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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

My mother wears army boots
She kicked butt for me and I want to thank her.
By Lisa Zeidner
[05/08/00]

An introduction
We devote a week to Mother's Day and the messages that don't fit on the cards.
By Jennifer Foote Sweeney
[05/08/00]

Remembering Cardinal O'Connor
He stopped taking my calls after I slammed him in the press, but he still had time to be kind to my mother, an Orthodox Jew.
By Ari L. Goldman
[05/05/00]

Sexism and the death chamber
Chivalry lives when a woman must die.
By Cathy Young
[05/04/00]

My spawn arrives!
In the third installment of his lesbian sperm donor saga, Hank Pellissier describes the arrivals of his two babies -- born 21 days apart.
By Hank Pellissier
[05/03/00]

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I tried to answer her questions about my life, but I found myself feeling more and more invaded, as if layer by layer she was trying to get to the root of me, and she was still, in essence, a stranger. I didn't want to upset Mary, in case she was my biological mother, but her phone calls were overwhelming for me, and disturbing to my parents, who were concerned that all this emotional baggage would disrupt my final months at home before leaving for college.

Also Today An introduction to this week's series By Jennifer Foote Sweeney My mother wears army boots She kicked butt for me and I want to thank her. By Lisa Zeidner The series Beyond Hearts and Flowers We devote a week to Mother's Day and the messages that don't fit on the cards.

Because Mary perceived, correctly, that my mom didn't like her calling me so often, she would lie to my mom about who she was. This heightened my mom's panic about another mother moving in on her child, and her mama-bear instincts kicked in.

One night, after Mary had lied to her about who she was, my mom picked up the phone while we were talking: "I really don't appreciate you lying to me about who you are. I know who you are when you call." Mary: "Don't feel threatened just because I gave birth to Beth." Mom: "I don't feel threatened, because I am her mother. I would just appreciate some honesty." At that point, I hung up.

The next time Mary called, I asked her to back off. She responded by telling me that she had ordered copies of my high school graduation pictures and would be coming from California for my graduation. Would I meet her?

I agreed to meet her after my graduation at her aunt's home nearby, thinking that maybe by meeting her I could figure out whether she was my biological mother. Also, I was curious. My mom didn't think it was a good idea -- she was concerned for my safety. But she didn't forbid me from going. She had begun to see Mary as a stalker, convinced that she might kidnap me and whisk me away to California. (Considering Mary's manic ardency, it was not a far-fetched scenario.)

I brought my then boyfriend, who was also an adoptee, along for moral support. We drove to a tiny bungalow in an older neighborhood. Mary answered the door and immediately reached out to hug me. She looked like her pictures and talked to me the way she did on the telephone. She introduced her aunt, who hugged me, too. I felt immediately uncomfortable, awkward and out of place. I was being embraced like I was family by people I didn't know.

Mary brought out a folder full of photos of her family and the family of the man she identified as my biological father. I was glad to have something to focus on. Together we looked for resemblances. We were reaching -- this jaw line resembles mine, this hair color. But there were no clear answers, no obvious signs.

I guess I was hoping that someone in those pictures would be a mirror image of me, so I'd know, finally, and for sure, but nobody was. Mary stared at me. Every once in a while she would touch me, or tell me that she loved me and couldn't believe she was finally in the same room with me. She was weepy, too, telling me again that she hadn't wanted to give me up.

She wanted me to hug her, she begged me to stay in touch with her, she pleaded for pictures -- baby pictures especially. The closer she tried to get to me, the more distance and fear I felt. I wanted to leave, but she wanted to take photographs of me. Finally, emotionally drained, we left.

When I went off to college, she continued to call. Most often it was in the middle of the night, and I would answer the phone deep in the foggy netherworld of half-sleep to hear her shaky voice trying not to cry. "I had a dream about you, that something bad happened. Is everything OK?" I reassured her that I was fine, but asleep, as was my roommate. I asked her again to back off. I came to dread picking up the phone and hearing her voice.

She sent me presents: giant packages filled with stuffed animals, vitamins, perfume, candy and postcards pre-addressed to her. She wrote me long chatty letters detailing the minutia of her life. She begged me to send her a postcard a week, just to let her know I was OK. Every once in a while, I would send her a postcard or call, but I always felt awkward about it -- like I was trying to humor a stalker to keep the hunting from getting any worse.

She was getting more and more needy, more obsessed; she told me her apartment was a shrine to me. She had blown up the photos she took when we met and hung them, along with the high school and prom pictures she had managed to get, all over her place. She told me she was coming to see me at school.

I worried about it for weeks. I didn't want to see her, but didn't know how to tell her that without devastating her. It was getting to be too much. Her clinginess repulsed me; I was emotionally plagued by her constant intrusions. I finally became convinced that I needed to "break up" with Mary.

Next page | When we hung up, I knew it wasn't over