Found (23 page)

“No problem,” I say.

Steve goes through the living room and out the front door. The screen slaps back on the frame as he goes down the front steps.

THIRTY

THE KITE RIDER

CHILDREN USED TO make me nervous, my own included. Their loud noises and screams—even in happiness—once sent me into a fit of nonsensical shaking and nail biting. I’d get rashes and feel as if my head were exploding with anxiety. Bedtime was a savior. Movie time was another blessing. The hot tub was a necessity.

I can now trace this nervous reaction to how I cried as a baby, so often and so deeply, that Janet would isolate me until I stopped or simply passed out. As a very young child, if I cried or threw a fit, I was put into cold showers or sent to sit in the corner as punishment. By the time I was four or five, I had learned to hold all feelings down and to tighten myself into a model of obedience. This was not Janet and Bud’s fault. They did the best they knew how. But the result was nervousness and agitation around children and childlike behavior.

Since meeting my mother, there has been a shift in my core and children don’t freak me out like they used to. Perhaps to test if it is
true, I agree to go on a camp-out with my daughter’s second-grade class. I am emboldened. I accept the invitation; no, I volunteer.

“But you hate school functions,” Spencer says.

“Yeah, you never come to school,” Jo agrees.

The three of us are in the car and they sit in the back seat. They clutch bagels with cream cheese and juice boxes, breakfast on the go.

“I do come to school,” I say. I adjust the rearview to see them better. “I come to your plays. And I drive. And I’ve helped in the library.”

“Once,” Spencer says. “You did the library once.”

“But I did it,” I say.

Spencer chews on his bagel and with food still in his mouth, he speaks up.

“Well, I don’t get it,” Spencer says. “I’m the oldest. I should get you on a camp-out first.”

“I’ll teach a writing class for your class this year. How’s that?” I suggest.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says. It’s as if he has missed out on something and he wears a frown under a smear of cream cheese.

Jo sticks her tongue out at her brother, as if she has won some victory.

Spencer is, of course, mortally offended. “Knock it off,” he says.

Jo cannot contain herself though. She flaps her arms under her fleece rainbow poncho with the fuzzy fringe. She looks like a human butterfly.

 

 

THE REUNION CAME to a stop, four months after it began. If I went to Reno, and I did three times, the visits went well. Being in my mother’s presence infused me with a peace and calm and love. The trouble came when we were apart. My mind, with stories of abandonment, fear, despair, loneliness, anger, and sorrow, would overcome me. And Catherine couldn’t keep up. She couldn’t call, check in, or come to Portland. The logistics were too much. She said she felt backed into a corner and trapped. She felt I was too needy.

I thought that once I found my mother, I would instantly be over all my old wounds, but it doesn’t work like that. My adoption had shredded us both. In equal part, we each had much more healing to do, and for me it was time to go it alone for a while.

 

 

MY KIDS DID meet the family. Jo discovered a new cousin and Spencer had fun playing with Jessie and her little boy.

When we left Reno, Spencer said, “They look like you, Mom, but they are nothing like you, you know? ”

With anyone else, I might have asked questions but with Spencer—I understood.

 

 

THE CHAPERONES CLUSTER in the gymnasium, which is thick with the smells of rubber balls and dirty socks. I wear a nametag around my neck that reads:
Josephine’s Mom
. Jo presents me with the files of the two children who are to ride with me. They are Sarin and Ray.

“Already I have a problem,” I say. “You are not on my list.”

All four feet of Jo Jo stands up taller, paisley poncho draped around her body, her hood on her head.

“Mo-om,” she says. “We talked about this. You have to drive other kids. It’s the rule.”

I push her hood back and stomp my foot.

“I don’t get this rule. I want to be with you,” I insist.

“Mom,” she says. She pulls her hood back up and stomps her foot right back at me. “This is class time. I have to be independent.”

It’s all a show. I already know I am not to have Jo in my car. Her teacher has made it clear that I am to allow Jo her own “self-sufficient outdoor experience,” without my preferential treatment. While I’m with the group, I am everyone’s mommy. This way, the other children, whose mothers could not come, do not feel left out.

I take this as a reminder of a lesson I know all too well. The wrong kind of mothering and even overmothering can be as bad as no mothering. The act of nurturing requires such delicate balance. I know. I know.

“Fine,” I say, pouting. “Be independent. Show me how it’s done.”

Jo flits away, grinning over her shoulder, and I join the group of waiting parents.

 

 

WHAT DO I think of the life I have lived?

I once had so many regrets, wishing for less abuse and more expedient understanding of circumstances but these feelings no longer hold me hostage.

My life has been my life and I have learned the best I knew how.
I’ve tried as hard as any human could have. Now I’ve met Catherine, I feel a new self mature within my core and my old sad and protective self is being shed like the skin of a snake. I’m working myself free. I’m emerging into a new world.

My view widens to the point where I can forgive the people from my past—Richard, Peggy, Deb, her kids, Bryan, Bud, Janet, Auntie Carol. What’s done is done. I can also see my own part in our mutual story. I can see the tricks my mind played on me. I can see how I even attracted so much negativity and hardship. I have learned the power of a traumatized mind.

I also now have the luxury, space, and inner peace to be philosophical about the past. I feel I have learned so much; I have grown as a human being in this human family. And I get to ponder how the suffering we go through has the potential to make us more vivid and alive. I remind myself of the pressure a rock must go through to become a crystal. I have experienced that pressure myself. I feel refined.

Most of all, I am grateful for my life and to Catherine for allowing time together to fulfill the biological need. I needed to get fully born into this life and my mother overcame her shame and her desire for secrecy to give that to me. What more could I want?

 

 

IN THE CENTER of the gym, the children of the class are assembled in a circle. They are short, tall, skinny, thick, short-haired, long-haired, blond, brunette, black hair, and nearly every race. Their teacher, a high-spirited woman with boundless stores of positive energy, gives them last-minute instructions.

This is a school designed around the method of Maria Montessori. The prime objective is to follow the child. Adults are guides, not teachers. Children explore the world and lead their own learning process. Each stage of development is considered.

Jo pays close attention and is so earnest as her beloved teacher speaks. She stands tall, her shoulders back and her chin high, poised at the age of independence. She now knows who she is. She is, very much, her own person.

 

 

IT IS COMMON for an adoptee to search for her father’s people when the reunion with the birth mother simmers down. I am no exception. I did search.

This is when I learned of the impossible birthday, September 19, 1945. I also learned that Bill Wright died in the year 2005. He had cancer.

While he lived, Bill had been fruitful.

I found three more brothers—Tom, John, and David—as well as a sister named Sarah. I’ve met them all save Tom, and found my siblings to be quiet, contemplative, and sweet people with a kind of vulnerability and depth I didn’t experience in Catherine’s presence. She must have been the sunny side of the match and Bill was the dark side. I find I am surprisingly comfortable with my father’s children. They have been welcoming, polite, understanding, and genuine. I like them.

I am told Bill had four wives and loved them all.

Bill served in Vietnam and was honorably discharged.

Bill was a Christian man who read the Bible nearly every day. He used to go around his house writing scriptures, as well as his own thoughts, on legal pads.

Bill settled in a town very near Winlock called Yelm. He had a hobby of digging in the dirt of his yard where he would unearth rocks to make walking paths and stone walls. He made the soil of his garden supple and soft enough to grow a bountiful garden of strawberries and vegetables. He cooked for his family—in fact, my sister Sarah tells me it was Bill’s cooking that brought the many wives and children together. They all loved his food.

Bill had a dark side, flashbacks from Vietnam. Another ghost that haunted him was his own childhood. His mother, named Georgia, abandoned him as a little boy. His grandmother raised him. His mother, who drank, came and went. Bill never knew his own father. It’s suspected Georgia was a prostitute.

During his worst attacks, Bill would leave his family and go off by himself for days, sometimes weeks, to wrestle deep depression.

Sarah told me Bill, when lucid, had been a good man and a good father. “Family was important to him,” she told me. She said her father had been generous and kind. He loved his kids. Even at his worst, he never harmed his own.

When he died, he wrote all his recipes down and left them to his youngest son, David.

 

 

“OKAY NOW,” THE guide says, clapping her hands. “Find your chaperone and let’s grab our gear.”

I am on the lookout for my charges, Sarin and Ray, and they are quick to appear in front of me with little nametags around their necks. Both children have impossibly dark eyes and tentative smiles. Sarin has long dark hair in pigtails. Ray has a crew cut. Sarin is clearly of Eastern Indian descent and Ray is of Asian descent. I wonder if they are adopted children but don’t make that assumption. This is an international school, after all.

Sarin and Ray are weighted down with sleeping bags and backpacks. They shift their bundles in their arms. “Can I help?” I offer.

They both shake their heads in the same way at the same time. Their expressions are quite serious for ones so young.

“Right,” I say. “You are supposed to do it yourselves.”

They nod, so earnest.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

We weave out of the gym. Jo is in another group. I sneak a wave in her direction but she pretends to ignore me.

 

 

WE FORM A caravan of cars, vans, and trucks and everyone follows the guide in the lead. We have cell phones and maps and a three-hour drive to complete. Our route is through a maze of freeways, down to the ocean, and up to the edge of the state. The teaching is about Lewis and Clark, that team of explorers who ended their trek across the U.S. just outside Astoria, Oregon.

Once underway, I announce that I have a book on tape.

“Okay,” Sarin agrees.

“Sure,” says Ray.

I am surprised by their agreeability. Jo and Spencer would never consent with such speed.

“Do you want to know what it’s about?” I ask.

They don’t really seem to care but I go ahead and explain how the story is about a little boy in China who is tied to a kite against his will and sent to the heavens to test the wind. It’s titled
The Kite Rider
.

“If you hate it, we’ll do music or something else,” I say as I put in the first CD.

“Okay,” Ray says. Sarin says nothing. She looks out the window.

They are so well mannered and polite—nothing like the flapping poncho and the sulking of an hour ago. I look from child to child and they are so very familiar to me. International school or not, these kids are adopted.

Later, the guide will confirm that Sarin is from India and Ray is from Vietnam. I will be told of struggles that plague them—the lack of trust, the need for structure and routine, learning challenges, deep fears, tender open hearts, and an eagerness to please.

The CD book begins with the sound of gongs and the deep voice of the narrator. All three of us are taken in right away when the boy is orphaned in the first chapter.

 

 

IF I LET myself imagine being Tara Wright rather than Jennifer Lauck, I have to ask not what would have become of me, but instead, what would I have missed? Would I have become an investigative reporter and then a writer? Would I have slept in a tent in the Rocky Mountains, under a rainbow-ringed moon? Would I have hiked dusty roads, asking
myself about the nature of my mind? Would I have sat in front of an enlightened master and heard him speak Tibetan, while giving me a thumbs up? Would I have done one prostration, let alone one hundred thousand for the benefit of all beings? Would I have met Tylanni, Rinpoche, or Anne? Would I have loved, fought, and made babies with Steve? Would there be Jo? Would there be Spencer? Would I have found the love of Rogelio? Would there be me, as I am now, a middleaged woman ripening into an old woman with such a tale to tell?

I suppose it’s not about being Jennifer Lauck or Tara Wright, it’s about what I will now do with my life. I must continue to ask myself deep questions about what has come to pass, which include these:
Did I learn? Did I grow? Can I say I am a woman—no matter my name—who brings healing and love? Or will I forever be defined and governed by what I have lost? What is the value of what has passed?

Big questions.

We shall see.

 

 

JUST THE OTHER day, Roger looked up my name in Chinese (which is just like him since he’s a scholar of ancient Chinese medicine). He said Jennifer translates to be Zhen Ni Fa and this means—among many things—green jade woman. Of course, a green jade woman is Tara.