Sisters

I met my "Little Sister" Clementine in the hallway outside of fourth grade. She was at the tail end of the line and glanced over at me with a shy smile. I smiled back at the slender long-legged child with the pink sneakers, white laces trailing. Sue, the Big Brother/Big Sister coordinator, led us down to the school's media center and we sat together at a table. Clementine pulled lunch from a bag. We examined our matching beige canvas totes, each containing a plastic cup and pen and a file with pertinent information. Sue left us with a tackle box of beads to string. Clementine plucked an elasticized turquoise friendship bracelet from a tangle. 

"I think orange would look nice on you," she said, shaking her glossy brown bangs.

And so we began: New friends, treading with care.

"I'm adopted," Clementine announced mid-munch.

"Me too!" I exclaimed, surprised.

"You are?" Clementine grinned.

"Yes."

"When were you adopted?"

"Right out of the hospital, after I was born," I replied, realizing, well, no, probably not right out of the hospital. I was brought to a lawyer's office and my parents picked me up there. And was it both of my parents, or was my father working? I seem to remember being told that my godmother went with Mom... The myth of me.

"Oh."

"How about you?" I asked, wondering if I should.

"My foster mom adopted me."

"That's awesome," I said.

I am out of practice with bead stringing and knot tying, my fingers clumsy, but Clementine helped me. I tied her friendship bracelet around her wrist. She told me that her mom surprised her with a trip to Disney in California to celebrate her adoption - a lovely, elaborate scheme, suitcases hidden from sight.

As we talked I was struck by the energy and openness of this child, and I felt echoes of a much younger me, bright, anxious to please, story spilling out.

Growing up I grappled with the fact of being adopted. It was my theme, my sadness, my pride, my isolation, my rage, my shame. Within minutes of meeting a new friend, I would proffer it - a tarnished pearl.

Or, in conversation with a new therapist:

What brings you here?

Well, I'm adopted.

I tried to sever myself from my family. I tried to amputate the pain. Rage twined with fear, with desperation, with hope. 

My practice was to ferret out ways I didn't belong, while yearning - above all - to be convinced that I did.

A few years ago around Easter my mother did that thing, that exclusion thing, that separating me from thing. It had to do with the amount of people for Easter Sunday lunch, an unlucky count of 13. I discovered the list of guests with a note written by my mother next to my name in which she hoped I might go elsewhere, so there would be 12.

"We're going to talk about this now, Mom!" I demanded in the marble foyer of her home. 

"What?" My mother demurred. She gripped her walker and tried to veer away. I followed and faced her down. 

"I don't know why you are so upset," she said evasively as we circled.

"Yes, you do! I am a member of this family!" I shouted. "I choose this family!" I belong to this family!"  I stopped yelling. There was an almost audible pop, as though unseen fingers had snapped. Poof! I was done with it. I was stunned. Laughing with relief and amazement I kissed my bewildered mother.

Was it me who had needed to choose all this time?

"I forgive you Mom, and I love you," I said, "And I will be here for lunch on Easter Sunday."

"Well, I love you too, Ame. Always have."

I will be taking Family Medical Leave to spend precious time with my mother, but this connection with Clementine seems vital. Every other Monday I will be back home in Vermont getting to know this eager, multifaceted child.

We have lots in common: soccer, reading, traveling, writing, family.

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