CONVERSATION WITH CLAUDIA
BY REBECCA COHEN
I’d been watching her, this girl, my stepdaughter, for three years. Feeling her. Feeding her.
Here she was, curled at the other end of the couch: nose in a book, heart in another world.
The first time my then-boyfriend introduced me to his girls, I heard the howling in her eyes.
Rebecca, the adopted one.
None of my MSW coursework had prepared me for meeting a five-year-old so ravenous.
He and his first wife had told her early that she was adopted; she didn’t remember not knowing. It was as unremarkable to her as the brown of her hair and eyes, as the ten toes on her two feet.
Now, at eight, she explained impatiently to adult strangers why she didn’t have beautiful red hair and adorable freckles like her little sister.
This was a girl who needed a mother. Who needed her own mother, the one who had carried her.
She needed a lifeline. Needed to know she could look for her mother when she was old enough.
She closed her book and hugged it to her chest, looked over at me.
“Do you ever wonder about the woman who gave birth to you?”
Her eyes widened and narrowed, gauging me. She seemed to remember, finally, that I would not turn her words against her. She dropped her gaze and stared down.
Claudia’s hazel eyes held me in gentle curiosity. My stepmother.
This was a grownup, asking me a serious question. A real question. Not a trick question like mom and dad asked. This was a grownup who could see all the way inside my heart.
I thought about her all the time, my real mother. Who was she?
Where was she?
Did I look like her?
When would she find me and take me home? When, when, when?
“Yeah, I guess.”
My eyes slid past Claudia and out the window as the piece of paper from the adoption agency filled my mind’s eye. One typewritten sheet.
My pedigree.
It told the story of a pair of teenagers who’d considered marriage and thought better of it, for the time being.
It told the story of a young woman who planned carefully to give her unborn child to strangers in the name of a better future.
“Do you think you’ll ever look for her?”
Her head snapped up, eyes locked to mine, staring through me.
I blinked, the world suddenly a blurry jumble.
“Do I what?”
I saw a universe rush through her mind’s eye, heard her breathing shorten.
Was this true—could I look? Nobody had ever asked that before. Nobody had even told me that was something adopted people could do.
If it were true, why hadn’t my parents told me that? Claudia came into focus on the far end of the couch.
And then,
“Can I look for real?”
The hope on her face pierced me. “You can help her,” I told myself. “You are helping her.”
My held breath pounded in my throat as I watched her nod yes, heard her say,
“Sure—when you’re eighteen. I can help if you want.”
She was sun, then moon, then black hole.
My breath sputtered out like a balloon that got away as you tried to tie its end. Before deflating completely I squeaked out,
“Eighteen? Eighteen? That’s ten whole years! I can’t wait that long!”
She kicked at the cushions and collapsed into herself, howling.
She and my father split up the following summer.
I moved down the couch and stroked her hair as sobs bobbed her head.
Though she hadn’t been my real mother, Claudia had been kind to me in ways that were new and necessary. For the next ten years I faithfully watered the seed she had planted, brought it to sunlight in every solitary moment.
The energy that comes with a new year offers opportunities for setting goals … and meeting them! Whether your goals include writing for emotional expression or publishing your words, we hope that you’ll join us for one (or both!) of our eight-week online writing groups for adult adoptees who have stories to share.
CRAFT & PUBLICATION FOCUS: Meets on Wednesdays, January 5 to February 23, 2022
WRITING AS AN EMOTIONAL PLAYGROUND: Meets on Mondays, January 10 to February 28, 2022