“Dear Anna. Because of what I read in an article about you and the Olympic rowing team, I realize I’m your mother. I left you in St. Michael’s church when you were three months old. Just like the article said, your birthday is February 15 and you’re 26. I saw in the picture that you still have the birth mark on your left shoulder.”
Much larger printing and capital letters made the next sentence jump from the page. “IF I SPILL THE BEANS, YOU WON’T GO.
“You’re not a citizen. I brought you to Canada from Holland. Your father emigrated first but didn’t meet us. I couldn’t look after you. I did you a BIG FAVOUR by giving you up and letting you have a good life. It’s time to return the FAVOUR. Pay me $10,000 and I won’t tell your secret. I’m in Cabin Ten at the Bide-A-While motel. If I don’t hear from you by FRIDAY, I’ll phone the Victoria paper.”
I reread the letter. The shocking message remained the same. My birth mother wanted to blackmail me. What kind of woman was she to even contemplate doing this? But she had one thing right. She had done me a favour—a huge favour. No one could have been luckier with her adoptive parents than I’d been.
If what she said was true, what should I do? Borrow $10,000 and pay her? But was she right? Would the circumstances of my birth bar me from the Olympics? The Children’s Aid Society would know. I dialed and asked for the director.
“Ms. French is out of the office for the day. She’ll be in tomorrow, but, if it’s urgent, perhaps I can help you?”
Twenty-four hours to wait for the verdict. Should I warn Carol, my coach? Of course not. Why upset her about something that might not happen? I threw the envelope in the waste basket and shoved the letter in my desk drawer.
But I couldn’t get it out of my mind. After a nearly sleepless night, I staggered out of bed. Exhausted, I debated whether to drive or walk to the lake for the first of our three daily rowing practices. I opted for the twenty-minute walk, hoping the exercise would untie the knot in my stomach. The grey clouds that blanketed the sky, promising rain, echoed my mood.
As we gathered on the dock, my team mates handed folded sheets of paper to Carol. Damn, I’d forgotten this morning was the deadline for returning one of the many forms our bureaucratic country required.
“Carol, I left it on my desk. Is it too late to run over at lunch?”
“It is. One of the guys from the office is coming to get them…” she checked her watch “in half an hour. They have to go out in this morning’s mail.”
“Dad could go,” Bobbie Johnson said.
Most mornings, multimillionaire Marshall Johnson, a rower on Canada’s 1968 Olympic team, parked his Porsche at the far end of the lake and watched our practice.
Carol shook her head. “The girl at the desk in the residence wouldn’t let him go up.”
“My car’s here,” Bobbie said.
It always was. Her car, a dark-blue Porsche that matched her father’s, seemed to be her security blanket, her reassurance that her daddy loved her enough to buy the very best. Poor Bobbie lived in fear she’d lose her place on the team and her father’s approval. Marshall Johnson supported Olympic rowing financially. I suspected he’d withdraw his money if Bobbie lost her spot. This had to be the reason why Carol kept her when Marnie, the first alternative, was a better rower.
Bobbie curried Carol’s favour in every possible way. “It won’t take me a minute. I’ll be back by the time everyone’s warmed up.”
Carol nodded.
I could offer to go with her, but why spoil her chance for brownie points? I thanked Bobbie and tossed her my room key.
We’d just finished our stretching exercises when, true to her word, Bobbie’s Porsche peeled around the lake and screeched to a halt beside the dock. She delivered the paper to Carol and joined us as we lowered ourselves into our shell.
In the boat I forgot everything but the joy of moving through the mirror-calm lake. The oars dipped, dragged, lifted, flashed forward, turned and sliced. The creak of our seats as they slid back and forth, the rush of the bow as it cut through the water—every motion and sound was as familiar and comforting as my own heartbeat.
We followed the row with a two-hour run. Light rain coated the path with a film of moisture which made each footfall treacherous. Rain drizzling on our skin chilled us as we clocked the miles. Although I tried to empty my mind, to focus on breathing, to visualize molecules of fresh air entering my nostrils and filling my lungs—I failed. Instead, I fixated either on the possibility of not being on the Olympic team, or on my birth mother—her name, her appearance, her life.
Later, back in my room, mouth dry and heart clattering, I dialed the Children’s Aid. After the opening pleasantries, I posed my question.
“Of course, you’re a Canadian. Once your adoption became official, the province issued you a new birth certificate. The circumstances of your birth have no bearing on your citizenship.”
Relief. I could forget the letter.
But could I? Could I ignore the presence of my birth mother waiting for me at the Bide-a-While cabins? I flopped on my bed and hauled the duvet over my head, but, no matter how I twisted and turned, I couldn’t get comfortable. Finally, I faced two facts: I wasn’t going to sleep until I set up a meeting, and I needed sleep before I faced her. I thumbed through the telephone book and, before I could change my mind, dialed the Bide-a-While cabins.
“Cabin Ten,” I said.
“The cabins don’t have no phones. You wanna leave a message?”
“Please tell her Anna called and will drop in later.”
Exhaustion washed over me.
Four a.m. Should I go now, before morning training? It wasn’t exactly a normal time to visit, but this wasn’t a normal social call. Sure, I’d wake her, but, in case she turned nasty when I told her there wouldn’t be any money, I’d have the advantage of being wide awake. Just to be on the safe side, in case there was trouble, I tucked my cell phone in the pocket of my track pants.
As I approached the cabins, the fluorescent Bide-a-While sign flickered a lurid welcome. At the last moment, my nerve failed. I drove by, slowed, made a U-turn and parked beside the highway, where I could watch the motel and argue with myself. This was crazy. Who but a burglar appeared at five in the morning? But, if I didn’t do this now, I’d never have another chance.
I peered at the lopsided cabins sloping away from the road. Except for the fourth one, they were dark. While I surveyed the run-down collection of buildings, a car pulled out of the drive and sped past me. Only the first twittering of waking birds and the wailing of a baby broke the silence.
Crazy or not, I had to see her.
Cabin Ten carried its sixty or seventy years badly. The tiny front porch, trimmed with peeling dark green paint, listed slightly to the right. When I stepped inside the porch, it smelled of mildew and garbage. I opened the outer door with the torn screen and knocked gently. Nothing. I banged harder. Still nothing. She must be an exceptionally heavy sleeper. On impulse, I turned the knob and pushed. The door opened.
Inside, my eyes just had time to adjust to the light filtering through the flimsy curtains and to fix on the outline of a substantial woman lying on her back in bed before my nose told me something was wrong—very, very wrong. The place reeked of exhaust.
I rushed to the bed and grabbed the woman’s shoulders.
“Wake up. Wake up.” I shook her and felt her unresponsiveness.
Thanking God for the strength I’d gained during the months of training, I flipped the bedspread on the floor and hauled her heavy body off the bed. Quickly knotting the ends, I grabbed hold and dragged her outside.
She looked