Regarding Anna (3 page)

Two newspaper articles had immediately caught my attention. The earlier one stated a woman named Anna Thalia Vargas had been found dead in her Chicago apartment on January 23, 1943. One dated a week later referred to her death as a homicide.

There I had also found several pieces of jewelry, a dozen or so photos, a Bible with Anna’s name in it, some clothing, and lots of miscellaneous paperwork—116 pieces total, all packed into one box and hidden behind several plastic crates of clothes and toys I had outgrown.

A baby girl named Celina appeared in many of the photos—at least that was the name that had been written on the backs of them—and I believed that baby to be me. One I found particularly interesting was of a young dark-haired woman holding baby Celina while seated in a rocking chair. Another was of the same woman standing, holding a baby. CELINA THALIA VARGAS—JUST HOME FROM THE HOSPITAL had been written on the back of that one. Thalia was my middle name too.

But the photo I was the most curious about was one of a man holding what appeared to be the same baby. He was turned sideways and looking down, so you couldn’t see much of his face. I was dying to know who that man was.

A photo I had found tucked inside the Bible was the clue that had convinced me I was the baby. On the back of it had been written SHE HAS MY EYES. It was a photo of the same young dark-haired woman holding a baby wearing a red polka-dot dress. As soon as I saw it, I ran to my dresser drawer where I kept my own family photographs and found one of me wearing the same little dress. On the back, my mother had written 4 MOS—SHE’S SITTING UP NOW.

All this evidence had led me to believe that Anna Vargas was my real mother, but what had me even more troubled was that in order for my parents to have had this evidence hidden in their attic meant they could have had something to do with her death.

The essence of my life was in this back room. There were truths that needed to be uncovered, and I felt that my whole future depended on it. It was all up to me—no one had been interested in helping me solve a twenty-year-old murder case—not the police, not even a private investigator I had contacted. That’s why I had changed my studies to law enforcement, served a two-year apprenticeship, and gotten my PI license. How I wished I could scoop up all the tiny bits and pieces of the Attic Finds evidence, toss them in the air, and watch them land in such a way that everything made complete sense. I supposed that was the dreamer in me.

My life was, well, pretty pathetic. I’d never wanted to be a private investigator. The only reason I’d gone down that road was to get answers so as to be able to go on to do something else. I had no friends to speak of, no hobbies, no social life. I didn’t care too much what I wore or how I looked, never pampered myself. If a guy had asked me out on a date, I wouldn’t have known how to act.

I wasn’t happy, but I fully intended to be one day. I was reminded of a list I had found in my mother’s dresser drawer titled “The Seven Keys to Happiness.” It appeared to have been torn out of a magazine article. I still remember them.

1. Safety and security
   
2. Relationships with family and friends
   
3. Being comfortable with one’s self
   
4. Having achievable goals
   
5. Good health
   
6. Maintaining a positive attitude
   
7. Helping others
   

With the exception of number six, sort of, and a hint of number seven, I didn’t have any of these, and sadder yet was that the only one I was doing anything about was number three. I wished she had torn out the whole article. No, come to think of it, that might have depressed me even more.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Elmer slapping that day’s
Tribune
down on the reception desk, letting me know he was finished with it. I was checking the Used Cars section every day, hoping that at some point I would be able to afford one of my own. I went out to the reception desk and opened the paper to Used Cars, ready to torture myself again looking at what I knew I couldn’t have, especially now with the added expense of an apartment.

The ads were the same as always: used cars ranged from $50 to $550. I couldn’t imagine that a car costing $50 would be much good, and there was no way I could afford $550 without dipping into my meager savings, which I wanted to preserve for a real emergency.

Elmer walked out of his office and peered at the open paper.

“Looking for a car?”

Conversations with him were always short and to the point. Never any small talk.

“Yes.”

“Don’t look in there—too many people trying to pawn off their problems on you. If you want, I can put you in touch with someone who’ll sell you a decent car for a reasonable price…and will even service it for you when you need it.”

Of course, I would have to figure out a way to pay for a car in addition to several other essential items...like a new pair of shoes. I was getting low on duct tape.

THREE

Saved By the Bush

“Grace, since Beth is a no-show, would you like one of us to help you get settled in?” Mrs. Miller asked.

Beth had promised to help me move but then had called at the last minute to say she wasn’t feeling well. She had just recently eloped with her boyfriend and was living in Brookfield. I could see the sadness in Mrs. Miller’s face—now she was losing my presence in the house as well.

All my worldly possessions were in the back seat and trunk of my new car—a 1952 Chevy Bel Air I had bought from Bob Conway of Big Bob’s Used Autos. It wasn’t bad for a twelve-year-old car. Tan with a maroon top—a car that would blend in well no matter where my job took me. And he was letting me pay it off on time.

“I’ll be fine,” I told her. “There’s not that much to settle.” I was smiling but privately bummed out that Beth wasn’t there for this turning point in my life.

“Do keep in touch, dear, and if it doesn’t work out for you, you know you’re always welcome here.”

Mrs. Miller was cool.

On the drive to my new place, I thought about what a milestone it was—my being completely on my own—and wondered if other people my age experienced the same sick feeling in their stomach contemplating whether they were going to make it or fall flat on their face. I had to make it. I pulled into one of the parking spaces behind my apartment and carried as much as I could up the narrow staircase.

I opened the door and was greeted by the overwhelming presence of Pine-Sol—a scent I never did like very much, but I supposed it beat the stench of garbage that had been left behind by the previous tenant. After putting away my belongings in their new places, I jumped back in the car and drove to the address on Belle Plaine Avenue where Anna Vargas had once lived…and where she had also died. Armed with the camera I used for work, I headed for the Portage Park neighborhood where I believed I was born and where it had all begun. I had been by the house several times before—the No. 80 bus stopped within just a few blocks of it—but visiting it in my own car as a licensed PI was different.

It was a cool day, unusually cool for September. I searched for the lever that controlled the heater in an attempt to take the chill out of the car, but it appeared to be non-working. I would have to get Bob to look at that for me. I hoped that was the worst thing I found wrong with it.

I first drove by my old house, which was out of my way, but I hadn’t been by it since I’d lived there four years earlier and was curious to see if anything had changed. The memory of the day I had discovered the lifeless bodies of my parents there still haunted me and probably always will. I had just come home after attending my final interior design class before spring break. I had grabbed a hamburger with Beth, who’d dropped me off in front of my house.

As soon as I opened the back door, I sensed something was wrong. I called out for my mom, who was always there, to let her know I was home. When she didn’t answer, I went looking for her.

Within minutes, I became a little lightheaded. Thinking it was just my body reacting to not seeing my mother in her usual places in the house, I continued searching for her. Finally, I looked in the basement, and that’s where I found both of them—stretched out on the floor, face-down. I called to them, and when they didn’t move, I went to my mother, who was closest to the stairs, and shook her shoulder. By that time, I was experiencing a heaviness in my chest and felt like I was going to be sick, so I ran upstairs and called for an ambulance. Then I went to the back door and stuck my head out for a breath of fresh air.

When the ambulance attendants arrived, they ordered me out of the house. I went next door to use the neighbor’s phone to summon Beth who arrived just as they were transporting my parents’ bodies out of the house on stretchers. She brought me to her home where I was comforted by her and her parents.

I was later told my parents died from carbon monoxide poisoning caused by a faulty furnace. They’d left no will, and I was underage with few rights. Unfortunately, I was also just a naive kid who didn’t know enough to ask the right questions.

Shortly after they died, North Community Bank sent me a letter saying I would have to move out of my home in thirty days. How the bank got away with that, I don’t know. I know now they had no business sending a minor that kind of notice. Furthermore, the law was that you had to give someone ninety days to move.

Lucky for me, the Millers took me in and treated me like a second daughter. Beth and I shared a bedroom, but with each of us working different shifts and going to school part-time and Beth’s succession of boyfriends, we didn’t see too much of each other.

The only things I inherited from my parents were the items I managed to remove from our home that held the most meaning for me, including the box full of things that I assumed belonged to Anna Vargas that now lay strewn on my back room evidence tables and a $1,000 death-benefit check from the Soo Line Railroad where my father had worked as a general laborer for many years. I used part of that money to pay for school tuition and books, my business license, insurance, and basic equipment.

I turned onto Ferdinand Street and parked the car where I had a clear view of my old house. It didn’t look the same as it did when I lived there. It was the same color, had the same tall evergreens framing the side and back yards, even had the same black mailbox with the heart-shaped red sticker I had put on it when I was little. Yet it didn’t look the same. Smaller I thought. It looked a lot smaller.

It was a nice neighborhood for families, especially with the park right across the street. We’d been less than five miles from Lake Michigan but had never once gone there. I wasn’t sure why. I had taken swimming lessons when I was ten.

Thinking back, I realized we hadn’t done much of anything as a family. My father worked long hours, and my mother rarely left the house. We never really went anywhere.

My mother had been overprotective of me. I’d had to come home right after school, even in high school. I assumed she expected me to be like her and stay home all the time. She did allow Beth to come over, but it was only on rare occasions that she allowed me go to Beth’s house. That was probably why I’d earned such good grades—I had nothing else to do but study. When I wasn’t studying, I learned to entertain myself by making up outrageous stories in my head about what my life would have been like if this happened or that happened. Stupid stories. Nothing better to do.

My mother was always somewhere in the background—doing whatever was required of her to be a mother to me and a wife to my father. She didn’t seem to have a life of her own. My father was controlling. I remember times when he told her things that even I knew weren’t true, but she believed him. Like, one time she said she wanted to plant a vegetable garden in the backyard, and he convinced her that the dirt had to be sent to a laboratory for analysis first to make sure it was safe. She never planted the garden.

My father ruled the house—there was no mistake about that—and he knew how to make my mother feel grateful for it. But he had his good side too. He would compliment her cooking or what she was wearing or how she had rearranged the furniture. And he supported her in whatever it was she wanted to do—as long as it didn’t require her to leave the house. I learned to stay out of the middle of their relationship, even if it did make me feel isolated and alone much of the time.