Gumbo: A Celebration of African American Writing Part 11

"Oh my G.o.d, it's the same cross. Where did you get this?"

"My mother gave it to me when I was baptized." A startling thought suddenly occurred to me. If the warrior was my father, could I be the baby he was holding?

"You know, I'm thinking that maybe your dad isn't the only one in your family in this photo," Esme remarked, reading my thoughts. "But here's what I don't get. According to this article, Glo didn't start her career until 1973, but this photo was taken in 1970, three years earlier."

"I guess that's why it's never been displayed with the rest of the series."

"It also means that they knew each other before she became professional," Esme said. "So, how did you and your father end up in a photo taken by Glo Girard before she was famous?"

"Unless she was a friend of my mom and dad's."

"Or unless she's your mother. Listen to this." Esme continued reading. "'I've always been attracted to the concept of angel power,' the outspoken artist proclaimed. 'Those who ride on the wings of angels ride in the arms of G.o.d. That's why both of my children are named after angels. I wanted them to be reminded of the strength and power they possess in this heaven on Earth.'"

"So?"

"Seraphim, work with me here. You're named after an angel. You're in a photo with your dad wearing a rosary your mother gave you, taken the same year you were born. You don't think this is more than a mere coinkid.i.n.k?"

"The woman can not be my mother," I emphatically informed my friend.

"Why not?"

"First of all, my mother was a second-grade teacher named Etta Taylor, not a photographer named Glo Girard."

"Ever heard of professional names? Writers, actors, artists-they use them all the time."

"Second," I continued, totally ignoring her argument, "she died in a car accident twenty-eight years ago. Third, and most important, my father would never lie to me about something that significant."

"You're probably right," Esme conceded, though I could tell by her expression that she wasn't convinced. "So you've seen her death certificate?"

"No, but . . ."

"It wasn't in the safety deposit box with your dad's things?"

"No."

"No obituary? No funeral program?"

"Not that I know of. They were probably destroyed in the fire."

"Oh yeah, the same fire that burned up every picture that existed of her. A fire you can't remember."

"So? I was young, and anyway, it happened before we moved from California to Atlanta."

"You always said you didn't know much about your mother because your dad didn't like to talk about her. And you don't find it questionable that other than this rosary there doesn't seem to be a shred of evidence that the woman lived or died? You gotta wonder."

I sat there in silence, trying to find the words to defend myself against the onslaught of Esme's questions.

"I can wonder, but there's no way to ever know, so why bother?" I countered.

"You should call her in London and ask."

"Ask what? Are you my mother? This isn't some children's story. Esme, my mom is dead. Why are you trying to create all this drama around a stupid photograph?"

"Well, if you're a hundred percent sure there's no possibility, then forget it," she began before reaching into her pocket to retrieve her vibrating cell phone. "Okay, see you there." Moments later Esme was at the door on her way to meet Derek for an impromptu nightcap. I think it was more like a booty call, but who was I to judge?

"I have to go. You going to be okay?"

"I'll be fine," I a.s.sured her.

"Okay, but . . ."

"But what? Go on. Say it."

"Sera, the woman is dying. If there is even an inkling in your gut that I might be right, what's the harm in making that call before it's too late to ever know?"

"Thanks for coming over," I said, refusing to acknowledge her comment.

"Okay. I get the message. Case closed. Look, if I got a bit overenthusiastic about the Glo thing, I apologize. But you must admit, we might be onto something and even if we aren't, it did keep your mind off Clinton."

I closed the door, acknowledging the truth in Esme's words. The discussion had temporarily cleared my worries about Clinton, but Esme's line of questioning had left me feeling uneasy and off balance. And despite my insistence otherwise, a little voice in my heart was telling me that I needed to further investigate the connection between my father, Glodelle Girard, and myself.

Tidying up after Esme's departure allowed me to strategize how to go about looking deeper into this mother lode of a mystery. She had brought up several salient points that, if eliminated immediately, could quickly clear up this entire matter. Like a record of Etta's death. I looked at my watch. It was after eleven. It was Friday. The Office of Vital Statistics wouldn't be opened until Monday morning and I needed answers now. I'd have to begin elsewhere.

Start with the box, my mind suggested despite the fact that for two years I'd kept the lid on those memories closed as tight as a mummy's tomb.

"Back to the Web," I decided, ignoring my thoughts. I packed up my laptop, the prints of Glodelle, and with the remaining brownies retired to my room. I set up shop in my double bed, arranging pillows and bedcovers to make myself comfortable for a long night of Web surfing. Forget sleep. Forget cla.s.s in the morning. And for now, forget Clinton. I had some serious questions and unless my Toshiba blew up before I got some answers, I was settling in for the duration.

Immediately I went to my favorite search engine, typed in the words "death certificates," and waited a miraculous 0.8 seconds for a list of starting places to appear. I began with the California Death Menu (how sick is that?) and after a click here and a click there, I came across several databases that looked to be helpful. I skipped the Social Security index, knowing that I had no clue as to Etta's digits. In fact, come to think of it, there was a lot I didn't know about my mother. The only two pieces of information I knew for certain were her birthday, October 19, 1942, and the date she died, January 3, 1973. Both occurred in Oakland, California. Every detail in between was an unknown.

I started with the obituary registry, which revealed nothing about Etta but led me to the California newspaper database, which also provided zip, but took me to the grave search, which directed me to search for burials on the cemetery database. By 2:30 A.M. I had found nothing to confirm that my mother, Etta Taylor, had left this Earth.

Suppressing a yawn with a corner of brownie, I unwound my stiff legs from underneath me and stood up to stretch. The Web was leading me nowhere. I felt like a mouse, seduced by the fragrance of some exotic cheese, running around a cybermaze where every corridor led to another dead end. It was time to move on to the one thing I'd been putting off since my father's death.

I took a deep breath and dropped to the floor. Slowly I wedged my thick frame in between the carpet and bed until I could reach the two long boxes I'd found in the attic of my father's house and brought to my apartment. The seals were still intact, proof that I hadn't been ready to review my happy life with him when I wasn't yet accustomed to living without him.

I sat on the floor with the box labeled "Seraphim" between my legs and carefully ripped away the packing tape. The box flaps bounced open, revealing a trove of memorabilia from my childhood: report cards, programs from school plays, artwork. They were simply thrown inside the box, but I knew that haphazard pile held the same love inherent in the neatly arranged sc.r.a.pbooks owned by the kids with mothers. My dad had kept every sc.r.a.p of my adolescence and this show of love brought me to tears.

Along with the souvenirs of my youth were photos of me costumed for various life events: ballet recitals, my First Communion, and the high school prom. There were also many snapshots of family vacations through the years: camping in Yosemite, sh.e.l.l hunting in Jamaica, and mugging with Mickey in Disney World. And, as usual, most of the prints had been sabotaged by my self-deprecating expressions.

I instinctively cringed as I inspected myself making a face in a Parisian cafe on my sixteenth birthday. Even now, as an adult, I hated having my picture taken. Clinton always got upset when we had film developed and the shots came back looking like publicity stills for Ringling Brothers, but I could understand why cultures in Northern Africa and elsewhere considered photographs to be a personal invasion-a stolen piece of one's soul-although I don't think I was that deep about it. I simply hated the way I looked in person, so why capture it forever on film?

After an hour tripping down the trails of my past, I pushed the contents aside and pulled the second box close. It was much lighter than the first and examining the exterior gave me absolutely no hint of the enlightenment within.

Inside a large manila envelope, I found a candid photo of my mother and father on their wedding day. The two of them were standing in front of the open doors of a church with another man and woman, obviously their witnesses. My parents made a striking couple. Michael looked tall and handsome in his dark suit and crisp white shirt. Positioned full face to the camera, his mouth was open in cheerful joy, his arm wrapped lovingly around his bride's waist. Etta's short white dress and veil were appropriately hip for the late sixties and she was holding a small bouquet of what looked to be white roses. Her face was unfortunately revealed only in profile, but I was still mesmerized by the features I could make out. She wore a wide and toothy grin of glee as she gazed upon my father. They looked genuinely happy together and truly in love. If this was the only photo saved from the fire, why had my father never shared it with me? Eager to see more images of my mother, I reached into the large envelope and pulled out a smaller business-size one.

Inside were divorce papers terminating the marriage of Michael Henry Taylor and Etta Glodelle Taylor. Also listed was their last address shared as husband and wife-265 Girard Place, Oakland, California.

"Glodelle Girard," I muttered with disbelief. My breath ceased to flow when I noted the date, January 3, 1973, the same date I had been told my mother had died, the same year Glo Girard, professional photographer, was born.

The scream of despair started in my toes and ascended through my body, playing pinball with each vital organ. By the time it reached my vocal cords it had evaporated into dead air that escaped my mouth not as a wail but a despondent whine.

Etta Taylor hadn't died. Only her marriage had. The realization caused a flurry of questions to invade my head. Why did she leave without me? Why had she chosen to divorce both my father and me? What had we done to make her stop loving us? And what had she done to make my father cut her out of our lives like she never existed?

I continued to sit, stunned into paralysis, not knowing what to think and having no one to call for comfort or further edification. Just hours ago I was parentless and pathetic. Now I was still pathetic but the daughter of a famous mother. What seemed like hours drifted by before I picked my emotionally weary body up from the floor and dropped it back onto the bed. I rummaged through the printouts until I found a head shot of Glo. Carrying it over to the vanity, I taped it to the left side of the mirror and studied her face next to my own.

Even though the image was grainy, I could see my mother was a stunning woman. Not in a glamorous movie star kind of way, but in the way that confidence and personal style could pick you up from the average heap, and deposit you among the femme fatales. There was a twist to her lips and a defiance in her eyes that was translated into her work. It was a look that told the world that Glo Girard had arrived to divide the observer from his comfort zone and conquer any preconceived biases.

Already I could see that my mother and I were vastly different. While she'd spent the last twenty years taking on the world with her camera, I'd spent them hiding in a cla.s.sroom. My life had been one long preparation to do something, but I hadn't been brave enough to actually try anything. During my brief stint as a working girl I had realized that being in the real world didn't exactly live up to all the hype. After Daddy died I had gone back to school because I never felt better or safer than when I was in an environment of higher learning. But now I had to wonder. If I had grown up under the adventurous influence of Glodelle Girard, would I, too, be courageous enough to define and capture my dream?

I peered into the trifold mirror, into the betrayed eyes of the woman in the looking gla.s.s, trying to find something in my face to connect me with this larger-than-life woman. Aside from the color of my skin and the seductive slope of our cushiony lips, there was little resemblance. Glo's face was an exercise in aesthetic exposition-interesting bits and pieces mixed together to create a work of art. Mine, on the other hand, was an example of the universal principle: you've-got-to-give-some-to-get-some. The get: A smooth, supple light-brown complexion that actually looked better without makeup; perfectly arched eyebrows, and long thick eyelashes to fringe my wide, almond-shaped eyes. The give: Not a cheekbone in sight, a forehead big enough to advertise on, and a two-layer chin. My face, like my body, was a series of soft, round lumps and curves, nary a taut straight line to be found. Nothing like my mom's, but just like my dad's.

I pulled my father's photo from its frame and taped it to the right side of the mirror, then squeezed my own face in between, creating the family portrait I'd always dreamed about. My eyes traveled back and forth between the two, trying to register who was to blame for the drastically unfair way I had been treated. At that moment I had mixed emotions about her-a c.o.c.ktail of admiration and anger. But the disappointment and rage toward my father was so intense I physically ached.

"How could you have done this to me?" The words slid from my clenched teeth as I cleared the vanity with one angry sweep. Watching my toiletries crash to the floor, I wondered how the one person I had trusted most in this world could have deprived me of knowing my own mother.

I had to talk to someone. Esme was with Derek, and I wasn't quite ready to share all of this with her anyway. Her flair for the dramatic would only complicate my already complicated emotions. That left Clinton. Hope and habit caused me to pick up the phone and dial his home number. It was nearly four A.M., but I wanted to hear his voice. I needed comfort and advice from the man I loved. It rang thirteen times before I hung up. I dialed his cell phone number. Another dozen jingles and still no h.e.l.lo. The echo of unanswered rings mingled with the sound of my sobs, plunging me farther into despair. I wished that I'd never met Clinton . . . never turned on the television . . . never seen that photograph . . . never learned that my mother was alive and my father was a liar.

A small voice whispering in my ear woke me. Call her, it suggested. I turned over to look at the alarm clock. Seven-thirty. I'd managed to escape this familial nightmare for less than three hours. Lifting my head from the pillow, I was greeted by a throbbing head, the apparent hangover of a long night of intense emotion.

Call her, the voice implored again. The phone rang, hurting my head but silencing the commentator inside.

"Sorry to call so early. I'm on my way to an all-day conference," Esme said, staying true to her habit of just diving into a conversation without even a h.e.l.lo, "but I couldn't leave without finding out what you're going to do."

"About who? Clinton?"

"We'll deal with that a.s.shole later. I was talking about Glo Girard."

I considered pleading pain and hanging up, but decided I could use a sounding board. First, though, I needed relief. "Hold on a minute. I'll be right back." I crawled out of bed and into the bathroom in search of an Advil and some time to consolidate my scattered thoughts before Esme imposed hers on me. When I returned, I shared with her all the information I'd found last night. Esme listened with concern, stopping only to interject a few excited gasps here and there. "Anyway, I plan to apply directly to the Office of Vital Statistics for a death certificate, but it looks like she and Etta are one and the same."

"So, Glo Girard is your mother," Esme whooped, the I-told-you-so unspoken but strongly implied. "You know, it's a little after noon in London. A perfect time to make that call."

"For what reason? Esme, the woman wanted nothing to do with me my entire life. Why start now?"

"When people are dying they always want to get stuff off their chests. You know, clear their conscience before they do the heavenly meet-and-greet."

"My father certainly didn't," I angrily interjected. "Look, it's pretty obvious that I was the property settlement in their divorce. He got me and she got the chance to live her dream. Out of sight, out of mind. Everybody's happy."

"Maybe, maybe not. There could be a million different reasons why your mom never contacted you. Maybe she thought you were dead . . ."

"Maybe she just didn't want me and my father was trying to protect me," I interrupted, the sudden thought mellowing my fury.

"Maybe. But the only person who knows the truth can't tell you unless you contact her."

"I don't know," I replied, picking up the amber rosary from the nightstand and sliding the beads between my fingers.

"Well, then think about this. That article said that Glo named both her children after angels. Sera, you have family out there. If for no other reason, let her hook you up before it's too late."

We talked a few minutes more, but after Esme's comment about siblings nothing really penetrated my brain. My mind was consumed with the notion that with Clinton's apparent defection, I was teetering on the edge of total abandonment. It took another twenty minutes for the Advil to kick in, but once I could hold my head upright I booted up my computer and found the Web site for the hospital mentioned on television. Along with the phone number, I learned that the Royal Marsden Hospital had a worldwide reputation for cancer care and research. Another mystery revealed.

Even though she was a stranger, the thought of Glodelle dying of cancer in a foreign hospital depressed me. Was she in pain? Was she alone or surrounded by family and friends? Was my brother or sister with her? Was she thinking of me as she slowly slipped away? That thought caused my tears to flow, both from anger and concern. Defiantly I picked up the phone, deciding that if I wasn't on her mind, I would be.

I swear I could hear my heart beating as I dialed the number. When the operator answered I asked to be connected with Glo's room. In a clipped British accent she informed me that Ms. Girard was in a private room accessible only to family. I bit my lip and took a deep breath before giving my name and demanding that I be connected to my mother's room. I'm not sure where that audacity came from, but it worked, because within seconds she was transferring my call.

I considered hanging up at least a thousand times in the short span it took for my call to be connected. But my mind was too consumed with anxious queries to command my hands to act. Who would pick up the phone and would they believe my claim of relativity when I barely believed it myself?

"h.e.l.lo." A female voice with no discernible accent answered.

"Uh . . . this is . . . um . . . Seraphim Taylor," I began, wondering if I could be related to the voice on the phone. "I'd like to speak to . . ."

"Who did you say you are?" My ears registered a mix of caution and disbelief.

"Seraphim Taylor. I live in America and I have reason to believe . . ."

"Oh my G.o.d. Phimie is it really you? How did you know? Where are you?" The woman's questions flew like bullets from an AK-47.

Phimie. The sound of that particular diminutive made me sit up straight. My father hated that nickname. He preferred the use of my full name, barely tolerated the use of Sera by my friends and teachers, and had always refused to allow anyone to call me was Phimie. Was it because my mother had used this name? My skin pimpled by the realization that the person on the phone knew of my existence. "Who is this?"

"This is Mame Anderson. I'm your mother's lawyer, and if you're Seraphim Nicole Taylor, daughter of Michael Taylor, born April 27, 1970, then you're her daughter."

"Then it's true. I am her daughter. How do you know me?"

"I've been helping Glo put her affairs in order."

"Then she's mentioned me?" My words were barely audible, even to me.

"Yes. We've actually been trying to contact you, but the last known address we have for you is Atlanta, Georgia."

"I live in New Jersey now." As I explained to Mame how and when I'd learned of Glo's existence, my mind raced ahead. My mother wanted to see me. She had tried to contact me. This realization, while doing little to erase my feelings of betrayal, seemed to take the hard edge off her lifelong denial. "Why did she wait so long to find me?"

"Glo alluded to the fact that she was estranged from both you and your brother, but I really don't have any further details."

I had a brother. d.a.m.n. Forget pouring rain. I was standing in the midst of a monsoon. Still, the confirmation of this fact delighted me. Suddenly alone didn't feel quite so lonely. "Is he there with you?"

"No, unfortunately we've been unable to locate him as well. Perhaps we'll get lucky and he'll see the news before it's too . . ."

"How bad is she?" I interrupted, hoping for a miraculous denial of the truth.

"It won't be long now. I'm afraid your mother has lymphatic cancer. She hasn't been conscious in days but the doctors are doing everything to keep her comfortable."

"I'd like to see her." My mouth released the words without contacting my mind for permission. But once airborne, retrieval was impossible.

"I'm sure she'd like that. But come immediately. There isn't much time."

I hung up the phone, my head a whirling blend of varying sentiments-curiosity and confusion reigned. What was I going to do? In less than twenty-four hours I'd located my mother, but unfortunately on the lost side of found. What was the point of flying thousands of miles to say good-bye to an unconscious woman whom I wouldn't recognize if she sat down next to me? Why, when she wasn't capable of answering the questions that I most wanted to know, like why had she and my father conspired against me and why had it been so easy to give up her only daughter?

The answers to those questions would die with her and there was nothing I could do about it. And just as potent was my regret over the lost opportunity to know if the adage "like mother like daughter" applied to Glodelle and me. Certainly, Glo Girard exceeded all of my childhood fantasies of what my mother had been like. She was dynamic, talented, fascinating, and famous-all the things I wished I could be. But perhaps if I went to her, held her hand, and looked into her face, some Glo would rub off. Maybe in London I'd find the piece of my mother that was me.

Those maybes convinced me to phone my travel agent and book a flight to London that evening. I hung up and immediately called Clinton to fill him in and let him know of my plans, but of course, he was unavailable. All the better, I decided. I'd simply leave town and let him wonder about me and my intentions for a change. I left a message for Esme on her cell phone, knowing she'd applaud my decision and zealously pump me for every detail when I returned.