I was a vivacious fifteen-year-old with real-life questions I wasn’t sure I could ask my parents – or at least expect them to answer. Still, this particular Sunday, as I pretended to pay attention to the speaker at the podium, my brain could not stop churning. The day before, I had my first real sexual encounter, and although it wasn’t “all the way” as we used to say, we rounded a fair number of bases. And I didn’t feel guilty; just curious. So, I wanted to talk to my Mother, who had never in my life spoken to me about sex.
On this day, my bravery stood at attention, and for some unknown reason, I couldn’t wait any longer. I sat at the end of the long pew, and my Mom, her attention ahead, sat with six bodies between us. I wrote a note on the back of the program, ripped it from the whole, and folded it in half. I took one last deep breath and, before I could stop myself, handed it to my brother at my right, telling him to pass it on to Mom.
As the note made its way from the hand of one sibling to the next, I wondered if any had the same question as I did. Or if there was just something wrong with me for even wondering. I stared ahead, terrified of how Mom would react, embarrassed even. I stole a glance when the note landed in her hand, and as if she knew it would cause a stir within her, she held it for a few moments before opening it up. I watched her, best I was able to with my periphery, and saw her noticeably stiffen before crumpling up the paper I had sent down the line. Prior to the end of the meeting, she stood, gathering her things and walking out without a glance back. I didn’t see her for three days.
My note, as unambiguous to me as it was triggering to her, said simply this: Did you and Dad wait until you were married? While she lived another sixteen years, and the truth was revealed, she never discussed the delicate topic with either me or any of my siblings.
A few months later, however, my Father would let loose the family secret to me, effectively answering the query I scribbled in church that afternoon. No. They had not waited for marriage, as my young Mormon brain was taught to believe was necessary. And there was more.
Mom and Dad had a child as teenagers, and while she was indeed born from love, she was placed for adoption and was quietly mourned for most of their lives. They had married and had an additional seven children, and with each, I’d venture Mom’s pain grew. Dad made a point of releasing the story to each of the kids as he felt we were ready, but warned that while Mom knew he had done so, she absolutely would not discuss it. This was her silent albatross, one she held on to tightly and would only relinquish months before her death.
For years, I wondered if I would recognize Lynda Patricia, the firstborn of eight full-blood Neal kiddos. Were we in the same innocuous spot – an airport, perhaps – would we see that we had similar features? Would we feel some unseen connection? Uncountable hours, I imagined a similar reunion, and once all the sibs began discussing it, we found we felt the same. But for Mom’s very real and entirely understandable pain about the subject, we hoped to find her one day.
Sixteen years after I had been told of my sister Lynda, came the life-altering news of Mom’s stage four esophageal cancer. And while I was one of the many of us kids grasping onto the belief that she would “win the fight”, my sister Mary was more honest about the situation: Mom would die, likely this year, and it was time to find the first of us.
Within 24-hours Lynda was tracked down, living with her husband and three boys across the country. She got the call from the investigator, who began the conversation by asking her a few questions that would have anyone wondering what’s up. But Lyn, knowing of her adoption the entirety of her life, responded by saying, “Sounds like I need a glass of wine while we talk” before hearing the full story of her parents and seven siblings.
It was a short time and a furious exchange of emails between siblings before Lynda flew to Portland for our first meeting. It was magical, and more than any of us had hoped for, as we compared physical features, linear hobbies, and similar ideologies. The line between nature and nurture had thinned, and it was all relative.
Lynda’s meeting with Mom and Dad is not something I was privy to, nor is it my business. But I know that Mom was healed in some beautiful way by meeting her firstborn before her death. And since? My oldest sister, Lyn has happily engaged as the oldest of eight, moving to Oregon from the East Coast, and being the most amazing version of both a sister and herself. I’ve looked up to her since before I actually knew her – since the fallout of a silly note passed in church. So, my thanks go out to a couple of horny teenagers who had the first kid and didn’t stop there.
