I can hardly contain my excitement. I didn’t know if I would cry upon seeing them or feel nothing at all. As the plane descends, however, my anxiety and excitement rise. I drive to his fiancée’s town home in Evanston and call to let them know I’m close. I pull into the alley and start backing into the space in front of the garage as he had instructed me to do. When I turn around to see how I’m doing, I’m shocked by the face peering in through the driver side window. My first reaction is “He’s fine!” Then I realize he’s my brother and that I shouldn’t be having those thoughts. He reminds me of myself and surprisingly, of my second husband, from whom I’d recently separated.
The three of us talk and I realize how much we all have in common. My step dad drives across Chicago with his poor-cataract-night vision to bring me pictures of my mother and the other kids growing up. I study them and one picture of my mother on her 50th birthday takes my breath away. I drop to the sofa. A few less gray hairs and a few pounds lighter and I’d be looking at myself, again.
One of my sisters, Arlene, who had been reluctant to contact me, called that evening to say she and my law enforcement brother, Eric, wanted to take me to lunch to meet me in a more intimate setting. We agreed to meet at a restaurant downtown. I walked in and spotted them right away. They had wondered if they would recognize me, but told me that the moment I walked in the door, they knew who I was.
The aunt who had known about me was coincidently, in Chicago for reunion of ‘the old neighborhood’. We met at another of my mom’s sister’s homes and watched family reunion videos. I got to see the way my mom moved and talked and laughed. It was thrilling. I got to see my talents for singing in cousins and aunts.
I spent a week with them, meeting all kinds of relatives including another sister, Helena, who looked strangely like me and my adoptive mother. We drove to Detroit to meet another aunt, uncle and a cousin. This aunt looked more like my mother than any of her other siblings. When she walked into the restaurant and came to our table, I was dumbfounded. It was like looking in a mirror into the future. “This is what I’ll look like when I’m 70” I thought to myself.
I heard stories all week about my mother from her siblings, her children and her widow. I learned that she was very loved and had been missed terribly since her death. Over and over, people told me how much I reminded them of Marjorie who had been gone for six years by then. People were as dumbfounded staring at me as I was of them.
During the week, I was inundated, overwhelmed with information. While I was very happy, the whole experience was less emotionally trying than I thought I might be. I could tell though, that internally, at some subconscious level, multiple holes were being filled in. Pieces of missing data were being integrated in ways I had not anticipated. Holes were being filled in for them too. Mysterious and anxiety-ridden comments Marjorie had said to her family about the time she spent in college began to make sense to them.
One night as I was journaling about the experience, I swear I felt her presence. When I mentioned this to my brother, he told me that he’s felt her with him on several occasions as well.
Marjorie’s foray into higher education apparently inspired her older siblings. One became a judge: another, a teacher. Once Mom had completed raising her other children, she returned to school herself to obtain a Master’s degree. She attended Loyola University and graduated at age 61 with a Masters in Social Work. She was voted Most Outstanding Student by the other students in her class.
The search had taken a very long time to come to fruition. I was 51 at the time that I met Marjorie’s - now my - family. There were many false starts. In the long run, it seems that it all turned out well. Marjorie went to her grave with her secret in tact. Her family had time to grieve over her rather sudden death and deal with her secret without having to confront her about the decades of lies. They also got a living remembrance of their sister, mom and wife when I arrived on the scene and we’re all very happy now.
Last year, I got married (again). Fourteen ‘new’ family members flew out to attend the ceremony. Harvey, Jr. walked me down the aisle and gave me to my new husband on behalf of the family. Eric, my other brother and a sister, Helena, read poems during the wedding. I danced with Harvey, Sr., my stepfather in the bride/father dance. My sister and aunt both cried that evening. I’m crying as I write this.
I realize how blessed I am to have had such a positive experience. I recognize that all reunion stories don’t have such a happy ending. I still wish I could have laid my head on Marjorie’s breast again, have hugged and heard her breath and heartbeat. In the absence of all of that, I’m delighted with how it all turned out.
