Claudia and the Great Search

  I left the bank. My face was burning.

  But I wasn’t giving up. I was on a roll. I had another idea. Even though I don’t go to a pediatrician anymore — I go to a doctor who specializes in “adolescent care” — who would know more about my birth and my history than my former pediatrician, Dr. Dellenkamp?

  Her office isn’t far from the bank, so I hopped on my bike and rode to Dr. Dellenkamp’s. On the way, I began to worry. What if the next time my father wanted to get into our safety deposit box (with the key, of course), the lady at the bank told him that I had been there? What would my father think? What excuse could I give him if he asked what I’d been doing? Then it occurred to me that I couldn’t just waltz into Dr. Dellenkamp’s office and ask her if I was adopted. She wasn’t my doctor anymore, but she had been until recently, and she might call my parents or something.

  I needed a story and I needed one fast.

  I thought and thought. I couldn’t come up with anything. Well, actually, I thought of several stories, but no good ones. I thought of telling Dr. Dellenkamp that Janine had come down with a rare blood disease, and that only the blood from a close relative (her sister) could save her life. But of course if I said that, the doctor would call my parents immediately to see how Janine was doing.

  I thought of telling Dr. Dellenkamp that I’d been assigned a school project — writing my autobiography — and I wanted to start with my birth record, and also maybe see my medical charts. I knew that story sounded slightly fishy, though, and anyway, Dr. Dellenkamp probably couldn’t release information like that to a kid.

  I sighed. Maybe I could just be very subtle. I could stop in, chat with the receptionist for awhile, say I missed my old doctor, and ask to speak to her. Then, when I was with the doctor, I’d casually say something like, “So Doctor D., tell me about when I was born. Was my father a wreck? Did Janine get to come to the hospital to see her new sister?”

  That might work. Just in case, I decided I would have a backup plan. Maybe the school project wasn’t too far off base after all. At least I could ask to see my birth record.

  Okay. I was ready.

  I parked my bicycle in front of Dr. Dellenkamp’s office and chained it to a bike rack. My heart began to pound as I turned the knob on the glass door that read PEDIATRIC OFFICES.

  I stepped inside and walked to the reception desk. The woman on duty recognized me right away and I recognized her. Her name is Miss Wilson.

  “Hello, Claudia!” she said, sounding a bit surprised. “What brings you here? We haven’t seen you in over a year.”

  Things were off to a good start.

  “Hi!” I replied. “I just dropped by for a visit. I kind of miss this place. Oh, and also I need some information for a school project. I need to talk to Doctor Dellenkamp.”

  “I’m sorry, Claudia, but she’s with a patient now,” Miss Wilson told me. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Gosh, I don’t know,” I replied. “I wanted to ask her a couple of questions about when I was born — and maybe see my birth record or something. It’s for a school project,” I added in a rush.

  Miss Wilson looked at me oddly. She paused. Then she frowned. Finally she said, “Claudia, Doctor Dellenkamp wasn’t your pediatrician when you were born. I thought you knew that. You didn’t start seeing her until you were about two and your sister was about five.”

  I frowned back. Talk about fishy stories. How come I didn’t remember that? How come no one had told me before?

  “Who was my first pediatrician?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

  “Goodness, I’m not sure,” said Miss Wilson. “I’d have to ask the doctor if I could check your old charts.”

  “Oh, no. That’s okay,” I said quickly. “Never mind.” That would be going a bit too far for a simple school report. It might cause Dr. Dellenkamp to call my parents. I changed tactics and smiled brightly. “Oh, well,” I said. “I tried. Maybe I can interview my parents for the — the report. My teacher likes interviews. Thanks, Miss Wilson. ‘Bye!”

  I left hurriedly, hoping Miss Wilson wouldn’t even remember to tell the doctor that I’d been there.

  I pedaled home, thinking over what had happened that afternoon. And the more I thought, the more I became convinced of something. Miss Wilson had lied to me. She was covering up … a secret.

  The next Monday afternoon I was back at Kristy’s house, watching Emily and David Michael while Kristy baby-sat for the Papadakis kids. This time I had ridden home on the school bus with her.

  It had been awhile since I’d had that … opportunity. How did Kristy do it twice every weekday? I wondered. It was awful. The sixth-grade boys tormented the sixth-grade girls, and everyone seemed to have leftover lunch food with them. Only they didn’t eat it, they threw it around.

  “I’m used to it, I guess,” said Kristy, as a dill pickle sailed over our heads. She watched it land in the aisle, and then went on to a different subject, as if the flying pickle didn’t exist.

  I was glad to get off the bus.

  Kristy headed for the Papadakises’, and I headed for her house. My sitting job started pretty much the way Dawn’s had the week before. Nannie left, Emily whimpered, David Michael arrived, and Emily stopped crying.

  But this time, David Michael didn’t invite a friend over. In fact, Timmy Hsu called and invited David Michael to his house, so I was left with Emily.

  “Well,” I said, looking into her deep dark eyes. “What shall we do today, Miss Emily?”

  “Boe!” exclaimed Emily, pointing across the kitchen at absolutely nothing. She grinned at me.

  What were Emily and I going to do all afternoon?

  Emily wandered into the den and I followed her. She found a box of crayons and a pad of paper, plopped onto the floor, and began scribbling. I remembered what Kristy had told us sitters at the BSC meeting: that the preschool teachers had said Emily wasn’t ready to attend school. She was still too far behind the other children.

  “Hey, Emily,” I said suddenly. “Show me the red crayon.” I was wondering exactly how much Emily did know — and if maybe I could teach her a few things.

  Emily just looked at me.

  I tried something easier. I knew Emily could follow simple instructions. “Give me a crayon, please,” I said.

  Very carefully, almost delicately, Emily pulled a blue crayon from the box and handed it to me.

  “Good girl!” I exclaimed, making a really big deal out of it. “Good girl! Thank you!”

  Emily beamed. She loved the attention. She gave me another crayon.

  “Oh, thank you!” I said. Then I added, “Now this time, give me the red crayon.”

  Emily frowned slightly. Then she smiled again — and handed me the purple crayon, followed by the yellow one.

  Okay, so Emily didn’t know her colors yet. She certainly couldn’t say their names and she couldn’t even identify them. I would have to try something simpler. I let Emily go back to her scribbling while I found a pair of scissors and a package of construction paper. I cut out two big blue squares, two big red squares, and two big yellow squares.

  When I was done, and the scissors had been put away, I said, “Hey, Emily, let’s play a game!” I laid three squares, one of each color, on the floor in front of Emily. She immediately abandoned her crayons. Then I handed Emily the second red square. “Look,” I said. “Here’s a red square. Can you find the other red one?” I showed her the three on the floor. Then, since I knew Emily had no idea what we were doing, I pointed to the red square. As soon as Emily picked it up, I praised her as if she’d just achieved world peace or something. I even tickled her, which made her giggle and kick her feet. Then I settled her down, spread out the three squares again, and this time gave her the second yellow one.

  “That’s yellow,” I told her emphatically. “Where’s the other yellow square?”

  Emily handed me the red one again, since she’d received such praise for that before.

  Hmm. This was going
to be harder than I’d thought.

  I tried something new. I mixed up the three squares, set them out in a different order, and gave Emily the second red square again.

  “Emily, that’s red,” I said. “Where’s the other red square?”

  Emily looked uncertainly at the squares in front of her. The red square had been in the middle before. Her hand went toward the middle square again, which was now the blue one.

  “Give me red, Emily,” I said, before she could make a mistake. “Give me the one that’s the same.”

  I realized something. I wasn’t teaching Emily colors. I was teaching her how to match. Was this what being a teacher was all about? Guiding someone toward something, step by step? It wasn’t easy. I began to have a little more respect for the teachers at SMS, especially my teachers, who probably had to work harder with me than they did with most other kids.

  Emily was looking over the squares in front of her.

  I decided to give her some help. Gently, I pulled her hand forward. I placed her red square next to the yellow one, then next to the blue one, and finally next to the red one.

  “There it is!” I cried, as we matched the two red squares. “There’s the one that’s the same.” I held the squares up for Emily. “They’re both red! They’re the same!”

  I could practically see a light go on in Emily’s head. Her eyes widened. “Buh!” she said.

  I mixed up the three squares again. Before I could even ask Emily to find the red one, she held it up triumphantly.

  Whoa! I think I felt as proud as Emily did. I rewarded her with a hug and a cracker. Then I tried switching tactics. I took away her red square and asked her to match the yellow one. After just two false tries, Emily understood what we were doing. She matched the blue one like a pro, and soon the game was too easy for her. I had to make it more difficult.

  I added other colors.

  Then I changed to shapes (all red, so the game wouldn’t be too confusing). Emily could match! Wait until Mrs. Brewer came home!

  I checked the time. We still had another twenty minutes together, and Emily hadn’t lost interest in what we were doing. I decided to go back to teaching her colors, so I put away the shapes and spread the red, yellow, and blue squares in front of her again. This time I didn’t hand her a square to match with, though. I just said, “Emily, show me red.” And then I gave her a hint. I pointed to the red one for her. When Emily picked it up — hugs!

  We were still playing the color game when Mrs. Brewer came home from work. Emily had been so intent on her colors that she didn’t even see her mother at first. When she finally glanced up and realized that Mrs. Brewer was standing in the doorway to the den, she leaped to her feet and gave her mother a tight squeeze around the legs.

  “Hi, Mrs. Brewer,” I said, standing up. “Emily and I were playing some matching and color games this afternoon.” I was about to add, “Do you want to see what Emily can do?” when Emily pulled her mother into the room and began showing off.

  Mrs. Brewer was impressed. Then she said the last thing I would have expected. “Claudia, how would you like to work with Emily for awhile? Maybe twice a week — at your house? I think that going to a new environment and working with someone Emily doesn’t live with would be good for her. It would be like going to school.”

  Me! A tutor? I couldn’t believe it! I’m usually the tutee. But of course I said, “Yes,” without even hesitating. Then Mrs. Brewer and I worked out the arrangements.

  When Dad picked me up on his way home from work, I was ecstatic!

  Stacey had an even bigger surprise than Chewy that evening (so did I), but she was wise enough not to mention it in the BSC notebook. Everyone would have read about it, and I didn’t want that. The big surprise had to do with my adoption.

  Anyway, Stacey arrived at the Perkinses’ at six-thirty, just as they were finishing an early dinner. Mr. Perkins was on his way to see a client (he’s a lawyer), and Mrs. Perkins was going to choir practice. She has a beautiful voice and sings with a group that has performed all over Connecticut, and also in New York City and Washington, D.C.

  “Mommy,” said Myriah, as her parents were getting ready to leave, “can Gabbie and I cook with real ingredients tonight?”

  Myriah is five and a half, and very smart. Gabbie is two and a half, and also very smart. The girls are famous in the neighborhood for memorizing and singing long songs. Myriah even takes dancing lessons. She and Gabbie have a baby sister, Laura, who’s just a few months old.

  “Cook with real ingredients?” repeated Mrs. Perkins uncertainly.

  “Puh-lease?” said Myriah and Gabbie at the same time.

  “I suppose,” replied their mother. “As long as you clean up afterward and are in bed by eight-thirty. Is that a deal?”

  “Deal!” cried Myriah and Gabbie.

  Mr. and Mrs. Perkins gave Stacey some instructions about Laura, and then Stacey said, “Excuse me, but what is ‘cooking with real ingredients’?”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Perkins. “The girls can use anything they find in the kitchen — milk, flour, chocolate chips, eggs, whatever — and concoct something. Just do me two favors.”

  “Okay,” said Stacey.

  “Make a list of any ingredients they use up so I can replace them, and keep an eye on what they put in their creation. Don’t let them eat it if it looks too awful.”

  “Okay,” replied Stacey dubiously. She was uncertain about this project. What if the girls wanted to use a dozen eggs? What if they mixed up something disgusting — like milk and vinegar — and insisted on tasting it? But the Perkinses didn’t seem worried, so Stacey decided not to worry, either.

  Mr. and Mrs. Perkins left then, and Stacey settled herself in a kitchen chair with Laura in her arms.

  “What do you think your sisters are going to make?” Stacey said to the baby. She held her tight, thinking, There’s nothing like the feel of a baby in your arms. She leaned over to smell Laura’s baby-smell: milk and powder and soap.

  “We’re going to make chocolate-chip cookies,” announced Myriah.

  “No,” said Gabbie. “Let’s make a green mess.”

  “A green mess?” said Stacey.

  “Yes,” replied Gabbie firmly. “You need lots of food coloring for that.”

  “But you can’t eat a green mess,” spoke up Myriah. “Wouldn’t you rather make cookies? Then we can eat them. I want to bake chocolate-chip cookies.”

  “Don’t you need a recipe?” asked Stacey.

  “Nope,” replied Myriah.

  Oh, well, thought Stace. They’re just playing.

  Gabbie finally agreed to make chocolate-chip cookies, as long as they were green. So Myriah expertly got out flour, vanilla, butter, sugar, an egg, baking soda, chocolate chips, and green food coloring. For someone who was just playing, she certainly seemed to know what she was doing.

  Then the girls began to mix the ingredients. Myriah gave instructions and Gabbie followed them, while Stacey held Laura and looked on, making sure that nothing that didn’t belong in cookies was added to the dough.

  Myriah seemed quite confident in her work, and she didn’t even use measuring cups or spoons. She just added things at random, tasted the dough occasionally, and then would say, “I think we need more flour, Gabbie,” or, “Just a little more sugar.”

  As they worked, they talked. “Know what, Gabbers?” said Myriah. “My friends Dana and Fiona are going to day camp this summer.”

  “What’s ‘day camp’?” asked Gabbie.

  Myriah tried to explain.

  Gabbie looked thoughtful. Finally she said, “Be careful of roses. They have horns on them. They’ll stick you.”

  “Thorns, not horns,” Myriah corrected her sister. “And what do roses have to do with day camp?”

  Gabbie shrugged.

  “Here,” said Myriah. “It’s time to stir in the food coloring and the chips. Then our dough will be ready.” Myriah handed a small bottle and the bag of chips to Gabbie, who gleef
ully dripped in some green coloring, and then poured a mountain of chocolate chips into the mixing bowl.

  Stacey looked around the kitchen, which was pretty messy, and then down at Laura, who had fallen asleep.

  “I better put your sister to bed,” said Stacey to Myriah and Gabbie. “Can you clean up while I do that?”

  “Sure,” said the girls, and Myriah added, “Then can we bake the cookies?”

  Bake them? Green cookies? Stacey hadn’t counted on that. She thought the girls were just fooling around. “I don’t know —” she began.

  “Please?” said Gabbie.

  “Please?” said Myriah. “It only takes ten minutes to bake chocolate-chip cookies.”

  “Let me think about it while I put Laura to bed,” replied Stacey. “You start cleaning up, okay? But don’t touch the oven.”

  So Stacey carried the sleeping Laura upstairs. The Perkinses had moved into Kristy’s old house, and Laura’s room was the one that had been David Michael’s. Stacey laid Laura (who was already in her sleeper) in the crib on her tummy, turned out the light, and tiptoed downstairs.

  The girls were still cleaning up the kitchen. Stacey helped them. When everything had been put away, Stacey inspected the dough. She couldn’t taste it because of her diabetes, but it looked surprisingly good, even if it was green. So she and the girls dropped it in spoonfuls onto cookie sheets and baked it in the oven — for ten minutes, as Myriah had suggested.

  When the timer rang, Stacey opened the oven door. The cookies were green, of course, but otherwise looked terrific. “You guys are great bakers!” exclaimed Stacey. “I can’t believe you didn’t use a recipe.”

  “Can we each have one before we go to bed?” asked Gabbie.

  “Sure. Just let them cool first. While we’re waiting, let’s go upstairs and you can put your pajamas on.”

  Myriah, Gabbie, and Stacey had been upstairs for about five minutes when they heard it…. CRASH!

  “Uh-oh,” said Myriah. “I bet that was Chewy.”