Regarding Anna (18 page)

SEVENTEEN

One of Us Is Wrong

It took me close to two hours to tell Fern everything I knew. When I got to the part about Anna’s death, she stared past me for several seconds with a lifeless expression.

“I didn’t know that,” she muttered.

“Fern, by any chance did you envision a joyful reunion with her if she turned out to be your birth mother?”

“It never crossed my mind that she could be dead. A joyful reunion? No, I guess...”

“Let me explain something to you. Less than fifty percent of these types of reunions result in something positive. Most people wish they had never made the effort in the first place.”

She shot me a sharp look. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No. Just more realistic.”

She didn’t say anything else, so I continued, but she didn’t appear to be listening.

A few minutes later, she said, “I’m not sure if I want to go on.”

“Listening to my story?”

“Searching for the truth.”

“What’s making it less important than it was the day you walked into my office?”

“That she’s dead. What’s the point if she’s dead?”

“That’s up to you, but for me, it wouldn’t matter if she was dead or alive.”

“What do you mean?”

“The first morning I woke up after realizing my parents may not have been my birth parents, it was like waking up with amnesia, like I was living without a past. For me, I won’t be whole until I understand my past, and then my goal is to transcend the past, whatever that may be, and develop a meaningful future.”

“But you
have
a past with wonderful parents, you told me. Just like I did.”

“I know, but it’s not complete, and that’s a roadblock for me.”

Fern nodded in agreement...barely. “I think I understand that. Maybe I need time to think about it...and get over Anna’s death. Please continue.”

When I finished telling her the rest of what I knew, I leaned back in my chair and asked her what she thought.

Without saying a word, she got up and walked toward the door.

“Fern?”

She opened the door and, after a brief pause, went through it.

I was tempted to run after her, but instead I put myself in her place, her frame of mind, and knew it wouldn’t have been the right thing to do. She needed time—at least I hoped that was all it was. If not, I was afraid I had screwed up—big time. Up until I’d told her Anna was dead, I’d thought I had done the right thing by being completely honest with her. Now I wasn’t so sure.

I waited thirty minutes until I was confident she wasn’t coming back before I went up to my apartment, poured myself a generous glass of wine, and curled up on the sofa. Each minute that ticked by strengthened the possibility that I might have seen the last of Fern Herschberger, and that was upsetting.

The wine calmed my nerves some. I closed my eyes and rested my head on the back of the sofa, letting the savory red liquid glide down my throat. I had decided sipping wine was better than ironing—maybe not healthier but certainly more enjoyable.

The knock on my door startled me, causing a thin stream of wine to slosh onto the sofa. Glass still in hand, I answered the door.

Fern focused on the wine. “Do you have any more of that?” she asked.

We laughed in harmony—long enough to dispel the awkwardness of the moment. I didn’t remember telling her that I lived upstairs, but I must have, and I was glad for that, even though I was embarrassed to have anyone see the place.

“You asked me what I thought,” she began after tasting the wine. It was humiliating having to serve a guest Mad Dog, but it was all I had. “I don’t know what to think, and maybe that’s why I left—because I needed to process those thoughts.”

“And?”

“The more I thought about what you said, the part about living without a past, the more I thought that may really be the root of my problems as well. Let me clarify something for you. During our first meeting, you asked me the reason I wanted to find my birth mother. Well, what I told you was a lie—the same lie I keep telling my boyfriend, the same lie I keep telling myself really.”

“That you want a family medical history before having children?”

“Yes. But in my heart I know the real reason isn’t that at all. I’m angry. What kind of person abandons a newborn child? I wanted to confront her and have her explain to me why—why she gave me away. And so when you told me she was dead, I felt like I had nowhere to vent that anger. Keeping it bottled up inside has been painful—physically and emotionally. But you know something? I think sharing it with you has helped.”

“You’ve stirred it up, and that’s the first step to releasing it. Now you need to find the truth to push it all the way out.”

“It all makes sense. Where did you learn all this?”

“I had to take a few psychology classes in my law enforcement program. At least some of what I learned has paid off. Getting back to Anna—and don’t forget we have no proof she was your mother, so whoever your mother was—I’ve read enough case studies on this to know there are some very legitimate reasons for mothers to choose adoption rather than raise the child on their own.”

“Like what?”

“Like they may not have the financial means to provide a safe and healthy place to live. Like they may not have the emotional stability it takes to raise a child. Like she may have been too young to be a good mother. Like—”

“They sound like excuses to me. I’d find a way to make more money. I’d get counseling. I’d ask for help. I’d do whatever it took before I ever abandoned a child.”

“You may be stronger than some women.”

Fern was silent.

“I hope I haven’t overstepped any boundaries,” I told her.

She let out a heavy sigh. “No. You’re just doing your job.”

“I’m trying to be your friend, Fern, not your hired PI.”

“Okay, Lily.”

“Touché. And one thing we haven’t talked about is that it looks like we were born six months apart, and we both think Anna is our mother. At least one of us has to be wrong.”

“It appears that way. Unless you were premature.”

“Or we don’t know our real birthdays.”

“Or one of us is lying.”

“Will you ever forgive me for that?”

“You know what?” she said. “I am so glad I picked your company out of the phone book that day.”

“Me too. But tell me, out of all the PIs listed, what made you pick
me
, if you don’t mind my asking.”

She stared at me without responding.

“Fern?”

“I’m not sure I should say.”

“You don’t have to tell me, but considering—”

“I called a bunch of them. You were the cheapest.”

I was slow to laugh, and when I did, it came from deep inside my belly.

“By a long shot.”

Now we were both laughing so hard, we were swiping away tears.

“In one case, by half,” she roared.

“Okay, you can stop now.”

It took us a while to compose ourselves, and when we did, we talked for another hour. We weren’t able to come up with any new revelations by combining what we knew, but we did agree that Essie Noe was most likely the one who could get us closer to the truth, and it was obvious I wasn’t the one who was going to get anything from her.

We parted ways with Fern agreeing to try to get better connected with Essie—just how, she wasn’t sure.

I poured myself another half-glass of wine and plopped down on the sofa. I was spent—physically, mentally, and emotionally—but it felt good. I had done the right thing.

I took a last sip of Mad Dog, drew a nice hot bubble bath, and soaked long enough to get prune skin. As I put on my coziest pajamas, I thought about the soothing effect that crawling between the freshly laundered and ironed sheets would have on me.

It was the middle of April, the first mild day of the year. I tried to open the apartment’s lone window to let in some fresh air only to find it was stuck. Twenty minutes of struggling later, I managed to get it to open a few inches. The cool, crisp air that wafted in was refreshing.

I crawled into bed and hoped it wouldn’t take me long to fall asleep. I didn’t want to think about my conversation with Fern, Elmer Berghorn, or my renewed enthusiasm about solving my case until the morning when I had a clear head and was fully rested. Right then, I wanted only quiet, dreamy thoughts.

The acidic smell emanating from what I surmised was the rooftop vents of the dry cleaner two buildings away interrupted my journey to slumberland. What—they ran a night shift? If the odor from whatever cleaning solvent they used was that strong all the way at my place, what was it like for the workers?

I pulled the sheet over my mouth and nose in an attempt to filter the air I breathed and tried to fall asleep.

It hadn’t occurred to me that there would be so much traffic outside my apartment at that time of day, and the incessant honking of car horns told me nighttime drivers were no more patient than those behind the wheel during the day.

The dreamy thoughts I longed for must have been hiding somewhere. I changed positions and waited for them to appear.

I hadn’t realized there were so many types of sirens—some low-pitched, some high-pitched, some long ones, some short ones, whoop-whoop ones, some off in the distance, and others speeding by right in front of this building.

I closed the window. So much for fresh air.

EIGHTEEN

The Cavalry

I was glad for the weekend—I had spent the latter half of the week working twelve-hour days in order to fit in Attic Finds work, and I had nothing to show for it. I needed the weekend, away from work, to clear my head.

I spent a little time cleaning my apartment and then headed for Six Corners to buy a new pair of shoes—and not from a thrift store. I went to Sears and bought myself a pair of brand-new never-been-worn black Mary Janes.

After running several errands, I picked up some dinner for later and drove home.

Luck was with me—there was a parking space near my apartment door. I juggled the assortment of bags I had amassed until I could comfortably manage them without dropping anything and headed upstairs. At the top of the stairs, I was surprised to find several large boxes blocking my door.