Carry Her Heart (19 page)

I cried for the girl I was. A scared, heartbroken girl who spent one single hour with her daughter, then lived the next eighteen years building a life around the child she gave away.

I cried and Ned held me. He didn’t say anything. He simply wrapped me in his arms and let me cry.

Finally, I pulled back, leaving Ned’s shoulder soaked in my tears. He took the remote control, looked at me, and when I nodded, he hit play.

Siobhan said, “When I find that mother who gave birth to me, I hope she has a husband who loves her like my dad loves my mom. And I hope she has a houseful of children. With that one decision that she made for me, she showed that she is able to put someone else first. That is the kind of quality my mom has. It’s the kind of quality that
every
mom should have.

“I brought this all up because as infants and children, our parents make, or at least influence, our decisions. One mother decided to give me up for adoption because she wanted to give me a better life. And my parents decided to open their lives, home, and hearts to a child. They gave me a wonderful childhood. Those decisions were made by others and they affected the course of my life to date. But now, I’m making the decisions.

“That’s what I’m here to remind you . . . we all are making our own decisions now, but those decisions impact others. We need to make the best decisions we can and be prepared to live with where those decisions lead us.

“I hope that as I start my adult life, I make decisions as good as both my mothers . . . and you too, Dad.”

The audience laughed, and the camera panned to a tall, nerdy-looking man sitting next to a woman who might look plain in other circumstances, but looked absolutely stunning as she watched the daughter she loved. I remembered handing Amanda into their care all those years ago.

“That’s it, I guess,” Siobhan said with a smile and a shrug. “I promised you short. Go out, make decisions for your life, but as you make them, remember that each one will ripple through the rest of your life. The decision a great-great-grandmother made in another country so many years ago has rippled through generations and brought me here as much as the decisions both my mothers made. Remember, you impact the lives of others around you. So make good decisions. Congratulations again to all of us . . . and congratulations to our parents who raised us to adulthood and to the teachers who are all sighing with relief that we’re out of here.”

I wiped at tears even as I smiled. Siobhan had an innate sense of timing and a good sense of humor. She’d said so much in those few minutes.

I paused the DVD one last time.

“Thank you,” I whispered to Ned. “I look at her and I know that my decision all those years ago was the right one. I gave her the life I wanted for her—a good life. A happy life, from the looks of it. And in return, she gave me a good life. A very happy one.”

All those years of worrying. Of seeing her in the faces of the kids I helped feed. In the kids I wrote for. In the kids who were sick and afraid. I could stop seeing her in all of them.

No, no, I would still see her in every one of them because every sick, scared, hungry child could be her. Every one of them was someone’s child. I would still see her in them.

I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off me. I don’t know that I ever realized how much not knowing had eaten away at me.

I felt like I could finally exhale after years of holding my breath.

It was only in its absence that I could feel the difference.

I was free.

Ned gave me those gifts. The gift of my daughter and the gift of knowing that I’d made the right decision.

For the first time since I was fifteen and told my mother I was pregnant, I could go and do anything.

I realized I didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything else. Here was exactly where I wanted to be.

“So you’ll wait for her to find you?” Ned asked. “I mean, I could—”

I shook my head, stopping him before he could tempt me. “When she’s ready. I’ll be here waiting.”

He nodded.

Then I added, saying the words that Siobhan’s generous speech had freed me to say, “But I hope I won’t be here alone.”

I’d told Anthony that I would never have any children. I’d been afraid that if my Amanda ever found me, she’d resent the children I had and kept. But that girl on the screen, the girl who was walking across the stage to collect her diploma, she wouldn’t resent her half siblings. Instead, she’d said she’d be pleased, and I believed her.

And the man sitting next to me had been the one to give me the gift of my daughter.

How appropriate that the man I loved had given me my child. Not in a traditional way, but nonetheless, he had.

Ned didn’t say anything, so I added, “I just want to be clear; I want to have
you
by my side.”

He smiled, and I knew his answer before he said the words. “I’m glad you clarified it for me. Let me be equally clear . . . yes. If Amanda—”

“Siobhan,” I corrected.

He nodded. “If Siobhan shows up tomorrow, I’ll be here.”

He took my hand in his. “If she shows up next year, I’ll be here.”

And then he kissed me.

How had I lived next to him for almost four years and not known how much I loved him?

He broke off the kiss and held me as he said, “If she doesn’t show up until we’re old and gray, I’ll be here. I’ll be sitting next to you on the front porch, watching a new crop of kids go to school.”

“Watching our children and grandchildren,” I said, needing him to understand that I was free.

And Ned, being Ned, did understand. He smiled and nodded. “Watching our children and grandchildren. We’ll get some old-people porch rockers and we’ll sit together and wait.”

“What if she never comes?” I asked.

“I’ll be here for you,” he assured me softly. “You could try to push me away, but the harder you pushed, the faster I’d come back to you. And you need to know in your heart of hearts that I will always come back to you.”

And as always, Ned was right. That’s what I needed to know. But I think that maybe that’s what I’d always known.

Despite my question, I knew Siobhan would come, just as I knew I would have more children. Ned’s children.

“I have one more thing for you.”

He went and got a piece of paper and handed it to me. It took me a moment to realize I was looking at a copy of a diploma.

“This took some work,” he said.

It was a diploma made out to
Siobhan Amanda Ahearn
.

I cried again.

They’d heard me. All those years ago, her mother and father had heard me say good-bye to her and they’d made my name for her a part of her name.

They’d let me be a part of her all these years.

I cried again, but it was okay because I knew Ned would hold me. He’d be here while I cried and while I waited. I knew with no other words that he’d be here at my side.

Later, when all my tears had been shed and I’d watched the video again with Ned by my side, I said, “I love you.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said and laughed. “For the record, I love you, too.”

I was able to laugh and say, “Yeah, you just love me
two
. But I love you
one
. . .”

Epilogue

Dear Siobhan,

I have written in this journal for four years now. I’ve used up almost all the pages, so this is my last entry in your book. I thought when I started writing it, I was writing it for you—as a way to tell you the story of a chapter of your life you never knew about. And in part, that’s what this is. But in the end, it was the story of me as well and the stories of all the people’s lives we’ve both touched.

Through these pages, I was trying to be your mother. All the talks we might have had, all the times I might have held you and comforted you and chased away your nightmares . . . all those and so many other mother-daughter moments I tried to wrap into these pages.

I’ve built my life around you, and now, as you graduate high school, like any parent, I’m letting go. There will be no empty nest for me. That came before. Now, my nest will be full. Ned and Princess live here now. And we’re getting married in the fall . . . in my garden. It’s going to be a small ceremony. Just us, surrounded by family and a few friends. Coop will be there. And Jo, too.

And on that day, I’ll be a wife.

It will be a new description for me.

Everyone has so many ways to describe himself or herself. We wear so many hats. I’ve been a daughter, a granddaughter, a student, a teacher, a nurse, a storyteller, a gardener, a . . . Every person can describe himself or herself in hundreds of ways. Reader. Writer. Cook.

Of all the ways I can describe myself, writing your book has taught me there are three designations I cherish above all.

Writer is one, not the most important one, but it’s a central part of who I am. I love telling stories. I love living in other people’s skins, walking in their shoes for the course of a book. I read somewhere that readers live a thousand lives. Writers live even more, and I think we live them more intimately. In some way, all of my books have let me feel a part of your life.

This fall, I’ll add wife to my most cherished descriptions of myself. It seems almost superfluous because I’ve realized that I have loved Ned since that first day when I sat on my front porch and wrote that description of Couch Couch. I didn’t realize it then, but I did. He’s part of me and stands next to you in my heart.

Lastly, but always first, I am a mother. Ned was right; I’ve always been that. Not in the same way the mother who raised you is your mother. But in my own way. Uniquely.

I was your mother when I put your needs first and I gave you up to the parents who raised you.

I was your mother with each child I held as a nurse.

I was your mother with each child I fed through Amanda’s Pantry.

I was your mother through each story I told.

I’ve started my next book. It’s called, The Naming of Things, and the dedication for this one is different than the rest. It reads, To Siobhan . . . and Ned. You are my heart.

And in this one book are the three things I treasure most. You, Ned, and writing.

Love,

Your Other Mother

Piper

From Ned:

Dear Siobhan,

After I read the notebook and your story—Pip’s story—she asked me if there was anything I wanted to add in the last few blank pages before she tucks the notebook into that trunk along with all those letters from people she’s helped in your name.

I had a friend who’d seen the two of us together ask how it could have taken so long for me to realize I loved her when it was so obvious we were two halves of a whole.

I said maybe that’s why.

I never bought into the idea of a soul mate—I thought it was just the tagline of romance novels. But I’ve changed my mind.

That day when I moved in and Pip was on her porch typing away at her computer as she drank from one of those fancy teacups she loves, she smiled at me. And in that instant, I knew that she was going to be a good neighbor.

Later, I realized she was a good friend.

And then finally, I realized that I loved her.

Why didn’t I recognize that last part at first? It seems that I should have known it a lot sooner.

Josiah said it was as obvious to him as the nose on his face.

I’ve thought a lot about that and realized that I didn’t realize it sooner because she was a part of me. Pip was a part of me before I’d even met her. So there was no shock of recognition, no moment when I thought, there she is. I’ve found her.

She’d always been a part of me, and when I finally realized that, I realized what that meant. She never filled a void in my life because she’d always occupied that space.

Sort of like a nose.

You have one. You see it every day in the mirror, but you’ve probably never really stopped and looked and thought, that is my nose. You never ask, Where would I be without it? because it’s always been with you and you know that it always will be with you. You’re used to seeing yourself with it. It’s simply part of your reflection.

I’m pretty sure that’s where the expression originated. And my loving Pip was as obvious as the nose on my face, it was harder to see because it was like a nose.

Do you follow me?

If not, don’t worry. I’m not the writer in the family.

But here’s what I’m saying, Siobhan. It’s like that with you. I am not your birth father, nor am I the father who raised you, but you are part of me. And when you find Pip, you’ll find me.

You’ll find us.

And when you do, there will be no shock of recognition; there will only be a welcome home.

For wherever we are, you have a home with us . . . you are part of both of us.

And we’ll be waiting for you.

~Ned