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 new, taunting voice responds in my head, or is it leaking out with the Pier One Imports world-beat shopping music? But if you buy a gift, you’ll be saying, “I forgive you, everything is okay, all is normal now.” And you know you don’t feel that way yet.
   As I pass the infinite varieties of candles and their holders from all over the planet, I silently counter, Yeah, but isn’t that my stuff? Not hers? And If I don’t buy a gift, she might be offended and think I hate her and not want to continue 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 is something really important about having 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 sixty-fifth for her. Aren’t you betraying her if you buy a gift for Barb?
   I wander the store in full silent chatter. Of course not. And I’m glad I did all those things. It’s true there was a tiny element of obligation, and a tiny feeling that her birthday gifts could never be enough for what she did for me.
   You mean taking you in because this mother here would not keep you.
   No. I mean because Mom devoted herself to being a mother. She made a wonderful home, and yes Dad’s drinking caused lots of grief, but there were lots of great times too. And she’s grown to support me in whatever I do. I love her for that.
   Yes, but again, all that happened because this mother here would not keep you.
  Okay, 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 silver photo frame, have it gift-wrapped, 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, probably 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 blending into a Salvador Dali painting, I make a subtle entrance this time, and receive 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, “Yeah,” and move on, wondering what she meant by “another.”
   Barb takes me around, holding onto my arm, leaning in and confiding, “I had no idea. They really surprised me.” Some people like surprises. Some pretend to. Barb seems to have genuinely enjoyed this one.
   She introduces me to the new faces, husbands, friends, and kids, and then I’m off on my own to mingle, something I can appear to be good at while trembling inside. I mingle amongst all these relatives, alternately feeling invisible, coated in neon, and somewhat normal. There is, however, nothing about this mingling that feels in any way casual.
   I place my gift and card with all the others, grab a Calistoga, and meander outside to join “the men” gathered by the barbecue. 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 drift by. With a second Calistoga in hand, I notice an open chair next to Barb’s friends, settle in, and chat with them for a while. Women not related to me seem easier to relax around at this point.
   One of them asks, “So Patrick, how long will you be in L.A.?”
   “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 both jumps with glee and hides behind the couch when I hear this. Of course I would like her to visit. But already I’m projecting that scene. Her actually staying with me. Spending lots of time together while that melting pot of feelings rests calmly, or simmers, or boils over.
   As my Calistoga-soaked, trigger-sensitive bladder calls for attention once again, I excuse myself and head for the bathroom, recalling that Barb has done very little traveling. I wonder if she’d visit if I were moving to Seattle or New York. Surely. Probably. Maybe not. Stop thinking so damn much!
   Cutting through the kitchen past the growing collection of potluck contributions, I mosey outside again, wishing I could get down on the ground and play with the kids. After another brief attempt to jaw with the guys, I glance down when one of the kids zooms past and am aghast to discover I have not zipped up my fly.
   Horror of horrors, I’ve made a ridiculous faux pas. My eyes dart around to see if anyone’s noticed. Here I am, barely maintaining some sense of social decorum, and I’ve been walking around with my fly open. What will they think? Wow, that’s some new cousin. Where’d he come from? How was he raised? Immediately, I become the shy, self-conscious kid who often found himself embarrassed by confounding faux pas, not the least of which occurred at the eighth grade Halloween party, when after reluctantly eating sloppy joes, which always made me nauseous, the bottle spun to me, I kissed Peggy Karl and then threw up all over 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, and slip back into the house vowing to cut down on Calistoga and make no more sojourns outside for a while.
  “Uncle Patrick, can you load the film in my camera?” When I met my niece, she was called Nikki. Now she prefers Nicole. A lot can change in three months.
   Loading film is something I can do. In fact, cameras have become a regular reference. Before I came down to visit last Sunday, Barb had asked me to bring mine to take pictures of her blooming cactus and other backyard plants because she can’t get close enough with hers. I was glad to do so, although surprising thoughts also floated through. Maybe she expects me to provide whatever talents and experience I have to offer, so often viewed as normal family behavior. Maybe I don’t feel we’re quite there yet, and therefore it feels like taking advantage. Maybe I should risk being viewed as petty, and bring it up. Maybe nothing in this dance will ever escape endless analysis.
   I have my camera today. I always bring it here. It allows me to become a detached documenter, an artist on a shoot, a portrait photographer. But loaded with precious black-and-white film, I will shoot only three photos during this gathering. One of Barb, forgetting she’s fifty-five, jumping rope with one of the kids, and two posed group portraits, the kind that make the artist in me cringe, but are just 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 so much alike.”
   This pleases me. I love hearing this. If I had a megaphone, I’d be shouting into it, “Okay everybody, did you hear that? Someone says Lori and I look alike.”
   Lori, however, says, “Really?” She almost seems surprised. Is it possible she doesn’t see it? Or is it possible that looking like this new brother is somehow unsettling? Maybe she hasn’t been wondering about this for decades like I have.
   The chicken legs and wings are flying off the barbecue 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 refried 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 have talked with no one for any length of time, I remind myself that parties are like that. Not every gathering has to result in long, personal, one-on-one conversations. But another part of me is screaming, This is my first birth-family party. I want to have long, personal, one-on-one conversations with every single person here. I want to ask them all about the family, and especially the father I’ll never meet.
   As the cake’s single large candle is lit, this voice is drowned out by the energetic chorus of “Happy Birthday,” 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 is now making every effort to deal with the past and include me in this family, or “Mom,” the woman who couldn’t remember the day 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 with her secret wish behind momentarily distant eyes and blows out the candle to the cheers of everyone gathered around. The homemade cheesecake is sliced and distributed as Barb settles on to the couch next to her cards and gifts. In between pieces 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 being passed around is of the kidding-about-old-age type, the kind that to me 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, warm smile. She must like it. But then she puts it down, decidedly not passing it around with the others. I wonder if it’s because it’s too different, or if it’s too personal.
   By the time she’s unwrapping the gift, I’m just about holding my breath. Such a simple, common event, and I’m as nervous as a suitor making a first attempt at a pleasing gesture. She holds it up. “Oh, thank you. That’s sooooo great. It’s so nice and solid.” Every word is emphasized. “I can use it for a family photo.” Breathing again, I wonder if maybe her secret wish was the same photo I fantasize about: Barb Shields with all her five children.
   When Lori sees the frame, she says, “Oh, perfect,” as if she’d been wondering what this new family member would buy for a first birthday gift.
   Barb looks at me again with gratitude, her eyes beginning to well up.
   “You’re welcome,” is all I can say, as my heart opens a little more.
   As she holds the frame to her chest, her face and eyes tell me she understands what I’m really saying: With this gift, I’m beginning to forgive, understand, and heal.
  By six o’clock, the party is winding down, and I’m ready to leave. I had planned to avoid staying late, and I am sticking to my plan. So often, I am the last to leave, hanging on and on. At this event, I want to be a guest who arrives and leaves like everyone else.
  Hands are shaken, hugs are exchanged, and as Barb walks me out to my truck, that notion of being like everyone else evaporates. 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 have no idea how to begin. When I’m alone with her, I feel bowled over inside, in a trance state, edgy, yet at the same time, as serene as the surface of a lake on a windless spring day.
   She shakes her head. “Man, what a surprise. 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 along a paved driveway at dusk with the Newport Freeway buzzing in the background, but might as well be alone in a quiet, wooded park. “So will you be coming for Easter?”
   “Let’s see, that’s in two weeks. Yeah, I think I can make it.”
   She squeezes my arm. “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. And now, here I am.”
  She smiles and sighs. “It’s strange, all the dates. You calling on the anniversary of my mother’s death. Did I tell you that earlier that day, I had a little ritual?”
“You mentioned thinking about her, but not a ritual.”
“Yeah, after so many years of hating my mother for dying when I was a kid, I finally let go of her. I kinda look at it like coming to terms with her death made room for a birth.”
“That’s really amazing.” By now we have reached my truck and she is facing me, both of us beginning to linger. “It’s almost impossible to go through all this and not believe in some sort of spirit world.”
   She grabs my hands. “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 accepting the fact that no matter how I feel about her now or what happened in the past, I truly need this as much as food and water. Ahhh. Home. I can rest now.