The Diary of Darcy J. Rhone (9 page)

BOOK: The Diary of Darcy J. Rhone
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So right after my birthday, and before a long, four-day weekend, I put the genius plan that Belinda helped me orchestrate into action (genius because it was so easy). I simply asked my parents if I could join Belinda and her mother on a road trip to Mobile to visit Belinda’s aunt (after planting a few offhand fibs about said aunt being a former Catholic missionary). I got permission after they called Belinda’s mom to confirm the trip. Then I told Belinda’s mom that I wasn’t feeling well, banking on the only element of luck—that Mrs. Greene wouldn’t phone my parents to discuss the cancellation. Sure enough, she did not, and the next day I went down to the bus station on Fifteenth Street and bought a two-hundred-seventy-five-dollar round-trip ticket to New York City, and boarded a foul-smelling Greyhound bus with what seemed to be a good many ex-cons, including a shady driver.

For the next twenty-four hours, I rode that bus halfway across the country, listening to my iPod and wondering about her and her story. Had she been too poor, too young, or too sick to keep me? Or did she just not want me? Had she ever regretted her decision? Had she pulled herself up by her bootstraps since then, changing her life completely? Did she want me to find her? Had she ever looked for me? Was she married now? Did she have children who she kept who would be my half siblings? Who was my father (there was nothing on him in the file)? Did I get all my loser genes from her, him, or both of them? Were they still together, raising my full-blooded siblings? Would meeting her help me understand why I am the way I am? Or just make me feel worse? With every scenario, I made a list of pros and cons. If she was an awful loser, my parents would be right—and maybe I’d be destined to be that way, too. On the other hand, if my parents were wrong about her, then I disproved their theory, but would have to confront another problem: Why didn’t she want me? And would my life have been so much better if she had? Would I still feel the way I do now inside—dark and frustrated and lonely? There seemed to be no winning—and a huge chance for losing. But then again, what else was new?

 

 

And then I finally arrive at the Port Authority terminal, a scary shit hole, smelling worse than the bus, which I didn’t think was possible. I look around with no clue where to go. The three people I ask either don’t speak English or have no desire to reply to me. I finally see a sign for taxis and follow the arrows to the street, emerging onto Eighth Avenue, which looks nothing like the New York I’ve seen on television and in the movies. Overwhelmed, I find a uniformed worker barking at everyone. She looks right through me, but I speak up, ask her if this is where I can get a taxi. She points to the back of a very long line. As I wait, I keep my eyes fixed on a homeless woman across the street. She is huddled under a gray quilt, a cardboard sign propped against her, a paper cup at her feet. I wonder if she’s my mother—maybe she’s just been evicted from the address the agency sent.

Twenty minutes later, I am climbing into a cab, which is surprisingly clean, a hopeful sign. I give the driver the address I’ve memorized as he lurches full speed ahead, stopping and starting every few blocks, the scenery quickly improving. We drive through a wooded area, that I assume is Central Park, and then emerge into a neighborhood that looks residential. A minute later, he stops, looks at me, points at the meter. It reads $9.60. I hand him eleven dollars—and remember advice my dad once gave me: When in doubt, tip. I give him another buck. Then I grab my backpack from the seat next to me, slide out of the car onto Eighty-eighth Street and Madison Avenue and look up at the residence of my birth mother.

Damn,
I think.
I did it.

I glance down at my black Swatch watch, nervously loosening the polyurethane strap one notch, then tightening it again. It is nearly eleven, probably too late to go knocking on her door, but I can’t wait until the morning to find out the truth. I remind myself that this is the city that never sleeps, hoping she is up, then hoping nobody is home.

I pace in the shadows of the sidewalk, my stomach in knots. It’s hard to say what I want more—for me to like her or for her to like me. After stalling a few more seconds, I finally force myself to walk to the open doorway of her building and peer around the lobby. It is fancy, with a gleaming, black-and-white marble floor and formal furniture. The crack den notion quickly vanishes, but I’m more intimidated than relieved. My heart pounding, a doorman suddenly materializes, asking if he can help me. I jump, then say hello. He says hello back, friendly enough. He has shiny black hair, neatly gelled into a low side part, and wears a navy and gold uniform with a matching hat. His nametag reads
JAVIER
—but for a second, I think it says “Caviar”—which I picture her eating on a high floor above me.

“I’m here to see Marian Caldwell,” I say, trying to sound more official than I must look in my jeans, T-shirt, and pilled sweater coat. I nervously pluck a few balls of fuzz from my sleeve, wishing I had Googled her, after all. Belinda was right—I should have been more prepared for this moment. I would have worn something nicer. Maybe I wouldn’t have come at all.

“She expecting you?” Javier asks, giving me a curious once-over.

I panic, worried that he has been warned about the possible arrival of a troubled teenager. Then, as I hear Belinda telling me not to be paranoid, frequent advice from her, I reassure myself Javier doesn’t know a thing about me—he’s just doing his job. Just in case, though, I smile, so as to look, at the very least, untroubled. Then I clear my throat and say, “Yes…I mean, she very well
might
be.”

Technically this is true. She
might
be waiting for me, expecting me, hoping for me. After all, she did sign the paper that said I could know her name on my eighteenth birthday—which she had to have remembered was a week ago. Surely she keeps track of my birthdays. It seems the very least a woman could do who, you know, gives
birth
to a child and then gives her away. She might even have a little annual ritual or ceremony she performs. Maybe she sips champagne with her closest friends or her own mother, my grandmother. Maybe she bakes a cake, adding a candle with every passing year. I wonder if she loves chocolate as much as I do. Or maybe she will tell me the sweet tooth came straight from my birth father. The answers might be seconds away.

As Javier turns and pushes a button on a large switchboard, I strongly consider bolting. But instead, I hold as still as the marble statues flanking the elevator, even holding my breath as I anticipate the sound of her voice, asking who is here to see her. But there is only a loud buzzing noise in response and Javier turns to me and says, “You can go ahead up!” with a grand gesture toward the elevator.

I take this as a good sign. She is, by nature, welcoming, granting permission to visit when she has no idea who is at her door. Then again, maybe she thinks I’m someone else. Maybe she has a real daughter who ran out to the store for some gum or milk—and frequently forgets her key.

In any event, there is no turning back now. “Um…what floor?”

“That’d be the penthouse!” Javier says, pointing skyward with great flair.

I nod, as if I’m told to go to the penthouse every day of the week, but inside, the word causes panic. I readjust my backpack, swallow, and take the few steps to the polished elevator doors. They suddenly open, exposing an old man in high-waisted pants walking a tidily groomed toy poodle in a pink sweater and purple rhinestone collar. The two don’t go together at all, except for the fact that they both survey me with disapproval as I step past them. Once in the elevator alone, I take a deep breath, and push the PH button. When the doors close, I quickly practice my introduction, with slight variations:

Hello. I’m Kirby Rose. Your daughter.

Hello. I’m your daughter. Kirby Rose.

Hi. My name is Kirby Rose. I think I’m your daughter?

The word daughter seems too intimate, but there is really no other word to use (besides technical ones like “offspring” or “progeny”), and no adjective to clarify the relationship, as there is with
birth
mother. My thoughts jolt to a standstill as the elevator doors open directly into the foyer of an apartment. Beyond the foyer, I can see the living room with large windows covering one whole wall. Everything is neat, sleek, perfect, and there is no sign of children or babies. My relief over this fact makes me uneasy; I already care too much.

And then. There she is, walking gracefully toward me in cotton pajamas in a preppy pink and green print. They are a bit baggy, but I can tell she is slim, an average height. She looks younger than my parents, about thirty-five, although it’s tough to guess the age of grownups. She has blond hair highlighted even blonder, pulled back in a messy but stylish ponytail. Her face is thin and longish, and for a second I see myself in her. Maybe our noses or chins? I decide that it’s just wishful thinking; she is way prettier than I am.

I look down at her bare feet, dainty and narrow, her toes painted a deep plum—so unlike my mother’s broad, callused feet and oddly shaped toes. I look back at her face, into her eyes, and decide she looks kind. At the very least she doesn’t look bitchy, and she is probably smart and hardworking, too, because dumb, lazy people don’t end up in the penthouse. Then again, maybe she has a really rich family, but she doesn’t have that Paris Hilton-y, spoiled look.

“Hello,” she says, her voice light and pleasant, her expression curious. “Can I help you?”

I clear my throat and ask, “Are you Marian Caldwell?”

“Yes,” she says, and for one second, I have the feeling she knows. But then I see a flicker of impatience. The baby she had eighteen years ago is the farthest thing from her mind.

I look down at my shoes, take a deep breath, and try not to mumble. “My name is Kirby Rose.”

No reaction, of course. She doesn’t know my name. I tuck a piece of hair behind my ears and force myself to look into her eyes again. Something changes in them.

Sure enough, she says, “Are you?…”

My pulse quickens as I nod, trying to breathe, trying not to faint. Then I say the words I’ve said in my head a thousand times. “I think you’re my mother.”

Her smile fades, all the color draining from her already fair complexion, as she stares into my eyes. She looks more scared than I am, completely frozen. An eternity seems to go by before she reaches out and touches my arm and says, “Oh…Goodness. It
is
you.”

I smile, but my throat feels so tight and dry that I can’t speak and start to worry that I’m going to cry. I don’t, though. It feels like a pretty major victory.

“Please. Come in,” she says, backing up, motioning for me to step forward.

I take a few small steps and say, “I’m sorry to roll up on you like this. I can come back another time….”

“No. Stay.
Please
stay,” she says.

I nod, telling myself she means it. That she has to be at least a
little
bit happy to see me again.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

 

WHERE WE BELONG
. Copyright © 2012 by Emily Giffin. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

 

www.stmartins.com

 

Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint an excerpt from the following:

 

“Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town,” written by Eddie Vedder, Dave Abbruzzese, Jeff Ament, Stone Gossard, and Mike McCready. Copyright © 1993 Innocent Bystander; Pickled Fish Music; Universal—PolyGram Int. Publ., Inc. on behalf of PolyGram Int. Publ., Inc., Scribing C-Ment Songs and Write Treatage Music; and Jumpin’ Cat Music (ASCAP) Used by permission. International copyright secured. All rights reserved.

 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS
CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

 

Giffin, Emily.

Where we belong / Emily Giffin.—1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-4668-2249-8

1. Self-realization in women—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3607.I28W47 2012

813'.6—dc23

2012013913

 

First Edition: August 2012

 
BOOK: The Diary of Darcy J. Rhone
3.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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