Free Until I Say Good-Bye by Susan Spencer-Wendel Page A

UNC swimmer with a four-foot bong and twenty-gallon lungs.
    So yes, I have the heart and soul of a hippie. But the taste of a woman from Palm Beach. I love BCBG, high heels, nice jewelry, and good hygiene. I would not be caught dead in a pair of Birkenstocks or with hairy armpits.
    I handed the time traveler a cigarette and my tofu Reuben, still oozing Thousand Island dressing. “You’ll enjoy it much more than me,” I told him, heading back to my hotel.
    Now, when I get nervous, I get calm. Yes, I know. Makes no sense, but ’tis true. Before I do a live shot on national television, for instance, I consciously slow my breathing and heart rate. Breathe, Susan, breathe, I tell myself, slowing down.
    The morning of meeting my birth mother, I passed on the coffee and did just that. I showered, gathered myself, and selected a very plain outfit. Jeans. Black shirt. No jewelry.
    Hippies don’t like gold chains, I thought.
    But, boy, I do!
    I slipped my high wedge heels into my bag. Couldn’t meet my birth mama in flats, I thought, that just wouldn’t be me.
    Mom had made Ellen a small photo album, with a picture of me from every year of my childhood, from newborn to college graduate. Tee had taken the time to find special photos for a stranger she was so fearful of.
    A precious gift for Ellen, and more so for me. That photo album was the dearest and most surprising thing Mom ever did for me. It was so stunning in its thoughtfulness and care, it overwrote her mistakes of the past.
    I took a long look at that album, kissed it, breathed. I slipped it into my bag. I set out walking to Ellen’s house.
    And immediately felt lonely.
    I called Nancy, crying. “I wish you had come,” I told her.
    â€œI am at your side in spirit,” she said, crying too.
    I walked and walked, up a steep incline, out onto a highway lined with apple orchards. I realized I had misjudged the distance. It was miles farther than I thought.
    Shit. Shit! I’ll be late. She’ll worry I’m not coming.
    Then that snarky thought pinged again: She waited forty years. She can wait a little longer.
    I slowed down, getting my Zen on, staring at the orchards. The trees lined up like soldiers, protecting me. There were brown hills braided with green grapevines. White puffs overhead. It was beautiful.
    At the top of Ellen’s shady lane, I stopped and slipped out of the present. I pushed aside emotion and became an observer of my own life. As I walked down the short road, I started mentally recording, as if making notes for a newspaper article: bushes, mailbox, trees, sky. I stood at the top of Ellen’s driveway, gazing at her small house. It was deep red and kinda looked like a barn. A vast rose garden neatly edged a small patch of green grass.
    I put on my high heels, sticking my flats in my bag. As I reached to unhook the latch on the garden gate, I was surprised to see my hand shaking.
    The front door stood open, the mesh screen shut. the queen is in, said a sign at the door.
    Oh boy, I thought.
    The wind chime tinkled.
    â€œHello?” I called out.
    For a minute, nothing, and then there she was, standing on the other side of the screen door. Healthy. Smiling. Casual. Warm.
    â€œHello. I’m Susan.”
    â€œHello. I’m Ellen.”
    â€œSorry I’m late. I walked. It took me longer than I thought.”
    â€œYou walked all the way in those shoes?” she said, pointing at my heels.
    â€œNo, I have sneakers.”
    When she heard of my shoe switch, Ellen later told me, she knew I was her daughter.
    Ellen opened the screen door, and I stepped inside. She did not hug me. Nor I her. We simply stared at one another, time downshifting into slow motion.
    Her eyes. Her small blue eyes. They were mine, just bluer.
    Her calves. Her ankles. All my life, people had complimented me on my calves and ankles, and there they were on her.
    Her shirt featured three glasses—white wine, red wine,