In Search of Eden, page 14
She got into Mr. Cooper’s Cadillac and headed toward town, keeping a wary eye out for law enforcement. The day was fine, the sun already gently shining. Abingdon seemed bustling with pent-up springtime energy. Her mood picked up in response, and she felt a sense of optimism. She passed a nursery and garden center, a huge lot filled with trees and flowering bushes and pots of colorful blossoms. They were doing a booming business, as was the feed and grain store and the John Deere outlet nearby, if the cars in the lots were any indication. She stopped and asked both places if they were hiring and took applications, though neither one had openings at the moment.
She bought a newspaper at the first Stop and Go, then quickly scanned the want ads. There was a job opening at a retirement home and another one at a grocery store. But first she would follow her heart. She headed toward the elementary school.
It looked different with the children present. Something about it seemed alive and vital today, instead of quiet and dead, as it had the day before. An American flag was flapping in the breeze, the metal clip clanging cheerfully against the flagpole like a tinny bell. The school was new and low slung with lots of windows. As she came closer, she could see inside some of the classrooms. A group of upper elementary-age students were staring toward the front of the room looking bored. One boy sitting near the window watched her, and she smiled at him. She passed a first-or second-grade class that had the children’s artwork taped to the windows. They were vibrant scenes in primary colors with neckless people and strange perspectives. She grinned. She liked kids. She had missed being around them. However, she was disappointed when she made her inquiries.
“I’m sorry, we’re not doing any more hiring this year,” the principal told her. “We just filled our last position in the lunchroom, and unless you’re a certified teacher who can substitute, I don’t have anything else available. And even in that case, there wouldn’t be time left in the school year to process your security clearance.”
Miranda thanked her and left. She didn’t bother to leave her résumé. She wouldn’t be here in the fall.
She went to the high school and middle school, but there was only one opening between them, again for a certified position. The same problems with the security clearance and fingerprints existed there. She’d come too late to work at any of the schools. Having access to student records could have been invaluable. Frustrated, she sighed.
She stopped by the nursing home next. A tall, thin woman with curly gray hair and an awkward manner looked over Miranda’s application and said they were looking for someone with training and experience to work as a physical therapy aide.
“I’m a fast learner,” Miranda said hopefully.
“Sorry,” the woman said, shaking her head.
Disheartened, Miranda went to the grocery store, where she filled out another application but was told she would be called.
By then it was dinnertime. She stopped at a Hardee’s and had a hamburger—she was really going to have to start eating something besides hamburgers—then took her coffee back outside and sat under a tree while she drank it. Would she have been discouraged if this were Kankakee or Pittsburgh? No, this was just the first day. She almost never got a job on the first day, but she almost always had one by the end of the first week.
She watched television in her hotel room, then spent the next morning filling out applications everywhere else she could think of: two banks, a gas station, the Barter Theatre—a local historic attraction—a pet store, an art gallery, the Dixie pottery store, a hairdresser, three boutiques, two restaurants. She stopped in plenty of time to find the attorney’s office, which was near the downtown area.
She passed bookstores, art galleries, antique shops, a few fancy clothing boutiques and jewelry stores, a wine shop, a quilt shop, and a sporting goods store that advertised guided hikes on the Virginia Creeper trail, part of the Appalachian Trail, which apparently passed near here. After a few more minutes of looking, she found the attorney’s office, parked the car behind the building where it wouldn’t attract unwanted attention in the form of a hot-dog-small-town policeman who had too much time on his hands, and went inside. She filled out a few generic forms and, after fifteen minutes or so, was ushered into the inner sanctum.
C. Dwight Judson looked every bit the part of the gentrified country lawyer. He was portly and well dressed with a florid complexion and dark hair dramatically streaked with gray. His office consisted of wall-to-wall mahogany bookshelves, a huge mahogany desk, and oriental carpets on the hardwood floors. Miranda didn’t feel an instinctive affinity, but she suspended judgment. She didn’t need to be his new best friend; she just needed some advice.
“Please, sit down,” he invited, rising from his chair with courtly graciousness.
She sat.
“May I offer you coffee or tea?”
“No thank you,” she said.
“Well, then, how may I help you today?” he asked in his genteel accent.
She plunged off the high dive without a preliminary toe dip. “I had a baby eleven years ago and gave it up for adoption. I want to find it,” she said.
To his credit, C. Dwight didn’t bat an eye. “Don’t know the sex?”
She shook her head. “I was a child and drugged. They were quick.”
“What state?”
“Tennessee.”
“Know anything at all about the adoptive parents?”
She reached into her purse and brought out the envelope. He took it from her, looked carefully at the postmark, then took the photograph out and held it up to the light. “Not much to go on,” he said, handing it back. His expression was sober.
“No.” She felt hope sag.
“Well, let’s see what we know,” he said briskly, taking a yellow legal tablet out of his top drawer.
Hope bobbed up again.
He asked her a series of rapid-fire questions, and she answered them the best she could. Who was the father? Who had been her legal guardian at the time of birth? What hospital? What date? Who was the physician?
“Were you given any non-identifying information about the adoptive family?”
“No,” she said.
“Did you sign a relinquishment of parental rights?”
“Probably,” she admitted. “There were a bunch of legal papers my mother made me sign.”
“Do you know what she did with your copies afterward?”
“She’s dead,” she said bluntly. “And I assume she destroyed them. It would be like her to do that. I’ve looked through all her effects, including her safety deposit box. This is all there was,” she said, nodding toward the picture she now clutched in her hand.
“Do you have your copy of the original birth certificate?” he asked.
She shook her head. “If she had it, I never saw it.”
C. Dwight shook his head, then leaned back in his chair, making his ample middle even more rotund. “Let me give you a little lesson. The short version of Adoption 101.”
She nodded and listened carefully.
“When a child is born whose birth parents have decided to arrange for adoption, an original birth certificate is issued in the state of birth with the names of the birth parents, the time of birth, the weight, sex of the child, and so on. The birth parents are entitled to that certificate, no matter what comes later.”
Her pulse fluttered a little, thinking of the things she could learn from just one document.
“At the time of the adoption hearing, before which appropriate notice has been served to the birth parents, the attorney, or whoever is handling the adoption, presents the judge in the state of the child’s birth with a release of parental rights signed by both birth parents. At that time the judge severs the birth parents’ rights.”
It sounded very final, and her stomach gave a lurch.
“Meanwhile, the adoptive parents’ attorney presents the court with a petition of adoption. The judge evaluates whether they would make suitable parents, and if everything is in order, he usually grants it. At that time, a second birth certificate is issued, called the amended birth certificate. It has the child’s name, sex, weight, place, time, and date of birth just like the original, but instead of the birth parents’ names, the adoptive mother and father are named as the child’s parents.”
“That’s just wrong,” Miranda burst out. “That’s a lie. On a legal paper.”
C. Dwight tipped his head philosophically. “That’s the meaning of adoption,” he said gently. “Adopted children become indistinguishable from birth children in every sense of the word that matters.”
She sniffed back tears and cleared her throat. And she felt for all the world as if she’d just been robbed. “So the child might not even know he or she is adopted.”
“I suppose not,” he allowed, “though most of the people who know about such things highly discourage that kind of secrecy any longer. Bad for everybody when it comes out,” he said. “And it always does.”
She sat in silence.
“Anyhow,” he said, “that’s the long and the short of it. The amended birth certificate is the one the adoptee uses all his or her life to register for school, get a passport, get married, whatever. The original birth certificate is sealed along with the adoption records, but you should have received a copy. You were entitled to it.”
She noticed his use of the past tense. “So there’s nothing I can do now?”
“Actually, you should be seeing a Tennessee lawyer, since Tennessee was the state of the birth and the adoption. But it really doesn’t matter.”
“Since there’s no hope.”
C. Dwight looked genuinely sorry. “There is no provision in the law for allowing any identifying information of a minor child to the birth mother or of the birth mother to a minor child. And there won’t be any in the original birth certificate, even if you could obtain a copy. But the state of Tennessee just passed a law that allows adopted children to petition for those records to become unsealed after they turn twenty-one.”
“That’s a long time from now,” she said. “My child is only eleven.” She thought for a minute. “I’m over twenty-one, though. Can I look at the records and contact the adoptive parents? Maybe through an intermediary?”
He shook his head. “Unfortunately, it all depends on the age of the adoptee, not the birth mother. And I’m also afraid you may never be given any more information than is on the original birth certificate. I’m sorry,” he said again. “You can register with the Tennessee Department of Human Services,” he said. “When your child turns twenty-one, he or she can contact them and, with your consent on file, will be given your identifying information.”
“That seems like a long time from now.” She was trying not to cry.
They sat in silence for a minute.
“I can call a friend of mine who practices in Tennessee. We can request a court order to get you a copy of the original birth certificate.”
“What are the chances?”
He shrugged. “Usually there needs to be a compelling reason.”
“So there’s nothing else you can suggest?” she asked, her voice sounding pitiful and small in his large room.
He folded his hands, leaned back again, and stared at the ceiling, obviously thinking. “You could hire an investigator,” he said. “But I have to tell you, it’s a long shot.”
Miranda shook her head. “I want to keep a low profile,” she said. “Besides, an investigator wouldn’t have anything more to go on than I do.”
“I think you’re probably right.”
She blinked and cleared her throat. “What do I owe you?” she asked, reaching for her purse.
C. Dwight held up his hand. “You don’t owe me a thing,” he said. “I’m only sorry I can’t do more to help you.”
Miranda nodded and stood. “Thank you,” she said. They shook hands and she left.
The day was still fine. The birds were still singing, but it might as well have been raining. She left the car where it was and started walking. She found herself at an intersection with a huge church on each corner. She went toward the closest one, St. James Methodist, and sat down on the white marble steps. The sun shone on her, and the warm steps gave her a momentary feeling of comfort. She took out the picture and looked at it again.
This was her baby. She had looked at the image so many times in the last few days that she had memorized that face. Dark eyes, though it was hard to see whether they were blue or brown, dark hair that was short and curly, a round smooth face, pink cheeks. And most importantly, the baby was smiling and looked well fed and happy. That’s what mattered, she told herself again. That her baby had a good home.
“I thought I saw someone out here.”
Startled, Miranda turned to see a man coming through the double doors of the church. He was probably sixty-five or so and looked Hispanic. He was fit and lean, had closely cropped, graying hair and wore a goatee, a friendly smile, jeans, and a T-shirt. “I’m Hector Ruiz,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I work here.”
“Miranda DeSpain,” she said, rising to shake his hand. “I hope it’s all right for me to be here.”
“Sit, sit,” he urged her. “This is a great spot to enjoy the sunshine. In fact, do you mind if I join you for a moment?”
“Be my guest,” she said smiling. He nodded and smiled, too, then sat down. She put the picture back in the envelope and slipped it into her purse. “What do you do here?” she asked.
“I’m the pastor,” he said, “but I run the food bank today. And for a second, just glancing at the top of your head, I thought you were someone else.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s a little early for her, though.” He smiled. He had a nice, gentle smile, and Miranda liked him instinctively.
She returned his smile.
“You new around these parts?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’m from Nashville originally, but I’ve been sort of roaming around the country for the last six or seven years.”
“Doing what, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Little of this. Little of that.” She glanced toward him. His eyes were interested, but he seemed to sense she didn’t want to divulge much.
“What brings you here?” he asked.
She swallowed. She was going to have to answer that question eventually, but she hadn’t planned on doing so quite so soon. She looked toward the kind face, the warm eyes, and she couldn’t bring herself to lie to him. “I don’t think I should say.”
He tipped his head to the side a little. “That’s fair enough. Although you never know—if you share your burdens, someone might be able to help you.”
She frowned. It was certainly a point, and he had put his finger on her exact dilemma. She needed information, but she had to keep a secret. It seemed like the two were mutually exclusive goals. She could take a chance and trust someone, and suddenly she saw in her mind a rickety rope bridge spanning a razor-sharp chasm. This fellow, Pastor Hector, with the warm eyes and friendly smile whom she did not know from Adam, was out in the middle, beckoning her to follow him. What was she? Insane? She shook her head slightly. He nodded his.
“You’re absolutely right,” he said, even though she had not spoken. “You have no reason to trust me.”
And she supposed it was what her mother had called her contrary nature, but having him say that made her want to argue with him that she should. Was she crazy? She gave an ironic little chuckle. “I’m a real piece of work,” she said, shaking her head. She wished she could root out that part of her that was like her mother, so mistrustful and doubting. She hated it.
“You certainly are,” he said, and she startled back to the present.
“You’re His poema,” he said, “His masterpiece, His magnum opus.”
Before she could question who the “he” was or argue, the pastor rose up and brushed off his jeans.
“Alas, I must go,” he said, extending his hand.
She smiled again. He reminded her of some Spanish noble, some chivalrous Don Quixote who would tilt at windmills in her defense.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Miranda DeSpain. I hope our paths cross again soon.”
She shook his hand again, nodded and smiled, and watched his back disappearing into the church. She almost followed him in, but she was struck with the foolishness of that course of action. She had things to find out, and the answers most certainly did not lie inside those doors.
Miranda spent the rest of the week on a futile search for jobs, getting more and more discouraged with each day that went by. By Sunday afternoon she was so lonely she called Aunt Bobbie. Her aunt was friendly, but her conversation was sparse. Miranda had the feeling Aunt Bobbie regretted giving her the picture, or at least regretted opening a sensitive subject. Her aunt listened while Miranda described her talk with the attorney and disavowed any knowledge of an original birth certificate.
“I gave you all I found,” she said wearily. “But there is something else I should tell you.”
Her voice sounded as if she dreaded the prospect, and Miranda wondered how many more surprises there could be.
“Your daddy called looking for you,” she said.
When Miranda heard it, her heart dropped like a stone. “When?” she asked, and she heard a child’s forlorn wail come out of her mouth.
“Just after you left,” Aunt Bobbie said.
“Why didn’t you call me?” she demanded, all attempt at civility abandoned. She felt angry, tired of having things kept from her by well-meaning people.
“I should have,” Aunt Bobbie said, “but he didn’t leave a number or say where he was. I thought it would just upset you. And I was right,” she added, a tiny bit of reproach in her voice.
“Did he say anything?” Desperation was in her voice now and she felt once more the bitter irony. She had missed out on her own chance for reunion with her flesh-and-blood father while chasing after her phantom child.
