Identity Issues (11 page)

The banter continued through the rest of lunch. All part of sharing a meal with Ben. "Sorry about that," I told Di as we exited the teacher’s lounge.

"No biggie." She shrugged. "I just don’t want everyone knowing my business. There’s enough gossip around here."

"I know what you mean." The rumor mill at school. Not pretty.

"So, how
was
your date?" I asked as we wandered side by side down the long, narrow hall.

"Fabulous," Di said, her voice lilting. "Chris is quite dashing. We dined at Mexican Village, and then took a long walk along the river. The stars glowed, and he put his arm around me as we strolled down the river walk. Very romantic. He’s so easy to be with…" Di paused, then nodded as she admitted, "He might be a keeper."

Di had a faraway look in her eyes, the same one I remembered having when I’d first met Jon. The dreamy look of hormones moving in the right direction.

"I hope so. You deserve it." I gave her arm a gentle squeeze.

"I don’t want to get my hopes up needlessly, but I can’t help thinking that something good may come of this."

"Hey, Di, not to change the subject, but is there any chance you could give me a ride to the car dealer’s after work tomorrow? I have to drop off the van in the morning. Carrie Martin’s going to bring me in from there, but she has a doctor’s appointment after work and can’t take me back."

I hoped she wouldn’t turn me down right off the bat and offer to take me after she finished tutoring at Joey’s house.

"I have to tutor Joey right after school tomorrow, but I can swing back by and pick you up after I’m done."

"Why don’t I just come with you? Do you think Rosie would mind? I could even stay in the car, roll down the windows and correct papers. The weather is supposed to be nice. The kids will be at the neighbor’s after school. I’ve already arranged it."

Di looked thoughtful. "I don’t know if Joey’s mom is up to having more company. She’s so sick."

"I don’t mind waiting. The peace and quiet will do me good."

"Alrighty, then."

It took forever for Tuesday afternoon to roll around. I felt fired up. Nervous but exhilarated.

We pulled into Joey’s driveway at 4:00 p.m. on the dot. Joey waited at the door for Di, then noticed me sitting in the car. Out he came, running up to the passenger side door. I rolled down the window to greet him. Our eyes met as if a special bond held us, a glue that neither one of us could explain or escape.

"Mrs. Stitsill, hi! What are you doing here?"

I certainly couldn’t tell him. "I’m going to wait here for Ms. Rossi today, and when you two are finished, she’s going to drive me to the car dealership to pick up my car."

"Come inside, Mrs. Stitsill," he urged. "Mom won’t mind. She’s resting on the couch, and she loves it when Ms. Rossi comes. She’ll be glad to see you, too."

"I don’t want to bother her, Joey. She’s not feeling well." I have to admit that his big brown eyes glowed with conviction. Not that I needed anyone to twist my arm.

"You can sit in our den if you want. There’s a desk in there." Joey nodded at the stack of papers in my lap.

I smiled. "You’ve persuaded me. Thanks, Joey."

He opened the car door for me. Di headed up the walk to the side door, all business. I checked out the garage door, Stitsill’s access point that dark night a few weeks ago. Nothing remarkable there. As Joey led me around to the rear of the house, I noted that both side and back doors led into the tidy garage.

Inside the garage sat Rosie’s old silver Taurus. A small tool bench stood alongside the south wall, two shiny Schwinn bikes carefully parked in front of the hanging yard tools. The side door into the house from the garage led to a tiny landing with a short two steps up into the kitchen. Modestly furnished. Di had been right about that, too. Joey ran ahead of me, excited to tell his mom of my arrival with his tutor.

"Mom, guess what? Mrs. Stitsill is here with Ms. Rossi today. She needed a ride to pick up her car. Can she work in the den? Ms. Rossi and I will work in the kitchen, and we won’t bother you at all."

I heard Rosie answer him in a soft voice, and I felt more than a little guilty. Not guilty enough to leave, but definitely ashamed. A smiling Joey emerged from the family room.

"Mom said you’re welcome to use her desk in the den. She’s resting, so I’ll get you a drink if you want one. Ms. Rossi and I always have ice water. Want some?"

Incredible kid, I thought as I nodded.

Joey handed me a glass, filled to the brim with ice and cool water, showed me into the den, and pointed out his mom’s desk. Then, he turned and left, closing the door behind him.

I set my papers on the desk, sat down, and retrieved my red pen from my purse. For a brief moment, I had every intention of getting a little work done, but my curiosity got the better of me. C’mon, who was I kidding? I couldn’t help but look around.

When Joey had closed the door on his way out, I was sure he intended to afford me some privacy. Little did he know it also gave me the opportunity to do some serious snooping. Had I lucked out, or what?

I took in my surroundings, noting the L–shaped desk held an older model PC to the left and a work surface to the right. A two drawer metal cabinet sat to the right of the desk. Photo albums lined the shelves to the right of the file drawers. Bingo. I had an album in my hands, opening the front cover before I knew it. Would this offer any answers? Would I see the mystery man who’d been on the street in front of the house? I prayed for good fortune. Documentation.

I scanned photographs of Rosie dressed in the usual hospital garb, holding an infant swaddled in a blue blanket. I recognized the scene from my own birthing experiences. She looked worn out but ecstatic. I felt like an intruder, but continued my search.

I moved the album to my lap, turning the page. A toddler appeared in the next few photos, so the baby must have been Joey and the toddler, Emilio. Only pictures of the three of them. Rosie, Emilio, and Joey. I continued to hope for at least a glimpse of Rosie’s not so dead husband. No such luck. Surely, he’d been around for Joey’s birth. But then he and Rosie hadn’t been together in any of the wedding pictures she’d left behind at school either. Apparently, he hadn’t wanted to be seen with Rosie, or the kids, for that matter.
Who the hell was this guy?

I checked my watch. Di would be done soon. I quickly turned the pages of the album. Sure enough, no pictures of Mr. Stitsill. Just the two boys and Rosie at Joey’s christening, during the holidays, and his first birthday. I closed the album, scanning the room for additional traces of the Stitsill impostor. A shallow metal strongbox, similar to a safe deposit box, peeked out from the back of the shelf that held the photo albums. I reinserted the book I’d been viewing, pulling out the next few albums out to get a better look. The metal container, about eight inches deep, eight inches long, and four inches high, had a key lock on the front. I picked it up, giving it a gentle shake. It appeared to contain only paper documents. No jingling keys, nor rattling coins. Heavier than I’d expected, I couldn’t determine the contents by simply hefting it.

Nervous about the time, I returned it to its spot without further investigation. Just to be safe, I wiped the surface with the tissue I kept in my handbag. I carefully repositioned the books, leaving things exactly as I found them. Gathering my papers and purse, I headed to the kitchen. Di and Joey had just finished up.

Joey went in to check on his mom as we got ready to leave. "She’s asleep," he whispered as he handed a check to Di.

"Thanks, Joey," Di said. "And keep up the good work. I’m sure your mom is proud of how well you’re doing. I’ll see you at school tomorrow."

Joey smiled.

As we said goodbye, I imagined what it must be like to walk in his shoes. Obviously, Joey possessed a valiant spirit. Why could some kids weather the storms they encountered? Why were others devastated by the slightest breeze?

I supposed that, to him, his life still seemed fairly stable. In light of Rosie’s illness, life from day to day hadn’t changed much, and he had the stability of school, his brother, and Di. Those constants probably kept him grounded.

As we left, I asked Di, "What do you think of his outlook?"

"I don’t know when I’ve been more impressed by a kid," she said thoughtfully. "He’s amazing. He takes on every single challenge with such a positive attitude. It’s as if he isn’t real. He smiles through all of our work together, chit–chatting about this and that. He talks about Emilio and what they do for fun, like hanging out in the yard and kicking the soccer ball around. He told me today that he’s really looking forward to the weekend. Rosie’s friends from church are taking him and Emilio to the church fair."

"What do they do for dinner?" I asked before I realized I’d spoken aloud.

Di glanced at me. "I asked him the same question, and he told me Rosie makes big pots of soup. Can you imagine?" Di said.

"Even when you’re sick, there are no time–outs from motherhood. For her, cooking has to be efficient, so she prepares meals she can get some mileage from. I do the same thing, even when I’m not sick."

"He said he and Emilio serve themselves and nuke soup in the microwave. Then, he fixes a bowl for his mom. He uses potholders to take it out of the microwave so he doesn’t burn himself. Then he says, ‘Mom taught me that.’ He got a little teary. And, Sam, my heart almost broke in two right then and there."

"So, if you could keep him from breaking your heart, it would be effortless for you to tutor him."

Di nodded, her eyes brimming over with tears. "Rosie’s always resting on the couch, and Joey’s anxious to see me and get down to business. It’s quiet. No phone calls, no one knocking on the door, no TV blaring, no music playing. Just Joey and me. I try not to think about how sad it is."

T
HE DAY I worked up the nerve to call the Medical Examiner’s office, it felt as if nothing could go wrong. I’d made all the arrangements to take a personal day from work the previous evening, and I’d gotten the kids off to school with plenty of time to spare. Bright and sunny, the morning was sublime. Maybe the sun’s radiant energy afforded me the guts to make the call, or maybe the killer workout I’d just finished got the adrenaline coursing in my veins. Whatever the reason, today I wore my ‘Ms. Get to the Bottom of the Story’ badge.

Other times when I had thought about making the call, I felt scared. Not just a little uneasy or nervous. Plain old scared. I don’t know what I thought would happen, but making the call made the entire situation real. That worried me.

I had bookmarked the web address for the coroner’s office on my computer some time ago, and it popped up with a simple click. I punched the coroner’s phone number into the portable phone.

A real human answered my call. Remarkable. Taking a deep breath, I told the clerk what I wanted. Of course, I’d phoned the wrong division. A test of my fortitude, I thought. I’d have to place another call. I took a deep breath and punched in the new number.

"Coroner’s Office," a terse voice answered.

"Yes, I wonder if you could help me." I knew as soon as I said this that my voice, too tentative, gave me away. Where had I left my backbone?

"I can try." She didn’t sound like she wanted to help anyone. Ever.

"I’m seeking a copy of the coroner’s report on a death that occurred in 2004 or 2005," I said.

"Why would you want that?"

"My husband had his identity stolen some years ago, and we are trying to resolve some issues around that." Still too timid. I mentally kicked myself.

"We don’t simply release the reports to anyone who phones us. You must have an appropriate reason to request a coroner’s report."

Shit.

"I see," I answered, then I heard the click of the receiver from her end.

I forged ahead and called her back.

"Hello, I just spoke with you a moment ago. Tell me how I can obtain more information about this death, please, if not the coroner’s report." I tried my pleasant but demanding teacher voice hoping that she wouldn’t shut me down again. She had to give me points for perseverance, right?

"You can call the county clerk’s office. Request the information listed on the death certificate. Here’s the number." She rattled off several digits.

Still buoyed by the rays of sun pouring into the study, I made the next call.

"County Clerk’s office," a woman answered.

"Yes, please tell me how I might receive information on the cause of death of someone who died in either 2004 or 2005. I believe it was in June, but I don’t know the exact date." I spoke with authority this time.

"Sure, I can help you with that. What is the decedent’s name?"

My knees knocked and my hands shook. "His name is Jon Stitsill. J–o–n S–t–i–t–s–i–l–l." I spelled the name for her, hoping the quiver in my voice would settle.

"I have it right here. 2004," she stated.

"And the cause of death?"

She said sympathetically, "The cause of death is listed as a shotgun wound."

I’m sure she expected a different reaction from me. Some evidence of shock. But I hadn’t thought that through either. I just continued with my questions. I must be an amateur sleuth after all.

"Is it possible to access more details about this death? Perhaps a copy of the Coroner’s Report?"

"I’m not sure," she answered, "but you can access a copy of the death certificate online and that’ll give you some information. Let me check on the exact web address for you."

I waited.

"Here it is," she continued. "The exact date of the death is June 7, 2004. You’ll need that to request the record."

Interesting. When Rosita and I had spoken she had told me that her husband had died on June 6. I remembered the date. D–day. My grandfather–in–law had fought in WWII, and Jon called him every year on D–day to thank him for his patriotism, his bravery, his sacrifice. How could she not know the date of her husband’s death?

"Thank you. You’ve been very helpful."

I placed the receiver back in its cradle, and leaned back in my desk chair with satisfaction. But only for a moment. I went online to request a copy of the death certificate. Glad now that I’d asked Di to obtain Joey’s birth certificate, which contained Mr. Stitsill’s birth date, I realized I needed it to apply for the records. Three minutes and twenty dollars later, I anticipated only a few more days of waiting for my very own copy of Mr. Stitsill’s death certificate.