Motherland

Have you ever noticed the strange things people do with their hands? Some grip tiny porcelain cups between thumb and forefinger, sticking out their pinky. Others have the mug between their palms like a chunk of gold. Some stare down and let the warmth hit their faces while their hands caress their phones. This is what I see when I push through the glass door and hear a shot of expressed steam. My ankles and wrists itch, my mind and heart are in separate bumper cars going 90mph. I find an empty table, and sit, trying to catch my breath, keeping my gaze on the wooden floor. 

Exhale and my peripheral vision spies a couple of slick-city customers with loafers and leather backpacks. Shoulders stiff like their frown lines, they ooze self-importance and control, even as one dabs, with furtive eyes, at something splashed on their pants. On my other side — oh jeeze, what I do not need today — a chatty group of mothers, staking claim with their aisle blocking baby carriages and disgusting pastel diaper bags. They share exhausted laughter. One grabs a breast pump from a pale aqua sack.

Try and settle, calm down, think of what to order, but two sheets of paper are burning a hole in my pocket, so I snatch them out and spread them open, taking them in for the thousandth time. This is it. The key — my life, past, present, and future. My dreams, fantasies, questions, they’re all gonna be answered - today. She’s back there, somewhere behind that counter, behind those baked goods, surrounded by mugs and environmentally unfriendly to-go cups. I believe I feel her presence, I want this so badly. However, I still can’t raise my head. Strong syncopated spurts of hot air rise and bet this place has a La Marzocco machine. 

Gaze is down on the multi-creased letter on top. It’s my formal county adoption record, containing my mother’s first and middle initials, M and J, her month and year of birth, November 1960, her religion, Jewish, and kin: mother, father, sibling. Peeking at the bottom sheet, the first line is “Report of Investigative Work,” the last line is Gerald Quint private investigator’s signature. I’d hired him months ago for more than the price of a new Iphone. These two sheets together contain the data, the clues I’ve craved for years. Soon, I’ll have answers to questions that torment my dreams. Does cancer, glaucoma, or Alzheimer’s lurk in my biologic family? Do I have hidden artistic talents that stem from some great grandparent? Whose genes gave me these wonky jointed hips? My stomach gurgles, my tongue’s parchment. The smells of cinnamon and pumpkin are spinning my head. There’s Gerald’s resonant words.

“Nothing’s guaranteed. There are over six thousand women born the same year and having those same initials, who live in Los Angeles, Orange, or the Valley. It hasn’t been easy.” 

“But my research from the adoptee’s group helped, didn’t it? Her father must have been in business, many Jewish fathers were.”

“Right. Well, my professional statement details what I’ve found. Got it narrowed down, you see here. My money’s on this first one. Look at the picture. She looks like you, same eye color! And good luck.”

The memory of Gerald’s voice is overtaken by chatty mothers. My eyes scan their tables full of cups, half eaten croissants, napkins, and pacifiers! Their laughs echo around the small establishment, steamy warm with the varied aromas and voices. I look at their sleep-tousled and pulled back hair, pinched faces, rings under their eyes, rings on most of their left hands, and I wonder which one of them would, or could give up their child?

Behind and above the register, my eyes travel the back wall and its bizarre, amalgamated map of various countries and regions squished together. My eyes do not catch any of the workers who scurry behind, not daring that one might resemble the photo next to woman number one on Joe’s report. In that moment I am assailed by the smells of cinnamon, pumpkin, and warmed milk. Everything that makes me think of what? Mothers? Home? 

Adopted by a Jewish do-gooder, Rebeka baked with cinnamon and brought me warm milk if I couldn't sleep. From a young age, I knew she wasn't my real mother. Her husband, my adopted father and her told me when I was three years old. And every year on my birthday, they gave thanks to the woman who was my birth mom. That’s what they called her, “birth mom.” Her real initials and birth year became my most prized possessions when I turned eighteen and had the nerve to petition and find them out. But that document didn’t help me know who this woman, who’d given up her daughter, really was. It gave no clue, no solace.

One of the mothers sitting round the neighbor table, grey faced yet animated is talking with a touch of malice. "It cried all night, on and on. I tried the boob, I tried the rocker, I cuddled and cooed. I’m a walking zombie. If this is motherhood, I may not survive. It’s fucking unfair."

"Ha, ha! Where’s your hubby?" A hyper-alert super mother shrieks raising her mug, "Cheers to unfair!" Then, am I seeing things? She sets down her mug and reaches, for a silver tube hanging from her neck. She unscrews and up-ends it on to the tip of her pointer and then shoves that finger up her nostril. One mother tsks as the others avert their eyes.

My stomach is truly nauseous. Some mothers are really messed up or am I supposed to feel sorry? Feel sorry for my own real mother? Was it that or give me up to survive post-partum. My eyes drill the lacquered table. The investigator’s words wiggle, that first photo is pulsating at me. The adoptee’s group is a bunch of lost people, all trying to find their history, their place. It’s good for research ideas and camaraderie, but we are often a dispirited bunch. It’s a frightful slog to look for and eventually, perhaps, discover one’s birth parents.  

"Hey, tables - for customers only. Gonna order something?"  A voice rises from the counter.

I look up. My color eyes stare back into mine. Her cap says: Black Gold, her name tag reads Marcia Jay, and soft laugh lines sprout from the corners of her eyes. Her face is kind and wise, like a mom! I smile and scoot back my chair. I pass the leather-loafer wearer’s lips to their phone, and a panicked mother. “Our Greta Giraffe teether was right here!” My steps are slow and decisive.

“I’d like a latte and, and I — well, I think you’re my mom.”

“Really?” She turns and speaks as if someone told her the time, “One latte.” — then turns back and lowers her eyes — “I’m sure you’re mistaken, miss.”

“Could we just talk, for a sec? I think I’m going to be sick.” Grabbing my cramping stomach, the tell-tale acid in my throat makes my knee shake.

“The bathroom’s over there. Why don’t you sit. I’ll bring your order over in a minute.”

Somehow, I shuffle back to my chair. Babies cry, mothers laugh, newspapers rustle, cell phones ring. No one knows my mission and now, my focus evaporates, my heart’s in attack mode, I’m dizzy. Breath in, out, and ok, this woman probably doesn’t have the cajones to admit she even had a child.

“Here,” — sliding a tall foam topped glass along the side of my papers, — “I’ve got a minute and hey.” My mother sits across from me.

My eyes squeeze tight, fighting away tears, a spinning vortex, and stomach acid. My hands grab the glass, then I shake them free and spin the papers around to face her. “See here, I’m sure! It’s you. M and J, 1960! Sibling.” I’m sniffling, and the tears are fiercely pressing. Her gaze meets mine.

 “I’m sorry. See, I don’t have any siblings, and.” She displays a delicate gold cross from under the top of her apron. “Perhaps it’s this number two.” Her finger brushes the second woman’s photo. “Good luck.”

She walks off and I’m left with a latte and a stranger’s good luck. A bloody scream stirs in my chest, and the babies around are already warming up to join. I slide my chair back, crumple the papers into my pocket, and wish the mothers luck as I walk out. The photo, address and stats of my mother, number two on Gerald’s list, burn anew in my pocket.