Sisters in the Wind(6)

Announcements are made over an intercom in the hallway. Someone enters the room; heavy heels click to my right. The person halts only a few steps in. She gasps. The crying that follows comes from both sides of my bed. The deeper voice is on my left: someone who must have been sitting next to me. He rushes toward the person whose cries meet his at the foot of my bed.

“Daunis,” the man says. It’s an unfamiliar name from a familiar voice. Mr. Jameson knows the woman; love and longing are conveyed in the way he repeats her name. “Daunis. Daunis. Daunis. It’s really you.” His voice hitches at the last part.

“Jamie,” she whispers.

I’m tempted to open an eye and immerse myself in their love spell, but it’s not worth a migraine or getting caught.

“I knew we’d get our someday,” he says in a sexy growl.

Oh brother. Mr. Jameson—or, rather, Jamie—has got it bad for the chick.

Who is she? This Daunis woman?

“I, um, uh,” she falters, as if unsure how to answer my unspoken question.

They must break apart—her from him, because he would never let go first. She clears her throat. Her voice is deeper now, stronger, more in control. “Miigwech for calling me.”

I know that word. ME-gwetch. It means “thank you.”

Her hard heels step toward the right side of my hospital bed. Mr. Jameson softly shuffles a step behind. Probably wearing the Prada boots again.

“Oh my god. It’s her,” Daunis says. “She’s lighter than Lily. But … the shape of her chin. The resemblance. It’s really her.”

She has a slight exaggeration to her vowels that reminds me of a regular customer who was Canadian.

“The instant I saw her, I knew,” he says. “When she spoke, I heard Lily’s voice. Lucy sounds so much like her. But just to be thorough, I took a coffee cup she drank from and had an associate run a DNA test. I kept the comb from the funeral home. The one you used to fix Lily’s hair. I never knew why I kept it—” His voice breaks now. “It’s really her. Lucy Smith.”

They cry together. Over me. And someone named Lily.

Was she my birth mother?





WHEN I WAS SIX


1996

I never knew my mother. My dad spoke of her three times in my life: when I was six, nine, and twelve. He didn’t survive to my fifteenth birthday, so we couldn’t keep to the pattern of my learning something new about her every three years.

The first time, I asked my dad why I didn’t have blue eyes like him.

“Your mother had huge, dark brown eyes,” he answered as nonchalantly as if I’d asked what was for dinner.

I suddenly realized that I came from two people. Mothers existed; they were in the park where my dad took me to play. My classroom had a “mother,” but she was mine as much as she was everyone’s.

My dad knelt to stare into brown eyes that came from my own mother. He unsuccessfully attempted to smooth the cowlick that made my bangs aim for the sky.

“She was your birth mother,” he said gently. “That means she was pregnant with you but stopped being a mother as soon as she gave birth to you.”

“Why did she stop?” I asked.

His eyes filled with tears. “Not every woman wants to be a mom.” He stood abruptly and glared down at me. “Some women should never become mothers.”

His sudden anger—something I’d never witnessed before—scared me from asking anything else.



* * *



I had a good dad; this was reinforced when my Catholic school classmates talked about their fathers. Mine didn’t smoke cigarettes, drink alcohol, or use swear words. My dad was strict, but he never spanked me. He even obeyed traffic laws as fervently as the Ten Commandments.

We were Catholic. My dad was gentle like Joseph, the stepfather of Jesus. He served as an usher at mass every Sunday. We attended Holy Childhood of Jesus Catholic Church, located near our house in Harbor Springs, Michigan. He taught English to middle school students at St. Francis Xavier in nearby Petoskey and tithed a portion of his salary back to our parish.

He wasn’t just a godly man; he was also fun, smart, and athletic. We made pizza every Thursday night. We read for two hours every evening after dinner. He suggested titles and discussed themes. We watched movies that were rated G or PG. And only a few television shows, because most were mindless and promoted bad morals. We swam laps at the indoor community pool during the school year and spent summers at the country-club pool. We lived by our routines, but they never felt like a chore. I was never bored. I had my dad, and he had me.

My dad was devoted to me. He wasn’t like the other parents—mostly moms who tossed their kids into the country-club pool so they could drink white wine from ice-filled plastic tumblers, show off their barely opened novels, and stare at my dad whenever he emerged from the pool. He swam with me, taught me the proper form for every type of stroke, and tossed pennies for me to recover from the deep end.

My safety was his top priority. Raising me to be a good person was his mission.

The brief times when he left my side, the women cozied up to me.

“Your dad is such a handsome man. Is he dating anyone?”

“I need help with my breaststroke. Does he ever do private lessons?”

My extreme shyness usually prevented me from replying.