a mouse-and-rat infested house at the end of a road called Morton in a town called Winlock. Richard worked fixing appliances. Peggy stayed home with Kimmy. And I went to Mt. Saint Helen’s High.
Winlock locals were—for the most part—farmers, laborers, and housewives. The average education in the area was a high school diploma. After that, most kids went to work for their parents, joined the military, and/or got married and had babies.
People expected very little of themselves in our new town. Ambition, beyond winning a football game, was remarkably low. Accordingly, very little was expected of me. Under these conditions, I flourished.
I joined the French Club, played basketball (both junior varsity and varsity at the same time), became captain of the junior varsity team, and wrote a bit for the student newspaper. I was voted the Funniest Girl.
By the time I reached my freshman year, I was a dervish of accomplishment who, for money, baby-sat and took a summer job waiting tables at a take-out place on Interstate 90. The truckers, stopping over for coffee and plate-sized cinnamon rolls would tell me I was pretty. They gave over fat tips.
It was at this restaurant that one of the truckers told me I looked a lot like a guy he knew. He said, “Hey, you look just like a guy who lives just south of Seattle—Renton, I think. Name of Wright. I swear you could be his kid.”
I was fifteen years old.
I put the pot of coffee on the counter and looked hard at that man, that trucker, and said, “I was adopted as a baby.”
The trucker nodded like he knew this. He seemed unfazed—as if lost children were a part of his every day. He told me he would ask around. He left me a ten-dollar tip, a lot of money back then. I never saw that trucker again.
JUST UP THE road from that diner, my birth father Bill did live in Renton, Washington, and later moved even closer, to a town called Yelm. He was with a woman named Helen. They had a son named Tom. I didn’t know all this about my birth father for many years—it all came out long after I was done pouring coffee.
MIDYEAR, WHEN I was a sophomore, we moved away from Winlock and went further east—to Spokane.
Richard was told he had strong people skills and was provided managerial training to run the service department of a store in Spokane.
When this bit of good fortune happened, I was sixteen years old—twenty-four months from sweet liberation.
I was very unhappy to leave Winlock behind but my feelings were not considered in the decision to move.
In Spokane, I entered Mead Senior High and promptly joined the drill team—where again, I was voted the funniest girl. In typing class, I got myself up to sixty words a minute, error free, and this
skill helped secure employment. I worked half of each school day as a secretary for a real estate company.
Another accomplishment was my placement in an Honors English class, which was the result of state testing that showed I had strong scores in reading and writing.
In the midst of my year in Honors English, I was pulled aside by the teacher, Ms. Carla Nuxoll, who dressed in flowing garments and was a slight woman with a ’fro of light brown hair—kinked tight of its own accord.
Ms. Nuxoll held one of my compositions and told me I was a fine writer. “A truly fine writer,” she insisted. “Where did you learn to write like this ? ”
Unnerved by her proximity and suspicious of adults in general, I could only stare at her hair and the way it caught the light and shined rainbow colors through the separate filaments. Something about her reminded me of that time, in the communal house, when I watched those babies being born.
“I dunno,” I mumbled.
Ms. Nuxoll regarded me for a long time, a furrow working between her eyebrows as if I were a riddle on a crossword.
“Well,” she finally said, straightening her shoulders and lifting her proud chin. “You must consider being a writer as a profession. You are that
Winlock locals were—for the most part—farmers, laborers, and housewives. The average education in the area was a high school diploma. After that, most kids went to work for their parents, joined the military, and/or got married and had babies.
People expected very little of themselves in our new town. Ambition, beyond winning a football game, was remarkably low. Accordingly, very little was expected of me. Under these conditions, I flourished.
I joined the French Club, played basketball (both junior varsity and varsity at the same time), became captain of the junior varsity team, and wrote a bit for the student newspaper. I was voted the Funniest Girl.
By the time I reached my freshman year, I was a dervish of accomplishment who, for money, baby-sat and took a summer job waiting tables at a take-out place on Interstate 90. The truckers, stopping over for coffee and plate-sized cinnamon rolls would tell me I was pretty. They gave over fat tips.
It was at this restaurant that one of the truckers told me I looked a lot like a guy he knew. He said, “Hey, you look just like a guy who lives just south of Seattle—Renton, I think. Name of Wright. I swear you could be his kid.”
I was fifteen years old.
I put the pot of coffee on the counter and looked hard at that man, that trucker, and said, “I was adopted as a baby.”
The trucker nodded like he knew this. He seemed unfazed—as if lost children were a part of his every day. He told me he would ask around. He left me a ten-dollar tip, a lot of money back then. I never saw that trucker again.
JUST UP THE road from that diner, my birth father Bill did live in Renton, Washington, and later moved even closer, to a town called Yelm. He was with a woman named Helen. They had a son named Tom. I didn’t know all this about my birth father for many years—it all came out long after I was done pouring coffee.
MIDYEAR, WHEN I was a sophomore, we moved away from Winlock and went further east—to Spokane.
Richard was told he had strong people skills and was provided managerial training to run the service department of a store in Spokane.
When this bit of good fortune happened, I was sixteen years old—twenty-four months from sweet liberation.
I was very unhappy to leave Winlock behind but my feelings were not considered in the decision to move.
In Spokane, I entered Mead Senior High and promptly joined the drill team—where again, I was voted the funniest girl. In typing class, I got myself up to sixty words a minute, error free, and this
skill helped secure employment. I worked half of each school day as a secretary for a real estate company.
Another accomplishment was my placement in an Honors English class, which was the result of state testing that showed I had strong scores in reading and writing.
In the midst of my year in Honors English, I was pulled aside by the teacher, Ms. Carla Nuxoll, who dressed in flowing garments and was a slight woman with a ’fro of light brown hair—kinked tight of its own accord.
Ms. Nuxoll held one of my compositions and told me I was a fine writer. “A truly fine writer,” she insisted. “Where did you learn to write like this ? ”
Unnerved by her proximity and suspicious of adults in general, I could only stare at her hair and the way it caught the light and shined rainbow colors through the separate filaments. Something about her reminded me of that time, in the communal house, when I watched those babies being born.
“I dunno,” I mumbled.
Ms. Nuxoll regarded me for a long time, a furrow working between her eyebrows as if I were a riddle on a crossword.
“Well,” she finally said, straightening her shoulders and lifting her proud chin. “You must consider being a writer as a profession. You are that
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