November 1994: Burbank Airport, California

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My pale, naked body blurred in the bathroom mirror. Reaching out, I swiped an arc, beneath thick brows, Barbara stared back. 

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Our eyes. 

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Warm steam filled the edges and I looked away. Tucking the towel tight over my boobs, I finger combed mousse into my scalp, then bent to blow-dry, scrunching into waves to frame my face. I remembered my birth mother’s white hair, the black outline of a perfect nose and cupid’s bow. The face I always wanted. Her fax portrait in light and dark was tight in my hand while we spoke on the phone last week, making plans. Barbara’s voice tapped a rhythm against my heart, “See you Saturday, Vicky.” 

 

Standing in the bedroom, my outfit lay over the chair, ready for the day, like when I was little. I tipped my mug and circled inside to collect the foam. Sucking my finger, I walked to the kitchen to refill my coffee, leaving some for Faith. 

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A car drove past, breaking the silence. Hmm. No sound from the guest room, we were up pretty late last night. Might as well let her sleep a bit longer. 

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The bracing taste cleared last night’s red wine from my brain.

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Tossing unused paper napkins into the second drawer next to take-away chopsticks and Soy Sauce packets, I considered Faith’s visit. We finished an entire bottle. 

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“I think I’m having a nervous breakdown.” I laughed when she walked into my apartment, fresh from work. Brown hair framed her face, and made her look a little bit like that actress on Friends…what was the cut called? Oh yeah…The Rachel. After our one-handed hug across a steaming pizza box, I rescued the Cabernet Sauvignon stuffed inside her large purse. 

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“Thanks for driving all that way.” I tried to keep my voice casual, trying not to stare at the scar. Faded white, it was a tiny line in the fold of her neck. 

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Faith waved me away,  “It was just an hour, and my mom made me…” Dumping restaurant packets of chili flakes and Parmesan cheese on the counter, she looked up, “No - I’m just kidding. Happy to come.” 

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We sat next to each other on the couch, our paper plates sagging from the oil. Leaning over to hand me Kleenex, later pizza, she listened without interrupting. My story unfolded in gulps and laughter. We’d never really spoken about my adoption before, but Faith seemed to understand. 

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It was a lot to ask after these last few years. But I needed to track her down - my high school best friend knew me, Mom and Dad pretty well. Thankfully her parents kept their phone number. 

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I finished with, “and for some reason my chest is killing me, it hurts to breathe.”

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She wiped crust and cheese crumbs off her thigh, shaking them onto a napkin before turning to face me.  

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“Be sure you’re calm when you tell them about her,” she advised, serious. “Think about how they feel.” She paused, tucking hair behind her left ear. “Don’t let them know how excited you are.” 

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Hmmm. A little cheese gurgled up. Swallowing, I exhaled and reached towards the coffee table. Faith was right. My parents could never know the truth. Emptying Cabernet in oversized glasses from Target, I changed the subject, “Seen any good movies lately?” 

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Brrrrring. My alarm rang from the bedroom. Less than an hour left. The sound dragged me back to this moment. 

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“Faith, time to get up.” I tapped her door, and heard a mumbled reply. 

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“There’s coffee in the kitchen and the bathroom is all yours.” 

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Turning off my alarm, morning light whispered under my ocean blue bedroom curtains. 

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I was getting dressed. To meet…Her. 

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Barbara. She was real…with a name, face and voice. 

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NO. I smacked my cup on the tile coaster. Mom and Dad are my real parents. Tracing the top of my special oak dresser, I remembered his proud brown eyes, crinkling at the corners. 

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“Look at the dovetails, you’ll have this forever. I put stoppers in all the drawers, too.” 

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For my 12th birthday Dad built furniture and Mom helped me hang tiny white and blue flower wallpaper in my grown-up room. 

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My stomach did a little flip, butterflies trying to escape.  Grabbing my pants, I fell back on the bed, noticing a shadow inside the overhead light. A dead moth silhouetted against the etched flower glass cover. Great. Snorting, I reflected on the call with Barbara, considering my words. Inhaling to pull high waisted acid wash jeans up and over my sucked-in tummy, relieved by the memory - I did the right thing. ​Pulling on a dark sweater, I walked to the bathroom for final makeup - casual, like I’m not trying.   

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What if she doesn’t come? Hands shaking, I covered uneven and missing parts of my cleft lip with pencil, then applied color ½ shade darker. Smiling to check symmetry, I drew my index finger slowly out of my mouth, Mom’s trick to keep lipstick off front teeth. 

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Dad always said, “She couldn’t afford your surgeries.” But the truth was she couldn’t bear my deformities, so she left. 

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And I became property of the State of Arizona.

 

Little Orphan Annie? No way. Screw her. Annie was a treacly little scamp, singing sunshine hope, smiling through child abuse. No bitterness in her, just everyone’s little sweetheart. 

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Nope. Not my style. Natalie Wood in Gypsy - now that was more like it. Yes, I understood her life. Let me entertain you. Thrown away by her mother, she reinvented herself just like I did. Fabulous “Little Vicky'' waving from the orphan crib. Like what you see? Take me home. 

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Driving to the airport with Faith, to meet the woman who threw me away, the trees blurred a green frame around my reflection in the window. Now Barbara crashes into my life, thirty years too late.