The Most Dangerous Animal of All (2 page)

Finally, one night Loyd got his answer. He turned to his wife and said, “He deserves to know who he is and then decide what he wants to do.”

Leona knew her husband was right, but she was very afraid I would get hurt. For the next week, Leona and Loyd prayed harder than ever that God would give them the strength to be unselfish, that He would help them deliver this news in just the right way.

And now I knew.

I drove the twenty-eight miles back to my house that evening in a state of shock, remembering all the times I had fantasized about what my real parents might be like and wondering from whom I had inherited my reddish hair. Because I didn’t know my real name or why my adoption birth certificate stated that I had been born in New Orleans, I had struggled with an identity crisis for most of my life. Excited and anxious to look through the package Leona had given me, I pressed my foot a little harder on the accelerator, holding the picture of the woman in my hand. I caught myself veering off the road several times because I couldn’t take my eyes off it. As I drove, I thought about my son Zach’s reaction to the photo.

“Hey, Dad, he looks just like you,” Zach had naively said, looking at the man standing next to Judith in the photo she had sent. Everyone had laughed. The man was clearly of American Indian or Hispanic heritage, but Zach had assumed that if the woman was my mother, then the man had to be my father.

When I got home, I turned on the overhead light so I wouldn’t miss a detail as I sifted through the letters in the box. Sitting in my favorite recliner, I stared at the picture of the woman who claimed to be my mother.

Her eyes.

Her nose.

Her mouth.

They were like mine.

I pulled out the letter Judith had written to all of the men she could find who had been born on my birth date in Louisiana.

Tears gathered in my eyes as I read.

In the letter, she explained that she had been fifteen and a runaway from California when I was born. She had been married to my father, but the marriage had been annulled by her mother because she was underage. Judith went on to state that she and her husband had been apprehended and sent back to California. The condition her mother had set for her daughter to eventually move back in with her was that I—two months old at the time—be given up for adoption. She said she had married again at the age of twenty-six and had another son.

I had a brother?

Then she said that she had loved me from the day I was born and that I had been with her every day since. “It would be the happiest day of my life if the phone rang and my son said to me, ‘I believe you are my mother,’ ” she wrote.

I read the letter over and over and then reached for the phone. As I began to dial the number she had provided, my hand began to shake, and I hung up. What would I say?

My thoughts turned to Leona. I knew how difficult it must have been for her to share this news with me. The next day was Mother’s Day, and I felt guilty even thinking about calling this woman when Leona had been such a wonderful mother to me. Throughout my life, I had spent that special day in church honoring her as she proudly wore the corsage that announced she was a mother. She had chosen to love me when she had no obligation to do so. She had happily taken me into her home and treated me as well as she had her biological child. She didn’t deserve such disloyalty.

As I sat near her in the pew at church the next morning, I felt such love for her, but as I squeezed her hand, I couldn’t stop thinking about the other woman, the one who had given birth to me when she was only fifteen years old. I couldn’t quite fathom that. I felt compassion for the young girl who had been faced with such an adult situation.

By the end of the day, I knew what I had to do. I had always believed that everything happens for a reason, and this could be no different.

When I got home, I walked into the living room and sat down in my favorite chair. Still holding the woman’s picture, I reached for the phone and began dialing. My heart was pounding as I punched in the numbers. Holding my breath, I waited.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

Then I heard a man’s voice on the answering machine. Speaking with a distinct accent, he said, “You have reached Judy Gilford and Frank Velasquez. Your call is very important to us, but we are unable to take your call at this time. Please leave your name and phone number, along with your message, and we will return your call as soon as we can.”

Disappointment raced through me. I wanted so badly to hear her voice. I hesitated for a moment.

Taking a deep breath, I finally spoke. “This message is for Judith Gilford. This is Gary Stewart, and I think you may be my mother.” I paused for a moment, steadying my voice. “If you are my mother, I would like to wish you a happy Mother’s Day . . . for the first time. If you are not my mother, then I hope you have a happy Mother’s Day as well. If you would like to return my call, you can reach me at . . .” And I left my number.

Not knowing if I had done the right thing, I sank into my recliner, drained. It had taken everything I had to make that call. I reached over to turn on the lamp and then sat there for hours, staring at her picture.

Later that evening, Frank Velasquez decided to call home and check for messages. He and Judy, as she preferred to be called, were visiting relatives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Although they were not married, Judy often referred to him as her husband. They enjoyed traveling together and had booked this trip as a short getaway.

Frank listened for a moment and then retrieved the message again.

“Honey, you have to listen to this one,” he said, handing Judy the phone. She listened to the message over and over, crying uncontrollably as she heard my voice for the first time.

“You have to call him now,” Frank insisted.

Judy couldn’t. She was too overwrought.

“I can’t. It’s so late,” she hedged. “And I don’t think we have enough minutes on the phone card.”

Frank took the phone from her hand and dialed a number, paying for an additional thousand minutes before handing the phone back to her.

Judy stared at it for a moment and then dialed the number I had left on the recorder.

I was still sitting in my living room when the shrill ringing of the telephone startled me out of my reverie.

“Hello,” I said, my voice cracking as I tried to still my trembling hands.

“Hi,” Judy whispered into the phone. “This is Judy Gilford.”

The sound of her voice shot through me like an electrical current. I started crying. I couldn’t speak.

“I know you may not believe me, but I love you. I’ve always loved you,” Judy said, her voice quavering. Like a dam that had suddenly broken, we both started talking at once. “You have a grandson,” I told her. “He’s ten, and his name is Zach.”

We talked for what seemed like hours, interrupting each other in our eagerness to share everything. It felt as though I were in a dream—that this was happening to someone else, that an impossible prayer was being answered. We agreed to leave the past behind us and make our new relationship whatever we wanted it to be. Excitedly, we began to make plans to meet.

When I hung up the phone, I leaned back in my chair, savoring this special Mother’s Day. It was a day I would never forget.

I couldn’t sleep that night, so I tried to put my feelings into words by writing her a letter:

Mom,

Today my world changed. When I first learned that you were searching for me, I was completely shocked. Then, when I spoke to you this evening, I knew once and for all that you are my mother. Words cannot describe what my heart feels now. There is so much more to motherly love than most people understand. For all my life, I have had an emptiness in my heart that was impossible to fill. The missing piece was something that I did not understand, something I didn’t even know existed. When you spoke those words to me this evening, “Gary, I love you,” the emptiness was gone.

On June 1, 2002, Zach and I drove to New Orleans International Airport and boarded an airplane bound for Oakland, California. I sat quietly, my stomach in knots, looking out the window at the fluffy white clouds below while Zach talked with Joe Dean, the athletic director for Louisiana State University, who was seated next to us. Zach sensed how nervous I was and left me to my thoughts. As the plane made its way across the country, I became more afraid and excited.

Although I had experienced unconditional love and acceptance in my adoptive parents’ home, the knowledge that my biological parents had not wanted me had plagued me throughout my life. In my mind, I had always been John Doe, a boy who had been discarded and given a new name by adoptive parents. As a result, I had trust issues during my adolescent years and then later in my adult relationships. I lived with the fear that I could be rejected at any moment because I could never be good enough that someone would want to keep me around. Loyd and Leona did everything they could to make me feel loved and wanted, but all of my adult relationships with women were destined to fail as long as I remained John Doe in my heart. My fear of being discarded rendered me incapable of loving fully, because I felt like I didn’t deserve to be loved. After all, how could anyone love me when I didn’t even know who I was?

Although I was divorced from Zach’s mother, my relationship with Zach was quite different. I might not know myself, but I knew my son deserved better from me than I had received from my biological parents. I dedicated my life to ensuring that he would never experience the horror of feeling unwanted and that he would always understand how much his father loved him.

Now that I knew that Judy had been a child when she gave me up for adoption, I had no residual bitterness as I mentally prepared for our meeting. My excitement began to build as I realized that I would finally have answers to the questions that had accumulated over my lifetime.

When the plane finally landed, I wiped the sweat that had beaded on my palms onto the legs of my pants. I had yearned for this moment my entire life, and now that it was here, suddenly I was torn.

I wanted to run away.

I wanted to meet my mother.

A few minutes later, I saw her at the far end of the terminal, standing with the man in the picture she had sent, and my heart began pumping furiously. She was tall—taller than the man next to her. Her hair was shorter and blonder than the picture had suggested. She was looking around anxiously. Even from a distance, I could see the same fear and excitement that I felt reflected in her face. I broke out in a cold sweat, but my steps quickened when our eyes met for the first time. From the moment I saw her eyes—clear blue like mine—I had no doubt. This woman was my mother.

When I reached her, I dropped my suitcase and gathered her into my arms, hugging her tightly to me.

“Mom,” I whispered into her hair.

Judy stepped back, her hands on my shoulders, searching my face. Tears filled her eyes as she took in every detail of my appearance.

“Gary,” she said, her voice trembling. “My son.”

Those words sounded magical to me.

With one arm still around her, I turned to introduce her to Zach. While they got acquainted, Frank held out his hand and introduced himself to me, then ushered us outside to his car.

As Frank drove from Oakland to San Francisco, I couldn’t stop stealing glances at my mother. At fifty-four, she was slender and youthful, her beautiful eyes and hair enhanced by flawless, tanned skin.

Before long, we arrived at Fisherman’s Wharf. Zach marveled at the huge Dungeness crabs that filled aquariums in front of Alioto’s restaurant, where we were to have dinner. Men, mostly immigrants wearing white smocks, fired the cauldrons while tourists sampled crab cocktails served in paper cups.

“Can we get one, Dad?” Zach said excitedly. He had never seen a crab that big in Louisiana.

“Maybe later,” I laughed. “Let’s eat at the restaurant first.”

Once seated, we looked out the window at the colorful fishing boats lined up along the dock, their hulls rocking back and forth to the rhythm of the bay. The menu, featuring seafood brought in on those boats, reminded me of home.

“What looks good?” Judy said.

“Everything,” I laughed, “but we definitely have to order calamari. I bet it’s much fresher here than in Louisiana.”

“Sometimes squid will school into the bay, but mostly they’re caught just beyond it in the Pacific,” Frank said.

We kept the conversation light throughout dinner, each of us wanting to say so much but realizing we had to get to know one another slowly. After dinner, we walked along the wharf, peeking in shop windows and watching street performers dance and hula-hoop for passersby.

“It feels so good here,” I told Judy, enjoying the cool breeze that swept along the bay. “At this time of year in Louisiana, you can’t even breathe because it’s so hot.”

“It’s like this all year round. We love it,” she said, reaching for my hand. “I’m so glad you’re here. I can’t wait to show you San Francisco.”

It was late when we arrived at the apartment Judy and Frank shared. After Frank and Zach fell asleep, Judy and I stayed up until three in the morning, sometimes talking, sometimes just staring at each other, neither of us really believing this was happening. Finally we could talk no more, and for the first time in my life, I kissed my mother good night.

The unfamiliar roar of city buses on the street below woke me the next morning. Zach was still sleeping on the couch when I walked into the living room, and I leaned down and kissed him on the cheek before walking to the sliding glass door of my mother’s third-story terrace overlooking the city.

The view of San Francisco was beautiful. Straight ahead, I could see Noe Valley, a working-class neighborhood filled with Edwardian row houses colored in pinks and blues and greens. In the midst of the valley, the twin steeples of St. Paul’s Catholic Church climbed high into the sky. Just across San Francisco Bay, I spotted the hills of Oakland. To the right, Candlestick Park carved an oval into the landscape, and to my left, cars moved quickly across the upper and lower decks of the Bay Bridge. Between the Golden Gate Bridge and the Bay Bridge, Alcatraz appeared hauntingly serene. I stood there for a moment, taking it all in before getting dressed.