Eighteen Years - Twice

It is the eve of the young girl's eighteenth birthday.

Quietly she lays, hands resting on the small swelling between her still slender hip bones.
She waits, and whispers,"are you awake?"
Again, a tiny flutter.
"Hello my sweet one," she murmurs in awe.
Such a miracle, small yet complete. Miniature limbs stir within her womb.
This petite baby has already made its presence known.
More than two months of nausea and vomiting have been daily reminders of pregnancy's changes.

The ring of the phone draws her from the reverie of the moment.
Her boyfriend has called. He asks how she is feeling. He knows of her nausea.
After they hang up, she begins to gather books.
Just over a month left in the semester, but several projects to complete.
She looks at the calendar on her desk.
Soon the college will select the students who will be admitted to the nursing program.
She silently pleads for acceptance.
It is the slim hope of a way out of the tightening noose that urges her to surrender her baby.

The internal war is interrupted by the sound of the door bell.
His smile as she opens the door, and the twinkle in his clear blue eyes tell the story of his trick.
He has come home from college today to celebrate her birthday
and he'd called from a friend's house just moments earlier pretending to be at school.

Her heart leaps with joy. She flies into his arms for a hug.
The feel of his strong arms around her, as she presses against his chest and feels his heart beating,
is a sensation of utter completeness.
She snuggles into the firm, comforting hug and sighs.
She feels so present with him.
After a long minute, they pull apart and look into each other's eyes.

She notices that his thick light-red hair is beginning to curl slightly at the collar.
Likely his father has begun to prod him to get a haircut.
He will give in as usual to the commanding, executive-style pressure from his father.
Then, he will wear a favorite stocking hat for weeks until the hair has grown again.

He takes her out to dinner at their favorite pizzeria.
They share a peperoni pizza so fresh that the sauce burns the roof of her mouth once again.
She tries to ease the burning sensation with a swallow of root-beer.
The soreness will be a reminder of this time for several days.
He stays for too few hours before their friend drives him back to college.
She is moved to tears after he leaves by the sacrifice of time he has made to share an evening with her.

Again, she is torn. He is bowing to his parents lead in pressuring her to give up, to surrender to adoption, the baby nestled within her.
She craves his love, his presence in her life. Will she lose him if she insists on keeping and raising their baby?

The struggle between desire for him, for his approval, and the love bond with her child torments the young mother
on the eve of her eighteenth birthday.

Eighteen years later--
I heard the mailman’s truck rumble down the street as I was applying decorative solder to the stained glass photo frame I planned to give my mom for Mother’s Day. After shutting off the soldering iron and savoring another sip of coffee, I crossed the street to our mailbox, took out the letters and magazines and stood by the side where the shoulder of the road sloped down to a storm ditch to flip through the mail before returning to the driveway. My eye first fell on the This Old House magazine, and out of habit, I opened it to the last page where the Save This Old House article always appeared. The thought, "Maybe this will be the old house I can buy and restore" was often at the back of my mind when I daydreamed over abandoned houses with great historical value. The highlighted house was out West. "Too far from Chicago to be feasible," I concluded. Next, I glanced at the latest Nurses Journal, and made a mental note to look at their CEU offerings. Amongst the letters were two soliciting donations for charities, and another credit card offer. "No thanks!" I thought.

Then I saw the envelope: a simple, white rectangle. Though it could have been passed over easily as unimportant, I would not have missed it. I had watched eagerly, impatiently for its arrival. The anticipation of this letter went back much farther than the 10 days since I'd mailed my certified letters of introduction, my watch spanned nearly two decades.
I handled it carefully and examined the small print addressing it to me. My eyes hungrily read the name and address of the sender. As often happens in times of intense emotion, I held my breath, afraid that even the gentle stir of my exhaled breath could cause the letter to evaporate.

Slowly, I inhaled. One breath, two breaths. I felt my heart thudding. No. I was too excited, too afraid of its contents to open it alone.

I picked up the portable phone in the kitchen and took it and the precious, long-awaited envelope outside to the porch. It was a mid-May afternoon. The spring sun shone brightly. Across from the porch a large lavender-colored lilac was in full bloom, fragrantly scenting the air. My favorite flower, lilac, evokes many memories of springs hopes, love, joy.

Mild weather. Winter has ended. Perhaps the long frozen part of my heart will thaw when I read this letter. I tremble in anticipation as I sit down on an old wooden bench and tucked my feet up under me. My hand shakes as I dial Joel's work number.

I only wait a moment after the phone is answered until I hear Joel's voice on the line. My throat is tight, and I can barely speak the words aloud.

"She wrote."

"Oh, Debbie, that's great! What did she say?" Joel had shared eagerly with me the news when the hired searcher contacted me just two weeks earlier with the words, "I've found her!" I had searched on my own for five years without success...

I bring my focus back to the present: "I don't know, I haven't opened it yet. Can you listen for a moment while I read it?" Already silent tears roll down my cheeks. Warm tears on my cool cheeks. I am aware of the thawing, melting of long frozen tear ducts.

My daughter has written to me. A miracle and nothing less.

"OK, I am opening it- Oh, Joel! There's a photo. oh, oh- she's so pretty! What a happy smile! It's a photo of Ann-"

Ann, I finally know her name-

"She has long blond hair, blue eyes. She's wearing overalls, and a long-sleeved black t-shirt" I pause..." Joel, she has her arm around a horse- they are in a field..."

I couldn't read the card for a couple more moments. My chest hurt as I am wracked from pounding head to trembling toe with pent up emotion.

My first photo of my daughter in nearly 18 years.

"Debbie, are you ok?" Joel's voice is concerned.

"Yes, yes. I can't believe it." I reply, "Ok, let me look at the card. There's a horse and rider on it. A really nice print of a pastel painting."

"Ready?" I whisper. "Ok, here goes-" one more slow breath and I begin to read .

"Dear Debbie,
Happy Mother's Day! (Or if this arrives after Sunday, Happy Belated Mother's Day!) Thank you so much for your letter!
Although I've always known I was adopted, I was still pretty surprised when I got your card in the mail. I have toyed with the idea of tracking down my birth-parents but had never actually gotten serious about it. Enclosed is a picture of myself and my horse Bandito. I usually wear my hair in a ponytail, but that was my senior picture so I had to look nice. Bandito is a big, clumsy grey thoroughbred whom I love to death but unfortunately I have to sell him soon because I'm going away to Art school next year and won't have time to ride him anymore. I'm really sad about having to give him up but I'll make sure he goes to a good home. ...
Love, Ann : )"

"I'm so happy for you, Debbie"

"Thanks, Joel, this is incredible.." my voice trails away as I marvel at the card, photo and letter in my hands.

We hang up.

Time stops as I sit on the bench and soak in the image of my daughter in the photo.

I was just her age when I gave her away to adoption. When I left her in the hospital, I left part of my heart, left the opportunity to share in the joy that was parenting her.. another couple received that joy. When I left the hospital that April day, a late snow storm had coated the streets with inches of snow and ice. It felt like my heart was coated in ice also. My prayer, my hope was that we would meet again. Somehow I knew that I would see her again in 18 years, in fact I whispered that to her as she slept in my arms that last evening in the hospital. It was a promise locked away in a secret place in my heart that holds my dearest hopes.
The hope is fulfilled~

Gradually, I am aware of where I am- outside on this spring day. I smell the flowers, hear a cardinal chirping and locate his cheery red form in the shrubs nearby. I feel a light breeze like a gentle caress on my cheek. I realize that my tears have dried and I am smiling in contentment.

Ann has written to me. Thank you, God.