Ann Martin - Baby-Sitters Club 033

Today's lesson, I had decided, would be on counting. From watching Sesame Street, Emily already knew how to count to ten, but the words didn't mean anything to her. She'd just haul off and say (very fast), "One-two-fee-foe-five-sick-seben-eight-nine-ten." Now I needed to show her what those words meant.

I placed three blue triangles on the floor in front of Emily.

"Bwoo!" she said.

"That's great, Em," I told her. "They are blue, and they are all the same - they're triangles - but how many are there?" Before Emily had a chance to get frustrated, I took her finger and pointed to each one, saying clearly, "One . . . two . . . three!" "Foe-five-sick-seben-eight-nine-ten!" continued Emily triumphantly.

"No, let's start over." So we did. I added another triangle and we counted to four. That afternoon we counted circles, squares, Emily's fingers and toes, my shoes, some pencils, and finally - just as Charlie was arriving - we counted one piece of candy, which I gave Emily as a reward for her hard work. She was definitely not a counter yet, but she was on her way.

When Emily had left, I quietly closed the door to my room. I could hear the clickety-clack of Janine's computer and knew she was hard at work, and probably a million miles away (mentally), but I wasn't taking any chances. I had decided to call Wyoming, and I didn't want Janine to overhear.

It had taken me a long, long time to work up the nerve to make the Wyoming call (or calls), and now I was ready. If I didn't call, I'd never find out about Resa Ho, and that would drive me crazy someday. I was pretty sure of it.

I got out the phone book. I looked up the area code for Wyoming, hoping desperately that there would be only one. There was. It was 307. I didn't pause. I plunged ahead and dialed (307)555-1212.

"What city, please?" asked the operator.

"Cuchara," I replied.

"Okay, go ahead." Go ahead? Oh. She meant what number did I want.

"I need the phone number for the Hos." "The Hos?" "Yes, Ho. H-O." "There are three Hos in Cuchara, ma'am," said the operator patiently. "Do you know the party's address or first name?" The party?

"Um, is there a George Ho?" I asked.

"I'm sorry, I have no such listing." "Oh. Well, could you give me the numbers for the three Hos that you do have?" The operator then gave me the numbers for a Mary Ho, for Sydney and Sheila Ho, and for Barry and Patty Ho.

"Thank you," I said, and hung up.

I just kept forging ahead. I dialed Mary Ho first. The phone rang twelve times. No answer. She wasn't home.

Next I tried Sydney and Sheila Ho. A woman answered on the first ring! And then - I swear, I don't know where this idea came from - I found myself saying, "Congratulations! Your daughter Resa has been chosen as the winner in the - " "Excuse me," said the woman, "but I don't have a daughter named Resa. My daughter is Pamela." "Is she thirteen?" I asked briskly.

"Yes." "Hmm." I pretended to be puzzled. "Do you know of a thirteen-year-old girl in Cuchara whose name is Resa?" "No." The woman sounded irritated.

"Too bad," I said. "I mean, about your daughter. She would have been the winner of a twenty-one-inch color television and a VCR." Then I hung up. I called Barry and Patty Ho and tried the same trick. But the boy who answered the phone said he was fourteen and had two younger brothers.

I tried Mary Ho again. Still no answer.

Then I dialed Stacey. "Guess what," I said. "I've found my birth mother." "You're kidding!" Stacey sounded astonished.

I explained what had happened when I'd called Wyoming. I said that by the process of elimination, Mary Ho must be my mother.

After quite a bit of silence, Stacey said, "Claudia, believe me when I say this. I really think you may be adopted. But I do not think that Mary Ho is necessarily your birth mother.

In the first place, you didn't talk to her. For all you know, she's only twenty-one years old. In the second place, what makes you so sure you were born in Stoneybrook?" "I don't know," I said. "It just seems logical. Once I heard a news story about a woman who gave birth to a baby she couldn't keep, so the doctor who delivered the baby adopted him. That baby would have been born in the same town where his birth mother had lived. Anyway, think about it. I'm like no one else in my family. I even look different. I think maybe I'm only half-Asian. I think - "I began to cry.

"Claud, slow down. You're jumping to all sorts of conclusions. Look, everyone is different, and not everyone fits into her family, or his family. I'm the only McGill with diabetes. And think how different Jessi and Becca Ramsey are. And look at Nicky Pike, for heaven's sake. Talk about not fitting into your family. His brothers tease him and he doesn't like to play with his sisters." I sniffed. "I guess you're right," I said.

"The thing is," Stacey went on, "you're not going to feel better until you know the truth. You don't even know for sure that you're adopted." "But how am I going to find out? I don't know how to search anymore." "Ask your parents," said Stacey flatly.

"They'll never tell me the truth." "Why are you so convinced of that? They told you the truth when Mimi was sick. They've told you the truth about plenty of things. Ask them. You have to confront them." I let out a shaky breath. "Okay," I said. "I'll talk to them after dinner." Chapter 14.

Think it was tough waiting until after dinner?

Well, you're right.

But it had to be done. Mom and Dad came home from work and they were starved, so my family ate dinner together right away. And I was not going to bring up the subject of my adoption in front of Janine. I needed a private talk with my parents. My adoptive parents, that is.

Dinner was almost painful. Those butterflies were back, so I could hardly eat. I couldn't concentrate, either. I kept saying, "What? What?" Mom asked me twice if I was sick. She even leaned over and felt my forehead. When Janine dropped her fork, I jumped a mile. I nearly fell out of my chair. At that point, I saw Mom and Dad exchange a glance, which of course was about me.

All during dinner I'd wondered how to ask my parents for a private conference, but in the end, I didn't have to ask. They asked me. First they said, "Janine, will you clean up the kitchen tonight, please?" "But it's Claudia's turn," Janine replied.

"You're switching," said Dad in his no-nonsense voice. "Claudia will make up for it later." "Okay," replied my sister, pouting.

Then Mom said, "Let's go into the den, Claudia. Your father and I want to talk to you." They did? Were they going to say they knew what I'd been up to - my search and all - and they'd decided to tell me the truth?

No.

We settled ourselves in the den, Mom and Dad on the couch with me between them. A Claudia sandwich with parent bread.

"Claudia," said my father, "something is obviously very wrong. Your mother and I couldn't help but notice your behavior at dinner. We hope you'll talk to us and let us try to help you." I nodded. A big lump in my throat kept me from speaking.

"Are you having trouble at school?" asked Mom gently. She brushed a strand of hair from my face.

I shook my head.

"It isn't report-card time," said Dad, trying to make a joke.

I couldn't even smile.

"Did you have a fight with Stacey?" asked Mom.

Again I shook my head. And then (I couldn't help it) I began to cry.

My parents were truly alarmed.

"Claudia?" said Dad.

"You lied to me!" I finally said in a tight whisper.

I didn't see it, but I know that Mom and Dad frowned at each other over the top of my head.

"We lied to you?" repeated Dad.

"Yeah," I said with a little gasp. "All these years. All the times when you said, 'When Claudia was born . . .'or, 'When Claudia was a baby . . .'or, 'When Claudia came home from the hospital . . .' And not one of those times - not one - did you say I came home from the hospital as an adopted baby." "An adopted baby!" exclaimed my mother.