CHAPTER 4
Everything I know about my birth parents is written in dry legalese on my adoption papers, but this is how I like to tell the story:
They were in their midtwenties when I was born, living in Central California, and married. (This much I know is true.) But my birth mother felt trapped in the marriage, desperate to get out of suburgatory (I’m editorializing here), so she took off with me when I was still an infant. She and I went to Hawaii (that detail is, remarkably, included in the papers), where we lived until I was about one year old.
Sometimes when I close my eyes and slow my breath, I hear waves crashing on a beach. I like to imagine it’s a memory of back then, when my birth mother and I lived in a little grass hut (I’m guessing) just beyond the reach of the surf. I used to picture a woman with shiny black hair leaning over me, like I was in a crib, or lying on a beach towel on the sand. In my mind, I would reach up to touch her hair and discover that it felt just like mine—smooth and fine. I know this isn’t a true memory, just something I’ve imagined so many times it almost feels real.
So, anyway, my birth mother and I were apparently chilling in Hawaii, but then something happened, and she disappeared. A neighbor contacted my birth father, who brought me back to California. Apparently, he couldn’t hack the single-dad thing, because a few months later he left me at Catholic Charities with some honest-to-God nuns and never came back.
And that’s it. That’s all I know.
When my parents adopted me, I could toddle, but I wasn’t potty trained. According to them, I started calling my mom “Mama” almost immediately. My parents never talk about my adoption, but I’ve seen the papers. It was closed, which means there’s no identifying information about my birth parents. I do know their names were Martin and Teresa, they were twenty-five, and they were married. They could have listed their racial background or where they were from, but they chose not to. They did, however, provide their professions (hers: baker/entrepreneur; his: mechanic) and favorite hobbies (both: music).
There are lots of things we don’t talk about in my family, but the top three are the weight my dad’s gained since he was promoted to senior director at his nonprofit, my aunt Jeanette (my mom’s younger sister who died when I was little), and my adoption. Maybe that’s why I never asked my parents about my name. Years ago, though, I started secretly googling “Martin + Teresa + Nora” + any other relevant terms I could think of, hoping that I might be able to find them and get some answers about why they gave me up and where I come from. Now that I know I’ve had one of the central details wrong all this time, I’m so angry I could cry. It feels almost malicious, like I’ve been sitting in a prison with invisible bars.
My parents and Irene have never given any indication that they think of me as a lesser member of our family, so every time I’ve searched the internet for signs of my biological parents, I’ve felt corrupted, like I’ve stumbled upon something filthy in a shadowy corner of the dark web. I’ve tried, instead, to focus on gratitude, because I know things could have been so much worse for me. I’ve heard foster care horror stories about abuse and neglect. But gratitude gets exhausting after a while. Sometimes I don’t want to have to be thankful that I have a family. I want to deserve one.
All my life, I’ve made up stories to explain why my biological parents abandoned me. After seeing the movie Elf, I became convinced that my story was the opposite of Will Ferrell’s, that I was really an elf being raised as a human. I’d imagine my birth mother appearing in my bedroom, telling me that I was a princess in her magical kingdom, that she had taken me to Hawaii to escape an evil witch, who had finally caught her, but not before she hid me among mortals to keep me safe.
Later, when music became my sole focus, I read about Joni Mitchell reuniting with the daughter she’d given up, and I became convinced that I was the child of now-famous musicians, who’d had me when they were young and struggling.
I stare at my phone for several minutes before I type “Martin,” “Teresa,” “adoption,” and then, slowly, “Summer.” Once the words are in the search bar, I pause.
Even if this is by some miracle the key to finding my biological parents, do I really want that? If I never find them, then they can be whatever I imagine, forever.
But it feels important to figure out what happened to them, now more than ever. Irene is a replica of our parents. She’ll go to Stanford, major in political science, go to law school, become an attorney, save the world. And she’ll know how to do it, because she’s seen our parents do it. But I’m nothing like my parents; I can’t replicate their life. I’m like a goose that’s been raised by owls; now it’s time for me to migrate south, but no one ever showed me the route.
I press search and start scrolling through the results, refusing to feel guilty this time, or at least refusing to let the guilt hold me back.
I first search a genealogy archive for people named Summer born in California during my birth year. When I have a list of about twenty names, I start searching for traces of each of them on the internet, crossing out names that seem to match a person with an active social media presence or that appears in an article in a school newspaper. After about twenty minutes, I have five full names:
Summer Huerta
Summer Johnson
Summer Lee
Summer Saiyed
Summer Croft
I stare at the names for a full minute, wondering if it’s really possible that one of them once belonged to me; the idea is almost too surreal to be believed. But I plunge onward, searching for a Teresa that might match any of the Summers on the list.
At the end of another hour, I’ve found three Teresas that seem promising. A Teresa in Santa Barbara married someone named Martin Huerta the year before I was born. Teresa Johnson of Reedley, California, gave up a child for adoption. Teresa Croft divorced someone named Martin Croft in Watsonville, California. I find all of this information via a mixture of the online white pages, the genealogy website, local news articles, and social media. I spend the next few hours searching for the whereabouts of Teresa Huerta, Teresa Johnson, and Teresa Croft.
I find a woman named Teresa Huerta living in a suburb of Santa Barbara. I can only access one picture of her on her social media site. It’s a shadowy profile shot, but I think I can see some of myself in her features. Her jaw is round like mine is. Our eyes are similarly wide and brown. Her hair is lighter than mine is, but maybe she highlights it. Her complexion isn’t quite like mine, either—a little cooler, like the sky before rain—but it’s certainly darker than my parents’.
It’s shockingly easy to retrieve her address: 2932 Willow Creek Drive, Unit 3, Goleta, CA 93117. I find the address on Google Maps and zoom in to Street View. The apartment complex is small, single level, and nicely maintained. There’s a big tree in the front yard and a truck parked on the street. I find #3 and study it. There’s a window to the side of the front door, but it’s covered by a white curtain.
My birth mother could be behind there. The idea makes my heart race.
Am I really doing this?
I put my phone down, pick up my bass, and play scales again until my hands stop shaking. Then I write the Willow Creek address next to the name Huerta and move on to Teresa Johnson.
The article I found about her giving up a child is in the Reedley Gazette and is dated four years ago, but there’s nothing specific about when she gave up her child. I try to find a record of her marrying someone named Martin, but just because I can’t find a record doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I find her social media profile and study all the public pictures of her, but I don’t really see any resemblance between us. Her hair is darker than my mom’s, but not even close to black like mine. Her skin is tan, but I doubt it’s a natural tan. And “tan” wouldn’t describe my skin, anyway; my skin is sort of like the color of the ocean at twilight, an almost golden gray. Then again, I could take after my birth father.
I find two addresses for Teresa Johnson. One is a house on Hope Avenue. Another is an apartment out past the college. I write down both addresses and move on to Teresa Croft.
At first, I find nothing. I can tell from the genealogy website that at some point a human being named Teresa Croft lived in Santa Cruz County, but there’s no trace of her anywhere on the internet. I try searching for “Teresa Croft” plus “adoption.” Finally, I try her name plus “bakery” and find an address for a business called Croft’s Confections in Watsonville, not far from San Francisco. There’s no proof that the owner of Croft’s Confections was named Teresa, and when I click on the business’s website, it’s defunct. The street address now seems to belong to a nail salon, but that’s all I’ve got, so I write down the address and then sit back and look at what I’ve found.
This morning, the idea that my parents were elves trapped in a witch’s spell seemed as real to me as any other theory about who they are or where they might be. But now I have three full names, three addresses.
I could do this. I could find them.
But I don’t want to write a letter or call. I need to get to them somehow, observe them. That’s the only way I’ll know if they’re the real deal.
I text the guys: If we’re driving all the way to San Francisco, we should play a few other gigs. Make it a tour.
There’s a pause, then Daniel responds: Ohhhhhh I like this idea.
CAMERON: So, you got permission?!
ME: I’m working on it.
FLYNN: We can’t miss more school.
I plot the addresses on Google Maps. We wouldn’t have to travel too far off course to reach each of these cities. I’d just need time to go off on my own.
ME: What if we left Wednesday after school? Played Santa Barbara that night. Then we could play gigs Thursday and Friday night on our way to SF.
ME: We’d only have to miss Thursday and Friday. One more day won’t kill us.
FLYNN: That’s four nights in hotels instead of two. That’s expensive.
DANIEL: Cam’s parents won’t mind.
CAMERON: Honestly, they wouldn’t even notice.
No one comments on this. We know that Cameron’s credit card activity isn’t the only thing his parents miss. This year, they gave him a birthday card that said Happy 18th, but he was turning seventeen. He brought the card to school, made it seem like a big joke—“This is a step in the right direction! Last year they completely forgot. Someday soon, they’ll show me the same affection they show their cars!”—but it obviously hurt. That weekend, we threw him a surprise party at Daniel’s house, and he got super drunk. We found him in Daniel’s bathtub, covered in vomit and clutching a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. We spent the rest of that night cleaning him up and convincing him not to drunk dial his parents to ask them if they wished they’d never had a kid. When we tucked him into Daniel’s bed that night, he mumbled, “They regret everything about me.”
I said, “They don’t, Cam,” and Daniel added, “Besides, who gives a shit what they think?” but Cameron was already asleep.
So yeah, I feel pretty okay with letting Cameron’s parents pay for a few extra nights of hotel rooms. We all do.
FLYNN: But where are we going to play? We can’t just show up in Santa Barbara and start playing on a street.
DANIEL: Why not?
ME: But if I could book gigs?
FLYNN: It’s still the week before finals.
DANIEL: What do you want to be, Flynn? A student, or a rock star?
I might be the only one in the band who knows what Flynn’s real answer to that question is. I’m not sure why he doesn’t admit that he’s not interested in taking our band all the way, but when he finally writes, Fine. If Nora can book gigs, and if her parents agree, then we’ll do it, my whole body relaxes. I didn’t realize I was holding on to so much tension until I finally let it go. It feels like the band is being threatened from without and within, and my best chance to keep it all from falling apart is to make sure we get to the Magwitch by Saturday night.
My phone pings again. It’s a private text from Daniel: you’re up late
I check my phone and see that it’s after midnight. My group text probably woke Flynn up. I write back, Can’t sleep.
DANIEL: something on your mind?
This is a perfectly neutral thing to say, but it seems almost tender. I do my best to ignore the fluttering in my chest as I write, Just everything.
DANIEL: like?
ME: Blue Miles. Senior year.
DANIEL: life? the meaning of existence?
ME: Pretty much.
Even though it’s bound to cause me nothing but pain, I add: How did things go with Darcy?
He doesn’t respond for so long that I think he may have fallen asleep, but finally he writes, fine, i guess
If things were happily resolved, wouldn’t there be smiley faces and hearts or something? Wouldn’t he be using capital letters? He seemed normal in the group text thread, but maybe he was just faking it for the guys.
DANIEL: i thought she was pulling away because of that director, but apparently she’s tense because she’s graduating this year and i’m not.
DANIEL: so . . . that’s a relief?
ME: Isn’t she going to the JC? She’ll still be living at home.
DANIEL: that’s what i’ve been saaaayyyyyyying
There’s a pause, and then he starts typing again.
DANIEL: go to sleep, bass girl.
That nickname will be the death of me.
ME: You’re okay?
DANIEL: hey, at least we’ve got Blue Miles, right?
ME: Yeah. We’ve always got that.
The next morning before school, I find my parents sitting at the kitchen table, passing each other sections of the Los Angeles Times and sipping black coffee out of identical mugs. I spent all night planning what I was going to say to them, but now that I’m here, the words catch in my throat.
“You’re up early,” my mom says, her voice neutral, as always.
I close my eyes and imagine the Magwitch, what it would feel like to play on that stage. Deep in my bones, I know that’s what I was made for; I know that if I don’t seize this opportunity, if I allow myself to stumble forward in my parents’ footsteps toward a life that doesn’t even feel like mine, then I’ll regret it forever.
So, I open my eyes and do my best Megan Wakelin impression as I say, “I have a proposal for you.”
My parents look at each other. My mom refolds her section of the paper and says, “Okay, Nora. We’re listening.”
I hand them each a stapled packet of paper, then retreat several steps. “On the first page of your packet, you’ll find the bio for the band that headlined at the Rowdy last night.” I point at the lower left quadrant of the paper in my mom’s hand. “At the bottom, you’ll see a breakdown of their album sales over the last five years.”
My dad sips his coffee, then says, “What’s this about, Nora?”
“Last night, that band, Horoscope, invited Blue Miles to open for them at the Magwitch next Saturday.” I hesitate, then say, “Please turn to your second page.”
In unison, my parents flip the page, revealing several photographs of the interior and exterior of the Magwitch, along with a list of the most famous bands that have played there, organized by year.
“The Magwitch is a historically significant musical venue in San Francisco. It opened in 1959—”
My dad’s nodding along. The nice thing about having maddeningly rational attorneys as parents is that they’ll always listen to a carefully crafted argument. He sips his coffee again, then puts down his mug and says, “Your mother and I are aware of the Magwitch and its reputation.”
This, frankly, shocks me. My mom mostly listens to classical music, and my dad has a soft spot for bluegrass, but neither genre is heavily represented in the long, illustrious history of the Magwitch.
My mom must notice my surprise, because she explains, “The apartment we lived in at Stanford was twenty minutes from there.”
Well, that makes sense, then.
My dad’s focusing on the stats at the bottom of the page. “Did Led Zeppelin really play there twice?”
I nod.
“And Ray Charles?”
“Yes. In 1972.”
I’m tempted to explain to them exactly what it would mean to me to play on that stage, but I know that’s not an argument that will matter to them. So, I stick to the facts. “This summer, Blue Miles was planning on recording our first album. Cameron owns the necessary equipment, and we know a bit about producing. But if I’m gone this summer, then that possibility is gone.”
My mom puts down her stapled packet. “So, you want us to let you play a show in San Francisco next weekend.” She looks at my dad, using the line of her mouth to communicate something I can’t translate, then adds, “The weekend before finals.”
My chest tightens. If my heart were a drummer, I’d tell it to stop rushing the beat. Instead, I swallow and say, “Please turn to page three.”
They turn the page and find a map of our proposed route, hitting all the towns where I found a biological mother possibility. This feels like such a betrayal of them, but I remind myself that they’ve been keeping my original first name—the only thing I had left from my biological parents—a secret my entire life, and that feeling recedes.
“We’ve booked gigs in three towns along the way, so the trip itself won’t be wasted. I was waiting until I had all the details before I asked your permission.” This, of course, is a lie. I started making a list of possible gig spots in each town, but I haven’t called anyone yet. If my parents ask for venue phone numbers and manager names, my best plan is to say I’ll give them the details soon, then rush to figure something out, so I go on quickly, “If we leave Wednesday after school, I’ll only need to take Thursday and Friday—”
“Only?” My dad’s eyebrows rise to his nonexistent hairline. “The last two days before finals?”
I repeat the argument I used on Flynn yesterday. “The timing couldn’t be better. We won’t learn anything new on those days. They’ll be dedicated to review, which the guys and I can do on our own as we drive. We’ll probably accomplish more on the road than we would in the classroom.”
This is another lie. Flynn’s the only other member of the band in honors classes, but he’ll insist on driving if we take his van, so he won’t be much use as a study partner. But my parents don’t need to know that.
The drummer inside my chest accelerates as I say, “Please turn to page four.” I wait while they flip to a breakdown of income statistics for professional musicians. At the top of the list, I’ve thrown in a few rock stars making buckets of money, but most of the list consists of musicians backing up bigger names, or playing for live TV shows, or in studio sessions, or on cruise ships, or teaching lessons. No one’s retiring at forty on those salaries, but no one’s starving, either. Finally, I say, “Being a professional musician does not mean you’re a bum.”
My dad starts to say something, but I lean over and point at a smaller chart on the bottom of the page. “That’s a list of the unemployment rates among people with law degrees over the past five years.” I point at a number next to it. “Same for MBAs. Below that, there are statistics for depression and drug and alcohol abuse among doctors and dentists.”
My parents are quiet. They appear to be studying the numbers.
“I understand you don’t think being a musician is a valuable career.” It takes a lot out of me to finally admit to them, “But it’s what I want to do with my life. It’s who I am.”
My dad sits back in his chair as he and my mom make eye contact again. After a pause, my mom says, “We understand that this is how you feel now, Nora. But we still think it’s important for you to have different experiences, see more of the world, before you make this choice.”
I guess it was too much to hope that they’d realize how much music means to me and drop the internship thing altogether. I take a deep breath and say, “That’s why I’ll agree to do whichever internship you want, as long as I can have these days to tour our way up to the Magwitch.”
My dad’s pressing his lips together and nodding. “I’m impressed, Nora. You did your research.”
That’s not assent yet. I look at my mom.
She places her packet on the table and looks at me. “Your father and I would frankly prefer to keep both you and your sister here with us forever, but that would be negligent parenting.” She’s tapping her short nails on the table to emphasize certain words—forever, negligent. “Our goal, our duty, is to make sure you both have the tools to lead healthy, productive, meaningful lives.” She takes a deep breath. “I’d love to introduce you to my colleagues in Sacramento, but I think the more promising opportunities for you are in D.C. I’d like you to accept that internship for the summer. I think you will benefit from the experience.”
Even though this makes my heart turn sad and sluggish, I don’t say anything, hoping against hope that there’s a second part to her statement.
She closes her eyes and shakes her head, as if she can’t believe what she’s about to say, but then the words come out anyway. “Okay.” She picks up the packet again and glances at the front page. “We accept your terms. As long as—” She holds up a finger. Thinks. “As long as you call us every night that you’re on the road.”
My dad chimes in. “And as long as you keep your phone’s location tracker on the entire time.”
My mom stares at some middle distance between us, probably trying to come up with some other condition to impose on my trip. When she can’t think of anything, she says, “Agreed?”
I should feel more excited about this. True, I get to play the Magwitch. I get to tour up the coast with my band. But I’ll still have to leave for the whole summer. I wonder what the guys will think about the deal I’ve just made. I quickly decide that I’ll break the news to them after we get back.
I’m thinking about all these things as I say, “Should we get this in writing?”
My dad half smiles as he says, “I think, under the circumstances, a verbal contract is sufficient.”
“I know you don’t want to hear this, Nora,” my mom says, squaring the pages of my packet in front of her. “But you really would make a fantastic attorney.”
I say, “I’ll take that under consideration,” even though I won’t. Just because I could do something, doesn’t mean I should. I’d think that two people as smart as my parents would recognize that.
It’s not until I get to my room and text the guys, I’ve got permission for the tour! that it really begins to sink in:
We’re driving to San Francisco. We’re playing the Magwitch. And maybe, though it’s a long shot, I’ll find my biological parents along the way.