But at the time I only knew how blind angry I was. Her refusal to see me, know me. I just felt, I’m not going to let you get away with it anymore. And I said:
So. Tell me what you know about my adoption.
I said it just like that, the patient told Dr. Schussler. Right out. Nothing to prepare her.
But then we both froze, as if we’d been caught in a spotlight doing something wrong. Her cigarette stopped in midair. Dead stop. I confess I enjoyed seeing her freeze up like that. Then, oh so slowly, Mother reached down and put her ice water on the glass coffee table, placing it carefully among the delicate figurines.
What makes you bring that up, dear?
Didn’t you think I’d be curious? I asked her. That I would ask sometime?
The cigarette went back into motion. She inhaled, coughed once, then blew out a line of smoke. Funny, she said at last. I don’t suppose I’ve thought much about it in years. I mean, it all happened so long ago. I don’t even think of you as …
Adopted.
Yes. Adopted.
I watched her deepening lip lines, the patient told her doctor. You know, the wrinkles on the top lip, hard lines straight up and down from nose to mouth.
Mother, you told me never to make that expression. Lip—
Lip lines! Ugly! She laughed. Thank you, dear.
But you’ve got to tell me, the patient persisted. Tell me what you know.
Her mother’s mouth contracted again. I’ll have to discuss this with Father.
Why with Father?
I just do.
Why? He doesn’t own this story.
Her mother looked up at her with an expression the patient had never before seen on that carefully made-up face. Was it fear?
Or does he? the patient went on.
Her mother crushed her half-smoked cigarette, stood up, straightened her dress, patted her hair.
It isn’t too big, is it?
No, Mother. It’s not too big.
And the color?
Perfect.
Her mother stepped one way, then another, then picked up her glass of water. You know, she said, you’ll take this and put this in the dishwasher. She gave the glass to her daughter and started out of the room. But she abruptly paused at the threshold.
We went through an adoption agency, her mother said from the doorway.
She was looking down as she spoke, at her skirt.
But what adoption agency? the patient asked her.
Oh … Let’s not … She was still concentrating on the skirt, brushing it with her hand.
Oh, darling, it was so long ago, she went on. I really don’t remember. Something connected with a Catholic charity.
Catholic! said the patient. But what do you mean—Catholic?
Oh, you know. After the war there were so many little babies needing homes—
Orphans?
Well. Yes. Or, you know. Men would come home on furloughs.
Bastards.
Darling! What a thing to say!
Well, what else?
Her mother kept brushing her skirt.
And why a Catholic agency? the patient asked her mother. Father hates Catholics. He’s practically pathological on the subject.
Her mother looked up briefly. Sweetheart! Do you think something like the religion of the agency would keep us from adopting you? It doesn’t necessarily mean that you were born Catholic. Do I have a stain here?
Where?
Here.
Her mother indicated a spot on her left thigh.
I don’t see anything, the patient said. And you didn’t ask?
What?
If I’d been born a Catholic.
Something passed over her face, said the patient. A little squint. A tightness in her mouth. So brief and subtle that, if I’d blinked, I would have missed it.
Heavens, no! she said. We so wanted a child. We were so happy to have you!
But Father hates Catholics. Rabidly!
Really, there’s nothing to say. We didn’t care, darling!
She sang it out, the patient said. We didn’t care, dahling!—playing Nora Charles in The Thin Man.
And at that she left the room, calling out over her shoulder:
You ought to pack, dear. Early flight tomorrow.
18.
The bitch—she wouldn’t say another word about it, said the patient. Until the moment I got into the taxi, she wouldn’t even look me square in the face. So isn’t this great, just great. Look what I found out for all my troubles: Now I’m a goddamn Catholic!
Not necessarily Catholic, said the therapist in a calming voice, just as your mother said. In any case, what would it matter?
What would it matter? Matter! You know I was brought up hating Catholics! You know that. My father’s hatred is irrational, relentless. It’s not like a normal person’s prejudice. It’s a … racial hatred. My whole upbringing. All the times I told you about. When I couldn’t stay at Mary’s. And the summer