I was slowly coming to the realization that the origin of my life was more complex than an unsolved Rubik’s Cube. I had no idea why Rebecca Maier’s response to my question had been so mysterious and impenetrable when I asked her point-blank, “Are you my birth mother?” I surmised that if she had never told her husband about me before they were married—my identity would be a ticking time bomb certain to cause severe marital distress. This was the only rational explanation I could think of to explain her vague enigmatic non-committal response. The woman living on a dairy farm near Madison, Wisconsin, named Rebecca Maier had to be my birth mother because all the pieces fit together. Most importantly, she had never denied it. What was the real meaning behind her words, “I’m sorry?” Perhaps, she had other clandestine secrets of her own, other adopted or foster children she was trying to protect or perhaps she had given a child up for adoption other than me.
I wondered if I would ever solve this conundrum? My husband nearly gave me a panic attack when he suggested, “Let’s do a stakeout of her house with binoculars to see what she looks like. If she looks like you, that would be a big step in the right direction.” I couldn’t imagine myself participating in a frivolous escapade that daringly dramatic. His idea sounded implausible; more like a melodramatic scene from an old black-and-white movie. Pretending to have a flat tire in front of her house was hokey and unreliable. She might not even be home, but he was eager to play adoption detective, and likely would have followed through with his spying caper, if a severe thunderstorm hadn’t ruined the day.
Two weeks later, back in the security of our Colorado home in the mountains, we called Rebecca Maier a second time. She expressed empathy for me, but remained quietly aloof and reserved. She seemed like a nice person but I couldn’t conceive of a single credible explanation for her reticent response and lack of a rejoinder. She was apologetic for not answering my question directly; leaving me to believe that she was enthralled with other very deep secrets that prevented her from confessing. Why couldn’t she simply respond by saying yes or no? Otherwise, why in the world would she leave me suspended in limbo, wandering aimlessly in search of my true self-identity and family pedigree? Her complete lack of an explanation, devoid of any rational definitive response, left me in a shambles, confused and reduced to emotional rubble. I was despondent and so was she. I was in a complete funk—ceiling zero— thicker than the thickest fog of Scotland.
As the weeks went by I slowly recovered. Without prompting, I curiously wondered how many more women named Rebecca Maier, Meier, Meyer, Mayor, or Mayer I could find living in the United States. What about Henry Walter Maier, the mayor of Milwaukee, who lived just a few houses down the street from my parents, or Oscar F. Mayer the famous manufacturer of hot dogs, bologna, bacon and ham? Maybe, I was related to one of them? I opened the Milwaukee telephone book and resumed the slow tedious calling process… checking each name twice before crossing it off the list.
اعتماد كتاب القصة | libro de historia de la adopción | thông qua cuốn sách câu chuyện
батлах түүх ном | olomo itan iwe | ibhuku story zokutholwa | Buugga sheekada korsashada | whakatamarikitanga kōrero pukapuka