Black-Eyed Susan: A Love-Child Finds Her Father and Her Self

LOVES ME, LOVES ME NOT

Where have all the flowers gone?

Picked by young girls every one,

When will they ever learn?

Where Have all the Flowers Gone?—Pete Seeger and Joe Hickerson

1955

PLUMP AS THE PEACHES RIPENING in orchards near her western New York home, ten-year-old Christine, hair tied back into two golden brown pony tails, walks through a field of wild flowers. Picking a black-eyed Susan, she holds it at eye level, spinning the green stem. Golden petals catch the sun’s rays. She smiles.

A monarch butterfly alights nearby, its wings as fragile as a secret’s first whisper. The shameful secret cocooned in Christine’s heart slows her steps. The butterfly moves on. Christine’s mind wanders to the father she doesn’t know and the questions she knows not to ask. She plucks a single petal, then another and another, discarding each as she chants, He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not.

The center of the once beautiful flower is all that remains—a dark reminder, Loves you not. Shoulders hunched from the weight of her father’s rejection, Christine flings it to the ground, crushes it with her sandal and tramps on.

Do you ever think you have an evil twin?

I did. I named her Susan and added a black-eye for emphasis.

My twisted sister is the one who tethered me like a first time skier and led me down slippery slopes. She tempted me to pluck petals off perfect flowers —then listen to what they told me, polish off gallons of ice cream and kiss men who weren’t mine to kiss. She dared me into dark places I’d rather forget. And keep secrets that might have dissipated if allowed to see the light.

A wound is the place where the light enters you.—Rumi

Do you ever hear a small voice whispering to you?

I did, although I tried to block it out. As I was approaching fifty, the shameful secret that I was illegitimate remained cocooned in my heart. It might have stayed there if I hadn’t taken off my earphones and listened to the small, insistent voice that I now call Susan.

Behold, I stand at the door and knock.—Revelation 3:20

By the time I stopped trying to shut out the voice, I was exhausted from years spent building and maintaining a façade of perfection and from devising ways to keep my secret from being exposed. Flattened like a doormat from the effects of filling my emptiness, hiding my shame and looking for someone to rescue me, I found myself at a life-changing doorway.

Black-Eyed Susan reveals what emerged, like butterfly wings, when I opened the door, allowed accountability to rein me in and then—albeit with trepidation—stepped outside my uncomfortable comfort zone. Born of my desire to speak my truth with love, it is the story of how I searched and what I found on the journey I needed to take. While my tour guide took me to far places, as important as each one was, none was as important as the journey inward that opened my heart to welcome and share the love that we are all meant to express.

Although each person’s story is unique, my deepest desire is that you find something of and for yourself in my story and make of it whatever makes your life more magnificent and more loving.

And then the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

Anais Nin

INTO THE LOOKING GLASS

I was looking for love in all the wrong places

Looking for love in too many faces

Lookin’ For Love—Wanda Mallette, Bob Morrison, and Patti Ryan

1958

MY NAME IS CHRISTINE. THIRTEEN, with a single mom and no dad, I itch to scratch out a name as ill-fitting as last year’s gym shorts, tightly stretched over pounds of Oreos and gallons of ice cream. Chocolate, of course.

Like a butcher, I lop off four of the nine letters of my name. What remains is Chris, short and sassy enough to take the edge off my last name, Black. I vow to trash that black-sheep-in-the-family-sounding name too. After all, what’s in a name?

1994

Join me in the second-floor bedroom of the southern Connecticut home I share with my husband of three decades. The footprints of our grown-up sons linger in their silent rooms, indelibly worn into faded carpeting. Alone in the emptiness, I stand in front of a mirror, barefoot, as I brighten lips that have kissed a man who is not my husband.

A split image reflects back, black circles under her eyes. Wrinkling my nose at this distasteful woman, I wonder, Who is she?

Wiggling into pantyhose, I fluff frosted hair, moving wayward platinum strands into a perfect pageboy. Adding an ample spritz of L’Air du Temps, I check my watch. If I leave in five minutes and miss the red lights, I’ll make my three o’clock appointment.

Follow me downstairs and into the kitchen. I retrieve my Day-Timer and tick items off today’s list. I took Mom shopping. A chicken casserole is ready to go into the oven. I proofed flyers for the volunteer fundraiser, called two customers and mailed five invoices. All that and heaven too; quite a day, and it’s a half hour to mid-afternoon.

Thunder rumbles as I fumble for keys, scrambled in the bottom of my Coach bag. I toss a Burberry trench coat over my shoulders, lock the back door and gingerly navigate the slippery patio toward the driveway.

Mercifully, no messages are on my car phone and I 95 traffic is moving.

Raindrops splatter the windshield. Where are those directions? Eyes off the road, I scan the dashboard. My right hand reaches toward papers littering the floor.

Why didn’t I drive by her office? Maybe lost directions mean I’m not supposed to go.

I could call and cancel.

No, something I can’t explain has been telling me, You must go.

Besides, how bad can it be to spend an hour with a counselor?

It’s four o’clock. Rejoin me in another second-floor room. Closing the door of the counselor’s office, I enter a hallway. Through a steamed window, I see water rushing from overflowing gutters, puddling the parking lot below. Opting to save my suede pumps, I wait.

A mirror beckons. Hesitant, I recheck the weather. No change.

Irresistibly drawn, I meet the looking glass.

One blackened eye, incomplete as a semi-colon standing alone, stares me to attention. The deliberate cadence of the counselor’s words, You are half a puzzle, rings in my ears. Half of the woman I saw ninety minutes ago reflects back at me. The other half has evaporated into black nothingness in the time it takes to bake a batch of brownies.

I inch closer. Etched on the remaining half are the lines of half a puzzle.

Where, the mind inside this half-version of me wonders, is the other half? And how am I to find her?

Pulling back from the mirror, I stand tall, like a soldier who’s been given marching orders. I know what to do. I don my trench coat. To heck with the pumps; I’m off to find those missing puzzle pieces.

CHAPTER 1

A BEAUTIFUL CREATION

I say love, it is a flower,

And you are its only seed.

The Rose—Amanda McBroom

MY SEARCH FOR MISSING PUZZLE pieces begins where my life began, in an island paradise. Our tour guide is a wise presence who, I’ve learned, knows more than I do about what happened between the Army officer and the kindergarten teacher whose union resulted in my life. I’ll turn the narration over to her, the one I call Susan.

December 1944—Honolulu

My name is Susan. It is inky black and windless the night we first visit the beautiful creation that is to become Christine. Mother and unborn child—smaller than a pinkie finger—are in the cramped, steamy second-floor apartment of a peeling gray and white bungalow overlooking the Ala Wai Canal, minutes from Waikiki Beach.

Tilly’s rounded belly strains under a tightly-tied seersucker robe. She sits at a wobbly kitchen table, slim shoulders trembling, hands folded on a neatly ironed linen cloth. Curly brown hair is pulled back from her face, held in place by a baby blue satin ribbon.

There is a younger woman in the dimly lit kitchen, catching her breath, as if she’s just arrived. Marigold yellow flowers dance across her silk blouse. Removing a gardenia from behind one ear, she sits next to Tilly, encircling her with a slim, tanned arm.

Tilly offers a teary, Thank you, Edna Lee. Pointing toward a door she adds, Janet’s asleep. It’s the asthma again.

Heads together, they speak softly. Handing Tilly the gardenia, Edna Lee’s hushed voice asks, Why are you crying?

Looking down as she inhales the flower’s fragrance, Tilly whispers, I’m going to have a baby.

Edna Lee is quiet for the longest time. And then she laughs.

Tilly pulls away.

Edna Lee sits motionless as the clock ticks closer to midnight. She shakes her long black curls, then reaches over and draws Tilly close. Whispers of, sorry, shock, and, not like you, punctuate the stillness.

A half-empty bottle with House inked over a Dewar’s label is on the counter. Next to it is a two-burner hot plate. Edna Lee peeks inside the scratched and dented enamel tea kettle that sits atop it. She flicks a switch and returns to Tilly. The two continue to whisper, their closeness highlighting the strands of gray in Tilly’s hair.

Before the kettle whistles, Edna Lee switches off the hot plate. She finds two cups, places a tea bag in each, pours water and carries them to the table. Wordless, the women sip.

Tilly breaks the silence. Head high, she declares, He’s a major and an attorney. He’ll know what to do.

Edna Lee shrugs. Firmly, she insists, You need a back-up plan.

Tilly hesitates, turns toward Edna Lee and speaks with conviction, I love and trust him.

Ramrod straight, Edna Lee inhales, her eyes riveted on Tilly. Even though masked by a Carolina drawl, her every word rings clear; We are in a war, Tilly. He is in a battle zone somewhere in the South Pacific. He may not live through whatever is going to happen.

Bowing her head, Tilly remains silent.

Edna Lee pauses, takes a deep breath and forges on, Even if he does live, no matter how much you love him or think he loves you, you must face the truth that he has a wife and two sons waiting for him to come home.

Hearing those last words, Tilly gasps. Hands on her belly, she rocks, sobbing.

Inches away, that wee babe becomes agitated, flailing around inside her distraught mother. Like a flower whose petals are plucked to the chant of, He loves me, he loves me not, the perfection of Christine begins to disappear into the darkness of the moonless Hawaiian night.

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

My Shadow—Robert Louis Stevenson

CHAPTER 2

LEFT BEHIND

Rest your head close to my heart, baby of mine…

You’re so precious to me, baby of mine…

Baby Mine—Frank Churchill and Ned Washington

January 1945—Honolulu

TILLY’S ROUNDED BELLY IS BECOMING hard to conceal. She stands in the shade of a monkey pod tree and waves to a smartly dressed Japanese woman who is entering the school playground. An almond-eyed girl, the last kindergartener to be picked up, leaves the sandbox and skips toward her mother.

Aloha, Aiko, Tilly smiles and adds, Tomorrow we finger paint, your favorite. Be sure to bring your smock.

Aloha, Miss Anderson, the child replies. Thank you for staying with me until mother came.

Tilly rakes the sand, gathers stray toys and carries them up the stairs of Castle Hall, the island-style building that houses the University of Hawaii’s training school for kindergarten and pre-school teachers. Edna Lee is standing on the covered veranda.

Those dirndl skirts aren’t working anymore, Edna Lee notes. You must tell Janet you’re pregnant.

I know, Tilly sighs, hiking her belt and fluffing air into the gathers below her no longer slim waist.

You know pregnant women aren’t allowed to teach. It will be worse if a parent suspects and goes to Janet before you tell her.

Tilly nods, noting, I feel like such a disappointment after Janet hired me to help start this school. Without her, I’d have gone back home after graduate school. Right now I could be trekking through western New York snow. This job was the chance of a lifetime and I’ve ruined it.

Edna Lee assures Tilly, Janet loves and cares about you. She’s not just your boss. You are her dearest friend.

Tilly smiles weakly and asks, What will I do without a job?

Edna Lee answers confidently, You are a top-notch teacher. With your credentials, you’ll land another job after you have the baby. Let’s focus on what you have to do now.

You’re right, Tilly agrees. I have to tell Janet.

We’ll tell her together, Edna Lee continues. Let’s do it tonight.

≈

Three weeks later a trunk arrives and Tilly begins to pack.

When she learned of Tilly’s pregnancy, Janet quickly asked an island family for help getting Tilly shipped back to the states. She assured Tilly, We won’t tell anyone why you’re leaving.

Tilly’s family has always been her safe harbor, but unwed motherhood is not something she relishes bringing home. Long before she knew what Thou shalt not commit adultery meant, the words were etched in her moral fiber, stern warnings from her Swedish immigrant father. She’s certain a baby born out of wedlock will not be welcome in his home.

Determined to have her baby, Tilly turned to her brother David, a dozen years her senior. She is heading to his home in Carmel, California.

A decade ago, ill health forced David to leave his medical practice in Pennsylvania. Leaving behind his wife, David set off on a cross-country camping trip with another woman.

David and Edith, now his second wife, settled in Carmel where they built a home that graced the cover of Better Homes and Gardens in 1942. They have a guest house where Tilly hopes to stay until the birth of her baby, and beyond.

January 1945—Honolulu to San Francisco

The Aloha Tower that welcomed Tilly a year earlier is obscured by low clouds and drizzle as she walks hesitantly up the gangway. One hand is on the railing, the other holds a flawless baby blue Amelia Earhart suitcase. Monogrammed in gold with the initials E.A.B., it is a parting gift from Janet and Edna Lee. They are among the friends who wave from the dock, calling, Aloha, Tilly. Come back soon.

≈

The ship rolls in turbulent winter seas. When she isn’t kneeling over the toilet, Tilly huddles in her narrow bunk. At mealtimes, there is a knock. Tilly walks haltingly toward the door and opens it. A uniformed man enters, carrying a tray. The aroma of overcooked broccoli follows as he walks to a small table. Before he puts down the tray, he picks up another. The food on it has barely been touched, awash in congealed gravy.

Tilly always says, Thank you. After he leaves, she nibbles on a piece of dry toast, pushing the rest aside. Soon she’s back over the toilet. When she switches off the light and slips under the covers, Tilly and the growing life inside her bob like castaways toward an uncertain future.

February 1945—Carmel

The gloom of death is in every corner of the tidy white house on Ocean View Avenue. Less than two weeks after Tilly’s arrival, her beloved brother David suffered a massive heart attack and died.

His widow Edith is a woman who knows how to take charge. From her collection of antiques, she chooses a brown earthenware pitcher and fills it with forsythia from the garden David loved to tend. Placing it on a dry sink, she checks her reflection in the hallway mirror. With tortoise shell combs, she tucks loose strands of her thick dark hair into place and repaints her lips crimson.

The doorbell rings. Edith answers, beckoning a raincoat-clad neighbor to come in. In response to the woman’s query, Edith notes I’m better, but the paperwork is endless, as you must know, with Joe away so much.

And he’s not well either, the other woman adds. If only the war would end, so he could come home.

Edith calls for Tilly who arrives bundled in a heavy coat that barely meets around her growing middle.

Although her face is pinched and gaunt, Tilly smiles and says, Hello, Winifred. Thank you for stopping by so we can walk the beach together.

As the door opens, raw damp air rushes in and the two women disappear into the fog, toward the ocean.

Edith watches them from the bay window. Satisfied they’ll not return, she picks up the black telephone and waits before saying a string of numbers. It’s another call to her sister in Pennsylvania.

Tilly is still here, she sighs. She hasn’t started to pack.

There is talk about family and how Tilly ought to go home to New York and her own family.

Is it really unsafe for Tilly to travel by train so far into her pregnancy? Edith inquires. In an exasperated tone, she adds, Tilly keeps reminding me to honor Dave’s wishes. When he decided she could come here, I warned him I want no part in her charade.

My friends keep asking about the baby’s father. Imagine, she sniffs, how hard it is to explain all this.

April 1945—Carmel

Tilly exits the second-floor office of the doctor who will deliver her baby, steps onto an elevator and says, First floor, please. Noticing the operator dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief, she asks, Are you all right?

It’s the President, ma’am, he replies. Our leader is gone.

Clutching her belly, Tilly gasps, Oh, no. What will this mean for our soldiers?

As he opens the door for Tilly, the operator says, May your baby’s father return home safely.

She gives him a wan smile, says, Thank you, and hesitates a moment before walking into the drizzle where Edith waits to drive her home.

May 1945—Carmel

In her well-worn mottled brown and black leather address book, Tilly records important dates in her life. There is no entry for Christine’s birth on May 2, 1945. After Tilly labors for well over a day, the doctor uses forceps to pull Christine, wailing, into the world. It is the day the armed forces newspaper Stars and Stripes announces, HITLER DEAD.

June 1945—San Francisco to Buffalo

Baby Christine is five-weeks-old, wrapped in a hand-crocheted blue blanket and tucked into a wicker basket. Edith is with Tilly and Christine, in a cramped sleeping compartment on a train bound for Buffalo, New York.

Tilly and Edith barely speak. When they do, icicles drip from their words. After Tilly nurses Christine, she puts her back into the basket. The motion of the train rocks her to sleep.

≈

Friends from Tilly’s teaching days in Hamburg, New York, are at the Buffalo train station ready to drive Tilly, Edith and Christine on the last leg of their journey. Head held high, Tilly calls herself Mrs. Black and proudly introduces her baby as Christine Black.

≈

Tucked at the bottom of a yellowed page of that same address book that omitted Christine’s birth is, Came home June 14, 1945. On that day, mother and child arrive in Jamestown, New York, to the home Tilly left twenty years earlier when she went off to college. It is the first Flag Day after the European Armistice.

June 1945 to November 1946—Jamestown

Tilly’s next older sister Miriam has arranged a truce between her prodigal sibling and their fundamentalist father, for whom the Bible is the only code of conduct. Both parents are elderly and infirm. David’s death has been a crushing blow, especially for his mother. Tilly is welcomed back into the fold as their caregiver.

Once again, the home where Tilly sought refuge has become a place of death and loss. The mother she adores dies when Christine is six-months-old. Her father lives for another year, dying the day Christine turns one-and-a-half.

December 1946—Jamestown

Advent announces its arrival with an overnight dump of fresh snow. Tilly shovels the sidewalk with Christine, now one-and-a-half, toddling behind. Both are bundled up, Tilly in her brown coat with white lamb’s-wool lining, Christine in a powder blue snowsuit. Hoods up, tightly wrapped scarves covering most of their faces, they wear mittens and heavy boots.

An older girl from up the street shows Christine how to make snow angels. Christine laughs and keeps asking, More. More.

Tilly whisks off snow, promising, I’ll make your favorite lunch, peanut butter and jelly.

After Christine’s nap, Tilly pulls a pink wool dress over her curls. Aunt Lizzy knit this dress for you, she announces brightly. She made it so you’ll look special for the pictures I’m having taken this afternoon. We’re going to walk downtown to a studio so a man with a big camera can photograph you. Christine’s eyes widen as Tilly warns, You will have to sit very still and do just what he asks you to do.

Her forehead wrinkling, Christine asks, Why picture, mama?

So I can send it to special people and show them what a big girl you are.

Big girl, Christine replies, now smiling.

Yes, you are, Christine. And remember that big girls keep their dresses clean and do what they are told.

Tilly again bundles herself and Christine into their outdoor clothes. An icy wind fills the entry hall as Tilly opens the door. She puts Christine onto a sled and tucks her in with that same hand-crocheted blue blanket. Tightening her scarf, she starts pulling the sled down the hill toward town.

January 1947—Jamestown

Tilly wraps the last of the Christmas ornaments, neatly packs them into boxes and sweeps away the pine needles. Her sisters Miriam, Elizabeth and Helen have returned to their homes, after making plans to sell the family home on Swede Hill. Her caregiver responsibilities over, Tilly’s next assignment is to figure out how to support herself and Christine.

A flannel robe tightly tied around her now slim waist, Tilly sits at her parents’ kitchen table, sipping black coffee with two sugars. In her neat teacher’s block letters, she puts the finishing touches on a letter she’s been writing for several days, repeatedly crumpling and discarding what she’s written, refilling her fountain pen with blue ink and starting again. Finally satisfied, she holds the letter close to her heart before tucking it into an envelope, addressed only, Ken.

Christine’s photo, taken that snowy afternoon a month earlier, sits next to a large manila envelope. Although it is black and white, Christine’s curls glimmer baby blonde. Left pointer finger in her mouth, her eyes sparkle under long curling lashes. Surely she is a little girl who will melt her father’s heart.

Tilly tucks the photograph, along with her letter, inside the manila envelope. A friend’s husband, also an Army officer, is being reassigned to California. They will be moving there with their own baby daughter. Tilly has asked him to hand deliver the letter to Christine’s father.

≈

While waiting for a response to her letter, Tilly busies herself with other possibilities. Her friend Janet will