Roses for a June baby

The June roses are blooming. Milwaukee lies hundreds of miles from my birthplace, but the cool morning breeze carries the smell of roses, and my breath catches in my throat.

I emerged into the world on a June morning in 1986, 8 months and 21 days after my parents' wedding day. I cannot ask my mother what that day was like, so I turn to the National Weather Service. Historical weather data reveals that the day was clear, with a high of 62 and a low of 43—my favorite kind of weather.

My parents named me Abigail. The name, as they often reminded me, means “she brings her father joy.” This was not a blessing. It was a command. I spent decades trying to please my father. I’m the oldest child, the oldest grandchild on both sides of the family, and my name commanded me to bring my father joy. I dread the years that my birthday falls on Father’s Day. It’s a reminder of all the expectations that were placed on me when I was born. These days, I prefer to go by Abbi, even if it means that people constantly misspell my name.

I located the June 18, 1986 edition of The New York Times—all 128 pages—to see what was happening in the world on the day that I was born. Some shuffling on the US Supreme Court, news of racism both at home and abroad, an article about the rise of computers, and a fertility ad that made me queasy.

“Sometimes it takes more than love to have a baby,” Advanced Fertility Services announced in their full-page advertisement. My parents believed that it took more than love as well.

“It takes three to make a baby,” my dad would say. “You can’t get pregnant unless it’s God’s will.”

My honeymoon conception was God’s will, as was my brother’s conception just months after my birth. People who see this photograph from my first birthday might think that it’s a photo of me alone with my parents, but in June 1987, my mom was already several months pregnant with my brother.

We’re sitting on the back porch of my grandparents’ farmhouse beside a chocolate birthday cake with a large candle in it. The white plastic coating is falling off the metal chairs in chunks. Through the screened windows and hanging plants, I can see the little white milk building turned into a house. Our position across the driveway from the main farmhouse suited all parties; my grandmother measured her children’s love by geographic proximity, and my parents were more than happy to pay almost nothing for housing. The scent of roses fills the air—my grandmother planted a row of pink bushes by that old milk house when I was born. Roses for a June baby, the first grandchild on both sides of the family.

I wonder who took the picture, and I speculate that it might have been my dad’s father. My mother’s parents weren’t photographers, but my granddad seems like the person who would have a nice camera. The photo centers on my dad with my mom off to the side—an afterthought. My maternal grandparents would likely have focused the camera on my mom. My parents’ smiles look tired and forced. Perhaps something bad happened right before the picture was taken. Or perhaps it’s just that they are newly married, trying to raise a newborn with another baby on the way.

When I zoom in on my baby face, I can’t look away from my eyes. They seem sad, weary, resigned. They are not the eyes of a one-year-old. They are the eyes of a small child who already knows what it is like to be hit by her parents. The eyes of a child who knows that screaming in her crib will not bring her mother or her father to her rescue.

My shock of fluffy black hair is topped with a gold gift bow, and I’m wearing a ruffled pink and white pinafore dress. My thick black hair was the only remaining evidence of my paternal grandmother’s African American heritage.

As my face has aged and taken on weight, I see my father when I look into the mirror. It’s disconcerting to see an unwelcome visage staring back at you in the morning, but I inherited my face honestly. I inherited my persistence from my parents. I inherited my willingness to sacrifice for a cause that will continue beyond my lifetime. My father gifted me a love for books and delicious food and fancy fountain pens. He also saddled me with thousands of dollars in medical bills and therapy sessions. Sometimes an inheritance is simply debt.

Last year, I broke down crying after blood tests revealed that I suffered from high cholesterol. The condition is treatable, but my inability to learn about my family medical history is not. It’s not just that I’ve cut contact with the people who could tell me what diseases run in my family; it’s that my parents don’t have useful diagnoses to offer. Iridology readings and rumors of demon possession cannot help me live a healthier life.

I am left with fragments. Shards of memories, bytes of information, droplets of salty tears. The Japanese practice of kintsugi repairs pottery shards with lacquer and powdered gold, creating an even more beautiful object. In my better moments, I cherish my broken memories.

But sometimes I just see dust and ashes. And a photo of a small girl with pink roses.