by Shannon Quist When you ask someone about their Ghost Kingdom, what you’re really asking is: What is the fiction you’ve created to cope with your loss? Who are the characters you wish were in your life? What are the scenarios you would choose for yourself if you had that power? Betty Jean Lifton defined the Ghost Kingdom as a psychic reality, an alternate scenario, a daydream and a fantasy built up in the wake of the indescribable loss that occurs in adoption. Adoptees fantasize about their biological families, mothers about their relinquished children, adoptive parents about the children out of their reach. The concept of a Ghost Kingdom was created to give helpful metaphorical language, that of haunting and regret and loss, to the adoption constellation so we could describe the jarring interference of “what could have been” in our lifelong experiences. We usually conceptualize the Ghost Kingdom as the fantasies that occur in separation as we confront the impossible, the unknowing, but as I learned when I met my mother for the first time, sometimes our fantasies are too hard to let go of, especially when reality isn’t what we want it to be. The following is a short excerpt (with a few necessary omissions) from a book I don’t intend on publishing. I wrote it for my daughter so that she might have something of our biological history to dig into if she is ever curious about it. It’s about the first day I met my mother and a reflection on both of our Ghost Kingdoms as they sat in the courtyard alongside us while we established what would turn out to be a four month long relationship before she passed. A Wednesday in the Middle of Nowhere, Texas, Summer 2023
She was sitting in her wheelchair just inside a room of the nursing home in the middle of nowhere, Texas, the first time I saw her. She was much smaller than I’d expected her to be, her chin on her chest. A nurse was next to her, talking. As she turned her wheelchair around to face me, I took a deep breath and felt my vocal cords move without me, “Hey Carole. It’s me, Shannon.” She looked me up and down, only barely raising her head, but her eyes were a bright blue fire full of twinkle. I stood still, unsure of how to proceed. The nurse intervened. “Who’s this, Carole?” “My daughter.” A voice I’d only ever heard once before on a voicemail. I heard the nurse gush about how wonderful it was that she had a daughter and that I’d come to visit, but for Carole and I, time stood still as we adjusted to being together in the same physical space for the first time since I was born. Was I what she expected? I swallowed my own expectations, feeling the hopes sink into my belly like lead. Somehow, we made it to the courtyard, encouraged to spend some time together. We sat in the quiet as she sucked on her vape. Others were outside smoking cigarettes around us. I’d left mine in the car. Our conversation was unsteady, full of silences and eyes and small questions. “What’s your favorite kind of music?” I asked tentatively. “Rock and roll!” I had to listen carefully as her voice was low and full of unpredictable gurgles. “This vape is bad,” she complained. “Oh? What’s your favorite kind of vape?” “Mint. I want a new vape.” “Okay, well, I can bring one tomorrow.” Silence. On one hand, I understood her frustration perfectly. A cigarette smoker myself, I know the anger and grief that eventually rises when I have no nicotine to tamp it down with. On the other hand, I could see small puffs of vapor coming from her mouth so I knew that it wasn’t completely broken. “Where do you live?” She asked. “Me? Oh. I live in the Dallas Fort Worth area.” “Let’s go. I wanna live with you.” “Oh, you do?” I said doggedly. I knew this would happen. I’d been warned by her sister that Carole would ask me for many things including this. She told me to redirect the conversation; saying no would mean a temper tantrum. “Yeah. I gotta get outta here.” “Well,” I said, pausing uncertainly. “I think it’s nice that you have nurses here to help you out. Don’t you think you should stay?” “No,” Carole said. Her voice had changed. It was sharper. Then she sighed. “You don’t want me to live with you?” My heart broke in my chest. I had tried to leave my expectations at the door, but I’d forgotten that she might have expectations of her own. “I do,” I said. “But I don’t have enough money or space. I’m not rich.” She nodded and settled her head back down against her chest, trying to get more out of her vape. “I want a new vape,” she said again. Then she began wheeling herself inside. I followed, unsure if it was polite to push her or help in any way. “Where are we going?” I asked. “Take me to the nursing station,” she commanded. That answered that. I pushed her through the dining room and down the hall to the desk that sat at the corner of the hallways. We walked in silence and I studied the whites and grays and browns in her hair. When we arrived, nobody was behind the desk so I began looking around with uncertainty. I bent down to Carole and asked, “What are we doing here?” “You gotta get me OUTTA HERE!” Her voice was insistent and angry. “I can’t do that,” I said, a little taken aback. But then I had an idea. “Do you want me to go get you a new vape?” The anger left her body, but the energy remained. “YEAH!” Her eyes were bright. I laughed and said, “Okay, okay, I’ll go get you a vape, and I’ll be right back, okay?” She nodded. By then, a nurse had shown up at the nursing station, so I pulled her aside and asked her where I could go to get a vape. She walked me to the door to let me out and gave me directions to Al’s Grocery. I thanked her and left. In a daze, I lit up a cigarette in the car and checked the time. I’d only been here an hour. I followed the verbal directions down the street to Al’s and asked the man behind the counter for a mint vape. I didn’t argue with the one he handed me and paid for it. I was very uncomfortable with the interactions between Carole and myself so far. For a sixty-year-old woman, she could have passed for ninety were it not for the bits of young skin I could see peeking out. Her posture was atrocious, her frame was tiny, and I couldn’t get a good read on how lucid she really was. But then again, how lucid was I? The whole hour had passed by like a hazy dream of unreality. I thought about her Ghost Kingdom shining so clearly in her ocean eyes when she’d asked to come live with me, the fantasy interrupting the reality of being together for the first time in thirty-two years. I could see it playing out in her head plain as day. Her daughter would finally come. Her beautiful daughter would take her home, away from this place. She would take care of her. But then I had to come visit her in reality and watch that fantasy crumble in front of me. “You don’t want me to come live with you?” The echo of her sadness resonated in my mind. If only. Our signals were crossing at weird angles. I was there to make sure I visited her before she left this life. I was there with questions that begged answers. I was there to see for myself the woman who brought me into this world. But she wanted me to rescue her from the nursing home. She wanted me to bring her fully into my life. She wanted whatever I could provide. Except that I could provide nothing. When I returned, we sat again in the courtyard as I opened her new vape for her. I’d decided to sit on the ground this time instead of a chair so that I could look up at her and not have to bend down to see her face. It took a few tries before her vape worked, but once it did, she settled in like a newborn with a thumb in their mouth. We sat in silence again. She was the whole universe in that moment, sitting in the shade in her wheelchair, her small body slumped forward and her vape in her mouth. She was everything I wanted. And nothing at all. I began to burn with questions. Maybe now that she had the nicotine she craved, we could have a better shot at conversation. Looking up at her from my position on the concrete, I asked, “Is it weird to finally see me in person after all these years? It must be, it’s weird for me.” I wasn’t sure at all that she would hear me or respond to me. Slowly, she raised her head up from her vape and looked me straight in the eyes. Her eyes were the clearest blue, sparkling in the sunlight. She didn’t need to say a word. Her face said it all: Yes, but I’m glad you’re here now. I smiled at her. I tried out a few more questions, pointedly seeking out information about my birth, my father, her family, her history. Her answers to my questions were short. I could tell they annoyed her. She wanted to leave with me. Anything else wasn’t worth talking about. “I’m going to go ahead and go back to the hotel,” I finally said to her. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Do you want me to bring you another vape?” “Yeah,” she said. “A vape every day.” “A vape every day,” I agreed. Awkwardly, I left the nursing home, drove back to my hotel, and collapsed in bed. But as much as I wanted to sleep, my thoughts were racing at a hundred miles an hour. Asking me to go in with no expectations was completely unreasonable. But that is what I’d told my best friends that I would do. A defense mechanism put in place to stave off inevitable heartbreak. I guess you know that I did have expectations, a shiny Ghost Kingdom made of glass that shattered in the courtyard of that nursing home, but it turns out my expectations didn’t matter at all. Logic and preparation bear no meaning on what it is to meet your mother for the first time. I felt numb and overwhelmed. Nobody could live this moment but me. Nobody could understand this except for me. Nobody would experience it but me. I was alone like I’d always been. Alone with the ghosts I’d never be free of. About the Author: Shannon Quist is the author of Rose’s Locket and Mirrors Made of Ink. She’s currently pursuing her PhD in Rhetoric at Texas Woman’s University. You can follow her on Instagram @shannonrquist and read more of her writings on her website. AKA invites you to hear from members of the extended family of adoption and the surrounding community. While we take great care in curating the content, please know:
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