Amy Martin
393 Corinth Lane
Stoatesville, PA
Dear Karen,
Here are the papers you asked me to get signed. They are from the baby’s father and he says he will give up his rights to the baby. Please make sure the woman who wants to adopt him takes good care of him. He’s a good baby, and it’s not his fault he’s fussy and sick. I love him but I know this is what is the best thing for him and I will remember him always and keep him in my prayers.
Sincerely,
Amy
Ellen’s heart thundered in her chest, and she read the letter again, feeling a tingle just holding it in her hands. It was from Will’s birth mother, who had held this paper, had written this note, and had printed it out. So her name was Amy Martin. She sounded so sweet, and her pain in putting Will up for adoption came through even her simple lines. It was all Ellen could do not to pick up the phone and call her, but instead, she reached for her wine and raised her glass in a silent toast.
Thank you, Amy, for the gift of your child.
Oreo Figaro looked over, blinking, and she set down the wine, returned to the box, and kept digging, finally reaching more court papers, with her caption at the top. Consent of Birth Parent, read the heading, and the form showed Amy’s name and the Stoatesville address, and her birth date, which was July 7, 1983, and marital status, which read single. The paper was signed by Amy Martin under the sentence, I hereby voluntarily and unconditionally consent to the adoption of the above-named child. The paper had also been witnessed by Gerry Martin and Cheryl Martin, from the same address.
Ellen skipped to the next form, which was the consent of the birth father, and she learned his name and address with her heart in her throat:
Charles Cartmell
71 Grant Ave
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
She eyed his signature, a messy scrawl with barely comprehensible loops. So Charles Cartmell had been Will’s father, and she couldn’t help but wonder what he had been like. What he looked like. What he did for a living. How did he and Amy meet, and why did they never marry?
She returned to digging in the box but found nothing else relating to Will except his medical information sheet, which she already had in her file, stating that both birth parents had a history of high blood pressure. There was no mention of any heart problems, which was consistent with what she’d been told by the hospital, that Will’s heart defect could have originated with him. The state had a voluntary medical registry online, but Will’s birth parents had never registered. Still, the consent papers were a tangible answer to a question Ellen hadn’t been able to articulate, even to herself.
“Well, that settles that,” Ellen said aloud, startling Oreo Figaro. Her gaze fell on the papers on the table, and her thoughts strayed to poor Karen. She remembered that Karen had called to congratulate her on the day Will’s adoption papers were processed. It was so hard to believe that she would be dead a little over a month later, by her own hand. Ellen shuddered and took a last sip of wine. It was so awful to think of Karen doing that, with three little kids at home. Musko had been right about that much.
Where was a mother’s instinct then?
She couldn’t think about it now. It was late and she had to get to bed. She’d done enough for one day, except on her homicide story. She’d normally have drafted something after her interview with Laticia Williams, but tonight she was too beat. She set the wineglass down next to the box, but a bright pink splotch amid the clutter caught her eye. She moved the papers aside. It was the hot pink of Karen’s leather Filofax.
She picked it out and opened it, idly. It was a standard date book, a week on two opposing pages, and each page bore Karen’s neat script, noting her appointments and meetings by client name. Ellen felt a pang, looking at the record of a woman’s life, her time on earth divided into billable increments. What the diary couldn’t show was that, in those increments, this woman had changed lives.
She flipped back in time through the Filofax, slowing when she reached the week of July 13, the day on which Karen had committed suicide. That week began on Monday, July 10, and the Filofax showed a neat lineup of appointments. The eleventh showed Karen had a client meeting in the morning and a Women’s Way luncheon.
Ellen scanned the rest of the week, including the day Karen died. The lawyer had had appointments scheduled all day long, which made sense. Karen couldn’t have known that the night before, her husband would find out about her affair. Ellen was about to close the book when she noticed that one of the appointments, on Wednesday, didn’t have a name, but only an initial:
A, written next to the time: 7:15 P.M.
Ellen was intrigued. A nighttime meeting? Maybe A was Karen’s lover? She skipped back to the week before that, but there was no A, and then the week before that. There, in the middle of the week, on Wednesday, June 28.
A, also at 7:15.
She flipped pages to the week before, and then the week before that, which brought her to Wednesday, June 14.
A, this time at 9:30 P.M.
She mulled it over. That was the day before Will’s adoption was final, on June 15. She flipped back to earlier weeks, checking each one, but there were no other meetings with A. She sat back, thinking, and her gaze shifted to the letter on the table, from Amy Martin. The date on the letter was June 15.
Ellen thought a minute. There had been a meeting with A, and then the next day, a letter from Amy Martin. She put two and two together. “A” wasn’t Karen’s boyfriend. “A” could stand for Amy.
She sank into a chair at the table, her good mood evaporating. She looked again at the letter. It even said “in our meeting.” So Karen had had a meeting with Amy. But Ellen didn’t remember seeing Amy’s name in the Filofax, anywhere. She paged through it again, around June, and double-checked. There was no notation of a meeting with Amy Martin or Charles Cartmell, though all the other client meetings had been noted.
Ellen set down the Filofax and reached for her wine. She took a sip, but it tasted warm and bitter. She knew what she had to do, first thing tomorrow morning. Finish this thing once and for all. Put an end to her dwelling. She was driving herself nuts.
“Why can’t I leave well enough alone?” she asked, aloud.
But Oreo Figaro merely blinked in response.
Chapter Twenty-four
The next morning as Ellen put on her coat, she was already wondering how soon she could call Amy Martin. Will’s fever had broken, and he was running around the living room with a new Penn State football that Connie had just brought for him. Ellen withheld the lecture on not introducing new toys before school. Working mothers had no time for spontaneity unless it was scheduled.
“He knows just what to do!” Connie said, delighted. “My Mark was like that, too.”
“Look at me!” Will circled the coffee table with the blue football tucked under his arm. “Look, Mommy!”
“Watch where you’re going, buddy,” Ellen called back, and Oreo Figaro jumped out of the way as Will hurtled past him, turned left into the dining room, and ran into the kitchen. He ran through the kitchen, up and over the stairway, and ended up back in the living room, a circular floor plan designed for little boys and NASCAR drivers.
Connie said, “You know, he looks like a natural athlete.”
“You think?” Ellen picked up her purse and briefcase, listening to the pounding of Will’s feet through the kitchen. Whoever coined the expression pitter-patter-of-little-feet had a kitten, not a child.
“I should get Mark over here to throw the ball with him sometime.”
Will came running back into the living room and looked up grinning, his cheeks flushed. “I did it! I made a yesdown!”
“You mean a touchdown?” Connie corrected him, and Ellen laughed and held out her arms.
“Gimme a hug. I gotta go to work and you gotta go to school.”
“Mommy!” Will ran to her, and Ellen hugged and kissed him, brushing his bangs from his eyes.
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“Love you. Have fun at school.”
“Can I bring my football?” Will’s eyes widened with hope.
“No,” Ellen answered.
“Yes,” Connie said, at the same minute.
“I WANT TO!” Will hollered, jiggered up.
“Hey, quiet down, pal.” Ellen held his arm, trying to settle him. “No shouting in the house.”
“I want to bring my ball, Mommy!”
“Fine, okay.” Ellen didn’t want to leave on a bad note, another axiom of Working Mother Guilt.
“Goody!” Will rewarded her with another hug, dropping the football and throwing his arms around her neck.
Ellen felt a twinge of separation anxiety, worse than usual. Maybe because she knew what she was about to do, after she left.
Chapter Twenty-five
Ellen eyed the cars stacked ahead, their red taillights a glowing line, their exhaust trailing white plumes. The day was overcast and cold, and freezing rain had left an icy sleeve on the tree branches and a black veneer on the roads. The traffic stayed bad on the two-lane roads to Stoatesville, and in time, she found Corinth Street among the warren of rowhouses in a working-class neighborhood around an abandoned steel mill. She traveled down the street, reading the house numbers. Suddenly her cell phone started ringing in her purse, and she fumbled for it. The display showed a number she didn’t recognize, and she hit Ignore when she realized that the house coming up was number 393.
Amy Martin’s house.
A woman was standing in its driveway, scraping ice off the windshield of an old black Cherokee. Her back was turned, and she wore an Eagles knit cap, a thick black parka, jeans, and black rubber boots.
Amy?
Ellen pulled up in front of the house, grabbed her bag and file, got out, walked up the driveway. “Excuse me, Ms. Martin?” she asked, her heart thumping like crazy.
She turned, startled, and Ellen saw instantly that the woman was too old to be Amy Martin. She looked to be in her late sixties, and her hooded eyes widened under the Eagles hat. She said, “Jeez, you scared me!”
“Sorry.” Ellen introduced herself. “I’m looking for Amy Martin.”
“Amy’s my daughter, and she don’t live here anymore. I’m Gerry.”
Ellen tried to keep her bearings. Gerry Martin had been one of the witnesses on the consent form. She was looking into the eyes of Will’s grandmother, the first blood relative of his she had ever seen. “She gave this address as hers, two years ago.”
“She always does, but she don’t live here. I get all her mail, all those damn bills, I throw ’em all away.”
“Where does Amy live?”
“Hell if I know.” Gerry returned to scraping the windshield, shaving fragile curls of ice, making a krrp krrp sound. She pursed her lips with the effort, sending deep wrinkles radiating from her mouth. Her black glove was oversized, dwarfing the red plastic scraper.
“You don’t know where she is?”
“No.” Krrp krrp. “Amy’s over eighteen. It ain’t my business no more.”
“How about where she works?”
“Who said she works?”
“I’m just trying to find her.”
“I can’t help you.”
For some reason, Ellen hadn’t imagined there’d be an estrangement. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“A while.”
“A year or two?”
“Try five.”
Ellen knew it couldn’t be true. Gerry had signed the consent form two years ago. Why was she lying? “Are you sure?”
Gerry looked over, eyes narrowed under the fuzzy hat, scraper stalled on the windshield. “She owes you money, right? You’re a bill collector or a lawyer or somethin’?”
“No.” Ellen paused. If she wanted the truth, she’d have to tell the truth. “Actually, I’m the woman who adopted her baby.”
Gerry burst into laughter, showing yellowed teeth and bracing herself against the Jeep, scraper in hand.
“Why is that funny?” Ellen asked, and after Gerry stopped laughing, she wiped her eyes with the back of her big glove.
“You better come in, honey.”
“Why?”
“We got some talkin’ to do,” Gerry answered, placing her gloved hand on Ellen’s shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-six
Gerry went into the kitchen to make coffee, leaving Ellen in the living room, which was barely illuminated by two retro floor lamps, their lowwattage bulbs in ball-shaped fixtures on a stalk. Beige curtains covered the windows, and the air was thick with stale cigarette smoke. Flowered metal trays served as end tables flanking a worn couch of blue velveteen, and three mismatched chairs clustered around a large-screen TV.
Ellen crossed the room, drawn to photographs that ran the length of the wall. There were oversized school pictures of boys and girls in front of screensaver blue skies, photo montages cut to fit the various circles and squares, and a wedding photo of a young man and a woman in an elaborate bridal headdress. She shook her head in wonderment. They were Will’s blood, but complete strangers, and she was his mother, known and loved by him, but having none of his blood. She went from one photo to the next, trying to put together the puzzle that was her son.
Which girl is Amy?
The photos showed girls and boys at all different ages, and Ellen tried to follow each child as he or she grew up, picking blue eyes from brown and matching young smiles to older smiles, age-progressing all of them in her mind’s eye, searching for Amy. One of the girls had blondish hair and blue eyes, plus Will’s fair skin, with just the hint of freckles dotting a small, pert nose.
“Here we go.” Gerry came into the room with a skinny brown cigarette and two heavy glass mugs of murky coffee, one of which she handed to Ellen.
“Thanks.”
“Siddown, will ya?” Gerry gestured at the couch, her cigarette trailing an acrid snake of smoke, but Ellen stayed with the photos.
“Can I ask, is this one Amy, with the blue eyes and freckles?”
“No, that’s Cheryl, her sister. The girl with her is my oldest. I had three girls, one boy.”
Ellen remembered the name Cheryl Martin as the other signature on the consent form.
“This one’s Amy, the baby of the family in more ways than one.” Gerry tapped a smaller photo in the corner, and Ellen walked over, feeling a frisson of discovery.
“So this is Amy, huh?” She leaned close to the photo of a young girl, maybe thirteen years old, leaning on a red Firebird. Her dark blond hair was in cornrows, and her blue eyes were sly. She had a crooked grin that telegraphed too-cool-for-school, and Ellen scrutinized her features. Amy and Will had the same coloring, but their features weren’t alike. Still, one picture wasn’t a fair sample. “Which of the other photos are Amy?”
“Uh, lemme see.” Gerry eyed the photos with a short laugh. “None! I tell you, by the time you get to your fourth, you’re a little sick of it, you know what I mean?”
Arg. “I only have the one.”
“Oh, after the first, you stop springing for the forty-five-dollar pictures, the refrigerator magnet, the keychain, all that happy horseshit.” Gerry motioned to the couch again. “Come on, sit.”
“Thanks.” Ellen walked over, sank into the couch, and sipped the coffee, which was surprisingly good. “Wow.”
“I put in real cream. That’s my secret.” Gerry sat down heavily, catty-corner to the couch, pulling an ancient beanbag ashtray onto the chair arm. Her expression looked softer, her hard lines smoothed by the low light. Her hair was a tinted brown with gray roots, the ends frayed, and she wore it tucked behind her ears. Her nose was stubby on a wide face, but she had a motherly smile.
“Why did you laugh outside?” Ellen asked, her fingers tight around her glass mug.
“First, tell me about Amy and this baby.” Gerry took a drag on the brown cigarette.
“He was sick, in the hospital. I did a story on it, a series.” Ellen reached into her purse, pulled out
the clipping from her file, and showed it to Gerry, who barely glanced at it, so she put it back. “You may have seen them in the paper.”
“We don’t get the paper.”
“Okay. Will, the baby I adopted, was in cardiac intensive care when I met him. He had a heart defect.”
“And you think he was Amy’s baby?”
“I know so.”
“How?” Gerry sucked on her cigarette, then blew out a cone of smoke from the side of her mouth, meaning to be polite. “I mean, where’d you get your information?”
“From a lawyer, who died. My lawyer, mine and Amy’s. It was a private adoption, and she brokered the deal between us.”
“Amy brokered it?”
“No, the lawyer did. Karen Batz.”
“It’s a lady lawyer?”
“Yes. Does the name mean anything to you?”
Gerry shook her head. “You sure it’s Amy? My Amy?”
“Yes.” Ellen set the coffee down on the metal tray, reached into her envelope, and rifled through the papers. She found Amy’s consent to the adoption and the letter with the Corinth Avenue return address and handed them to Gerry, who took them and didn’t say anything for a minute, reading to herself and dragging on her cigarette. The smoke hit the court papers and billowed back on itself, like a wave crashing against a seawall.
“This is nuts,” Gerry said, half to herself, and Ellen’s chest tightened.
“Is that Amy’s signature, on the consent?”
“It looks like it.”
“How about on the letter?”
“There, too.”
“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. So it’s your Amy.” Ellen reached over and turned the page to the consent form, pointing. “Is that your signature?”
“No way. I never signed this.” Gerry’s lips flattened to a grim line, again bringing out the wrinkles around her mouth. “And this other signature, it’s not Cheryl’s, either.”
Ellen’s heart sank. “Maybe Amy forged the signatures. Maybe she wanted to put her baby up for adoption and didn’t want her family to know.”