Rosenbaum - Not exactly as planned: a memoir of adoption, secrets and abiding love

Not Exactly
As Planned

Not Exactly
As Planned

A Memoir of Adoption,
Secrets and Abiding Love

Linda Rosenbaum

DEMETER PRESS, BRADFORD, ONTARIO

Copyright 2014 Demeter Press

Individual copyright to their work is retained by the authors. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Printed and Bound in Canada

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Rosenbaum, Linda, author

Not exactly as planned : a memoir of adoption, secrets and

abiding love / Linda Rosenbaum.

ISBN 978-1-927335-91-8 (pbk.)

1. Rosenbaum, Linda. 2. Adoptive parents--Canada--Biography.

3. Mothers--Canada--Biography. 4. Adopted children--Family

relationships--Canada. 5. Children of prenatal alcohol abuse--Canada.

I. Title.

HV874.82.C3.R68 2014 362.734092 C2014-906273-7

Demeter Press

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Bradford, ON L3Z 2Y5

Tel: (905) 775-9089

Email: info@demeterpress.org

Website: www.demeterpress.org

For Alberta

Der mentsh trakht un got lakht.

Man plans and God laughs.

Yiddish Proverb

Prologue: The First Secret

Detroit, 1958

T HE FIRST FAMILY SECRET unravels on the holiest day of the Jewish calendar. It is Yom Kippur , the Day of Atonement, 1958. I am ten.

My oldest sister and I return home from synagogue after the ritual prayers of repentance and forgiveness. Our mother and father stay for Yizkor , prayers of remembrance for the dead. Yom Kippur is one of the few holidays treated with reverence in our home, powerful enough to lure the whole family to shule .

Soon after we come into the house, the phone rings. My sister and I look at each other. Who would be calling on Yom Kippur ? It is such a solemn day for us. Most people we know are at synagogue or busy with family.

Answer it. Barbara says. It might be important.

The voice on the other end is matter-of-fact. Mrs. Belle Rosenbaum, please.

My mother wont be home until later.

Im calling from Eloise Mental Hospital to inform her that Mrs. Esther Koenigsberg passed away this morning.

Eloise? Even at the age of ten I know that Eloise is the place for crazy people. I have overheard enough stories to know they lock people up there, tie them to beds, and shock them with electricity.

Esther Koenigsberg? I ask. Sorry, we dont know I stop myself. The name is familiar.

Our records say she is the mother of Belle Rosenbaum.

Thats my mother.

Ask her to call when she comes in.

I hang up the phone and sit down at the kitchen table. My head is swimming.

Who was it? Barbara asks, looking alarmed.

Our grandmother just died I tell her, and then fill in the details, still piecing them together myself. But it cant be. Shes dead. But the lady says it was Moms mother. The womans name was Esther Koenigsberg. Wasnt that our grandmothers name? My voice tapers into silence. I lower my head and stare at the flecks in the green linoleum floor, then look up, hoping my big sister, ten years older, will help me.

Though she is with me that day, Barbara lives with her husband and baby in their own home. That means she is a grown-up. It will make sense to her, right?

At first, only silence. It must be her, she finally says. I have vague memories of driving out of town to a big hospital with Mom when I was little, but I dont remember visiting anyone or even getting out of the car. Im not even sure I knew why we were there. We never talked about it. I guess mom assumed I was so young I wouldnt remember anything. But the place must have been Eloise. If it was, thats where our grandmother was living all these years. She shakes her head. This is crazy.

Her response adds to my confusion. Barbara has been to Eloise? What about Sharon, my middle sister, five years older than me? Has she been there, too? Did she know our grandmother was alive? The only thing I knew about my grandmother was her name, Esther Koenigsberg. And Esther Koenigsberg was long dead, according to my mother.

After wearing out the conversation with my sister, I sit alone in our book-lined den, going over and over what the lady said. If she really was talking about my grandmother, it means my mother has kept her a secret. She has lied. My grandmother hadnt died before I was born, like she said.

How could my mother send her own mother away? How could she deprive me of me my grandmother? Worse still, how could she deny my grandmother me ? I was so mad, my chest began to ache, like an anchor had been tied to it. I practise aloud how I will punish my mother when she comes home. I am never going to forgive her.

Late in the afternoon, my parents return, looking tired and solemn after a day of fasting and prayer.

I run up to my mother, barely through the front door. You never told me about my grandmother, I shout, with rehearsed fury. How could you keep her a secret from me? As an aside, I throw in, Oh, I forgot. They called from Eloise. Your mother died this morning.

I am surprised how good it feels to say something so cruel, but the pleasure doesnt last more than a few seconds. I am too aware that it is The Day of Atonement, also of forgiveness.

My mother stands by the door, expressionless. Her two worlds, the one with her daughters and the one with her mother, have collided. Its hard to explain, she eventually says, unable to look at me. You cant understand. It was different then. There were things you didnt talk about.

She is right. I couldnt understand. It will be a long time until I learn that the thing people dont talk about is mental illness in the family.

My sister and I try to get details from my mother, but she wont reveal much, no matter how we pry.

What was wrong with her? we ask.

She had problems.

Come on, Ma, what kind of problems?

She was sick.

But why was she in Eloise?

We couldnt take care of her.

How old were you when she went in?

Young.

The more we press, the more she closes down. We ask our father for answers, but he defers, letting us know it is not his domain. Ask your mother.

My sister gives up on the inquisition before I do. With each unsatisfying answer to our questions, my fury rises. It isnt right that I can close my eyes and imagine what Eloise Mental Hospital looks like, but not my own grandmother. Were her eyes blue like mine? Was her hair grey, wrapped in a braid around her head like my fathers mother? Did her hankies smell of lilies of the valley? What did her dresses look like? Would she speak English or Yiddish when I visited? Did she ever ask about me or know I was alive?

I have no compassion for my mother. I only feel betrayed.

That night, my mother walks into my room, unsolicited. She sits down on my bed. She doesnt hug me, try to console me or tuck me in.

I used to visit my mother, she says. I drove to Eloise every week to see her. Id bring containers of cottage cheese and eggplant that I cooked the way she liked. Shed only say a few words, and mostly rocked while I was there. Id stay for a while, then drive home. She sits for a few minutes more, then stands up and leaves the room.