Anastasia

My birth was an oddity, at least that’s how they told it.

Tireless and prodigious, I was born a month earlier than what my parents had expected. “It’s all part of the Lord’s plans sister Maria. Yunno He works in mysterious ways” the pastor’s words, part religious, part anesthetic, reduced Mother’s tendency for paranoia. But science had no need for verbal tongue twisters, the doctor warned that I might not make it; too “weak”, too “feeble”, too “frail.” Mother paid her no mind, and with a tight grip in screams of blood, she brought me to the light. Pangs of pain coursing through her, she christened me Rosemary- a memento to her mother.

She held me tight after then, with an umbilical cord of discipline. Rules within rules within rules. Nothing was ever enough for her “Your hair is too long, cut it!” “Change that skirt you look like a whore!” Mother was a constant reminder of my ineptitude, my fatal flaw. An original sin that followed me to the world. My childhood and preteen years filled with fear of her prying eyes, with words so austere they lodged into the deepest corners of my mind. My rebellion started slow like the embers of a small flame. Tiny pockets of arguments that rose sky high by the time I turned 16. She and I, like predator and prey, battled relentlessly.

Eager to prove maturity, I rejected mother and all that she stood for. It made me keen to do it. I didn't have interest in connection or love. I knew it would hurt her so I told him we could. He had been pestering me all summer and I knew he really liked me. He wasn’t bad-looking and had a gentle demeanour, so I convinced him not to get them. Assured him in a way only a woman could that he would pull it off, pull back before he lost himself. Mother said she knew it the moment she saw me, throwing up in the bathroom. “Who’s the father?” her calm exterior betrayed by the shakiness in her breath. “It’s the pastor’s son, Charlie. And I’m keeping the baby.”

The night marked the nadir of our relationship; two bishops on different diagonals, we crisscrossed out each other’s lives. Her attention doubled down on my brother, Isaiah, whom she had always wanted. Mine went to Anastasia my newborn daughter. The baton of responsibility passed to me through youthful exuberance. Breastfeeding, multitasking and a dangerous diet of sleep deprivation, my body became her source of livelihood. A lifeline that I could not bear to decline. But Anastasia became an all-consuming need; a pipeline of annoyance and anguish. Her cries and tantrums, and the reflection of my mistake. It scared me down to my bones. I called a couple of friends and asked them if my thoughts were normal. What good mother hates her own child? Fantasizes about absconding to the ends of the earth. A cruel mother that’s what is. A girl in woman’s clothing. So I decided to do it, in the summer of ’92. I had heard about it on the radio and thought it to be false. A phony excuse to traffic kids away. But the phone call made it all clear. There were people without children, desperate and needy. Pinning for the free gift I was given. The call to the agency made it more real. “There are a couple of parents on the waiting list, should I give them your number?” The lady with the smooth tone got my approval. We were scheduled to meet Monday, back at my place.

As if prompted by mother nature herself the days before I would give Anastasia up came slowly. Creeping forward untowardly. I prepared like nothing was wrong. “It’s the best decision for her” “She’ll have a better home with better parents” “They’ll give her all that she needs.” My monologue of guilt held down by primal connection. “Where would she sleep?” “Would they know about her allergies?” “Can I trust a family called Goldstein?” Sunday was the worst of it. Little Anne in her Sunday best staring at me with her wide big eyes. She had started making sounds, and I heard her make a tiny “Mama” hands stretched as I walked into the room with her breakfast. The woman with the smooth voice called again. Wanted to know if everything was all right. “Everything’s fine” I fibbed “Just getting Anastasia ready.” 

Monday, like all days, came as planned.

They were at my place early. Early enough to not get tangled in rush hour. The Goldstein’s, a sexagenarian pair, came bearing gifts. Business mogul and former Investment banker, Mr. Goldstein had made a fortune back in the day. Time had forced him to retirement, but the old tiger carried the same air of intensity that I had always associated with men in suits. Mrs. Goldstein unlike her husband had a timeless look on her. Her face, undeterred by age and senescence, radiated through the entire room. We began the formalities of the whole thing. Signatories and legalese. Little Anne stumbled into the room, inviting a cacophony of 'Awww' from Mrs. Goldstein. My little Anne, the real star of the show. Mrs. Goldstein took her up, and with one hand underneath she twirled gently across the room. Anastasia laughing all through and made a tiny “Mama.” The twin towers had fallen. My baby girl, taken before me. I knew it was the right thing to do. The smart thing, the wise thing. An education, a warm bed, and a duo of parents. She would call me years later to thank me. And who knows maybe we could reconnect. Go for tea while we caught up on our lives. She would tell me about boys, and I would listen intently. That was how it was supposed to go. But I couldn’t go through with it. No good mother can. The bond between a mother and daughter is a volcano of emotions, and mine had erupted. I gave my rejoinder to them politely. Anastasia was going to stay. Mr. Goldstein shook his head, his wife cried plaintively.

I took little Anne in. Crib still intact. She was holding on to my blouse, her little fingers just below my heart. I felt her within me, inside of me. Two peas in a pod. I rocked her straight to bed, made sure she was asleep. TipTiptoeing through the room, I went up to the phone, I knew it had belated voicemails. And I knew where they were from. Her voicemails were my only connection to a bygone past. She told me all the things I needed to know and all the things I didn’t. She told me that she loved me. Begging to see my little Anne. Isaiah had gotten into Engineering school with a full scholarship, Dad had an argument with a colleague at work and was placed on a forced leave. The mayor of our town was building a library, the only one we would have. I never knew what to say, the whole seemed too abstract. The present and the past, and my awareness of it all. 

I heard little Anne cry from her crib. “Probably a nightmare.” The sun was setting and Tuesday was being born. Anastasia was with me, my compadre through the thicket. I picked up the phone and dialed the same ten digits I had already memorized. A voice picked up, sounding tired and frail.

"Hello."

“Hello Mom, it’s Rose.”