You were my hope
present
And then Hope begins the story that I’ve been waiting twenty-two years to hear. “You were born on a hot July day in this room. July thirtieth.”
I clamp my hand over my mouth to muffle my sob. That’s my birthday. The tears blur my vision instantly making Hope only a fuzzy outline in front of me. I tug her hand and urge her into the hallway and back out into the maternity ward reception area before I ask her to continue and tell me everything she remembers. And not to leave anything out.
She takes a seat calmly.
I sit next to her dazed, but alert.
She takes my hand in hers and stares at them in my lap.
And then she tells me about the day I was born. “My tummy had been hurting real bad all afternoon. When Mama came home from work and saw the sheets on my bed underneath me all wet, she took me to the hospital.
“Mama stayed in the room with me while you were born. She sat in a chair across the room. She didn’t look at me the whole time, but I saw her crying.” Hope’s eyes look distant with concentration like she’s lost in the memory, reliving it, recalling every detail.
“The second you were born, the doctor said, ‘It’s a girl,’ and you cried. Your cry was quiet but loud at the same time like you were a tiny kitty on the outside and a lion on the inside. It made me smile, ‘cause I knew you were strong. And I didn’t say it out loud, but I named you Hope ‘cause that’s what I felt. I felt hope.
“You were so tiny, just like a doll, when the nurse laid you on my chest. She smiled at me like she was happy and sad all at once, and she whispered, ‘We’re not supposed to let you hold her, but I think she deserves to know you, if only for a minute.’
“The tears started running down my cheeks, and I couldn’t stop ‘em. They weren’t sad tears. You were so beautiful. I stroked your head real soft like and talked to you even softer. ‘I love you, Hope.’ That’s what I told you. I’d never told no one I loved ‘em before. I never felt like I loved no one until I looked at you, and my heart felt so full I didn’t know how else to say it. And then I told you, ‘Your new mama and daddy are gonna take real good care of you. You’re gonna be smart, and nice, and good, and so pretty. I’m glad I got to be the mama who got to meet you first, I’ll never forget you.’” She looks at me. “I was right, you’re all those things.
“The nurse came back, and I kissed you on the forehead, and she took you away. To your new mama and daddy that my mama found for you. I don’t remember their first names, but their last name was—”
“Groves,” we say together. And my heart clenches for Hope and for me.
She nods. “They lived far away and couldn’t have a baby of their own, so they wanted you. And since Mama said I was too young and wasn’t ready to be a mama, I was glad you were gonna live with ‘em, ‘cause they promised to take real good care of you.” She looks at me thoughtfully, and there’s pride in her next words. “You were so special. Special like something that only happens once in a lifetime. When I looked at you, I only saw good things and it made me forget about every bad thing that anyone had ever said or done to me. You took it all away. You were my hope.”
“Did you ever think about me after I was gone?” All my life I’ve wondered. Dreamed that my mom was out there somewhere thinking about me like I was thinking about her.
“I knew better than to ask Mama, ‘cause she said you weren’t mine no more after that day and ‘cause you belonged to another family she said I wasn’t allowed to talk about you to no one. She told me to forget you, but I never stopped thinking about you. Every night since, before I go to bed I say a prayer for you, ‘Please keep Hope safe and happy.’ I don’t pray for nothing else. Just for you. And every year on your birthday I sing you ‘Happy Birthday.’”
“How old were you when I was born?” I ask.
“Seventeen,” she answers matter-of-factly.
I nod. She was young and obviously incapable of caring for a child. No wonder her mother intervened and I was given up for adoption. “What about my father? Who is he?”
Her eyes go dead for a few seconds before she stares off into space. I don’t think she’s going to answer. And then she does. “His name was Dan. I met him at school. He called me pretty. He was my boyfriend.”
“Where is he now? Do you know?” I have a feeling asking this question is a long shot, and to be honest I don’t care, hearing Hope’s story is enough.
She shrugs. “Don’t know. He had to move away after I told him I was pregnant. His mama needed him.” She doesn’t seem sad, more nostalgic. Like she’s thinking of someone she hasn’t thought about in a very long time.
“How did you know, Hope? That I was your baby? You only saw me for a few minutes, and that was twenty-two years ago.”
She squeezes my hand. “Remember what Seamus said this morning about meeting his babies for the first time and them imprinting on his soul?” She shrugs. “It’s true. I knew when you knocked on my door that first time and gave me a pineapple, who you were.”
I’m stunned and in awe, searching Hope’s face in a whole new light. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You have a family. You’re theirs. I didn’t think it was allowed like Mama said.” She truly believes it.
I hug her. “It’s allowed. And they’re not my family anymore.”
She pulls back from the hug and looks surprised. “They’re not?”
I shake my head. “No. You are.”
I’m gifted with one of Hope’s rare smiles and for the first time in twenty-two years, I feel complete. Satisfied. I know many would be skeptical, question it, dig deeper. But in my heart, the search is over and this part of my research is done. I found my mom. Or she found me.
When we return to the waiting room, it’s empty. The nurse tells us Kai has been moved to a room on the telemetry floor.
I peer in from the hall, with Hope by my side, and see everyone clustered around Kai’s bed. Seamus sees me and waves both of us in.
I apologize quietly for disturbing their family time. Kai is sleeping. He’s hooked up to various machines and monitors, and an IV drip is administering painkillers. My entire being aches for this little boy.
Seamus is rubbing my back as he takes in my expression. “He’ll make a full recovery. He just needs some time,” he whispers in my ear. I hear the lack of worry in his voice, and I know it’s true.
Still, I can’t take my eyes off him lying in the bed, so helpless. “Thank God,” I whisper back.
“Everything okay with Hope? You were gone a long time.” It’s still his soothing whisper in my ear.
I turn my head, look him in the eye, and the overwhelming realization that I just got my miracle hits me. It hits me so hard it fills my eyes and takes away my words. I nod instead.
He puts his arm around me and kisses the side of my head. “Good.”
I look back at Kai. “We’d better get going, Seamus, so you can take care of Kai.” And then back to Seamus. “I’m glad they moved him to this room, that’s a good sign.”
Seamus walks out of the room with Hope and me. Hope keeps walking toward the elevator where she stops and waits for me.
When I look up at Seamus, his eyes are fixed on mine. He’s looking at me like there are a thousand and one things he wants to say. He starts with, “Can I hug you?”
I wrap my arms around him and for a solid minute, our bodies talk. There are apologies. And questions. And answers. And promises.
When we release each other, he smiles. It’s tired, but it’s mine. “Please tell me you felt that?”
I nod. I did.
He inhales deeply and lets it all out, smile still in place. “Good. Because, holy shit, I’ve missed you.”
I want to kiss him so badly, but it’s so inappropriate given the time and place.
“Would you want to…I don’t know…maybe after Kai is released and things get back to normal, we could…” He stops talking, covers his eyes with his hand, and laughs. “Jesus Christ, I suck at this. It’s been a long time since I tried to ask someone out.”
That giddy feeling rises in me, the one I’ve only ever felt when I’m around Seamus, and it makes my smile impossible to hide. “Yes. Please.”
He bookends my cheeks with his hands and kisses me softly, just a peck, but I feel it all the way down to my toes. And then he rests his forehead against mine. “Thank you.”
“I’ll have to give you my home phone number, I don’t have a cell.”
“Good idea.”
We walk to the information desk and trade phone numbers. “Just leave a message on the answering machine. It’s kind of a community phone set up where I live, but it works. I’ll get the message.”
He nods. “Sounds good. I’ll talk to you soon. Thanks for coming to check on Kai. And me.”
I nod.
And I leave the hospital with my mom.
And a grateful heart that’s bursting with love.