HAPPY LIKE ME by Peggy Duffy

Sophie was a tall, thin woman of thirty-six whose short blonde hair had started to gray prematurely a few years earlier. It had once been long and golden, flowing down her back and landing in thick waves between her shoulder blades. She could still remember the feel of the wind through her hair, the way it fingered and caressed each strand. One morning she found herself in front of the bathroom mirror and was struck by the faded look and loss of color. She grabbed the scissors and began to cut, conscious of nothing but each snap of the blades. Afterwards, as she swept the hair off the cold tile floor and pulled it from the clogged sink drain, she felt a strange, yet familiar sensation. She knew what she'd done but couldn't quite remember doing it, as if she'd severed more than her hair from herself.

Her hair seemed to take on a mind of its own after that, sticking out in short one-inch clumps on the top of her head and in all directions at the sides. She felt the eyes on her back-in the stores, at the park. She blamed the wild and unnatural grays, more obvious now it seemed, and tried to calm them down with a bottle of number eleven light ash blonde. It was the smiling freckled girl pictured on the box that had drawn her to that shade.

She couldn't bear the smell of the dye and opened the window wide, shivering from the cold coming in while she applied the concoction to her hair. She studied her reflection for forty-five minutes to see if the color would change a little at a time or all at once and was disappointed not to notice anything at all. It wasn't until she'd rinsed her hair and watched it dry that she saw the color emerge, a lovely shade, pleasing and pale.

Sophie stood in her bathroom that evening, smiling into the mirror at the woman who smiled back at her. She reached for the tube lying on the bathroom counter, squeezed the thick gel onto the palms of her hands, and rubbed her damp head until the hair lay flat against her scalp. It gave her a hard look, her thin angular face and the slicked-down hair.

She left the apartment and walked toward the community college with a vague sense of purpose, careful not to step on the sidewalk cracks. She wasn't sure what had possessed her to sign up for a beginning Spanish class, but later she would view it as fate -- hands guiding her from above -- pushing her in the right direction.

Sitting in the classroom a short while later, she watched the other students drift in and felt more and more uncertain as to why she was there.

They were so young, the boys in baseball caps and loose sloppy clothes, the girls in a variety of dress and hairdos. She was so much older now than when she'd taken the photography course years ago. Some of the students laughed and talked together while they waited for the instructor; others were quiet. Not one of them so much as glanced her way although they all had to walk past her seat adjacent to the classroom door.

A small dark-haired man came in and shut the door behind him. "Is everyone here for Introduction to Spanish?" he asked, his voice deep and accented. His eyes swept the room. Sophie followed his gaze. A shiver of realization ran up her spine. Those seated around her could be right out of high school. She could easily be any one of their mothers.

"Good," he continued, "My name is Señor Rodriguez and I will be teaching this class." He turned to the blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk. As he did, the door swung open and Sophie found herself looking at a real-life version of the model on the box of number eleven light ash blonde.

The girl stood framed in the doorway. Her face flushed in embarrassment, momentarily camouflaging the faint sprinkle of freckles on her nose and cheeks. Sophie watched her slide into the empty desk beside her, conscious of the familiar flutter inside. An inkling of recognition and knowing. She was so busy sorting out all that was going on in her head, she became aware of the class again when Señor Rodriguez instructed them to pair up and told them what to do. Sophie turned to the girl sitting next to her before anybody else could. "Como se llama?" she asked her. That was how she learned her name. "Me llamo Melissa," she answered.

Each class, the scheme of things was revealed to her little by little as each succeeding chapter in the book filled in the empty spaces. They spent two weeks on chapter one and three on chapter two. Sophie listened carefully to the responses Melissa gave to the questions the instructor asked her in Spanish. He asked everyone, of course, but it was only Melissa's answers Sophie cared about. She learned that Melissa was eighteen years old, that her favorite color was yellow, and that she liked to play tennis and soccer. When Señor Rodriguez called on her, Sophie said in Spanish that she liked to play tennis too, although she'd never picked up a racket in her life. When Melissa said she didn't like to wear dresses, Sophie wrote in her notebook, careful so Melissa wouldn't see, "reminder: never wear dress to class."

It was in the middle of chapter three when she felt the final piece fall into place. The class had divided up into groups of three to practice the new dialogue. Sophie found the pimply-faced boy sitting between her and Melissa an annoyance. He couldn't take his eyes off Melissa and obviously had a crush on her. She could do better than him. Sophie wanted to tell this to Melissa, but they weren't allowed to speak English in the classroom, only to ask the instructor to translate a word into Spanish, and she didn't want anyone to know what she had to say to Melissa.

"How many people are there in your family?" pimple-face asked Melissa in Spanish.

"Cuatro," Melissa answered, holding up four fingers. She counted them off and in her soft, breathy voice recited the words in Spanish. Mother, father, brother, me. She tilted her head to the side, her long blonde hair capturing and reflecting the florescent light.

Sophie wanted to be the one talking with Melissa, but before she could get a word in, he was already asking her to describe her family. They were all moreno, dark. "Solo tu eres rubia?" he asked, sputtering out "only you are light?"

Melissa raised her hand and when the instructor came over, shyly asked, "Como se dice adopted en espanol?" and Sophie felt Melissa's question drop with a thud into her heart.

At the same time, something else surged forth and let loose within her, a flooding of memories. It wasn't just the fair hair or the girl on the box made real, it was hair that was so like her own. It was Melissa's gray eyes, identical to his eyes. Almost twenty years and she still couldn't forget his eyes. Those eyes that had told her how much he wanted her. She remembered the dampness of the summer night air, the feel of the coarse grass beneath her back, the mosquitoes biting at her arms and legs as she gave herself to him for the very first time. And all those other times. Afterward, she'd rest her head on his chest and whisper she loved him and wait in the ensuing silence for him to say he loved her too. She couldn't see his eyes in the dark.

Just a summer romance, that's how he'd broken it off. Just a summer romance. He hung up on her one night after her fourth call. Refused to come to the phone after that. She drank four, maybe five, of her father's beers and drove over to his house, threatening and screaming when his parents said he wasn't home. For months she seemed to exist in a fog, her body a separate entity from her mind. Even her memories of the birth felt hazy and dull, but she could still recall the pain and misery and fear, and someone handing her a pen, insisting she sign the papers. Minutes later she heard, "It's a girl," and an isolated cry and hushed adult mumblings. Someone saying, "No, she's not to see the baby."

They'd taken her baby away but they could never take away that she, and only she, would ever be her mother. She'd spent years searching for her, years perfecting the quiet mask of reserve she wore to conceal the pain underneath. And finally, here she was, right in this very room, Sweet Melissa, like in the song, all grown up. Sophie felt the love she'd clung to all these years spill over. She felt an overwhelming urge to run to Melissa, gather her up in her arms and hug her, but the hands reached down and restrained her, cautioning her to wait until the time was right.

Sophie knew that time had come the evening she arrived early for class and found Melissa sitting alone on a bench outside the building, studying. The sun was sinking over the tops of the trees, taking the light and much of the warmth of the day along with it.

"I think we're early. Want to get a soda before class?" Sophie asked. They'd only spoken Spanish to each other before, three nights a week for the past ten weeks. It was the first thing she'd ever asked her in English. She made a mental note of it, jotting it down in her mind the way mother's do in those baby books.

Melissa looked up from her book. "Sure, why not? I was trying to catch up -- I'm a little behind -- but it's getting kinda cool out here." She was still a child. Sophie could hear the trust and innocence in her whispery singsong voice.

They walked across the small campus together and waited at the corner for the light to change. It was a busy intersection where a popular shortcut connected to the main road. The traffic on the main road moved quickly as the drivers, on their way home from work, raced to catch the light. Three cars ran the red before Sophie and Melissa could cross.

There were no other customers inside the sandwich shop, but the guy behind the counter was so engrossed in his magazine, it was a few minutes before he asked for their order. "Large coke," Sophie said and turned to Melissa.

"Same," she said.

"Let me treat you," Sophie said. "I've never bought you anything."

Melissa gave her a strange look, shrugged her shoulders. "Yeah, okay."

Sophie carried the two sodas to the booth in the back and put them on the table. "How's this?"

"Fine," she answered. She tossed her books onto the seat and sat down.

Sitting across from Melissa, Sophie suddenly felt awkward in her presence. There was so much she wanted to ask, so much she still needed to know before she could tell her.

Melissa pulled a straw from its wrapper and stuck it into her glass. "So, are you taking any other classes besides Spanish?" she asked.

"No, this is the only one. I took a photography course once, a while back."

"Here?"

"In a school in New York."

Melissa stirred her drink with the straw. Bubbles rose to the surface and ice cubes clinked against the side of the glass. "Is that where you're from?"

"I've lived in a lot of places, but I guess you could say I'm from New York."

"Hey, no kidding, me too," Melissa said. She bent her head over the soda, slurping slightly as she drank. "This was a great idea. I didn't realize how thirsty I was."

"Where in New York are you from?" Sophie asked. The words seemed caught in her throat and let themselves out slowly, carefully.

"I'm not sure. We only lived there a few months. We moved here to Virginia when I was a baby." She put her lips back on the straw and let them linger there.

"Think, didn't your mother ever mention . . . well, she's not your real mother, is she?"

"What makes you say that?"

"In class, you said you were adopted."

"Oh, that's right, I did. I forgot."

"So, she's not your real mother, is she?" Sophie repeated.

Melissa snapped her head up, something quick flashing across her gray eyes.

It wasn't what Sophie had said, but the urgent manner in which she'd said it. "I think we'd better go."

Sophie felt the room close in around her. She'd moved too fast and scared her off. The air in her lungs pressed against the inside of her chest. She saw Melissa reach for her soda and stand up. Forcing herself to take a few even breaths, she looked down and, in a voice she was sure would inspire compassion, said, "Please, don't go. I'm so sorry. It's just . . ." and she allowed her voice to break.

Sophie glanced up for an imperceivable second as Melissa sat back down. Still not looking at her and speaking so softly that Melissa needed to come closer to hear, so they appeared huddled across the table in the intimate conversation of friends, Sophie added, "I haven't told too many people. But you would understand. I gave a baby up for adoption once."

Melissa did not disappoint her. Her sympathy was absolute and sincere. "Gee, I guess that would be hard."

"Yes, it was. I was very young and not given any choice."

Melissa seemed to relax again. "Well, my parents -- the ones who adopted me -- are really great. Your baby was probably placed in a good home too."

"I had a girl, like you."

"Really?"

"Yes, and she's not a baby anymore." Sophie held her straw between her fingers, swirling the dark liquid around and creating a whirlpool in her drink while she talked. The outside of the glass was sweating. "She would be your age now."

"See, just think about me then. She's probably happy like me."

"She was born in New York City."

Melissa was silent a minute. "I think that's where I might have been born. I don't remember where we lived, but I'm pretty sure -- yeah I remember now -- that is where I was born." She took a long sip of her soda. "We'd better get to class."

"Why?"

"It's getting late."

"Is it time?" Sophie asked, distracted.

"Just about." Melissa said. She finished up the last of her coke.

"Would you let me take your picture some day?"

"What?"

"Your picture. It's a hobby of mine. I told you I took a photography course once."

Melissa hesitated. "Oh, sure. Why not?" She picked up her books from the seat. "I hope we get out early tonight."

"How come?"

"It's my birthday."

Sophie felt it ripple through her, a tremendous certainty along with the firm touch of the hands, guiding her toward what she already knew to be true. This beautiful freckled blonde-haired girl sitting across from her was the daughter she'd been searching for. "What's the date?" she asked, although she had never forgotten.

"April fourteenth."

"And, how old are you?" although she would have remembered.

"Nineteen."

Aching for all that she'd missed, Sophie yearned to reach across the table and touch Melissa's face, stroke her cheeks and feel their baby softness against her palm. She wished she'd been allowed to hold her in the hospital. She smiled and tried to sound spontaneous and casual. "I have a great idea. Let me take you to dinner for your birthday."

"When?"

"Now."

"We have class."

"Let's skip class."

"Oh, I couldn't. I'm already behind."

"After class then."

"Oh, that's really nice of you, but my mom's planned a dinner for tonight."

Sophie gritted her teeth, her smile stretched tight. "She's not your mother."

"She's the only mother I've ever had," Melissa said as kindly as she could.

"Didn't you ever want to know your real mother?"

"I can't know her-"

"-yes you can." Sophie sensed she was losing her. Melissa looked impatient, books in hand, eyes searching out the clock on the wall. She had to hurry or it would be too late. "I'm your real mother, Melissa. I'm the one who gave birth to you nineteen years ago. They took you from me. Understand, I never wanted to give you up. I love you. Ever since that day in class when you said you were adopted, I knew. I have been waiting for the right moment to tell you." Sophie looked into Melissa's eyes. The girl stared back at her blankly. "I cannot lose you again. I have looked everywhere for you."

It must have been the desperation in Sophie's voice that kept Melissa sitting in that booth, a naive desire to try to make her understand. "You can't be my mother."

"A mother knows her own child."

"My natural mother died in childbirth."

Sophie felt a blow to her chest, the air knocked from her. "Who told you that?" she forced out.

"My parents."

"That is such a lie," she spat, growing increasingly agitated with each word. "How could they tell you I was dead? Can't you see I'm sitting right here?" She began to rummage through the large purse on her lap, her hands darting around as frantically as her eyes. "I have your picture, you'll see. The photographer in the hospital. He didn't know. He brought me your picture." She flung the contents onto the table top, one by one, school books, crumpled scraps of paper, loose dollar bills. Keys and coins clattered and bounced up and down between them. From the bottom of the purse, she dug out a worn and wrinkled photo of a newborn.

Melissa started to pick it up to take a closer look. Sophie reached into her purse and pulled out another old photo. And another. And another. She slapped them onto the table, a succession of toddlers and schoolgirls and adolescents, all blonde-haired and freckled, each at a different stage of development, each with a different face. Sophie gave Melissa a wide dark look. The pupils of her eyes had grown large, eclipsing all color. "Oh honey, I forgot to buy you a birthday present."

The gray in Melissa's eyes was streaked with fear now. "You bought me a coke," she said, her voice trembling.

Sophie laughed. "That's not a real present." She held her open purse at the edge of the table and swept everything back inside. "Come on, we'll go find you something special." She stepped out of the booth and waited.

Melissa stood up, her books clutched tightly to her chest. "I don't feel very well," she said. Her voice was weak and shaky.

"You do look a little pale, my poor darling. It must be the excitement. Let's get you some air." She reached for Melissa's arm.

Melissa jerked her arm away. "Don't touch me." She seemed to have recovered her strength. She made it to the front of the shop and out the door before Sophie caught up with her on the corner. She was waiting for the light to change.

"Where are you going?" Sophie demanded.

"Get away from me. I'm going home." Melissa looked straight at her, her gray eyes meeting Sophie's dark ones. "I'm going home to see my mother." Her voice had lost its wispy gentleness, replaced by an uncommon cruelty.

They all reacted this way, turning on her, crying for their own mothers. Ever since that first one, the cute little blonde learning to walk in the park. She'd toddled over and grasped Sophie's knees between her chubby arms in a bearish hug and cried "Mama" with such joy that Sophie had been compelled to reach down and pick her up. She'd held her close, her heart opening and filling with love for this child she knew to be her own. The child was happy in her arms, babbling and smiling. Then Sophie heard, "Emily, come to Mama," and she looked up to see an overweight woman badly in need of a haircut standing there, arms stretched out for the child. Sophie clutched her harder, but the little girl held her stubby arms out to this strange woman. Sophie turned and walked away, squeezing Emily even tighter, but the woman kept coming after them, reaching and screaming, "My baby. Give me back my baby," and the child, she had started to cry too, a loud miserable wail that filled her ears, and then she was shrieking, "Mama. Mama." Sophie whispered to her, "Mama's here. Your Mama's here," but the child seemed not to hear, crying and throwing her body around trying to spot the woman who followed them calling, "Emily. Emily."

"Mama's here," Sophie said and reached for Melissa.

The light turned green and Melissa stepped off the curb.

It was so quick there wasn't time to scream. There was only the sound of screeching rubber and a dull heavy thud. Followed by more sounds. The slamming of car doors. Gathering voices. Someone running out of a car and calling, "I'm a nurse" and the driver of the van, a thick bulky man, saying over and over, "I didn't see her. She came out of nowhere," until his voice broke and he started to cry.

Traffic had come to a stop and continued to back up in all directions. Sophie looked around for Melissa. She couldn't find her. All she could see was an anxious circle of people in the middle of the street. She felt confused. She wasn't sure now if it had been April or May when she'd had the baby. Maybe it had even been June.

She bent down and picked up the Spanish textbook lying at her feet. It felt thick and heavy in her hands. She slipped the book into her purse and looked down at those hands. A moment ago they'd felt detached from her body, guided by something from above. She curled her fingers, digging the nails deep into her palms, relieved to discover feeling in them again.

© Peggy Duffy

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