Switched at Birth: The True Story of a Mother's Journey (4 page)

The thing was, it wasn’t a “story”; it was our
life
.

And for moment at least, I did not want anyone to know. Not the neighbors, not the people at Bay’s school. No one would be told but the strangers who could help us untangle this web—lawyers and private investigators and whatever other bonded professionals were called in to handle situations like this. In fact, I decided that at this point it would be best not even to tell my mother.

“
Especially
not your mother,” John agreed. We both knew that my mother (who lived in that rarified world reserved for women who married exceptionally well the second time around) would provide a great deal of opinion on the topic, but that none of her suggestions would be particularly helpful.

Over the last several months, I’ve had time to consider this element of the journey, to ask myself why, at the beginning, it was imperative to me to keep the information to ourselves. What made me feel that this was something I’d take to the grave, if I could?

Yes, it was personal.

Yes, it was private.

But why was I so damn terrified of what would happen when people found out? Did I think they would laugh at us? Did I think they would pity us?

No.

What I thought was that they would judge us.

But we hadn’t done anything wrong. It was a terrible, terrible mistake. An accident, one that was, as far as we could tell, utterly absent of malice. The switch was an exceedingly unfortunate twist of fate. But it wasn’t a crime. It wasn’t a scandal.

So why did I feel, at least in the beginning, that nobody could know?

I will give you the honest answer. The answer it has taken me months of take-no-prisoners introspection and soul-searching to arrive at. I will say it here, and it will hurt me even to put the words on paper, but this is a journey toward understanding, toward healing, and if I don’t say it now, I may never. So here it is:

I felt ashamed.

I. Felt. Ashamed.

Ashamed, and embarrassed and stupid, because I had brought home the wrong child
and I didn’t even know it
.

Neither did John, of course. But there is a difference. I was that child’s mother. We shared a body for God’s sake; I nourished her inside me for nine months, and when I pushed her into this world, I took her to my breast and fed her.

And then I lost her.
And I didn’t even know it.

Where were my instincts? Isn’t the female of the species hardwired to recognize her own offspring? Isn’t there a scent, an energy, a singing in the blood, a sharing of the soul? Or have we evolved away from even that most basic ability, that deepest of human connections?

I
failed
. I failed my daughter, and my family and myself. At least that’s what I believed at the time—that’s what I felt in my heart, in my bones, and in every atom of my body.

I failed to know my own child.

And I was ashamed.

The search for our biological daughter was, in the scheme of things, far easier than we’d ever anticipated. But that does not mean it was simple. Or quick. John and I wanted to do everything we could, but the hospital hit us with that impenetrable shield known as HIPAA, and with regard to official records we were granted access to absolutely nothing. There was also a good deal of bureaucratic posturing taking place, not to mention a fair amount of red tape.

But red tape is no match for green money.

John, who’d played third base for the Kansas City Royals, had spent most of his adult life literally “playing hardball,” and this time was no exception. As a businessman, he immediately recognized that the only weapon we could hope to have in our arsenal was high-powered legal representation. Ultimately, John called Harry back, and Harry said that although trial law wasn’t his specialty, he could at least get the ball rolling for us by throwing his considerable legal influence at the hospital on our behalf. What we needed at the moment was an attorney who was nothing short of a legal WMD, and Harrison Burke was definitely that. For one solid month, from behind his gleaming antique desk in his mahogany-paneled office, this soldier of the law earned his astronomical retainer by calling the hospital daily to issue demands and ultimatums. When that failed to produce results, he would drop by in person with promises of hellfire if the search for our child was not handled expeditiously and with every resource the hospital had at its disposal.

And what did John and I do?

We spent a small fortune on legal fees.

And we waited.

There are things about those weeks that I really don’t remember. I think it must have been some involuntary coping mechanism kicking in, because there are entire days of which I have no recollection whatsoever. I know I drove Bay to school. I’m certain I prepared meals. I got the mail and made the coffee. I ate (although not a lot and with very little enjoyment). I breathed. I prayed.

Other things, I was less diligent about: my cuticles; the geraniums in the planter boxes on the patio; answering the phone (unless Caller ID told me it was our secret weapon of an attorney checking in). I skipped PTA meetings. I forgot about lipstick entirely.

I also spent a lot of time alone in the master suite with the door shut, flipping through the bulky photo albums I’d compiled during my brief but zealous “scrapbooking” phase. I would stare at snapshots (remember: my kids were born in an era when pictures existed on film rather than in cyberspace) of Bay as a baby, a toddler, a toothless first-grader, a fourth-grade Halloween princess. I’d run my fingers over them, as if to prove that they were real, that the memories captured there on those shiny, four- by six-inch rectangles had actually occurred.

When Bay was at school, I’d go into her room, telling myself I was there to dust the furniture or Windex the mirrors. I happen to be one of a very few women in my particular demographic who opt to clean their own houses. I’m sure there are a zillion psychological explanations that could be offered as to why I choose to vacuum my own carpets and scrub my own toilets, but the real reason is simply this: Nobody, and I mean
nobody
, would ever clean my house as well as I clean it myself.

Well, maybe my mother. But that’s another chapter.

The point is, I learned about housekeeping at the hands of the master, Bonnie Tamblyn Dixon, and no cleaning lady or maintenance staff I might hire could ever meet my expectations when it comes to scouring the kitchen sink or keeping the vegetable bin free of mold. So, yes, I clean my own house.

But in the course of those six weeks, as I waited to hear something,
anything
, regarding the whereabouts of my biological daughter, I will admit that I did very little cleaning at all. When I wandered into Bay’s room, as I said, it was ostensibly to pair up her school socks (Bonnie folds, I roll) or collect the empty glasses from the nightstand, but what I really did was sink into the soft comforter on her bed and just look around.

I’d see the random snatches of artwork-in-progress on a page of an open sketchbook; I would marvel at the way she’d arranged her perfume bottles on the dresser (she’s a big fan of the Ed Hardy fragrances). I’d pull her pillow to my face and just breathe in the scent of her shampoo and makeup remover lingering there, as if I could breathe Bay herself into my lungs.

What would my life have been like if she hadn’t been here?

It was a sickening thought, and I felt tears welling in my eyes every time it forced itself into my mind, but still, I couldn’t help but wonder. Without my Bay—not the one I conceived, but the one I
re
ceived—who would I be?

Her quirks, her fears, her talents, her sense of humor, her
Bay-ness
had contributed to my maternal evolution and informed my sense of motherhood from the day we brought her home. Toby did, too, of course, but his contribution was different, as every child’s is bound to be. With Toby I learned how to mother a child who approached the world with caution; with Bay I had to shift gears and learn to mother a kid who barreled into everything at ninety miles an hour, oblivious to danger and utterly opposed to anything conventional. Toby taught me patience, but Bay taught me to embrace the unexpected.

And believe me, the irony of
that
is not lost on me at all.

The point is, instead of cleaning, I sat on Bay’s bed and tried to picture a Kennish family that did not include her.

Impossible.

Then I’d stand beside her window and gaze out.

As though I were expecting to see a teenage girl I’d never met but would recognize on sight, just walking up the driveway.

As though I were expecting a miracle.

Which, in a way, I was.

And that’s when the what-ifs would start. What if we never find her? What if the mother who took her home had moved out of the country and left no forwarding address? What if there had been an accident—anything could happen over the course of sixteen years, after all—a car wreck, a plane crash, a drowning? What if
that
mother hadn’t watched and worried and planned and protected the way
I
would have—the way I
did
… for
her
daughter?

What if …?

And the worst part was that I knew Bay’s head was swirling with what-ifs, too. But every time I broached the subject, she’d crack a joke and turn the conversation in another direction. She wasn’t ready, or perhaps wasn’t able, to put her own what-ifs into words. For once, Bay was taking her time.

Then one day, she found me in her room, looking out the window.

“You’re home early,” I said, feeling foolish and embarrassed at being caught just standing there. I picked up the Windex bottle, but since I’d neglected to include paper towels in that day’s cleaning charade it was a useless bluff.

“I’m not early,” Bay informed me. “It’s after four o’clock.”

“Is it? Gee.”
Time flies when you’re waiting for your missing child to find you.
“How was school?”

“You know, school-ish.” She gave me her wry smile. “On the upside, I ditched science class, so I didn’t discover anything else that might potentially rip our family apart.”

She dropped her backpack on the floor. Reflexively, I picked it up and put it on a chair.

“That’s not what’s happening, honey.”

“Really?” Bay slipped out of her cherry-red school blazer, the one that goes so gorgeously with her porcelain complexion (it, too, landed on the floor). “Because you’ve been wandering around this house like a zombie for weeks.”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I said vaguely.

“Like what you’re going to do when the prodigal daughter returns?” She grinned. “See? And you thought I never paid attention in Sunday school.”

I laughed.

“So instead of standing around here pretending to Windex stuff, shouldn’t you be off planning the Welcome Home Whoever You Are extravaganza?” Bay frowned, feigning great concern. “What’s the protocol for this sort of thing? Will it be a black tie event, maybe? Or more casual, like cocktails and finger food on the patio at dusk? And saliva swabs for everyone, ya know, in keeping with the theme.”

“Good question.” I responded with a grin of my own. “I guess I’ll have to look it up. Maybe Emily Post has some insight on the etiquette for Whoever You Are parties.”

“Excellent. Sounds like a plan.” Bay picked up the sketch pad from her desk and began to doodle.

I watched her for a moment, thinking I’d leave her alone to work, but the lighthearted teasing had gone a long way toward lifting my spirits. Suddenly, I felt ready to say something I’d been meaning to say for days now.

“Bay …” I sat on the bed and waited for her to look up from her drawing. “I want you to know … I
need
you to know that no matter what happens, you are and always will be my daughter. The switch … it doesn’t change anything.”

“Actually …” A shadow flickered in her eyes. “It changes everything.”

This hit me like a punch. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m not related to you. I’m not your kid. And it’s not even like I was adopted. If I was adopted, you would have picked me, you would have consciously chosen to bring me home and make me a part of your family. But you didn’t. I just showed up. Like junk mail.”

I actually smiled. “Did you seriously just compare yourself to junk mail?”

“Yes. And not the good kind, either.”

“
Is
there a good kind?”

“I don’t know, I guess I was thinking of catalogues. But definitely not J. Crew....” She shook her head in a gesture of dismissal. “Wow, this conversation has gone off on a pretty strange tangent.”

“A tangent! So you listened in geometry as well as Sunday school, huh?”

Bay shot me a sideways smile. “Why does everyone around here get such a shock out of me knowing things?”

“Hmmm, I dunno. Shall we talk about your last report card?”

“I’d rather not.” Bay laughed, then surprised me by laying her head on my shoulder. Instantly, my arms went around her, and I knew that there was nothing on this earth that could get me to let go.

“You will always be my daughter,” I said softly, against her hair. “You will always be
our
daughter, our little girl, our baby. Not adopted, not accidental, not junk mail.”