| ||||||||
|
|
My
Son the Burglar, Revisited PAGE
TWO: I entered my parents' bedroom. I heard breathing. It was very dark but I could just make out Mom's purse on the highboy. I reached up and grabbed the heavy leather bag. Right at that moment dad shot up in bed. I dropped the purse and ran back to my room, got under the covers and waited for a confrontation. Having left my door open I saw dad slinking down the hallway in his boxers with a pistol out in front of him. He checked on my younger brother, glanced into my room, and searched the house. Within ten minutes I heard men's voices and walkie-talkies, the unmistakable sound of cops. Now I was really terrified. At this point Mom entered my room. She sat on my bed in the dark, hugged me, and tried to explain, without scaring me too much, that we had a burglar. I started to cry and between sobs told her that I was the burglar. She informed Dad. The cops left. My parents turned on my hula girl lamp. I spilled the beans, every detail. They were more concerned than mad. Was I "mental"? A jewel thief in training? The incident wasn't mentioned again. Self-conscious, I toned down my interest in Hawaii and all things travel-related. I spent the summer attending soccer day camp and reading Arthur Conan Doyle. Not long after entering the sixth grade I came home from school one day, and saw on the kitchen table an open letter from Reader's Digest addressed to my dad. It was a rejection letter for an essay he'd submitted called "My Son the Burglar." I felt lightheaded and queasy, confused and a bit frightened. The room started to lose color and my eyes sank back into my head. At least the story wouldn't be read by millions of people, I thought. I never mentioned to my parents that I'd seen the letter. The following summer we finally took a trip. Even though it was only to Northern California, I couldn't have been more excited. I checked out dozens of books from the library and got free maps from the Auto Club. We stayed in Mammoth for a few days visiting friends of my parents with kids my age. One afternoon a group of about twenty adults and kids piled into a couple RVs and headed into the backcountry for a picnic. It was the most beautiful place I'd ever been. A genuine alpine pasture with a bubbling brook, miles of wildflowers, and a million-dollar view. I was having a wonderful time building dams and catching pollywogs with the other kids, watching the adults drink chardonnay and sing-along to the music of John Denver. The picnic lunch was served on various plaid and paisley blankets spread over soft grass. It was at this picnic that I had my first sundried tomato, on a cracker smeared with cream cheese I believe. Dad
had more than a few glasses of wine, and decided to entertain the
large gathering of people with a detailed account of the "My
Son the Burglar" story. He started with my obsession for all
things Hawaiian. How I'd been writing to Doris Duke hoping for an
invitation to Shangri La, her palace outside Honolulu. How I'd memorized
the phone numbers of every five-star resort. All eyes were on me.
I turned bright red, of course, and soon felt as if I were melting
like the Wicked Witch of the West. I couldn't take it anymore. I
threw my cold chicken leg into the brook and stormed off to the
RV. I locked myself inside and cried. I couldn't wait to tell my
grandparents how rotten I'd been treated. Soon my mother and little
brother knocked on the door. I wouldn't let them in. Eventually
I calmed down but I couldn't face the others. The next day we were
back on the road, just the four of us. Dear
Kristen, One day not long after I returned from Europe, I was sitting on my Mom's bed rambling on about what I should do with my life as I watched her paint little flowers on a lampshade. There was a lull in the conversation as I tried to formulate excuses for not having applied to college, when she blurted out the following: "Honey, did you know, well, you don't know, but you were an adorable little adopted baby." It should go without saying that I was beyond shocked. My parents had decided it was best to keep this news from me until I was eighteen so I wouldn't feel like a weirdo growing up. Their plan backfired -- of course I felt like a weirdo growing up. But my anger at them was short-lived. They meant well. If anything, it freed me. I finally knew why I was so different from my family. I don't
embarrass easily anymore, except around my parents. I fear our bond
is more tenuous now and my inability to broach the past with them,
including my entry into this world, only contributes to that feeling.
We've perfected surface talk. Yet I sense a crack forming, and know
that if I don't open up, that if I don't start talking, our relationship
will eventually evaporate. In the years since that first trip abroad
and the revelation that followed, I've done a lot of globetrotting,
a lot of wandering. I became a writer, fell in love. I never thought
it could happen, but my desire to travel has started to wane. I
seek a new kind of adventure now, one that involves forging an open
dialogue with my adoptive parents and finding my birth parents.
Paris is wonderful, the Alps are transcendent, but I can't imagine
anything more electrifying than meeting, for the first time, the
people who created me; the weirdos who spawned me.
|
At
nine o'clock my grandfather drove me home. At two I woke up, got
out of bed, and tiptoed down the hallway. I wasn't afraid, I was
possessed. I have no idea what I planned to do once I had the money.
Ride my bike to LAX? I'd never stolen anything before. 
