Outskirts Press, INC.

Susie awoke from her sedated sleep, placed her hands on her hollow belly, and ached in ways she didn’t recognize…

The year was 1966, and Susie, a senior in high school, found herself with a new label: unwed mother. It was an era of “silent surrender,” and Susie was forced to leave home and move in with her aunt for three months of seclusion until her baby was born and could be put up for adoption. She somehow found the inner strength to survive the solitude, shame, physical changes, and the incredible loss of giving up her baby. Susie was told to forget about her baby and go on with life, but that was impossible.

While other birthmothers may have turned to alcohol or drugs to deal with their loss, Susie transformed her deep longing into art. Her most remarkable works were annual paintings of the child she privately named “Mary.” For more than two decades, Mary grew to adulthood on canvas. And twenty-seven years after giving birth, Susie would finally meet Mary—whose given name was Jeanne—in person. The resemblance between the woman before her and the woman in the paintings was remarkable, and there was a connection of epic proportion between mother and child. The adoption experience had come full circle.

This inspirational memoir sheds new light on the shadowy era of closed adoption and shares how one woman translated her pain and guilt into art.

Excerpt: Immediately after completing the required finals, I returned to the second floor dorm room and finished packing. My wardrobe easily filled my matching luggage pieces. An overflowing, double-pocketed portfolio held emotionally drenched artwork and was propped against the closet. A pink shoebox, with several penned telephone numbers scribbled on it, held a small alarm clock, transistor radio, address book, Polaroid pictures, and the sculpted non-virgin clay piece from three-dimensional design class. My rosary was ever visible, yet never prayed; it lay on the student-size desk, untouched for nine months. I picked it up and added it to the memory box. It was time for moving on once more. Within ten minutes my belongings were stuffed into William’s car, which was conveniently idling in the parking lot outside the building’s back entrance. As we drove away from that campus I choked down tears, lit up a cigarette, never looked back, and continued to hold my silenced burden.