by Christina Holbrook

Meg’s phone jangled to life and she turned from her office window with its view of the snow-covered village. 

            “Hello? My name is Jade. I’m looking for . . . Megan Evans?”

            “This is Meg.”

            The young caller hesitated. “Oh, um . . . Meg? I’m wondering . . .” And then the words tumbled out. “I’m wondering if there’s a person whose call you’ve been waiting for?”

            Meg worked as a business consultant, and callers who didn’t get straight to the point annoyed her. She felt tempted to hang up on this Jade, probably some rookie telemarketer. Instead, she responded tersely to the question: “I’m sorry—what?”

            “Is Megan Evans the name you had in high school?” the girl pressed on.

            “It is.”

            “Did you graduate from Scarsdale High School, in New York, sometime between 1992 and 1996?”

            “Yes, I did.” Meg found herself softening. “But . . . what is this about?”

            Jade’s voice quavered. “Is there . . . someone you’ve missed?”

            Meg stayed silent. It was as if the answer to a crossword had suddenly appeared before her eyes, the word dropping into the empty puzzle boxes. She thought she understood what Jade might be hinting at.

Alone in the office she shared with her longtime boyfriend, Robbie, Meg stared at the falling snow that blurred her view of the outside world. Robbie was scheduled to be at a job site, one of the crew for a house renovation. But at four o’clock on a cold February afternoon, Meg had little expectation that he was still at work; Robbie had probably settled in with the boys at the brewery around the corner.

            Not for the first time, Meg stifled her dissatisfaction and disappointment. She resisted wading too deep into the muck of self-reflection and considered instead the alternatives before her. Would it be so wrong to follow where this curious phone call led?

  When Jade, without further explanation, requested a meeting, Meg—without further questions—agreed.

“You look just like your yearbook picture!” Jade exclaimed after they’d exchanged an awkward half-embrace. The waitress showed them to their table at the café overlooking the Grand Central Station concourse. The commuter train station happened to be a convenient meeting place for them both.

“I mean it! You still look like me at eighteen.” Jade leaned across the small table and stared at Meg. “That picture was how I knew! I knew you were my mother!”

Mother. Meg let the word sink in.

Though piercings in her eyebrow toughened Jade’s pretty, elfin face, the younger woman had a point: the two of them shared the same striking blue eyes tilting up at the corners, the dark brown hair, a rather sharp chin. Meg calculated that Jade must be twenty-seven or twenty-eight.

            “The adoption agency could only tell me that my birth mother had grown up in Scarsdale, New York. So I went to the local library, found all the yearbooks from the years that might be possible. I searched for a match, for a girl who looked like me. And I found you!  Megan Evans! I’m so excited to meet you—at last.”

            Jade laughed and chattered, giddy and triumphant, as they drank their coffees. Meg barely said a word. She imagined herself through Jade’s eyes: the fulfillment of so much longing and hope. An overwhelming desire to be that person for this exuberant young woman swelled up in her chest, stifling all sense of right and wrong. Even worse, Meg found herself nodding and smiling encouragingly.

            When at last they parted, after many hugs, they agreed to speak again soon.          

The next day, back at their office, Meg found Robbie’s Amex bill, which he had pointedly left on her desk. “I thought we’d agreed you would cover your own charges for your business,” she reminded him.        His card was linked to her account.

“It’s just for another month. I’m expecting payment on some big invoices any day.”

            “That’s what you’ve been saying for months. You’ve got to pay these or get your own separate account, Robbie. I mean it.”

            “Really, Meg? I’ve got news for you. I’m your partner, not your kid. Maybe you want to stop acting like my mother.”

            Given the twelve years between them, the barb hit its target.

Their age difference hadn’t seemed important when he was in his twenties and she in her thirties. On the contrary, it had struck them both as unconventional, sexy. Then Meg’s forty-fifth birthday had come and gone, as had her desire for marriage and hope for the family she’d once imagined.

They’d retreated into their own, separate social circles. Spending time with Robbie and his friends now made it depressingly clear how young they all were, how little in common she had with them. With bleak clarity, she thought of the snowmobile, the new Jeep, and the fishing boat she’d purchased at Robbie’s urging—what were these, if not grown-up toys?

Jade rang a week after their meeting, eager to connect again.

            Meg had thought about what she’d say when this inevitable call came. She took a deep breath, paused . . . and then confessed. “When I heard your voice on the phone that first time . . . heard what you had to say . . . I don’t know what came over me, Jade. I wanted to meet you. And then . . . I so wished your theory had been correct. But the truth is, I’ve never been pregnant. I’m sorry. I hope your mother is out there somewhere but I’m not the one you’re looking for.”

            “What?” said Jade, her voice pitched high. “But you— How could you! Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

“Jade, I’m so—”

But Jade had already hung up on her.  

 Because, Meg thought as she closed her eyes, flushed with shame, I let myself indulge in the fantasy of a different choice I might have made. Because I was only thinking of myself. Because I was trying for a redo of my life. 

            It was in that instant that the resolve to end things with Robbie solidified in her mind. He’d hit the nail on the head, hadn’t he? She’d been acting like his mother. Somehow, they’d both stood by and let this happen.

            But that was a person she’d never intended to be.

The following spring, as she gazed out at the daffodils coming into bloom outside her office, Meg received a surprise call from Jade.

“I tracked her down, Meg. My real birth mother.”

            Meg felt her heart contract. She said, “That’s wonderful news, Jade! I’m so glad you called.”

“I— I just figured—”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you never wanted to speak to me again. What I did was . . . well, it was unforgiveable.”

            “Yeah, I was pretty pissed,” Jade agreed. “And I still don’t get why you would do that. Get my hopes up. But the thing is . . . I felt a connection with you. When I found your picture in the yearbook, and then met you in person, I wanted you to be my mother.” Jade’s voice broke. “So . . . I was really disappointed. But after a while, I figured, whatever, and I started looking again.”

“I . . . I see.”

“The woman I found—my mother—she wasn’t at all what I expected. I think she felt the same way about me. We had a couple of visits but, I don’t know. I doubt we’ll see each other again. Anyway, I wanted you to know . . . and also, that I’ve decided to forgive you.”

            The silence stretched out between them, as each woman grappled with her own disappointed dreams. Then Jade spoke up first. “We both like cappuccino, right?” she asked, hesitant—and hopeful. 

            “Yes,” Meg ventured.

“What would you think about meeting up again sometime? You know . . . you and me?”

Was it Meg’s imagination, or had Jade’s voice suddenly become light, like an April breeze beckoning with possibility.

“Only this time we just try to be . . .  friends.”

“I Found You,” from Table for One (Sunroom Studios)

Photo credit: Alex Sheldon/Unsplash