A few more days passed.
I kept trying to tell myself that the waiting was temporary.
The problem was that I had already spent years waiting for something I couldn't have.
When Lucy was born, I waited for the nurse to bring her back.
I waited through the night.
I waited for the doctor to tell me that my baby was improving.
Instead, I received the news that she had died.
After that, I stopped waiting for Lucy.
I learned to live with the loss because there was nothing else I knew how to do.
Now I was waiting again, and the resemblance between those two kinds of waiting frightened me.
I didn't want to be the woman who allowed hope to take over before she had evidence.
But I didn't want to shut the door on the possibility that my daughter had survived, either.
I had no idea how to balance those things.
Nora and I spoke regularly.
She told me that Ellie was adjusting well.
She mentioned the little routines she and Tom were establishing, the things Ellie liked, and the moments when the three of them were beginning to feel more comfortable together.
I listened carefully.
I wanted to know about Ellie's life.
I also knew that every detail was another reminder of the years I had missed.
Sometimes, after we finished talking, I felt guilty for asking questions.
Other times, I felt guilty for not asking enough.
There was no perfect way to be in that situation.
I had to keep reminding myself that Ellie was not responsible for the circumstances surrounding her birth.
She had done nothing wrong.
She had simply been a child who needed a family.
Nora and Tom had given her one.
I could respect that and still want to know what had happened to Lucy.
The two truths could exist together.
One evening, Nora called and told me that the agency was still examining the inconsistencies in the early records.
She didn't have a full explanation.
The preliminary comparison was not enough to settle the question, and we were still waiting for independent confirmation.
I asked whether anyone had explained the problems with the newborn identification information.
"Not in a way that answers everything," she said.
I rubbed my forehead.
"How can something so important be unclear?"
"I don't know."
Her voice sounded tired.
"I wish I did."
I was tempted to ask whether the agency had made a mistake.
But I stopped myself.
We didn't yet know whether the inconsistencies were errors, missing information, or something more serious.
I wasn't going to invent an explanation simply because uncertainty was unbearable.
Instead, I asked Nora to tell me as soon as there was any news.
She promised she would.
After the call, I went to the bedroom and opened the drawer where I kept Lucy's bracelet.
I took it out and held it in my palm.
I remembered how I had felt when I first brought it home.
I had thought that the bracelet was all I would ever have of my daughter.
It was small enough to disappear inside my hand.
I had often wondered whether Lucy would have grown into someone who loved music, or books, or being outside.
I wondered whether she would have been shy or outspoken.
Those questions had once been a way to keep her close.
Now they felt different.
If Ellie was Lucy, then I hadn't merely imagined a daughter growing up.
A real child might have been growing up somewhere beyond my reach.
She might have been learning to speak, play, laugh, and ask for things while I sat beside a box and wondered what her life would have been like.
I put the bracelet back.
I couldn't keep doing that to myself.
I needed to let the test answer what it could.
Then I needed to face whatever remained.
The next time I visited Nora, I brought no gifts.
I wanted to see Ellie without making the visit feel different from the others.
She greeted me warmly and asked whether I could help her with her hair again.
I sat her down and reached for the brush.
Her curls caught in the bristles.
I worked slowly.
"Does it hurt?" I asked.
"A little."
I loosened my grip.
"How about now?"
"Better."
She watched herself in the mirror while I tied the ribbons.
I had become familiar with the way she tilted her head when she was checking my work.
It was a small habit.
I didn't know whether it meant anything.
I didn't need it to.
When I finished, she smiled.
The dimple appeared.
I felt the ache, but it no longer surprised me.
I had begun to understand that the feeling might remain whether the test confirmed the relationship or not.
Grief didn't wait for proof.
Neither did affection.
After Ellie went to join Tom, Nora came into the room.
She watched me put the brush down.
"Are you all right?"
"I think so."
It wasn't a complete answer, but it was honest.
She sat beside me.
"I keep thinking about how much I wanted this."
"I know."
"And now I feel terrible for even thinking about what happens if the result says she's your daughter."
I turned toward her.
"Why?"
"Because I don't want you to think I'm trying to keep her from you."
I felt a tightness in my chest.
"Nora, I don't think that."
She looked unconvinced.
I took her hand.
"I want to know the truth. I don't want you to stop being her mother because we're trying to understand her past."
Her eyes filled.
"But what if everything changes?"
I thought about the hospital bracelet.
I thought about the years I had spent grieving.
Then I thought about Ellie running toward me when I walked through the door.
"Some things might change," I said. "But we don't have to decide everything before we know what we're dealing with."
Nora nodded slowly.
I could see that she wanted a promise.
I wanted to give her one.
But I couldn't promise that the truth wouldn't hurt or that there would be no difficult decisions.
I could promise only that I would try to act with care.
That had to be enough for now.
When I left, Nora walked me to the door.
We hugged.
I told her I would call the next day.
Then I drove home.
For the first time, I didn't take the bracelet out of its box when I went to bed.
I left it where it was.
I didn't need to prove that I remembered Lucy.
I didn't need to hold something in my hand to justify my grief.
Whatever the test revealed, the five years I had lived were real.
The love I had felt for my daughter was real.
And the questions now facing us were real, too.
I turned off the light.
I was still afraid of the answer.
But I was ready to hear it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: When the Truth Finally Became Clear, I Had to Face the Difference Between the Daughter I Had Lost and the Child Who Was Here
My Sister Came to My Kitchen With an Envelope, and the First Thing She Said Made Me Fear the Worst
Part 10 of 12
