Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

 

“In all of us there is a hunger, marrow-deep, to know our heritage—to know who we are and where we have come from. Without this enriching knowledge, there is a hollow yearning.” –Alex Haley

 

 “Maybe I’ve been put on earth to be an ordinary person. Not to do anything great, but to do something small that involves great love.” – Adoptive mother

 

 If people are too close to a situation, they have no perspective. They are simply caught in the chaos, the world whirling around them in a hypnotic haze that prevents them from being able to see things clearly. For me, the whirling began the day Mom sat me and my sister, Lindy, down at the breakfast table to tell us that we were adopted. It was like being on a merry-go-round. I already gave the man my ticket and chose my horse. Sitting tall in the saddle, I waited anxiously for the ride to begin. When the switch flipped, there was always a sudden jolt as the wheels turned, yet I was never startled. I was expecting it, anticipating the momentum.

And so it was with the story of my adoption.

I did not find out that I was adopted until my adolescence. I just turned twelve and started the seventh grade. Lindy was one year older. It was October and my family was preparing to move from Bird City, Kansas to Holdrege, Nebraska. Dad already went ahead to start his new job at Agri Co-op in Holdrege, leaving Mom to finish packing, and Lindy and me to complete the first quarter of the school year to make our transfer easier.

The house seemed so dim and empty with everything packed away. The living room was full of brown boxes that had been filled, labeled, and stacked in precarious piles that leaned slightly to one side or the other and threatened to topple. There was only a thin corridor to maneuver through the living room to the hallway. All that remained unpacked were a few kitchen items, an old green couch, a small black-and-white television perched on a brown TV tray, and a few cabinets and drawers full of odds and ends. We had some clothes and bathroom items to finish the week tossed haphazardly in half-empty suitcases.

Sometimes, it is almost as if I can sense when something big is going to happen, feel it like a pricking on my skin or even smell it in the air. That morning I felt nothing and smelled nothing out of the ordinary. I sat down and poured myself a bowl of Cheerios, waiting for Mom to ask me for the hundredth time how close I was to finishing my packing or if I’d gotten all my transfer forms signed at school. Lindy was already sitting at the table, eating a bowl of Rice Krispies and looking bored.

Mom pulled up a chair next to me and took a deep breath.

“Lori, honey, I’m gonna tell you somethin’ your father and I should’ve told you girls a long time ago,” Mom began. The way my mom’s voice was shaking scared me. I had never seen her so nervous.

“We always meant to tell you,” she continued, “but it never got brought up. Now that we’re movin’ back to Nebraska, it’s important that you know. Honey, you and Lindy are adopted.”

I stopped, mid-bite, spoon still in my mouth, milk dribbling down my chin.

I looked at Lindy. She was absently spooning sugar onto her cereal, not even appearing to pay attention. Was she deaf? Did she just hear what Mom said? Or was I dreaming?

That’s it, I thought. I must be dreaming.

After a moment, when I regained the ability to move my limbs, I wiped my chin, put the spoon in my bowl, and swallowed.

“What?” Perhaps I heard wrong or misunderstood.

Mom continued, “Last night, after you went to bed, Lindy stayed up to help me pack. I didn’t even think. I told her to start packin’ all the stuff in the file cabinet. I didn’t notice she was lookin’ at some of the papers as she was puttin’em in the box. She found some of my old work papers and saw that I left work in ’79 to adopt a baby.”

Mom paused and looked at me for a moment, as if expecting me to say something. I think if I would have tried to speak right then, only choked monosyllables and unintelligible caveman-like grunts would have come out. I stared at her, a million thoughts colliding in my brain.

“It’s not the way I wanted you girls to find out, but it’s out in the open now, and I figure that’s good. You were already sleepin’ so we didn’t wake you up. I figured I could wait ‘til today to tell you.”

Mom took another deep breath.

“Before we got you girls, Daddy and I got pregnant three times, but we lost the babies. Our last baby, Bradley, lived a few days in the hospital, but we lost him, too. The doctor told me that I’d never be able to carry a baby. Daddy and I wanted one so badly, so we started talkin’ about adoption. We signed up with several agencies, but we were put on the bottom of all the waiting lists and told that it could take years.

“There was a friend of the family, a doctor your Uncle Bob and Aunt LaRue knew out in North Platte, Nebraska. He knew we were lookin’ to adopt. One day, we got a phone call from him, and he told us that a young girl just had a baby and was plannin’ to put it up for adoption. He said if we wanted her, we could come get her.

“We were so scared that somethin’ would happen and we wouldn’t be able to get her, so we didn’t tell anybody we were going. We drove to North Platte, and got Lindy. We went to see your grandparents when we got back home. Your grandpa opened the door and saw me standing there with Lindy in my arms…it was one of the only times I ever saw your grandpa cry.

“A year later, we got another call. There was another girl who was going to give her baby up for adoption, and we could come and get her if we wanted. This time we decided to tell everybody ‘cause it had all gone so good gettin’ Lindy that we were sure we’d get you, too. We loaded up in Grandma and Grandpa Luethje’s motor home and made a weekend out of it. When we got you, your Grandma Luethje was so excited ‘cause there was finally a baby in the family with dark hair!

“We love you girls so much, and we always knew we should tell you, but we never knew when was the right time. We don’t want you to think we love you any less ‘cause you’re adopted. We love you even more ‘cause we wanted you so much.”

Mom stopped talking then and hugged me tight. I felt like I should say something, but all I could do was sit there, my twelve-year-old brain struggling to process what I just heard.

I was adopted. Adopted! What did that mean? My mom and dad weren’t really Mom and Dad?

My friend, Tenley, and her brother, Robbie, were adopted, but they had known since they were babies, because they were Korean, and their parents were Caucasian. Lindy and I didn’t stand out so starkly. Sure, the two of us didn’t look anything alike, since Lindy was blonde and fair, and I was brunette and tan, but it never occurred to me that we might not be related.

“Are you okay, honey?” Mom asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m just thinkin’.”

“I know it’s a lot to think about,” Mom said, smiling. “I just want you to remember that Daddy and I love you very much, and if you have any questions, you can ask us. Okay?”

I nodded. Then it was time to grab our books and homework and cram it all into our backpacks, so we could run off to school. Mom hugged Lindy and me tightly and sent us out the door.

We walked the four blocks in silence, the chilly October air biting at our bare cheeks. I was dying to say something, anything, but I had no idea where to begin. On the surface, it was just another day. Inside me, an emotional storm was building. Mom’s words kept repeating in my head, like an audiotape stuck on an unending loop.

We loaded up in the motor home, and we made a weekend out of getting you. Your Grandma Luethje was so excited because there was finally a baby in the family with dark hair!

Lindy didn’t say a word. I wondered what she was thinking. Was she as excited and confused as I was? I snuck a glance at her as we walked, searching her face for a sign of emotion. She just trudged along, as if nothing had even happened. For a moment, I wondered if maybe it was all a dream.

Adopted.

Adopted.

I’m adopted.

My mind began to race again, as I tried to imagine what all my friends would think when I told them. I hurried along, feeling like I was absolutely going to burst if I did not get to tell someone soon.

* * *

Having lived for over six years in the tiny town of Bird City, Kansas (population 482), moving to Holdrege, Nebraska (population 5,671) was intimidating. I had grown comfortable in my small school where I never had more than thirteen students in my entire class. Now, I was going to be in a class of over 115 students. In addition to starting a new school in a new town, we arrived in October, which meant Lindy and I were thrust into an alien environment in the middle of the semester. We would not have the luxury of showing up on the first day of school and blending into the crowd. No, we would materialize one day, and everyone was going to notice.

With the weight of the move on my adolescent shoulders, I did not have much time to think about my adoption. Somewhere, deep down, I must have always known because the news did not come as an incredible shock to me. Like that first jolt when the merry-go-round starts in motion, the revelation of my adoption affected me, but really did not surprise me. It was as if I had been expecting it all along. I did not scream or cry or pout. I did not even ask any questions. I simply accepted the news the same way I would have accepted my mom telling me the sky was going to be blue again that day.

Yet, in spite of the relatively smooth transition from being ordinary to being adopted, the merry-go-round had indeed begun turning, so slowly at first that I hardly noticed it. I believe what saved me from the initial emotional upheaval was being told about the adoption just days before my family moved in the middle of the school year. What 12-year-old has time to philosophize about her origins or suffer a full-blown identity crisis when she is faced with real adolescent issues—moving to a new town, making new friends, and learning the culture and customs of a new middle school? As the new kid, I was able to assimilate my new adopted persona into my already existing identity. My new friends and teachers never knew me differently, so the new Lori Lynn Luethje, adoptee, was born.

It did not take long for the stress and excitement of the move to wear off. I made new friends, joined the seventh grade volleyball team, and was getting used to my new class schedule. Though I missed my friends and all that I left behind in Bird City, my new life in Holdrege began to settle into a comfortable routine.

It was a lesson in my seventh grade science class that cast a harsh and blinding light on the subject of my adoption for the first time. While studying a unit on genetic inheritance, our teacher, Mrs. Palmer, assigned us a weekend project—tracing inherited traits like hair color, eye color, and blood type back through our families as far as we could. I sat, stupefied, suddenly realizing that I had nothing to trace. There was not one person I knew in my life that I was even remotely genetically related to. I could feel a heavy lump beginning to form in the pit of my stomach, as I raised my hand.

“Lori? You have a question about the assignment?” Mrs. Palmer asked.

“Um…yes,” I stammered. “I…I don’t think I can do the assignment, ‘cause I’m adopted.”

Mrs. Palmer stared at me, as if she did not quite know how to answer. I felt my cheeks burning as my classmates stared and whispered. I kept my eyes focused on Mrs. Palmer, hoping no one would see the tears of embarrassment that were beginning to cloud my eyes.

“Well, I guess you can’t do the project then,” Mrs. Palmer said abruptly. “Just follow along with the reading and the chapter questions. Now, let’s get cleaned up, class. The bell is about to ring.”

Until then, it had not even occurred to me that my adoption set me apart from my peers or that I was any different from the other children because of it. Yet, as I sat there in that seventh grade classroom, choking back a sob and waiting for the bell to ring, I felt completely and utterly alone. I was an alien, an outcast, something that might be tolerated by the rest of the world, but not accepted by it.

Hurrying out the door, I heard a sneering whisper from the crowd behind me.

“She just didn’t wanna do the work. I wish I was adopted, so I didn’t hafta do it either.”

It was at that moment that my adoption began to consume me, and the world whirling around me began to blur.

* * *

I don’t remember much of my eighth grade year. What I have I would call more vague impressions than memories. I remember being in band and choir. I remember playing volleyball and basketball, and joining the track team. I remember spending time with my two best friends, Jenny and Howie, but most of the other details are missing.

Every now and then, I will bump into or hear from old classmates, and they will begin reminiscing about past events. Sometimes, the details they share will unleash a memory from whatever dark cavern of my mind it had been hiding in and I will be able the recall that situation. Other times, no matter how detailed the story, no matter how many times the person will chide, “Come on, Lori. Don’t you remember?” I simply cannot dredge the memory from the swampy abyss, where so much of my eighth grade year seems to have been swallowed. Sometimes I play along, nodding and smiling, faking recollection to avoid feeling foolish and frightened by the loss of time. Other times I simply give up, shrugging my shoulders, shaking my head and admitting that, at some point, the memory was lost.

What I remember most clearly that year is my social studies class and my teacher, Mr. Jeffrey. Many of the details about Mr. Jeffrey’s actual class are fuzzy as well, but one day, seemingly out of the blue, Mr. Jeffrey looked me square in the eye and asked, “Lori, why don’t you ever smile?”

The question took me by surprise. I was not aware that I appeared sad and melancholy. I must have looked puzzled by the question because he continued.

“ And why are you always so quiet? You are incredibly smart, and I know that you know the answers to questions and have things to say, but no one ever gets to hear them.”

I looked away and shrugged my shoulders and told him in a quiet voice that I didn’t know.

Mr. Jeffrey made it his goal to see me smile that year, and I will certainly give him credit for trying. He praised me on projects and came in with a new joke to tell every single day, but with my mind so preoccupied about my adoption, as it had been since the day of Mrs. Palmer’s genetic inheritance project, I simply did not have the ambition or the energy for much else.

By then, horrible fears about my birthfamily had begun to cloud my already cluttered mind. What if my birthparents died before I could find them? What if I had been stolen from them and my adopted parents had no idea? What if they were sick or crazy? What if it was a disease I could get, too? What if they were horrible people who would show up one day and try to take me away? What if they were wonderful people, but wanted nothing to do with me? What if I was the product of rape? What if I fell in love with someone and found out I was related? With these questions constantly churning in my brain, I felt anxious and afraid a lot of the time, and with the fear came something else, a constant aching sadness that settled deep in the pit of my stomach—an ache that grew, ever so slightly, with the passing of the days.

I began visiting adoption websites on my computer and reading books on adoption. I even wrote a paper for Mr. Jeffrey’s social studies class on the history of adoption and how it evolved in the United States. It was the first time that I attacked adoption with academic fervor. I scoured the library for books and took home handfuls to read. The more I read, the more I realized that adoption in the United States was something of a shady business. There were too many lies, too many secrets, too many stories of sealed records and dead end searches and young girls sent away to bury the shame of their secrets. I tried to imagine my own biological parents and what their situation might have been, but my visions were murky and clouded.

Mr. Jeffrey asked me to stay after class the day he passed back our graded papers. He waited for the other students to leave the room and then turned his attention to me.

“I didn’t realize you were adopted,” he said.

I was too nervous to do much more than nod.

“My oldest daughter, Kristen, is adopted,” he continued. “I was intrigued by your paper. If you ever want to talk about it, let me know.”

I longed to say, Yes, I would love to talk about it, and then ask the hundred or so questions that burned daily in my brain, but I bit my tongue. My feelings about my adoption were muddled and confused, and I was afraid to say anything about them for fear that someone would think I was crazy.

I thanked Mr. Jeffrey for the offer and hurried out of the room.

Since the day she first told Lindy and me about our adoption, Mom had not revisited the subject. It just never came up in our day-to-day conversations. I had so many questions, but I was too scared to ask. I thought if I started asking, or told Mom and Dad that I wanted to search, they would think that meant I didn’t love them. I kept imagining the silent, agonized expression on my mom’s face. Just the thought of it was enough to bring me to tears. Losing three babies must have hurt badly enough, and I did not want to be the cause of any new pain. I kept my mouth shut and relied on books, articles, and websites to quench my curiosity.

I thought about my birthmother the most. All I really knew about her was that she was very young, only fifteen, when I was born. I did not know anything about my birthfather, so I had no idea what the situation might have been between them. I prayed that I was a child born of a loving relationship. I did not want to imagine any other possibilities.

I began writing letters to my birthmother that year, introducing myself, filling her in on my life. I wrote page after page with all the things I thought she might want to know, everything from my thoughts and dreams to the everyday mundane things like how I had done on my latest exam and what boys I thought were cute. They were therapy, those letters. They were the only thing that kept my beleaguered brain from bursting. All my hopes, all my fears, I poured out on those pages. Yet, I always thought the letters sounded stupid and childish. I was afraid that someone might see them and think I was insane, so I tore each one into a hundred pieces as soon as I had finished and threw them all away.

Still, I imagined her receiving the letters and reading them, and I tried to envision how she would respond. I pictured her sitting at her own desk, pen in her hand and some blank sheets of paper before her. I could see her, tapping the pen cap against her lips and drumming her fingers on the table, while she tried to think of what to say. She would write and tell me that everything was going to be okay, and I would believe her.

I studied my face in the mirror, tracing every contour, every curve. I sat for hours trying to memorize exactly how I looked—the shape of my nose, the curve of my cheekbones, the strange chameleon colors of my eyes. Somehow, I thought that might help me recognize my birthparents, should I pass them on the street one day. I imagined I would know, some sort of electric impulse sparking between us at the moment of contact, and that we would laugh and cry and hug each other and never let go.

In spite of all my dreaming, I knew that I shouldn’t get my hopes up. My birthparents were out there, hopelessly lost in a sea of strangers. They might be dead. They might want nothing to do with me. They might be frightening, horrible people. Still, I could not seem to stop myself from looking, from dreaming, from holding fast to the thin thread of hope that the stars would align and our lives would mingle amidst the chaos.

            Perhaps that is precisely what happened, for I don’t quite know how else to explain it.