching over all the inhabitants; the sheets of marble lining the corridor in procession; beyond all, the cool inner breath of the place, which sighed, It will be all right here.

And at last I was freed; finally came the twin whispers that signaled my release: the shush of the elevator doors closing, the suspirations of the sound machine come on once again.





22.


The horrors of the holiday lay before me. Turkeys, Pilgrims with muskets, smiling Indians, cornucopia, families at table—images taped to every shop window; disgustingly cheerful music spilling from every door. I found no relief at the office. The management had installed some sort of loudspeaker through which treacled an endless round of holiday songs—chestnuts roasting, no place like home, to grandmother’s house, laughing all the way. The lobby was empty, yet the music played on, and the black eyes of the elevators’ cherubim circled without cease, while empty cars rode up and down, up and down (the call buttons pressed by whom?), trolling for passengers who did not exist. Even a sane man, I thought, would consider suicide in such a situation, if only for the pleasure of never again hearing “Jingle Bells.”

Thanksgiving Day itself dawned gray and cold. The downtown district was deserted but for the desperate men who haunted the streets wrapped in dirty blankets. The next day came up sunny, and shoppers inundated Union Square. I joined them and let myself be jostled as I mingled among them, finding myself pulled in the currents toward Macy’s or Nieman Marcus, Bullock’s or the Hound, Joseph Magnin or I. Magnin; offered foulard ties and perfumes in purple bottles, chiffon scarves and fine leather briefcases, tennis sweaters and felt hats with narrow brims, each with a small feather in the band; even fine satin lingerie for “my lady.”

I left the stores and sat down upon a bench in the corner of the square. On the bench perpendicular sat a young woman and a lovely doe-eyed boy of about twelve—the girl’s brother, it seemed. He had crow-black hair and smooth, coffee-colored skin—I imagined the family had come from somewhere in Asia, perhaps Indonesia. He was slim and angular, with impossibly long fingers for a boy his age. He fidgeted and glanced about as the girl took out her makeup case and began to apply a deep-purple tint to her lips. She had dyed her hair blond, which altogether ruined her prettiness, I thought, as the shade she had chosen—a brassy yellow—clashed with the warm brown of her skin. Nonetheless, I tipped my hat to her, and she responded with a dazzling smile. The boy ignored me.

When the girl was done with her makeup, they rose and started off across the square. I soon found myself rising as well and ambling off in their direction. I had no intention of doing so—I was completely unaware of my actions for the first ten minutes—but I soon realized I was following the girl and boy in and out of the department stores that surrounded the square.

I tried to stop myself. I had pledged not to do any such thing. But (said the voice I could not still) that pledge had been made in the darkness, and here we were in sparkling daylight, amidst a crowd, so what harm could be done? Besides (the voice continued), I had already followed many shoppers in and out of the stores, and the girl and boy were but two more. And the pair seemed to be retracing the very route I had taken—Macy’s, Bullock’s, Joseph Magnin, I. Magnin—such repetition making the act appear all the more familiar and normal. So it was that I trotted on behind them, as they examined a sequined sweater, a pink silk scarf, a pair of men’s pigskin gloves in a deep cognac (very expensive), a black leather briefcase, a woman’s purse in red suede, and ties of various description. Now and then, the young woman allowed herself to be sprayed with perfume, so that the scent that trailed behind her was like that of an overgrown garden wherein every flower had once bloomed and was now rotted.

It was at the I. Magnin glove counter—the boy was trying on a pair in brown suede—that the woman finally wheeled and turned to me:

What in the world are you doing? she demanded. Are you following us? I will call a guard!

(What could I say? Could I tell her mine was a harmless compulsion? Who would believe me by now?)

Forgive me, I replied. I was simply overcome by your beauty.

Her purple lips firmed with indecision, then relaxed, lay flat, and suddenly swept up into a smile. She touched her brassy curls; blushed; melted.

Why, thank you, she said.

The boy rolled his velvet eyes.

How foolish women are, I thought. This one was like all the rest. Now she would let me follow her anywhere.





23.


Her! Her! Her! My crows mocked me throughout the weekend, even into Monday and Tuesday. Her! Her! they taunted, laughing, and put before me constantly the face of the Indonesian girl; the doe eyes of her brother, which haunted me with their cool, adult disdain. Do not go to the patient, whispered my unshakable companions as Wednesday morning dawned. You are not worthy of her.

Yet, as the hours of the morning progressed, my disquiet rose, to the extent that I preferred the mockery of my Furies to the doom-beat of my own heart. I hurriedly dressed; I raced to the streetcar; the next I knew, I was stepping down at the corner of Market and New Montgomery. My gargoyles came into view, crouched and dirty as they shouldered the roofline; then my cherubim, whose circling eyes I watched in alarm as I realized the time, which was so close to the top of the hour and the start of the patient’s session. I had to reach my office immediately! At last one angel eyed the large L of the lobby; finally the elevator opened its doors, disgorged its passengers, and waited to be filled again.

I entered first; a few others followed me; the doors began to roll closed. Then one hand after another poked through, forcing the doors to roll back again. Hand by hand, passenger by passenger—the cab filled so slowly I thought I might scream. I was pushed to the back wall; bodies pressed in all around me. Finally it seemed we would leave when—there was but a three-inch slit to go—a slender hand knifed through.

I had but a moment to see her face—a delicate young woman, brown-haired, brow sweated, cheeks flushed—but a shock went through me. For reasons that made no sense, I was instantly certain she was my dear patient. Now, as the elevator swept up the shaft, I had to think quickly. Was that hair an ordinary brown or the “dirty blond” of my patient? Was she the right age? Did she seem to match the alto voice that flowed through the adjoining door? If only she would speak! Say “getting off” or “excuse me.” And if she were indeed the patient, my problem was more acute, I realized. What would I do? Follow her out of the cab, then try to disappear down a hallway as she turned toward Room 804? If so, I would not be able to get into my office unheard—I would miss the session and never know what happened at her visit home for Thanksgiving!

The elevator stopped at the mezzanine. The young woman (my patient?) stepped out to let others leave, then deftly stepped back in, performing this little dance as we stopped floor by floor, each time giving me a momentary view of her profile, which was nearly hidden behind an unruly shock of hair. Did the patient ever speak of having curly hair? I could not remember. And I still did not have a plan of action as we rose and the woman remained with me, the back of her head now right before my eyes, so that a scent of something floral—camellias—rose from her. But I could not recall my patient ever giving off a strong scent! Surely I would have noticed a scent so sensual—nearly the scent of my Indonesian girl! Was this an olfactory mirage, the very air mocking me? We came to floor five, then six, and the young woman remained with me yet, my heart racing all the while, in panic or excitement—I could not tell which.

There were but four of us left in the cab. We came to floor seven. The elevator seemed to float, taking minutes to find its stopping place. At last the doors rolled open—and my young woman stepped out.

I leapt out of the elevator at floor eight and moved swiftly down the corridor. The sound machine still played! I had time, then, to perform the careful legerdemain of keys and plastic card that allowed me to enter Room 807 unheard.

My heart had barely stilled itself when, taking my customary chair, I realized the woman’s exit on the seventh floor meant nothing. She might indeed be my patient. She might simply be visiting the ladies’ room—available on seven but not on eight—before coming to her session. And so it was that, as the sound machine was silenced, and the patient did arrive at last, I could not concentrate on the opening words of the session.

For a sudden double-mindedness came over me. Two images of my dear patient began to war in my mind: first the rather ordinary face of the young woman in the elevator (a flushed cheek, a sweaty brow), then the vague yet delicate and lovely place in my imagination in which my dear patient had always lived. First one image then the other vied for ownership of the creamy sound penetrating our wall, the images alternating with great frequency, back and forth, the mundane to the heavenly, until it seemed the effort of holding in my mind one, then the other, would cause me to disintegrate.

I made a decision: The young woman on the elevator was not my patient! Such plainness could never be attached to the whiskey voice that filled my ears with pleasure. No scent of camellias—this was the evidence that fed my certainty. All at once, the plain face withered away; I was bathed in the cool, dark pool of my imagination wherein floated my dear patient; and I heard her therapist laugh and say:

Of course I can.

And the patient reply: I don’t know how to begin.





24.


Start anywhere, said the therapist. Go in any direction.

No, no. That’s what’s making me crazy, replied the patient. It keeps coming back to me in pieces, flashes. I thought that here—with you—here, the only place … I need to unravel it. Go in order. In my mind. In line. Straighten it out.

All right.

Make it coherent. It’s all incoherent.

All right.

The patient said nothing for some seconds.

It’s so noisy here, she said at last. Funny how you don’t notice it, and then you do.

A chorus of horns suddenly rose from the street.

Did I make that happen? asked the patient. You see, don’t you, how weird I am.

I see you are distressed.

Yes.

A long pause.

Distressed, said the patient.

Just start at the beginning, said the doctor.

But what is the beginning? My mother told me what she knows, but it’s not the beginning. It’s a middle. Somewhere in the middle of a middle. A long way from the beginning. I don’t know if I’ll ever find the beginning.





25.


They were in the den as before. It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving, early evening. The trees had lost their leaves but for a few ugly stragglers, “wrinkled shapes against the twilight,” said the patient, who then laughed at her attempted poetry.

We had the same seats, she went on. Mother on the recliner, me on the loveseat, the table full of glass figurines between us. The television was on—Miracle on 34th Street, that sentimental piece of crap. Can’t they even wait until December to trot out the crappy Christmas movies?

I’d held off saying anything, she went on. Maybe it was self-protective. I didn’t want a big blowup, and then still have to be there for three more days, or else have to change my flight, pack a bag, rush off in some noisy, dramatic scene. So if I was going to say something on this trip, it was now or never. Father and Lizabeth were at the mall. Mother and I were alone for the first time all weekend.

Earlier that day, we’d visited the Rushstons—you remember, my parents’ old friends. Mother was still all put together: tomato-red bouclé skirt, white silk blouse, pearls. She even kept on her high heels, Bruno Maglis, red fabric to match the skirt. She sat with her feet tucked under her—heels and all—smoking, sipping a cup of tea, watching that terrible movie as if she’d never seen it before. Never took her eyes off the screen. Maybe she was nervous, too. Yes, now that I think of it, I suppose she was as afraid as I was.

Afraid? asked the therapist.

To break … I was going to say, To break the ice. But the break would be more … thorough.

In what way?

With the whole conception of who I am … Was.

The patient stopped for several seconds, as if her silence could ward off what was about to happen.

Well, she said, rousing herself. So we come to the part of the movie where all the mail addressed to Santa Claus is brought into court, where Kris Kringle is on trial, or whatever the bearded fat guy’s name is. The post office has sent all the Santa mail to Kringle. Then the judge has to rule that, well, since the United States Post Office believes he’s Santa Claus, he really must be Santa Claus. And Mother starts to tear up. Then comes the part where the little girl gets her dream house with her dream parents, and the fat guy’s eyes are twinkling, and by then Mother is outright weeping.

And I was suddenly really pissed off—it came out of nowhere, bang, one minute I’m simply annoyed and then—what? Pissed as hell. There we were with a real-life drama between us, and she’s lost in this—what? This fantasy sorrow. That crap emotion. She never shows emotion, WASP that she is, except times like this: fake feelings, show feelings, canned tears.

So she’s crying, and she says to me: Honey, you’ll bring me the tissues.

The tissue box was on the bookcase, closer to her than to me, but she had to sit there and command me in her future imperative: You’ll bring me the tissues.

I went and picked up the box, but I didn’t hand it to her right away. I stood there with the box just out of her reach and said: You know, Mother. You’re going to have to tell me more about my adoption than the Catholic-agency thing.

She looked up at me as if she were coming out of a deep sleep.

What was that, dear? she said, wiping a cheek.

The adoption. You can’t just drop the “Catholic” business on me, then say nothing else.

Give me the tissues, dear.

You have to tell me more. I know you know more than you’ve said.

The tissues, dear! You will give me the tissues!

I handed her the box, and she started wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. I could tell she wanted to hand me the dirty tissues, as if I’m the mother, taking away baby’s snot rags, but I’m sure she saw the look on my face and didn’t dare.

You have to tell me more, I said.

Oh, my darling, she answered. Why do you want to go into all that business? It was so long ago, I don’t even think about it.

You don’t think about it. But you dropped something on me, now I have to think about it. So you can’t just leave it there.

But why, dear? It means nothing, as I said.

Because it explains how Father feels about me—or doesn’t feel, to be more exact.

What are you talking about?

He … He’s uneasy with me. About me.

What are you saying? Father loves you!

I was still standing over her. The television was still playing, and all this is happening with the commercials blaring behind us. A really loud one came on, and I had to yell over it:

He hates Catholics! And every time he looks at me, he sees a Catholic baby. So he hates me! It explains everything!

Mother’s face dropped. Her head fell back on the recliner. She stared at me, for a second or two almost uncomprehending. Then she began shaking her head slowly, back and forth, her mouth open, but no voice was coming out, just her lips mouthing, Oh, no, Oh, no. Until finally she said:

Oh, my God, baby. You don’t really think that. Oh, no. God. Oh, God, no.

She picked up the Space Commander and clicked MUTE.

It was suddenly very quiet. I could hear the branches scratching at the windows, the wind rustling through the hedges. Mother began looking around her seat, and I realized she was looking for all her used tissues, which she balled up and put in the empty teacup.

You know, darling, she said, handing me the teacup with the balled-up tissues, you’ll put this in the dishwasher, and then you’ll make me a martini.

What—now?

You make the best ones, dear. Everyone says so. It’s so good to have you home. I always sleep better when the children are home. Make me a good martini—and one for yourself—and then I’ll tell you everything.





26.


The patient found the Smirnoff in the freezer, behind the Beefeater gin her father’s pals liked to swill. The bottle, then the ice: everything felt burning cold. What had she said to change her mother’s mind so quickly? She felt like a child who’d made the big mistake: step on a crack, break your mother’s back. It was all she could do to put the ice and vodka in the shaker, add a drop of vermouth, swirl around the ice cubes then toss them out, spear the olive with a toothpick. It had to be made just so: just as Mother had taught her that summer when she was thirteen, when she had carried the martini glasses so expertly on a tray, never spilling anything, serving Mother’s friends as they lounged on the patio, smoking cigarettes in long plastic holders.

Isn’t the first sip always the best? said her mother, taking the martini in two hands and holding up the glass for scrutiny. That first one you have to take carefully or else spill it? She bent her lips to the rim and siphoned off the top quarter inch. Ah, darling! No one makes these quite like you do. What—you didn’t make one for yourself?

By then the sky had become quite dark, and the branches were black against the windows. Her mother looked up to exclaim, My, how dreary it is to have the sun down at five o’clock!

The patient sat listening to the scratch of the leaves and watched her mother sip her drink. It seemed to her that many minutes passed in this way, in a suspense of scratching and sipping—little clawing sounds, she said to her doctor.

I felt that everything was very fragile, she said, that if I moved, everything would fall apart.

What everything? Dr. Schussler asked.

Everything, everything, the patient said. My life, my identity, all the things you think are solid—suddenly you realize you could have been someone else. Anyone else, depending on the family that took you in. Rich or poor. State junior college or Ivy League M.B.A. Catholic or Protestant. Or, God knows, maybe Baptist, Holy Roller, the child of tongue speakers or snake handlers. I felt like I was back at the foundling hospital, sitting there in the overheated lobby with my wet clothes in my lap, waiting for Mrs. Waters. Sitting there afraid, afraid of being exposed.

Exposed as what? the doctor asked.

A fraud. A construction. An arbitrary set of facts.

(How glorious! I thought, as I listened on my side of our common wall. She knows she is self-created!)

But is it not also true, said the therapist, that we discussed some core inside you, something that felt alien to your family, something that remained unchanged despite the pressures put upon you to be one thing or another?

(Yes! Self-driven, immune to the mere circumstance of birth!)

The patient breathed in and out. Yes, she said at last. But there was something else. I looked at Mother, in her lovely outfit, with her perfect yellow ball of hair, her nails polished a pale pink, her red high heels, all this on a Sunday evening at home. I watched her drink; I saw the way she put the glass down on the tabletop so carefully. And I knew then that she was afraid. I suddenly wanted to protect her—and realized I’ve always been protecting her.

Protecting her from what? the doctor asked.

Oh, from all the pain opening up this subject would cause her.

Cause her pain? Dr. Schussler asked.

I’m assuming it had to be hard, to get a child to adopt, to suddenly have this little alien put in your arms. You don’t know where she came from—a human meteor dropped from the sky. Maybe she’s a demon seed, the patient said with a laugh.

Well, perhaps, said the doctor gently. Perhaps it was hard for your mother at the beginning. But then she was rewarded for whatever difficulties she might have gone through. After all, said the therapist after a long pause, she had you.

The patient gasped. Me! she said.

She fell back into her chair.

Me, she repeated softly.

She was silent for some time. I’d never considered that, she finally said.

And your mother then goes on, said the doctor, to find that she is a fortunate woman, who has been given not a demon but a treasure.

The patient laughed. Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.

Yet there was no doubt that the thought of her worth had fallen upon the patient with the force of revelation. The timbre of her voice brightened; the cadence of her speech strode forthrightly on. For now, fortified with her new understanding, she seemed to take courage as she resumed the story of her mysterious birth.





27.


As I said, we were in the den, the patient went on.

Dark had fallen. The wind was blowing. The patient knew her father and sister might come back at any moment. Beyond the kitchen, the rooms of the big house were in full night, still unlit. Mother and daughter sat across from each other, the glass coffee table between them, each in a separate pool of light from two small lamps.

Her mother put down her drink and seemed to stare at something far off behind the dark leaves. Then she lit a cigarette, dropped her used match into the ashtray, and said: Sweetheart, you’ll empty this, please.

By the time the patient returned, the martini was half gone.

Her mother sighed. Oh, sweetheart, this was all so long ago. I don’t even recognize the person I was then.

She kept staring out the window. And the patient knew, while her mother still looked at whatever was holding her gaze, there was still a chance. She could stop all this, say forget it, never mind. But it was already too late: Her mother was exhaling her smoke, clearing her throat, touching her beads, firming her mouth.

The first thing you need to know is that your father was born a Catholic.

I thought I’d heard wrong, the patient told Dr. Schussler. She’d said it so quickly, blurted it out. All I could say was, He was born what?

He was born a Catholic, she repeated. His father—

Grandfather Avery?

Grandfather Avery was a devout Catholic—

What? Why didn’t Father say so?

Because he and his father became completely estranged.

Her mother stopped to sip her drink, then said: Over me.

I never knew Father’s father, the patient said to the doctor. He died before I was born, my parents always told me. And no one ever talked about him. A few pictures once fell out of an old album, a thin, bearded man, that’s all I thought of him, and otherwise he didn’t exist for me. So I couldn’t bring this nonperson back to life, I mean in my mind, and didn’t stop to notice Mother’s face, and didn’t realize how long she’d paused. But now I think something like thirty seconds must have gone by before she went on to say:

Your father converted when he married me. And because of this, his father cut him off. Completely. You see, your grandfather was not just a Catholic, but a traditionalist Catholic. Mass twice a day, confessions, rosary beads, murmuring Latin in the dark in a haze of incense. Bleeding Jesus crucifixes everywhere, even over the bed. Horrid to have the image of a man—even if he is the son of God, he’s a man—horrid to have a man nailed at the hands and feet bleeding over your headboard. That was their house, and it was what your grandfather expected of Father. Not only that, but the whole family was part of a group preparing to move to some big piece of property in southern Illinois. Five families were going, and your father—with a proper wife, not someone like me—was expected to join them. Your grandfather was a single man then—your father’s mother died long before all this happened—and he was going to be the patriarch, the wise layman leading the flock under the guidance of their guru priest. You see, it was a cult, a religious cult, although people didn’t call it that in those days. They just said they were “forming a religious community.”

I couldn’t speak, said the patient to her therapist. I didn’t know what to think. I couldn’t imagine Father in a situation like that. He’s so sophisticated, looking more like David Niven every day, with his pencil mustache and cashmere sweaters, his virgin wool slacks breaking just so over his soft Italian loafers. Mr. Architect with plans rolled up under his arm. Mr. Perfect WASP. All I could manage to say was:

I can’t imagine it—Father?

Yes, said Mother. Father grew up like that. And he hated it. Hated them. They were evil to me, and to him, when he brought me home. All they could think of was the money they’d spent sending your father to architecture school in the expectation that he would build them their compound in the wilds of southern Illinois. People think “the Midwest” when they think Illinois, they think Chicago, but southern Illinois is the Bible Belt, right above Kentucky; it’s the South. They were going to a place called Mount—something with a C; I can’t remember; I suppose I’ve blotted it out—to their mount, there to be surrounded by Baptists and Lutherans, practically one church for every ten people, and teach them all the way back to the One Holy Apostolic Catholic Church.

Mother laughed, bitterly, said the patient. Then she took three long pulls on her martini and tipped the last drop into her mouth.

Mother! I said to her. You promised you’d go slow on that stuff.

She lit a cigarette. Do you want to know all this or not? she asked.

Yes, I said.

So let me do this my way.

Then she sat quietly for a while, smoking, just looking out the window. And I could see the bad memories coming back to her, crawling between her eyebrows and cracking her lips like ice. She went on to tell me about all the humiliations Grandfather’s family put her through, how they took her into a chapel and made her kneel for two hours as they prayed over her and nearly suffocated her with incense, how they tried to make her promise she’d become a Catholic and when she refused, they locked her in a basement—

Locked her in a basement? Dr. Schussler interrupted.

Yes, in a basement, as the whole group, twenty adults or more, argued above her—she could hear them stamping and shouting, and at one point she actually feared for her life!

Mein Gott! said the doctor.

And finally Father decided he was the one who was going to convert, to become a Presbyterian and marry Mother. And both of them were banished. That’s the word Mother used: “banished.”

Mother said: They told your father, You are dead to us.

Then her mother paused, smoked, sighed.

Well, she went on, luckily my family was kinder and helped us get started. They helped your father set up his practice, helped us buy our first house, and, well, begin the life you know.

She looked out into the dark.

And that’s the story, she said at last.

The TV had been on the whole time, the patient told her therapist. Muted, just the picture flashing over us, as if we couldn’t stand to be alone with ourselves. I looked out to see whatever Mother was looking at, and all I could see was our reflection, a mother and a daughter projected out beyond the glass, flickering in the light of the TV. They looked happier than we were, nice and normal, mother and child on a Sunday night in front of the TV. And all at once it came to me that I’d been so startled to learn about Father that I’d forgotten I still hadn’t learned anything more about my adoption.

But Mother, I said, what does all this have to do with me?

Again she looked at me as if out of a deep sleep.

You? she asked. Her brow wrinkled instantly. Her lips turned into staccato lines. Then—it was so clear; amazing; I could see the WASP de-emotion machine come to life—her brow smoothed out, her lips turned up in a big smile, and she said:

But darling! Don’t you see? It shows you that Father’s hatred of Catholics has nothing to do with you! Aren’t you happy you know this?

Happy, I repeated.

But something was wrong. I’d seen that lie sweep across her face. Maybe a minute went by, and finally I said to her:

But Mother, if Father converted when you two got married, how is it I came to you through a Catholic agency? Because by then Father was no longer a Catholic.

I had hit it exactly, the patient said to Dr. Schussler. I could tell because her bright-lie face collapsed. She looked suddenly … I suppose “haunted” is the word.

Are you sure you want to know all this, honey? she said. I mean, some things are best left alone. Sometimes it’s good not to discuss everything the way young people do these days.

Mother! There’s more to tell. I can see it in your face.

Yes. There’s more.

She sighed.

Yes. More. All right. But, you know, first you’ll make me another one of those swell martinis. And you’ll make one for yourself, sweetheart—dry and very cold, just like the last?





28.


I went into the kitchen and didn’t know what to do, she said. I hated her drinking. I hated that she made me a party to it—made me her bartender. But I knew she wouldn’t go on without another drink, and so I went through the whole martini routine again, the mixing and the shaking, and the carrying in on a tray.

Oh, thank you, darling, Mother said. I love when you serve me with a tray. It’s so very dear of you to do these little things that please me. Come and let me give you a kiss.

I knelt down beside her, so I could give her the glass without spilling any, and offered up my cheek, which she air-kissed, saying Mwa! like Dinah Shore.

The agency, Mother, I said, sitting down again. The Catholic adoption agency.

Yes. The agency, Mother said, meanwhile holding up her glass for inspection, looking for the required thin floes of ice.

You always make them just right, she said.

Mother! The agency! I said again.

She took her first sip—she even said “Ah!” like a thirsty person—then she said:

Well, I told you that there were these Catholic babies in Europe that had come under the care of the Church during the war—

You didn’t say Europe. I thought the babies were here. You didn’t say Europe.

Didn’t I? Well, they were in Europe. The war ended, and the children had come under the Church’s care under various circumstances—

Orphans and bastards.

Won’t you please stop with that! If you want to know the story, just let me tell it.

Yes, Mother.

Don’t go jumping in and running ahead the way you always do.

Yes, Mother.

All right, then. So.

She took a sip of her drink, then another.

So. Somehow the whole group around your grandfather, Grandfather Avery, was in touch with someone from the Catholic Church, a high muckety-muck, someone “highly placed in the Church hierarchy,” he was told. And this functionary was arranging for the children to be placed in Catholic homes, both in Europe and here. It was all very hush-hush because …

She paused, looked out the window, then took a pull on her martini.

Because, well, I don’t know why, come to think of it.

It was a lie, said the patient to Dr. Schussler. It was clearly a lie. She knew why. But if I interrupted her again, I knew she’d walk off—she does that rather than get angry. So I let it go, and she mumbled on a bit, covering up. You know people are lying when they say too much about a simple thing. Finally she said:

In any case, the adoptions had to be done quickly, for the sake of the children, obviously, so that they would have parents instead of living in a church orphanage or a monastery. You may not have realized it, honey, but Europe was in ruins after the war, really devastated, people hungry, getting over losses of loved ones, businesses wrecked. So it wasn’t a situation where people were lining up to take in babies. On the contrary. That’s why so many were sent over here.

Shipped over like cargo, I said.

Will you stop that!

So I was one of them, I said to Mother, sent over here from the ruins of Europe.

Don’t talk like that, darling. People cared about you, and all the little children without families.

But how did I get from Grandfather Avery’s crazy group to you—to you and Father? You said you were estranged from Grandfather. And that Father wasn’t even a Catholic anymore.

Her mother gave her a stern look.

Really. I think it’s best not to go into all these details from the past. You know, sleeping dogs and all that. She patted her hair, fingered the silk of her collar.

You can’t stop here, Mother.

Think about it, dear. We can talk some other time, perhaps, if you decide you want me to go on.

Don’t be ridiculous. I’m orphaned somehow in the madness of the war. I’m in a monastery or an orphanage. The Catholic Church then ferries me to America, to this Catholic cult, as you called it, and then—what?

What, her mother echoed.

She smoked, then said:

Well. I’ll just say it: There was some problem with the first adoption.

First adoption?

Her mother took a deep breath.

All right. You wanted to know.

She paused.

You were adopted first by your father’s father.

What? Grandfather Avery?

I was reeling, the patient said to Dr. Schussler. That thin, bearded man I’d never given a thought to, a fading picture, a dead man no one mentioned: Suddenly he’s my father.

Yes, dear. He adopted you. But only briefly. A few months. There was … a problem with the adoption.

What problem?

Mother picked up her martini and took three long pulls from it, until only the olive remained at the bottom.

I never actually knew at the time, she finally said. All that was between your father and his father. Father kept many things from me in those days. Back then I assumed it was because of Grandfather’s age—he was forty-seven, and that was considered very old for a father in those days. And because he wasn’t married. And maybe because they found out that the guru priest the group followed had been defrocked—I forgot to tell you that, about the defrocked priest. All I knew was there was a phone call out of the blue from a member of your grandfather’s group asking Father to get in touch with them. After that, your father met with his father for the first time in a year, and when he came home he asked if we would take the child.

The child. Me.

Yes, dear. You.

And you said yes, the patient said.

Well … not immediately. Your father and I weren’t ready for a child then. We were … having problems.

What sort of problems?

I shouldn’t say any more, sweetheart. Your father wouldn’t … There are some things that are private, dear, between a husband and wife. Remember that when you get married.

Come on. You know I’ll never get married. Unless someday I can marry—

You will not say that in this house! I told you that. You will not mention it again!

What choice did I have? the patient said to the doctor. I had to exchange one silence for another.

All right, I said.

Now—Mother adjusted her collar, retying the bow—do you want to know the story or not?

Go on, I said.

She looked right at me, her eyes a little blurry—from tears or martinis, I couldn’t tell.

You see, she said. I wasn’t really ready to have a child.

You didn’t want me?

Please don’t interrupt! I didn’t know it was you yet! It wasn’t you, as you are. It was just the idea of having a baby—I wanted Father and me to enjoy some time together, since the beginning of our marriage had been so difficult. You can understand that, can’t you?

I thought about it, and said I did.

But then, I went on, what changed your mind?

Well then, her mother said. Father came home and put you in my arms. I looked into your big eyes. You were so beautiful. Your skin was so soft. You wanted to get down and crawl—you were so ready for life, so hungry for it! And, what can I say? It only took a minute. I fell in love with you.

Her mother looked squarely at her. I really did, you know. Fall in love with you.

I knew I should go over and hug her, the patient told Dr. Schussler. This really should have been a breakthrough moment. The whole thing: Violins. Tears. Hugs. But I could not take it in: this sudden expression of love, out of nowhere.

How old was I? the patient asked her mother.

Let’s see, you were crawling already. So maybe five, six months.

And was I big?

Not too big, not too small. Her mother smiled. Just right.

What color was my hair then?

The smile faded. Like now, she said, brownish—dirty blond.

Mother and daughter sat in silence as the house suddenly shuddered in a gust of wind.

Is there a picture? the patient asked.

Her mother looked up. A picture?

Of the day I came home.

I don’t know why there should be a picture.

It’s the day you “fell in love with me,” remember? You have all these pictures of Lizabeth the day you brought her home from the hospital.

Her mother looked out beyond the leaves again.

No, there wasn’t a picture, she said.

And why didn’t you and Father ever talk about all this? Why was it such a big secret?

Mother kept gazing off into the darkness. It was a long time before she answered. Then she said:

I guess I wanted to believe that you started with me.

She had spoken in a soft voice, very tender, full of longing. But something was wrong, the patient thought. Her mother’s eyes were strangely clouded. She kept looking out the window, into the dark, and her mouth slowly contracted.

Lip lines, Mother, the patient said.

Lip lines! Ugly! Thank you, dear, her mother said, spreading out the skin above her lip with her fingers. And then she fell silent.

So there’s more, said the patient.

Yes, there’s more.

Go on, the patient said.

Are you sure, darling? There are some things it’s best not to know.

But you’ve started—

Yes, I’ve started. What was I thinking? Now that I have begun—

You have to finish.

I have to finish.

You can’t stop now.

No, I don’t suppose I can. Not even for another martini, she said with a smile, much as I would dearly love to. All right. Yes. I have to go on.

I was very happy for the next two months, her mother said. You were a joy, Father was busy with his work, just starting his practice, and I could stay home all day and care for you, play with you, watch you grow.

I don’t remember the exact circumstances, but one day I was looking for something on your father’s desk. One of the drawers was always kept locked. I don’t know why I suddenly felt I had to open it. At our last house I knew your father always kept the desk key taped under the center drawer. And sure enough, I looked, and there was the key.

Among the papers in the drawer was a file with a cover embossed with a curious logo: letters that spelled out C-O-R-P-U-S—CORPUS—below that Jesus on the cross in the center of a globe, and below that the Virgin Mary and child. All of which I thought was odd, having both the crucifix and the Virgin, and also CORPUS. Body, body of Christ. I opened the file and saw a letter from a Bishop M.—no last name, just the initial—to someone named Bill Ryan, whose title was given as President, Catholic Overseas Rescue U.S. I don’t remember the exact wording, but the gist of the letter was that Bill should understand the need for utter secrecy in the matter—what the “matter” was wasn’t made clear in the letter. So naturally I had to turn the page.

Her mother reached for her glass. Oh, right. Empty, she said.

Go on, her daughter said.

So I turned the page. It was a photostat of a document in German. There was a date, sometime in 1946. And then another date. My hands started shaking. I could barely keep from tearing the paper, they shook so hard. Because the second date was one I knew as well as the beating of my own heart. December 26th—

My birth date!

Yes, your birth date. It was a birth record of some kind. My hands were trembling, as I said, shaking uncontrollably. Until that moment, you see, I had known nothing about you except a birth date, and that you were German—

German? You didn’t say German. Only from Europe.

Didn’t I? Well, yes. Germany. Father had told me you were brought over from Germany. So I knew that you were German, Catholic, and needed a home. And of course, after being your mother for two months, that you were darling, energetic, bright, and adorable. Here suddenly was the fact—maybe it wasn’t a fact; I made myself hold certainty away for a minute—that you weren’t just someone else’s child before I knew you, but the child of one woman, a specific woman, a woman in particular.

You saw her name?

No, dear. Not her full name. Just a first name and initial. Maria G. That was it. That was all. And now: Did I want to turn the page? As I said, I wanted to believe you started with me. Ah, denial. The great glory of denial. But denial must be whole, entire, untouched. It was already touched.

My mother’s name was Maria! said the patient.

See? said her mother. See how quickly denial evaporates? Already she’s your mother, not me.

Oh, God. I didn’t mean—

Oh, don’t worry, dear. Of course. What else can you call her? Your womb? Your egg incubator? Your—

Birth mother, supplied the patient.

Yes, birth mother. Her mother clicked her tongue. That’s what all those adoption groups call it. But what an awkward nomenclature, darling. Don’t you think it’s rather brutal—this concentration on the bloody act of birth? Why don’t we simply call her Madame G.

The patient laughed. I’ve studied a little German, Mother. I believe that should be Frau G.

Said her mother: I told you not to smile like that. It’s disgusting. Your gums are so low. You shouldn’t show those disgusting gums when you smile.





29.


A knock on the doctor’s door startled us all. Dr. Schussler and the patient jumped in their seats, and it was all I could do to keep still myself. I looked at my watch in amazement: In all my years of therapy, I had never known a single one of the therapeutic breed to proceed past the very tick of the fifty-minute hour. Yet here it was noon, full noon, two hands on the twelve.

Dr. Schussler went to the door, opened it. Two minutes, she said very softly out into the corridor. The door closed, and her next client’s footsteps pounded down the hall.

Ah! We cannot stop here for an entire week! the doctor said.

(No, indeed! I thought. We cannot stop here!)

Oh, God, said the patient. Is the hour already up?

Ach. I am afraid so.

There came the sound of pages turning.

I had a cancellation for tonight, the doctor went on. Eight o’clock. Can you come back then?

The footsteps came pounding back, then stamped outside the door.

Yes, said the patient, rising to her feet. I’ll come back then.





30.


Your mother had just insulted you once again, said Dr. Schussler as they resumed at eight.

Oh, yes indeed, said the patient. She thinks my gums are disgusting. Can you imagine how impossible it is to be a happy person if your mother thinks your smile is disgusting? Anyway. Never mind this for now. Getting back to where we were.

There was a pause. Then she resumed as if the many hours had not intervened:

Mother asked me to make her another martini. No, didn’t ask. It was the usual command: You know, you’ll make one for me, sweetheart, dry and very cold, just like the last.

So I made yet another martini, circling the vermouth around the glass then tossing it, shaking the vodka until it was ice cold—the whole routine of Mother’s perfect martini. All the while, I was aware of wanting to prolong each step—perform the ritual exquisitely well, be the world’s most perfect bartender. Because I knew we’d go back to the story about the ruins of Europe, defeated Germany—all its horror. I knew what was waiting for me. How could I not know what was waiting for me?

I put the drink on the tray and looked at it for a moment: It was clear and icy, something immaculate in it, unclouded. This may seem silly but I suddenly wanted a clear, clean life filled with martinis, like Mother’s. I would wear high heels and skirts; I’d learn to wear makeup, learn how to chitchat at cocktail parties; I’d get married to some unassuming man—be normal, regular, like everyone else, which all at once seemed what I’d always wanted: to be normal and regular, not odd, not adopted, not an unhappy genetic alien set down among cheerful people. For a moment I even wondered if my being gay was just another admission of defeat.

Defeat at what? asked the therapist.

At being normal.

Do not do this to yourself, said the doctor. Now you are punishing yourself.

Yes, said the patient after a long pause.

As her client remained silent, Dr. Schussler said: So you made the martini and carried it to your mother.

Yes, said the patient. I did it as if in a dream. Some other person was carrying that tray, not spilling a drop of the drink, getting kissed for it. Someone else clicked off the TV. And that person said:

All right, Mother. What else was in that file?

Wait, sweetheart. That first sip. Ah! Perfect, as always. All right. Now. What else was in that file.

Mother put down her glass and looked out the window, where our neighbor’s light was now shining through the leaves.

How many times have I asked Jim Bracket to put a shade on that horrid porch light! she said. It’s brighter than a bloody streetlight. There must be some regulation about how bright a residential light can be!

Mother, please.

Her mother sighed. Yes, I know. I know I’m stalling. But you see how hard it is for me to go on with this. I promise I won’t get drunk. I’ll drink this slowly. But let me say to you now: Don’t you think you know enough already? You came from Germany. Your mother’s name was Maria. Somehow she lost you—it was wartime; perhaps she died. Isn’t that quite enough to know?

Was it? Was it quite enough to know? For one last time, the patient told her therapist, she felt the pull of secrecy, the thrill she had felt during all those years of having mysterious origins: the vague, wonderful stories she had recited in the back of her mind. Mothers and fathers had paraded by—nobles, movie stars, singers, artists, intellectuals—as her tastes in parents had changed over the years. Sometimes they were named Wilhelmina and Reginald, sometimes Fighting Bear and Little Feather. At twelve, she had imagined herself the secret illegitimate child of Jo Stafford; at fifteen, the unknown daughter of Virginia Woolf. Then, at sixteen, the happy images had suddenly faded, and the idea of her parents had become a hazy story of a woman who had an affair with a married man, got pregnant, and had to give up the baby for adoption when the scoundrel wouldn’t leave his wife and marry her.

Now all those old parents were suddenly banished.

Now there was Frau G.

Wasn’t that quite enough to know?

If she stopped here, and learned no more, she thought, there would still be stories she could tell herself, plausible stories about Frau G. Perhaps she was a very rich woman, a cultured woman, who lived in a grand apartment in Berlin. Yes, of course. She was a liberal-minded woman, not a Nazi, and the intelligentsia of Berlin had flocked to her drawing room, where each Tuesday evening she held a salon. Her husband was on leave when she was conceived; and then, tragically, he died at the front. The war ended, and Frau G. now found herself without her fortune, all the banks of Berlin having been looted, all the records lost, the mark worth not a pfennig. Sitting in the ruined drawing room where she had held forth over so many happy gatherings, her belly grown large and heavy, the lovely Frau came to the reluctant and awful decision to give her baby away, to give her to someone who could give the child what she had had before the war: a happy, prosperous home.

But I was too old for all that now, said the patient to her doctor with a laugh. The ridiculousness of the story was too apparent. I knew I couldn’t make up any more special parents.

So I said:

You can’t stop now, Mother. What else was in the “secret” file?

Yes, sighed her mother. I know. I can’t stop now. I knew this day would come sometime. And, oh, hell—she laughed—here it is.

She took a small sip of her drink. All right, now, dear. Collect yourself. So. I looked at the next page. I should tell you it was a very odd document. Very strange. It was mostly blank. There wasn’t even room on it for information. Just a stark little piece of paper. Maybe five by seven inches. Gray and already crackling. Wartime paper. I picked it up very carefully—as I said, my hands were trembling—and scanned it all over for something more, anything more. But there were just some short sentences in German, maybe two, and what looked like an official stamp on the right-hand corner.

And then you turned the page.

Yes, after I stared, dumb, at the words in a language I don’t understand. After I had stared so long that the letters turned into nonsense squiggles—yes, then I turned the page.

Her mother fell back in her chair, let her head lean against the headrest of the recliner. The next page, dear, she said, was a dossier. It was in English, no name, only a number—307—and I assumed of course that this was more information about the … about you.

She smiled at her daughter.

But then I read on and saw that couldn’t be true. I saw a birth date. Her smile fell. May 17, 1921.

So it was about—

Yes—

My birth mother—

Frau G., dear.

My mother, the patient said to herself.

Please go on, she said aloud.

Her mother took a sip of her drink, then went to take another.

Mother. Slowly, you said.

Yes, she said, putting down the glass.

Yes. What else. There was more, a little more. Place of birth: Berlin. Last known residence: Celle. Then there were spaces for information about the child’s father. Father’s name: Unknown. Father’s date of birth: Unknown. Father’s last residence: Unknown. And so on about the father: unknown, unknown, unknown.

So Frau G. had been born in Berlin and had last lived someplace named Celle. Nothing was known about your father. And the next line on the dossier said this: Date of surrender: May 18, 1946.

May 18th. Isn’t that just one day after her—after Frau G.’s birthday?

How quickly you memorize it! For all the times you forgot mine.

Oh, God.

Yes, her mother said, running her polished index finger around the rim of her glass. It appears to have been her birthday.

And what did it mean—surrender?

Surrender. That’s the term they use for when a woman gives up a baby. She surrenders it. Horrible. Another one of those brutal adoption terms. As if people didn’t have any feelings. Terrible! Let’s agree never to mention the word again.

She—she gave me up the day after her birthday?

So it would seem, dear. And now, darling, it’s time for another sip.

The patient watched helplessly as her mother downed the rest of her martini, then sat there considering the olive at the end of the toothpick.

Mother. Please.

Yes, yes. We have to go on, don’t we? Ever forward. Onward! She ate the olive.

Mother!

Yes, well. The next part of the dossier described Frau G. physically. It listed her height: five foot five. Weight: about one-twenty—slim, I remember thinking. Eye color: blue. Hair color: blond. Complexion: fair. Like us, I thought. Like Father and me: blond, blue-eyed, and fair. Physical defects: none. Genetic diseases: none. Mental health: excellent. I remember thinking, How can her mental health be excellent when she is … when she is giving up her baby? And then I realized they meant she wasn’t schizophrenic or hysterical, or some other gross mental problem they worried about at the time. People feeling sad, or even tormented … This wasn’t considered a mental health problem in those days. Only feelings. People thought of them as only feelings.

She looked out into the glare of Jim Bracket’s porch light while the shadows of the leaves scrabbled over her face. She crossed her arms over her chest. And when she spoke again, her voice was level, and a little cold.

I really should have started here, she said. No point in holding off. Very stupid of me. The last line on the dossier was “Religion.” Mother’s religion.

Not Catholic, said the patient.

Yes. Not Catholic. She looked at her daughter.

Jewish, it said. Jewish.

This is what I’d been holding off the whole time I was making the martini, the patient told Dr. Schussler. Now I couldn’t keep it away, of course. She’d said the word, and that was that.

So me, I said. So I’m Jewish too.

No, no! You were baptized. And from that moment, you were Catholic.

And before that—Jewish.

Her mother stood, smoothed her dress, sat down, then exchanged the places of two little glass figurines, the ballerina with the balloon seller. I didn’t know it until I saw the file, she said at last.

What do you mean, you didn’t know it? asked the patient.

Her mother said nothing. I don’t understand, the patient said.

Her mother sat forward, ran her fingertips over the ballerina’s legs. Of course, I didn’t either. I … Well, when I found out, you can imagine how I felt—

You?—

—standing there, coming across the fact that your mother was Jewish.

What you felt?

I leafed through the rest of the file, her mother went on. Correspondence, some of it in German, to and from that Bill Ryan person, one letter with a Vatican letterhead. It was more than I could take in, more than I could conceive of. I closed the file. That logo. Catholic Overseas Rescue. Who was being rescued? And from what?

All this took place in the morning. I had to wait all day for your father to come home, eight hours before I could ask him what the hell this was all about. The day seemed to go on forever. You were very fussy, crying over everything. I must have changed your diaper ten times. I couldn’t understand what was the matter with you.

I was a nuisance.

No.

A nuisance. You fell out of love with me just as quickly as you fell in love. Look what you were stuck with: a Jewish baby.

Don’t be silly. You were ill or something. I couldn’t soothe you. You wouldn’t be soothed.

A bother.

No. I paced up and down with you, bounced you up and down, held you, and still you kept on crying and crying until I thought I would go crazy until your father came home.

At last you went down for a nap. At last I heard Father’s key in the door. Before he had his hat off, his coat off, I was asking about you, your mother, Jews, Catholic Overseas Rescue. Rescued from what? I demanded to know.

He was furious. How dare you go into my locked drawer! He threw his briefcase at me; I had to jump back so it wouldn’t hit me. It was very heavy, loaded with papers, and I stood there stupidly for a moment looking at it sprawled at my feet. Meanwhile Father is hollering, How dare you! You stupid idiot. You’ll ruin everything. You stupid cow!

He spoke to you like that? the patient asked.

Yes. He did. In those days. When he was still fresh from the influence of his father and that horrible group.

And then?

Then I followed him into his office, still demanding to know what was going on. He tore off his hat, his coat. He kept shouting, You idiot! No one’s supposed to know. Not even you. He pounded the desk. He bent his chair back. He picked up an ashtray—glass, heavy—and raised his arm to throw it. Not at me! I yelled. And he crashed it to the floor.

Upstairs, you started crying. Wailing.

You’d better go tend to her, Father said.

But I wasn’t going to be dismissed so easily. I went upstairs, checked you, saw you were all right, then picked you up and carried you into the office.

Father eyed me as I came in, but now I had you in my arms, the baby he’d … the baby we went to so much trouble to bring into our lives. I sat down on the side chair, he at the desk, as if we were there for an appointment.

You fussed and whimpered, almost too big to hold in my arms.

I thought she’d have blue eyes, Father finally said.

Maybe too soon to tell, I answered.

They’re going dark, aren’t they? He leaned over and looked at the big bundle in my lap. He gave a laugh, then said to me: They told my father she’d be a blonde. What an ass. He believed it when they told him the child was “pure Aryan.”

(Dr. Schussler gasped.)

Tell me, I said to your father. What are you hiding from me?

He sat back in his desk chair—it had a high back, and he rested his head for a while. Then he reached out his hand to you. He caressed your soft hair, your sweet soft skin, ran a finger over your brow, and looked into your sparkling eyes. You started laughing. He tickled you. You laughed some more. He kissed you. You see, darling, no matter what anyone thought they wanted or didn’t want, there you were. And we fell helplessly in love.

Her mother’s eyes moistened and slowly overflowed, and finally one pendulous tear fell to the edge of her blouse. She looked down at the perfectly round spot in the white of the silk.

You’ll bring me a tissue, dear?

Thank you, darling, her mother said, after dabbing at her wet spot, then handing her daughter the crumpled tissue for disposal.

But you still haven’t told me what he said.

Her mother sighed. You see, sweetheart, at that moment I wasn’t sure I wanted him to go on. There we were, our little family, you being the delight that you were. And I wasn’t sure … but yes, I did ask him to go on.

So here is the whole story, dear. As quickly as I can tell it. The Church took in all sorts of children during the war, not all of them Catholic. While they were under the Church’s protection, most of them were baptized—they considered it a religious duty, evidently, though to me it seemed highly impertinent … Well. Never mind that.

In any case, she went on, all of the Jewish babies were baptized—immediately. And when the war ended, the Church was afraid their families would come looking for them. Some archbishop had made the decision: The Jewish children were not going back, even if their parents came for them.

So I was stolen! said the patient, already looking toward the end of the story.

Will you wait, dear! You wanted the whole story, and here it is. The Jewish children were not going back, even if their parents came for them. And especially if it was only aunts and uncles or distant relations looking for them. Or worse, there were community organizations and religious congregations—synagogues—looking for the Jewish children who had been given to the Church for protection. And they wanted them back, to send them to Palestine. You can understand how that wouldn’t necessarily be in the best interests of the children, giving them to organizations that would send them into Palestine, a contested zone. You know, the British were trying to keep the Jews out, to please the Arabs; and there were bombings, and terrorist actions. Certainly no place for an infant. You can understand why the Church wouldn’t want the babies to go there, can’t you? The archbishop said if by chance a child had not been baptized for some reason, it could go back. But no baptized Jewish child was to be given back. Period.

So I was stolen! said the patient. My mother probably died in a concentration camp, and the damn Catholic Church stole me away before any of my relatives could find me!

No, no. Father told me you were … given up in a displaced-persons camp. A D.P. camp, they called it. So this had to be after the war, after the camps were freed. So whatever happened, your birth mother didn’t die there, in a …

Concentration camp. Can’t you even say it? Concentration camp! But is it supposed to be some kind of relief—that she didn’t die in one?

Yes, dear. I would think so. Some relief. Your mother survived the war, she was in a displaced-persons camp, probably having great difficulties, and she gave you up to the Church so you would have a better life. You weren’t stolen. Father promised me you weren’t one of the stolen babies. At that time, no one was trying to get you back.

At that time? You mean someone came for me later?

No, darling. No one ever came for you.

And then her mother looked away.

I can’t describe it, the patient said to the doctor. The emptiness I suddenly felt. The sense of being abandoned—it’s always there. Part of being adopted is the knowledge that you were given away by someone. Abandonment is always in the background, a sort of platform that all the other feelings are stacked on. But now … It wasn’t a feeling but an actual fact. My mother dropped me off at the church and never came back. No one … no one ever came for me.

So I was abandoned, I said to Mother.

Surrendered, dear, she said.

Then she sat quietly, only gazing off through the window. Jim Bracket had turned off his porch light, and now the world outside the room was completely black. The wind was down, and the leaves only trembled a little now and then. I felt as if a blanket had been thrown over my head and I’d already breathed in all the air that was under it. I thought I might faint—although I’ve never fainted in the whole of my life. But now I suddenly understood how women really might just wilt and fall down.

But then I realized there was still more to the story.

But how did I get from Grandfather to you? I asked Mother. You still haven’t told me that.

Mother looked at me. She was so unhappy. It was all the unhappiness I was ever afraid of giving her by asking about my adoption.

Darling, she said. This part is the hardest, I think.

Go on, I said.

You see, Grandfather thought he was taking in a Catholic child. He had not been told about the baptized babies—

And when he found out I was Jewish he—

He asked if Father and I would take you.

He junked me!

Darling, no—

He wanted some Aryan and got a dirty Jew! God. What a joke!

Sweetheart. Why would you say something like that?

But why give me to you? Why in the world give me to you and not to some charity, some—

Father said his father put it this way: If you’re so happy not being a Catholic, how about going all the way and being Jewish?

So it was all about their feud. Father took me to get back at his father!

No, dear.

He wanted to prove a point, so he took me. He didn’t want me. You didn’t want me. It was all just payback, wasn’t it?

Oh, dear darling. You must not see it that way. In any case, what does any of that matter? As I said, the moment you came into our lives, all that fell away.

But you can’t stop knowing something, can you?

That’s right, dear. That’s right. But not talking about something helps you forget, a little, then a little more as time goes by. She looked off into the dark. That’s why I never wished to tell any of all this.

She’d barely finished her sentence when we heard the keys in the front door.

Mother fixed her eyes on me. And for some few seconds, we seemed so close to each other, both of us together, afraid, because now what would we do? Tell Father? Lizabeth? Make this story a regular part of our lives? The keys went on jangling, the dead bolt clacked open, and we still looked at each other, alone in our little private world for a little while more. The door blew open. We’re home! Father’s voice boomed out across the house.

Mother stood, came toward me, bent down, and I thought she might kiss me. Then her mouth went to my ear, and she shout-whispered: You will not tell Father!

She went into the kitchen. Hello, darling, she sang out. Show me what you and Lizabeth bought today.

Make us martinis! Father called out.

Lizabeth came into the den, gave a quick hello, flipped on the TV.

Mind? she asked.

Okay, I said.

A screaming commercial came on, music, blaring. From the kitchen came the sound of packages being opened, the tink of glasses being taken from the shelf, the fridge opening and closing, the happy sound of ice cubes crackling open from the tray. Everything around me was swirling into normal. Lizabeth, Mother, Father—their lives would just go on as they always had. Shopping trips, Sunday evenings by the TV, yet another round of martinis. But I sat there in the den, unable to move, as if I was already in my other life. Me, with my eyes gone dark and my dirty blond hair—dirty! All I could think was: I’m a Jew, I’m a Jew, I’m a Jew.