Mother's Day Milk

“That’ll be $33.00, please,” I say, as I pull my cab up to the Departures Terminal at Denver International Airport.

“Here ya go – keep the change.”

He closes the door, waves at me briefly, and enters the airport. I pull away and head towards the Holding Zone. All taxis, limos, and shuttle vans wait for our next runs at a large concrete lot about a quarter-mile from the terminal. As I pull into the Zone, I breathe a sigh of relief: there are only about thirty other cabs here. I won’t have to wait too long for my next run. Most of the time, there are more than a hundred cabs here.

The Zone is cool. The lot is divided into five lines; we each pull into the back of the line as we enter the Zone. At the front of the line is a traffic-light that flashes red when no taxis are needed, and green along with a number showing how many taxis are needed at the terminal. We park our taxis and wait in line, moving up as the front cabs go to the terminal.

We don’t just sit and wait in our cabs. There is always something to do, here at the Zone. There are several awning-covered picnic tables on the north side, and a large grassy field on the south. On the west is an air-conditioned building with restrooms, tables, recliners, a few TVs, a microwave, and vending machines.

Some of the drivers are throwing a Frisbee around; near them, a few drivers in Turbans are kicking a soccer ball. The now-four-months-long poker game is still going on at one of the picnic tables, a few scruffy-looking taxi drivers are playing chess against a few well-dressed limo drivers at another table. They won’t let me play in the poker game anymore… I win too much.

I’m in luck: the Roach Coach is here. I can get something to eat other than microwavable vending machine food. As I get out of my cab to stretch and light a cigarette, the dispatch system beeps. The small LCD screen shows a message from the dispatcher on it:

“Call Meredith. Urgent.”

Meredith is one of my five daughters. Yes, five. That’s another story for another day. It must be very important; she would never call me through Dispatch unless the house was burning down. Heck, at 16 years old, she would probably be too “embarrassed” to call her dad even then! I look at my cell phone and realize it’s turned off… well, I guess that’s why she called me through Dispatch.

Grabbing my cell phone, I dial home as I walk towards the Roach Coach. It’s a beautiful day, not a cloud in sight. The sun feels smoothly warm on me after driving for nearly an hour in the cool air conditioning of my cab. She answers on the first ring.

“Merry-Meri, what’s wrong?”

“Ugh, Dad… stop calling me that!” I laugh at her consternation over my use of her childhood nickname. She stops groaning then says, “Happy Mother’s Day.”

“Honey, you’re supposed to say that to your mother, not me. So what is so urgent you had me paged through Dispatch?”

“I know that, you silly! It’s you who needs to say it.”

“I said it to your mother this morning. Didn’t she show you the bracelet I bought her? Now, what is urgent?”

She giggles. “Dad, Happy Mother’s Day is what you get to say later. I found her.”

Okay, what is my daughter up to now… “Huh? Why? Um… Found who?”

“Your mom.”

I stop walking, a little confused and mystified. “My mom? What do you mean, my mom?”

“Your birth mom.”

My cigarette drops to the ground as I fumble with the cell phone, almost dropping it at the same time. I bend down and pick up the fallen but still lit cigarette, shaking all over. I try to stand back up but I end up just sitting down on the hot concrete pavement… standing upright is beyond the capabilities of my knocking knees right now. I’ve been driving a taxi for a year now, and had a lot of bizarre experiences during that time. This one is going to be at the top of the list.

“My mom. My birth mother. Meredith, what do you mean, you found her? I… I wasn’t looking for her… I didn’t know you were … Meri, what’s going on? What have you done?”

“Well…” I can imagine she is playing, as always, with her hair. She’s going to drag this out, I just know it. “Well, you know the internet, right?”

“Yes, Meri, I know the internet. What has that got to do with finding my birth mother?”

“Actually, your sister, then your mother. Anyway, I was chatting with a bunch of my friends and this advertisement popped up for some kind of Adoptee’s Find Your Parents website. Dad, when are you going to install that pop-up blocker you promised? Anyway, I clicked on it, and it was like free, I made sure it wasn’t like some kind of joke or scam. I found this “Register Now” link, filled out the form with your information, and there was a match. The match is your sister.

“What? I have a sister? Meri, forget about the college stuff. What do you mean, I have a sister? What about my mother?” The cigarette has burned out completely; my entire body is still shaking. I risk my knocking knees and try standing up again.

“I found your sister. Probably your half-sister. Yes, your sister. So I emailed her, and she emailed me back, and then we started instant messenging eachother, and she told me all about your mother.”

All thoughts of food from the roach coach have flown from my mind as I walk back to my cab. The line is moving, I’ll need to move up. My Mother. I have a sister. My mother is actually still alive. “Meredith, is this some kind of joke? I wasn’t even looking!”

“Yea, I know. Mom wants to know if you can you pick up some milk on the way home.”

“Milk? Sure. My mother? I have a sister, and she told you about my mother?”

“Yes, Dad, you have a sister. And she and your mother have been looking for you.”

With a shaking hand, I open the door of my cab and sit down on the now-hot blue vinyl. I light another cigarette, and decide it is probably best not to say another word. Just stay quiet. I can’t believe this… I’m fighting tears for the first time in my adult life. The line has moved forward about five cabs, so I turn the key and move up in the line. I turn on the AC, the sun reflecting off the concrete has made the inside of my cab very hot.

“Dad, are you still there?”

“Yes, Meri, go on.”

“Don’t forget to pick up some milk. Anyway, your sister is real cool, and your mom sounds even cooler. ”

“Meredith, this makes no sense. I was adopted in New York, the records are sealed. There is no way anyone would know my name! How do you know this woman isn’t some sort of scam artist, out to bilk money from desperate adoptees trying to find their families? How can this woman know that I am her brother?”

“She didn’t write Michael Jameson in the ‘Name of Adoptee’ field, dummy! She entered your birth name, which matched with the name I typed as your birth name.”

“How did you know my birth name?”

“Mom told me. By the way, Mom says don’t forget the milk.”

I swear I am about to shout ‘screw the milk,’ but I can hear she’s put down the phone. Leaving the engine running with the AC on, I get out and start walking around. Actually, I start pacing. I pace a lot whenever my mind is racing, and right now, my mind is racing. So is the line… I can’t believe another five cabs have been called up to the terminal. At this rate, I’ll have a fare in less than 15 minutes. That’ll be a record for me at DIA. Most of the time, the wait is two or three hours between fares. Forget about getting something to eat, much less taking a quick nap. I can’t believe I’m thinking about fares… I have a mother! A mother, who is looking for me!

“Anyway, she went to college in New York, she is married but has no kids. She got a bachelor’s degree in English Literature. Her mom – your mom – is a published author. Her dad is now dead, but he worked for the state welfare office. Oh, she writes books about show dogs, um, Pomeranians. Your mom, that is. ”

“Meredith, you are enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“You bet, except I’m getting annoyed at Mom.”

I can hear my wife in the background laughing, as my daughter laughs into the phone. “You want me to finish telling you all this now, or wait till you get home?”

“What do you think, Meri? I’m at least an hour from home right now!”

“You up at DIA?”

“Yes!! Will you get on with it already?”

“Did you dead-head out there or did you have a fare? How long does the wait look?”

“MEREDITH!!”

“Okay already! Sheesh, Dad, you need to relax more. Hrm, let’s see what else. She has a brother, who is younger than you, was born when her Mom remarried. So you have a brother also. A half-brother. I didn’t ask any questions about your birth dad, I figured your mom would tell you.”

My mom. Words I never though I would hear. My head is spinning. This is unbelievable. It’s not supposed to happen like this. I’ve read hundreds of stories about adoptees searching for years and years trying to find their birth parents. I wasn’t even looking! Sure, I’ve thought about it, but never seriously considered looking for her. I was always afraid it would hurt my parents. My adoptive parents, that is. Another five cabs have gone to the terminal, I better move up again before the guys behind me start beeping; or worse, go around me.

“She did tell me that her mom – your mom – got divorced and a few years later, found herself pregnant. She was on welfare, living in a one-room efficiency apartment with peeling paint on the walls, raising Terry up all by herself. Her doctor and the welfare office basically told her she was already a bad mother, what with raising one child alone, and that she had no choice but to give up the new baby for adoption. That’s you, the new baby. A year ago, Terry found this cool adoptees website, and entered into the form that her brother was born in East Babylon, New York, on November 23, 1964. That he was given the name of William Angus Saparito, and placed with the State of New York, who then placed him through the Spence-Chapin Adoption Agency in Manhattan. That’s you, Dad. No way it could be anyone but you.”

Oh my God. I can’t breath. That’s me. That’s ME. I sit down on the concrete again, I can’t stand up, I can’t breath. Oh my God that’s ME. Someone is looking for me. I have a sister, a half-brother, and a mom! An over-thrown Frisbee lands right in front of me. “Meri, I… Meri…um…”

“Oh, by the way, Terry gave me your mom’s address and phone number.”

I scream. The drivers around me look at me like I’m crazy, screaming because a Frisbee landed in front of me. I throw the Frisbee back, not bothering to explain my scream.

“Dad? Dad!”

“I’m here, honey.”

“Happy Mother’s Day, Dad. Don’t forget the milk.” She hangs up.

My birth mother. My mom. The signal light at the head of the line calls for ten cabs to go to the terminal. I don’t know how I got my senses together, but I managed to drive up to the terminal, where I get a passenger to Littleton. It’s like a sign from God or something… his address is less than a mile from my house. Like most of my passengers, he’s surprised I’m an American taxi driver and not an immigrant. I respond with my usual line of “I speak English, too!” It always gets a laugh and, usually, a good tip. I punch the meter then notify dispatch that this is my last fare. An hour later, I drop my passenger off and hit the out-of-service button on the dispatch system. I head towards home, pull up in front of my home, grab my cigs, my cash, my logbook, and head up the path to the house. How am I going to do this? Contact her, that is… what do I do, just call her up and say ‘Hi Mom, how ya doing, this is your long-lost son!’ What am I going to say to her? I open the door, walk in, and Meri shouts at me:

“You forgot the milk!”


***

Written for Professor Coleman's Creative Fiction class at Pikes Peak Community College, 2nd November 2004. Although this is a fiction story, it is probably better classified as extremely creative non-fiction, as it is based - very loosely - on some events surrounding the accidental finding of my own birth mother in 1999.


***
Postscript, 5th November 2004:

The most challenging aspect of this assignment was deciding what to write about.  I hit a major “writer’s block” – my first real experience with writer’s block – at the beginning of this assignment.  My problem wasn’t finding something to write about, my problem was too many things to write about.  I found myself thinking of something then deciding it’d be too boring, too exciting (meaning it would take a whole book!), too esoteric (the reader would have difficulty relating to a very obscure experience), etc., etc. 

I’ve found that often times I don’t choose what I am going to write; instead, what I am going to write chooses me.  I sat down multiple times and started to write a few sentences about one incident in my life or another just to find myself unable to find the words – or the words not finding me.  I started writing about many different adventures in Europe and the South Pacific.  I started writing about the time my mom caught me and a friend playing with her tampons when I was eight.  I started writing about the bad roll-over car accident I had last year, about buying my house, about how my dogs adopted me, about various odd jobs I have had in my life (like when I used to chase black bears out of the parking lot).   But it never occurred to me to write about finding my birth mom and sister.  How I ended up writing what I did write is actually rather funny.

I drove the twenty miles to Safeway in Falcon to pick up a prescription my doctor called in.  At the same time, I needed to fill up my gas tank, buy some dog food, eggs and milk.  The entire twenty miles I kept repeating to myself in my head, “dog food, eggs, milk, gas.  Dog food, eggs, milk, gas.”  I arrived at Safeway, filled up my gas tank first, then went into the store, picked up my prescription, the dog food, and eggs.

Twenty miles later, my dogs nearly knocked me over as I entered my house carrying the 25-pound bag of dog food.  I fed them, put away the eggs, and realized I forgot the milk.  Laughing, I sat down on my couch and called my best friend, Bridgette, and asked her if she could pick some milk up for me when she was in town in the morning.  Within a few minutes of hanging the phone up, I found myself in front of my computer and the words started coming out, a story began to be written about another time in my life where I forgot to pick up the milk.

Once I started writing, the story came out very quickly and easily.  And, of course, it came out very long, as much of my writing does.  My first draft included the following morning, when I actually made contact on the phone with my half-sister, and also a year later, when I finally met my birth mother face-to-face.  My second draft I dumped everything after my forgetting to pick up the milk: I realized my first contact with Terry was a completely separate story, and meeting my birth mother was a maudlin piece of really bad, downright terrible writing.  My third draft, where I just tweaked things a little, is the final product I turned in. 

Writing this, unlike the prior assignment, I found myself laughing a lot.  I  fondly thought of good old Bob, to this day one of my best friends, especially how he can make a drama out of anything.  I found myself reminiscing a lot, all affectionate memories, of Bob, Cinda, and the rest of the gang of eleven roommates I lived with for nearly five years in Denver before I moved to Calhan.  They were – and still are – more of a family to me then my real family.  Actually, I should say more of a family than EITHER of my families – birth or adoptive – are.  I reminisced about the sheer excitement and emotional rollercoaster of the entire experience of finding my birth family.  The odd thing is writing about it was not an emotional rollercoaster at all, unlike the prior assignment (memoir).  Reading this brings a warm, fond smile to my face; it does not bring up the strong emotions that my memoir assignment did (or the frustration and remnants of anger that my drunk driving piece). 

In the end, this was a light piece of writing about what was actually a very heavy moment in my life.  Of course, this moment in my life started without any warning, without any preparation – emotional or otherwise – and without any real expectations.  I guess you could say my writing of this story actually happened the same way:  I forgot to buy some milk, and without any warning and without any real expectations, I ended up writing this story.