Chapter 46
June
The sound of a dog barking reaches me. I heard it as I walked up the garden path toward the house.
I stare at the doorbell next to the pale blue door of what could be my birth mother’s place.
It’s nice-looking, with a well-maintained garden and flowers lining the short walk to the doorstep.
And the neighborhood seems like a typical middle class one.
So, she’s not struggling. I’m grateful for that.
But it also raises the question: if she's a woman of some means, why didn't she try to track me before this?
Gosh, I have so many questions. About her.
About my father. One of the big issues of not knowing where I come from is that I have no answer for the inevitable questions related to my medical history when I go to the doctor.
I hope she’ll be able to shed some light on this.
I probably won't be able to ask about this in our first meeting, but hopefully, if we cultivate a relationship, I’ll be able to get more information about this… I draw in a breath.
I’ve waited for this moment for so long, but now that it’s here, I’m filled with trepidation.
Once I knock on the door, there’s no going back. My past will no longer be what I’d imagined it to be. Once that door opens, everything will change. I’ll know the truth of who I am. Where I come from and... I’m ready for it.
I raise my hand to ring the doorbell, then lower it. My stomach ties itself in knots, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. Instinct has me turning to glance over my shoulder to where the car is parked on the other side of the sidewalk.
My husband’s leaning against the side of the car, and when our gazes meet, he nods at me.
His expression is reassuring. Seeing his broad shoulders and his hewn-out-of-stone features sends a shiver down my spine.
Guess I’ll never be impervious to his charms. It also fills me with confidence to know he’ll be at the car waiting for me.
He held my hand all the way here, and his presence filled me with confidence.
It took the edge off what could've been a nerve-wracking few hours. And the fact that he remembered to contact the adoption search specialist and help me in tracking down my birth mother? Honestly, I’m so taken aback he remembered.
Sure, he said it was one of the conditions for our getting married, but I didn’t expect him to act on it so quickly.
He must have realized how important it was to me to find her.
He insisted on coming with me. And he didn’t speak or ask any questions. I'm so grateful for that.
He wanted to come in with me...but I... I knew this was something I had to do on my own. My first meeting with my birth mother has to be just the two of us.
My husband wasn’t happy, but he acquiesced. Still, having him there gave me the courage to get out of the car and walk to the door. And now, I’m here. Oh god. I swallow. He must sense my apprehension, for he places his fingers to his lips and blows me a kiss.
It’s such a non-Knox thing to do, such a soft romantic gesture, that I can’t help smiling. The tension inside me fades a little. I blow him a kiss back, then square my shoulders. I turn and ring the doorbell.
The dog starts barking more insistently.
It's countered by a woman’s voice saying something.
The words are muffled. Is it her voice? My birth mother’s voice?
My heart begins to pound behind my ribcage.
My palms grow sweaty. My stomach heaves, and I take a step back.
Ohgod. Ohgod. Ohgod. I can’t do this. I can’t.
Then I hear his voice in my head: You can, wife. You can.
The confidence I’ve always felt from him reaches out to me, bridging the distance between us. I feel his presence, even though I know he’s not standing next to me. I sense his watchful gaze on me from where he’s standing beside the car.
I sense his strength supporting me. I sense…
that he’s with me. That he’ll be there for me, no matter what happens inside this house.
A calm descends on me. I firm my spine, square my shoulders, and when the door opens and I meet the gaze of the woman who I intuitively know is my birth mother, a resilience pours though my veins.
I can see myself in her features. Oh. God.
Finally, after all these years, I’m seeing someone who looks like me.
It’s surreal. It’s also so grounding. Something clicks into place inside of me.
I feel a little more complete than I was before I met her.
I’m also surprised by how young she looks.
I made up all kinds of images of my mother in my head, but nothing prepared me for the fact that she doesn’t look that much older than me.
She searches my face, and her eyes light up. She knows who I am. The German Shepherd, whose collar she’s holding onto, barks again. He pulls at her, and she must be taken aback by seeing me, for he breaks away and springs forward.
"Bruno no," she yells. But the mutt’s excited. He’s wagging his tail hard as he lunges toward me.
He's not attacking, but I instinctively step backward and lose my footing. Seeing the woman who’s my birth mother must have weakened my sense of equilibrium, for I find myself stumbling back.
I throw my arms up to try to hold onto something and catch air. I keep falling, only instead of hitting the ground, firm hands descend on my waist. Then I’m rightened. Heat flushes my skin, and I know it’s him.
"Bruno, no! Get back." My birth mother grabs at Bruno’s collar and wrenches him back. He whimpers and looks up at her innocently.
"I’m so sorry." She looks to my husband, who has his arm around me, then back to me. "He’s normally better behaved. Bruno, sit."
To my surprise, the German Shephard parks his butt on the cement. He continues to wag his tail and look at me with melting brown eyes.
"It’s my fault; sorry, he took me by surprise." I hold out my palm, and he sniffs it. Then he licks my fingers, and I smile. "He’s adorable."
She looks at her dog. "He’s a rescue, and from the day he arrived, he changed my life." Her features soften. Then she clears her throat and looks at me. "You’re my daughter."
Her words hit me in the chest. I take another step back, or would, if not for my husband’s grip on my shoulders stopping me. He must sense the turmoil in me, for he holds out his hand. "Knox Davenport, and this is my wife June Donnelly Davenport."
She buries her fingers in Bruno's fur and scratches behind his ears, crooning, "It's okay; it's okay." I can tell, it's as much to calm her nerves as it is for him. Slowly, she smiles and reaches out to shake my husband’s hand. "Claire Gilbert."
So, that was my original surname? It doesn’t feel familiar, at all.
In fact, I don’t feel anything for it. My mother’s name, though…
That was in the 'life story book' Irene once handed to me. She’d pieced it together, based on the file she’d received from social services.
That book was part of my nighttime reading throughout my growing years.
Every time I had questions, Irene would read it with me.
She explained how I came to be with her, and that primal wound inside me would be filled, temporarily. Only, it never went away.
Now, I follow the woman who possibly has answers to so many of my questions. She leads us to the living room, which is an open plan, separated from the adjoining kitchen by a breakfast counter.
The decor is modern and comfortable. Wooden floors, deep sofas with cushions, a modern television hung on the wall above the fireplace.
There are white and blue curtains at the windows of the living room, through which a backyard is visible.
There are paintings—all abstracts—on the walls, but no photographs of family.
One wall has a bookshelf overflowing with books, and there are more books in a stack next to it, pushed up against one wall.
There’s no sign of dust anywhere. Everything is sparkling, and there’s a vase full of flowers on one end of the breakfast bar.
The scent of roses and lilies fills the air.
It’s not overpowering, but soothing. In fact, the entire space has a peaceful feeling about it.
Some of the tension drains from my shoulders.
She walks straight through to the kitchen and begins to fill a pot with water.
"I’m going to make us tea." She flicks the kettle on and busies herself with taking down cups from the shelves, then turns to look at us.
"You will have some tea, won’t you? Goodness, I should have checked first. I just assumed"—she shakes her head—"I’m sorry, I’m more thrown than I realized. "
"Me too." I walk over to join her. "Why don’t I make the tea?"
Standing so close to her, I realize, I’m a couple of inches taller than her, probably because I’m wearing stilettos.
But our frame is similar. I’m not a slim person, and neither is my mother.
She’s not overweight either, and her figure is youthful and curvy, similar to mine.
She wears her blonde hair piled on her head in a fashion I often prefer.
And her eyes—her brown eyes—so like mine, gleam with intelligence.
She’s also wearing spectacles. I’ve always hated that I was short-sighted, but now it makes me feel a kinship with the woman who birthed me.
She looks well put together. And I... I’m not sure what I expected? That she’d be a sad, lonely person? Someone who spent her every waking moment thinking about the daughter she gave up? Did she think of me at all?
Perhaps, she sees some of my questions in my eyes, for her own grow watery. She sniffs, then blinks away her tears, and her lips curve in a gentle smile. "The teabags are in that shelf"—she gestures to the one above me on my right—"and the milk is in the fridge. If you need sugar—"
"I don’t."