Chapter Twenty-Three

MINKA SANK INTO a dining room chair, placed her left fist on the clear plastic cover she kept over her tablecloth to protect it from spills. She squeezed the phone so hard her wrist hurt, but she didn’t notice the pain. She tried to remember to breathe.

A voice came on the line.

“Hello?” An older woman. A stranger. Her darling girl?

“Hello,” the voice repeated. “This is your Betty Jane.”

Minka would never remember exactly what she said next. For the next minute or so, there was too much commotion in her head and in her heart. She introduced herself as though they had never met. As though she had not spent every day of the last seventy-seven years missing this person.

Minka drank in her daughter’s voice. Her mind thudded: Betty Jane. Betty Jane.

“. . . we have six children,” the voice was saying. Minka tried to stay with every word. “Two girls and four boys . . .”

“Six children?” Minka said. Her number of grandchildren had just doubled. Betty Jane began to list the children’s names, their occupations. They were all grown, of course. Minka listened with a kind of numb astonishment to the cascade of details about these people who were her blood.

A business owner. Air Force pilot. Four-time shuttle astronaut. Army. West Point. A teacher. A NASA contractor. Another teacher.

It was too much to take in. NASA . . . West Point . . . educators . . .

Astronaut?

Minka would have to process it all later.

In Wisconsin, the Lee family was in an uproar. After he’d handed the phone to Ruth, Brian had hurried outside to his siblings and father. His usual deliberate way of speaking gave way to obvious excitement.

“Hey, guys,” he said, raising his voice. “Guess who Mom’s talking to?” He knew they’d never guess. “She’s on the phone with her birth mother. In California.”

That got their attention. Brian had recently told his siblings that he was looking for their biological grandparents, but he hadn’t kept them updated on his progress. Until the last twenty-four hours, he hadn’t believed he’d find much.

“She’s talking to her right now, on the phone.”

Deb stared at him. “No kidding,” she said.

“She’s still alive?” Charles asked.

“Yes, still alive,” Brian replied. “I just called and asked her a bunch of questions —well, actually, I started to, but then she grilled me —and it’s her, all right.” He placed both hands on his hips, exhaled. “I can hardly believe it.”

Deb stood up and began moving toward the house.

“I’m gonna go back in too,” Brian said. “To hear what they’re saying.”

He and Deb hurried across the grass, up the slight incline to the house. When they entered the screened porch, Teresa looked up and smiled. Ruth sat at the table with a pen and paper that Teresa had fetched. Ruth was scribbling words and numbers down, nodding and saying “Oh!” a lot.

From her California apartment, Minka offered some details about her own life. Her husband, her children, her career. There was simply too much to fit into a few minutes.

Minka could hear voices in the background from time to time. She remembered the first voice over the line. The one she’d thought might be trying to con her.

“Oh, is that my grandson?”

“Yes, Brian. He’s the one who found you.”

Minka didn’t want to hang up. She wanted to grab this moment, hold it fast, and not let go. If she hung up, might she discover this wasn’t real? If it was a dream, it was one she didn’t want to wake from.

They exchanged addresses. Betty Jane —if she’d said her new name, Minka hadn’t heard it —promised to send pictures of her family and childhood pictures of herself. Minka’s heart soared.

“Be sure to put my apartment number on the envelope,” Minka said repeatedly. There were only four units in her complex, but although her neighbors were dear friends, practically family, Minka couldn’t bear the thought of having any delays when the mail came.

She didn’t want to wait a single extra second to see her Betty Jane’s face, only imagined all these years.

As the conversation wound down, Ruth’s family heard her give her address and offer to send photographs. She repeated her phone number. Then Ruth said good-bye. As she hung up the phone, she looked at her family with an astonished smile. Tim and Charles had made their way up and crowded onto the porch.

“What did she say?” Brian asked.

“Well . . . let’s see. She grew up in South Dakota. Was married to a World War II pilot, but he died. Had a boy and a girl, but her son died a few years ago. She used to work for a school district as a cook. And then she worked for Kmart. She goes to church. And she takes care of her apartment complex. She sounds very healthy.”

“Is she gonna send you pictures?” Teresa asked.

“Oh, yes,” Ruth said. “And she wants to see pictures of all you kids and old pictures of me. I’ll have to get some out. . . . I’ll have to find them and make some copies at the store.” She glanced at the paper in front of her. “I wrote her address down. She told me to make sure to include her apartment number. She mentioned that a couple of times. And I told her . . . I said I’d go see her.”

“I’ll go with you, Mom,” Brian said immediately. Ruth looked up at him.

“I want to meet her too,” he said. “We’ll go together. As soon as we can.”

It was clear to them that, although the search was over, this journey was just beginning.

* * *

Minka sat at her table, holding the phone for a long time. She barely noticed the tears streaking her cheeks. Her mind brimmed over with all she’d discovered about Betty Jane —her heart brimmed over with the knowledge that she’d just spoken to her. After all these years, after everything.

This new reality was wonderful. It was like the day when she’d first held her newborn baby, the day the world had shifted, opened, turned from dark to color. Everything had changed. She’d changed with it.

At the end of the call had come an impossible wonder. Six weeks earlier, when Minka had prayed her foolish prayer, she’d promised not to interrupt her daughter’s life. She’d asked God for a mere glimpse of Betty Jane, had dared to hope for a photograph.

But now her daughter wanted to meet her.

“We will set something up soon,” Ruth had promised.

Minka didn’t know how long she sat there, breathing prayers of thanksgiving, reliving the conversation. But finally she turned the phone back on and punched in a familiar number. Every person she had ever told about her firstborn child was now dead. There was just one other living person who knew the secret; but it hadn’t been through Minka’s telling, and they’d only spoken of it once.

In Oregon, Minka’s second-born daughter, Dianna, answered the phone.

“Guess who called me?” Minka blurted out.

“Um . . . Cathy? Gary? Grant?” Dianna’s own children seemed the likely answers to such a question.

“Betty Jane.”

The name meant nothing to Dianna. She’d never heard it before.

“Who?”

“Betty Jane. My . . . my baby.”

Decades earlier, when Dianna was just a teenager, Roy had taken his daughter out to lunch and spilled a slew of family secrets. Perhaps he’d been drinking, perhaps he’d just been trying to cause trouble. With a slight sneer, he’d told Dianna that her mother had had another baby once and had given the child up for adoption.

It was shocking information to a “good girl” whose life revolved around church. Dianna eventually worked up enough courage to ask Minka about it. After a long pause, Minka had merely said that, yes, it was true; but her first daughter had gone to a good home, and that was that. She never offered any additional information.

Now, on the phone, the whole story spilled out. Dianna had never heard her mother this excited.

“They want to come see me, honey, and they want to meet you, too!” Minka’s voice danced. “They seem so nice. I can’t believe this.”

* * *

Days later, Minka received a thick envelope in her mailbox. As soon as she saw the Wisconsin address, she hurried inside to rip it open.

There was a letter from Ruth, but Minka’s eyes jumped to a stack of photographs. Her bent fingers trembled. Tears filled her eyes. At long last, she was looking at her little girl, the one she’d only imagined over the many days and decades.

There was Betty Jane as a laughing, chubby baby. Minka studied every detail of her face and hands, remembering the softness of her skin.

There she was as a girl with bare feet and flowers in her curly hair, squinting into a bright sun, her adoptive parents standing close behind her.

There she was as a beautiful young woman with bare shoulders and dark lipstick, gazing over her shoulder with a serene expression.

There she was with her husband and six growing children, all wearing seventies-style clothing, Ruth’s hair going gray.

Minka examined each photo, holding them close so she could take in every detail. One of Ruth’s sons looked almost exactly like Dianna’s son Grant. Ruth bore a striking resemblance to Minka’s own mother, Jennie. Every picture gave testament to a good life, a full one. It was everything she’d ever hoped and prayed that God would give her darling Betty Jane.

This was why she had let her go. So that Betty Jane could have all of this.

But it was hard to make the mental adjustment. After so much time, even though she’d tried to “age” Betty Jane in her mind, Minka realized she’d always expected to get a little girl back.

The wound was still deep. It always would be. As she did every time she thought of giving up her baby, Minka wept.

* * *

Ten days after their first phone call, Brian composed a long letter to Minka.

Dear Minka,

Wow!!! What a whirlwind 2 week period. My head is still swimming and only can imagine yours is as well. I know Mom has been on an emotional roller coaster, as I’m sure you have been as well. But I must say this research has been a labor of love and based on what I have read in the adoption file, it has all been worth the time spent researching . . .

I must say right up front that you must be an amazing person!! I am glad to be able to call you my Grandmother!!! I am sure it has come as a shock to know that your family multiplied by about two times overnight . . .

Brian gave some background information on his siblings and himself, his wife, and their children. And then . . .

I could probably write and write all day, but then nothing would get in the mail. So I will conclude with this, enclose pictures and begin to plan for a reunion between you, Mom, and Dianna (I hope). I believe we should waste little time in planning this reunion . . .

With love,

Your (new) grandson, Brian

Minka held the letter, read it again. Oh yes, please come today! she wanted to say.

Brian’s schedule was the busiest, but after another phone conversation, they all settled on a date. Friday, August 18.

Minka now had several weeks to prepare those who loved her for this bombshell. None of her dearest friends or oldest acquaintances knew that Betty Jane existed. Minka’s own grandchildren hadn’t the slightest idea. She knew she would have a lot of explaining to do. Right now, her lifelong preference for privacy seemed to be coming apart at the seams.

But Betty Jane had come back. Nothing else really mattered.

* * *

August finally arrived. The day before the reunion, Minka’s grandson Grant, a high school teacher and father of twin toddler girls, flew down from Oregon. He came to support his grandmother and to videotape the reunion. His mother, Dianna, would join them after a college class she was taking wrapped up. Grant had been dumbfounded by the news of Ruth’s existence and shocked to hear about the rape, as were all of her grandchildren. But they were also thrilled to see their grandmother bursting with joy.

Minka spent Thursday in a whirlwind of baking. She’d learned that Ruth had an insatiable sweet tooth and loved chocolate, lemon, and licorice. Minka made fruit bars in a sturdy metal pan, lemon bars, and snickerdoodles. She bought the biggest tub of red licorice she could find.

That night, Minka didn’t sleep much. Her mind raced. She wished that her mother and Jane, even Honus, were still alive to share the excitement. Her fondest dream, the one she’d held since 1929, was about to come true. It may have seemed silly, given her age, but somehow it felt as though Minka was at a new beginning in her life, rather than near the end of it.

By dawn Minka had given up on sleep. She rose, tidied up, set the table. She laid out donuts, cookie balls, and nuts. She cut up watermelon, cantaloupe, and honeydew. Grant, a tall and gentle man, pattered around offering soothing conversation. Together they went outside and cut pink bougainvilleas, which Minka spread on the dining room table between two candles.

Her guests were coming at 9:30 that morning. Minka wanted everything to be perfect.

Twenty-six miles north, at a hotel near the Orange County airport, Ruth hadn’t slept much either. She had no memory of her birth mother, hadn’t spent the last seventy-seven years missing her or decades writing letters in search of her. But she now knew that Minka had been waiting for her. Ruth realized with wonder that through every memory she could recall in her seventy-seven years, Minka had been thinking of and longing for her.

Lost in her thoughts, Ruth spoke little. Brian went out for coffee and pastries. Teresa moved quietly in the background, getting ready. Ruth sat at the desk in their shared room. She picked up a pen, opened a greeting card. She wished to get this just right, but no words could completely capture what she felt.

Dear Mother Minka,

The time is finally arrived for us to meet face to face and I can’t hardly wait. I know it is an answer to prayers and that’s why I am giving you an angel of prayer. The time will go by all too fast, but there will be other times I’m sure. Teresa put together albums for you and Dianna from us. She is such a special daughter-in-law . . . “daughter” as I call her.

With love,

Ruth

Brian came back with donuts and a big bouquet of flowers wrapped in pink cellophane: white daisies and pink roses and delicate lilies.

“I thought you’d like to give these to her,” he said.

“Oh, those are beautiful,” Ruth said, walking over, touching the wrapper, smelling the roses. “She’ll like those.” At least, Ruth assumed she would. She really didn’t know much about her mother. But who didn’t like roses?

It was almost 9. They rode the elevator down. Brian went to get the car. Ruth stood in the lobby of the hotel, looking into the dining room. She could see people inside, eating breakfast and drinking juice. The woman she’d soon meet was like any of these people —a stranger. Ruth wondered if she and Minka looked alike. If we stood beside each other, would people guess we were mother and daughter?

Ruth took a deep breath and looked down at her outfit. At least she looked nice for this special day. She’d dressed carefully in white slacks, a solid-colored shirt with fancy embroidery at the neck, a good watch, and jewelry.

At her apartment, Minka puttered around, tidying her guest room and fussing again over the table. She finally dressed, choosing white slacks, a solid-colored shirt with fancy embroidery at the neck, a good watch, and jewelry.

And then she paced and fiddled. She swept the sidewalk and straightened the chairs on her patio. She decided that the light fixture above the garage was not clean enough, so she unlocked the laundry room, retrieved a red shop rag, and then rubbed at the light until all the dust and bits of cobwebs were gone. For good measure, she wiped down the placard displaying the street numbers.

Finally, there was nothing left to do but watch the clock.

And wait.

One final time.

Ruth was quiet on the drive down the freeway. From the driver’s seat, Brian commented on how much had changed here, how many buildings had sprung up. Although he’d since traveled the world, Brian hadn’t driven these roads in thirty years, not since he’d been stationed at the marine corps base in nearby Twentynine Palms.

He pulled off the freeway, following directions he’d printed from a website. Teresa helped navigate. These coastal roads were twisty, leading down to the ocean, and twice Brian almost made wrong turns. Finally they saw Minka’s street. Each of them felt a jolt of adrenaline.

Brian turned the steering wheel, passed an empty dirt lot, saw a driveway. A tall man stood on the concrete, holding a video camera and waving excitedly.

Brian pulled in. And then they saw her —an old woman striding along the walkway toward them, her smile as bright as a prairie sunrise.