A Silence of Mockingbirds (3 page)

S
arah asked us to adopt her baby. Not Karly, but Hillary, who as I write this
is a teenage girl herself, driving, dating, and dreaming of college.

Hillary is the baby Sarah had the year she came to live with us, and in a very
conflicted way, Hillary feels like a baby I gave up.

It’s hard to talk about it. There are probably hundreds of families out
there with a similar tale: a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a friend, women
who’ve suffered miscarriages or adoptions that failed. I imagine they all
struggle with the same question. How do I tell others about the child I
almost had? The only answer to that question is that you don’t. Best to
keep it to yourself, except for a rare few.

I’m pragmatic about the pitfalls of adolescence, having had an
abortion my senior year of high school. Sarah was one of the half-dozen
friends who knew the story of the baby I had aborted, and of my regrets.
I am sure that is why she felt comfortable confiding in me. She knew I
wasn’t going to lecture her.

We talked, heart to heart, then Sarah left town. She relocated to a
home for unwed mothers several hours away in Tacoma, Washington.

Sarah claimed the decision was her parents’ idea. At the time,
I accepted Sarah’s explanation, but I never discussed the matter with
Gene and Carol, even though I had strong opinions about Sarah moving
away.

There was a time when being pregnant out of wedlock was socially
unacceptable, a shameful thing. And while it’s true Sarah’s unplanned
pregnancy would have been the scuttlebutt around Pendleton for a
while, it would hardly have been headline news.

She was a college student, after all, plenty old enough to be considered capable, whether she planned to keep the baby or adopt it out.
While having a baby was sure to interrupt her life, what was the point
in hiding away until then?

Despite the distance separating us, Sarah and I grew much closer
during her pregnancy. We talked weekly by phone, and when I could,
I made trips up to see her. As I expected, she was miserable, living in
a home where she had no emotional attachments to anyone. My sister
and mother were within a short driving distance of the home, so I would
make the six-hour drive, take Sarah out for a while and then head on
over to visit with the rest of my family.

The home had rules dictating whom Sarah could see and when she
was expected back if she went out. Like many nonprofit agencies, they’d
bought the best house in the safest neighborhood they could afford, but
it was a dingy place, full of cobbled-together donations: beds, couches,
chairs, plates. While the people who ran the house were nice enough, I
hated leaving Sarah there. I wanted to put her in the car, sneak her back
into Pendleton under the dark of night, and hide her away myself.

Sarah was set on giving the baby up for adoption. The father of the
child was reportedly a fellow from the nearby farming community of
Heppner. Marrying somebody from a rural place like Heppner was not
Sarah’s vision for herself. She had a hunger for a more glamorous life.

It was during her sixth or seventh month of pregnancy that Sarah
asked, “Would you and Tim adopt my baby?”

Stunned by the unexpected request, I tried to listen as Sarah thoughtfully
explained why she wanted us to adopt her baby, but my mind was racing. Our
children had been born in rapid succession. Our youngest daughter was nine,
the twins were eleven, and our son was fourteen. Long gone were the playpens,
diapers, cribs, strollers and Johnny Jump-Ups. We’d be starting from scratch
with a newborn. Could we—more,
would
we do that?

I knew before I asked what Tim’s response would be. He has always
been the most devoted of fathers, so it was more a question of whether
I would start over.

Tim responded exactly as I expected he would. He did a little hot-diggity-dog jig in the dining room and said, “I hope you told her yes!”

“Not exactly,” I replied.

Tim removed his tie and walked into the bedroom. When he came
back out, he asked, “Why not?”

I didn’t know where to begin. Now that the kids were old enough,
I had actually begun to figure out who I was, in addition to being their
mother. I wasn’t sure I was ready to let go of my newfound independence.

There was one other looming matter discouraging any elation I felt:
What would Gene and Carol think? This would be their grandchild.
How would they feel about Tim and me raising up this child across
town from them? If they had, as Sarah maintained, sent her away to
have this baby, then surely they wouldn’t like the idea of the child
virtually coming home.

I suggested to Tim that, if we were going to adopt Sarah’s baby, we
should only do it if Gene and Carol extended their blessings. Tim was
in full agreement.

Sarah balked. She didn’t see any need to ask her parents’ blessing.
“It’s my baby,” she said. “If I choose you and Tim, why should it matter
whether my parents agree with my decision?”

The discussion over getting the Brills’ blessing went on for about six
weeks. I told Sarah I wanted her involved in the baby’s life. The adoption
would need to be an open one. This child would always know Sarah in
some intimate way. On that matter, we agreed.

Sometime early into her third trimester, Sarah told us her father
was okay with us adopting, but her mother was not. Carol did not want
Tim and me raising her grandchild. I never asked Carol why. I’m not
sure I wanted to know. I think it was because the hidden part of me was
relieved.

Sarah was miffed when she told me her mother wouldn’t give her
consent. She was upset at me and at her mom. She didn’t understand
why it mattered what her mother thought. But now I wonder if Sarah
really ever discussed the matter with her parents. Over the years, I’ve
come to second-guess everything Sarah said.

I had one confidant in town whom I shared all this with, Janice
Wells, who suggested an alternative couple for Sarah. Janice had friends
in Portland who were possible candidates. Chuck and Missy McDonald
already had a big family, like ours, but they wanted to add to it. Sarah
was initially reluctant but eventually agreed to at least meet with Missy.

I didn’t know much about the couple, only what Janice told me. But
after several phone calls back and forth between all parties involved,
and with Sarah’s permission, I arranged for us all to meet. Missy drove
up from Portland and I drove over from Pendleton, picking up Sarah
along the way. We gathered in Westport, Washington, where my sister
lives.

Out over the Pacific, and there in that harbor community, agitated
clouds hung heavy and low. Looking back now, I might regard the
darkening sky as an omen of the trouble sure to follow. But at that time,
it made sense to trust fate to deal with whatever capricious winds were
brewing.

S
arah was raped, or so she says now.

The first time I came across the rape claim I was leafing through a pile of
documents Shawn’s defense attorney gave me. Right there on Sarah’s medical records
was a request that she have an all-female delivery staff because Sarah said
her first pregnancy had been traumatic: the result of rape.

The next time I read that statement was in a report filed by the
detective who interviewed her parents in the wake of Karly’s death.

“Sarah was a handful, a major challenge,” Gene Brill told the officer.
“One year we had to send her off to a Christian boarding school in San
Diego because we were afraid she was going to run off somewhere.”

“Was that the year she got pregnant?” asked Detective Mike Wells.

“No,” Carol Brill said. “Sarah mimicked her birth mother. She
waited to get pregnant until she was the same age her mother had been
when she was born. Her mother was twenty. Sarah was twenty. She was
trying to make some sort of connection.”

“And that was a boyfriend? Or a rape she got pregnant from?”
Detective Wells asked.

“A boyfriend,” Gene replied.

Detective Wells was confused. Sarah claimed she’d been raped and
that was why she’d been pregnant.

“It was a casual relationship,” Gene said. “It wasn’t anything long
term.”

That’s exactly how I remember it. The baby’s father was a cowboy
from Heppner. Sarah told me they’d been drinking and got carried away.
We even discussed whether she should get his consent for an adoption.
I urged her to tell the young man she was pregnant with his child and to
seek his consent. I would never have suggested it if I’d thought for one
minute that Sarah had been raped. Sarah assured me they had talked
and that he agreed with her decision.

Once she moved off to Corvallis, however, it appears Sarah’s life took
on the fictional characteristics of a James Frey memoir. She claimed she
got pregnant from a date rape. According to several of her friends, who
heard Sarah repeat different versions over the years, Sarah said a fellow
she knew had climbed in her bedroom window and raped her.

Detective Mike Wells had his work cut out for him, trying to sort
out fact from fiction. He interviewed Shelley, Sarah’s best friend and
sometime roommate, before speaking to the Brills.

Wells said, “The way Shelley understood it, when Sarah was fifteen
or seventeen, she was raped, got pregnant, and was sent away to some
type of boarding facility, and the baby was adopted out.”

“That’s not how it happened,” Carol said. “Sarah had willingly gone
to the home for unwed mothers.” But Carol added, “It had probably
been another mistake, sending her there.”

“Yeah, it’d been a hard time for her,” Gene said.

“Sarah didn’t fit in well there,” Carol explained. “All the other girls
there were on welfare.”

“Yeah,” Gene said. “Sarah hated that place. I mean, they were really
good Christian people and all involved there, but Sarah decided on her
own to give that baby up, and in the end it devastated her. But Sarah was
wise enough to know she wasn’t ready to care for a baby. So she lost that
one. And now look—this one is gone, too.”

Gene and Carol never told Detective Wells that Sarah wanted to
give her first child to Tim and me. They didn’t mention how upset
they’d been with her for getting pregnant. They didn’t say that Sarah
had returned to Pendleton after giving Hillary away and lived with our
family, not theirs.

W
e met for lunch at a touristy
restaurant down on the docks, Sarah, Missy, my sister Linda, and me. Sarah
barely looked pregnant. She wore a blue-jean skort, with thick white stockings
and a denim blouse. Her baby bump was hidden under an oversized white knit
sweater. Her hair, usually cut short, was longer now and softly curled.

Dancer thin, Missy looked more like a college coed than the
mother of five in her jeans and leather bomber jacket. Her blonde hair
was shoulder-length and curly, most likely the result of the spiral perms
so popular then. Sarah was pleased that Missy was so pretty and I was
happy that Missy was so genuine. She greeted us all with lingering hugs
and an infectious smile.

Everybody had a case of the jitters. Meeting potential parents as a
birth mom is a lot like going on a blind date; it’s a search for the right
mix of character and chemistry. The conversation started slowly but my
sister Linda, who isn’t really the sort to insert herself, filled in the holes
with tidbits of information about Westport and its tourist trade.

Sarah has always been soft-spoken. She never had to demand center
stage; when the spotlight was turned her way, no one shone brighter.
Hollywood might say she has that “IT” factor, a beguiling charisma that
attracts people to her.

Carol Brill said Sarah is the sort of person who has many casual
friends but few people really know her in an intimate way. I saw that in
her, too. Sarah played everything close to the vest. No matter how well
a person thought they knew Sarah, it was always difficult to know what
she was thinking.

Yet, by midafternoon, it was obvious Missy had enchanted Sarah.
The laughter came easy and the conversation soon turned to chatter, as
though the two were old friends. Missy appeared to be all that Sarah
was seeking in an adoptive mother. She was gregarious, warm, funny,
and a good listener.

By early evening, I felt like the dying woman who had just introduced her husband to his next wife. I was elated for everyone else but
grieving the loss up ahead. Sarah was so comfortable with Missy, I felt
replaced. It’s one of my least favorite emotions: an ugly mix of jealousy
and insecurity, undergirded by the fear that I no longer matter. I couldn’t
tell Missy or Sarah what I was feeling, so I confided in my sister, who
assured me it was normal, and part of the process of letting go.

I knew before we left the beach the next morning that Sarah would
adopt her baby out to Chuck and Missy. She never said so but I knew
it deep in my bones. I uttered a prayer of gratitude; Missy was going
to be the perfect mother for Sarah’s child. However, I cried as I drove,
knowing full well I had given up something very precious.

Sarah called me from the hospital on a sunny spring day when the
cherry tree was in bloom.

“I’m in labor,” she said. “Can you get here as soon as possible?”

“That’s terrific, honey,” I said. “Is your mother there?”

“Yes.”

“And Missy and Chuck? Are they there, too?”

“Yes,” Sarah said.

“Great. That’s just great,” I said. “How are you doing?”

“Okay,” she said. “But when are you getting here? You need to hurry.”

I was pacing the floor between the living room and the dining room.
I did a quick mental check. Everybody was pretty self-sufficient, and
Tim would understand if I packed up at a moment’s notice. He always
understood when it came to Sarah. Nevertheless, I was torn between
a desire to be there for the birth of this child and the realization that
my presence, while a comfort to Sarah, would be uncomfortable for
everyone else.

“Sarah, honey, I’m not coming,” I said.

Silence sliced the air. Sarah had not imagined I wouldn’t come when
called, that I would ever in a million years miss this event.

“Why?” she cried.

“I don’t belong there, Sarah. You have your mother. You have Missy.
This is a time for you all.”

“But I want you here,” Sarah said, pleading. “Come on. Please. I
need you.”

Sarah’s entreaties almost swayed me but the mother in me held
me back. I didn’t want to stomp over holy ground. This was a time, I
hoped, for healing between Sarah and Carol. I did not want them to risk
missing this chance.

I told Sarah she could call me anytime, day or night, no matter what.
But I was not going to make the trip because I would be in the way.

“You need this time alone with your baby, with your mama, and
with Chuck and Missy.”

Someone called me later to tell me that Sarah had given birth to a
healthy baby girl. Hillary Jane, called Hillary, was born the day before
her mother’s twentieth birthday.

The next call I got came from a very distraught Missy, who told me
Sarah was reluctant to relinquish the infant. I had expected as much.
Missy was hoping I could talk some sense into Sarah, get her to realize
she couldn’t possibly handle motherhood. There was desperation in
Missy’s voice. She was afraid Sarah was going to change her mind.

I assured Missy I would talk to Sarah, try to figure out where her
heart was in all of this. A flurry of phone calls took place over the next
forty-eight hours. Janice Wells called. I called Sarah. Sarah called me.
Missy called me.

If Carol was part of this decision-making, I didn’t know it. Carol
and I never spoke about Sarah’s pregnancy, or Hillary’s adoption. If
Missy called Carol and spoke with her, she never mentioned it to me.
It seems wrong now that I would not have welcomed Carol’s input, but
I’m sure at the time I was simply trying to honor Sarah’s wishes.

I wanted to extract myself from the situation and to let things
progress naturally, but here I was in the thick of it. If I felt that much
pressure, I couldn’t imagine how Sarah must have felt. I had wanted
more than anything to protect her from that.

Chuck and Missy decided if Sarah wasn’t ready to relinquish the
infant child, well, by golly, they would take the whole kit and caboodle
home with them. They invited Sarah to bring Hillary and come live
with them for a while.

I have often thought that, had I gone up to Tacoma the day Hillary
was born, all of this might have been avoided. Not the pain part—
giving up Hillary was hard on Sarah. Anyone who knew her knew that.
She really had mixed feelings about her decision, in part because Sarah
needed to belong to somebody. She needed to be a mother.

Three weeks later, with Sarah still in their home, Chuck and Missy
grew more worried. Would they get so attached to Hillary, only to
have Sarah yank her out of their arms? Had they set themselves up
for heartbreak? The few times I spoke with Missy she was every bit as
emotional as Sarah. Everyone’s nerves were on edge.

In the balance hung the welfare of an infant unaware, and a birth
mother who was all too keenly aware of her separation from the baby
she’d carried for nine months. Her child was in the arms of another
woman. Sarah was not nursing or tending Hillary. Close as she was,
Sarah was a visitor to Hillary, not a mother. If she left Hillary with
Chuck and Missy, that’s all she would ever be to Hillary: the visitor who
had birthed her.

Sarah was struggling to figure out who she was and what she was
going to do with the rest of her life now. She might as well have been
trying to figure out how to maneuver around New York City on a zip
line. Loneliness loomed before her like a dark street. Without a baby to
care for, what was her purpose? She had no idea what she was going to
do, or where she was going to go.

Tim and I suggested she should come live with us. It would allow
her time to regroup and develop a plan for her own life. It didn’t take
her long to decide our offer was her best option.

Sarah came to our home and Hillary remained with her adoptive
parents. When friends hosted a baby shower for Missy and Hillary, I
drove to Portland, and took along a pair of tiny Nikes, a stuffed bunny
and a poem Tim had written. It was the first and only time I would meet
Hillary, though I’ve seen photos of her over the years. The week before I
learned of Karly’s death, I serendipitously came across a yellowed copy
of the poem Tim had penned:

Ode to Hillary Jane
Welcome to the world,
Hillary Jane!
Not as gentle an abode as that
from which you’ve come.

Yet, God, The Creator, carves out human souls,
and yours, Hillary Jane, He designed especially so.
Wear these shoes of Nike, classic messenger of God,
as honor to the mother who bore you,
and the family God appointed you.

Go boldly into this world, Hillary Jane.
step lively, step swiftly, along the path,
watch out for side roads,
stay within His lane, listen to the pace.

God, The Creator, designed you for a purpose,
Our Little Hillary Jane
.

Sarah saw very little of Hillary during that first year of her life. The
phone calls between Missy and Sarah that had taken place almost daily
during the pregnancy became less frequent, once a month, then every
other month, and then months would pass without any at all.

That disturbed me. I knew that if Hillary had been in our home,
Sarah would have had regular contact with her. I thought Sarah needed
and wanted that. Whenever I asked if she had heard from Missy recently,
Sarah would shake her head no.

It was such a hard place to be in. In some ways it still is. When I
look at photos of Hillary now, all grown up and dressed in blue satin,
and I consider all those homecoming dances, the proms, the school
musicals, the youth fellowships and all the late-night talks I missed out
on, and of the story not written, it grieves me deeply.

Missy recognized that grief in me long before I ever did. Sometime
shortly before Hillary’s first birthday I wrote Missy a letter expressing
my dismay at the breakdown in her relationship with Sarah. I blamed
Missy for it, never allowing for the possibility that it was Sarah who was
being unreliable or manipulative.

A month passed before Missy replied. The letter she sent me in May
1995 reads now more like a prophetic word than the defensive rebuttal
I mistook it for then:

Dear Karen,

When I received your letter in February I wanted to respond
right away, but I really wasn’t quite sure how to. I went through a lot of
emotions, first I bawled for hours. I felt very hurt by your disappointment
in Chuck and me. For you to think we didn’t care about Sarah and had closed
the door on her was very hard to understand. But as I reread the letter and
Chuck and I discussed it, I began to understand better where it was coming
from. I think it comes from your heart and reveals your deepest emotion. I
know that you care very deeply for Sarah, as though she was your own child.
You have seen her hurting so much and you would like to stop it for her. I
believe that you hear from Sarah, perhaps, a slanted view of the actual truth
or fact. We both know Sarah has a way of making people feel sorry for her.
I’m not saying she isn’t experiencing some major emotions but there is also
tremendous confusion in her life and she doesn’t want to acknowledge where
it’s coming from.

Karen, not only were you expressing Sarah’s pain, but also
your own. I realize you must be going through a tremendous amount of your
own grief. I know Hillary could as easily have been living in your home as
ours. I’m sure you think about how you would have dealt with things if that
had been the case. It’s very easy to imagine what we would do if we were in
a situation, but we can’t always know until we are actually in it. The choices
Chuck and I make are made with a lot of discussion and prayer. We do feel
our first consideration has to be for Hillary. Sarah has to be second to that.
If that means there will be times when we distance ourselves, it is because
we feel it’s the best for our whole family, not because we don’t care about
Sarah. We have tried to explain this to Sarah. We have also tried to get her
to respond and tell us how she feels about everything. She said very little,
but what she has said is that many people are trying to make her feel bad
about not grieving over Hillary. She feels she has done that (not that I agree).
She also expressed that she missed the relationship with Chuck and me that
she had in the past. We have discussed the fact that things can’t be the same
as they were but that we will always be open to a relationship with her. I
don’t doubt that Sarah and Hillary will have a relationship in the future.
How and when I don’t know but it doesn’t scare or threaten me in the least
because Hillary will always know who she is and where she came from and that
we love her very much.

Love, Missy

We never did speak much after that. I’ve seen Missy and Chuck
only one other time since then, and I’ve only known Hillary from afar,
in photos others shared, in the stories others told.

Hillary has Sarah’s dark eyes and the same caramel complexion, but
she’s more petite and fine-boned than Sarah. She sings, writes lyrics,
and possesses the passionate heart of a poet who cares about issues of
social justice, especially when it comes to children.

When she was younger, Hillary would spend time in Pendleton
with Gene and Carol, but that all changed when Karly died. That year,
Chuck and Missy packed up and moved to Mexico, where they worked
in missions for a short time. They moved back to Oregon for Hillary’s
high school years. At the time of Karly’s death, Hillary was told her
sister was dead, but not that Karly was murdered. I don’t know if she has
ever been told the real story.

I’m not sure anyone but Shawn, Sarah and Karly know the real story.