Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls(69)

Thanks for getting back to me, I say. Like I said, I’ve been working on this family tree.

Oh, of course, she says. I hope I can help.

So who are you? A secret cousin of mine? Or an aunt? I know it says 1706 centimorgans on the site, but I’m not sure what that means. And your picture—it’s so small. I can only see your hair, really. Who are your parents?

Why did you take the test? she wants to know. This woman.

My father died six months ago, I say. The tree—I’m just trying to fill in the blanks, I guess. There’s a lot in my family—just, a lot.

I see. I’m so sorry to hear that.

The test was a gift. A Christmas gift.

Okay, she says. We are both breathing heavily into the phone. I’m not sure why that is.

Why did you take it? I ask.

Well, she says, I was adopted at birth.

I watch a slouching man push a hotdog cart around the corner. I watch a woman exit the ceramic shop with a brown paper bag strangling her wrist. I scuff the sidewalk with the toe of my loafer. I’m not sure what to say to this woman.

Maybe we can both help each other?

I think we can, yes, she says.

Well, I think you may be my cousin, or aunt, I say. I’m pretty sure. My family, there’s a lot no one talks about.

I do not want to be the one to tell her this. She must be my grandfather’s—he had women on the side. I do not want to tell her that he never mentioned another child. He never went to look. I don’t have a clue who the mother might be. Mostly, I do not want to tell her that my grandfather has been dead for almost twenty years.

I’ve seen a picture of you, she says. On the Internet. I feel like I’m looking into a mirror.

Everyone in my family looks alike, I say. Island genes—they’re strong.

But it’s like looking directly into a mirror, she says. Do you understand what I’m saying?

I think you may be my aunt, I say.

Please, help me, she says. I’ve been looking all my life. Please.

The hotdog man is gone. A girl smokes outside the Holiday Inn. She’s on a bench, talking on the phone. She sips soda out of a green bottle. On her knee, half a sandwich in plastic wrap.

I’ll try to help you, I say. Tell me what you know.

I know that for every birthday of my entire life, I’ve woken up wondering if my mother remembers the day. If she’s thinking of me. If she looks like me. If she knows.

Let’s start from the beginning, I say. Where were you born?

Hollywood, Florida, she says. That’s somewhere between Miami and Boca Raton.

I know it, I say. I was born around there, too. When?

July 11, 1976, she says. 7-11. It’s one of the few things I know.

My sister and I speak to each other every morning and every night. We check in all day. I can’t focus on anything but her. The pictures of her face, the way her voice sounds like my mother, the words that she uses to describe the moon, the descriptions of her house, her favorite movies. She leaves me voice mails singing Joni Mitchell songs—we both love Joni, we have all the same favorites—and I play them and replay them, my sister, my sister can sing, my sister. We send each other photos all day long, and I zoom in to see her face more clearly. I want to see every beauty mark. Every angle of her teeth.

At night, we go through the lists: What is your favorite meal? What is your favorite memory? Do you like mustard? Can you drink or do you get Asia Glow? Who was your first kiss? What is your husband like? What is your girlfriend like? Did you always know you were gay? What are my nieces like? What was your childhood like? What is our mother like?

My mom is kind, I say. She always smells good. She writes a beautiful letter. You’re going to love her. I constantly correct myself: Our mom. Ours.



Marjorie Brooke Gelbwaks, Contestant #2, Miss Florida Pageant, 1999

It is like preparation for death, I think. Describing my mother—her entire life. Who she’s been as a person; who she is now. I am used to talking about my father this way—you would have loved him—but never my mother.

We fall asleep, one of us still talking, the other mumbling into the phone.

Are you still there? one of us will say.

Yes. Keep going, please, talk.

The relationship we have is nothing short of obsessive. Hannah is worried. She does not want me to have my heart broken. Careful, she says. She can already tell I am in love.

I just wonder, I say. What do you think she looks like naked? Do you think we have the same hips? The same legs? Are our breasts the same size and shape? Do you think hers are fake? Will I look like her in twelve years?

Why don’t you meet each other first?

How long should I wait before I tell her I love her?

Meet each other, she says.

My sister has had a flight booked for months. To New York, the following week. She owes her best friend a visit, she says. My mother has a flight booked to New York, the same week. She owes me a visit, she says.

I can’t tell Mom on the phone, I tell my sister. I’ll sit down with her. Explain. We’ll go from there. I’m sure she’ll want to meet you, too.

My sister says, Thank you, thank you, I’d like that, but I can tell she does not have her hopes up.



Marjorie’s profile photo, Ancestry.com. Account created January 2014.

WINTER, 1988

COCONUT GROVE, FLORIDA