Hungry For Each Other

Hungry for Each Other

“Hope must be born over and over again, for where there is love, there is always hope.” —Ilia Delio--

The sun was just about to set. A quick dinner consisting of a frozen pot pie and leftover broccoli quiche was satisfying enough. Time now for a glass of wine, some quiet time and maybe read the day’s mail. The balcony off the master bedroom was the go-to place to enjoy the sunset. The perfect location to watch and ponder life’s “What ifs…”

She’d want to hash over the events of the day, work and what needed to be done, but lately she been obsessing about the boy, her little boy--the one she placed for adoption when she was a teenager.

Then there was that other boy—the one she loved, the baby’s father. Teenaged passion, first love; visions of a perfect life together brought that Beach Boy’s song they treasured so much to mind:

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older?
Then we wouldn’t have to wait so long.”

Boy did that fit their situation. She was only seventeen, he a bit over eighteen.

“We could be married
And then we’d be happy
Oh, wouldn’t it be nice?”

She was quite a looker back in those days. Smart, much too pretty with deep, amorous, brown eyes—though she told her friends she thought she was shaped like a pear. And him…oh, my goodness, was she ever hopelessly, feverishly, dreamily drawn to him...to his eyes, his touch, his sense of humor, his ambition, the way he looked at her…yum. She could not say no to him…sure as hell tried, but did not want to…

“Happy times together we’ve been spending.
I wish that every kiss was never ending.
Oh, wouldn’t it be nice?”

What the hell, she thought. I was the one who broke it off. That stupid, impulsive boy really did want us to marry. At first, I agreed enthusiastically, but I was not so sure. What about college, what about careers? What about women’s liberation from traditional roles? It was the late 60’s after all. What? Was I expected to birth lots of babies, clean house all day and bake cookies for church socials?

Her girlfriends told her to test him saying, “Dump him, give him back that ring. See how he reacts. See if he tearfully comes crawling back. See if he fights for you. It’ll be so romantic!”

So, she did it. One day over lunch. she slapped the ring down on the table and angrily (though she did not know where that came from) slid it toward him. She told him, “We can’t be a couple. We were too young. Her mother felt that way, all her girlfriends agreed.”

She remembered the look of shock, then sadness as his face crumpled and his strong shoulders sagged. Speechless, he did not say a word, didn’t ask any questions. He couldn’t. He just grabbed the ring, managed a quivering “okay,” got up and left.

He never called or wrote. She was devastated, livid, mad at him...furious with her girlfriends. A few weeks later she discovered she was pregnant.

She knew she was too young to be a wife…sure as hell was too young to be a mother. Anyway, she thought, I lost that stupid boy and his fantasies about wanting to marry. He didn’t even have the guts to fight for me, so I sure as hell was not going to tell him about this baby, or even put his name on the records.

Our priest agreed adoption was the best option, even as my heart broke and my body throbbed as I watched the nurse carry my baby away on the day he was born.

Now, here it was the 1990s. Nationwide the courts and adoption agencies still sealed adoption records, so I could not find my baby…even if he was now all grown up. Maybe I didn’t even want to be found. No, what was done was done.

****

The young man picked up the phone. Now almost thirty, he felt ready to search for his birth family…well, he figured, for his birthmother anyway. Still, he worried that searching for her would hurt his adoptive parents. He had an amazing childhood, loved them dearly and did not want them to be upset. But he needed to know.

He frequently dreamed about her, wondering the circumstances of his adoption. It was like that song that haunted him by Phil Collins “You’ll be in my Heart”:

“Ooh, you’ll be in my heart
No matter what they say
I’ll be with you
You’ll be here in my heart
I’ll be there always
Always…”

His was an unfulfilled hunger. An emptiness, a longing. Sometimes he felt lost, abandoned…But no! No, he would not accept that. There had to be a good reason for his placement. He once heard this feeling described as “psychic homelessness.” That was it. Until he found her, he would be forever homeless. He had to know more. Discover the truth, God willing, maybe even discover her.
****
“Adoption Registry,” said the male voice on the other end of the line. “Who’s calling.”

Identifying himself and sharing some small talk the young man felt comforted by this bureaucrat who seemed interested and willing to help. Strangely enough, they seemed to hit it off right away.

The man asked a series of questions:

“What did he know about his adoption?”
“Nothing, really.”

“Had he talked with his adoptive parents about what they might know?”
“Not yet…I don’t want to risk hurting them.”

“Did he know his birth mom’s name or initials?”
“Uhh…no. It’s all a mystery to me.”

“Okay,” said the official who proceeded to tell him the process. He would receive a summary of non-identifying information in his case file. If, after reading about the circumstances leading to his adoption, he wanted to proceed, he could request a search for his birthmother, who may or may not agree to a reunion. This could take a few months.

He got off the phone feeling hopeful and elated, the words to that song once again coming to mind.

“When destiny calls you
You must be strong
I may not be with you
But you’ve got to hold on.”

****
As the sun set, the cool evening air jerked her out of her daydreams. Okay, enough dwelling in the past, might as well open the mail. More bills, junk mail, requests for donations, the usual collection of crap. Hold on…one was a rather official looking letter from an Adoption Registry. She shuttered…What the…

Tearing open the envelope she read about the work of the Registry. The letter stated that according to their records, the son she placed for adoption wanted to make contact. It was totally up to her. She stared at the document for a long time, her body shaking, tears staining the letter in her quivering hands.

Her mind raced. “No, this is not happening. They promised me anonymity when that baby was placed. The records are sealed. I was not supposed to be found. I have a life. That kid has a life. Why does he want to reconnect anyway?”

****
The phone rang shortly after 9AM. The day’s first cup of tea still steeping in the mug that sat on my desk. It was her…the long-lost birthmother of one of my clients. I found and contacted her by mail, hoping she would agree to a reunion with that young-adult adoptee who approached me a few months back.

Let’s just say she reamed me a new one. She was very angry, very upset. “You…you pathetic excuse for a civil servant. I got your letter. How dare you write to me...and ruin my life. No, she screamed, I do not want to make any contact. I've tried to put this out of my mind for decades.”

“I cannot even read your signature…you sign like a drunken doctor on drugs…you, you ‘Mister Big Shot Adoption Registry Coordinator.’ How the hell did you get this job when you cannot even write legibly? Damn you, along with the rest of the meddling bureaucrats in your office. Don't ever contact me again! Is that clear?”

When she calmed down a bit. I told her why adult adoptees contact me. I described her son as man enough to handle her decision. He came across as gentle, understanding, soft-spoken and appreciative. I assured birth mom that I had to respect her confidentiality. “So, I will call him, tell him that this is not something you want to do and that I cannot reveal your identity.”

“Well, make sure you do. I do not want to hear from you again. Ever.”

After we hung up, I called this young man to give him the bad news. We were both frustrated and disappointed. His voice cracking as he struggled to accept the reality of the situation. He thanked me for trying. The pain and powerlessness we both felt resonating through the wire.

I hung up the phone with a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat. This did not happen much; very few of the people I located refused contact. Most were overjoyed. But it happened this time, and this one really got to me.

****
A few hours later, working through lunch, the phone rang. It was birth mom. She's crying and apologetic, telling me she’s sorry for being rude, saying my letter just caught her off guard. She never thought this would happen. That her child has always been on her mind. She wondered how he was… and could not believe I found her. Yes, please tell him she would love to meet him.

Absolutely astonished, I told her how happy I was for her and especially for that young man she was about to meet. I asked for permission to share her identity and phone number and told her to expect a call from him. They could work out the details.

I called the young man to give him the happy news. He was ecstatic and asked how he should handle their initial get together and what he could do to thank me. I told him to ask a lot of questions because there are a lot of mysteries to unravel, and sometimes these reunions just don’t work out. As a thank you, I told him to simply send me a picture of their reunion.

All in a day’s work. Not bad for a meddling bureaucrat with” a signature like a drunken doctor on drugs.” I closed the door to my office and put my favorite mixtape into the cassette player. Soon enough the Beach Boys were singing that song from the past, the one that took me back into the arms of that pretty, brown-eyed girl of my youth…

“Maybe if we think and wish and hope and pray
It might come true
Oh baby, then there wouldn’t be a single thing we couldn’t do
…and then we’d be happy
Oh, wouldn’t it be nice?

Maybe that young man will ask the right questions. Then, who knows. Smiling, with tears in my eyes, I thought…You just cannot make this stuff up.

THE END

Wouldn’t It Be Nice by The Beach Boys. Songwriters: Brian Douglas Wilson, Mike E. Love and Tony Asher.

You’ll Be In My Heart by Phil Collins. Songwriter: Phil Collins.

Copyright: 2024 Gerald R. Gioglio