Where We Belong

“You got it,” I say, laughing. Because I can almost picture such a thing.

  * * *

  The night before graduation, my parents take me to LoRusso’s, my favorite restaurant on the Hill, for our official celebration with Charlotte, Belinda and her mother, and Philip. It is the first time my parents have met Philip, so it’s sort of awkward, but he is one of those rare kids who is great with adults without being a kiss ass. Belinda, too, is back to her old self, even though her mother grounded her indefinitely—or at least until she pays off my parents for the dress. She’s already turned over about five graduation checks, and I chipped in fifty bucks from my last paycheck, partly to be nice, but also selfishly, because I get totally bored when Belinda is grounded. We only have about seventy dollars to go before she’s free.

  Meanwhile, my mother’s the only one acting all strange. She has been cleaning like a fiend, getting ready for Marian, even though she’s staying at a hotel—the Chase Park Plaza, just as my mother once predicted. I assured my mom that it wasn’t because Marian doubted our accommodations, only that she didn’t want to intrude. I happen to believe this is the truth, and have told myself that I’m not allowed to be ashamed of my neighborhood, my house, my family, or anything else that is a part of me.

  “I’d like to propose a toast,” my father says now as we all raise glasses of Coke. “To Kirby, for passing precalculus! And to Kirby, Belinda, and Philip … Congratulations on your upcoming graduation and best of luck with all your future endeavors—whatever they entail!”

  He looks me right in the eyes and smiles, his way of throwing in the towel about college, telling me it’s okay—that I’m okay—no matter what I decide.

  * * *

  The next day is a whirlwind of activity. You’d think someone was getting married for all the primping and ironing and cooking—to say nothing of the jangling nerves and raw emotion. Even Charlotte looks rattled and misty-eyed when she finds me in my bedroom. I look up from my drums, acknowledging her, but still playing softly. She sits on my still unmade bed, and says, “I’m going to really miss you next year.”

  “Who says I’m going anywhere?” I say.

  “Mom thinks you’re going to move to New York,” she says. “Or Chicago.”

  “Oh, does she, now?” I say, doing a little three-beat Paul Shaffer maneuver that punctuates all of Letterman’s jokes.

  “Are you?” she asks, pulling her wet hair up in a ponytail.

  I put down my sticks, shrug, and say who knows.

  “You do,” she says. “I know you have a plan.”

  “Okay,” I say, going to sit next to her on the bed. “I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

  She leans in and whispers, “What?”

  “I think I’m going to Mizzou.”

  She starts grinning and asks who I’ve told.

  “You’re the first,” I say. “And it’s not definite. So keep it under wraps.”

  “Mum’s the word,” she says. “I promise. So long as you promise me you’ll call and talk to me all the time, wherever you are next year.”

  “But I don’t talk to you all the time now,” I say, smiling at her.

  She cracks up, acknowledging that I’m not much of a conversationalist, then says, “Promise?”

  “Promise,” I say, thinking that shockingly enough, I might miss her a little bit, too.

  * * *

  Just before we have to leave for the ceremony, Marian calls me and wishes me good luck, then confirms our plans for afterward.

  “I’ll look for you. What color are you wearing?” I ask, as my mother pretends not to listen.

  “Red,” she says proudly, as I remember that I told her that was our school color.

  I glance at my mother, who is also wearing red, and say, “Okay. That’ll be easy.” Then I ask her again if she has directions to the house.

  “Yes,” she says. “Don’t worry about me. Just savor this. And I’ll see you afterward.”

  “Okay,” I say, thinking of Conrad, who told me late last night that he’d be coming after all. I nearly tell her, but decide that he probably wouldn’t want me to, and that he’ll probably do his best to avoid her. So I just thank her and say good-bye.

  Without missing a beat, my mother says, “So what color is she wearing?”

  “Um, red,” I say. “What a coincidence, huh?”

  My mother frowns and says, “I knew it … Maybe I should change?”

  I think of how long and hard she searched for the right dress, and something compels me to go to her, put my arm around her, and say, “No, Mom. You should wear this dress. It looks awesome on you.” I look at her and hope she knows what I’m thinking. That it doesn’t matter what she wears; I only have one real mother. And she’s it.

  * * *

  A few hours later, after my parents and Charlotte have dropped me off and gone to park the car, I’m standing among my classmates, gathered in the entrance of the Cathedral Basilica. I look around at the nearly one-hundred-year-old narthex walls covered with a mosaic depicting our city’s namesake—King Louis IX of France. In fact, according to my mother’s nervous chatter on the way over, it comprises the largest church mosaic in the world. It is clear she not only wants our family to show well to Marian—but also the city and my school, and I can’t say I don’t feel the same way.

  At some point, the chaos of hundreds of kids becomes organized, and we line up in twos, the girls in white caps and gowns, the boys in red. Most of the faculty is with us, too, also in caps and gowns, including Mr. Tully who looks unusually somber and handsome. A taped version of “Land of Hope and Glory” begins to play, our cue to begin the processional. Everyone quiets down completely, including the rowdier kids, and I feel a strange, collective swell of emotion, a communal reverence crossing clique lines—something I never thought possible. I guess endings will do that to people.

  I take a deep breath and enter the cool, dark sanctuary. Flashbulbs go off everywhere—which feels sort of weird in church—and there is a buzz of quiet activity from all the people, packed in the pews. I look up at the breathtaking ceiling, hearing my mother’s words: “forty-one million glass pieces in more than seven thousand colors.” As we begin to walk again, I search the crowd and pick out Marian, then my family. They are on opposite sides of the aisle, but in pretty much the same row, so there is no way to make eye contact with everyone when I pass. I decide to play it safe and simply stare straight ahead, my hands folded as we’ve been instructed to do. I do not see Conrad, and tell myself not to be disappointed if he decided not to come.

  As the music stops, I take my seat at the end of a long pew, all of us in assigned alphabetical order, and flip through the program, highlighted with names of all my star classmates—best this and brightest that. I close the program and my eyes and begin my own private meditation, tuning everything out, although I’m sure Father O’Malley’s homily and Gena Rych’s valedictorian speech are inspiring to many.

  I think about my birth and my adoption and my first eighteen years. I think about the last few months and my trip to New York and finding Marian. I think about this day, what it means to my family, sitting behind me. I think of everything that had to happen to bring me to this moment. I think about where I am going and who I want to be.

  And then our names are called, one at a time. There are cheers for everyone, some louder and more boisterous than others—pretty much directly correlating to popularity—and as we approach the Rs, my heart starts to race almost as much as it did when I got on the stage with Conrad, though for very different reasons this time. Aside from my brief precalc scare, graduating from high school has always been something of a given, so it’s not that I’m surprised to find myself here. But I am still proud, and surprisingly grateful, too. I’m grateful to Marian for having me—and then giving me to a family who wanted a baby. I’m grateful to Conrad, whether he’s here or not, for accepting me right away, no questions asked. I am grateful to my little sister for never trying to make me feel like
an outsider, even though she easily could have, even when I was doing it myself. And most of all, I am grateful to my parents for loving me and making me their own.

  I hear my name—Kirby Katherine Rose—and stand and walk up the stairs to the altar where I shake hands with the president of our school and receive my diploma. As I turn to descend the stairs and just before I take my seat again, I catch my first glimpse of Conrad, who gives me a little salute with an invisible hat. I give him a big smile, then tip my cap in return.

  * * *

  We’ve been home for thirty minutes—just enough time for me to change into a T-shirt and jeans and my mom to get really nervous—and for that matter, really get on my nerves.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to put on a dress?” she asks me.

  “Yeah, Mom. I’m sure,” I say, trying to be patient with her. “Can we all just try to chill and be normal?”

  “I agree with Kirby!” my dad calls up the stairs and I cringe, knowing that will mean he will talk Marian’s ear off.

  The doorbell rings just moments after my parents and I are awkwardly assembled in the living room—where we never sit. I stand and bite my lip, wondering how many more dramatic knocks at the door can possibly exist in my life. When I open the door, there Marian is with a big bouquet of pink flowers, already in a vase. It is my least favorite color, but I have to admit they are pretty.

  “Congratulations,” she says, handing them to me, along with a card. “That was a beautiful ceremony…”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “I love your house.”

  “Thanks,” I say again, my anxiety building. I turn and lead her into the living room, putting the flowers on an end table, out of the way. Then I stand in the middle of the room and, with as much composure as I can muster, introduce my parents to my birth mother.

  “Mom, Dad, this is Marian Caldwell,” I say, having practiced the precise wording earlier this morning. “Marian—this is my mom and dad. Lynn and Art Rose.”

  They shake hands, first my dad and Marian and then my mom and Marian, all of them smiling and nodding, murmuring hellos, as if they speak different languages and are waiting for an interpreter to bridge the gap.

  Charlotte pokes her head in the room and gives me a little wave. “Oh, yeah. And that’s Charlotte. My sister,” I say, pointing at her.

  “Hi!” Charlotte says, waving again.

  “It’s so nice to meet you all,” Marian says.

  My dad clears his throat and starts throwing out all kinds of rambling niceties. “Welcome to St. Louis! Glad you could make it! That was very kind of you to come all this way. Very kind. I know Kirby appreciates it. So do we. Thank you.”

  “Thank you for including me,” Marian says to my father. Then she looks at my mother and says, “It was very gracious of all of you.”

  I stare at her, thinking that everything about her, from her hair to her clothes to the words from her lips, is smooth and elegant. I notice she is wearing sleek, nude peep-toe heels, in contrast to my mother’s clunky black leather pumps. I don’t know fashion, but feel sure that Marian made the better choice to go with red. It occurs to me that I’d know these things if I were Marian’s daughter—but then I think that I don’t really have any desire to know them. It would probably just have been a whole lot of pressure to be perfect. My parents only want me to try my best, a considerably lower bar.

  “Marian, what could we get you to drink?” my dad says. “Wine? Beer? A soft drink? Lemonade? Water?”

  She hesitates, then says she’d love a glass of wine.

  “Great!” my dad says, turning to go, as my mother stops him with a hand on his arm.

  “Um, Art. Does she want red or white?” she asks, with a big frozen smile, continuing her streak of not speaking directly to Marian.

  “Oh. Whatever you have open,” Marian says. “I like both.”

  My dad gives her a befuddled look, unsure what to choose for her, so she says, “White would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  My dad nods then looks at my mother. “Honey? For you?”

  She tells him she’ll take a white wine, too, then turns stiffly back to Marian, points to the couch, and says, “Won’t you please have a seat?”

  “Thank you,” Marian says, as the two sit side by side in their red dresses, a sight that sort of freaks me out. I turn and give Charlotte a look that says help as she takes the last chair in the room and begins her usual babble—which has never been more appreciated. She talks about the ceremony, how cute Mr. Tully looked in his cap and gown, how proud she was when I got my diploma. “Did you hear me yell your name?” she asks.

  “Everyone heard you,” I say, smiling.

  Meanwhile, my dad appears, handing out our drinks, then realizing there is nowhere left to sit.

  “Here, honey,” my mom says, sliding down toward Marian and patting the sofa next to her. Now the three are in a row, even freakier, as more awkward small talk ensues.

  At one point, I glance down at my phone and see a text from Conrad, who I was not able to find in the mayhem following the ceremony.

  Great job, drummer girl. Glad I was there to see it.

  I frantically text him back: Where are you?

  He fires back: Some pub in town, having a bite to eat.

  My mother clears her throat and says, “Kirby, could you put your phone down, please?”

  “It’s kind of important, Mom,” I say.

  Then I type back, as fast as I can: Would love to see you. Stop by if you can. No worries either way. Then I type my address. In my haste, I massacre the spelling of Eichelberger Street, but figure he’s smart enough to track me down. If he really wants to, that is.

  “Sorry,” I say, putting the phone down and exchanging a look with Marian. She raises her eyebrows as if she knows or suspects or hopes and I nod back, to give her a little warning. Just in case.

  A minute later, at my mother’s suggestion, we head to the kitchen for lunch, passing by my cake, displayed in all of its glory on the dining room table.

  Marian stops to admire it. “What a beautiful cake!” she exclaims, as I wonder if she can tell my mother made it from scratch.

  Charlotte says, “Wait till you taste Mom’s frosting! Sooo yummy.”

  My dad snaps like he forgot something and then says, “We don’t have any candles!”

  “We don’t need candles for a graduation cake,” I say as my dad begs to differ, belting out a line of “Happy graduation to you!”

  “Ugh. Please. No,” I say.

  “Yes. Please, Art,” my mom says, smiling. She turns to Marian and says, “Kirby didn’t get her singing voice from us—that’s for sure!”

  It is the first mention of the obvious, and everyone laughs as Marian says, “She didn’t get it from me, either.”

  The ice isn’t broken, but it definitely feels a little thawed as we head into the kitchen, sitting around the table, already set for lunch with our best dishes. After a long-winded blessing, my father looks up and says, “I don’t want to get all mushy…”

  “Then don’t, Dad,” I mumble.

  He looks at me, holds up his hand and says, “Just one thing—I promise.”

  I roll my eyes and brace myself as he turns to Marian. “Lynn and I just want to thank you for giving us the greatest gift one person can give another. We prayed to God for someone like you. And He brought you—and Kirby—to us.” He starts to get choked up while I pray he won’t actually start bawling. “She and Charlotte are our greatest blessings.”

  “Okay, Dad,” I say gently. “Let’s just eat, okay?”

  “Yes! That’s all! That’s all!” he says.

  Marian takes a deep breath, as if composing an eloquent reply, but then stops and simply says, “You’re welcome. It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, but after meeting you … I know I made the right decision.” She gives me a fleeting glance, but one filled with sadness. “For Kirby’s sake. You have a wonderful family.”

  I analyze her w
ords, and know that I will for a long time. For Kirby’s sake. So maybe she regrets it for her own sake? Or maybe it is just the best possible way of saying she’s glad she gave me away. Either way, I realize that I can’t deny I feel the same way. I would not change my childhood if I could.

  A moment later the doorbell rings, and everyone looks toward the door.

  “Is Belinda coming?” my dad asks.

  I shake my head, knowing she is with her grandparents, as he guesses again. “Philip? What a great kid he is!”

  I shake my head again and round the corner toward the foyer, too nervous to answer my dad. Right away, I see a quadrant of Conrad’s face through a stained-glass pane in the front door and feel myself start to relax. I throw open the door and say hello, so happy to see him.

  “Hi, you,” he says, stepping forward to give me a warm, easy hug, handing me a small wrapped present that feels like a book. “Congrats.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

  “It’s nothing,” he says. “Just some sheet music. I wrote you a little song … it’s got a great beat and drum solo … so I fully expect you to play it with me this summer.”

  “Cool,” I say, smiling so hard my face hurts.

  We stare at each other for a second and then I remember to invite him the whole way in. “We’re having lunch … Marian’s here.”

  “I figured,” he says. “I won’t stay long. But I did want to meet your folks.”

  Feeling more giddy than tense, I lead him to the kitchen, where everyone gets really quiet—except for Charlotte who gasps, “Omigah, is it him?” Like he’s an actual rock star. Which he sort of is to me.

  I smile at her and nod, then say, “Everyone, this is Conrad.” Then point out my mom, dad, and sister for him.

  They all shake hands as I say, “And of course you know Marian.”

  Since you two had sex and accidentally made me.

  “Hi, Marian,” he says. He’s not at all chummy with her, but all traces of anger are gone.

  “Hi, Conrad,” she says, gripping her glass of wine, with that deer in the headlights look she always gets around him, as my father goes to retrieve a chair from the dining room, squeezing it in between me and Charlotte.