My brother and sister from another mother…..

Forty-nine years ago, my parents took me home from the adoption agency. The story goes that they were just supposed to meet me, but my brother, Michael, insisted on taking me home. So even though no baby preparations had been made, I for all intents and purposes became a Taylor that day. I was ten weeks old. Mom detailed my first few days in a two page narrative in a baby album. She was good about writing shit down. Even though we didn’t celebrate May 29 as a birthday or anything, it was still a day that didn’t go by unacknowledged by my mother. But it was kind of a private thing, between Mom and me.  She would usually buy me something like a pair of sandals for the summer and squeeze my hand and tell me that it was her lucky day.  I wanted to celebrate yesterday, but I didn’t want to acknowledge why.  Being adopted is one of those things in my life like having green eyes or long fingers, part of who I am.  Sometimes it’s mattered a lot, and sometimes not at all.  Yes, there’s a big story to tell, but it’s not all mine to tell and it’s complicated with lots of emotions and feelings to consider; so mostly I keep it private.   I have Kathy, my biological mother who means a great deal to me, and I have Rose, who is in my heart and mind every moment, and I have Brigitta, my second mom.  May 29 is not only my adoption day, but Brigitta’s birthday and celebrating with her was a great way to honor the family that I was given.

I was with James the night I got the phone call that my parents were in the accident.  He held me tight in his arms as I got the news that my dad had been killed.  I wanted to throw the phone across the room to stop the lies, but part of me knew that I had to ask about Mom.  I had to stay strong and focused because Mom was still alive.  When I hung up, I dialed a phone number that I’d known before I knew my own phone number–Brigitta Anderson.  She didn’t answer the phone, her husband, Joe did.  He was close enough, and I told him about the accident and that my dad was dead, tears streaming down my face and choking my voice. He got Brigitta for me; I knew he would.  The Andersons have always been part of my family.  Joe and Dad were in the military and retired about the same time and came to Canon to work in the prison.  Both had wives from Europe-mom from Ireland and Brigitta from Germany.  Pam and I are three months apart.  Our brothers, Kevin and Tom are two weeks apart.  The four of us were always together.  The Andersons and the Taylors; it was a thing.  Everyone in town knew we were a package deal.  Even to this day, I just refer to Pam as my sister, because she might as well be.  Brigitta said when she got on the phone, “What do you need me to do?”  She and Pam called Kevin and my uncles.  And they were in the room with the family the next day when mom’s machines were turned off.

In the months since the accident, sometimes Brigitta cooks spaghetti for me, or I’ve had dinner with her and Joe now and then.  They give Shayne work on occasion.  I don’t see them as much as I should, because honestly, sitting at the Anderson kitchen table just brings back so many memories.  And even if they are good memories, they can make me feel broken.  But I’m trying really hard not to be the broken girl this summer, so celebrating Brigitta’s birthday dinner was what I really wanted to do.  It was just a simple sit around the table casual dinner with the Anderson’s.  We had fried chicken, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes and cucumber salad, just like a dinner from my childhood.  Tom and Pam teased each other about a jar of honey.  There was lots of laughter.  The only thing that was missing was my brother, Kevin.  But then Joe told a story about how Kevin and Tom had tried to gather honey with milk jugs at a neighbor’s beehives when they were little boys and all of a sudden I could picture the scene.  Two little boys, one with dark hair, one blonde, in stripey seventies shirts and jeans, holding their jugs up to a swarming hive.  They wouldn’t have been scared of getting stung.  The honey would have been worth it.  It was probably Kevin’s idea.  He was forever coming up with a dangerous plans, like trying to fly, or building an elevator in a treehouse,  and the rest of us would go along with the plan, no matter how crazy it was.

Recently, someone asked me if I believe in destiny.  I don’t know if I believe in destiny or that things happen for a reason.  Lots of times I think things happen and you create the reasons to make sense of life.  But for whatever reason, I became a Taylor and then also an Anderson.  Mom and Brigitta were always there to pass out band-aids or popsicles or glasses of Kool-aid, or yell at us to settle down or go to sleep.  I can’t help but think how lucky I am to have to had such an ideal childhood.  I didn’t just get two parents, I got four.  And an extra brother and sister who no matter what, I can always, always count on.   I gave Joe and Brigitta and Tom and Pam hugs before I left.  I left the house, feeling happy, like I had truly celebrated getting adopted into the great life that I have.