Twenty Two

I did it.

I finally called the adoption agency again and got my biological mother’s last known address. She really wasn’t (or isn’t) that far away. My whole life has been spent one town over from her… I keep thinking about the different female faces that have passed through my life-- wondering if I have ever seen her. Maybe I’ve already met my real mother.

I understand why the agency encouraged me to let my adoptive parents in on the search. This is a hard reality to face alone. I don’t have anyone to reassure me that I am doing the right thing. Hell, I’m probably doing the totally wrong thing. Fawne gave me up for a reason, why would she want to meet me now? She probably doesn’t even deserve a second thought, but here I sit longing to go meet her.

As a child everyone compared me to my Dad, imagining that I looked like him. Sometimes people said that Dinah and I could be twins, but it was only because we were so close in age. I really look nothing like anyone in my family, even if you squint your eyes. People just imagine things that they want to see. Before I found out that I was adopted, I imagined myself growing up to look like Clinton. I imagined myself following his foot steps and selling real estate. I imagined myself coining a cheesy slogan like my Dad did. I wanted nothing more than to make him proud… When he told me I wasn’t really their child, all that changed. I realized why he missed so many ball games, always tensed up when I threw my arms around him, and seemed to favor Dinah over me. It all fell into place and jerked me out of place. It still hurts to think about the pain that jolted me to reality.

I am who I am today because of Clinton T. Malone. My better half came from Sarah’s kindness and warmth, but the cynic in me, the unlikable side of me, all were awakened by him. You’ll never catch me selling houses or whoring my face out on bill boards. You’ll never catch me ripping a little boys dreams out of him, and leaving an empty gapping hole. You’ll never catch me slicking my hair back and wearing a blazer. You’ll never catch me handing out business cards. No sir. Not me.

Maybe meeting Fawne will help me find what I should be doing. I know my destiny does not include the word coffee or grande or venti anywhere in it. In fact, I’m thinking about quitting Starbuck’s completely. Just as soon as I’ve met Fawne and have some clarity on who I really am. I feel sure that I’ll wake up and know more about myself the next day.

That day may be sooner than you think… Tomorrow I’m going to the address that is burning a hole in my pocket again. These darn sticky notes. First a name, no an address. What next? An “I love you, Myers” sticky note in my lunch pail? Ha!

Tomorrow could easily be the day that I meet my real mother. You know, the one who didn’t want me. That one who stole my missing day. Tomorrow could be the day that you and I sit down over a glass of lemonade and swap stories of conception. Clear your calendar and make room for that… Just in case.

Fingers crossed.