“Whoomp there it is” began to play, alerting me to a phone call. It was UMFS. Hattie North, a harsh voice and probably a beautiful face and body, was calling to inform me of the information that my inquiry had unearthed. She had a name, but wanted to meet me in person to discuss the details. A name? Just one name? Apparently my biological mother was single.
Part of me are excited about the prospect of finding her, but other parts of me wish that I could just leave well enough alone. My Mom will be heartbroken if she ever finds out that I sought out this information without telling her. God, I could be royally effing up this time.
I set up an appointment to meet with Hattie tomorrow. I’ll have to skip work again, but as far as they are concerned I still have the flu, so it’s no big deal. I guess I can test my theory about female phone voices while I'm at it. If Hattie is drop dead gorgeous, I’ll know that I am right. And if I glance into a cubicle and see a chubby midget with a mustache, I’ll assume her name is Brooke and that her voice is divine. I digress, the most important thing I will learn tomorrow will be my real mother’s name. No, I take that back. Sarah is my real mother. Tomorrow I learn the “mother-who-didn’t-want-me’s” name.
What is the next step? What do I do with her name? I don’t know if I want to meet her. Maybe I can find her and watch her from afar. I guess most people who start this process have a whole plan laid out, but I really don’t. Tomorrow, when I learn her name, I may just write it down and stick it in my pocket. I might call 4-1-1 and give her a call. I might even go online and see if she has a police record. Hell, I have no idea what I’ll do, but I do know that I am one step closer to the undecided, unplanned, unorthodox peace that I seek.
I remember sitting on the sidewalk in front of our house when I was a teenager. I stared for hours at this funny little brick house on the corner. I imagined my biological parents living there... It was tacky and ridiculous. No matter how insignificant the holiday, the house was decked out in celebration of it. The bushes were always covered with plastic decorations, the rocking chairs adorned with festive banners, flags flying high with Christmas trees, hearts, four leaf clovers, Easter eggs, Martin Luther King Jr’s face, whatever the season called for on them. I figured that anyone who put so much effort into their yard and front porch would really put a lot of effort into their kid. I don’t know why I needed new parents, mine were just fine, but I felt abandoned. God, I felt so alone. I still do. My Mom, Sarah, calls me every single day. She loves me so much, but for some reason I can’t forget about the ones who didn’t want me. The ones who didn’t want me screwed me up enough to make me think no one does.
So, you know that little story you have? The one about your parents joining the mile high club and getting pregnant with you in the process? After tomorrow I’ll be one step closer to knowing mine. Maybe once I know where and why the egg was fertilized, I’ll be able to accept the freaking amazing life that I can’t seem to enjoy because of my missing day. God, I hope finding that day can help me forget this nonsense. If I could I’d kick my own ass, I would. I guess in a way I am by blocking out the ones that DID want me and chasing the ones who DIDN’T. I am one screwed up guy. Don't you agree?
