This excerpt takes place in April of 1992, three months after meeting my mother for the first time, ten months after finding her and making the first call. The setting is Costa Mesa in Orange County, California, where my first mother Barb and sister Lori live. I am at this point staying with friends in West Hollywood for a few months, stopping in LA during my move from Kansas City to San Francisco to meet all these new family members.

     Do I buy a gift or not buy a gift? Of course I buy a gift. Nobody goes to a birthday party without a gift, especially if it’s a surprise party, especially if it’s your mother’s, and especially if it’s your first birthday party with your first mother.
     A voice in my head responds, or is it leaking out with the Pier One Imports shopping music? But if you buy a gift, you’ll be saying, I forgive you completely. Everything is OK and all is normal now. And you know you don’t feel that way.
     As I pass the infinite varieties of candles and holders from all over the world, I silently respond. Yeah, but that’s my business, not hers. And If I don’t buy a gift, she might be offended and think I hate her and not want a relationship. I don’t hate her.
    The voice answers, But don’t you want a relationship built on truth and honesty?
    I finger the letter openers from Bali, squeeze the voodoo dolls from Haiti. So what should I do, walk in the door, slap her in the face and scream, goddammit, do you have any idea how much pain you have caused me?!, then hug her and present a birthday gift?
     If you buy her a gift, you’re being the good boy you’ve always been. And you know how much you’re growing to hate that.
    I imagine chugging from the Irish coffee mugs, nesting in the pillows from Thailand. Yeah, but I also know deep down there’s something really important about exploring and developing a relationship with her, so buying her a gift is a step in that direction.
   What about your other mother? You’ve bought her dozens of birthday gifts, flown from Kansas City to Chicago to be with her on her birthday, successfully executed a surprise 65th. Aren’t you betraying her if you buy a gift?
   Of course not. And I’m glad I did all those things. It’s true there was a tiny element of obligation, and a nagging feeling that her birthday gifts could never be enough for what she did for me.
    You mean raising you because this mother here would not.
    No. I mean because Mom stayed in Missouri so I could finish high school there, and because Mom got us through some rough times, and because Mom has grown to support me in whatever I do.
    Yes, but that all happened because this mother here did not keep you.
    OK, yes. But maybe it was for the best. Who knows? Who cares? Look, I feel so many different ways, I can’t possibly sort it all out. All I can do is keep going from here. I can buy this basic, silver photo frame, wrap it in tissue and a bow, walk down to the Hallmark store, hope you don’t follow me, pass over every mother’s birthday card making some reference to having a past together, get a generic card, and continue on my way to the party. It’s her party. This is not about me.
     Oh, I see. Not about you. Right. If you say so.

     As I park and approach Apartment C2 for the sixth time in three months, I realize I’ve missed the surprise. Her car is here. Between putting in some Saturday morning overtime, dallying in the stores, and musing in my truck, I’m too late. Oh well. No big deal. I’ve already created enough surprises for her.
     Feeling like I’m entering into a Salvador Dali painting, I make a subtle entrance this time, receiving warm hugs from Barb, Lori, Aunt Augie and Aunt Pat. There are many others in the living room, kitchen and backyard. Cousins I’ve met. Others I haven’t. Lots of new faces.
     Barb introduces me to the youngest and prettiest of the Shields cousins. “Patrick, this is Kim.”
     “Nice to meet you.”
     “You too.” She looks me over. “Another long lost cousin, eh?”
     I chuckle and move on, wondering what she meant by ‘another.’
     Barb takes me around, holding on to my arm, confiding, “I had no idea. They really surprised me.” Some people like surprises. Some pretend to. Barb seems to have genuinely liked this one.
     She introduces me to her friends and Brenda’s husband and Kim’s husband and Lori’s friends and some of the kids, and then I’m off on my own, to do what I can appear to be good at while trembling inside, mingle. I’m mingling amongst all these relatives and non-relatives, alternately feeling invisible, coated in neon, and somewhat normal. There is, however, nothing about this that feels in any way casual.
     I place my gift and card with all the others, grab a Calistoga, and try to join in with ‘the men’ outside by the barbeque. Unable to muster any conversation much beyond how good that chicken smells, I wander back inside and mingle some more, casually smiling at people as I walk by. Already on my second Calistoga, I find an open seat next to Barb’s friends and chat with them for a while. Women are so much easier to be around at this point, especially women I’m not related to.
     One of them asks, “So, Patrick, How long will you be in LA?”
     “Oh, probably another month or two. I’m house-sitting a condo till early June. And then I’ll head up north to San Francisco.”
     Barb has joined us. “I’ll wait for you to get settled up there and then come visit.”
    “Yeah, that’ll be nice.” I don’t know why my heart doesn’t jump with glee to hear this. Of course I would like her to visit. Somehow, though, I want to decide when it takes place. When I can handle it. I also know she doesn’t travel long distances very often. I wonder if she’d visit if I were moving to Seattle or New York.
    I excuse myself for another trip to the bathroom, then wander back outside, wishing I could get down on the ground and play with the kids. After a few minutes of making another attempt to talk with Bud and Paul and Bob and Kevin and Bill, I glance down when one of the kids zooms by and am aghast to discover I have not zipped up my fly.
   Horror of horrors, I’ve made a ridiculous faux-pas, and glance around to see if anyone has noticed. Here I am, barely maintaining some sense of social decorum, and I’ve been walking around with my fly open. Wow, that’s some new cousin. Where’d he come from? How was he raised? I flash to how often I felt self-conscious as a kid after saying or doing something silly or embarrassing, like the time when at the eighth grade Halloween party, after eating sloppy joes, which always make me ill, the bottle spun to me, I kissed Peggy Karl and threw up on her. Back then, whenever I did something a little off-kilter, I took Mom’s perplexed look as disapproval. Now I wonder if it was also saying, “Where’d that come from? Where’d that really come from?”
    I turn toward the fence, discreetly zip up, make a mental note to cut down on Calistoga, and slip back into the house, trying to convince myself no one noticed.
    “Uncle Patrick, can you load the film in my camera? It’s new.” When I met my niece, she was Nikki. Now she prefers Nicole. At age 12, almost as tall as her mother, I guess she wants a mature name now.
    Loading film gives me something to do. In fact cameras have become a reference point. Before coming down to visit last Sunday, Barb had asked me to bring mine to take some pictures of her blooming cactus and other backyard plants because she can’t get close enough with hers. A thought floated through that she expects me to share whatever talents and experience I have to offer, that this is what family is so often all about. Nothing in this dance seems to escape endless analysis.
    I have my camera today, and will use it, even loaded with black and white film. It allows me to become a detached documenter, an artist on a shoot, a portrait photographer. But today I will shoot only three photos. One of Barb, forgetting she’s 55, jumping rope with some of the kids, and two posed group portraits, the kind that make the artist in me cringe, but are begging to be taken.
    While sitting next to Lori for a bit, a friend of hers looks us over. “You know, if I saw you two on the street, I’d definitely think you were related. You look a lot alike.”
   This pleases me. I love hearing this. If I had a megaphone, I’d be shouting into it, ‘OK everybody, did you hear that? Someone says Lori and I look alike.’ Yes. Yes. Yes. I look like my sister!
   Lori, however, says, “Really?” She almost seems surprised. Is it possible she really doesn’t see it? Or is it possible that looking like this new brother is somehow unsettling? She probably hasn’t been wondering about this for decades like I have.
   The chicken legs and wings are flying off the barbeque and onto the kitchen table, to join the baked beans, corn on the cob, chips, and Bud’s seven-layer bean dip. All my life, beans of the baked or re-fried variety have made me almost as queasy as sloppy joes, but I dig in anyway. I don’t want to offend. I want to fit in.
    Realizing I’ve talked with no one person for any length of time, I remind myself that parties are like that. Not every gathering has to result in meeting someone who I really connect with, resulting in a long, personal, one on one conversation. Another part of me is screaming, ‘But this is my first birth family party! I want to have long, in depth, personal conversations with every single person here. I want to ask them all about the family, the history, and especially the father I’ll never meet.’
   This voice is drowned out by the energetic chorus of ‘Happy Birthday to you,’ which I join, through to the last line. “Happy birthday dear... ” For a split-second I don’t know what to call her. ‘Barbara’, the woman who gradually took on an identity during the search, or ‘Barb’, the woman who now is making every effort to deal with the past and include me in this family, or ‘Mom’, the woman who couldn’t remember the date of my birth? She is someone to everyone here. Sister, sister-in-law, aunt, great-aunt, grandma, friend, mother. At this moment, I don’t know who she is to me. “Happy birthday dear Barb, Happy birthday to you.”
     She takes a deep breath, clearly making a secret wish, and blows out the single, large candle to the cheers of everyone gathered round. The homemade cheesecake is sliced and distributed as Barb settles on to the couch, next to her cards and gifts. In between bites of cake, she opens them gradually. My fork begins to fidget.
    She chooses card after card, gift after gift, and mine sit. It seems every card, which she passes around, is of the kidding-about-old-age type, the kind I think really do little to make someone feel good about aging. I had almost purchased one because it seemed like Barb’s style, then passed over it for my style, a serious card wearing a quote from Goethe about the essence of happiness.
     She could not have intentionally saved my card and gift for last. I know she didn’t see me put them in the pile. Finally, she opens the envelope, reads the card and looks at me, her face relaxing into a small smile. She must like it. But then she puts it down, decidedly not passing it around. I wonder if it’s because it doesn’t fit with the others, or if it’s too personal.
    By the time she’s unwrapping the gift, I’m almost holding my breath. She holds it up. “Oh, thank you so much. It’s sooooo nice,” emphasizing every word. “I can use it for a family photo.” Breathing again, I wonder if maybe her secret wish was the same scene I fantasize about, Barb Shields with all her five children.
    When Lori sees it, she says, “Oh, perfect,” as if she had been wondering what this new family member would buy for a birthday gift.
    Barb looks at me again with gratitude, her eyes beginning to water.
     “You’re welcome,” is all I can say, as my eyes also get teary. She holds the frame to her chest, her eyes and face showing she understands what I’m really saying: ‘With this gift, I’m beginning to forgive you.’
     By six o’clock, the party is winding down, and I’m ready to leave. I had planned not to stay late and I’m sticking to my plan. So often, I’m the last to leave, hanging on and on. At this event, I want to be a guest like everyone else.
    Hands are shaken, hugs are exchanged, and Barb walks me out to my truck. Instantly I am aware of the difference in being alone with her, so rare thus far. It’s as if the shy little boy, the confused teenager and muddling adult I am all want to blurt out a lifetime of unspoken words but don’t have any idea how to begin. When I’m alone with her, I feel bowled over inside, in a trance state, edgy, like just a few of those words could rip the lid off a thirty year old tub of frozen tupperware, yet at the same time, I feel as serene as the surface of a lake on a windless spring day.
    She shakes her head, “Man, what a day. I never expected this. And for you to come down. That made it so special.” Her right arm wraps around my left.
   We are strolling about a hundred feet on a paved driveway at dusk with the Newport freeway buzzing in the background, but might as well be alone in a quiet, hilly, wooded park. “So will you be coming for Easter?”
    “Let’s see, that’s in two weeks. Yeah, I think I can make it.”
    “Oh, good, that’ll be nice.”
    I glance at her. “You know, your birthday is also kind of a special day for me too.” She raises her eyebrows a hair. “It was on your birthday one year ago that I got what turned out to be your birth certificate. That coincidence made me feel like I was on the right track.”
    She smiles and sighs. “It’s strange, all the dates. You first calling on the anniversary of my mother’s death. Did I tell you that earlier that day, I had a little ritual?”
   “No, you didn’t.”
    “Yeah, after so many years of hating my mother for dying when I was a kid, I was finally letting go of her. I think coming to terms with that death made room for a birth.”
    By now we have reached my truck and she’s facing me, tearing up again.
    “That’s really amazing. It’s hard go through all this and not believe in some sort of spirit world.”
    She nods. “Thank you again for the gift. It’s just really special.”
     I give her a hug, a long one, as long as I can handle, because I’m beginning to realize that no matter what else may be going on, something deep inside needs as much of this as possible. Ahhh. Home. I can rest now.

                                ***