27. I Place My Hope on the Water

One Friday in early October 2019, I was sitting in my office near the University of Virginia when my sister Missy called. “Have you seen an email from Joe?” Well, no, I was working, or at least I was sitting at my desk talking…not checking my personal email. “Look now,” she said. “I’ll call you later.”

The message from my brother Joe had a scanned document attached. When I opened it, I found a letter, handwritten on a white sheet of lined paper. It began, “Dear Joseph and Elizabeth…I want to assure you that I am writing with the best of intentions and, before you continue, you might want to have a seat.” It was the kindest of introductions to who would turn out to be a kind-hearted and gentle man. And it had a sparkle of humor that was the surest sign that this was real.

You see, my niece Rita had just started her freshman year of college when she found out she was pregnant. It wasn’t planned or prudent. It wasn’t socially acceptable. In more ways than I can count, it was not easy. And the most difficult part of it was that she allowed this beautiful baby whom she had carried next to her heart for nine months to be adopted. She spent the last four months of her pregnancy at the Baptist Home for Unwed Mothers in New Orleans.

That year I went down to New Orleans for Thanksgiving, and we all stayed in an apartment that Joe’s law firm had in the French Quarter. At that point, Rita was about eight months along. I remember her tiny frame holding a very large belly, and her soft brown eyes holding a sadness that seemed much older than her years. It filled her whole being. When I held her in my arms to say goodbye, she wept. For any of you who knew Rita, this was not like her. She sparkled. Quick to crack a joke. Quick to laugh. Quick to share a smile. I knew her sorrow that Thanksgiving was for another goodbye that was fast approaching.

When the baby came, Rita found out the home would not honor her request to place him with a Catholic family. She specifically wanted an Irish-American, Catholic family to raise her child — a family as much like her own extended clan as she could imagine. When she found that they would not honor her request, Rita, her parents, and her siblings, Nina and Sean, brought this tinyt baby boy back to the south Louisiana city where they lived and looked for an alternative. 

Rita’s baby was placed for adoption with a couple who had a 10-year-old daughter. His adoptive mom came from a family of ten and his dad, from a family of eight. They both grew up in Buffalo, New York. But he was a career officer in the Army. So, they lived in Fort Drum, New York; San Antonio, Texas; Heidelberg, Germany, and even just outside Washington, DC, when their little boy and his older sister were growing up. I still wonder if I saw them at the zoo or on the metro while they lived nearby. Maybe I passed them going into the Air and Space Museum one afternoon. They named him Ryan.

Rita went back to college where she regained most of that sparkle. She made good friends and always made them laugh. While she was in her senior year, she worked at the Ground Pati. It was there she met Andre, the love of her life. Another kind soul. A consummate family man. He liked to run and ride his bike long distances. Just this year he, once again, rode the Hotter’n Hell 100, a 100-mile bike race that takes place each August in Wichita Falls, Texas. 

Rita and Andre got married one June day and by the next June, they had a beautiful little boy with red hair. Andre, Jr. was a chubby, ginger-haired baby who carries still a big chunk of his mama in him, including that practical joker gene. There was one time, though, when the joke was on him. Andre’s PopPop, aka Rita’s dad, came across an alligator’s head — as all south Louisiana lawyers do. He put it in a box with a hole in the bottom and wrapped the box up for Andre and Emmett to open. Rita thought her dad’s plan was brilliant and pulled out her video camera to immortalize the event. Joe stuck his hand through the secret hole in the bottom of the box. And when the boys opened it, the alligator head jumped out at them. Rita and Joe exploded in laughter. Emmett fell off his chair. Andre, Jr. stood motionless staring at the swamp monster. He glared at his mother and grandfather who had perpetrated this betrayal. Clearly, this was not funny!

The next baby was Emmett, a quiet little boy with a caring heart, always wanting to help his mama. He was a sensitive boy, but he had also inherited his mama’s funny bone. Rita’s sister Nina was sitting in the car outside the grocery store with 4-year-old Emmett waiting for her husband Scott when a beautiful girl walked by. Emmett didn’t skip a beat. “Hubba, hubba,” he said in deep voice. I’m not sure if he learned that on Sesame Street or The Simpsons, but it doesn’t really matter. Nina laughed so hard, she cried.

The youngest of Rita’s boys, Jean Luc, seemed to grow right out of her hip. When it came time for him to go to school, he went to Cathedral, where Rita was a Pre-K teacher. On the first day, she took him to his classroom and explained that she would be down the hall in her classroom. But this was his classroom, his classmates, and his teacher. He must stay there until she came to pick him up after school. So, Jean Luc stayed in his classroom — for about 45 minutes. Then he walked down the hall to see his mama. Through the small window in her classroom door, she could see just the top of his platinum blonde head, waiting (not so patiently) for her to come to him. 

All of Rita’s boys grew up in happy, loving homes. But I know that Rita thought about her first baby every day. Let’s see….he would be starting kindergarten this fall…or he must be learning to ride a bike…or drive a car. He must be in college. Who are his parents? Does he have siblings? What color did his eyes turn out to be? Is he happy? Is he safe? Is he loved? Rita’s life was far too short. She didn’t get the answers to those questions in this life, but I feel certain she somehow knows all the answers now.

And I can tell you that he is safe, as safe as a firefighter/paramedic in Houston can be. And his parents who adopted him were the best parents he could have possibly had. Rita would not have chosen anyone better for him. He has that one big sister with curly, red hair and a beautiful smile. His eyes are brown. He sure looks happy. To the question of being loved, I submit the following:

Ryan is loved by a young woman named Renee who, like Rita, teaches very small children. She sings and plays the guitar — and the ukelele, my personal favorite. They got married and had two boys (you can’t have too many boys, it seems) who are growing up way too fast. Renee is, indeed, sparkly, too. 

The first time I met Ryan was at a large dinner in a restaurant in Charlottesville. There were aunts and uncles and cousins for Ryan and his family to meet. It was a bit overwhelming, but they were game. And we were all very excited. Then we spent a few days in Wintergreen for a skiing holiday. If you question my skiing abilities, you are correct. I did go on the slopes but only to the restaurant to meet the skiers for lunch. Ryan, Renee and their boys skied and came back to our Airbnb for dinner where we sat for long hours at the dinner table sharing stories. So many stories. I wanted to hear every detail of the first 36 years of his life. And we all tried to tell him who we were, and who Rita was. There was not enough time.

Fortunately, and not surprisingly, Ryan writes very well. He always gives Renee credit as his editor, but he’s a natural storyteller. Even before I met him, he sent long letters to all of us with stories about his life as a firefighter. The stories were fun to read, some of them harrowing, some infuriating. But more than that, his personality shone through in a way that wouldn’t be possible without those tales.

During the pandemic, Ryan’s dad was diagnosed with cancer, and he passed away before I was able to meet him. He sounds like a truly wonderful dad. This story may give you a snapshot of who Jack was.

When Ryan’s mom and dad were in the final stage of his adoption, they went to meet with their social worker. Chris and Jack had passed the home study with flying colors, and Ryan was assigned to them. As they sat across the desk from the social worker, she lifted a folder from her desk and said, “As you know, Louisiana is a closed adoption state. I am going to get a cup of coffee. I’ll just leave this folder right here on my desk.” She walked out of the office. Jack grabbed the folder and reached into his jacket pocket. The only piece of paper he found was a bank deposit slip. He opened the folder and wrote down the name of Ryan’s birth mother and the town she was from.

In the next three and a half decades, Jack carried that slip of paper in his wallet. He was always ready. Several times, he and Chris offered to tell Ryan, especially during his teens when all those questions of identity arise in the midst of a lot of other physical and emotional turmoil. But Ryan knew he had great parents, and he didn’t want to hurt them by looking for his biological parents. 

Ryan had always wanted to join the Army. When he finished high school, he went to his dad. “I won’t participate in sending you to the other side of the world,” Jack said, “to die in a war, and rob you of the chance to meet your biological parents.” Ryan pushed back, “I don’t want to meet my biological parents. I’m perfectly happy being your son. Why can’t I just be your son?” “You’ll always be my son,” Jack responded, loosening his tone and posture. But he was adamant, impressing upon Ryan that one day he may change his mind about finding his biological parents. Ryan conceded and went to college without joining the military. 

That conversation happened in the late summer of 2001, just before September 11th. In an odd turn of events, Ryan found himself joining the ranks of the Houston Fire Department, which was an acceptable compromise in the eyes of both Jack and Ryan.

Renee is very supportive of Ryan and his adoption journey. About five years ago, she gave him a 23andMe DNA test. He sent off the test and got some interesting results. One day a couple of months later, he was with his mom watching his son Dominic play soccer. Ryan mentioned the DNA test to his mom, “I found out I have the elite power athlete gene,” he laughed. She didn’t even crack a smile. “Do you want me to find your biological family?” she asked. After a moment’s hesitation, Ryan said, “Yes.” With his blessing, she went home after the game and began. Ryan’s dad pulled the decades old deposit slip from his wallet, and they set to work.

The next day, Chris left him a voicemail, “Ryan, we need to talk. But I need you to come here.” Ryan was at work and afterward, he went straight home to bed. Chris left another message, saying much the same thing. “We need to talk…here.” When Ryan got to his parents’ house, they showed him the deposit slip and told him about the social worker and her folder. He saw the adoption documents that said Rita had named him Joseph Paul Reilly. She had named him. After his grandfather. They also gave him a silver baby cup that Rita had given them through the adoption agency. The inscription on the cup read, “You will always be in our hearts.”

I think of that silver cup traveling with Ryan and his family around the country and across the ocean and back again. Just waiting for the moment when Ryan was ready to hold it in his hands. And I think of that eighteen year old — a child, really — who had the maturity and foresight to buy that cup and have it inscribed, knowing that at some point she could tell him, maybe not in person, but tell him, nevertheless, how dearly he was loved.

The next thing his parents showed Ryan was the memorial page on Facebook that Nina, along with Rita’s friends, had created after she died. It had photos and memories from every aspect of her life. Photos of Rita, her family, her friends, her sons — his brothers. But all this meant that Ryan would never meet her. She had suffered a heart attack and died at the age of 50. Ryan got in his car to drive home that night, feeling the full impact of the loss of a woman he had no conscious memory of. 

To begin this journey with that kind of loss seems overwhelming, but Ryan persisted. He sent Rita’s sister Nina a message on Facebook. But Nina, who doesn’t open messages from strangers, didn’t open that message until much later. Finally, Ryan sent that snail mail letter to Joe and Lane (Joseph and Elizabeth). Not even knowing Joe was an attorney, Ryan included his birth certificate and adoption papers. When I asked Joe if he thought this was really that baby boy, he said there was no doubt. After Andre, Sr. found out about Ryan, he hosted Ryan and his wife at the home he had shared with Rita. It was there Ryan met his brothers. He had already met Nina, Joe and Lane, so he was used to eyes searching his face for something recognizable, some familial connection. It wasn’t hard to find.

After his dad’s service at Arlington National Cemetery, Ryan and his family came to Lexington to stay with us for a few days. We did some sightseeing and ate dinners with Maeve and her family. We sat on the screened porch after breakfast and talked. We sat for long hours after dinner and talked. I always feel a sense of urgency in those  conversations. Life is finite. Don’t look away; it may be gone when you turn back. The scraped knees and first haircuts can’t be retrieved. But for those of us who loved — love — Rita, this is a wild opportunity to see parts of her come to life in this new-to-us person who has embraced us as he becomes more fully himself. What a treasure. What an eye-popping, sparkling blessing.