Ending with Forever (5 page)

B
loomington must be a small freckle on the map. I can’t believe there weren’t any direct flights to that city. I had to fly into Indianapolis and then rent this Audi R8 black beauty, to drive to my destination. Traffic is a like a smooth sail on one of my luxury yachts compared to Boston’s or Hong Kong’s madness. Once I hit the interstate, it’s just countryside with shrubs and trees still desperately clinging on to the remaining few brownish-orange leaves, as if it’s trying to stall the inevitable winter. I feel terrible for lying to my father about visiting an old friend from school. It was the only way I could slip away for two days without him knowing what I’m really doing behind his back. The last thing I want to do is hurt his feelings or have him think I’ve betrayed him.

After years and years of debating, I finally gathered enough courage to do this. Ms. Polly told me it’s only natural for a child to want to be with his or her biological mother. “There’s a strong bond between mother and child that can never be broken. No matter what has caused the separation,” she explained to me many years ago, and I believe her wholeheartedly. She still mourns over the loss of her husband and only son from a tragic accident. Ben had just turned twelve, coming home from a soccer game with his father. They died immediately upon impact with a semi-truck, leaving Ms. Polly heartbroken and without any closure. This may be the reason why she’s always been very encouraging whenever I mention the need to find my birth mother. 

The anxiety is thick and unmistakable. I can hardly contain the thrashing in my chest as the miles decrease. My mind is racing faster than this speed demon I’m driving. The same questions I’ve asked myself for years continue to cycle over and over in my mind, and in a few minutes, I will hopefully get my answers from a woman who gave me life and then gave me up. Unlike most adopted children, I’m not poisoned with hate or resentment for my biological parents. Why would I be? I live a luxurious life that most can only dream about. I’m just curious. I want to know why. There has to be some logical or selfless explanation—at least that’s what I’ve been convincing myself for years.

I’m thankful Miller emailed me her contact info so I could call and set up this phony meeting about her late husband’s unclaimed insurance money. She didn’t seem overly excited about a small fortune heading her way. In fact, she was choked up when I mentioned her late husband’s name, Jacob Hanover. I don’t know what it was about the sadness in her quivering voice, but it ripped at my heart which is something that has never happened to me with Mimi.

“You have arrived at your destination. 1131 East Franklin Street is on your right,” the GPS voice tells me as I slowly step on the brake, letting the car roll to a complete stop. Holy fuck. I’m here. The woman I’ve never called
mom
is sitting in that house waiting for me.
You can do this. You’ve wondered about this moment for as long as you can remember.
I pull my car into a gravel lot in front of an old, two-story farmhouse with a white wraparound porch and two shabby rocking chairs. The dilapidated red barn behind the house looks like it’s seen better days with one broken door hanging on rusted hinges and an enormous hole in the roof. I kill the engine, seal my eyes, inhale a big breath to inflate my lungs to full capacity and then release it with as much anxiety as I can blow out. When I open my eyes, I see a thin woman with wavy brown hair poking her head out the front door.
Is it her?
Is that my mother?
I crack the car door open and a bone-chilling breeze courses its way over my collar and into my chest. Damn, it’s a freezing cold November day. I’m shivering from head to toe but it’s not from the coldness alone. The anticipation is killing me. I step out, square my shoulders and head toward the woman who’s still studying me with her suspecting eyes. The tiny gravel pieces crush under my feet as I continue a steady pace.

“Hello, I’m Wesley Montgomery,” I introduce myself at the bottom of her steps, keeping my distance so I wouldn’t scare her. My voice is projecting braver than what I’m actually feeling inside while I behold her timid face, lack of makeup with pale lips. I’m used to seeing women, especially Mimi, with lips painted a scarlet color. My eyes lock on her with intensity. I think I’m afraid I’ll lose her again if I look away. Clearing my throat I remind, “I spoke with you yesterday. Are you Mrs. Hanover?”

She slips in front of the white door that she was hiding behind and beholds my face as if she recognizes me, welcoming me with a coy smile. “No. Yes. I…mean I was Mrs. Hanover. I remarried after my husband died and now I’m Mrs. Manns,” she stutters over her words very nervously. “You must be cold. Would you like to come in for some coffee or tea?” she offers, watching me hug my arms around my chest.

“I’d love some coffee if you don’t mind,” I reply, grateful for her hospitality.

“I just brewed a fresh pot,” she tells me and leads us into the house.

I should be scared shitless walking into a place like this. Resting against a wall by the front door is a shotgun which I’m positive is loaded. There’s a glass case packed with other types of guns and ammunition to the left of it. I imagine her aim is pretty good. The house is empty and eerily quiet besides for the creaking and popping sound from the wooden boards under my feet. The only light I see is in a room down a narrow hallway, which I’m guessing is the kitchen. This woman lives modestly with old furnishings and minimal décor—nothing close to the luxury I’m used to. I can’t picture myself growing up here. Not at all.

“Do you like living in the country away from everyone?” I ask, making small talk as my eyes locate all the possible exits in case I have to make a run for my life.
Thank you, Jesus.
I praise. There’s a backdoor where I can easily escape.

“I don’t mind it. I enjoy the quietness,” she replies as she sets two mismatched mugs on the countertop. “Please have a seat. Do you like cream or sugar in your coffee?”

“Neither. I take mine black, please,” I reply before sitting down on an old wooden chair. The legs are uneven, making it wobble slightly so I dig my heels into the floor to stable myself.

“My late husband also drank his coffee black,” she shares, looking over at me in reflection. “I used to tease that it’ll turn him into a bitter old man. Regrettably, he didn’t live long enough to become an old man,” she trails off softly.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Manns,” I offer, feeling her sadness weigh on me.

“I can’t believe it’s been thirty-two years already,” she mumbles, raising her sweater sleeve to her face to wipe a few tears away. “He wasn’t the only thing I lost to that accident. I was forced to make the hardest decision of my life after he passed away. I had to…,” she begins to share but stops midstream.

“What else did you have to do?” I pry, hoping she’ll give me my answer without me telling her who I really am.

“Mr. Montgomery, I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear all about my problems. You’re here for business,” she apologizes and pours piping, hot coffee into a blue mug with a chip at the base, exposing a reddish clay center. At home, I drink out of a Bernardaud mug that probably cost more than all the china she has in this kitchen. I can’t understand why but I’m developing feelings of guilt. Because she gave me up, I’ve been sheltered from a life of hardship and deprivation while she still lives humbly with just the necessities.

“I don’t mind. Please continue,” I insist and cautiously sip my hot coffee. It’s not the high-end gourmet stuff I’m accustomed to, but it’s the best cup of Joe I’ve ever had, sitting here sharing it with my birth mother. Her voice and face are as I imagined—gentle and kind. The russet color of her hair minus the mingled gray would be the same shade as my mine if it was untinted. Her eyes aren’t hazel, so I take it that my fathers were and she carries the recessive gene for it. There’s a constant sadness trapped behind those traveling orbits even when her infrequent smiles are displayed. A dimple, I see one on her left cheek identical to mine.

“Wes. May I call you that?” she asks.

“Yes, please do.”

“How old are you if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m thirty-two,” I answer.
Why is she asking for my age?

“I had twin sons who are the same age as you,” she discloses. “I got pregnant when my husband and I first started med school. His parents put all they had into his education so when they found out about the pregnancy, they were devastated. After our surprise news, his father suffered a severe heart attack that killed him a week later. It was unrelated, of course, but Jacob never forgave himself for it. He dropped out of med school and so did I to come home and work on his father’s farm. Jacob had to pick up an extra job at a factory in the evenings to repay our huge school loans as well as to save for our twin babies,” she stalls, setting her mug down and attempting to maintain her composure. “Two months after our babies were born, I received the most god-awful call from his company. They told me my husband had died on the job.”

I reach my hand out and rest it on top of hers, offering my sympathy—something I’ve never done for Mimi. “It must’ve been terrible for you.”

“He was my first and only love. My world caved in and I didn’t want to continue without him, but I had to for the sake of our babies. Jacob had already made plans for his sons. He was going to teach them how to play baseball, fish, win a girl’s heart and show them the world. I wanted our sons to have all those opportunities.”

“What did you do then?”

“I couldn’t provide for them. Jacob left me with all the bills and a farm with more than a hundred acres. My parents had ten kids so they couldn’t offer me anything. I found a private adoption agency that catered to the elite. I wanted to make sure my babies would be well taken care of with the stipulation that they can never be separated.”

“Do you know who ended up with your babies?” I ask, seeking confirmation for my sake.

Her eyes begin to water, flowing over the brim of her lower lids. “They promised me my boys wouldn’t be separated, but they lied. A very influential man and his wife offered the agency a large sum for just one baby. His name was Chandler Montgomery,” she sniffles. “They accepted their generous offer with greed and told me I couldn’t do anything about it since I had given up my rights to my babies. That wasn’t true, but I didn’t know any better at the time.”

“Then you must know who I am.”

“All it took was one look at your handsome face,” she cries before standing up to reach for a picture frame. “This was your father,” she tells me as she passes me the picture with her trembling hands. “He was only twenty-five years old…,” she trails off, spilling more tears.

Shit!
It’s as if I’m staring at myself in the mirror. I look everything like my father. His piercing hazel eyes are gazing directly into mine. I have his strong jawline, full lips and thick dark brows. He appears to have the same build, tall and slender. I place the frame down on the table and turn to my mother. My tongue is numb. My speech is muffled. I’ve rehearsed this fairy tale moment in my mind at least a few hundred times and had never failed to throw my arms around my
mother
and tell her I love her. Why am I incompetent now?

“Wes, speak to me. Say something,” she urges me with desperation in her drowning, weeping eyes. “Everything I did was done out of love for you and your brother. I didn’t want either one of you to struggle like we did.”

“I believe you. I really do,” I tell her and then stand up to spread my arms wide, engulfing her tiny frame into my chest. It’s surreal to be standing here, hugging my birth mother, a woman I never knew before today and yet, I welcome her without hesitation.

“I’ve been praying for this day since you were last cradled in my arms,” she sobs, looking up to me she frames my face between her hands as she combs her eyes over the man who’s now replaced her baby. No one has ever looked at me with this kind of affection—the kind that only a mother can impart. “I love you,” her heart tells me as the words flow innately from her quivering lips.

“I…love…you,” I stumble over the same three words, squeezing her even tighter against my chest. It feels natural as if we’ve never been separated or robbed by time or distance. I’ve dreamt of this moment forever.

“If only we can have your brother here also. It’d be one of the happiest days of my life.”

“Do you know anything about him?” I ask. I’m curious as hell. I went from being an only child to having a twin brother.

“Yes,” she hesitates. “About six months ago our church began praying for a little girl who was diagnosed with a rare pediatric brain cancer, the most lethal kind. Gabby’s mother, Jane, reached out to the congregation for help—any kind she could get. I told her to call on me for anything. She heard that I had a medical background and asked if I could help her research for any forms of cancer treatments. I went to the local library and hit all the medical websites. Every site led me back to Bradley Pharmaceutical Corporation. I googled this company and came across the CEO’s picture, name and bio. It was as if I was looking at my late husband’s face. The resemblance was unbelievable. I drove home immediately and dug up old paperwork for the names of the couple who adopted your brother. Surely enough, their surname was also Bradley.”

I’m having a hard time filtering what’s going through my ears. Carson Bradley, my father’s opponent, is also my twin brother. My knees buckle, throwing my balance off and me against the table. I knew we looked similar. Even several of my buddies have joked about me being able to pass for the richest billionaire bachelor and have my choice of any woman I wanted to sleep with—not that I couldn’t on my own. I never paid them any attention because my heart was already chained to Bridgette, a woman I knew I could never have but still desperately desired.