Page 89 of Holding On

“Remember to be still. Let Salty be a friend to you. Let him carry you.”

We make our way back between the groups of clammers and toward The Inn. Toward a person who is biologically related to me but a complete and utter stranger.

I realize this situation represents my own set of flashing lights. This is fear coming from a situation not anticipated, and I need to learn from this horse and listen to my own advice. I can’t shy away.

In a family, we all carry each other at different times. I need to see this for what it is: an opportunity.

***

I know my birth mother is in there. Everyone else is inside. And I mean everyone. When I made my deal on the public landing, I meant my sisters were to show up. Now, it’s all the Russos and their partners.

I had returned Salty to his corral and passed Cory off to Maya. I think she was afraid to say anything, so she said nothing and just gave me a warm lingering kiss on the cheek. Then Cory took her hand, and they walked into the clinic.

I turn and walk alone up to the back porch and let myself in, heading toward the library with its wide sofas, built-in bookcases, and a piano. Both doors are shut, with the one closest to the kitchen sporting a sign that says “Private Event.”

Private Event.

My hands are sweating.

Mom used to say that the worry was never as bad as the thing. Dad, looking around in mock terror, would respond, “What thing?”

I turn the knob and push the door open, and there’s my family standing all to the left. When I step into the room, my sisters shake the hand of the woman sitting in a white chair next to the piano.

Rose Ella Tullis is tall, like Chloe, with a small mouth, penetrating eyes, and an athletic build. She adjusts the glasses on her nose and looks at me. I’m not nervous. I’m not anything.

I’m numb. I say something, which triggers everyone to shake her hand again and then they leave, giving me squeezes on the shoulder, hugs and kisses from my sisters, and a bracing shoulder clap from Nic.

“You got this,” he says.

I have to admit, Nic is a rock.

It’s their affection that makes the lump burn hot in my throat. I try to clear it.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hello,” she says.

I stand for a few seconds. “I guess I should sit,” I say and smile. Nerves are making me stupid.

“You can do whatever you choose,” she says. “I’m just grateful you’re here.”

I’m not sure at what point I sit down on the matching ottoman.

The story she tells is typical but personal, predictable but soulful. She was fifteen and pregnant and terrified. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t tell her parents or have access to healthcare, and she ran away from home.

At this point, she reaches for the box of tissues I’m sure Chloe strategically placed on one of the end tables. I half stand and snatch one to pass to her.

She dabs her eyes. “I held you for half an hour or so, and then they moved me from the maternity ward so I wouldn’t have to hear the other babies or see the other mothers.” She pauses. “Not that I have the right to call myself a mother. I never mothered you. I know that. But I’ve never stopped thinking about you.”

She reunited with her parents, went back to high school, then college. Eventually, she became an optometrist.

“I like helping people see, correcting their vision.” She blinks back more tears and watches me for a moment. “What about you?”

What about me? That was a good question. What did I want to share? What connection did I really have with this person? We didn’t even look alike. What was the reason for all this?

As if understanding my silence, she says, “I know this must seem strange to you. I’m not trying to replace your mother. She raised you. She took care of you. I’m just here as someone who would like to get to know you better.”

I sit with this for a long time, and she says nothing. Finally, my mind slows down enough to make sense of what she’s saying. Wanting to learn about someone else is a gift I can accept from her. I can live with that.