Sandy Owens

As much as I have tried to move on--go to college, get married, have kids--I can't. And it will be fifteen years tomorrow. Fifteen years since my mother left me when I was sixteen. Sixteen! Put me in the foster system, for what? She couldn't bear two more years? I should have been the favorite child but I could never compete with the drugs. Or the alcohol. Or my personal favorite--marrying a new toxic boyfriend twice a year, claiming that this one was it for her, that he would give us a life of wealth and prosperity. He never did. Drunk every night, stopped going to work. Sometimes she would even let boyfriend of the month take his anger out on me.

One day, a social service worker had knocked on the door of the residence I had been fostered at asking for a Lucas Greene.

"That's me." I had replied hoping my mom was back from her African safari escapade. But she wasn't. It was in fact a couple who wanted an older teenage boy to foster. It wasn't up to me but I suppose I was nominated. At first I didn't know if I liked it there. I labeled Steve as emotionally unavailable before I realized I just never made an effort to like him. I decided Chrissy was annoyingly overwhelming before I realized I just wasn't used to having a mother figure in my life who gave a damn. And their daughter was about five at the time which didn't require many social skills.

Those foster parents ended up adopting me right before I turned eighteen. They stopped being my foster parents and began being my parents when I allowed them to. My mother didn't come to my high school graduation. Or my college graduation. Or my wedding. Or the birth of my kids. But Chrissy did. And she clapped louder than any parent there. So it was okay.

It took me a while to understand the concept that not every parent leaves. But once I had accepted my mother was truly gone, I started to move on. I went to a performing arts school, became a film director, and actually had some success. I moved to the Big Apple. I met Greg, the love of my life and had my daughter. And life was okay. Life was good. Until I saw her. It's a big city, I understand that. But I was fully prepped and prepared to never face her ever again in my life.

I told Greg I would pick up a coffee for him when I went out to get breakfast. It wasn't the same coffee shop I normally went to. I had stayed late at the office and fell asleep, so I was going to a closer one. Walking in, it was nothing special. I ordered and waited for them to call my name. Next to me, was a woman talking on the phone. I thought nothing of it until I noticed a familiar tone. More gravelly and raspy than I remember but that was definitely it. I glanced at her side profile from my angle, preparing myself for what I could possibly see next. Slowly, I focused my eyes. Yes. That was her. That was my mother.

She must be fifty now, considering that she was a teen mom when she had me. At first my head began to spin as a sick, anxiety ridden blanket hugged me. Not softly, though. Angrily, to the point where I was suffocated. I spun around, thoughts bombarding my head causing it to throb, the wheels turning, wires connecting, trying--begging--to understand. Not so much 'what, when, why' questions. The curiosity hadn't hit me yet. I was still lost, with a massive head ache and confused.

What was my crack addict mother doing in an overpriced coffee shop on the Upper West Side? And at eight in the morning? She never used to get up before three! Crap, the barista will call my name and she will hear it. There are other people named Lucas in New York. But what if the name gets her attention and she sees my face? What would I say to her?

My thoughts were scrambling, and unable to stay in one place. I rushed out, but for a split second, time paused and her eyes met mine through the coffee shop window. Her grey eyes widen and squint before I turn, just fast enough for her to convince herself it was a hallucination. I get on the subway pinching myself to make sure that what I just experienced was not a delusional side affect of the nearing fifteenth anniversary gloom.

I sprint up the stairs of my apartment panting. "Greg? Greg?" I call out. I pace around the room nervously. He walks through the hallway.

"Are you okay? You're burning a whole in the ground" Greg says to me with a smile. I can't hear him though.

"I-I spent four dollars on a cup of coffee and then, um, and then I left the s-store without taking it." I stutter, taking a seat on the sofa. Greg furrows his brow and nods slowly. He takes a seat next to me and rubs my back.

"Okay," he says slowly, dragging the word out, "That's fine, we can afford to lose four dollars. What's really going on here, Lucas?"

I stop running my hands through my hair and sit still. "I saw my mom."

"Oh! Chrissy's here? How nice! What's the problem." He replies, clearly not connecting the dots.

"No Greg! My biological mom!" I grumble, frustrated. He sucks in a sharp breath.

"Oh. Oh, God. Did you-did you say something to her?" He asks gently. I shake my head.

"I got out of there as fast as I could." I fill him in on the events of that morning. After sitting with me for a couple hours, Greg heads to work and takes my daughter to school. I lie down on the bed debating what I should do. There is no way I could go to sleep and continue on with my life after such a mental disruption. I fall asleep to the sounds of my thoughts.

Perhaps she had a schedule. Perhaps she would be back at the same time tomorrow. Would she even know what day tomorrow is?

I had decided--as much as it scared me--that I needed answers. The hunger in me, the angst, the emotion, was craving that missing piece that I hoped facing her could give me. I hadn't quite decided yet the way I would approach her. Would it be a "Hey, can we get talk?" or maybe a "You're the bitch that left me". More dramatic like "I would have loved you through all of your problems, but you left me!" end scene. Probably not. I suppose I will make it up as I go. But in all honesty, I wasn't even sure I would have the courage to even stutter. With my mind racing, I set my alarm for seven, to guarantee I would be there the exact same time as yesterday.

Would she even be there? Maybe she was just passing through town. No, she didn't look like a tourist, I had decided.

There was a loud ringing that jolted me awake and caused my eyes to bulge. Greg groans, "turn it off!" and I do. I robotically change my clothes and make a cup of coffee. I put on my coat--it is November, after all--and head out the door. I get on the '3' train and ride until I arrive at the corner of the same coffee shop. It's about ten past eight in the morning, just minutes before I had seen her yesterday. If she wasn't there, would I be relieved or heartbroken? Would I exhale or lose my breath? I scanned the block of people and finally locked in on her silver-black hair. Likewise, advancing on Starbucks. I stood outside, a knot in my stomach and a sting in my eyes.

She was facing her back to me, and didn't notice I was there. I took a deep breath and called out before she walked in.

"Hi," I fight my voice from quivering, "long time no see." There is a pause, the sounds of cars and people all slow down and it's just us there. She freezes and without turning around, she speaks.

"Lucas?" she slowly spins and her eyes widen. She bites her lower lip. "You live here?" she asks.

"Park heights." I reply quietly. She nods.

"Do you want to get some coffee?" she offers.

"Already had some." I reply coldly. I can feel her biting her tongue.

"Get some more." she matches my tone.

We walk in dead silence to a less crowded café. I sit at a seat and she sits across. Things are quiet for a while before I decide to say something.

"Look. I have no intention of ruining your life with boyfriend number sixty-four, and I certainly don't want you in my life, lets be clear. But I do have questions that need answers."

She looks at me and nods. "I owe you that." she responds.

I scoff. "Yeah. You do" I hadn't meant to come off confidently or arrogant but I suppose I was taking advantage of the courage I have now that I didn't twenty years ago.

"First off," I begin, "are you sober?" I ask. She smiles and looks away.

"Six years in January." I nod feeling at least some relief that she wouldn't be slowly killing herself the minute she got home.

I continue with my next question. "What the hell are you doing on the Upper West Side? Buying a 'grande' at Starbucks? Waking up before noon? I don't understand." I interrogate without any guilt.

"I got my act together." She says, "I've been married to a man for four years. You would like him." With that I think I'm hearing things. "Got a job" She smiles. Maybe--just maybe--she actually fixed herself. I smile subconsciously, knowing that she is content with her life, even if she is the last person who may deserve it. The question I have to ask lingers in the empty space. I take a breath.

"Why did you leave? And why at my age? I was so close to being off your hands, but you couldn't have held off for another year or so?" My mother sighs and the waiter brings over the coffee that I don't want. She thanks him.

"I knew this was coming. Well, I had planned to go on a safari with my fiancé at the time. When two weeks turned into a month, he told me he wanted to build a life with me in Africa. he had a nice penthouse there, money, checked all of my boxes. I did think about you. You may not believe it, but I did. A month became three. And at that point, CPS had been calling me non stop, And I had changed my name and number because I was so happy there. By the time Robert--no, wait, Scott--had decided he was sick of me, you were already adopted, I had found out, and had gone off to college." She exhales.

Our eyes are locked as I wrap my head around her story. I can tell she is eager for my reaction, but I couldn't decide how to respond.

"Wow." I say as she gives a weak smile.

"Can I ask you things now?" She questions. I shake my head preparing to get up, knowing I have everything I need. "Please." she continues. I feel a pang of sympathy and mentally curse myself for being so forgiving. I clench my jaw and sit down.

"Three questions." I swallow.

She smiles and takes a sip from her drink. "Are you married?"

"Yes"

"Who's the lucky lady?" Her face lights up.

"His name's Greg." She raises an eyebrow.

"Oh." She pauses, probably debating how she will choose to react. "Okay." She continues. "You have kids?"

"Lily"

She gasps. "Can I see a picture?"

"That was three." Her face falls, and I look away, not letting myself feel guilt for doing nothing wrong.

"Lucas, I understand if you don't want to talk anymore today, I too am still wrapping my head around this all, but I would like to know more about your life at some point." She pulls out a card and hands it to me.

Sandy Owens

Interior Design

It is followed by the address and phone number.

"Please use it, Lucas. Please call me" I swallow and look away. I put the card in my pocket a blink aggressively, to not let any tears fall out.

"Goodbye, Mom" I put down a ten dollar bill and walk out of the café, the tears I had been shielding finally releasing. Walking on the sidewalk, I feel mixed emotions. I don't know if I will see her again, if I will tell my daughter about her, if I will throw out the card the instant I get home, but if I knew anything at all, it was that I was free. Free of the burden that had been weighing me down for decades, free of the guilt, free of the curiosity, the blame. And I was happy.