Claudia and the Great Search

by Ann M. Martin

  She parceled out money to Kristy, who needed to pay Charlie, and to Dawn, Jessi, and Mary Anne, who needed new items for their Kid-Kits. Just as she was finishing up, the phone began ringing. Mary Anne scheduled four jobs. As soon as she was done (and as soon as I had handed around a bag of Doritos, which everyone except Stacey and Dawn helped themselves to), Kristy said, “I have some business to discuss.” She adjusted her visor. “Well, it’s not exactly business, but you should know what’s going on with Emily Michelle right now.” (We try to keep each other informed about problems with kids the club sits for.)

  “With Emily?” Mary Anne repeated. “Is something wrong? Is it serious?” (Mary Anne gets worked up very easily.)

  “I — I don’t know. I mean no, well … yes.” Kristy drew in a breath. “Okay. This is it. You know how Doctor Dellenkamp says Emily is language-delayed?”

  The rest of us nodded. We knew, and it made sense. Emily had grown up in Vietnam, where the people around her spoke a different language. And part of her life had been spent in an orphanage, where she probably didn’t get a lot of attention. So it was no wonder that at two, she didn’t speak much English.

  “Well,” Kristy went on, “the pediatrician says Emily isn’t making as much progress as she’d expected. Plus, Emily has some emotional problems. She’s started having these nightmares — at least, we think she’s having nightmares — and she wakes up screaming. ‘Me! Me!’” (Kristy pronounced the word as if she were saying “met,” but leaving the “t” off the end.) “‘Me,’” she informed us, “is what Vietnamese children say for ‘Mama’ or ‘Mommy.’ Plus, she seems scared of everything — the dark, loud noises, trying new things, and being separated from any of us, especially Mom and Watson. Doctor Dellenkamp isn’t too worried about the fears, even though Mom and Watson are. The doctor says the fears are a delayed reaction to all the upheaval in Emily’s life. You know, losing her mother, going to the orphanage, getting adopted, moving to a new country. The doctor says Emily will outgrow the fears and nightmares. She’s more worried about Emily’s speech, and even how she plays. She says she doesn’t play like a two-year-old yet. She still thinks Emily will catch up, though.”

  Kristy sighed. “I wish,” she continued, “that I could spend more time with Emily, but I’ve got that job at the Papadakises’ now.”

  The Papadakises live across the street and one house down from Kristy. They have three kids. The oldest is a boy, Linny, who’s friends with David Michael. Then there is seven-year-old Hannie, who’s one of Karen’s best friends, and Sari, who’s about Emily’s age. Recently, their grandfather fell and broke his hip, so he had to go into a nursing home to recover. While he was there, he came down with pneumonia, and he’s pretty sick. Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Papadakis want to be with him as much as possible, so they asked Kristy to sit for them three evenings a week, plus some in-between times. (I think they signed up other sitters, too. Shannon Kilbourne, for one.)

  We were all saying things like, “Gosh, Kristy, that’s too bad,” and, “Try not to worry too much,” when the phone rang again.

  Jessi answered it, “Hi, Mrs. Brewer!” she said brightly. (It was Kristy’s mom!) She listened for a moment. Then she said, “Okay, we’ll check the schedule and get right back to you.” Jessi hung up the phone. “Your mom needs a sitter next Friday night,” she said. “She knows you’ll be at the Papadakises’ then. She says she needs someone for about three hours to watch David Michael and Emily Michelle. Andrew and Karen won’t be there that weekend.”

  Mary Anne checked the record book. “Claud,” she said, “you’re free that night. Want the job?”

  “Of course!” I replied.

  I was beginning to feel a little more cheerful. I’d almost forgotten about the awards ceremony that afternoon.

  My good mood didn’t last long. As soon as the meeting was over and my friends had left, I began to feel sort of depressed. I flumped down on my bed and propped my leg up on a pillow. I broke that leg not long ago, and now, every time it’s going to rain, my leg aches.

  Goody, I thought sarcastically. Rain. That’ll improve my mood.

  I lay there and went over the events of the day. Monday had started out with Janine coming into my room about fifty times, each time in a different outfit — although her clothes are so boring that the outfits all looked the same to me.

  I don’t like any of Janine’s clothes, so I told her each outfit looked fine, which confused her. She chose the dull awards-ceremony outfit by herself.

  Then there was breakfast, during which all Mom and Dad talked about were the logistics (what are “logistics”?) of leaving work early, picking me up, and getting to the high school on time.

  In math class that day we got a quiz back. What was my grade? A C –, that’s what.

  Janine does as well with math as she does with computers and science.

  Finally, there had been the dumb ceremony, and we all know how that went.

  “Claudia! … Claudia?”

  My mother was calling to me from downstairs. I was supposed to be helping with dinner. It was my turn.

  “Coming!” I called back. And I limped downstairs, where I made an absolutely gorgeous salad to go with supper. I made radish roses, and arranged carrot sticks and slices of hard-boiled egg to look like the sun. It was a work of art. It was a culinary masterpiece. (I know what “culinary” means, believe it or not. It means “having to do with cooking.”)

  Wouldn’t you know? When my family had gathered for dinner and I set that salad on the table, Dad said, “Claudia, how lovely! A celebratory salad for Janine!”

  Celebratory salad my foot. I’d just been having fun being creative.

  I tried not to act upset, though. I sat down at my place and smiled a fake smile.

  Guess what. The very second we’d all been served, Dad said (with this big grin on his face), “Well, that was some ceremony this afternoon, Janine. Your mother and sister and I certainly are proud of you.”

  Janine pretended to be embarrassed, but she couldn’t fool me. I knew she was loving every bit of the attention she was getting. “Thanks,” she said, ducking her head.

  “Well?” Dad went on. “Do you want to surprise your sister and your mother with the other news?”

  Other news? There was more? This wasn’t over yet?

  “All right,” said Janine. She put her fork down and wiped her mouth daintily. “After you left the high school today, a reporter from one of the Stamford papers came by. She wants to interview me. And the college paper does, too. They even want to follow me around and photograph me at SHS and at home. They want to portray what the writer called ‘A Day in the Life of a Genius.’”

  Oh, please. Give me a break.

  I couldn’t stand it. I crammed four slices of hard-boiled egg into my mouth. I did that so that if Janine said, “What do you think, Claudia? Do you want to be in the article?” I wouldn’t be able to answer her. At least, not until I’d swallowed, and that would take awhile.

  But she didn’t say anything. The subject changed — to Janine’s check.

  “What are you going to do with the money, sweetie?” asked Mom. “It’s yours. You can do whatever you want with it.”

  It was hers? Wow! If I were handed a check for $250, I’d run to Bellair’s Department Store and buy this really neat Day-Glo green sweater with charms knitted into it that I’d seen on sale. Then I’d go to the art store and buy some new oil paints, a good supply of brushes, and this great silk-screening set I’ve had my eye on. After that, if any money was left over, I’d hit the candy store in a bad way. Mmm — Baby Ruth bars, Three Musketeers bars, M&M’S (plain and peanut), Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups … Oh, the possibilities were mind-boggling. Janine was so lucky.

  “I think,” said my sister slowly, “that I’ll put the money toward college.”

  All of it? That was the most boring thing I’d heard in years. I could almost hear her idea fall to the floor. Clunk.

  Of course, Mom and D
ad grinned with pride.

  I felt invisible. Nobody had said anything to me since that comment about the celebratory salad. I wished desperately that Mimi were alive. If she were, she’d have been sitting right next to me. And she would have known how I was feeling. She’d have shared in Janine’s triumph, but then she would have said to me, “Tell me, my Claudia, how was your club meeting today? Did you get any baby-sitting jobs?” Mimi always knew the right thing to say.

  At last, dinner was over. As we were clearing the table, I thought, Hurray, I survived. Now I can escape and —

  But Mom pulled me aside and whispered, “We have a surprise for Janine. A cake! Make sure she stays in the dining room while I get it ready.”

  So we had to eat this bakery cake that was covered with yellow roses and said CONGRATULATIONS, JEANINE in blue frosting. The best part about the cake was that someone had spelled my sister’s name wrong.

  Finally dinner was really over. I had intended to do my homework, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate, not with Janine’s computer clicking away in her room. Every tap on the keyboard would remind me of her award and how smart she was and how not-smart I was. So I wandered into our den for some peace and quiet.

  At first I just sat in the armchair and stared around the room. After awhile, my eyes landed on our family photo albums that were lined up in the bookcase. I took the oldest ones down and began to leaf through them. The first one was mostly pictures of Mom and Dad during the first couple of years after they’d gotten married. The second one was full of Janine’s baby pictures. I’d never noticed it before, but honestly, there were an awful lot of pictures of Janine. There were pictures of her being held by every relative we had; pictures of her wearing funny hats, wearing a big pair of sunglasses, looking at a magazine (she was probably reading it); pictures of her at her first, second, and third birthday parties, and even a picture of Mom and Dad holding Janine in front of the hospital the day they brought her home. Who had taken that picture? Mimi? Peaches? A nurse?

  With a sigh, I closed the album, put it down, and picked up the next one. This, I thought, must be full of pictures of me.

  But it wasn’t. Not exactly. It was full of pictures of Janine and me. There I was in Janine’s lap. I was just a baby. My head was falling back and Janine was crying. There I was in Janine’s lap again as she tried to give me a bottle. There we were when I was older and Janine was helping me to walk. Then I hit a whole slew of pictures of Janine’s fourth birthday party.

  So where were the pictures of me? I turned to the beginning of the album to see if I’d missed anything — like a picture of Mom and Dad bringing me home from the hospital. I hadn’t missed a thing.

  I began looking at the pictures of Janine and me again. I looked at them carefully. We don’t look a thing alike now, but maybe we’d looked alike when we were little, when our parents dressed us in matching clothes and gave us the same haircuts.

  Nope. We barely looked related.

  When I thought about it, not only do I not look like Janine, I don’t look like my parents, either, although Janine looks exactly like Dad.

  A funny feeling crept into my stomach. I replaced the photo albums on the shelves. Then I silently pushed the door to the den until it was almost closed, tiptoed to my parents’ desk, and began looking through the drawers. I felt like a thief, but I was just hoping to find more photos. Mom and Dad, I decided, must have taken several rolls of pictures of me as a baby and simply not had time to put them in albums. I wanted to find those pictures badly. I especially wanted to find at least one of me coming home from the hospital.

  Zilch.

  I found paper clips and rubber bands, scissors and glue, enough pens and pencils for an army, an envelope containing Janine’s and my report cards (I put that away quickly), a packet of letters and cards from Peaches, Russ, and other relatives, a certificate that said that Mom was certified to teach elementary school in the state of Connecticut (that was a surprise), some bankbooks, some boring-looking files, and then … way back in the bottom drawer … I found a locked strongbox. That was weird. Where was the key? I searched the desk, but the only keys I found were spare house keys.

  What was in that box?

  All of a sudden it dawned on me. I knew. I just knew. I was adopted, and my adoption papers were in there. If I were adopted, that would explain why I didn’t look like anyone in my family, why I didn’t act like anyone in my family, and why there were so few pictures of me. I wasn’t Mom and Dad’s real kid. I was an unwanted baby, or an orphan like Emily Michelle.

  I wished again for Mimi. If Mimi were here I would go straight to her and say, “Am I adopted?” and she would give me an honest answer. But Mimi was gone. And there was no way I was going to ask Mom and Dad that question. They’d probably say I was just feeling bad because Janine had gotten so much attention that day.

  I straightened up the desk, making sure it looked the way it had before I’d begun searching it. Then I swung open the door to the den and went upstairs to my room. I sat at my own desk and thought, Am I really adopted? Who are my real mother and father? Why did they give me away? … Who am I?

  All week I kept the awful secret of my adoption to myself. I didn’t even tell Stacey what I’d discovered, and Stacey is my best friend in the world. I wanted to talk to Stacey but I couldn’t. Not yet. There must, I thought, be some terrible reason for keeping my adoption a secret. But what could the terrible reason be? Whatever it was, it wasn’t my fault. A baby couldn’t do anything wrong. Maybe someone had stolen me from a hospital and sold me to a crooked lawyer who had let Mom and Dad (the people I thought were my real parents) adopt me for a huge sum of money. Then Mom and Dad took me home, but later they found out that I was stolen, only they were afraid to return me. Maybe we all had different identities now. We were incognito and on the lam.

  Nah. I’d been watching too many movies lately.

  Still, if I was adopted, I wanted to know about it.

  * * *

  On Friday night I baby-sat for David Michael and Emily Michelle at Kristy’s mansion. They’re both good kids, but it turned out to be a tough sitting job. David Michael was recovering from a cold, so he was cranky and didn’t feel well, and Kristy wasn’t kidding when she said Emily was having some problems. I got to see the problems firsthand.

  I reached the Brewer/Thomas mansion at five minutes to seven. (Dad dropped me off. Kristy’s mom would drive me home later.) As I walked to the front door, I could hear the low rumble of distant thunder. I glanced up. The sky looked threatening. And the wind was beginning to blow. We’re in for a storm, I thought.

  I rang the bell as Dad pulled into the street. Kristy answered the door. She was on her way over to the Papadakises’.

  “Hello and good-bye!” she said cheerfully. “You know where I’ll be if you have any problems.”

  “Okay,” I said. “See you later.”

  Kristy ran outside, then ran back in, grabbed an umbrella from a stand in the hallway, saying, “It feels like it’s going to pour!” and left again.

  “Hi, Claudia!” called Mrs. Brewer. “It’s nice to see you! How are you?” (I don’t get over to Kristy’s house very often. I used to see Mrs. Brewer nearly every day.)

  “I’m fine,” I replied. What else could I say? I’m adopted, thank you, how are you? No way.

  “That’s good. Now let’s see,” Mrs. Brewer began. “Sam and Charlie are at a play at the high school. They just left. You know where Kristy is, my mother is having dinner out with some of her friends, and Mr. Brewer and I will be at the Morgans’, down the street. We should all be home by about nine-thirty. The Morgans’ and the Papadakises’ numbers are in the kitchen with the emergency numbers. I’m sorry to say that I’m leaving you with a couple of problems. David Michael is upstairs in bed. He’s had a cold for several days, and he’s on the mend, but he isn’t feeling too well. Has Kristy told you about Emily Michelle?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Okay. Expe
ct a few tears when Mr. Brewer and I leave, and you might have a little trouble getting her to sleep, but Emily knows you, so she should be all right. Now, bedtimes are …”

  Kristy’s mom gave me a few more instructions, and then she and Watson (I always think of Kristy’s stepfather as “Watson” because that’s what Kristy calls him) started to put on their coats.

  “’Bye!” they called upstairs to David Michael. “Sleep well. Feel better. We’ll see you tomorrow morning!”

  “’Bye,” David Michael replied weakly.

  I stood in the hallway, holding Emily, who watched her parents put on their coats. No sooner did Watson reach for the door, than Emily let loose with a wail.

  “No bye-bye!” she cried. She held her arms out, straining toward Kristy’s mother.

  The Brewers were pretty cool about this. They just kissed Emily, called “Good-bye!” very cheerfully, and slipped out the door.

  I guess a quick exit is best — but I was left with a screaming child. Emily was still yelling, “No bye-bye!” She began to struggle, so I put her down. Emily ran to the door and threw herself at it in tears.

  Well, that was no good.

  “Come on, Miss Emily,” I said. “Let’s go upstairs and see how David Michael is doing. You’re not alone here, you know. Do you want to see your brother?”

  Emily’s reply was another wail, so I picked her up again and carried her to David Michael’s room. By the time we reached it, she was whimpering, but not really crying.

  “Hiya, David Michael,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fide,” he replied stuffily, but he certainly didn’t sound fine. He didn’t look fine, either. In fact, he looked pretty cross. “What’s wrog with her?” he asked, pointing to Emily.

  “Emily’s upset because your parents just left,” I answered.

  “Oh.” David Michael, who was propped up in bed, a portable TV on and the channel changer within easy reach, turned back to a comic book he’d been looking at.