Beginning the Search

December 1978
24 West Twelfth Street
Odyssey House
New York, NY

It was dark and late, and I was awake. I stared at the light from thestreetlamp coming through the window and glimmering across thewooden, polished floor of the therapeutic community where I lived. Anhour passed and then another hour. I rose and walked through the largebuilding in the dark to my drafting desk, where I worked during the daydelivering packages, creating graphics, and running the old Gestetnerprinting press. I turned on a single overhead light and placed a sheet ofwhite paper in front of me.

If only, I thought, my memory would focus. The blank piece of paperbecame a fuzzy projection screen, like the kind in my earth science classin my high school, from which I had graduated eighteen months earlier.

I remembered getting adopted when I was five. My first time ridinga subway left me dizzy and elated as I had spun myself around on thesilver poles in the middle of the car. We entered a majestic building inBoston, and I cut my knee when I had fallen on an escalator. The judgehad seemed otherworldly as he sat atop a dais, encased in a woodenstand so only his black-robed chest and shoulders showed. He called meall the way up to his dais and asked me to spell my middle name forhim. In the car, on the way back to New Hampshire, I asked Marie, mynew adoptive mother, what being adopted meant. "It means I am yourmother," she said.

And then, confused, I asked, "Does everyone have more than onemommy?" She hadn't answered me, but Al, my new father, said noneof us—me, my sister, or my twin brother—should say the word adoptionever again.

I remembered Sue talked about our rocking chairs from when wewere little kids, but I didn't remember the chairs. My adoptive parentssaid they didn't know anything about rocking chairs. Once, I found Suewandering in the basement, and I asked what she was doing. Hopeless,she had answered, "Looking for our rocking chairs."

I remembered Sue also owned a book she liked a lot. Here mymemory wobbled, and I closed my eyes in an effort to see: a horse onthe cover. I tried to see what Sue was doing with the book, and thememory, sharp and sudden, came. Reading the book, she and I had saton the bed. Al had appeared, wanting to know where we got the book.Sue handed it to him, and he glanced at the inside cover, clenched hisjaw, and took the book away.

I snapped open my eyes—the inside cover. I closed my eyes again,straining to make the image of the inside cover appear, but could seenothing except letters that would not completely form. I could notremember most of my life up to age five; I had thought that was normaluntil some Odyssey House kids told me they remembered events fromwhen they were two. I lit a cigarette. Those letters might be important,and my twin brother, Bill, might know what they were. I could sleepnow and returned upstairs to my bedroom.

The next morning, I went to Sixth Street Odyssey House and foundmy twin, Bill. "Bill, I have to talk to you." I shepherded him inside anempty conference room, shut the door, and locked it. "Listen," I said."Last night, I remembered that book, the one Sue had when we gottaken away from the Powers. It had a picture of a horse on the front,remember?"

"Yeah, it was Mr. Ed, the Talking Horse."

"Remember Dad got mad and took the book away from her?"

Bill looked at me like I'd lost my mind.

"Dad took it away for a reason, right? He looked at the inside cover,saw something in there, and it made him mad." I paused. "I think itwas a name."

"So what was so special about a name?"

"Bill, what was the name? Do you remember the name?"

"Yeah, course I do. Orstom, or something like that."

"That's it, Bill, that's it."

"What's it?"

"That's our name!"

"No, that's our foster mother's name."

"No, Bill, listen. Mom wrote that sentimental letter to ConfidentialChat (similar to Dear Abby), right? And our foster mother figuredout she was writing about us and wrote to Confidential Chat and hadConfidential Chat contact Mom. Our foster parents' last name was Power,not Orstom or whatever it is."

"My God," he said.

"That's what I'm telling you, Bill. You remembered our real lastname."

"My God," he repeated.

I left him and tramped back to Twelfth Street Odyssey House, whereI lived. Who had written the name inside the book? Could it be mymother's actual handwriting? Did the book still exist?

The next day, I wrote a letter to my adoptive mother and pleadedwith her to break into my adoptive father's filing cabinet and get theadoption records. I told her that although I knew my adoptive fatherwouldn't want her to help me, I had to have this information. As Ilicked the envelope, I prayed she would understand why I needed theinformation; I prayed she would help me.

Meanwhile, Bill persuaded a Massachusetts phone operator to lookthrough every listing in Massachusetts and got the address and telephonenumber of the Powers, our foster parents. I was too afraid to call thePowers after all these years, so I wrote another letter, this time to myfoster mother.

I waited. December slid into January. I incessantly bugged Jack, theguy who manned the front reception desk of Odyssey House. "Is themail here yet? Any mail for me today?"

"Relax!" he growled. "I'll tell ya, ya got any mail!" One day hehanded me a slim manila envelope. "Hope that's what you want,"he said.

I didn't answer him. The package was from my adoptive mother. Iripped it open with shaking hands.

The first page was a letter from Ms. Frost, a social worker Iremembered who had worn Coke-bottle glasses. The letter congratulatedAl and Marie and confirmed the court date for the adoption. I scannedit impatiently and put it down. The second page was a letter from theDepartment of Welfare, stating that Al and Marie's home had beenaccepted "for the placement of an adopted child or children." The thirdpage, a form, stated that according to the Division of Child Guardianship,I had, indeed, been born. Ms. Frost signed it on July 29, 1965, eight daysbefore my fifth birthday.

The fourth page, another letter from Ms. Frost dated July 9, 1965, wasrather chatty, discussing our vaccinations, the status of our education(none), and pictures taken of us with Santa Claus when we lived with ourfoster parents. She said we were of "Portuguese and English ancestry."

I slowly turned over the last page and stared. It was the first time Ihad seen my fake birth certificate. It named me Barbara Malfide, bornAugust 6, 1960. It called Marie my birth mother and Al my birth father.It claimed I was Portuguese and English. Aside from my date of birth,it stated one true fact: I am a twin.

Dated July 22, 1966, nearly six years after I was born, the oathon the bottom read: "I, Tony Bachieri, depose and say that I hold theoffice of Town Clerk of the Town of Wareham, County Plymouth andCommonwealth of Massachusetts; that the records of Births, Marriagesand Deaths required by law to be kept in said Town are in my custody,and the above is a true extract from the records of Births in said Town,as certified by me."

Where were my parents' names? Where were my footprints andthumbprints? Where were my weight, height, and time of birth? Wherewas my name? According to this birth certificate, I came from Marie'swomb nearly six years before I actually met her. Where was my realbirth certificate?

I threw the papers down and exploded out the door. I ran downTwelfth Street, turned onto Sixth Avenue, and ran up Fourteenth Street,past the hookers and hustlers, the watch sellers and office workers. Ijumped over fire hydrants and pushed people aside, leaving behinda trail of shocked and angry pedestrians. I ran through Union Park,up Fifteenth Street, and veered toward Eighteenth Street. I ran until Ithought my lungs would burst; I ran until I felt like vomiting. I stoppedand collapsed on a bench next to a dealer, bracing myself with my handsgripping my thighs, gasping for air.

Even the drug dealer had a family history, ancestors. It seemedeveryone had curios from Europe, sepia photographs of ancestors,fathers, and/or mothers they looked like, and stories of when they werebabies. Daughters had taken after great aunts on the mother's side of thefamily, or sons acted like grandfathers on the father's side of the family.Someone's chin looked exactly like the chin of a long-dead ancestor ina stained and battered photo. Even Christianity and Judaism told us allwe came from Adam and Eve.

I wanted to know who I came from and why my mother gave me,Bill, and Sue away. As a child, I had daydreamed my mother and fatherhad crashed their car or died in a falling airplane. I had dreamed mymother took us to gardens, museums, and symphonies and fantasizedmy father beat Al because Al had hurt me so badly. I had thought ofthem every single day. What tore apart our family? Why had Al lockedin his steel file cabinet these worthless, lying papers? Why did theCommonwealth of Massachusetts lie?

It made no sense to me. I had no idea what the commonwealthhad buried, but I knew I'd find out. Let the state lie. Let Al, Marie—leteverybody—lie. I would find what I was looking for if I had to rip thecountry apart, brick by brick. I looked at the dealer.

He said, "Tough day, huh, kid?"

I smiled a little. "Yeah." I got up and walked home.

After looking at the papers again, an idea gripped me. The papers saidI was born in Wareham, Massachusetts. Since I was born in 1960 but notadopted until 1966, the hospital records might still be on file. Maybe thecommonwealth, in its zeal to "protect me" from my past, had locked thewindows and doors, but left the cellar open. What if no one had destroyedthe hospital records of my birth? I called directory assistance and found asingle hospital in Wareham, Tobey Hospital. I decided to go there as soonas possible and see if the hospital had kept the birth records for a BarbaraOrstom.

February 21, 1979
Odyssey House
30 Winnacunnet Road
Hampton, New Hampshire

Today, the snow crunched under the tires of my friend Tom's car,and the sun glancing off the snow blinded me as we made our way toTobey Hospital. Tom's status as a war veteran qualified him beyond anydegree he had earned: he knew war, chaos, and suffering, circumstancesfamiliar in my life. We had spent long hours talking, or rather, I hadtalked about the fire within me to find my birth parents, to find a family,and he had listened.

Tom had a craggily handsome face. His jaw was square, hair curly,eyes bluish gray, with a deeper shadow within them. He always smelledclean—not soapy clean, but healthy clean, like a man who spent everyspare moment outdoors swimming in pristine lakes or climbing snowymountains. Despite what he must have seen in combat, he was cheerful,optimistic, and kind. He could not tolerate the violence "bad" kids likeme told him about; his eyes would fill with compassion and rage.

That's why I loved him. He had done his time in his war zone. As Ithought about him, our long drive to Wareham passed slowly. Anxiousthoughts gripped me, so many events could go awry. I could have thewrong name. The clerk could deny me my records. The records mightnot exist. Toward Wareham, I blustered, hiding my fear. "If they don'tgimme the records, I'm gonna take 'em anyway. I'll go right over thecounter and punch the clerk in the head. I'll go through all those filecabinets 'til I find 'em."

Tom said nothing.

I lapsed back into silence.

"Tom, I won't break any laws," I said after a lengthy pause.

"I know."

"They just wouldn't have the records and then not give them to me,would they?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

When we pulled into Wareham, I said, "Wait. Let's go to the beach."

He pulled into the parking lot abutting the tiny town beach. I gotout and walked by the water. I had stood on this same beach three daysbefore I ran away to Odyssey House because I wanted to see the townin which I was born. Now I wanted the ocean to calm me and stop myhands from shaking when I walked into the hospital and asked for myrecords.

I climbed into the car. "Okay, let's do it."

Although Tobey Hospital was built on top of a hill, it was stillunimposing; it reminded me of my grammar school. Few cars wereparked on the gray pavement with the faded lines. No one, I hoped, wasgoing to be rigid or rule-conscious here.

I got out of the car and walked through the clean glass doors. Theinformation clerk directed me to the records department around thecorner. Good, I thought, an easy exit. Tom walked behind me, and weentered the records department. Looking bored, a young man stoodbehind the counter. I told him I wanted my birth records.

"Spell your last name, please."

"O-r-s-t-o-m."

"Just a moment." He disappeared.

The slowest ten minutes of my life drifted by, marked by the hugeSeth Thomas clock on the yellow wall. My sister Sue worked at a Seth Thomasfactory, I thought idly, and the young man returned.

I felt certain he had not found the records. Worse, he had themand would not give them to me. But he had papers in his hand, andhe walked past me and sat at a desk in the room. I followed him andreached for the records, willing my left hand not to shake. He pulledthe papers away from me.

"I need you to sign this release and consent form," he said.

I'll sign anything, I thought. Just give me the records. I signed quickly andpushed the paper at him. He glanced at the signature. "I need yourmaiden name," he said.

I did not know my name. I tried to see the papers in his hand andread my name upside down, but I could only see enough to know myversion of my name had two missing letters, so I signed Barbara Orstomand placed the pen exactly over my signature. I again reached out. Heagain held the papers back.

"That'll be $1.40 for the copying fees," he said.

I fumbled in my pocket for the money and heard Tom's steady,reassuring voice behind me.

"Here it is." Tom stretched over my shoulder and handed the manthe money.

I reached for my records a third time, and the man handed themto me.

I mumbled, "Thank you," and forced my legs to walk, not run.I waited for the arresting hand to clamp onto my shoulder, spin mearound, and take the records away from me. It never came. Tom and Ipushed through those clean, glass doors. I had my identity in my hands.

I ran through the parking lot and leaped in the air, joy burstingthrough every cell in my body. It was the happiest moment of my life.

Tom grinned laconically and sauntered over to the car.

"Come on, Tom, let's get the hell out of here!"

When we sat in the car with the doors locked, I looked at the threepages printed from microfiche.

The first fact I saw was the spelling of my name—O-h-r-s-t-r-o-m,not Orstom. My full name is Barbara Leigh Ohrstrom. I weighed fivepounds and eleven ounces" at birth and measured eighteen inches long.I was born at 1:04 p.m. on August 6, 1960. (No wonder I hated gettingup in the morning!)

My mother's name is Joan A. Ohrstrom; her given name was Morris,and she was thirty-three years old that day in 1960. She was employedas a housewife. My father's name is William F. Ohrstrom, and he wasthirty years old in 1960. They were married. That was a surprise; I hadbeen given the impression adoptees' mothers, poor teenagers, nevermarried. My father worked as a bartender. They lived on WilliamsAvenue, Wareham, Massachusetts. The next page listed medical stuff Ididn't understand about shots and eyedrops of silver nitrate. A Dr. Nyehad delivered Bill and me. The next page repeated a lot of informationand added some more details. My father had been born in Worcester,Massachusetts, and my mother in Boston, and he had been employed atthe Surrey Room in Wareham, Massachusetts.

I looked out the car window. Tom had parked at the little beachagain to let me read everything. "Tom, let's go over to this WilliamsAvenue and check out the house."

We found it easily enough, and Tom stopped across the street. Igot out of the car and figured the owner was away because no cars satin the driveway. I peered in the windows and felt like a thief stealingglimpses into someone else's life to try to find a piece of my own. Sunlit the house, and the hardwood floors gleamed with polish. I imaginedI crawled across those floors sixteen years earlier.

We returned to Hampton. When we got to Hampton, I didn't talkmuch about what I'd found; it felt too precious. I wanted to first treasureit alone. On the train back to New York the next day, I wrote my namein a sketch pad—big letters, small, red ink, blue, green, horizontal,vertical. I felt the ecstasy lovers feel, the impulse to laugh and smile tomyself. Instead of shouting my new lover's name to the world, I wantedto shout my own.

The train pulled into Penn Station. I felt tired, yet my mind wouldn'tstop churning. My far-fetched notion had worked. Now all I had to dowas find my parents. Maybe I should move back to New Hampshire;places I might need to go would be closer.

I couldn't wait to tell Bill all that had happened at the hospital, so Istopped at Sixth Street Odyssey House to tell him. (At that time, OdysseyHouse, a therapeutic treatment program for adults and adolescents,had facilities in four states, including four in New York City.) Bill wasflabbergasted, then elated. He hadn't believed I could pull it off, but nowhe didn't think finding our parents would be hard. He told me he wouldstart calling directory assistance and bugging them again.