Of Lisa and Lisa

It hit home in a more serious way for Lisa when I pulled out a photo of myself at her age. "Ohmygod," she gasped, staring at the girl who could have been her twin, the then Lisa Fynman wearing bell bottom jeans and orange halter top, her straight, long brown hair styled the way Lisa Taylor now styled hers. She sat on the edge of my sofa, bouncing her eyes between the photo and me. "Geeze, Mrs. Gammerman, this almost makes me want to call you mom."

That did it. I could no longer hold it together. They looked at me curiously, not yet knowing, of course, the reason for my pain, the sobbing. "Sorry," I said, wiping my reddened eyes, "but I'm thinking about what your birth mom—and perhaps birth dad—must be feeling. Lisa, do you ever wonder who gave birth to you?"

Brian slid closer and threw a comforting arm around me. "And to think you two have the same first name. It adds to the weird coincidence of all this."

Lisa then slid closer, bookending me. Damn, we even wore the same scent. "Sometimes, I do wonder," she said. "I was told that my birth parents were young teens that couldn't care for me. Perhaps one day I'll do some research. I've heard that adoption records aren't sealed the way they were years ago. Luckily, good people raised my brother and me. We didn't lack for anything, love especially."

She appeared happy and well adjusted and that made me feel better. I was beginning to feel guilt pangs over my fling with Brian. Now fully mobile, I no longer needed his services, at least those he had provided outside the bedroom. Only hours after they left, Brian called to discuss a possible encore. "As much as I'd like one," I said, "I don't think it's right. Lisa's a nice girl. Stay loyal. I don't want to see her hurt." Although disappointed, he concurred. "I'll see you again when Daniel returns for winter break," I concluded.

I doubted if I'd ever see Lisa again, not unless Brian brought her over. Imagine my surprise, then, about a week prior to Thanksgiving when I answered the knock on my door and there she stood, dressed in jeans and a heavy blue sweater, alone. The tears in her eyes clued me in about the reason for her visit. We were crying and hugging each other only seconds after I let her in. "You knew, didn't you?" she said, sobbing against my chest. "I mean, without really knowing, you knew."

Nodding, I hugged her tighter. "Yes, a mom always knows."

I fixed us some tea and we repaired to the den. "It took lots of leg work and jumping through hoops," she said, "but I managed to see those adoption papers." She said she tried to contact Stanley Dabrowski, her birth dad, with little success. I hadn't seen Stan since Lisa's birth, so I couldn't help her there. Our parents had put the kibosh on that relationship, such as it was.

We laughed and joked and I told her that she was lucky to have Brian as a boyfriend. "He was a big help to me after my ACL tear," I said. "Don't know what I'd have done without him. He's a great guy...and very good looking besides. Not that I need to tell you that."

"Yes, he's a hunk and a half. He said that if we ever get serious, I mean like marriage serious, he hopes I'll be as pretty and as well preserved as you in middle-age."

"Well, tell him he needn't worry. We have the same DNA."

"I already told him. Between you and me, I think he'd like to hop into the sack with you."

"You think? Why, did he say anything?"

"Nothing specific, just that he thinks you're hot."

"Like mother like daughter," I said, and left it at that.