Budding neuroscientist nerd girl Mary was fascinated by
this.
Kind child daughter was devastated. Again.
“You look familiar.
What is your name?”
“Mary. Mary Dusing.”
“Oh, am I related to you?”
Not realizing yet my life lies on the cutting room floor, I
answer, “I am your daughter.”
“I don’t have a daughter.”
“Oh, OK,” I say in a small voice.
The nerd girl takes over with her cool dispassionate
ways. Kind daughter fades as she must in
these moments lest she make things worse with her uncontrolled emotions. But the nerd girl can be poking, can be
ruthlessly thorough bordering on unkind in her quest to know.
“But you look familiar.
You look like me.”
I have heard this a million times, as has she. “Well that’s odd.”
“Do I know you?”
Nerd girl is not sure which trap any given answer might
spring, so she falls back to the therapy ruse of answering a question with a
question. “I don’t know. Do you?”
“Who are your people?”
“My parents’ names were Rose Marie and Hank.”
Nothing.
“I have four brothers.”
Nothing
“Their names are Jim, Tom, Skip and Phil.”
“Those are MY boys’ names.”
“Those are my brothers’ names.”
“You are my daughter?”
“Yes!” nerd girl answers hoping we have refilled that
hole. But no.
“How come no one told me I had a daughter?” she cries.
Nerd girl pushes Kind daughter out to try and undo the
damage. Kind daughter does tears. Nerd girl does not.
Two hours later she is asleep, clutching Red the teddy bear
in one hand and a set of purple Mardi Gras beads Kind daughter passed off as
her rosary in the other.
Kind daughter sits in her car, waiting for the emotional
shit storm. But there is none. There is only numbness and the faint ache of
a phantom mama.
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