Finding Noel (20 page)

Macy walked slowly up the brick-lined walkway to the entrance, an enormous portico that protruded from the turret. The front door was a massive slab of oak, arched on top, with raised paneling engraved with hand-sized fleurs-de-lis. The center of the door was adorned with a large Christmas wreath of grapevine, holly and eucalyptus tied with ribbon and ornamented with pomegranates.

In front of the door was a seasonal red-and-green doormat that read
WELCOME SANTA
, which was partially eclipsed by a flyer announcing the local Boy Scout troop's annual Thanksgiving food drive. Noel's home was more than across town. It was a whole different world.

Macy stood on the doorstep for a moment, her breath clouding in the air in front of her. Thoughts began flooding into her head and the reality of the impending meeting filled her with panic. Would she recognize her sister when she saw her? Would her sister know her? What would she say if she didn't?
Hi, you don't know me, but I'm your sister.

There was a massive brass doorknocker in the center of the wreath; Macy knocked with it three times. Though she thought she heard movement inside the house, no one came
to the door. She pressed the doorbell. There was a bright, lengthy chime inside the home, followed by soft, quick footsteps.

The door was opened by an attractive woman who looked to be in her late forties. She was thin, with short, blond hair. She wore a gray wool turtleneck with a silver, flat-linked chain with three pearls, pearl earnings, a gray wool skirt and black leather pumps. Though she smiled at Macy, there was cautiousness behind her cheerful façade. “May I help you?”

Macy dug her hands deeper in her pockets. “Hi. Mrs. Thorup? I'm looking for Noel.”

The woman looked at her quizzically. “Noel?”

“Christina Noel?”

The woman's expression became even more strained. “No one's called her that for a long time. Christy isn't here.”

Christy?
“Do you expect her back soon? I can wait.”

“Christy's not living here. May I ask who you are?”

Something about the way the woman asked made Macy even more uncomfortable. Then the woman's expression showed sudden understanding. “You're Macy, aren't you?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Of course you are. You look like Christy.” The woman stepped back, unblocking the entry. “I was just on my way out, but you can come in for a minute.”

Macy looked around, suddenly apprehensive about entering the house.

“Come in. Let's talk.”

“Thank you.” Macy stepped inside the marble-floored foyer. Above her a Strauss crystal chandelier hung from the center of the turret surrounded by a spiraled staircase that climbed to a second-story landing.

Mrs. Thorup led her into the front parlor, a spacious room with beautiful amber carpet, vaulted ceilings and alabaster sconces on the walls. On one end of the room, near the fireplace, was a horseshoe-shaped Steinway grand piano. In the center of the room a perfect blue spruce Christmas tree reached nearly to the top of the ceiling and filled the room with its aroma. The tree was professionally decorated with ornaments and ribbon that looked as luxurious as the home itself.

There were several still-life oil paintings on the walls, but the piece that drew Macy's attention was a large gold-framed family portrait. She guessed that the photograph had been taken many years earlier; the woman was a younger version of the one who had answered the door. A tall smiling man and three children stood behind her. The two teenaged boys were blond and blue-eyed; the young girl was auburn-haired and didn't look a thing like the rest of the family. She looked like Macy.

Mrs. Thorup sat down in a wingback chair and crossed her legs. She motioned to the couch across from her. “Sit down. Please.”

Macy turned from the picture and sat on the crushed-velvet sofa across from the woman. Macy folded her hands in her lap. Christmas carols played softly in the background.
Macy realized that she'd seen this woman before—a long, long time ago at the adoption hearing.

“My husband and I wondered if you might show up some day. Though I'm a little surprised you were able to find us.”

“It wasn't easy,” Macy said lightly, hoping for some sign of friendliness. The woman's face remained somber, if not grim. Macy swallowed nervously. “Did you say Noel doesn't live here anymore?”

“My daughter's away at college.”

“Oh. Where does she go to school?”

Mrs. Thorup looked uncomfortable. After a moment she said, “The thing is, Christy doesn't know that you exist. In fact, she doesn't even know that she was adopted.”

Macy looked at her in astonishment. “What? How could she not know?”

“She was only four…” Mrs. Thorup said.

“But we were so close. And the adoption at the courthouse…How could she have forgotten that?”

Mrs. Thorup nodded. “The mind does what it needs to to survive.”

Macy was exasperated. “You never told her about me?”

Mrs. Thorup squirmed a little in her chair. “Chuck and I felt the circumstances of Christy's early life were, as you said, traumatic enough. So we requested that all ties be severed, and the judge ordered her file sealed.
Especially
after the disastrous encounter with your family at the courthouse. So your coming here…” She was obviously pained. “We feel it's best that she doesn't know about you.”

“And why would that be for the best?”

Mrs. Thorup seemed disturbed that Macy still didn't understand. “What could she possibly gain by knowing she was abandoned by her biological parents?”

“Well, for one, she would gain me.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Macy was beginning to dislike this woman. “Yes. It is.”

“You need to understand that in my daughter's mind, she doesn't have a sister. She has two older brothers and us. How do you think seeing you would affect her?”

Macy had wondered the same thing. “I don't know.”

“That's right, we don't know. Do you think it's fair to experiment with her life?”

What about any of this is fair?
Macy thought, but didn't voice the question. “How is she?”

“She's wonderful. And she's smart as a whip. She was her high school salutatorian. She was awarded a full-ride scholarship to A.S.—” She caught herself. “To college.” She glanced at the grand piano. “You should hear her play the piano. She's won several competitions.”

“I'd like to,” Macy said, even though she knew Mrs. Thorup hadn't meant it literally. She looked back at the woman. “Don't you think she'd want to know she has a sister?”

Mrs. Thorup repositioned herself in her chair. “You have to consider
her
reality.” She suddenly smiled. Macy didn't trust it. “You seem like a nice young lady. You need to ask yourself, is this about her or you? Given what I remember about your own family situation, I'm sure you haven't had an easy time,
and I understand why you want to…reconnect with your sister. But if you really care about Christy, you should do the right thing. She has a wonderful life and a loving family. She's happy. Bringing something like this into her life is…well, it's a problem, isn't it?”

Macy couldn't believe the final turn her journey had taken.

“I'm sorry, honey. But I care about my daughter. I'm sure you want to do the right thing too.”

Macy felt herself growing angry at the woman's condescending manner, but a part of her feared the woman might be right. They were clearly at an impasse, and in any case, there was nothing she could do now. Macy stood. “You must be busy. I'll let you go.”

“Yes, I have an appointment.” The woman quickly rose to her feet, obviously relieved to be done with the meeting. Then Macy noticed an ornament on the Christmas tree. She walked over to it and crouched down. It was bright red and written on its face in gold glitter was the word NOEL; it was a twin to the one she had been given by her father. Macy stood back up. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

The woman looked at her thoughtfully. “I'll get them for you.”

She walked out of the room and returned carrying a pad and a plastic ballpoint pen with the name of her husband's law firm printed across it. She handed them both to Macy.

“Thank you.” Macy wrote down her phone number and address. “This is where I live. In case you change your mind.”

The woman took the note and Macy guessed what she was
thinking—
In that case it doesn't matter.
“You can keep the pen,” Mrs. Thorup said. She led Macy to the front door and opened it for her. A gust of cold air filled the foyer.

“It's been nice meeting you,” the woman said unconvincingly then, a little more sympathetically, “Good luck.”

“Thank you.” Macy was about to leave without saying anything more but to her own surprise stopped and turned back, looking the woman in the eyes. “You know, you can call her Christy or whatever else you want, but changing her name doesn't change who she is or where she's from, or, as you say, ‘her reality.' It's Noel's life, not yours. Good or bad, every minute of it belongs to her. You're a pretty lady. You have a lovely home. Everything's all perfect and clean. You probably never hit your children. I'm sure Noel's lucky to have you as a mother. But it still doesn't make it your life, and what she does with it shouldn't be your decision.”

The woman swallowed, clutching the paper in her hand. Macy stepped out into the cold. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Mrs. Thorup said.

Macy walked back to her car, the tears now falling freely down her cheeks. The woman shut the door. She glanced back down at the paper in her hand then crumpled it up, walked into the kitchen and threw it away. Then she called her husband at the law office. “Chuck, you'll never believe who just came to the house.”

My disappointment tonight is only matched in depth by the hope the morning held.

MARK SMART'S DIARY
.

THANKSGIVING

Back home in Alabama, Thanksgiving was more an event than a meal. My mother and my Aunt Marge would start the preparations weeks in advance. First they would plan the menu (a ritual I never fully understood, as they always settled on the same dishes), then they would comb the paper, hunting for coupons and sales with no less intensity than our ancestors might have hunted a turkey or deer for the feast. Then they would compile their lists and begin the shopping, returning from each trip with a car full of grocery bags.

Thanksgiving dinner was always delightfully gluttonous: the centerpiece of the meal, the turkey, could have graced the cover of a women's magazine, its skin brown and translucent as wax paper, the meat running with juices. There were chitterlings smothered in tomato gravy and hot sauce, deviled eggs sprinkled with paprika, giblet dressing, collard greens with ham hocks spiced with dill pickle juice, turnip greens, fried okra, squash casserole, and corn bread dressing, with pitchers of sweet iced tea to drown it all down.