In Search of Eden, page 11
So that was how it happened that she got back on her feet again, so to speak. She went to see Mr. Ness, the attorney, and signed the things he had prepared. Although her mother’s estate was modest, it would still take several months for things to be settled. She would have money but would have to wait for probate. She was surprised to find that the education account the adoptive parents had set up for her still had a substantial balance, but since it was in Mama’s name, it, too, would have to go through probate. Mama had made some deposits, she realized, and she felt stirred up at the thought. A little angry, if the truth were told, for it was so like Mama to hide any reason for Dorrie to love and connect with her. Instead of enriched, she felt robbed.
She went to see Sandra Lockwood and talked to her twice a week for an hour for a month or so.
“You haven’t formed many permanent attachments,” she said. “Because deep down I don’t think you believe you have what it takes to be worthy of deep, real love. You can’t stop yourself from reaching for it, though, so what you do is break it at some point by finding fault with the circumstances or people in your life and telling yourself to move on.”
“Uh-huh,” Dorrie said, nodding and wondering if she had made a mistake to come. But the counselor did help her make a few decisions. For one, she decided to sell the house. Even though she had always thought of it as home, she realized now she had no desire to stay in Nashville. She would miss Mr. Cooper, but this was not her home. The second decision was even more momentous.
“Tell me about your name,” Sandra asked her another time, so Dorrie told her the story of how Mama had changed it from what it had been to what it was now.
“Did you like that?” she asked.
“No. But I didn’t have any choice in the matter.”
“There were a lot of things you didn’t have a choice in,” Sandra observed quietly. “But that was then. This is now. It’s a new day, Dorrie.”
It was a new day. She repeated it to herself until she actually began to believe it. She went back to the lawyer and filled out the paper work to get her name back and got a court date.
She cleaned out the house and rented a storage unit for her few belongings. Aunt Bobbie would arrange for the house to be listed with a Realtor when the will was probated, and after the sale, Dorrie would give her aunt a generous share of the proceeds. Aunt Bobbie also agreed to have a garage sale for Mama’s furniture. Dorrie didn’t want any of it. Aunt Bobbie said there were a few things she would like. Dorrie told her to come and get them and began sorting through the little that remained of her mother’s life.
Mama had already gotten rid of almost everything that was in any way personal. Odd, but totally in keeping with what she would have expected. Dorrie took down Mama’s housecoat and carefully folded it, setting it down in the bottom of the Goodwill sack. She folded the few dresses that were left, two pantsuits, the jeans and jacket. She took the nightgown and peignoir set Mama had been so attached to and gently placed them on the pile. She went through the dresser, the hall closet, the bathroom medicine chest, the rest of the house, and she was amazed at how little there was that her mother had left behind.
Dorrie’s old violin was on the bottom shelf of the guest room closet, and she was surprised Mama had never gotten rid of it. How odd. She picked it up and stroked the wood and even lifted it to her chin and played a scale. She had a little talent. She wondered again if she might have accomplished anything with it given the chance. She set it back down in the crushed velvet case and carefully set the bow inside the clips. She shut the case and after a moment added it to the pile for the storage unit instead of the Goodwill. Who knows? she thought. It was a new day. Anything was possible. Perhaps she would play it again someday.
She didn’t go to the Bob In, in spite of Myra Jean’s kind arrangements. She actually went to the Mall at Green Hills, an upscale sort of place that Mama studiously avoided. She took a look at herself in the plate-glass window as she walked in, and she had to agree with Myra Jean. She was a pathetic sight. She wore jeans today, and they were baggy, as she hadn’t been eating much. She had on one of Mama’s cotton blouses, which was also too big. She wore no makeup, and the bones on her face seemed too prominent. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her hair was a mess, hanging down over her face like a dark veil. She went over again what the counselor had said.
“It’s not a sin to spend a little money on yourself. You don’t have to take your pleasures and run away and hide with them. No one is going to take them away from you. God gives good gifts. Why don’t you give yourself permission to enjoy them in His presence?”
The counselor talked about God quite a bit. Dorrie didn’t mind. She actually liked it, although she still wasn’t sure what she thought about it. She became thoughtful when she recalled the image that had come to mind when the counselor had delivered that particular nugget of wisdom. She had remembered a dog they had when Daddy lived with them—a mutt. That dog had the strangest habit of taking her food off behind the house where she would eat it with furtive glances and protective growls. Dorrie had been puzzled, but Daddy had explained. “That dog was probably the runt of the litter,” he said. “She took her food off so no one would take it from her. Now that she’s all by herself she still does it. Kind of sad, isn’t it?” he had commented, and Dorrie had agreed. Now she understood exactly how that dog had felt. She sighed and pulled open the heavy doors and stepped into the chilled mall.
She had her hair cut first. At a salon and spa, not at a beauty shop. “Scissors” was bare and clean with sparse lines and cool colors, metal and glass and the smell of almonds and cherries. They washed and kneaded her scalp and dried her hair with thick cotton towels. The stylist, a man named Jerome, snipped and clipped and razored with expert hands. He applied some hair color with a paintbrush, and when he blew her hair dry, it fell in sleek, plump curves around her face, burnished lights shimmering in the dark brown depths of her hair.
He handed her over to Candy, who oohed and aahed over her skin and bones. A funny thing, Dorrie decided, to praise someone for looking gaunt. She applied moisturizer and makeup and painted shadows above her eyes and covered up the ones beneath and made her lips a pouting pink.
Dorrie was hungry after all that prodding and pummeling, but she still had beauty to achieve. She went to Lord and Taylor and bought a pretty pink dress that swirled when she twirled and sandals to match. She bought two pairs of pants and loose, flowing peasant blouses in bright colors with a lace camisole and a wide circle skirt in pink and orange and flip-flops with jewels. She bought new undies and bras and a pearl necklace like the one her daddy had given her for Christmas when she was ten, lost by the time she was eleven, but she secretly suspected Mama had thrown it out. She had her nails and toenails done, bare pink with a tiny rim of white at the edge. She bought a tiny silver ring for her toe.
She was hungry. Interesting. She hadn’t been hungry in weeks. She found the food court and bought a Happy Meal at McDonald’s and sat by the carpeted play area and ate. She gave the toy to a little girl with sad eyes who did not thank her but grabbed it and ran away, and Dorrie thought again of that dog.
She put her bags in the trunk and then wandered to the toy store after that, killing time until three o’clock. It wasn’t exactly a toy store. It was part nature, part discovery and book and education things and imagination, and she wandered the aisles, dreaming and pretending she was ten again.
She bought a box of sixty-four crayons, jacks and a rubber ball, a coloring book of pioneer children, a bag of seashells, their curved and pink insides hidden behind the protective walls of shell. She bought a bag full of pretty rocks, polished to a sheen, pink quartz crystal, black shiny malachite, green jade, fool’s gold. She bought a china tea set with tiny blue flowers, and some books: The Secret Garden, A Little Princess, Anne of Green Gables. She bought a set of oil paints, a sketchbook, the first four volumes of Nancy Drew. She went back to the play area with the sacks of childhood, but the sad-eyed girl was gone. It was just as well. Somebody probably would have arrested her if she’d followed through on her impulse of making it Christmas in April. Besides, she had a feeling she had really bought them for herself. She kept her feelings of foolishness and guilt at her self-indulgence at bay by remembering that Mama was gone. There would be no one to look at her with incredulity and ask her if she’d lost her mind.
She stopped in the art supply store and bought a good set of watercolor pencils and a fine Rapidograph pen for her drawings. Mama would definitely not have approved of the amount of money she spent.
At three o’clock she got back in the car, drove through the busy streets, and parked outside the courthouse. Nashville was bustling with people who had important things to do, but she told herself her business, though humble, was important to her. She walked into the building and waited in a seat that felt like a church pew until her name was called.
chapter 13
*
Next matter before the court?”
“Item number 34017. Name change. Petitioner Dora Mae Gibson.”
Dorrie stood up and wiped her hands nervously on her skirt. Why did she feel afraid? It wasn’t as if she’d done anything wrong, but being here in the courthouse with its high vaulted ceilings and heavy dark woodwork made her feel small and unimportant. And she supposed Mama had something to do with it. The power of her mother’s personality seemed to reach out and shame her, even from the grave.
Dorrie had paid the $120 filing fee and carefully filled out the forms. The judge looked down at them now. She was a thin woman with a pointed nose and pinkish white hair teased into a careful bubble, but her hair was so thin Dorrie could see the light shining through it. She looked down at Dorrie with a disapproving expression on her face, and Dorrie wondered if she and Mama were related.
“You’re Dora Mae Gibson?” she asked suspiciously.
“Yes, ma’am, I am, Your Honor.” Dorrie cleared her throat. It felt dry.
The judge frowned again, looked down at the papers, then back at Dorrie. “Dora Mae Gibson seems like a perfectly serviceable name. What’s wrong with it?”
Dorrie stared blankly. She hadn’t expected to be challenged, and for a minute she teetered, leaning toward agreeing with the accusation. The part of her that was used to caving in to Mama wanted to say, You’re right, forget it, and run from the piercing eyes. But suddenly a little spurt of starch straightened her backbone and raised her voice. “It’s a fine name,” she said, her voice growing stronger as she spoke. “And there’s nothing whatever wrong with it. It just isn’t my name.” She felt a little better having gotten that out, but as usual, by the time the words landed back on her eardrums, she regretted letting them escape. If the past was any predictor of the future, there would be a payment required.
“I beg your pardon?”
Here it came. The judge frowned, and Dorrie almost expected to hear her mother’s voice slice out and put her down where she belonged. She had a sudden vision of herself picking up litter by the side of the road.
“What I mean, Your Honor, is that Dora Mae Gibson isn’t the name I was given at birth. The one on the form I filled out is the name I was given. But after my parents divorced, my mother changed it. She used my middle and her last. Sort of, anyway. And the point is, well, what I mean to say is, I just want it back. It’s mine, after all. She had no right to take it away.” Explaining made her angry, and it came out in her voice again, and she realized there was far too much anger bubbling up inside her for the present situation to justify.
“All right, all right.” The judge held up her hand and glanced back at the courtroom full of other people waiting for a piece of her day. “Don’t get your knickers knotted.” She looked down at the paper again. “So this is the name you want? Your real name,” she amended quickly as Dorrie opened her mouth to speak.
“Yes, ma’am.” Dorrie could feel her face glowing and her pulse pounding in her ears.
“Are you changing your name to evade the law?”
“No, ma’am!” Dorrie shook her head vehemently.
She stared at Dorrie for a second or two. “So ordered,” she said.
Dorrie wondered if she would pound the gavel or do something official, but all she did was sign the papers and hand them to her clerk.
She looked down at Dorrie again. “Congratulations, young woman. From this moment on you shall be known as Miranda Isadora DeSpain. It suits you,” she said, and then for no reason at all, she smiled.
Dorrie took a shaky breath, then smiled back. Her knees felt a little weak. She took her copy of the name-change decree and walked out of the courtroom. She stood there on the sidewalk for a minute, looking around her in wonder.
Downtown Nashville was just as it had been when she walked in. The fancy restaurants were still serving lunch, the boutiques and galleries still displayed the same art, the cars still drove by.
Her heart thumped faster, and she went and sat down on the bench under the trees. She looked at the piece of paper and read her name, forming the words slowly. Miranda Isadora DeSpain. She took out the tiny mirror she kept in her purse and looked at her face. For the first time she thought it was possible she might be someone other than who she’d always thought. She saw burnished dark hair and mysterious eyes, and her lips parted in a secret smile.
A slight breeze ruffled her hair. She looked up and saw the wind trembling the new leaves of the maple above her. She shivered, whether from fear or anticipation she did not know. The only thing she knew was that she felt free and untethered for the first time in her life. She had the feeling of possibility. That anything might happen.
chapter 14
*
Miranda—she tried out her new/old name in her mind whenever she could. She had one final meeting with Sandra Lockwood. When they said good-bye she hugged her briefly and felt real sorrow, as if she had lost a true friend. She didn’t fret for long, though, but came home and finished packing her suitcases. Tomorrow she would begin her adventure. She would set out for the Basque country. Tomorrow morning to New York, then on to Spain.
“You’ll do fine,” Sandra had said, waving her out the door. “Your life awaits.”
And so it did, for the old life had finally ended. Her few belongings were packed in the Sentry Storage unit. The house was clean, ready to be sold. Aunt Bobbie had all the paper work she needed to put it up for sale. She had taken Mama’s car, protesting all the while, but Miranda had insisted she take it, as well as the mahogany secretary from the living room and the harp chairs and end tables that matched them.
Miranda would sleep at Mr. Cooper’s tonight, and he would drive her to the airport in the morning. She checked her suitcase for the tenth time, then took one more look around, glancing at all the scenes of her childhood, saying good-bye to Mama one last time. It wasn’t the emotional time she had thought it would be. She was too tired and dry to cry.
The doorbell rang. She hoped it wasn’t the Jehovah’s Witnesses. She peeked out the upstairs window and startled when she saw Mama’s car at the curb. Aunt Bobbie’s car, she reminded herself and wondered why her aunt was here again. They had already said good-bye once, and it was nearly time for her aunt’s shift to begin at the nursing home. Maybe she had forgotten to sign something her aunt would need to sell the house. She ran downstairs, opened the door, and it was indeed her aunt, dressed for work, standing on the welcome mat, looking sober.
“Hey, Aunt Bobbie,” she said, standing back and motioning her in. “Did I forget to do something?”
“No,” Aunt Bobbie said, stepping inside. “You didn’t forget anything.” Her lined face drooped a little more than usual. She looked worried and upset.
“What’s wrong?” Miranda felt a little flutter of premonition.
“Maybe we should sit down,” Aunt Bobbie said.
Miranda mutely gestured to the carpeted stairs. They sat. Aunt Bobbie twisted the handle of her purse. Miranda waited. “What’s this about?” she finally asked.
“It’s about the secretary,” Aunt Bobbie said.
Miranda frowned and was truly dumfounded. “The desk?” Aunt Bobbie nodded. Miranda grinned. “It doesn’t fit where you wanted to put it? You want to bring it back? I’m sorry. All deals are final.”
Aunt Bobbie wasn’t smiling.
“There was something in it,” she said. “Something taped up underneath the drawer.”
Miranda stared at her. Where was she going with this? And if Aunt Bobbie hadn’t looked so upset, Miranda would have made a joke. Did Mama have a secret life? Had she been selling crack or something? She shook her head in puzzlement, and a small smile played on her lips just at the thought. Aunt Bobbie reached into her purse and took out an envelope.
“I wasn’t sure what I should do. I prayed on it and prayed on it, and I finally just decided you ought to have it. It just didn’t seem right not to tell you. So here you are,” she said, holding the envelope out.
Miranda took it from her and felt her smile fade. It was as if some part of her knew what it would be. She held it close to the light and could see that it was old and slightly yellowed. It was addressed to Noreen Gibson at 223 Eastmont Drive. This house. Postmarked December 14, 1996. She felt a chill run over her arms and up the back of her neck. There was no return address. Almost holding her breath she opened it up, and there was a photograph. She took it out. It was a baby, a year-old child. She knew this because on the back in black ball-point pen was written a simple phrase, Twelve months old.
She felt her pulse speed up, and her head became light. She forced herself to breathe normally and moved closer to the light. She couldn’t tell if it was a girl or a boy, and she wondered if that was intentional. The child wore a red T-shirt and overalls. What little hair showed was dark. The eyes looked smudgy blue. Or maybe brown. It was hard to tell. The baby had pink cheeks and was smiling. Miranda felt something pierce her heart. She knew what this was. She knew who this was. She turned over the envelope and read the postmark more carefully. It was blurred, but she made it out. Abingdon, Virginia. She put the envelope over her heart as if to stop it from its wild beating.
