Carol Yurechko
Jeannette, PA

^{"One day in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful."
-Sigmund Freud}

Other works:
Heartless

G i v e n  A w a y 

       With two months before Thanksgiving and an end to a very hectic year in sight, my world had finally seemed to settle. As a result of talking more with my birth mother throughout the year, I felt higher-spirited and more at ease. It was monthly at first, but then evolved into a weekly event, one that I greatly anticipated. However, during one conversation about the impending holidays, she requested that we start alternating visits with each other. I was scared to tell her how I felt, that I thought it would be short-lived, or that she would send me away again. But then I realized that everything was not going to be as easy as I had anticipated. After all, I had met her only seven years prior to this, and we were the precise reason for one another’s occasional struggles. Quite frankly, I wasn’t ready to spend a holiday with the very woman that rejected me. She must have sensed my apprehension.


     “That is okay,” she began. “We really don’t have the money for a trip this Thanksgiving, but I will try to see you at Christmas.”


     She was fibbing. I knew it and so did she. This was definitely going to take some time. We just weren’t ready.


     Feeling guilty about my thoughts, and with our conversation still rolling in my head, I decided to take a long, warm bath to try and relax. I only got one toe into the bathtub when the phone rang. Oddly enough, I remember thinking that the ring I had heard so often now sounded different for some reason. Nonetheless, it was to be the call I will never forget. I answered the bothersome noise, angry that my bath time had been interrupted and could only hear a faint whisper. I listened intently for a moment and realized that it was crying I heard; my brother was crying. I could barely make out the words behind the sobs, and then he said it. “Mom won’t make it for Christmas, Sis.”


     Of course, I already knew this because she told me herself. But why was he crying? My body shook and my heart sank. I recall feeling like I was trapped in a tunnel.


     “What do you mean?” I asked, hoping he meant that she really didn’t have the money. “What happened?” I pleaded.


     He cried even harder, and his words faded off as he tried to tell me.


     “Mom died.”


     It wasn’t true; he was lying. I just talked to her. She said she would see me at Christmas—she promised! Why would he play such an evil prank on me? Or was it HER? My head was spinning, and the phone fell from my hands. I opened my eyes and saw my worried husband with arms outstretched.


     “She’s gone,” I cried. “She’s gone.”


     My birth mother, Annabelle, a Boyd County, Kentucky native and fifty years young, died of a sudden heart attack during a routine doctor visit. I would later learn that she lived with extensive, debilitating medical conditions. She had some trouble with a recent medication and also needed her monthly check-up. In addition, she was to have a follow-up appointment for the stent in her heart. Her heart stopped and mine shattered.


     My heart was in pieces because the woman that brought me into the world and carelessly tossed me aside was gone. I couldn’t handle the news; I lost all strength in my legs and fell limp into my husband’s arms. I sobbed so deeply. Yet, I soon realized that I was angry at myself for crying, and also enraged that I could not stop. I had a head full of scattered thoughts and blended images. I could not see through them to locate the very few memories that I had of my mom. I was struggling with an inner torment, which seemed hell-bent on taunting me. Everything turned black. My endless day came to a halt, and my world stopped.


     During the entire night that followed, my mind was racing. I had so many questions, so many things unsaid. I kept thinking over and over, am I supposed to feel so empty, yet be filled with so much pain? Why didn’t she want me? Why did she go away without telling me that she loved me? I felt so lost and alone. We were pressed for time. The funeral was the next day. We prepared to make the trip to Kentucky to see her after and were packed and on the road within the hour.


     About a half-an-hour into the trip, I recall feeling that we had been driving forever. It was only supposed to be a five hour trip, but the road seemed to stretch itself further away, sneering at my grief. I was so impatient, and the cockiness of the highway angered me more. I went through a pack of cigarettes, and we stopped for coffee at least three times in four and a half hours. Nothing seemed to help. I spent the majority of the trip staring out of the window. I began seeking signs of anything familiar. I wanted the same familiarity I felt every time I crossed the state line into Kentucky, the feeling of being home. I considered it home because I grew up there.


     I leaned against the window, looking up. I secretly hoped that I would see her face somewhere in the sky, like the stories we were told as kids about people going to Heaven and watching down on us. However, I didn’t see her anywhere. I was so angry and so anxious to get there, just to prove everyone wrong. I kept thinking that they would all see soon enough; she would come running out of the door to embrace me and apologize for giving me away. As years passed, I was later told that I grew up very close to the place my birth mother lived. At times, I would imagine running away to find her. Now I would never be able to think that way again. I was so confused and I couldn’t stop the tears now. I couldn’t cry hard enough.


     When I thought I had succeeded in crying myself weak, I started to doze off. And then it happened. The noise was so loud, and I could not focus on anything, nor could I grab onto anything. We had been hit by another vehicle entering from an on-ramp that merged to the proper lane and proceeded to stake claim in the remaining three lanes. We spun around and slammed into the jersey wall and rolled backwards, now facing on coming traffic. Our screams were deafening, and I wasn’t sure why I couldn’t turn my head. I just knew that it hurt and I could not move it. The next things I remember were flashing lights, whistling sirens, and the sounds of my children crying in the backseat.


     A police officer ran to our car and attempted to make sense of the mangled mess on the road. “Ma’am, are you able to move?” I thought I heard him ask. I winced as I tried to acknowledge his question with a nod; he saw my expression and stated, “Try to remain still ma’am, I called for an ambulance. It will be here soon.” The officer told my husband that we needed to get off the highway somehow. My husband looked at me and gently said, “Just hang on. I need to pull the wheel well off of the tire to drive the car.” With that, he took just a few minutes, it seemed, and we were able to exit the highway.


     My neck hurt so badly, and my heart and head were thumping. My husband spoke with the officer in the police cruiser, while I remained in our vehicle until the ambulance could get there. I needed to know that my daughters were not harmed or scared, so I used my rear view mirror to try to talk to them. “Does your head feel okay? Are your bellies doing flip-flops?” I tried to ask with humor. I finally got them to giggle, and I knew they were okay and not hurt. I could smell the french fries being cooked at the Wendy’s behind our car and wondered if it would take their mind off of the accident if they were to eat something. I asked if they were getting hungry, to which they both replied, “No.” I then saw something out of the corner of my eye, and realized that the lady from the other vehicle was standing there. She was looking in my window. I turned my body towards her, I think in defense of my children, and looked at her. With a sweet smile, she gently asked, “Are you okay? I am so sorry that I hurt you.” I tried to reassure her that everything would be okay, and, with that, she turned and walked to the police cruiser to join the officer and my husband. I could then hear the ambulance in the distance.


     I can’t recall seeing the lady leave, but she was no longer in the cruiser. I wasn’t sure exactly why I was so drawn to her. Nevertheless, I attempted to use my eyes to look around for her. The ambulance had arrived, so I did not get far in my search. The paramedics lifted me from the car and placed me on the gurney. The abrupt stiffness of the backboard was enough to preoccupy me for the moment. They placed an oxygen mask over my face and a brace on my neck and told me to “try and relax.”


     Relax, I repeated to myself. How could I relax with the engine humming and the radio screeching orders to the E.M.T.? “Ten-Four,” he responded. “E.T.A., 17 minutes.”


     I was then taken to the emergency room, treated for whiplash and a pulled ligament in my neck, and released about an hour and a half later. My husband helped me into the car, with an occasional, “Be careful, and don’t move too quickly.” But I couldn’t think of that now; we needed to get back on the road. We resumed our journey now that my husband had repaired the car, at least enough to run for the rest of the trip. An hour later, we arrived at my brother’s house. I was frightened and apprehensive and did not know what to expect. The queasiness in my stomach made its way to my throat; I could not conjure the strength to get out of the car. So instead, I sat and stared at my brother’s front door, chewing off the remainder of my finger nail.


     Soon the door opened, and I knew the time had come. Instead of seeing my Mom come running out the door as I had envisioned, my brother walked out and looked at me with such empty eyes. I never felt emotion that intense before the vicious hand of death slapped me across the face. Seeing my brother, "Mr. Harley, ride till I die" himself, weeping like a child, I knew this was for real, and I hated everything at that point. I held my brother and we cried. A few minutes passed and my brother suddenly let me go. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked at me and said, “Ya’ll hungry? That’s a hell of a drive. Come on in.”


     My mother had been residing with my brother following a triple-by-pass operation. As if by instinct, I walked directly to her bedroom, and it was like walking into a shrine. There was an entire wall of pictures of me!


     “Oh my God. Where did these…how did she…?” I stammered. “How was it possible for her to have all of these pictures?”


     They were pictures that even I had never seen. I felt my brother walk up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder. “She loved you,” he said. “She made me enlarge every single photograph I could get my hands on, so she could display it.” “WHY?” I shouted. “Why would she want to look at my face all the time? She didn’t want me. She gave me away. Why?”


     My questions were met with contempt. Instead, he slowly weaseled his way past me. In one last feeding of the gut wrenching nausea that had consumed me, he turned to me again and said, “Sis, you look so much like her, and she knew it.” He made it sound like she was so proud of me. I wanted to spit in his face.


     The remainder of the evening was highlighted with my brother playing tapes of my mother singing at a church function, while I sat on the floor and stared into nothingness. Eventually, I felt compelled to get up and turn it off. That was a big mistake because then he began a long tirade, most of which seemed like made-up bullshit, reminiscing about “his mom.” You see, she gave me away, and kept him. He was permitted to have memories of her, while I tried to fabricate my own through the remnants and leftovers of his. I hated him.


     The night was long and my patience and nerves were growing weary. I prepared my children for bed and bid everyone goodnight. I lay there for sometime, biting my pillow, listening to him recollect memories of her. I closed my eyes tight and covered my head with the pillow. I think I finally passed out from exhaustion.


     Morning came within minutes, it seemed. I was awakened by everyone bustling about. It took me a minute to compose myself, and I forced myself out of bed. My brother had already made all the arrangements, leaving me with one job: to say goodbye. This was so hard to imagine and I didn’t know if I could do it. Did they expect me to pretend that I wasn’t angry? I threw my head back, forced my eyes shut, and began thinking, and, I suppose, praying to myself: “ Mom, I don’t know what to do. I’m so bitter, and I hate this so much, but I need you…I need to know that you love me, and I need you to know that I love you. Mom, are you proud of who I am?”


     I opened my eyes and stared at her picture on the dresser. The realization was upon me. However, my mind was in total lockdown. Was I going crazy? How could someone I did not know well affect me like this? She was the woman that gave me life, and I knew nothing of her life. I barely had the chance to say hello, and now I had to say goodbye. Sadly, I didn’t even know if I had the right to do that. However, it was too late for these thoughts now; they were all waiting for me in the car.


     About a mile from the funeral home, I could see the hearse, smugly dressed, with the flag on the front. I instantly felt every bit of blood drain from my face. We were the first of “the family” to arrive. “This is really happening,” I whispered. “I don’t want to do this.”


     We approached the building, and sequentially, I followed my brother. Next were my younger siblings, and lastly, our children and the extended family. We were each greeted, and once through the door everyone began to scatter, I am assuming to look for other family members. I did not know what to do or where to go. I looked around for a moment and finally caught my husband’s eyes. With a gentle gesture, he motioned for me to follow him in there. My feet became stuck to the floor. I could not walk in there. There was nothing in there for me to see.


     “YOU CAN’T MAKE ME,” I pleaded. My husband and brother came and put their arms around my waist and walked beside me all the way to the front of the room.


     I closed my eyes tight. I could smell the flowers and hear the sobs and echoes of voices. My body was swaying, and I felt I could fall at any moment. What was wrong with me? I felt so light headed, and my husband and brother must have been able to tell because they had a tight hold on me. I finally lowered my head and opened my eyes. Her face, it was the same face I see in the mirror every day. Her eyes were spaced just far enough apart that they could easily have been mistaken for my own. I felt nauseous. The further I examined, the worst I felt. Her hands, the same hands I write with every day. The freckle to the left of her lips was the same one I attempt to cover with makeup every morning.


     I wanted to scream. It looked like I was the one laying there ready to be buried. I was identical to her. I didn’t understand…if I looked so much like her, then why would she give me away? Why didn’t she ever come for me? I wanted to hit her, just to make her look different from me. I felt like I was going insane. I was losing my mind, and I couldn’t even ask my mom for help or a hug. I couldn’t ask her to make the hurt go away.


     “I want my mom,” I demanded. I needed someone or something to take away what had possessed me at that very moment.


     It was then, out of confusion and heightened emotion, that I spun around seeking my husband. Instead, I was met with the reflection, once again, of my own eyes. These eyes accompanied the faces of approximately fifty people, sadly looking on. I was surrounded immediately by aunts, uncles, and cousins who had not seen me since I was three years old (or so they say), when she gave me away. I was instantly angry at all of them. I was surrounded by my own flesh and blood wanting to support me now, and yet, I was never good enough to hold within the flock. I stood frozen in a state of confusion and curiosity. Did they honestly know who I was? Shouldn’t they have wanted to know? Are they mad that I am standing up here?


     Then, as if sensing my panic, a woman held out her hand and said, “I’m your Aunt Dorothy.” She smiled my mother’s smile and held me in her arms. A barrage of hugs and cheek squeezing then ensued. It was uncomfortable and a bit pretentious, but I didn’t care. For now, I felt loved and wanted. Although it was comforting, it subsequently added an extension to my feelings of loss and bewilderment. I eventually took my seat alongside my siblings, my children and my husband. For the next twenty minutes, while listening to my sister’s performance of my Mother’s favorite song, I watched the encased and meticulously dressed likeness of myself. I watched and waited. I waited for her to take just one breath. That’s all I needed, just one—Please!


     My world came into focus when I heard the Pastor conclude with a boisterous, “Amen.” At the end of the service the funeral director cleared the room of everyone but my siblings and my self. We stood in a line as if waiting for something spectacular to happen. However, this was the part when we were informed that this would be the last time we would see her. With kindness in his eyes, the Pastor said, “We have to close the casket now.” “NO! NO!” I screamed. “You can’t. I won’t let you. She won’t be able to breathe.” I grabbed her hand and held it, pleading with her, hoping for something, anything, nothing! It was our final goodbye, and I didn’t feel I had any right to love, hate, miss, or desperately need her. She was my mother, but I had not been her daughter for twenty-four years. It took all that time for me to elicit the strength and audacity to finally say something that she would now or never be able to hear: “I love you, Mommy.” This time I gave her away.
     After that day, and in the weeks that followed, I spent most of my time in a deep state of introspection. As a result, I discovered a unique quality about my self. It did not matter why my mother did what she did. I gained confidence knowing that I had processed the hurt and banished the feelings of betrayal. In addition, I knew that even though pain and hurt may want to bully my heart at times, I was still able to get past it. I was finally able to move on.


     As fate would have it, a week later, I was finalizing paperwork for our car insurance company. I ran across the statement from the other lady’s insurance. I had never cared to look at these documents before. However, now that I had to, I was able find something that promoted peace and personal closure. I did this with something very simple—her name. I thought back, trying to remember the events of the accident, when the lady was at the side of my car. I quickly recalled what she said that night, “I am so sorry that I hurt you.” I could never understand why she was only saying it to me. Now I knew, it finally made sense. Ironically, the bottom of the insurance document consisted of her name, and address: “Annabelle, of Boyd County, Kentucky.”