A. Homes - In A Country Of Mothers

“Barbara used to hound me about didn’t I think it was strange that an agency would give an infant to a family whose child had just died. She kept pestering me, like maybe she knew something I didn’t, but she never came out and said it. Anyway, I used to bug my mom for information, I always had the feeling that there were things nobody was telling me. I’d hit her up for a recount whenever I knew she’d be weak, like the kid’s birthday or the anniversary of his death.”

“How did you know when his birthday was, or when he died?”

Fucking detective, Jody thought. “My mother would say, Today’s Blank’s birthday. Today it’s ten years since Blank died.’ I never heard her tell anyone else, but she’d always tell me in a kind of conspiratorial whisper.”

“That wasn’t very fair, was it?” Claire said, then quickly added in a soft voice, “I wish you’d tell me his name.”

Jody shrugged, her stomach turning in on itself; it was as if Claire was asking Jody to share her brother. Jody was aware of the betrayal, the obviousness of leaving her brother’s name out, but she had to keep something for herself. Claire couldn’t have everything.

“Anyway, I’d hit her for info, and then when I was about twenty, it came out that they didn’t get me from some agency, but on the black market, and the lady who lived next door went to the hospital to pick me up because my mom was too chicken to meet my real mom. They traded me in the back of a cab for an envelope of money.”

Jody glanced at Claire, who looked as if she were having an allergic reaction. Her nose and eyes were all red. “The thing that kills me — well, among the things that kill me — is no one will tell me how much they paid for me. I mean, I’d like to know. I asked and my mom said, ‘Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth it.’”

Claire looked surprised.

“She was kidding,” Jody said. “The other thing that kills me is that it’s still not clear to me if Barbara knew something or not, and if she did, how come she played along and didn’t tell me?”

“I don’t know,” Claire said. “You’d have to ask Barbara.”

“No one ever tells me shit.”

“Do you feel like people are purposely deceiving you?”

A fucking obvious test question. Did Jody also think people were out to get her? That everyone was working together in a plot to ruin her life? She looked at Claire as if to say, Don’t you think I see what you’re getting at? Don’t fucking condescend to me. Fuckwad.

“Is there some reason why people would keep the truth from you?” Claire asked.

Jody shrugged.

“What else do you know?”

“Why are we talking about this?” Jody asked.

“Why?” Claire said.

“Yeah, what does being adopted have to do with going to UCLA?”

“You tell me.”

“No, you tell me. ”

Claire looked at the clock. “Well, neither of us can say much more today. Let’s talk for a minute about your schedule. Do you work every day?”

Jody nodded.

“Are you going to keep working until you leave for California?”

“That’s a big subject if we’re out of time,” Jody said.

“So let’s talk about it more later,” Claire said. “What’s tomorrow like for you?”

“Fine,” Jody said, wondering how the hell she’d pay for all this. All of a sudden she needed to see Claire all the time. Not once a week but every day. She had the urge to tell Claire everything, even the things she really didn’t want her to know. It was as if Jody needed to unload herself, her whole self, to empty everything onto Claire and then, scrubbed clean, leave for California. And Jody also had the strangest gut feeling that Claire somehow needed her as well; she reprimanded herself for it. That was truly sick, a sure sign of major neurosis. Of course Claire didn’t need her, she had a life of her own: a husband, probably kids, and a million other patients, including the one who’d just buzzed into the waiting room.

“We really have to stop,” Claire said. “Is nine-thirty all right?”

“In the morning?”

Claire laughed. “Too early?”

“It’s all right,” Jody said. Didn’t Claire know that America worked from nine to five, that structure was good for people? Nine-thirty in the goddamn morning was way too soon. Nothing was going to happen between now and then. Jody would eat dinner, watch TV, sleep, then be back here with Claire. Why was Jody throwing herself at Claire? Moreover, why was Claire letting her do it? Shouldn’t Claire set some limits, say something like, I know you’d really like to see me again soon, but it’s not healthy, not productive. You must learn to solve your own problems, be independent, otherwise how are you going to get to California and make a name for yourself?

The rain had stopped, and a veil of late-afternoon sun was poking through dark clouds. Somewhere — maybe in Vermont, where Claire probably had a weekend house — there was a beautiful rainbow. The air was warm from the rain. Jody crossed Houston and walked up to Washington Square, which was empty, the junkies temporarily chased out by the weather. A couple of street people pushing grocery carts were circling each other, staking out the best bench. She walked east toward Broadway, not at all sure where she was going. It was twenty past five. She’d been in the shrink’s office for the whole fucking afternoon.

The phone rang at ten-thirty and Jody knew a stranger was calling. She’d already said goodnight to her mother, Michael was out of town and wouldn’t have bothered to take her number, Ellen was on a date, and Harry was at an opening at the Museum of Modern Art.

“Hello,” Jody said, prepared to hang up without saying another word. She held the phone in one hand and, with the other, pulled back the window shade enough so she could peek outside, as though the caller would be standing at the pay phone on the corner.

“I don’t think you know me,” a man’s voice said.

Jody was tempted to slam the phone down, but there was something kind of nervous and pathetic about the voice. Jody let go of the shade.

“This is Peter Sears. Ann gave me your number.”

Ann who? Jody wondered.

“She told me you were living in the city and suggested I call you.”

Peter Sears had gone to Wesleyan along with Jody and about fifty people named Ann. His father was a famous record producer, and she’d considered trying to be friends with him, but she realized this impulse was based more on his father’s success than on any qualities Peter himself might have had, so she ignored him. Plus, he was good-looking, really good-looking, so good-looking, in fact, that Jody couldn’t figure why he was calling her in the first place.

“So, how is Ana?” she asked, still not sure who they were talking about.

“Fine,” Peter said. “She said that since graduation you’ve been doing some film work.”

“A little. I’m helping Harry Birenbaum on a project,” Jody said, figuring that Peter would recognize Harry’s name. Harry and Mr. Sears probably played whatever it was that men played together. “But in the fall I’ll be going to UCLA.”

“Wow, great.”

Yeah, wow, great, Jody thought. Every time she said “UCLA” a wave of anxiety washed over her. At least it sounded good to other people.

“What have you been doing?” Jody asked.

“Some writing,” Peter said.

He probably didn’t have to work. Jody imagined Peter living a life of extreme luxury in the brownstone his father owned but never lived in for more than three days in a row. Peter probably woke up at ten a.m., watched cartoons until eleven, drank fresh-squeezed juice in bed, and finally got up around noon, giving the maid a chance to straighten up before doing the shopping.