No Returns Without Original Receipt

By Diane McConnell

Renewed courage after learning the final piece of my true heritage has overcome my life-long fear of telling my story. Every adoptee has the right, and many the need, to discover her or his true history, ancestry and identity. Knowledge gives power and confidence. With our truths, we can recover and grow stronger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Harbor Press
• Release date: Aug 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201306489

Book preview

The Child

Without a mother, a person has no source of being.

—Sarah Saffian, Ithaka: A Daughter’s Memoir of Being Found

Your biological mother gave you up because she didn’t love you and she didn’t want you! I look up into the pinched face of my adoptive mother hovering over me as she spits out her words. "But we wanted you!"

Her sallow skin is greasy from nightly slatherings of Pond’s Cold Cream. The nostrils of her large nose, inherited from her Swedish father, flare and quiver. The pillowy pads of her earlobes, which hang loosely from her long fleshy ears, skitter nervously against her slender neck. I detect a faint scent of Lily of the Valley. I used to love that scent but now it just scares me and makes me feel sick in my stomach.

Her thin lips curl into a derisive sneer as she snarls, When we told Nate he was adopted, he cried because he wasn’t really ours, but you . . . you . . . she can barely spit out the words in her anger, . . . you just walked away. You didn’t even care!

My eyes and throat burn as I try to hold back the rising tears. I don’t understand why she is so angry. My nose tingles furiously. I look down at the floor and begin to cry. The dark green and purple pattern of the Oriental carpet shimmers and swirls thickly before my eyes. She speaks again, calmer now that she has drawn blood. Go to your room!

I am six years old.

Chapter One

I have no real memory of being told I was adopted. This was a mere technicality though, since my adoptive mother never let me forget the incident. It was related to me with such frequency I almost came to believe that I really did remember. But not quite. She never could accept that I could not recall such an important event. To her mind, it was just more evidence of my obstinate and spiteful nature; behavior done purposely to defy her. But, more confusing to me, the thing I just couldn’t understand, was why Nathaniel’s reaction was preferable to mine. I mean, wouldn’t you think they’d be happy it made no difference to me if I was adopted? That it didn’t matter? Isn’t that a good thing? Nathaniel cried. Wouldn’t that mean it made a big difference to him? That he was disappointed and sad? I didn’t know. I was only a little kid and how does a five-year-old tell an adult, Can we just sit down here and discuss this thing, can we, please? What do you mean by ‘adopted’? I surely did not know how to say that. I didn’t have the life experience to even think it.

As our particular family myth went, my adoptive brother, Nathaniel, or Nate, and I were sat down and told we were adopted by our parents, Caroline and Jacob Van Rite. Nate was eight years old, I was five years old. At eight years of age, I can imagine a child might have been able to grasp the concept of adoption. No doubt a horrifying new notion to a young mind, to be sure, but, at the very least, one capable of being mostly understood. Which is why he cried. What a shock that must have been to get sprung upon him, poor kid. A smack in the face right out of the blue, something you didn’t even know was possible.

For this five-year-old, however, unfathomable. I couldn’t even tell time yet. I considered it a major triumph just to keep all the food on my fork on the trip from plate to mouth without spilling and not knocking over my milk. Though I have no memory of this event, I am guessing I heard words that flew right over my head. I’m guessing my five-year-old mind couldn’t absorb what they were saying. It was so complicated; words I’d never heard before. I probably wondered why Nate was crying. I’m sure I clutched my baby doll in my arms and waltzed away to go play, as my mother repeatedly told me I did. But I really don’t know. I don’t remember.

Seeing my nonreaction, I wonder why my parents would not recognize that I had no understanding of what they had just said and try the conversation with me later, as in a year or two from then. When I was a bit older and more able to understand. After all, they waited until Nate was eight years old. Why not me, too?

I do remember many things from age five though; spurts of memories here and there. Kindergarten and the wonderful child-size playhouse right inside the classroom! Naptime on our rugs on the floor. I was never able to fall asleep because I was busy watching everyone else through slit eyelids, not wanting to miss a thing. How could kids fall asleep so quickly and with all those other people around? Not something I’ve ever been able to do to this day. The little milk cartons of white or chocolate milk. Some boys got two cartons of white milk, which I thought was gross. It tasted of waxy milk carton! I only drank chocolate milk at school.

I remember a long car trip in our sky blue 1951 Ford to look at puppies with my father and Nate. It was probably twenty whole minutes! The dog mother, a Collie, was at home in the basement with her wiggly little puppies. The dog father was a Dalmatian, but he wasn’t home at the time. In my active imagination, I pictured him sitting up on the seat of a big, red, fire engine, wearing a fireman’s hat strapped under his chin. He had an important job. I wondered how much money a dog with that job might make. A lot, I bet.

I remember all the fat, squirmy black-and-white puppies in their basement. I remember the three of us finally agreeing on one friendly little guy who had one black ear, one white ear, and pink-rimmed eyes. My father paid the lady $5.00 and we proudly took the puppy home to my mother who appeared less than thrilled. I didn’t know why she didn’t seem as excited as we were. She had told me of her childhood dog, Rover, and how much she liked him. I think she did come to love our new puppy in her own way though. Probably because he never once asked about his birth mother. I’m sure he also kept Mother good company during the day when Dad was at work and us kids were at school.

After a lot of discussion, considering and rejecting names, we finally settled on Dallas. The big, black spot on his back was in the shape of the state of Texas. He wagged his tail all the time, so his official name became Dallas Wagtail Van Rite. I added the Wagtail. Nate scowled at me, but I didn’t care. It was the perfect name for a perfect puppy.

I remember him crying in the kitchen those first few nights, all fixed up in a cardboard box lined with old blankets, in spite of a hot water bottle and a noisy ticking wind-up clock to make him think he was with his mother. He was no more fooled than I was. When I got older, I realized he was adopted, too. But I never told him. It might have made him feel sad.

I remember a great many things from age five, even fragmented memories from before that. At ages four and five, I remember going to bed on Christmas Eve in anticipation of what might come with the morning. When I awoke early the next morning and ran from my room to the living room, still in my footed, fluffy white Dr. Denton pajamas, there was a huge Christmas tree! It was covered in shiny ornaments, tinsel, and twinkling colored lights. There were mounds of beautifully wrapped presents under the tree, all with big bows on them. My parents waited until Nate and I went to sleep, then brought in the tree, decorated it and put all the presents they had kept hidden underneath. It was so magical to a little girl. They stopped doing that soon afterward. I’m sure it was exhausting.

I remember the trip to Florida when I was three and a half, staying in a white stucco cottage. I remember just the outside, nothing else about the entire vacation. Oh, except getting carsick on the way down there. My Aunt Louise rubbing my back while I stood on the floor in the back seat of the car. Oh, and maybe at some point, I may have cried to go home. Years later, I thought that is what must have happened. It always seemed I was accountable for things that I couldn’t remember.

In spite of all those little details and events that I did remember, I can’t seem to recall a single thing about being told I was adopted at age five. Which seems to me since I didn’t remember or understand, it meant nothing to me and so off I went on my merry way. I wondered why my parents couldn’t figure this out since it seemed pretty simple to me.

My first memory of scolding or punishment always involved Mother becoming very angry at any questions about my adoption or my origins. A question, I gathered, which meant a complaint. Maybe I should have just accepted the situation as Nate did, without question. That just wasn’t in my nature. It’s natural for children to ask questions. Isn’t it? I thought so. I still think so. Perhaps Nate found her reactions to my curiosity as a lesson to keep his mouth shut and stay out of trouble. People respond differently and his reaction was completely opposite to mine. For my part, I thought his lack of curiosity about this very important issue was unnatural. There was a mysterious secret about me and I was dying to know what it was! I had another mother out there? Other parents? Where did I come from? What was my ethnicity? Who did I look like? I sure didn’t look like either of my adoptive parents or resemble Nate in any way.

As long as I can remember, I have always been one of those people who can’t wait to open presents. I generally do not like secrets or surprises. I like to know what is going to happen to me. I don’t like things sprung on me. I don’t know if this is a trait with which I was born or a learned behavior as result of being kept from all the secrets of my birth, origin, and ancestry. All I know is, if there is a present for me, whether Christmas or birthday, I want to open it and I want to open it now!

I remember lying under the Christmas tree each year for what seemed like hours, carefully examining the presents with my name on them, trying to figure out what they possibly could be, how to get into the package and then carefully seal it up again without anyone the wiser. Wondering if I might get the opportunity to do this and how much time I would need for the deed. I have been asked if this doesn’t spoil the surprise when I do open them. The question itself always surprises me. No, not even a little bit! If it’s something I really want, then I can be happy in the knowledge that I will have it soon and can enjoy the anticipation of when I’ll be able to play with it or use it. If it is something I didn’t want or it’s not at all what I asked for, which I think happened quite a bit, then I would have plenty of time to prepare for the moment when I opened it in front of other people and then do a reasonably good job of portraying surprise, great joy, and appreciation. As I was expected to do, according to Caroline’s Rules of Proper Manners and Decorum. I’m sure there are deep and psychological reasons for my behavior. Or, maybe, I’m just overly nosy and impatient, but this is how I’ve always been. It’s only in the last five or so years that I can feel I can handle the surprise of waiting for the possible impending joy or disappointment. Make no mistake, I still want to know! But I can survive the waiting period now. If only to give the impression that I am a mature and patient adult. Inside though, I haven’t changed one bit.

As I grew older, I learned exactly what brought on the agonizing condemnations that were a regular part of my childhood. They were a result of my disturbing ingratitude for all that my parents had done for me, as well as my relentlessness in asking about my birth mother, my origin, my heritage, and my ethnicity. How dare I question them! They were my real parents and how dare I suggest otherwise. Whomever you came from biologically, the only thing that mattered was who raised you. Those were your real parents. To hell with genetics. This is how it was explained to me, minus any swear words, of course. Any further discussion was taboo. We were supposed to pretend that we were a Normal, Happy Family that came together by the same method as any other Normal, Happy Family. The A word was not a topic of easy conversation and my questions brought about swift and brutal emotional retribution. Especially, and mostly, from Mother.

As a young child, I didn’t fully appreciate the Incredible Gift I had been given by these two elderly (elderly to my view, as they were a generation older than my friends’ parents) people who had Unselfishly Opened Their Lovely Home to this unfortunate, pathetic, unwanted, little wretch. I was indeed unfortunate. Unfortunate they didn’t open their hearts to me as well.

Chapter Two

During those painful times when Mother trotted out her list of grievances against me, I thought of them as the couple, Mr. and Mrs. Van Rite. Caroline and Jacob. In whose home I only stayed temporarily. One day, I would be allowed to leave. When I grew up.

Meanwhile, I fantasized about my birth mother. Where did she live? Was she even alive? Was she in the Chicago area like me? Would I have seen her on the street and not known? Did I look like her? How old would she be now? Did she ever think about me? Did she remember the day I was born? Surely she wouldn’t have forgotten about me so soon. Would she? Could she? It really hadn’t been all that long.

Mrs. Van Rite often told me that my biological mother, as she always called her, gave me up because she didn’t love me and didn’t want me. "But we wanted you! she’d say smugly. You should be grateful we wanted you! She never once added, We love you. She never once said to me, I love you." Never even once. I noticed those things.

Banished to my room to think about my bad attitude, my six-year-old mind of simple logic and justice thought about the many things I was told in my short life. If what they told me was true about my biological mother, that they knew nothing about her, not her name, nor her situation, her heritage or nationality, had never spoken to her, been given no information about her . . . then exactly how could they possibly know that she didn’t want me? How could they know she didn’t love me? How could they know what was in her heart? How could they know the circumstances of why she had to give up her baby? Her baby. This baby. Me.

Maybe she was dying and didn’t want me to grow up without a mother or a family. Maybe she had already died. Maybe there was a terrible car accident and they were only able to save the baby (Me!). Maybe she died in childbirth. That would mean I caused her death! Maybe I killed my own mother! That was a terrifying thought. But it happened sometimes, I knew. Maybe she was very sick and couldn’t take care of me. Maybe she already had too many children like the woman in the shoe and just didn’t know what to do. So many possibilities. It made my head hurt. It just seemed to me that it must be incredibly hard to give away your own child that you grew and carried around for such a long time in your tummy. It seemed to me that your very own child would be so important to you that it must be something very big for you to give her away to complete strangers.

Why wouldn’t they tell me? What was so horrible I couldn’t know? As I got older, I thought about incest, rape, prostitution, mental illness. I tried to think of something that was so awful I couldn’t be told. Was she a murderer? Whose child was I that I should not be told? I felt like nobody’s child.

I tried to understand why Mrs. Van Rite seemed to take such joy in telling me that my biological mother gave me away because she didn’t love me or want me; if it was true, she knew nothing about her. None of it made sense. I was outraged by the unfairness, the contradiction, and the meanness of this. It seemed to serve no other purpose than to make me feel bad. An unwanted and unloved mistake. I was so confused and unhappy. I was only six years old. Mrs. Van Rite was forty six.

Baby Supermarket

Subtitled: Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe

Eeney, Meeny, Miney, Moe

Our baby must have all ten toes.

Ten fingers, too, don’t forget that,

Or else we’ll have to send her back.

She must be healthy, pure and white

A blue-eyed blond with skin so light.

Otherwise, we’ll hesitate,

Do you have any others in that crate?

A boy would be nice, but oh, I don’t know,

They skin their knees and pick their nose.

Yes, a girl is best; sweet, demure

And she should be petite, for sure.

She must be smart but not too much so.

If she has her own mind, she’ll have to go!

A daughter to adore her father and me,

Follow our guidance and go right to sleep.

We’ll selflessly give this child our name;

Forget about her birth mother’s shame.

She’ll have a good home, morally sound.

To us, yes, she’ll be legally bound.

Which one is our baby, ours only by chance?

What do you mean, We aren’t fit to be parents?

We have the money and we’re here at the store!

She’s leaving with us, right out that front door!

Diane McConnell

1999

Chapter Three

My parents soon discovered an extremely clever and effective form of discipline (aka torture) for my stubborn and willful ways. When their usual methods of punishment: no television or other privileges, the banning of some upcoming event or not being allowed to play outside or banishment to my room failed, I received whippings which raised flaming red-hot welts, long slashes on my thighs, back, and butt. These were administered by my father with his belt or a yardstick. One day, after an especially hard whipping with the yardstick, it snapped in two from the force of the blows. I was accused of breaking it. It was my fault. Right. My fault. When these whippings or revoking of privileges failed to bring the desired effect of sincere repentance and, ultimately, good behavior, they would resort to a weapon that never failed to terrorize me. They threatened to Send Me Back.

I can take myself back there so vividly in my mind. Mother goes to the kitchen where our only phone hangs next to the cabinet by the sink. A big, yellow wall phone. My heart is pounding so hard I think it will burst through my skinny chest. Electric waves of panic run up and down my arms. My stomach is doing queasy somersaults.

"Oh no, now I’ve done it, this is it, oh no, oh no, please no, please, God, no no no no no," I scream silently.

Mother’s lips press tightly together in smoldering fury as she lifts the receiver and begins to dial. Dad stands grimly beside her in silent support as if he always knew someday it would eventually come to this. There is nothing else that can be done with me.

I never found out exactly where or to whom Mother was calling, or pretending to call, because at that point I had found my voice and was shrieking hysterically at the top of my lungs, Please, no! Please, oh please, don’t Send Me Back! No! No! Please! Please! No!

My blood frozen in terror, I was hyperventilating. I was hysterical. I screamed, my hands clenched tightly under my chin, as if in fervent prayer. Cold sweat tingled in my armpits. I could barely think, my brain paralyzed in fear.

They let me suffer for eternal moments. Then, with a tiniest of smug smiles, Mother reluctantly put the receiver back into the cradle on the kitchen wall. She told me I was very, very lucky, that they wouldn’t call this time; but, I had better behave from now on because next time they would make that call. I promised I would. I promised with every fiber of my miserable, worthless being that I wouldn’t do anything wrong ever again. Ever. I promise!

Just, please, don’t Send Me Back, I whispered, though no one heard me.

I would make any deal with the devil himself if only I would not be sent off to the unknown. This final threat of banishment and exile terrified me every time. Each time this happened, I felt I had just barely escaped the dread and terror of being Sent Back to who knows where. I retreated to my room exhausted, weak with relief, head throbbing and stomach churning, covered in sweat.

I never knew what being Sent Back meant. Not exactly. I only knew I was absolutely sure I wanted no part of it. I had several scenarios. It seemed unlikely that the