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Authors: Patricia Gaffney
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shook my head. "Percy, Wells, Draco, & Dunn. Pretty well-known law firm, offices in most of the big cities. My name isn't Draco, though."
I looked up. "It's not?">br> "I mean it's not my real name, my birth name. I was adopted. Never knew my real parents."
"I was an only child, and I grew up knowing what I was supposed to be-a lawyer like my dad. Who is a good man," he added, "really a great man in some ways. He's brilliant at his work, probably one of the top fifty lawyers in the country."
"Did you grow up in Washington?"
"Chicago."
"How old were you when you found out you were adopted?"
"I always knew."
"Even when you were little?"
"I never remember not knowing it." He hesitated, started to fiddle with the paper place mat, a child's map of D.C.'s major tourist attractions. "Believe me, no one wanted to make me feel as if I were on trial. My parents were terrific. Anything like that, I did it to myself. Because. . ." He held his empty cup up and scrutinized the manufacturer's name on the bottom.
I know better than to prompt someone I'm interviewing, But I said, "Because you didn't want them to be sorry. For choosing you." - "That's it." The surprise and the gratitude in his face were too good-they made me dizzy. I grabbed his coffee cup and mine, got up, and went to the counter for refills. Now all I could think was, We have to stop having these moments. - - But when I came back and sat down, and stirred and sipped and acted normal, I noticed he was looking at me in a new way. You know how you can tell when you've done or said something, inadvertently or not, that makes the other person go to the next level, so to speak, some alternate way of seeing you? And sometimes that's good, and sometimes you wish you'd been more circumspect? I couldn't decide which it was in this case, but one thing was clear: Mick didn't just interest me anymore. I interested him.
I picked up my pencil. He resumed. - "About four years ago, after giving it a lot of thought, I made up my mind to try to find out who my birth mother was. By then I'd been practicing law for seven years. Not very happily. Miserably," he said with a laugh, glancing up. "1 was married, my son was almost two. Sally-that's my wife-she'd quit her job after Jay was born so she could be a full-time mother:' "What was her job?" I sounded businesslike, as if the story would crumble without that vital tidbit.
"She was a paralegal. That's how we met." Paralegal, I wrote. "And did you find your mother?" "Eventually. I should tell you something about myself first. I've always painted or sketched or sculpted or built constructions, collages-I've always made things. Even as a kid." - - "You've always been an artist." "Well, but I didn't call it that. It would never have occurred to me. We didn't have any artists in my family, not even remotely. A second cousin who dabbles in photography-that's it. Except for him, nothing." It hit me. "Your mother. You found her-and? Who was she? What was-she?" He smiled; he liked my excitement. "Yeah, I found her. When she gave me up, she was a second-year student at the Art Institute in Chicago." "My God. Mick, oh, wow, that's amazing." "I thought you'd like that. It makes a good story for you, doesn't it?" "Are you kidding?" My CPA-turned-bluegrass fiddler, my UPS man-turned-pentecostal preacher-they were in danger of looking anemic in comparison. "This is terrific, this could be the whole story. So do you see her now? What does she do, is she still-" "I've never met her." "Oh. No?"
"I wrote her a letter, and I know she got it, but she didn't write back. So I had to let it go. I never tried to see her."
He has a way of compressing his lips in a tight half-smile when he says things that pain him. It discourages sympathy. I took the hint and didn't offer any. But I hurt forhim. - "The point is," he said after a moment, "finding that out about my mother was like"-he touched his finger- tips to his temple, then flung his hand out-"an explosion. When the
I looked up. "It's not?">br> "I mean it's not my real name, my birth name. I was adopted. Never knew my real parents."
"I was an only child, and I grew up knowing what I was supposed to be-a lawyer like my dad. Who is a good man," he added, "really a great man in some ways. He's brilliant at his work, probably one of the top fifty lawyers in the country."
"Did you grow up in Washington?"
"Chicago."
"How old were you when you found out you were adopted?"
"I always knew."
"Even when you were little?"
"I never remember not knowing it." He hesitated, started to fiddle with the paper place mat, a child's map of D.C.'s major tourist attractions. "Believe me, no one wanted to make me feel as if I were on trial. My parents were terrific. Anything like that, I did it to myself. Because. . ." He held his empty cup up and scrutinized the manufacturer's name on the bottom.
I know better than to prompt someone I'm interviewing, But I said, "Because you didn't want them to be sorry. For choosing you." - "That's it." The surprise and the gratitude in his face were too good-they made me dizzy. I grabbed his coffee cup and mine, got up, and went to the counter for refills. Now all I could think was, We have to stop having these moments. - - But when I came back and sat down, and stirred and sipped and acted normal, I noticed he was looking at me in a new way. You know how you can tell when you've done or said something, inadvertently or not, that makes the other person go to the next level, so to speak, some alternate way of seeing you? And sometimes that's good, and sometimes you wish you'd been more circumspect? I couldn't decide which it was in this case, but one thing was clear: Mick didn't just interest me anymore. I interested him.
I picked up my pencil. He resumed. - "About four years ago, after giving it a lot of thought, I made up my mind to try to find out who my birth mother was. By then I'd been practicing law for seven years. Not very happily. Miserably," he said with a laugh, glancing up. "1 was married, my son was almost two. Sally-that's my wife-she'd quit her job after Jay was born so she could be a full-time mother:' "What was her job?" I sounded businesslike, as if the story would crumble without that vital tidbit.
"She was a paralegal. That's how we met." Paralegal, I wrote. "And did you find your mother?" "Eventually. I should tell you something about myself first. I've always painted or sketched or sculpted or built constructions, collages-I've always made things. Even as a kid." - - "You've always been an artist." "Well, but I didn't call it that. It would never have occurred to me. We didn't have any artists in my family, not even remotely. A second cousin who dabbles in photography-that's it. Except for him, nothing." It hit me. "Your mother. You found her-and? Who was she? What was-she?" He smiled; he liked my excitement. "Yeah, I found her. When she gave me up, she was a second-year student at the Art Institute in Chicago." "My God. Mick, oh, wow, that's amazing." "I thought you'd like that. It makes a good story for you, doesn't it?" "Are you kidding?" My CPA-turned-bluegrass fiddler, my UPS man-turned-pentecostal preacher-they were in danger of looking anemic in comparison. "This is terrific, this could be the whole story. So do you see her now? What does she do, is she still-" "I've never met her." "Oh. No?"
"I wrote her a letter, and I know she got it, but she didn't write back. So I had to let it go. I never tried to see her."
He has a way of compressing his lips in a tight half-smile when he says things that pain him. It discourages sympathy. I took the hint and didn't offer any. But I hurt forhim. - "The point is," he said after a moment, "finding that out about my mother was like"-he touched his finger- tips to his temple, then flung his hand out-"an explosion. When the
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