Child of Mine (5 page)

Set against the wide window overlooking the tree-dominated yard, Jack's oak desk was piled with bills, statements, and receipts. An aviator Snoopy mug—a gift from San—sat at his right hand, where tendrils of steam curled from his third cup of the day, his limit.

He worked for a while in silence, studying the latest monthly P&L report for his business, Higher Ground Aviation, Inc. Some of the numbers were lower than he'd anticipated.

When he heard the knock at his office door, he looked up. “It's open,” he said.

Laura's head appeared around the door. Smiling demurely, she went to sit in the chair nearest the door, the typical routine when they reviewed her plans for the week. She brushed back a loose hair and bumped her
Kapp
slightly off-kilter.

“I forgot to mention, Cousin Peter dropped me off today.” She met Jack's gaze. “My car's on the fritz again.”

Jack waved off the imminent request. “I can always drive you, Laura. Besides, Nattie loves to visit the country.”
Amish country.

Laura seemed relieved but a little embarrassed. He mentioned the two o'clock meeting at school to discuss Nattie's progress, and Laura nodded to confirm this. She looked at her notes. “So, it's the grocery store, Bill's Hardware, and Walmart.” She bit her lip. “Oh, and how much do you want to spend on flowers this year?” she asked, referring to the annuals that graced the perimeter of the house each summer.

“I'll leave that up to you, Laura.”

“
Denki.
I mean, thanks.” She blushed.

After all these years, he still found her shyness endearing.

“Something else I've been thinking about.” She began to describe her ideas for a terraced garden out front. “It's time to replace the one I made some years back.”

“Sounds great,” Jack said. “Do whatever you'd like.”

Laura twisted in her chair and peeked around the door, no doubt looking for Nattie, then reached up to close the door, signaling the start of their private discussion.

Leaning forward, Jack filled her in on his chat with Nattie last night, leaving out Nattie's obsession with playing matchmaker. When he finished, Laura covered her face with her hands for a moment. “I daresay this all got started at the park,” she said, beginning her “sad tale.”

Apparently the place had been crammed with Nattie's classmates and their mothers. Things were going along just fine, according to Laura, until Nattie began calling her Mom. Not wanting to embarrass Nattie, Laura had played along, but during the walk home Laura felt the need to explain tactfully that while she was flattered, she wasn't really Nattie's mother. Therefore, it wasn't appropriate for her to accept such an honored title.

Nattie took it well at first, but as the afternoon progressed she became rather dejected. Laura tried to talk to her before she left, but Nattie shrugged it off.

“I don't think it bothered her as much as you think,” Jack offered.

“I hope not.” Laura adjusted her head covering, and the way she did it made him think of Nattie's bold statement,
“And you can't say she's not pretty
.”

In the past, Laura's appearance—her dress, her lack of makeup—had been an occasional topic of dinnertime talk, especially the times San visited. Still unmarried at twenty-nine, Laura Mast had adopted the Beachy Amish tradition of wearing long plain dresses in a variety of colors, her honey-colored hair parted down the middle and pulled severely back in a bun beneath her white formal cup-shaped prayer veiling. Her
Kapp,
Laura called it, seemed to be a metaphor for her restrained life, as if the freeness of movement was strictly forbidden.

In spite of her plain appearance, it was impossible to disguise Laura's soft feminine lines, the allure of her haunting, if beautiful,
brown eyes. There was also that inexplicable something that seemed to whirl about her, especially when she smiled, like sunshine breaking through clouds.

Laura brightened suddenly, getting up and moving toward his aviation wall, to Jack's custom-made shelf. “Oh . . . I believe I've missed this.”

He followed her gaze proudly, not surprised she hadn't seen it before, as he'd only recently purchased the autographed model of the Bell X-1, signed by Chuck Yeager. The X-1 was best known for being the first aircraft to exceed the speed of sound in controlled, level flight.

Studying it closely, her hands clasped as if in prayer, Laura seemed enamored with the addition. He filled her in on the history behind the acquisition, pointing to the empty spot next to it, a place reserved for something—anything—signed by Wilbur Wright.

Laura whistled softly. “What sort of autograph?”

“I saw his signed pilot's license for sale. That would be nice, but too expensive. I can't justify it.”

Laura stepped back, surveying the entire wall. “It's amazing, ya know, how man ever learned to fly, really.”

Jack smiled, amused with her fascination. As far as he knew, she'd never set foot in a plane, and he felt a twinge of guilt. Although flying was a no-no for the Amish, he'd never thought to ask her.

Just then Nattie burst in the door. “What's everybody looking at?” she asked, then groaned. “Oh, just the airplane stuff.” She folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. “Are we going shopping or not? I'm popping out of my skin here.”

Jack chuckled and Laura dutifully followed Nattie out the door. Moments later, Nattie was back to blow a kiss; he caught it on his cheek and blew one back. Giggling, she twiddled her fingers good-bye, and then was gone.

W
hen her shift was over, Kelly called a quick good-bye to Hailey and drove back to her small apartment, a remodeled attic above Agnes Brown's creaky house, which smelled of eucalyptus from the vaporizer her landlady constantly ran.

Alone, Kelly enjoyed a long, steamy shower, washing away the memory of the night shift and of Melody's sudden reappearance. Later, at the bedroom end of the studio apartment, Kelly put on a white knee-length T-shirt, pulled the blinds optimistically, and hurried to bed. She reached for her room-darkening mask and jerked the covers over her head, and though she rarely eked out more than four hours of sleep at a time, she had high hopes for today.
Five's a bonus,
she thought.

But as usual, Kelly struggled to fall asleep, lying awake for hours, until she finally succumbed out of pure exhaustion. At just after one o'clock her cell phone rang, which she'd forgotten to silence. Frustrated and dog-tired, she ignored it, letting the call go to voice mail.

Minutes later, annoyed by curiosity, she flipped up her mask and checked the message.
The lab results must be in,
she realized,
feeling a rush of anticipation. Quickly, she called back and reached Cara, one of the clerks she'd gotten to know over the years. “Do you mind scanning it in and emailing it to me, pretty please?”

Cara agreed but said it might be an hour. “We're getting slammed here.”

Bleary-eyed, Kelly changed her mind. “You know what? I'll be right over.” She hung up and sat on the edge of the bed, her spirits buoyed.
This is
it!
Her trip to Malibu a mere three days ago was about to pay off.

Kelly wandered out to the mini-kitchen, drank some stale coffee, and discovered something bagel-ish. Spreading on cream cheese from the fridge and taking a bite, she promised to improve her diet tomorrow. She hurried back to her room, dressed, and headed out to her Toyota. Thankfully, the testing center was only ten minutes away. She started the car and gripped the steering wheel, resisting the urge to fist pump.

Hold steady, Kel,
she told herself.

When she arrived at the testing center, Cara was at the front counter fielding calls. The cheap seats were filled with an assortment of folks seeking to satisfy occupational requirements, submit to drug testing, or discover their own personal nutritional profiles.

Cradling the phone in her neck, Cara reached behind her, removed an envelope, and held it out to Kelly. It was a simple business envelope with
Lab Tests
printed on the lower right hand corner, identified by Cara's own handwriting:
Kelly Maines.

Kelly's stomach filled with butterflies. Back in the car, she placed the envelope on the passenger seat and drove to a nearby park.
Somewhere
quiet.

She chose a spot near a row of bushes, aware of the afternoon sun streaming through her windows. She kept the car running with the air-conditioner on full blast. Turning off the radio, Kelly sat in silence for a moment, collecting herself.
Here it is,
she thought.
But
I have to open it.

She smiled, took a breath, and cued up some music. An old
tune by Sixpence whispered beneath the whirring sound of the fan. A brisk wind buffeted her car, slightly rocking it.
This bucket of bolts could blow away.

Do
it.
At last, she opened the envelope, removed the folded DNA Maternity Evaluation Report, and began reading. Ignoring the body of the report, which defined the genetic system and the chromosome location, Kelly skipped down to the conclusion. The words at the end hit her like a punch in the gut, sucking the air out of her.

Kelly Maines is
excluded as the biological mother of Sydney Moore.

She breathed in, faltering, then exhaled, all the while squeezing the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. If the wind wasn't bad enough, a swirling cloud crept across the sky, hiding the sun, shrouding the entire park with a dismal shadow.

Excluded.

No match. Sydney Moore was not her daughter, after all.

Old defensive routines kicked in, years of dealing with bad news. “Didn't I suspect it might be negative?” she told herself. “It's okay.”

But she'd staked everything on this one. This report was supposed to redeem eight years of fruitless effort.

I still believe
,
she prayed softly.
All things are possible.
She closed her eyes as tears slipped through, falling down her cheeks.
It
's okay,
she assured herself again.

She reached for her cell phone and called Ernie, her private investigator. When he answered, she blurted out, “No luck, Ernie. We're still in business.”

Ernie sighed audibly.

“She looked so much like me. She really did, Ernie. More than the others, you know? She had my eyes. My hair. My
freckles
 . . .” Her words trailed off into a frustrated sigh as Ernie seemed to digest this.

“How're you holding up?”

She swiped at a rogue tear but sniffed defiantly. “Ready to hit the ground running.”

“I mean, are you sleeping, kiddo?”

“Enough,” Kelly replied, exaggerating. She hadn't slept enough in years.

Silence spooled out.

“I can do this, Ernie.”

“Okay. Then I've got one more lead for you.”

She nodded, feeling relieved.
Another prospect.
They were officially back on the train they'd ridden for eight exasperating years.

She'd first met Ernie Meyers at her church. He was a former policeman whose brother, she would later learn, had once worked for the CIA. For all she knew, Ernie had worked for the government, as well, although he'd never admitted to it, and she wouldn't have asked.

Semiretired, Ernie offered to work for her
“around
the edges, at cost.”
Cost, however, wasn't cheap—to the tune of thousands each month.

In the early years, Kelly went door to door, unafraid and unashamed, pleading for contributions and showing the news clippings for proof. She spoke at churches, talking about keeping the faith in spite of life's challenges, and passing the plate. Sometimes she even stood on street corners with nothing more than a sign:
Help Me Find Baby Emily
.

Buoyed by prayer and encouraged by her church family, there were times when hope and courage streamed through her soul like the mighty Niagara Falls.
Today is the day I might find her!

Eventually, she even set up a nonprofit organization, promoting it through her website, Finding My Emily, where she also itemized her expenses online, down to the penny, assuring her contributors that nothing they gave her was applied to personal expenses.

Over time, she'd raised a quarter of a million dollars, but it was nearly all gone now. And lately, contributions had leveled off. The economy was rough and too many years had passed since Emily had been taken, and with the passage of time, fewer people believed in, or contributed toward, Kelly's goal.

Fortunately, several years ago an older couple, Chet and Eloise Stilson, charitable and compassionate millionaires, had taken her under their collective wings. Without them, Kelly would have gone broke, and yet, despite Chet and Eloise's ongoing generosity, overall funds were dwindling.

“I'll need some time to qualify her,” Ernie said, referring to the lead. “You're gonna like this one if it pans out, but I don't want to send you on a wild goose chase.”

“I can wait.”

“And . . . I hate to mention this, but I've only got a few hundred bucks left on retainer.”

Kelly paused. “Uh, I don't have a lot at the moment, but I can give you what I have.”

“That's fine, honey. I owe you some free time.”

“No, you don't—”

“Shh,” he whispered, like a crotchety but loving grandfather. “I'm not quitting on you just because the money's short. I'll work slower if I have to, but I won't pull out till you say the word.”

“Thanks, Ernie. You've been—” She stopped, moved by his generosity. “I don't know what I'd do without you.”

“We're gonna find her, Kelly,” he growled. “I promise you that.”

Kelly returned home, pausing in the doorway and blinking at her familiar surroundings. Eager to access her website for possible leads, her only contribution to Ernie's efforts, she needed to keep working, if only to minimize her disappointment. She'd long harbored the belief that someone could email her out of the blue:
Hey, we saw
someone who HAS to be your kid.

It could happen
,
she thought.

Years before, she'd joined a number of support groups, one local and a few online. The people behind the groups taught you how to cope, how to go from day to day without collapsing, and how to let go. But that was the one trick she hadn't learned—letting
go. She refused to become comfortable with loss. And she didn't need friends who helped her cope. She wanted her daughter back.

Job one,
she reminded herself,
get more money.
But she couldn't bear to ask Chet and Eloise for more. As it was, they deserved an accounting of the money she'd already spent.

Kelly headed to the kitchen and poured some soda over ice, something to soothe her stomach. Praying for wisdom, she trudged to the computer, touched the mouse, and brought up the screen saver: Emily at one month old, cooing at the camera. For a few minutes Kelly indulged herself, savoring more photos: Emily at six weeks, wearing her cuddly pink sleeper; Emily reaching for the colorful
Little Mermaid
crib mobile, and Kelly's favorite, baby Emily and Kelly cheek to cheek.

Another photo of Emily was taken that long-ago October, twenty-four hours before the worst day of Kelly's life. She'd awakened in the predawn hours, trying her best to remember—
had Emily cried at all last
night?
No, she hadn't. Her precious baby hadn't cried
once
that night. And why was that?

Pushing the horrid memories into the farthest corner of her mind, Kelly clicked over to her website, intending to read a few of the old posts, anything encouraging. Instead, she found a recent message, posted for everyone to see:
You're a
fraud, Ms. Maines. I gave you two hundred bucks two
years ago, and you're STILL dredging for contributions? I
want a refund!

The writer gave his name and email, but no address, so she swallowed her frustration and answered him directly.
I apologize. I haven't found Emily
as quickly as I'd hoped. I will return your
money. Thank you for your prayers through the years.

Accessing her online banking records from two years prior, Kelly located his address on the copy of the check. She removed her small file box from the cabinet, found the nonprofit checkbook, and wrote a check for the amount. Just as deliberately, she addressed the envelope and carried it out to the mailbox.

She stood in the heat of the glaring sun, thankful when a subtle
cool breeze whispered against her cheek. She heard the
clack-clack-clack-clack
on the sidewalk across the street, and spotted a red-shirted boy balancing precariously on his silver skateboard. From behind her, she heard a soft
meow
, and turned to see Felix, the landlady's calico cat, padding toward her. Smiling, she crouched to pet Felix as he nudged against her leg and purred profusely. “You must be hungry, little one.”

The meowing continued, so Kelly scooped up the cat and hurried upstairs to pour some water and Meow Mix. Felix was already sipping from the bowl before Kelly placed it on the ground.

Watching Agnes's cat drink, Kelly felt sorry for the little rascal, not only because of the unfortunate name, bless his heart, but because Felix's owner was rarely home to feed him. Then, thinking of the last people on earth who still believed in her, Kelly punched in their phone number. Chet Stilson answered on the second ring.