Where is it, where is it . . .
The birth certificate emerged from the gray, felt-lined depths of the strongbox.
I hereby certify that this certificate is an exact copy of the original certificate, which is registered and preserved in the Ohio Department of Health, Bureau of Vital Statistics. Witness my signature and the seal of the Department.
Place of birth: Cincinnati, Ohio
Hospital: Deaconess
Mother: Joan Ann Bradshaw, Negro, 32 years old
Occupation: Housewife
Father: Howard Rogers Bradshaw, 31 years old
Occupation: Minister
Baby: Carmen Ava Bradshaw, girl, Negro
Date of Birth: July 30, 1966, 7:20 a.m.
Carmen had used this document for everything from her marriage license to her passport application. For most of her adult life she’d grabbed up this innocuous-looking greenish-blue sliver of paper without giving it a cursory glance or a second thought. But now it was time to take a close look. The certificate stated that she was born on July 30, 1966. Based on every letter and slip of paper Carmen had read for the past few hours, it was crystal clear that on July 30, 1966, Joan Ann Bradshaw wasn’t living in Cincinnati, Ohio. In fact, Joan Bradshaw didn’t exist yet. She was Joan Topolosky, living in New York City. And her husband’s name was Richard.
Carmen sat back on her heels. Her heart was thumping and she was feeling dizzy. She glanced at the digital clock on the desk: 1:38 a.m. Fat chance she’d get to sleep tonight. She’d had three open items on her list; now she had two. She still didn’t know what had happened to her mother’s marriage or to Richard. But now she was pretty sure she knew what had happened to Leah. All she had to do was look in the mirror.
Chapter 17
Carmen
“Jesus,” Dee Dee murmured, her eyes wide with surprise. The iced tea she’d been drinking was held aloft in her hand as if she was about to make a toast.
Elise whistled, but then silence reigned, each woman lost in thought.
“Tell me about it.” Carmen’s palms hugged the wide coffee mug as she blew across the hot liquid. She glanced to her left. “Dee Dee, watch it. You’re gonna spill that.”
“Oh! Right,” Dee Dee said, slowly setting the glass down. “But . . . you’re sure? That you’re Leah?”
“About ninety-nine percent. I’ve sent off for a copy of the original birth certificate.”
Elise frowned. “Original. Aren’t they all original?”
Carmen slowly shook her head. “You would think so. That’s what I thought. But in adoptions—and this is what I think happened: Dad and Mom got married, and he adopted me. At that time, in Ohio, the courts approved an adoption, then had the state issue a new birth certificate with the names of the adoptive parents as the natural parents. It was perceived to be a protective measure.”
“Instead, it was a big fat lie,” Elise commented.
Carmen chuckled. “Basically . . . yes. The laws have changed now. They don’t do that anymore.”
“How long before you know for sure?” Dee Dee asked.
Carmen rolled her eyes, remembering the roundabout conversation she’d had with the man at Vital Statistics.
“Three to six weeks.”
Both Dee Dee and Elise said, “Whaaaat?”
Carmen nodded. “Yeah. I’m not happy about that either. The suspense is killing me. But . . .” She shrugged her shoulders. “It is what it is.”
“You could ask your dad,” Elise suggested.
Carmen grinned. “You said that I shouldn’t do that. In case Mom hadn’t told him.”
Now it was Elise’s turn to shrug. “I know. But now it seems as if, well, your dad knows. He must if he adopted you.”
“You still could’ve been twins,” Dee Dee chimed in. She was trying to interest the others in a more Gothic theory based on her love for the stories of Alexandre Dumas.
“Twins raised separately? Dee Dee, that was a movie. The Parent Trap.”
Dee Dee stuck out her tongue. “It happens.”
“Okay. I admit it. I thought about that too,” Carmen said. “But there’s nothing that points to that scenario. All of the letters back and forth talk about one baby. And the certificate says it’s a single birth—”
“Which could still be a lie,” Elise piped in.
“True,” Carmen said. “But whenever baby Leah is mentioned in letters, it’s just her, one child. Ira bought one crib. And Cousin Dorothy’s letter refers to a ‘Baby Top,’ not ‘Baby Tops.’”
“So . . . what’s next?”
Carmen outlined her plans with crisp precision: the request for her original birth certificate, an application to get a copy of her parents’ marriage licenses, and a search for a divorce decree and for a death certificate in case Richard died young. She still had no idea what had happened to him.
“And then you’ll sit down with the reverend?” Dee Dee asked.
Carmen sighed.
“It might not be so bad,” said Elise, trying to insert optimism into the situation. “He’s a pragmatic man from what you’ve said. He had to know that someday this was going to come out.”
“I don’t think it will hurt as much as you think,” Dee Dee said. “Not as much as going to the dentist.”
Carmen giggled.
“Or getting a Brazilian bikini wax,” added Elise, her expression folding into a wince. “There are few things as painful as that.”
Carmen rolled her eyes. “You’re right. And I’m about to participate in one of them.”
The other women looked at her.
Carmen sighed again.
“Dinner with Dad and that dreadful woman Elaine, a.k.a. Mrs. Reverend Doctor Theodore Oakes. Now, that’s painful.”
* * *
Elaine had asked Carmen not to call her Mrs. Oakes. It sounded so formal, and they weren’t strangers, were they? Carmen had forgotten that Elaine and her parents grew up in the same neighborhood. Elaine mentioned an upcoming church-group-sponsored rail tour Howard and she were taking across the Canadian Rockies. It was the first Carmen had heard of this, and it took a lot of self-control to keep from making a snide comment. When Elaine reached over and touched Howard on the arm, Carmen flinched and reached for her wineglass, provoking a look of disapproval from her father. She counted to ten, then tried to focus on smiling at the appropriate times during the dinner conversation while thinking deeply about something else, anything else. But there was really only one thing on her mind: the story of her mother and of the secret child—whether the child was actually Carmen or someone else. It was, as the saying went, a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. And then there was the last question: What had happened to Richard?
Carmen turned this question over and over in her brain. She was hoping for an epiphany, a bolt of inspirational lightning that would miraculously (Ta da!) reveal the answer since Google wasn’t cooperating. It did not occur to her—and wouldn’t for a thousand years if she could live that long—that one source of illumination would be Elaine.
Again she remembered an adage that one of her great-aunts used to say: “Baby, you ain’t lost; you just ain’t got there yet.”
Carmen hardly had been listening to her father and Elaine chitchatting. Their easygoing banter made her a little queasy. But then, like a bolt of lightning, something the woman said broke through Carmen’s daydream.
“And so I think I just should decorate the grave, Howard. I mean, why not? He was a lovely old man. Honestly, though, I’m so glad that my grandson turned me on to Find-a-Grave.com. I never would have remembered where Pop Pop was buried. It was so long ago . . .”
“What? Where’s he buried?” Carmen looked first at her father, then at Elaine.
“Um . . .” For once, the Mrs. Reverend Doctor seemed at a loss for words. But she quickly recovered. “As . . . I was telling your father, I’m driving down to Lexington next weekend with my sister. That’s where Mother was from; my grandparents are buried there in the
old cemetery next to the Rock of Ages Church. I’d have forgotten where that cemetery was but for this website that my grandson Riley found for me. It’s called Find-a-Grave. And it’s marvelous!”
“Marvelous” wasn’t a word Carmen would have chosen, but a website like that would open up several possibilities. It would be a haven for ghouls. Even the name—Find-a-Grave—sounded like something out of a bad horror movie. And as thorough as she’d been with every other database, Carmen had pointedly avoided searching for death certificates. Looking for her biological father in a cemetery hadn’t been on her radar screen until now. She just wasn’t ready to accept the fact that he might be dead.
Acceptance or not, she had to face it. So when Carmen got home, she booted up her laptop, located the site, and pushed ENTER, hoping that nothing would appear.
Chapter 18
Elise
Elise noticed that her phone was buzzing: it was Carmen. She moved to answer it, then changed her mind. It was one of her pet peeves: people constantly on their phones during meetings, lunch, or dinners out. She was in a meeting with her lawyer. She’d call her friend back later. And anyway, she, Carmen, and Dee Dee were getting together for another clear-out session at Marie’s condo in a few days. She looked up and smiled at the man who was talking to her. Maybe he would be reassured that she’d been listening.
Robert F. Adler, Esq., of Adler, Gonzales, and Peters, was an imposing figure in his navy pin-striped suit (bespoke?—it had to be in order to fit so nicely over his gut), red tie (he was a U of L Cardinal fan), and neon-white starched (heavy, please) shirt with monogrammed French cuffs: “R big F A,” thank you very much. He’d folded his hands on the clean desktop. What looked like an antique inkwell and a flashy Montblanc fountain pen shared space with a rich dark brown leather portfolio, also monogrammed with the impressive “R big F A.” No phone. No laptop or keyboard of any kind. No dust, not one spec. Only Robert . . . Actually, she called him Bob—they’d grown up on the same street. Bob’s hands were . . .
Ah! No ring this meeting. Oh, oh, the divorce must have gone through. Divorce number . . .
Everything went together. He looked like a high-end investment firm ad: the hands, the fountain pen with inkwell, and the portfolio. Bob’s lips were moving, but Elise didn’t hear a word. All she could do was focus on the letters—Bob’s initials, embossed in gold—and think that they stood for “Robert’s big fucking ass.” She yawned and thought about a large mug of coffee. She was delirious from lack of sleep, and it was making her belligerent. At least in her own mind.
Blah, blah, blah.
Elise nodded and smiled at the attorney, wondering when exactly did his ass get so big? Really, she would have to call her doctor and get some pills or something to help her sleep. Elise yawned again. This sleep-deprived state was dangerous, almost like being drunk. It made driving an adventure. Not to mention she didn’t process a word anyone said.
Blah, blah.
“Elise? Are you all right?”
This time Elise did comprehend the words—her name, at least.
“Yes, yes, sorry.” She sat up and cleared her throat. “I, uh, didn’t sleep well last night then had an early meeting.” She scrawled across the clean page of her open notebook: “WTF!” What she said was “Bob, I didn’t catch what you said.”
The attorney gave her a dubious look, then returned his attention to his well-manicured digits. Elise couldn’t stop staring at the ring finger on his left hand, naked with the recent exit of his wife. Wife number two? Or number three? Really, why was she obsessing over this?
“No problem. I’m not sleeping as well as I used to either.” Bob smiled slightly, the incredulity now replaced by an expression of regret. “Let me back up a bit. What I was saying was that the probate account has been filed, we’re waiting on Judge Park’s bailiff to set a hearing date, and I’ll need your signature on a few items.” With this comment, Adler produced a few pieces of white paper seemingly from nowhere, like a magician, and slid them across the ice-rink-like desk toward Elise. The SIGN HERE Post-it notes fluttered like tiny orange flags.
Elise slipped on her glasses and picked up the offered Montblanc pen.
“But what’s really exciting . . .”
Probate, exciting? Elise flexed her fingers before attempting a signature on the document. Lately her handwriting looked like a sad imitation of ancient Assyrian cuneiform.
“Larry has an offer on the condo. And it’s a cash offer.”
Elise was dotting her i, and the nub of the pen pierced the paper. “Cash!” Now she was awake.
Bob grinned. “Yep. Amazing, isn’t it?” He shook his head, producing yet another stack of documents from out of thin air. “Not many folks can do that. Larry says the guy is a finance geek, just moved here from Chicago to be close to his son, loves the real estate flipping game. But he likes your mother’s place and thinks he’ll use it as his primary home. He has homes on Marco Island and in New Mexico someplace. Taos?” Bob frowned as he consulted a small leather-bound notebook that had just dropped into his hand from an alternate and invisible universe. He peered at the scribbling on the page, then gave up. “Anyway, long story short. Cash offer, your asking price, no quibbles there. Pending a good inspection, obviously, but that’s to be expected. He’s not asking for any cosmetic upgrades because he’ll have his own people do those the way he wants. And he’ll be ready to close within thirty days or sooner. So what do you think?”
“Wow! It’s great. Thanks. So . . . what’s left for me to do?” Elise really could not believe her luck.
Bob shrugged his generously sized shoulders. “Nothing. We’re good, I think. Larry will email me the closing date info and we’re all set.” Frowning again, Bob produced a pair of reading glasses and peered down at his notebook. “Possession at closing.” He closed the notebook with a flourish and a smile, pleased with having facilitated a good result for his client. “You won’t have this to lose sleep over anymore!”
Elise was wide-awake now. Images of four closets packed with . . . stuff . . . the basement cleared except for neatly stacked moving boxes (as yet unsorted) in the west corner, the dining room china cabinet, its shelves still groaning with pink Depression glass and Royal Doulton figurines despite the three-hour clear-out session with help from Dee Dee and Carmen, and two large country French bureaus in what was Marie Wade’s bedroom, full—still—of jewelry: costume, southwestern, Victorian, Bakelite, diamond, gold, jade, and coral, and a collection of purses in the closet that could serve as the foundation inventory for a small store. Elise’s heart was pounding in her chest. She thought she was going to pass out.
What am I going to do?
Bob Adler, who’d now cleared his desk, sending every item back to its invisible storage place with, it seemed, a snap of his fingers, was oblivious to his client’s distress. This time his attention was on his cell phone, which had just barked out a ringtone that sounded like Donna Summers singing the refrain from “Love to Love You, Baby.”
Elise stifled a smile. Ah . . . wife-to-be. Number four, I think. Who would’ve thought Bobby Adler would grow up to be such a player?
“So . . . the closing will be . . .” Stupid question. And asking it again wasn’t going to change the answer.
Bob looked up from his text message with the face of a twelve-year-old who’d just been caught surfing porn sites on the family computer. He cleared his throat.
“About thirty days, maybe sooner. Is that a problem?”
Elise felt the air going out of her lungs.
Bob’s phone went off again.
Donna Summer was having a vocal orgasm. Wife-in-waiting was getting impatient.
Oooooo, I’d love to love you, baaaby.
Bob’s cheeks colored. “Sorry about that.” The attorney’s chubby thumbs fumbled with the ON/OFF button. Trying to regain his composure, he asked, “The condo’s pretty much cleared out, isn’t it?”
The image of Marie’s hall closet flooded Elise’s min
d. She kept the door firmly closed to avoid death by avalanche. The stack of boxes in the back bedroom. The trunk in the basement. And the storage locker. She’d forgotten about that.
“Yes. Pretty much,” she lied.
Elise hyperventilated as she walked to her next meeting, but that was the only panic attack she had time for that day. There was too much to do: lunch to grab and gobble down, a “pre-meeting” to prepare for the 2:00 meeting and then a “wrap-up” session to discuss what went on in the 2:00 meeting and then a 3:00 board meeting and dinner. She’d have two and a half minutes exactly—between pre- and post-meetings—to pee and swipe lip gloss across her lips. The image of her mother’s well-provisioned condo disintegrated to make room for more immediate disasters. Like Scarlett O’Hara, one of Elise’s least favorite fictional characters, she would have to worry about the impending sale of Marie’s condo tomorrow. She had no time today. But she did reach for the phone to call Carmen.
Chapter 19
Carmen
Carmen couldn’t sleep. The facts that she’d unearthed—if they were facts—had knocked out her equilibrium. Her mind raced and raced and wouldn’t settle, especially at night when she tried to sleep. Nothing worked: not hot tea, not soothing music, not boring books, not a warm bath—nothing. She’d even tried a sleeping pill, an option she would normally avoid. That didn’t work either. After four nights with little sleep, Carmen was irritable and loopy. She was so miserable and exhausted that she staggered a bit when she walked, feeling as if she’d had too many cocktails instead of none.
On her way home from work that evening, a Cincinnati motorcycle cop had pulled her over. Elise had teased her mercilessly on the phone earlier after Carmen told her what had happened. Her laughter nearly obscured her words.
“Really? You were stopped for driving too slow? What’s the speed limit on that stretch of I-71?”
“Sixty-five.”
Elise crowed.
Carmen had to admit that it was hilarious remembering the momentary look of surprise on the policeman’s face when she rolled down the window.
The Secret Women Page 9
