“Okay. One more and I mean it.”
“You order for both of us. I need to make a little trip.” T.J. excused himself and weaved his way through the crowd toward the bathroom.
While waiting for T.J. to return, Dupree studied the bustling crowd, disappointed at herself that she would go against the grain of her strong feelings, sit in this meat market with T.J., and drink herself into oblivion. Fifteen years ago, yes. But that was another life; one she’d tried to forget. What was she trying to prove?
T.J. returned promptly and his beer was waiting for him. “So, partner, now that you’ve made your point and proven that I know nothing about you personally, isn’t it time I get to know the real Amaris Dupree?”
“Only if I get to know the real Theodore Jamal Brown.”
“Deal.”
“One condition,” Dupree said. “If we’re going to share life stories, no holding back or filtering. Balls to the walls or nothing.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” T.J. said.
Dupree had never shared her dark and dubious life story with anyone. Bits and pieces to select people, yes, but never the unabridged version. Maybe speaking the words to another human being would actually be good therapy.
“My saga is a not-so-uncommon story,” Dupree said. “Good kid gone bad. My dad left my mother and me when I was only three years old. Never saw him again. Mom did a great job of managing the household and teaching me strong values. We lived in a beautiful red brick home in Brooklyn. I wasn’t a bad kid, but something happened when I reached my teens. It was as if some demon possessed me on my thirteenth birthday.” Dupree paused and took a sip of her drink. “How my mother dealt with me without sending me to a boot camp for out-of-control kids is still a mystery.” She paused for a few seconds, not sure she should continue. But the numbing effect of the alcohol was making her feel uninhibited. T.J. seemed to recognize the awkwardness of the situation, but didn’t utter a sound. She noticed that he hadn’t taken his eyes off her face.
“Well,” Dupree continued. “Things heated up just before my seventeenth birthday. My mother and I were at odds every single day. So, I did the only logical thing. I got pregnant by my drug-dealing, pot-smoking, loser boyfriend, left my mother high and dry, and moved in with the father of my baby. We lived in a slummy apartment in the projects and ate food you wouldn’t feed to a hyena. But I never got into the drug scene. Somehow, I found the strength to stay clean. My boyfriend begged, pleaded for me to have an abortion. That’s when I knew he and I had no future together. No way was I going to kill my baby.
“There I was, not even seventeen years old, out in the streets with all my worldly belongings stuffed in a backpack, a three month old baby in my womb, and thirty-five dollars in my pocket. I thought about going home, feeling certain that my mother would have taken me in without a second thought. But I was too proud and too foolish to do the right thing.”
Dupree’s eyes began to gloss over.
“You don’t have to continue, Amaris. Really.”
“I’ve come this far. Besides,” she forced a smile, “think you’re getting off the hook so easily? When I’m finished, it’ll be your turn.”
“I lived in the streets for four terrifying days. How I survived without getting gang-raped or even murdered amazes me to this day. Back then, New York wasn’t like it is today. With no money left and no options, I went to a local police station. I knew if I told them about my mother, they’d put me in a patrol car and take me home. So I lied about my situation and even gave them a fake name. But I did tell them I was pregnant. They asked lots of questions and I gave them bullshit answers. But they bought it. Next thing I know, they drove me to a shelter for pregnant teenagers. Saint Catherine’s Home. The people who ran that place were remarkable people. No questions. No demands. No judgments.
“They told me they would provide care for me while I was pregnant. But once I had the baby, I could no longer live there. One of their counselors asked me what my plans were for my baby. I thought long and hard and asked them if I should keep it or give it up for adoption. This was not a decision anyone could make for me. So, right after I found out I was carrying a little girl, I decided that she could have a better life if a loving couple raised her as their own.”
Now the cascade of tears began. Dupree covered her face with both hands.
“Why don’t we go outside and get some fresh air?” T.J. suggested.
“I don’t need fresh air. I want to finish my story.”
T.J. folded his arms across his chest and eased back.
“I agreed to give up my daughter for adoption through an anonymous program. The adoptive parents would pay all my medical bills and pay for me to get into a decent apartment. Because it’s illegal in New York to accept money from adoptive parents, we actually structured their payment to me as a loan that I agreed to pay back. I never met the adoptive parents and agreed that once the adoption took place, I would forfeit all my rights to ever see my daughter again. The counselors at Saint Catherine’s tried desperately to talk me out of this decision, but my mind was made up. I was certain that my daughter would have a better life without me in it. Of course, because I was not of legal age, I needed my mother’s consent. I won’t even begin to tell you the details of that conversation, but even though it broke her heart, she signed the release.
“When my daughter was born, the nurse asked me if I’d like to hold my baby. I wanted to. Really wanted to. Just once I wanted to see her face and take a mental snapshot I could remember forever. But I thought it best not to touch her. I was afraid that once I held her in my arms, I’d never let her go. I did get a glimpse of her face and tiny hands and feet when they were cleaning her. But once they wisked her away, that was the last time I ever saw her.”
Dupree’s eyes again filled with tears.
“I don’t know what she looks like, where she lives, or if she even knows I exist. I tried to make contact with the adoptive parents through the adoption agency, but of course the records were confidential and they could not disclose any information. I placed personal ads in the New York Times periodically for the last ten years, hoping that by some miracle my daughter would see the ad and connect the dots. But—”
It took a few minutes for Dupree to regain her composure. Her cheeks were wet with tears and she guessed that she looked a sight with her mascara trailing down her face. She noticed that people passing their table looked at her, shaking their heads, probably thinking that T.J. and she were a couple and T.J. was having the “big talk.”
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” T.J. said.
“You really want to hear more?”
He nodded. “Did you ever consult an attorney to find out if you have any legal recourse?”
“Spoke to a few who specialized in adoptions, but they discouraged me even more.”
“How about a P.I.?”
“Hired two of them and spent a lot of money for nothing.”
T.J. looked as if he was searching his brain for more questions.
“Now that my daughter is an adult, my only hope is that she makes an effort to contact me. But again, she may not even know I exist.”
They sat quietly for a few minutes, neither making eye contact.
“So, tell me, Amaris, did you ever reconcile with your mother?”
Dupree focused on her empty cocktail glass, her hands curled into fists. “The next time I saw my mother, I was nineteen and she was lying in a hospital bed, dying of breast cancer in a hospice facility. You want to talk about guilt? I apologized for hurting her so badly and for giving up her only grandchild. And I made a commitment to her. I promised that I would turn my life around and would make her proud of me. She was too weak to respond, but she squeezed my hand. Ten minutes later… she passed.”