Stevens Chevy: Never Knowing

I went straight back to my car. I was still sitting there, my heart going nuts inside my chest, when I saw her leave the building. She walked toward the faculty parking lot. I inched my car in that direction and watched her get into a white classic Jaguar. When she pulled out, I followed.

Stop. Think about what you’re doing. Pull over .

Like that was going to happen.

As we drove down Dallas Road, one of the more upscale areas in Victoria along the waterfront, I kept back. After about ten minutes Julia turned into the circular driveway of a large Tudor house on the ocean. I pulled over and got out a map. She parked in front of the marble steps, followed a path around the corner of the house, then disappeared through a side door.

She didn’t knock. She lived there.

So what did I do now? Drive off and forget about the whole thing? Drop the letter in her mailbox at the end of the driveway and risk someone else finding it? Give it to her in person?

But once I reached the big mahogany front door I stood there like an idiot, frozen, torn between tucking the letter into the door and just sprinting back down the driveway. I didn’t knock, I didn’t ring the doorbell, but the door opened . I was face-to-face with my mother. And she didn’t look happy to see me.

“Hello?”

My face was burning.

“Hi … I … I saw your class.”

Her eyes narrowed. She looked at the envelope clutched in my hand.

“I wrote you a letter.” My voice sounded breathless. “I wanted to ask you some things — we talked the other day.…”

She stared at me.

“I’m your daughter.”

Her eyes widened. “You have to leave.” She moved to shut the door. I put my foot on the jamb.

“ Wait . I don’t want to upset you — I just have some questions, it’s for my daughter.” I dug into my wallet and pulled out a photo. “Her name’s Ally — she’s only six.”

Julia wouldn’t look at the photo. When she spoke her voice was high, strained.

“It’s not a good time. I can’t — I just can’t. ”

“Five minutes. That’s all I need, then I’ll leave you alone.”

She looked over her shoulder at a phone on a hall table.

“Please. I promise I won’t come back.”

She led me into a side room with a mahogany desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Moved a cat off an antique brown leather high-backed chair.

I sat down and tried to smile. “Himalayans are beautiful.” She didn’t smile back. She perched on the edge of her seat. Hands gripping each other in her lap, knuckles white.

I said, “This chair is gorgeous — I refinish furniture for a living, but this is pristine. I love antiques. Anything vintage, really, cars, clothes…” My hand brushed the fitted black velvet jacket I’d paired with jeans.

She stared at the floor. Her hands started to shake.

I took a deep breath and went for it.

“I just want to know why you gave me away. I’m not angry, I have a good life. I just … I just want to know. I need to know.”

“I was young.” Now her voice was reedy, flat. “It was an accident. I didn’t want children.”

“Why did you have me, then?”

“I was Catholic.” Was?

“What about your family, are they—”

“My parents died in an accident— after you were born.” The last part came out in a rush. I waited for her to say more. The cat brushed against her legs, she didn’t touch it. I noticed a pulse beating fast at the base of her throat.

“I’m very sorry. Was the accident on the island?”

“We — they — lived in Williams Lake.” Her face flushed.

“Your name, Laroche. What does that mean? It’s French, right? Do you know from what part of—”

“I’ve never looked it up.”

“My father?”

“It was at a party and I don’t remember anything. I don’t know where he is now.”

I stared at this elegant woman. Not one thing about her fit with a drunken one-night stand. She was lying. I was sure of it. I willed her to meet my eyes. She stared at the cat. I had an insane urge to pick it up and throw it at her.

“Was he tall? Do I look like him, or—”

She stood up. “I told you I don’t remember. I think you’d better go.”

“But—” A door slammed at the back of the house.

Julia’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. An older woman with curly blond hair and a pink scarf draped around her thin shoulders came around the corner.

“Julia! I’m glad you’re home, we should—” She stopped when she saw me and her face broke into a smile. “Oh, hello, I didn’t realize Julia had a student over.”

I stood up and held out a hand. “I’m Sara. Professor Laroche was kind enough to go over my paper with me, but I should be off.”

She took my hand. “Katharine. I’m Julia’s…” Her voice trailed off as she searched Julia’s face.

I jumped into the awkward silence. “It was nice to meet you.” I turned to Julia. “Thanks again for your help.” She managed a smile and a nod.

At my car I glanced over my shoulder. They were still standing in the open doorway. Katharine smiled and waved, but Julia just stared at me.

So you understand why I had to talk to you. I feel like I’m standing on ice and it’s cracking all around me, but I don’t know which way to move. Do I try to find out why my birth mother lied or heed Evan’s advice to just leave it alone? I know you’re going to tell me I’m the only one who can make that decision, but I need your help.

I keep thinking about Moose. When he was a puppy we left him in the laundry room one cold Saturday when we went out, because he wasn’t housebroken — little guy piddled so much Ally tried to put her doll’s diapers on him. We had this beautiful bright-colored rope rug we’d brought back from a trip to Saltspring Island, and he must’ve started nibbling one corner, then just kept pulling and pulling. By the time we got home the rug was destroyed. My life is like that beautiful colored rug — it took years to sew it together. Now I’m afraid if I keep pulling on this one corner it’s all going to unravel.

But I’m not sure I can stop.

I thought about everything you told me: how I didn’t have to decide right away, how I needed to be sure of my expectations and reasons for wanting to know more about my past. I even made a chart of all the pros and cons like we used to do together. This time I put everything in neat little columns, but I still didn’t have an answer, so I stomped out to my workshop, cranked Sara McLachlan, and sobbed my heart out while I attacked an oak armoire. With each layer of paint I stripped off, I felt calmer. It didn’t matter whether she lied or where I came from. What was important was my life now.

I’d called Evan the minute I fled my reunion with my birth mother, so when he came home that weekend he brought me chocolates and red wine, an early Valentine’s surprise — that man’s no dummy. But smartest of all, he didn’t lecture, just gave me a hug and let me rant and rave until I ran out of steam. And I did — run out of steam. But then the depression kicked in. It had been so long since I’d had one I almost didn’t recognize it at first, like an ex-boyfriend you bump into and you can’t remember what it was about him that made you feel so awful, so angry at everything. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks later that I almost started feeling back to normal. I should’ve stopped there.

Evan had headed back to his lodge, and Lauren’s husband, Greg, who works for our dad’s logging company, had just left for camp, so Ally and I hightailed it over to Lauren’s for dinner. I do all right in the kitchen department if I’m not obsessed by my latest project, but Lauren’s roast beef and Yorkshire puddings put my stir-fries to shame.