The Secret's Name is Cathy. Part Two.

"Hi Jill, this is awkward, but according to Ancestry DNA, you may be my 1st cousin. I was born in Minnesota and I was adopted into the Carroll family as a baby in 1962. My name is Cathy Jones."

A picture of her was on her Ancestry page and it was like looking at a photo of my mother. She and I both have mom's nose. Sorry, sis! There was no mistaking she was my sister. Before I took time to think, my fingers were flying across the keys replying to her message.

"Oh boy. Um. yeah. So my mom lived in Minnesota and gave up a baby for adoption, I believe in 1962. I think we might be more than cousins!"

I waited impatiently for a reply. They were the longest hours of my life. Did I scare her off? Was she freaked out at finding a sibling she didn't know existed? I had about 20 years to get used to the idea I had siblings out there. She had no idea.

Meanwhile I waited for my dad to get home from his day of volunteer work clearing hiking trails. I paced his house as I read and reread Cathy's message. I HAVE A SISTER kept screaming in my head, and I couldn't contain my excitement.

My Dad isn't one to show a lot of emotion, but when I told him my sister had found me, he was so happy for me he glowed. It was a relief to know he was on board with our burgeoning relationship.

The next day I was driving home from my Dad's house in southern Oregon to the Seattle area. Six hours. I checked my email driving along I-5 north. Hey, my car basically drives itself, so cut me some slack. I exited I-5 when I got a message from Amanda Fritz and replied to her from a convenience store parking lot. My niece! She was in the loop! I told her I was traveling and couldn't respond with a long reply, but I would when I got home. 

I drove 300 miles drafting emails in my head, thinking about what I'd say about our mother, how little I knew about her adoption, pictures I could share. I was over the moon excited even before I knew her.

Her name is Catherine.  My middle name is Katherine. What are the odds?

The questions came at me. Are we sisters? Yes. Do we have the same father. No. What was my mother's name? Gerri.  My step-mother's name is Jerri. What did she die from? Lewy Body Dementia.  Where did your mom grow up? St. Cloud, Minnesota. Do you have a picture of her? Of you? Mom hated having her picture taken, so do I.  I do, too, she replied. Do you know why she gave me up for adoption? Um, that'll be a longer answer.

Other questions were about health. Any family history she should know about. Nope, pretty healthy except for the crazy gene. Mom had the heart of a racehorse, so no worries for heart problems. Lewy Body Dementia, but the jury is still out on whether it's hereditary. I told her what I knew of her father. I Googled him and found he had died in 2015. Mom passed in 2018. 

I messaged her when I got home and told her I'd happily answer any further questions she had and I promised to always tell her the truth, even if it was harsh and not what she wanted to hear. She deserved the truth. But I struggled with how many details about Mom I wanted to share. My relationship with my mother was strained at times, fractured at others, and sometimes simply okay. She had a nasty streak and a sharp and venomous tongue that left me wounded and bleeding more than once. I decided to start with concrete, objective information, dates, names, places. I'd save the subjective, the truths through my lens, for later.

We fell into step from the first few messages. Facebook friends. Check. Email addresses exchanged. Check. We were strangers, yet I felt connected to her in a way I couldn't explain. For all I knew, she could have been a serial killer (I might have, in fact, asked her if she was). Turns out she's not. 

Within two days, we found how much we had in common. She had played the piano, and very well...like winning-a-state-competition well. I started playing when I was six years old, continued through high school graduation, and was told by more than one teacher I was extremely gifted. Mom wasn't musical in the least, so I was shocked we both played. We are both "crafty." She crochets, paints, makes jewelry.  I crochet, woodwork, draw. We both, apparently, got Mom's depression gene. Sorry again, sis.

Once we started exchanging pictures, I was stunned. In her 30's and 40's, she could have been Mom's twin. She looked much more like my mom in those years than I did. She had Mom's dark hair. My coloring favored my dad. We both have mom's nose and figure. Drop dead gorgeous legs in our youth. Widening ass in our middle age. Sorry again, sis.

Cathy on the left. Mom on the right.

Cathy and I looked alike as children. We compared baby photos. We both had a head full of black hair. By the time we were two or three, our hair had lightened. 

Cathy, left. Jill, right.

We shared photos of us in our teen years, and those were the ones that got to me.  I sat and stared at her photos for what felt like all day. It was in my teenage years when I remember wishing I had a sister. Would we have fought like sisters? No doubt. We are both strong minded women and we would have butted heads frequently, I imagine. Would we have shared each other's clothes? Probably. We have similar clothing styles now, so yeah, probably would have swapped out sweaters. Would we have been friends? I'd like to think so. What I do know is we didn't get a chance to be friends as teens, but we will be friends for what's left of our lives. 

Cathy, left. Jill, right.

Then it was time to answer her harder questions. Why did our mother give me up? Why didn't she want me? Even in her written words I could hear the years of pain and wondering, of feeling unwanted and abandoned. Dammit, Mom, one more thing I have to forgive you for. 

I gave Cathy an honest answer, but not a very detailed one, because I didn't have it. Mom simply did not want to talk about the children she gave away. 

"Um, first, it had nothing to do with you. It was all about her own feelings of shame and inadequacy. She was widowed with a 12-month-old, pregnant, working as a waitress, her baby's father in the wind, and no family to help her. Oh, and it was 1962." Even as I wrote my answer to her questions, I wasn't convincing myself. The words "I was never meant to be a mother" kept playing on the reel my mother installed in my head decades ago. She didn't want to be a mother, again, period. As a child, I heard from her more times than I can count, "You were an oops baby. I didn't want any more children." I know why, at 58, I still feel like I don't have a place in this world, like I need to make myself quiet and small so I don't inconvenience anyone. My sister felt unwanted because she was given away. I simply felt unwanted.

I did my best to answer Cathy's questions, all while wondering where our relationship would go from here. What I'd find in the weeks to come is that we wouldn't go a day without messaging each other, that every morning without fail I'd wake up to "Good morning, sister!" on my phone. I'd find that I truly like my sister, not because she is my sister, but because she's a kind woman with strength for days, a survivor who didn't let what life dealt her make her bitter, but only more compassionate. I'd find that we'd chat online in the middle of the night, and I'd be sitting in bed, tablet on my lap, with a huge smile, thinking "This is what having a sister feels like." I'd realize that I finally felt whole for the first time in my life, and Cathy was what had been missing. I'd make strides in forgiving my mother, because for all she inflicted on me, she gave me Cathy, and our relationship has been profoundly healing.

I also wondered if and when we'd meet in person. Thanks to an impromptu family reunion on my husband's side in Indianapolis, a mere two hours from where my sister lives, we would.