Breaking Josephine (21 page)

I rubbed the hem
of my t-shirt between my fingers anxiously as Diane smiled a small, apologetic
smile. “I know” she said, “but I look at you and I see my daughter, and I see
how young she still is. I have a hard time accepting she is an adult and can
make her own decisions and her own mistakes.” Although I didn’t have a mother
to look out for me now and worry about my choices, I could understand how Diane
could feel that way and my attitude toward her softened slightly. Even if I was
still mad, I thought to myself, I needed her to tell me what she knew, not shut
down because I was rude and unforgiving.

I tried to hide my
emotions as I said, more gently, “I understand, Diane, I do. But I know about
her now. Can you please tell me what you know? All I have is this photograph
and a few vague memories related to me from Eileen.”

“Eileen? Really? How
did she know Becca?” Diane asked, genuinely curious.

“Apparently the
Hartleys ate at some local restaurant here all the time and Becca usually
waited on them. Eileen said she was a waitress there until the place closed,” I
answering, figuring I needed to be honest with Diane in order for her to be
honest with me.

“Yes, she was,”
Diane responded, leaning back in her chair. “As far as I know, she grew up here
in Cannon Beach. Her parents owned the restaurant, actually. The Coastal Diner,
they called it. She practically grew up in that restaurant, started waiting
tables when she was young, maybe 13 or 14, and worked there until her parents
died and the restaurant closed. That was the spring before the social that year
– months before that photo was taken.”

“My mother never
told me any of this,” I said dumfounded. “How did you know her?”

“I didn’t really,”
Diane said. “Like everyone else who summered here, I ate at the diner all the
time. They had great food and great service, and they were right down the
street and so convenient, you could walk on a nice day. I knew her as a
waitress, watched her grow up over the years, but that was really all. She was
quite a bit younger than me, I’d say by at least ten or fifteen years, so we
didn’t have much in common. But since the Kincaids owned the place, she was
always there, and waited on my husband and me countless times.”

“Kincaids?” I
said, confused.

“Yes, that was her
last name, Becca Kincaid,” Diane said simply.

I looked at Diane,
asking “Are you sure? I’ve only ever seen or heard Sinclair. It’s on my birth
certificate and my mom’s death certificate and everything.”

“Well … maybe …”
Diane said, pausing and looking out at the ocean, “maybe this is all a huge
misunderstanding and she isn’t your mother. That’s why I stopped prying and
didn’t bring it up. And that’s why I didn’t want to tell you. There just
doesn’t appear to be any connection apart from a woman who looked a lot like
you living here many years ago. Besides, why would your mother keep all this
from you?”

“I have no idea,” I
said, following her gaze out to the ocean and the setting sun. “What were her
parents’ names, if you know?”

“Let me think….”
Diane said, looking at me and then up toward the ceiling. “I’m almost positive
their names were Jacob and Lily…. Yes, I am sure, Jacob and Lily Kincaid.”

I looked back at
Diane. “Jacob? Are you sure?”

“Yes, why?” Diane
asked.

“Because that’s
supposedly my father’s name,” I answered, “Jacob Cunningham. What else do you
know about her? Why was she at your social?” I asked.

Diane looked at
me, her mouth a thin line, and looked out at the ocean. She inhaled, and
exhaled a long, drawn out breath before turning back to me. “Honestly?” Diane
asked.

“Honestly,” I
replied.

“I think she was
there to meet her lover,” Diane said, pausing. I set my wine down and pulled my
knees up to my chest, waiting for Diane to continue. After a few sips of wine,
she continued, “I found her in my kitchen, sobbing in a heap in the corner. Two
of my friends were there, rubbing her back and trying to console her. When I
showed up, I waived them off and tried to talk to her, to find out what had
happened. She kept saying, ‘It was all a lie, everything was a lie.’ I had no
idea what she was talking about. I offered her a glass of champagne to calm her
nerves and she refused, touching her stomach. It was then I knew. I asked her
if she was pregnant and she said yes. When I asked her who the father was, she
wouldn’t say and pretty much shut down. I offered to have my driver give her a
ride home, and she accepted, but by the time I came back for her, she was gone.
I never saw her again. I’m sorry Jo.”

I drained the rest
of the wine glass and looked at Diane. “Can you tell me anything else? Anything
at all?”

“I’m sorry Jo, I
can’t. I’ve told you everything. Look, maybe this is all a huge
misunderstanding. And maybe if she was your mother, she had a good reason for
keeping this a secret. Maybe you should just let it go,” Diane said, looking at
me with compassion in her eyes.

“I’d love to
Diane, but I can’t. I need to know how much my mother lied to me about and why.
Thank you for the wine and being honest. I do appreciate it.” I stood up and
started to walk toward the door.

“Of course, Jo,”
Diane said, getting up from the table. “Look … if you need anything, please let
me or Macy know. We’re here if you need help.”

“Thank you,” I
said, walking to Diane’s front door to make my way back home.

I spent all night Thursday looking at the photographs I had of my
mother and comparing them to the one in the Astorian. I was convinced it was
her. I decided I would go to work in the morning and beg Sam to let me borrow
his car. It was my scheduled day off, so I wouldn’t be missing work and I hoped
if I promised to come in early Saturday, he would be nice and let me have his
car for the whole day. I thought if I could go to Portland, and go to the
Multnomah County records office, maybe I could find some proof that Becca
Kincaid and Rebecca Sinclair were the same woman.

I could have
called Dex, who I’m sure would have dropped everything to help me, but I didn’t
want to interrupt his work, and I knew he would be back in Cannon Beach by the
evening. It was only a few hours and besides, told myself, I needed to discover
the truth about my mother on my own.

I showed up to the
Red Barn early Friday, when only Sam was there prepping for the day. I let
myself in and walked to the back, finding Sam bent over the counter, kneading
dough.

“Hi Sam,” I said,
as I walked in.

“Jo, hi,” Sam
said, smiling warmly. “How are you? Are you feeling better? It’s your day off
you know. I mean, if you want to work, I guess you can, but we’re fully staffed
today.” He tossed the dough in the air, and punched it down to remove the air
bubbles before putting it back in a bowl and covering it with cloth.

“Well, Sam, I know
this is going to come across as spoiled and ungrateful, but is there any way I
could borrow your car today? I need to go to Portland to look into a family
matter. I promise to have it back by the time you’re wrapping up here.” I
smiled a small, hopeful smile, and raised my eyebrows, waiting for a response.

Sam looked at me
and smiled, shaking his head. “I should say no, Jo. But you’re my best employee
and I know you only do things for a reason. If you need to go to Portland and
my car’s the only way to get you there, then yes, you can borrow it. But I want
you here tomorrow on time and ready to work, okay?”

“It’s a deal. I’ll
even come in early and help you open,” I said, giving him a big thank you smile
and hug. Sam handed me the keys and I ran out the door, thanking him as the
door swung shut. I hopped in the Subaru and set off for Portland, driving
straight to the records office.

After waiting in
line, I spoke with the clerk who helped me search the records database for
Rebecca Sinclair. We found her death certificate, the one I already had, but
nothing else. I then asked her to search for Becca Kincaid. Nothing. Then we
searched for Rebecca Kincaid and we found a single record—an official
name change signed by a state court judge for Multnomah County. As I looked at
the copy on the computer screen my stomach contracted and I felt sick. There on
the screen was an approval for change of name from one Rebecca Anne Kincaid,
born January 29, 1970, to Rebecca Anne Sinclair. It was dated June 30, 1990,
one month after the Daugherty’s social and less than six months before I was born.

Although I could
barely contain my shock at confirming what Diane had told me, I asked the clerk
to search for one more name: Jacob Cunningham. But she found nothing, not a
single hit, not a single record. No birth certificate, death certificate, record
of his teaching credential, a deed to a house, nothing. It was as if my father
never existed.

I asked for a
print out of the name change record and excused myself to the bathroom. I
splashed water on my face and thought about what I’d learned so far. At a
minimum, I knew my mother lied to me, lied to me about everything. She hadn’t
lived in Portland her whole life, instead she had grown up in Cannon Beach. She
changed her name just months before I was born. And according to the records
office, my father didn’t exist. I dried my face with a paper towel and looked
at myself in the mirror. Who am I? I thought to myself. And why did my mother
keep her identity and the identity of my father a complete secret?

After pulling
myself together in the bathroom, I asked the clerk at the front desk for the
directions to the main Portland library. The desk attendant gave me directions
to Central Library, the main library for Portland, and a few minutes later I
pulled up to the library, located in a historic building downtown, and parked
the car outside. I made my way in and found the research assistance desk. I
asked about archives of The Daily Astorian and the librarian told me Central
Library had fully archived computer copies of the Astorian back to the early
seventies. She showed me how to search the archives on the computer and how to
print what I needed. I thanked her and set to work.

The difference
between Portland’s biggest library and the small one in Cannon Beach was
astounding. Searching by name and topic in full color computer records improved
my ability to search for my mother a thousand times over the microfiche back in
Cannon Beach.

I took a deep
breath and searched for Becca Kincaid. I found an article congratulating the
1988 graduating class of Cannon Beach High School, listing my mom, Becca
Kincaid as third in her class. But no photo accompanied the article. Then I
searched just Kincaid and multiple pages of hits came back. Most were
irrelevant, discussing other people who didn’t sound connected to me in any
way. After starting to grow discouraged, I found an article from the dining and
entertainment section of the Astorian in 1985 discussing the twentieth
anniversary of the opening of the Cannon Diner.

According to the
article, Jacob Kincaid and Josephine Lily Kincaid had moved from Seattle to
Cannon Beach to open the restaurant in 1965. I drew in a breath and reread the
name: Josephine Lily Kincaid. My mother named me after a grandmother I never
knew. I swallowed and kept reading.

The article
continued, explaining that the Kincaid’s only daughter, Becca, had started
waitressing at the diner the summer before and now, at fifteen, worked during
the school year as well. She was interviewed and quoted as saying she loved
school, but loved the restaurant more and loved how she could see so many
friendly people and get a glimpse into the lives of so many strangers at the
restaurant. She hoped to take over the family business one day when her parents
retired. I read it over and over. My mother, at 15, saying she wanted to take
over her parents’ restaurant and stay in Cannon Beach. What changed so much in
the next five years that she needed to leave Cannon Beach, change her name, and
keep her entire life a secret? I sighed, frustrated at my lack of knowledge.

Next to the text
of the article, a picture of my mother as teenager, something I’d never seen,
looked back at me. She looked happy, standing in front of a sign reading The
Cannon Diner, apron on, pencil and small wired notebook in her hand. She stood
there, looking just like me on a regular day at work at the Red Barn.

I went back to my
search and, after filtering through more irrelevant and unrelated stories,
found an article about the Diner’s closing. Per the Astorian, my grandparents
had died in a boating accident in early 1990 out on the ocean, leaving behind
only my mom as next of kin. Apparently their debts were such that the
restaurant needed to be sold to pay them off. There was no mention of my mother
or what she planned to do next. I closed my eyes. I’m sure losing her parents
in an accident, and then losing the restaurant too, were very hard for her. I
knew exactly how she felt. Maybe she needed to get away, get out of Cannon
Beach and have a fresh start, like I did when I left Portland.

But then why did
she look so hopeful and nervously happy in that picture at the social? I
searched the Astorian for the two-page spread of the social I’d found back at
the Cannon Beach library. As soon as it popped up, I appreciated how much
better the records at the Central Library were compared to those out on the
coast. The two-page spread had been a full-color story, not the black and white
version I’d seen back home.