Marilyn Peake - The Other

There were all kinds of Search Angel sites. One had glittery animated angels flapping their wings along the top of the page that had links to the volunteers. Another had pictures of angels watching over babies in baskets. There were also plain pages and lots of forums.

I decided to start out gradually by asking questions anonymously in one of the forums. I picked a forum to join and signed up with the username BallerinaGirl. I chose that as a pledge of loyalty to my mom who raised me, a username based on the tiny dancing girl in her jewelry box. I found an image of a ballerina online that was free to use and made that my avatar.

Then I took the plunge.

I entered the main forum and posted this: I just found out about adoption search angels. How do I go about finding one? I’m adopted and want to find my birth mom. I titled the post: In Need of an Adoption Search Angel .

I fought the urge to delete it. I hopped on Netflix and watched an hour-long show to try to forget what I’d done. I didn’t expect an answer, but I felt naked after sending that request out into the world. It was ridiculous because no one knew who BallerinaGirl was or where she was from. I hadn’t posted any identifying information. Truth be told, BallerinaGirl was actually a little metal girl with a pink tutu glued onto her forever and ever. She lived in a box and whenever anyone lifted the lid, she was forced to twirl round and round. Ugh. That sounded terrible. It made my real life seem pretty spectacular.

When the show was over, I went back out into the kitchen to throw my soda can into the recycle bin. Noticing the dishes in the sink, I decided to empty the dishwasher and load it up with dirty dishes. Clearly trying to avoid my computer, I went on an obsessive-compulsive streak, scrubbing the sink out and wiping down the counters.

Finally, curiosity got the better of me and I knew I had to peek at the forum. I grabbed another can of Diet Coke and returned to my desk.

Before I had a chance to get online, I received a text message from my dad: Won’t be home until late. Eating dinner here. Money in the kitchen drawer for pizza. That OK?

I typed back: sounds good. no problem.

A pang of guilt went through me. I felt like I was about to betray my dad.

Getting back into the forum, I searched for my post. Running my finger down the list of new ones, I finally found In Need of an Adoption Search Angel . It had 100 comments already! WTF. I clicked on the post. My head started to swim. There really were a tremendous number of comments.

Taking a swig of soda and reminding myself to breathe and stop hyperventilating, I started reading. Many of the comments were people simply wishing me good luck and telling me they’d been through the same thing. There were many statements of having never regretted it. A few saying it was the best thing they’d ever done. A few writing long diatribes about how horrible their birth mothers turned out to be and how they wished they’d never met them. Sprinkled in the conversation were ten actual search angels. Ten already! How many were there in the world, I wondered, helping people find their way back to their biological parents?

My hands shook as I clicked on messages. Over and over, I had to remind myself to slow down, concentrate and breathe.

I read all ten messages from the search angels as carefully as I possibly could with all the adrenalin and fear racing through my body. What if these people weren’t who they said they were? What if I bared my soul to some creep pretending to be an angel?

After reading through all the posts by the search angels twice, I picked one. Her name was Hannah Chandler. She had her own website. It looked professional. Plain white background. Fancy black lettering edged in gold along the top that simply stated: Hannah Chandler, Adoption Search Angel … Underneath in smaller letters: Let me be your guide. A separate section labeled Family Photos showed both her birth family and her adoptive family. An About My Own Journey section talked about how difficult it had been to reconcile her origins with where she grew up. She was Romanian. She had been given up by her parents and placed in an orphanage in Romania. She wrote about how a couple of workers took a shine to her and doted on her and saved her from the neglect that so many of the other orphans experienced. She was adopted when she only eighteen months old and doesn’t remember anything before the age of three. Her first memory was a happy one: going to a water park with her family, her adoptive parents catching her as she slid down a waterslide in the kids’ pool.

I replied to her comment in my forum thread: I’ll PM you. Then I sent her a brief private message: I’m interested in the services you provide. I’d like to find my birth mom. How does this work?

She answered within seconds: Hello! I’m happy to help you. As with all reputable search angels, I don’t charge any money. If you find my services helpful and want to pay something, you can donate to any of the charities listed on my website, or another of your choosing. All the charities on my website help orphans. Now, what is your real name? I’ll need that to begin the search. Also, do you know where you were born? The hospital? If not, maybe the city or state, or country if you were born outside the United States?

My hands shook as I replied: My name is Jade Whitaker. Anxiety crept up the back of my neck, gave me a prickly feeling and that horrible out-of-body experience that I recognize as a full-blown anxiety attack. I was letting this complete stranger know my name and asking them to search for a person related to me by blood that I might be better off not knowing.

At this point, however, I was committed. I needed to see this through.

I typed: I don’t know any of the other information.

Hannah replied: Have you asked your adoptive parents about how you came to be adopted and if they have any records on your birth?

Tears streamed down my face as I replied. It was as though a floodgate had opened. Sobbing, my hands trembling, I typed: My mom (adoptive mom) died last year. She and my dad never told me anything about my adoption. I never asked, but now I want to know.

Hannah answered: Honey, I’m so sorry. May I ask you a question? You aren’t hoping that your biological mother will actually mother you, are you? That doesn’t always work out.

I was shocked by the question. I said: No, not at all. No one could ever replace my mom. She died of ovarian cancer and I’ve been having pain in my lower right abdomen. I suddenly realized it would be helpful to know my genetics.

Hannah replied: Can you ask your father about your adoption? It would help a great deal in our search.

I typed: Can I think about it?

Hannah answered: Of course. Everything’s on your schedule, dear. I’m just here to help.

I typed: Thank you.

That night, I thought long and hard about talking to my dad. When he came home, he looked too exhausted to approach. I decided I’d try the next day.

I slept fitfully that night. I finally decided to get up when I woke for the bazillionth time at 9:00 AM. I found my dad in the kitchen drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. He still reads a paper version of the news every single day. There was a plate on the table filled with toast crumbs and gobs of strawberry jelly swimming in butter. He always heaps toppings on everything he eats, even jelly toast. His coffee would be the same way: multiple spoonfuls of sugar. I had started worrying about him after losing my mom, worried that he’d have a heart attack if he didn’t change his eating habits.