Natalie searched Brooke’s face, wondering just how much either of them resembled the woman they were discussing. Other than their petite builds, she and Brooke didn’t look much like they were related. Now that she knew they’d had different fathers, Natalie had come to terms with the fact that she’d likely never meet hers. But her birth mother was different. It was she whom Natalie felt compelled to find. The woman who held her, took care of her for six months, and then just walked away.
“I do want to look for her,” she finally replied, and Brooke closed her eyes. “I’m sorry if that upsets you, but I want to understand why she did what she did. Especially now, knowing you were already four when she gave us up. I want to know how a mother could do something like that. Why she did something like that.”
“Does it matter?” Brooke said, opening her eyes again. “She did it. She neglected us. She left us in her car alone all of the time. I don’t remember a lot, but I remember that. I remember going to find her because I was so scared and seeing her getting screwed over a desk in some strange man’s office.” She gripped her fingers together tightly in her lap. “That’s the kind of mother we had, Natalie. And I don’t want anything to do with her.”
Natalie was quiet then, absorbing everything Brooke had just said. Did she really need to find this woman Brooke described? Maybe having her sister in her life would be enough; they would have each other and why their mother gave them up wouldn’t matter. But then something dawned on Natalie. “Maybe it will help you,” she said. “Seeing her again. You could confront her, tell her how much she hurt you. Maybe it would be cathartic. Make you feel better about having this baby.”
Brooke shook her head. “I doubt it.”
It struck Natalie then that however empty she’d sometimes felt growing up as an adopted child—however many faces she’d compared her own to in a crowd, knowing she had a birth mother out there somewhere in the world—she’d never know the hollow existence Brooke must have had spending all those years fundamentally alone. Natalie’s parents, whatever their mistakes, at least always made sure she knew how deeply she was wanted and loved. She couldn’t imagine the rejection Brooke had faced as one foster home after another sent her back to the state. She couldn’t fathom the kind of damage that had done to a little girl’s heart. No wonder her sister was guarded; she was always poised for disaster, waiting for that next destructive wave to crash over her and pull her out to an uncertain sea.
“I understand,” Natalie said, in a quiet voice. “And of course, I would never ask you to do anything you didn’t want to do.”
“But you’re going to look for her.”
“I think so. Yes.”
They sat together in silence for a minute or two. Brooke kept her head down, and Natalie fiddled with the thick seam of a cushion. Natalie wondered if she should have lied to Brooke, but the last thing she wanted to do to her sister was what Natalie’s parents had done to her. She wouldn’t keep her search for their birth mother a secret, but she wouldn’t broadcast it in front of Brooke, either. At the moment, her sister had bigger, more pressing concerns. And now that Natalie had found her, she resolved to be there for her, in any way that she could.
Jennifer
For our fifth date, Evan invited me to his house so he could cook me dinner. In the three weeks since the morning I’d boldly given him my number, we’d met for coffee two times, and he’d taken me out to lunch twice—all were limited, casual interactions that left me wanting to know him better. I had learned that he was forty-one, nine years older than me. I knew his father taught him everything about being a mechanic and that his mother had died when he was thirteen years old. I knew he moved to Phoenix when he was twenty-six, following a girl he ended up being married to for ten years, and then divorcing five years ago, about the same time I was released from prison. I knew he had a brother he wasn’t close to and that losing both of his parents had left a black mark on his heart. I knew that Scout was his best friend.
As was my habit, I’d used broad strokes to paint the picture of my past. He knew that my father had left my mother and me when I was twelve, and that now, my mother had remarried and we were estranged. He knew I considered Randy and Lisa the family that I’d chosen, and that training service dogs and my work with animals in general was what fed my soul.
“Dogs are the best,” he said. “Pure, unconditional love. You can’t get that anywhere else.” I told him I one hundred percent agreed.