Empty Arms: A Novel (25 page)

“I left our breakfast feeling completely let down. I had wanted to know my birth mother for so long, but now I wish that we’d never met so I could just return to my old fantasies of her.” She pauses. “Thank you all for listening.”

The rest of the group claps, and I hear people offering words of encouragement. I turn and tiptoe back the way I came, but the story haunts me. How does Emily imagine me? Would we have anything in common? Hair color? Sense of humor? A knack for the piano? Or, like Kristin, would she be disappointed with the person she finds?

On Monday morning, between caring for a colicky newborn and changing diapers, I call Our Lady of Peace to find out what kind of meeting I’d stumbled upon on Saturday night.

“It’s usually a different group each week,” the secretary tells me, and I can hear her flipping through papers. “Let’s see here, the Catholic Women’s Book Club meets the first Saturday of each month and a widowers’ support group the week after that.”

“Do you know which group met this past Saturday?”

Papers shuffle. “That was The Adoption Circle.”

“Do you have information about it?”

“It says here that The Adoption Circle is a support group for adoptive parents and adoptees to discuss the challenges of adoption, search, and reunion.”

“What about biological parents? Can they attend?”

Papers shuffle again. “I don’t know. It doesn’t mention them.”

A
N AFTERNOON
of uninterrupted crying wears at my nerves like a mouse gnawing on an electrical wire. By the time I leave the hospital I feel ready to snap, and for the first time in fourteen years, I can’t wait to get out of there.

When the hospital doors slide closed behind me, a weight lifts off my shoulders. I walk to the parking lot and soak in the new warmth of the spring air, which smells like wet earth and flowers. But the sunshine and colorful blooms do little to fend off the darkness that’s pulling at me. I climb in my car and rest my head against the seat with a battered sigh. I stare at the hospital. Despite all the modern metal and glass, I still see the red brick building where I left a piece of my heart.

I stick my key in the ignition and turn on the car. As I watch the hospital disappear in my rearview mirror, I remember pounding my fist against the back window of my parents’ car as we pulled away and left Emily behind. We arrived home under a veil of darkness. The neighbors had already turned off their front porch lights, and everything was still. Daddy pulled into the garage and closed the door while Mom ushered me inside. Everything was exactly the same—the folded newspaper on the kitchen table, Mom’s slippers beside the couch, the posters in my bedroom—yet it all felt out of place. I buried myself in my bed and sank into a pit of despair. I ignored the knocks on my bedroom door and phone calls from my friends. I discovered that if I really concentrated, I could turn off my mind, silence my inner voice, and ignore the neighborhood sounds of cars rolling by, dogs barking at squirrels, lawn mowers droning, and children playing. It was like retreating inward to a noiseless realm where pain doesn’t exist. It felt like dying, only I kept on breathing.

Even though I know Paul’s truck won’t be there, I feel let down when I return home to an empty driveway. I trudge through the back door and sigh. Without him, this place doesn’t feel like home anymore. An envelope on the counter catches my eye. I set my purse on the chair and pick it up. It’s addressed to me from Paul. Longing pulls in my chest at the sight of his handwriting. It’s been weeks since we’ve talked, and even though we’ve had our differences, I miss him. I tear open the envelope expecting to find a letter about how foolish we’ve been and how we can make things better, but it’s not a letter at all, it’s a separation agreement.

I’m dazed as I flip past information about the division of debt, tax issues, health insurance, and an explanation of our rights. I follow the yellow flag to the last page, where’s Paul’s signature is written with certainty. And the notary’s stamp below it adds an air of finality. Is this his way of scaring me into adopting a baby with him or is this what he really wants? The papers fall through my fingers and land in a heap on the floor. I step over them, pull a dusty bottle of merlot from the wine rack and seek refuge in a hot bath.

I drink the wine straight from the bottle as the hot water pulls at my muscle fibers, urging them to relax. I close my eyes, but all I can see is Paul’s signature on those papers. It seems like just yesterday he found me in the hardware store staring helplessly at a wall of plumbing products.

“Do you need some help?” he asked, noticing my bewilderment.

“Why do they give you so many choices? I have no idea what I need.”

“What are you trying to fix?”

“A leaky sink.”

“Is the faucet leaking or is it the pipes underneath?”

“The pipes underneath. I told my landlord about it months ago, but I can’t get him to come over and take care of it.”

“Is it the supply pipe or the waste pipe?”

I grinned with embarrassment. “I don’t know. I have a pot under there to collect the water. I’m getting tired of changing it every day, so I thought I’d try to fix the problem myself.”

He smiled and looked down at his boots. “I don’t normally do this, but I could come over and take a look at it if you want.”

Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have invited a stranger to my apartment, but his compassion was magnetic. After everything I’d been through, it was refreshing to meet someone so kind, someone who didn’t know anything about my past. “I’d appreciate that,” I told him and wrote down my address on a slip of paper.

“My name is Paul, by the way.” He went to extend his hand but then he noticed his dirty palm and black fingernails and pulled it back.

“Cate,” I said, shyly.

I went straight home and cleaned my apartment from floor to ceiling. Paul came over just before dinner, dressed in fresh clothes with spotless hands. I led him to the kitchen and showed him the leak.

He knelt and took a look. “You’ve got a cracked metal collar nut.”

“That sounds bad.”

He grinned. “Actually, it’s a pretty easy repair. I’m just going to run out to my truck to see if I have the right size replacement part.” I watched from the window as he rooted through his truck.

He returned with a handful of silver metal rings. “One of these ought to do it.” He crouched in front of the sink and reached for his tools. I tried not to stare as he disassembled the pipe and removed what I assumed to be the cracked metal collar nut, but I couldn’t help myself. For the first time since James, I felt the pull of attraction.

Paul asked me to dinner that weekend, and soon we were seeing each other every day. A year later he took me to the crumbling house, knelt in front of the kitchen sink, and proposed. Before I could tell him anything about The Home or Emily, he opened a small black velvet box, and tucked inside the flap was a shiny silver nut. Any hesitation I had dissolved with our laughter. I accepted, and he rose from his knee, pulled a diamond ring out of his pocket, and slid it onto my finger.

I wore that silver nut on a chain around my neck for the first few years of our marriage, a secret joke between lovers. But at some point I took it off and never put it on again.

I stumble downstairs before bed and drop the empty wine bottle in the recycling bin with a crash. I pick up the separation agreement from the floor and turn to Paul’s signature. My heart is heavy as my pen hesitates above the empty line. One little signature is all it takes to begin dismantling our marriage. I glance up at the copper pots that are starting to lose their luster and realize that the dismantling started a long time ago. We aren’t the same people who met in the plumbing aisle six years ago. Those people are gone, and they’re not coming back.

I scrawl my name next to Paul’s and leave the papers on the counter for him.

I return to Our Lady of Peace at the end of June and stand before the table of glowing candles. I slide my money in the box and light a candle. “For Emily,” I whisper, “may you one day know how empty my life has been without you.”

I wait upstairs in the atrium while everyone filters into the meeting room in the basement. When I hear their voices fall silent, I sneak downstairs, tiptoe down the hallway and lean against the wall just outside the door.

“Good evening, everyone. My name is Lane.”

I creep closer and tilt my ear.

“First, I’d like to welcome you all to The Adoption Circle. Since we have some new faces here tonight, I’ll remind you of a couple of ground rules. We are here to support, not judge. You’re welcome to share your story or listen quietly. Whichever you choose, please be courteous to your peers. With that, who would like to begin?” I hear some shuffling and then Lane says, “The floor is all yours.”

“Hello,” a woman begins. “My name is Rose and this is my husband, Chuck. And we’re adoptive parents.”

“Hi, Rose. Hi, Chuck,” a chorus of voices responds.

“Chuck and I adopted our son, Troy, at birth five years ago. It was a closed adoption, and we arranged it that way because we didn’t want to worry about Troy’s biological mother interfering in our lives. But somehow she must have gotten our information because the other day I saw her drive by our house. Troy was sitting in the driveway drawing with chalk, and I was watching him from the front window. That’s when I saw the white car drive by really slowly. At first, I was worried it was a kidnapper, but then I noticed the driver was a young woman. The way she stared at him, I just knew it was her. I ran out the front door and she sped off when she saw me. Now I’m terrified because I don’t know what her intentions are. I’m scared she might try to take him. But even if she only wants to talk to him, Troy doesn’t know he’s adopted. We wanted to wait until he’s a little older to tell him, but now we’re worried that she’s going to ruin everything. We don’t know what to do. We’ve thought about calling the police, but we don’t want to alienate her in case Troy wants to find her someday. I told Chuck that I want to move …”

“But if she found us once, she could easily find us again,” he interjects.

“We’re living in fear of this woman, and we don’t know what to do. Does anyone have any advice?”

“If it were me, I’d call the cops and get a restraining order,” a woman says.

“Wait, wait, wait,” a man pipes up. “You don’t know for sure that the woman was Troy’s biological mother. Is it possible it could’ve been someone who was driving slowly because she was lost?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” Rose says, “but I just know it was her.”

“That won’t be enough for the police,” the man says. “You’ve got to find proof that it’s her, and then you can go to them. Did you get her license plate number?”

“She sped off before I could see it.”

Fury builds as I listen to them make this alleged birth mother out to be some sort of dangerous stalker, and there’s no one in the room to come the poor woman’s defense. I step into the doorway. “Have you thought about talking to her?” I ask.

The room falls silent, and a dozen surprised faces turn and stare at me.

“Who are you?” a woman asks.

“I’m Cate. I’m a birth mother, and I can tell you that the curiosity is debilitating. I’ve wondered about my daughter since the day I gave her up twenty-three years ago. If someone had given me her address, I would’ve driven by too, just to get a glimpse of her. I never would’ve dreamed of approaching her or causing her any harm. I just would’ve wanted to see what she looked like and make sure she seemed happy. If you ask me, there’s a good chance you’ll never see that white car again. And if you do, I think you should try to talk to her. Most birth mothers aren’t monsters. Like you, we only want what’s best for the child.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Rose says, looking sheepish. “Thank you.”

The group claps and a short, athletic-looking woman with chin-length brown hair appears at my side. “Hi, Cate. I’m Lane. I’m the group leader.”

“Sorry for bursting in like that, I didn’t mean to…”

“There’s no need to apologize.” Her smile is kind. “Next time, you should come inside and sit with the rest of us.”