January 2008
I walk into the private detective's office with only a name. I've been on the hunt for June Clark ever since I found out that my dad wasn't biologically a 'Powell.' My adopted grandparents, Artie and Vivian Powell, both died before I was born. I have seen pictures of them and it's pretty clear I didn't come from their bloodline. Vivian had tightly curled black hair and a pointed nose, and Artie had large, wide-set eyes that I'm sure would have been passed down. My dad and I are both very German looking, with thick light hair and round facial features. I hardly look anything like my mom. I bet June and I look nearly identical.
I thought that when I asked my dad about his biological mother he would have refused to release any information, he was always so proud to be a Powell. But when I finally did he very quickly, and like it meant absolutely nothing, revealed her name to me: June Clark. I was fourteen at the time, and now, ten years later, I'm still searching. But it's hard. It was a closed adoption so I can hardly get any information. From the court documents my dad looked over during a period of curiosity, all he could retrieve was a name. It's almost as if someone out there doesn't want me to find her. Or maybe it's whoever-is-up-there's way of telling me to give up.
"Why do you want to find her so badly, Felicity? She's not your family, no matter how similar her DNA is to yours." My dad always became so irritated when I began asking too many questions about her.
"I don't want to find her so that she can be my grandma. Don't worry, I know I'm a Powell, it's just... Don't you ever feel like something is missing? You were curious once too."
"But was she ever curious about us? No. So why should I waste my energy on her? She gave us up, Felicity, and my parents-my real parents-took me in and raised me. That is all I need to know."
Still, I feel like a piece of the puzzle is missing. My college roommate told me that if I concentrate hard enough, I can somehow contact her with my mind. I, of course, laughed at her then; but once in a while I try to think about June hard enough so that I could hypothetically send a message to her. I never know what to say, so usually I just think hard on the question, "Where are you?" Sometimes I laugh at myself, thinking about this old woman version of me running all over her house, opening cupboards and closets, yelling to this unknown voice through her dentures: "I'm right here, what the hell do you want?"
Most of the time I don't even like to admit I'm looking for her. It just all feels so silly sometimes, especially now that I'm in the reception area for a private detective. I hear my name called but for a second I hesitate. It almost sounds like someone else's.
May 2008
Only a few of June's neighbors, some fellow church goers, and her pastor came to the burial. Her eyes were finally shut to review all of her life's successes and failures; her body was finally at ease. Months of battling the disease had made her frail, though all those who had seen her before her casket was lowered into the earth had remarked that the dress they chose to bury her in hid her emaciation well. An arrangement of yellow and white roses rested atop the cherry finished box. No knew exactly what her favorite flowers were, but thought roses would be acceptable for her last bouquet. However, if they had found out what her favorite flowers actually were, the funeral directors would probably still choose the roses, as gerbera daisies would seem almost mockingly out of place at a funeral. Too cheery, too young. Burials were solemn occasions, no place for gerbera daisies.
Silent prayers were made as and one by one, her mourners left. Once the hill in the cemetery was cleared, two men approached her grave with shovels, ready to fill the hole. One of the men looked down at her tombstone-A small, rectangular slab wedged into the earth-and read, "June Clark, huh? I hate these types of tombstones; I'm always trippin' on 'em in the dark."
"Not her fault you're an idiot." He lifted the last scoop of dirt over the hole. "Alright, let's get outta here. Rest in peace, June Clark."
February 2008
I don't know why I keep doing this. Googling her, that is. I never find anything about any old women who gave up children for adoption back in the late 50's.
I glance at the alarm clock beside my laptop, its taunting red digits tell me I only have another 2 hours before I need to head into work at the Applebee's. Only 2 hours left until absolute torture, hauling tray after tray of food out to hungry families and mean old people alike. If June is one of those snippy old women I deal with everyday, then I want no business with her.
It's not like I am going to find her anytime soon, though; the detective was way too expensive. I'm embarrassed that I even went, just to find out five minutes later that the only way I could hire him to find her would be to work every shift, every day for the next year without paying for rent or food. I can barely afford this stupid studio apartment as it is. I want to find her, but not that badly. I don't know, sometimes I think maybe my dad has it right: If she's not looking for us, why look for her?
The phone rings. I lift myself from the computer screen and race to the nightstand, where the phone waits, glowing and sounding obnoxiously.
"Hello?"
"Yes, hello. I am calling for a Mr. or Mrs. Powell-"
"Sorry, wrong number." I hang up. Stupid telemarketers.
Returning to my desk, I see the wilting gerbera daisies from the corner of my eye, drooping sadly on the windowsill. I've always been bad about remembering to water plants. I take a cup of water and drizzle it over the daisies. Hopefully they'll be looking better tomorrow, I'd hate to throw them away.
April 2008
June clasped her hands over the hospital gown and waited, staring unknowingly at the door. Even though he had told her he'd come, she couldn't be sure if he would, though she wished to finally see him again, grown up and mature. She wasn't sure how much more time she had to visit with him, as she could feel her body weakening. It had now become a strain to even call the nurses for more ice water.
A knock came at the door and she sat up, her heart lifting and pumping as if she were healthy again. One of the nurses entered, her favorite, though still a disappointment that it wasn't him.
"How are we doing in here?" the nurse asked through smiling lips.
June opened her mouth, but words could hardly come out anymore. "Fine. Thank you."
"Do you feel up to seeing a visitor? He says his name is Daniel Powell. Were you expecting anyone by that name?"
She had been waiting all day for him, but her nerves took over and she could feel all of her excitement dissolve and fizzle out in the chambers of her heart. She wasn't sure if she could see him anymore. Still, he had come all this way. She couldn't back out now.
"Yes, send him in."
The nurse disappeared into the hall. "She's ready for you now, though she's having a difficult time speaking today. She's pretty ill."
"I understand." His voice made June's palms sweat for the first time since her diagnosis. Had she been well, she would have fixed her hair or at least put on some lipstick, but all she could do was hope that for his first time meeting her, she would appear at least slightly presentable.
She saw his shadow first, stretched along the linoleum tiles from the fluorescent hallway lighting. Then came his leather business shoe and finally him: hair like the caramel she had eaten while pregnant, and tall, like she remembered his father being.
"Daniel?" Her voice was no more than a rasped whisper.
His hazel eyes, identical to June's, surveyed her. She sat up in the hospital bed, smiling like a fool. "Hi." The word escaped from his half-dropped jaw like steam from a pot.
June could feel his discomfort in seeing her this way. He remained frozen in the doorway, expressionless except for a hint of worry striping his forehead.
"You can come closer. If you want."
"That's ok, your nurse told me how sick you are."
"I'm fine. They still tell me I have another month or two, but I... well, I hope you never have to live this."
"Is cancer common in your family?"
"Not usually, no. Don't worry. We are generally healthy people."
The worry lines in his face smoothed as he did nothing but stare at her for a moment. Finally, his eyes wandered from the bed and searched the room for a chair before selecting one beneath the television, the furthest from June.
"So, what else do we say to each other?" he asked after another moment of staring.
"Is there anything you want to know?"
"No. My daughter's the curious one."
"I have a granddaughter?"
"Yeah, she's 24 now."
"I'd love to meet her."
Daniel remained seated, frozen. She suspected that he didn't really want to be there with her. She didn't know what she really expected from him, but her heart sank, even weaker than before.
"Did you want to ask me anything, June? I told my boss I'd be in at three today."
June could feel the last of the warmth in the room flow to her cheeks. "I just wanted to see you. You can leave if you need to."
He stood up. June was instantly embarrassed, almost wishing he hadn't come at all. Just as he turned to leave, he continued towards her. His hand rested on the bed rail. His other slid into the pocket of his khakis.
"Not that it matters anymore, but why did you choose adoption?"
June didn't know what to say. She wanted to tell him how empty her life had been without him, how much she now regretted the choice she had made, and how much she would love for him to return to the hospital, to be a part of her last few months. But she could only muster the strength to tell him the truth as kindly as she could.
"I was young. I couldn't keep you, it wouldn't have been right. For you. Your father was just a boy. Always was. I had you when I was 15. I had to give you up."
She could see his jaw clench and after a moment, he lifted his hand from the rail and placed it in his other pocket.
"Ok. Well, I should get going or I'll be late. I hope you start feeling better." He jingled the keys in his pocket as he turned to the door.
"Daniel?" June said, but he didn't stop. As the door swung shut behind him, June hoped that he simply hadn't heard her, but with all she had learned, all she had been through, she couldn't bring herself to honestly believe that.
March 2008
An older lady, thin, like she's about to snap in half, walks in and my manager sits her in my section. Great, another old woman. I take a deep breath and put my best smile on, maybe she's one of the few who tips well.
"Good afternoon and welcome to Applebee's, my name is Felicity and I'll be your server this afternoon. Can I start you off with something to drink?"
"Just ice water, please." She looks familiar, she's probably been in here before, but I don't think I've ever served her.
I get her ice water and return to the table. For a Sunday afternoon, it's surprisingly empty. She's the only one in my section and I can see the still parking lot from the windows. These days seem like such a waste of time, I'll work for probably six hours and only make twenty bucks, if I'm lucky.
"Here you go, ma'am. Are you ready to order?"
The old lady flips feverishly through the menu, her eyes moistening as they shoot between each item. "I'm... I'm just not sure. I'm sorry; I've had a difficult morning. I will be ready in a moment though."
A tear rolls down the lady's cheek. I'm not sure if I should back away from the table slowly or sit and try to comfort her.
"Want me to stay here and wait for a second or... should I go?"
"If you aren't busy, you can stay. I'll be ready in just a moment."
I sit back in the chair while she examines each option. It's not like I have anything better to do.
"Alright, I will have the French onion soup and French dip slider lunch combo. What the hell, I'll have the hot fudge sundae when I am done, too."
"Perfect comfort food, I'll put your order in right away."
I turn around to put in her order when I hear a soft, "Excuse me." I turn back around to face her.
"When you are done, if you're not busy, you are welcome to sit with me. If you don't want to, that's alright, too."
I haven't felt any sympathy for these old ladies that come in here since I got an unsweetened iced tea thrown in my face for not bringing that mean old regular's salad out in time, but this lady is breaking my heart. How lonely do you have to be to ask your server to share your meal with you?
"Sure, I'll be back in a moment."
March 2008
The young waitress waited for her answer. June wasn't sure if it would be too strange to reveal her diagnosis to a complete stranger or not, though there was something about the waitress that made June feel comfortable. She reminded June of a younger version of herself, probably because of her hazel eyes, but June liked to believe it was because she was so personable.
"Well, it's been a rough day, because I just went to my doctor's office. They told me about two months ago that they found a tumor in my, uh, in my breast, and today they told me that there are tumors everywhere now, despite the treatments." The young waitress' mouth dropped and June felt silly for telling her all of that. She must have seemed so desperate, she thought, but there was no one else to talk to. "I am sorry, that was inappropriate of me to say all of that to you."
"No, it's fine. I am so sorry, I don't know what I would do if my doctor told me that." The young waitress fiddled with the silverware on the table, moving them about the paper napkin as if finding a good place for them would help her find the right words to say.
"It's alright, dear. Such is life. You never know when your next great surprise is coming."
"That's a good way of looking at things. So then this was just another great surprise for you to find out?"
June smiled to herself, trying to seem strong for the waitress. She didn't want the young girl to believe that after all you do in your life and all you learn, this was what it came down to. No more surprises, only doctor's visits. "Of course. It's my last great surprise unless I am blessed to live a while longer."
The young waitress took her hand. It was forced, she could tell by the young girl's face, but still, June appreciated the empathy. "I hope you have many more surprises to come. I better go check on your soup."
The waitress brought June her food, but did not sit with her again. A few other tables came into the restaurant and sat in her section, making the girl slightly busier. June hoped that she hadn't scared the young girl away. Things would be different, she thought, if she hadn't given Daniel up for adoption. Life would have been harder, but at least now she would have someone to hold her hand sincerely. June finished the last scoop of hot fudge and stood from the table, leaving more than enough cash for food and the young girl's tip. The least she could do was pay the girl well for listening to her.
April 2008
"I got a call from her." My dad says, pulling over the car outside my apartment building.
"Who?" I lick the Easter chocolate off of my fingers and wipe them off on my jeans. I'm going to wash them later, anyways.
"June Clark."
My breath escapes me and I gasp for air. "Are you serious? What did she say? Where is she?"
"She's sick, she wants me to go and visit her."
"When are you going? I'm going with you-"
"No, you're not."
"I'm her family, too."
"That's just it, Felicity, she's not our family. I shouldn't have said anything."
"Yes you should have, I have a right to know. Why is it so bad for me to know her?"
My dad sits and stares at the steering wheel. "I already went to see her. Last week. She gave us up for adoption because she was only 15 when she had me. She's really sick now. I think it would be better if you didn't see her like that."
There it is: Information I've been hunting for years, spat out at me on the car ride home after Easter dinner, like it doesn't even matter, like it's just something trivial he almost forgot to tell me. I feel numb as I fight back tears and open the car door. I lean into the door frame from the curb, leaving my basket of candies I'm too old to get anymore on the car seat. "You know, I'm an adult now too. I will let you know what I can or cannot handle, asshole."
I slam the door behind me and head into my building. I don't look back, but I hope he feels bad. I hope he's sitting in the car crying, hoping I'll turn around, but I won't.
After I've calmed down, I sit on the couch with the phone in my hand. I know Dad is just trying to protect me, I guess because he doesn't want June to hurt me like she hurt him. He would never admit it, but I know that he took what she did personally.
There was one night-it was the same day I asked about June for the first time-I snuck out of my room for a snack and saw his office light shining out from beneath the door frame. I knew he was in there, and I always assumed he was looking through his old adoption papers. He never stays up late in his office. I wonder what specifically he was looking at that night. I wonder if he ever just stares at her name on the page like I do, hoping it will somehow manifest into a real person.
I dial his number, I should apologize. Besides, I want the whole story.
February 2008
June still remembered how he was dressed the first time she saw him after the adoption. He was only one month old at the time, but June could never forget his face: her face. Even as a baby, he looked just like her. His new mother dressed him in an evergreen Christmas sweater that hung off of his tiny hands and as she carried him in her arms he searched the store, his new eyes taking in every piece of hardware.
June stood at the cash register, her heart pumping, as his new father set his tools on the counter.
"Darling, are you sure you bought everything we need for baby proofing?"
"Of course, Vivian. It's all here."
June began to ring up the items on the counter, the items she would never need for her baby, but that these people did. It seemed odd, unnatural. She wanted to thank them, but they asked not to know who the birth mother was. Still, she wanted to know, even if she would never use the information.
"Your total comes to $30.25, Mr...."
He searched his wallet, ignoring June's attempt to learn his name. He handed her $35.00 and she silently gave him his change.
Her baby's new mother bounced him in her arms. "Alrighty, let's get you home little Mr. Powell," she cooed to him. He smiled and made a noise that his new mother interpreted to be a laugh. June didn't see them again after that, but she never forgot their name: Powell.
She felt like now was a good time to use the information, a good time to finally meet her son. Her finger slid down the column of P's in the yellow pages. Patrick, Perella, Pierce, then finally came the Powell's. There were eight listings, and she worried that he might not be one of them.
She began dialing, not even sure what she would say should someone answer.
The dial tone blared in her ear, three times, then finally: "Hello?" It was a woman's voice, perhaps a wife? A daughter?
"Yes, hello. I am calling for a Mr. or Mrs. Powell-"
"Sorry, wrong number." Then a click. Perhaps whoever the Powell was who had been listed at this number moved. She continued down the list of names, hoping one was her son. Not George Powell, not J. Powell, not Kim Powell. She continued. Perhaps it was D. Powell?
She dialed the listed number. A man's voice came on the line and hope rushed through her. "Mr. Powell?"
"Yes?"
"My name is June Clark."
May 2008
"June Clark. So we finally meet," I say to her tombstone. I thought seeing it would make me feel something, but it's just a rock in the ground. I just wish there was a picture with it so I could have seen her.I know it sounds bad, but, in a strange way, I'm kind of relieved to know that she's here. I can stop looking, and upon realizing this, I feel like a weight has been lifted.
I lay out the flowers I brought for her on top of her grave: Gerbera daisies. They look strange against the slab of rock, but I don't care, they are my favorite so maybe that would mean something to her if she knew.
January 2008
The doctor exited the room, leaving June to change out of her hospital gown and digest what she had just been told: Cancer. June played his words over in her head: "We've found a lump in your breast... it's cancerous." She didn't know what to do. He recommended treatments to her, but the more she thought, the more she wondered what else there was to live for? Maybe it was her time. But the thought of going without treatments seemed like suicide. Her head nearly imploded trying to find a solution.
Either way she would have to say her goodbyes, just in case. She thought of her son, "little Mr. Powell," and wondered if she could find him.
June wondered if he ever thought of her, if he had a family, and how they would react if they were reunited. She would probably embrace him and she imagined he would cry as they held one another. He would bring his entire family: Wife, sons, daughters, grandchildren, everyone. They would talk and catch up, and it would be as if they had never lost any time at all.
She happily allowed her mind to wander from her disease as she left the doctor's office, hoping that life had one more great surprise in store for her before her last.