In Search Of Her Own. Carole Page Gift

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       Chapter Four

       Wednesday, May 6

       I keep thinking about what Phillip said last night about my motives. What if I’m not being honest with myself? What if I’m just using my spiritual concerns about my son as an excuse to indulge my maternal yearnings?

       What if I find my son and all I care about is getting him back? Am I opening a Pandora’s box? Am I just inviting more heartache? Maybe Phillip’s right. Maybe I should just trust my child to God and get on with my life.

       But what life?

       How can I go on with my life when such a big part of me is missing? When I walked away from my son six years ago, I thought that was as bad as it got; everything after that would be easier, and the pain would lessen with time. Instead, the emotional wound has festered and spread, infecting even the healthy parts of my life. I don’t know how I could have survived these years without God’s strength and comfort.

      But now new concerns taunt me. What realities will I have to deal with when I find my child? What sort of life did I release him into six years ago? In my mind I’ve concocted a perfect world for my boy—loving parents, a happy home, a future any child would envy. I’ve consoled myself with the fantasy of an ideal life for my son. If I can’t have him, at least he has the best of all possible worlds with his adoptive family.

       But does he?

       Surely reality can never match my dreams.

       Will I be able to accept a less-than-perfect situation for my child? If the life he’s living now is less than what I could have provided, then what was my sacrifice for?

       Dear God, I’m so afraid of what I’ll find, of how I’ll feel. What if this all blows up in my face and my life is more messed up after I find him than it is now?

       What if I find him and I can’t let go? Will I become one of those crazy, obsessed women who won’t stop until they’ve destroyed their child’s life?

       To be honest, I don’t know what my motives are Yes, I want to be sure someone tells my boy about God I want someone to be there to answer his questions and point him to faith in Christ. I admit, I would give my life to be that person. But I know how improbable that hope is. So I will be satisfied just to know that someone will be there to help him find the answers.

       It’s still not real to me what I’m doing. Looking for my son. Starting the process in motion. My baby’ Only not a baby now. A little boy. Six already. Will I know him? What will he look like? Will I feel that connection I felt when he was in the womb and we played our silly little bumping games?

       The questions bombard my mind. Will I be able to transfer the love I feel for this fanciful child of my imagination to my real flesh-andblood son? Or will he be a stranger to me? Surely I will feel a mother’s love for him. If only he could feel a son’s love for me!

       When I let myself think about it—all the possibilities—my excitement bubbles up and spills over and colors everything I do, every waking hour. No matter how many doubts and anxieties—and yes, at times, stark terror!—I feel, still, my overriding emotion is pure joy. To think that I may actually, on this earth in this lifetime, lay eyes again on my child. Perhaps even hear the sound of his voice. I can ask for no greater gift.

       But for now I must play this waiting game, waiting for Phillip to call with news, waiting, praying How long will it take? Dear God, please don’t make me wait too long!

      * * *

      The following Tuesday Phillip telephoned Victoria and said, “I have some information. When can I see you?”

      Her pulse quickened. This was the call she’d been rehearsing in her mind for days “You found my son?”

      “I’d rather discuss it with you in person. Are you free now?”

      “Yes, of course. I’m just grading final exams.”

      “I’ll be there in a half hour.”

      Victoria found waiting for Phillip an excruciating exercise in patience. She touched up her makeup and ran a comb through her hair. She straightened her tiny living room, replacing the stack of test papers on the coffee table with a bowl of fresh fruit. She returned several partially read books to the large oak bookcase. As she busied herself with incidentals, she sensed she was running purely on nervous energy.

      When Phillip finally arrived, Victoria greeted him with clammy, trembling hands Her mouth was dry; her throat ached. “I haven’t felt so anxious since my student teaching days,” she told him as he took the velvet wing chair she offered. “I feel almost as if you’re giving me back my son.”

      “Not so fast,” said Phillip. “I told you before, a search like this is likely to have its ups and downs.”

      Victoria sat on the sofa across from Phillip. She clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. “What are you trying to say, Phillip? Is it bad news?”

      The tendons in his neck tightened, his eyes took on a shadowed, thoughtful expression.

      “Please, Phillip, tell me. I’ve got to know “

      He sat back, his muscular frame filling the lime green chair “Your son was adopted by a couple in their mid-twenties named Frank and Julia Goodwin.”