Finding Noel

  “Come in. Let’s talk.”

  “Thank you.” Macy stepped inside the marble-floored foyer. Above her a Strauss crystal chandelier hung from the center of the turret surrounded by a spiraled staircase that climbed to a second-story landing.

  Mrs. Thorup led her into the front parlor, a spacious room with beautiful amber carpet, vaulted ceilings and alabaster sconces on the walls. On one end of the room, near the fireplace, was a horseshoe-shaped Steinway grand piano. In the center of the room a perfect blue spruce Christmas tree reached nearly to the top of the ceiling and filled the room with its aroma. The tree was professionally decorated with ornaments and ribbon that looked as luxurious as the home itself.

  There were several still-life oil paintings on the walls, but the piece that drew Macy’s attention was a large gold-framed family portrait. She guessed that the photograph had been taken many years earlier; the woman was a younger version of the one who had answered the door. A tall smiling man and three children stood behind her. The two teenaged boys were blond and blue-eyed; the young girl was auburn-haired and didn’t look a thing like the rest of the family. She looked like Macy.

  Mrs. Thorup sat down in a wingback chair and crossed her legs. She motioned to the couch across from her. “Sit down. Please.”

  Macy turned from the picture and sat on the crushed-velvet sofa across from the woman. Macy folded her hands in her lap. Christmas carols played softly in the background. Macy realized that she’d seen this woman before—a long, long time ago at the adoption hearing.

  “My husband and I wondered if you might show up some day. Though I’m a little surprised you were able to find us.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Macy said lightly, hoping for some sign of friendliness. The woman’s face remained somber, if not grim. Macy swallowed nervously. “Did you say Noel doesn’t live here anymore?”

  “My daughter’s away at college.”

  “Oh. Where does she go to school?”

  Mrs. Thorup looked uncomfortable. After a moment she said, “The thing is, Christy doesn’t know that you exist. In fact, she doesn’t even know that she was adopted.”

  Macy looked at her in astonishment. “What? How could she not know?”

  “She was only four…” Mrs. Thorup said.

  “But we were so close. And the adoption at the courthouse…How could she have forgotten that?”

  Mrs. Thorup nodded. “The mind does what it needs to to survive.”

  Macy was exasperated. “You never told her about me?”

  Mrs. Thorup squirmed a little in her chair. “Chuck and I felt the circumstances of Christy’s early life were, as you said, traumatic enough. So we requested that all ties be severed, and the judge ordered her file sealed. Especially after the disastrous encounter with your family at the courthouse. So your coming here…” She was obviously pained. “We feel it’s best that she doesn’t know about you.”

  “And why would that be for the best?”

  Mrs. Thorup seemed disturbed that Macy still didn’t understand. “What could she possibly gain by knowing she was abandoned by her biological parents?”

  “Well, for one, she would gain me.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  Macy was beginning to dislike this woman. “Yes. It is.”

  “You need to understand that in my daughter’s mind, she doesn’t have a sister. She has two older brothers and us. How do you think seeing you would affect her?”

  Macy had wondered the same thing. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s right, we don’t know. Do you think it’s fair to experiment with her life?”

  What about any of this is fair? Macy thought, but didn’t voice the question. “How is she?”

  “She’s wonderful. And she’s smart as a whip. She was her high school salutatorian. She was awarded a full-ride scholarship to A.S.—” She caught herself. “To college.” She glanced at the grand piano. “You should hear her play the piano. She’s won several competitions.”

  “I’d like to,” Macy said, even though she knew Mrs. Thorup hadn’t meant it literally. She looked back at the woman. “Don’t you think she’d want to know she has a sister?”

  Mrs. Thorup repositioned herself in her chair. “You have to consider her reality.” She suddenly smiled. Macy didn’t trust it. “You seem like a nice young lady. You need to ask yourself, is this about her or you? Given what I remember about your own family situation, I’m sure you haven’t had an easy time, and I understand why you want to…reconnect with your sister. But if you really care about Christy, you should do the right thing. She has a wonderful life and a loving family. She’s happy. Bringing something like this into her life is…well, it’s a problem, isn’t it?”

  Macy couldn’t believe the final turn her journey had taken.

  “I’m sorry, honey. But I care about my daughter. I’m sure you want to do the right thing too.”

  Macy felt herself growing angry at the woman’s condescending manner, but a part of her feared the woman might be right. They were clearly at an impasse, and in any case, there was nothing she could do now. Macy stood. “You must be busy. I’ll let you go.”

  “Yes, I have an appointment.” The woman quickly rose to her feet, obviously relieved to be done with the meeting. Then Macy noticed an ornament on the Christmas tree. She walked over to it and crouched down. It was bright red and written on its face in gold glitter was the word NOEL; it was a twin to the one she had been given by her father. Macy stood back up. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

  The woman looked at her thoughtfully. “I’ll get them for you.”

  She walked out of the room and returned carrying a pad and a plastic ballpoint pen with the name of her husband’s law firm printed across it. She handed them both to Macy.

  “Thank you.” Macy wrote down her phone number and address. “This is where I live. In case you change your mind.”

  The woman took the note and Macy guessed what she was thinking—In that case it doesn’t matter. “You can keep the pen,” Mrs. Thorup said. She led Macy to the front door and opened it for her. A gust of cold air filled the foyer.

  “It’s been nice meeting you,” the woman said unconvincingly then, a little more sympathetically, “Good luck.”

  “Thank you.” Macy was about to leave without saying anything more but to her own surprise stopped and turned back, looking the woman in the eyes. “You know, you can call her Christy or whatever else you want, but changing her name doesn’t change who she is or where she’s from, or, as you say, ‘her reality.’ It’s Noel’s life, not yours. Good or bad, every minute of it belongs to her. You’re a pretty lady. You have a lovely home. Everything’s all perfect and clean. You probably never hit your children. I’m sure Noel’s lucky to have you as a mother. But it still doesn’t make it your life, and what she does with it shouldn’t be your decision.”

  The woman swallowed, clutching the paper in her hand. Macy stepped out into the cold. “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye,” Mrs. Thorup said.

  Macy walked back to her car, the tears now falling freely down her cheeks. The woman shut the door. She glanced back down at the paper in her hand then crumpled it up, walked into the kitchen and threw it away. Then she called her husband at the law office. “Chuck, you’ll never believe who just came to the house.”

  My disappointment tonight is only matched in depth by the hope the morning held.

  MARK SMART’S DIARY .

  THANKSGIVING

  Back home in Alabama, Thanksgiving was more an event than a meal. My mother and my Aunt Marge would start the preparations weeks in advance. First they would plan the menu (a ritual I never fully understood, as they always settled on the same dishes), then they would comb the paper, hunting for coupons and sales with no less intensity than our ancestors might have hunted a turkey or deer for the feast. Then they would compile their lists and begin the shopping, returning from each trip with a car full of grocery bags.

  Thanksgiv
ing dinner was always delightfully gluttonous: the centerpiece of the meal, the turkey, could have graced the cover of a women’s magazine, its skin brown and translucent as wax paper, the meat running with juices. There were chitterlings smothered in tomato gravy and hot sauce, deviled eggs sprinkled with paprika, giblet dressing, collard greens with ham hocks spiced with dill pickle juice, turnip greens, fried okra, squash casserole, and corn bread dressing, with pitchers of sweet iced tea to drown it all down.

  Then there were the essential desserts: pecan and sweet potato pies, and if the women felt especially ambitious, banana-bread pudding generously drizzled with sweetened condensed milk.

  Before each meal Stu gave thanks to the Lord and prayed for the less fortunate, who, in light of such culinary excess, pretty much included everyone not dining with us.

  The two families, my mom and Aunt Marge and my four cousins, always shared the meal. We dressed up in our Sunday-go-to-meeting best, which, after dinner, became our football uniforms. Mom always used her china, and the silverware made its annual outing from its wood felt-lined cabinet. We children would hand-polish each piece before laying it down on the white embroidered tablecloth.

  This was all a stark contrast to the Thanksgiving I had planned to spend this year with a Hungry-Man TV dinner with turkey, dressing and spiced apples. I was grateful that Macy had invited me to share Thanksgiving with her and Joette. Still, I felt a bit melancholy as I thought of those Thanksgivings at home with my mother, homesick for a memory I could never return to.

  I spent the morning watching football on television. Around noon I showered and dressed up in my best: an oxford shirt, sweater and slacks. Then I drove to Macy’s.

  Macy and I hadn’t talked much the day before, and when we did, she had shared surprisingly little with me about her visit with Noel’s mother, other than her obvious disappointment. I didn’t press her.

  I told her that I suspected that Mrs. Thorup wasn’t being entirely truthful when she said Noel didn’t live there. What college student from a well-off family doesn’t come home for Thanksgiving? I suggested to Macy that she go back again and refuse to leave until she saw her sister. I even offered to go with her. But she just changed the topic.

  I arrived at Macy’s a little past one. Macy’s car was gone, and the walk and porch were covered with snow nearly three inches deep, including where Macy’s car had been. Wherever she’d gone, she’d been gone for a while. I knocked on the door and Joette answered. She wore an apron over her Levi’s and a T-shirt, and I felt a bit overdressed. She looked happy to see me. She also looked a little tired.

  “Hi, Mark. Happy Thanksgiving. Come on in.” She sounded like Bob Barker saying “Come on down!” to The Price Is Right contestants.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” I returned. “I thought I’d shovel your driveway first. Do you have a snow shovel?”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “It’s getting pretty deep.”

  “Thank you. I just don’t have the energy I used to. The shovel’s inside the little shed there. Just let yourself in when you’re done.”

  It took me more than a half hour to clear the driveway and front walk. I had expected Macy to return before I finished, but she didn’t. I kicked my feet against the concrete step to clear the snow from my shoes, and then let myself in. Joette had put a rug down for me; I stomped my feet some more before I finally decided to just take off my shoes.

  The home was a joyful assault on the senses. Cheerful Christmas music wafted from the kitchen, accompanied by the pleasant smells of baking—hot rolls, sweet potatoes, turkey and a few things I couldn’t identify but knew I liked. I breathed it all in. It had been some time since I had smelled anything that good.

  I took my coat off and lay it across the couch, then I walked back into the kitchen. Joette was whipping potatoes with a hand mixer. She looked up as I entered. “Thanks for doing that.”

  “No problem. It smells wonderful in here. Like home.”

  “That’s a nice compliment. Macy and I like to cook.”

  “Where is Macy?”

  “She’s still at the shelter.”

  She said this as if I knew, or should know, what she was talking about. “The shelter?”

  “The homeless shelter down on Third South. She goes down every year to help out on Thanksgiving.”

  “That’s really… noble.” I said. Dumb word, I thought. I was still nervous around Joette.

  “Well, you know Macy. Always saving the world. But she does it for herself too. She once ate dinner at that shelter. I think that going back is a chance for her to keep track of how far she’s come.”

  “She credits you for that.”

  Joette smiled at this. “We help each other.”

  I leaned back against the counter. “What can I help with?”

  “Can you carve the turkey?”

  “Sure.”

  The bird was on the counter next to the oven, covered with foil. I looked around for a knife. Joette gestured with a toss of her head. “Use the carving knife in that block over there. You can put the meat on that serving plate.”

  “Got it.”

  Joette went back to whipping potatoes. When she finished, she took the beaters from the bowl and ran a finger along the bowl’s mouth and licked her finger like she was eating frosting. She popped the beaters off and set them in the sink.

  “You know, Thanksgiving is Macy’s and my anniversary.”

  “Anniversary?”

  “The anniversary of our first day living together. It’s our little joke: she came for Thanksgiving dinner and never left.” She took the bowl of potatoes over to another counter. She came back with a cake pan of unbaked rolls and began brushing them with butter. “So I’m sure Macy filled you in about meeting Noel’s mother.”

  “Some. It’s too bad. Do you think she’ll keep looking for her sister?”

  “I think she will someday, when she’s absolutely sure it is right for Noel.” She took a can opener from a drawer and opened a can of cranberry sauce. She dumped the red gelatin onto a plate and threw the can away, then licked her fingers again. “I think she already has a lot to process just with finding her father.”

  “I think you’re right.” I carved into the side of the turkey, revealing a steaming white flank. I speared it with a fork and laid it on the pewter serving plate.

  “So how’s your father doing?” she asked.

  I was a little embarrassed by the question. “I don’t know.” I cut another slice of turkey. “We don’t really talk.”

  “Macy said you don’t get along real well with your father.”

  “We don’t get along at all.”

  “Do you mind if I ask why?”

  I wasn’t certain that I wanted to have this conversation. “We have a lot of history.”

  “History’s about the past, right?”

  I was now certain that I didn’t want to have this conversation. Joette leaned back against the counter.

  “I have a father story,” she said. “My mother died when I was fourteen. My father never remarried. So he was both dad and mom to me. Some part of me always resented not having a mother. I think that in some bizarre way I blamed him for her death—as if he could have stopped it somehow. It sounds foolish now, but teenagers don’t think about much but themselves. At least I didn’t.

  “And then one day I had this epiphany. I realized that being a parent was like being the Wizard of Oz.”

  I remembered what Macy had said earlier about Joette’s life philosophy and I had to hide my amusement. “What do you mean?”

  “You know the part when Dorothy and her friends go to see the Wizard? This big, ominous head talks to them and they’re all terrified. Then her dog…”

  “Toto,” I said.

  “Right. Toto pulls back the curtain and there’s a little man behind it pulling levers and throwing switches. And he says into his microphone, ‘Ignore the man behind the curtain.’ I think that being a parent is like b
eing the man behind the curtain. We pretend that we know what we’re doing—that we’re omnipotent and all-knowing—when the truth is we’re just back behind the curtain throwing levers and switches, doing the best we can.”

  In spite of myself, I found her explanation interesting. “And then our kids find out that we’re not as great as they thought we were?”

  “Exactly. And then they’re angry and disappointed that we can’t meet their expectations—as unrealistic as they are.”

  “So did you and your father get along better after you learned this?”

  She frowned. “Well, actually, by that time it was too late. He passed on eleven years after my mother died. I never really thanked him for all he did for me.” She suddenly smiled. “He tried so hard. You should see the prom dress he bought for me. He didn’t want any boys to get the wrong idea about me so he picked out a dress for me himself. The collar practically went up to my ears. I put it on at home, then after my date picked me up, we went to my friend’s house and I borrowed one of her dresses. I didn’t think about what I’d done until I was in the middle of showing him my prom pictures. I’m not sure if he didn’t notice or if he just didn’t want to make a fuss. But he sacrificed to get me that dress. I regret what I did to this day.”

  A buzzer went off. “Pies,” she said. She put on oven mitts and brought two pies from the oven, a pumpkin pie and a lattice-crusted apple pie sprinkled with cinnamon-sugar.

  “I love pie,” I said.

  “Good. Because there’s plenty.” She brought out another pan with small strips of baked crust sprinkled with sugar. “Here’s something to snack on.” Joette washed her hands. “I’m going to go clean up. Just make yourself at home. You know where the TV is.”

  “Thanks.”

  I took several pieces of crust cookies, then went into the living room and turned on a football game. Macy returned within the hour. I stood as she entered and we kissed. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she said.

  “It is now,” I replied. I helped her off with her coat.