|
Anne Bauer __________________________________________________________
You're going out the door, and the phone rings. You're untangling little girl shoes kittened together just inside the front door, trying to find the other sandal with the pink flowers. You're getting ready to take your three-year-old to the bank and the library, an ideal kid morning. You'll take your pocket change to the bank and put it in your kid's account for college. She'll get to help count, then they'll give your big girl a lollipop. Next stop, the library where you've got story time followed by kid games on the computer, during which you can read a magazine and maybe even finish a whole article. But the phone's ringing. It's right by the door, where you left it, not on the cradle which your husband always complains about. You pick it up, tucking it between your neck and your ear so you can talk while you search for that sandal. It's a male voice, a young voice, a responsible sounding voice. Your face and throat fill with blood. You hold your breath. Is it him? It could be. You hope he is a responsible, educated young man. You hope he isn't a redneck. You know he grew up in the country, but you hope he didn't grow up Country. He wants to know, is this Annike Pederson? You think, it's got to be him. It's definitely not a telemarketer. He's pronouncing your name right. Ahn-ika Ped - er - son. Not Anneeka Peterson. "Yes, this is she," you reply, trying to sound cool and normal, but approachable at the same time. "This is Mark Williams, an attorney for John Yourudnush." Oh. So, it's not him. But it's contact from him. You sent a letter, in care of his mother, and he's responding. It's something. It's more than you've had for 18 years. "John is in receipt of your letter." "Yes?" you manage. "John does not wish to have any contact from you." His voice reverberates in your head like a shot. "Do not attempt to contact him again. He is quite happy." He doesn't have to add, 'without you, cruel bitch who gave him to strangers.' This is it. The thing you've feared the most all these years, all these years of waiting and hoping, of watching as the pictures and letters they agreed to send when you signed the open adoption papers shrunk until it came down to a Christmas card every year with his adoptive mother's signature on it, her way of letting you know, you guess, that nobody's dead. I mean, she would have said if something was really wrong, right? You could have taken them to court, and put him the middle of a fight. Not fair. Your arms and legs lose all feeling. You could be dead except you feel your lungs sucking in and out. Your vocal cords muster just enough power to let the young, responsible sounding attorney know you understand. You hang up. Your three-year-old's shoes and coat get on somehow. You get her in the van and sit behind the wheel. You sob, silently. You don't want to alarm her. You remember the time she was helping you in the laundry room and shut the cupboard door on your thumb and you cried and she hugged you hard, afraid. You drive up and down the hills around your house, keeping quiet the whole way. You put in the Barney tape and turn it up. You wish it was loud heavy metal so it would drive the demons out of your head. You wish you still smoked. You pull yourself together. You'll be late for story time. You can't show up there wild-haired, red-eyed, splotchy-faced. Ashes and sack cloth are Vogue-don'ts. You pull your respectable family van into the library lot next to a dozen like it. You pull down the visor and check your face. You wipe your nose, dig in your purse and put on some more mascara. You thank God your three-year-old is accepting this deviation from routine without demands. You open the door and unbuckle her. She leans her head against your chest when you pull her out of the car seat and says "You're my momma. Not anyone else's momma." And you don't know where that came from or what to say.__________________________________________________________
Anne Bauer lives in a chaotic jumble in Montana with her poet husband,
Larry, their two children, and a dog named Daisy. Some of her previous work
appeared in flashquake, Pindeldyboz, and others. She expects to finish her
MFA from Vermont College in July. __________________________________________________________
|