I thought to myself how lonely he must be.
“The Jesuit Hospital for Unwed Mothers.”
“What?” I didn’t understand what he was talking about.
“Your birth certificate is from the Jesuit Hospital for Unwed Mothers,” he repeated.
“Oh!”
“It still exists, and isn’t very far from here. You can go over there right now.”
I got up and shook his hand. He also got up. He said, “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” I left the sweet, lonely man, hoping he would find solace and joy in the success of his sons.
After about an hour’s drive, I stopped in front of a very old structure with flaking paint. A rickety old sign hung at the entrance. “The Jesuit Hospital for Unwed Mothers of Chicago and the Region.” The pungent odor of Lysol welcomed me, forcing me to pinch my nostrils. I followed a sign with the word “Office” written on it. The walls were painted a light, shiny green. Despite its age, the place was clean and neat. Nurses passed me by with small quick steps. I heard the cries of a baby in the background, and a scream suddenly pierced the air. Someone asked the nurse to come over; a few people were standing around the corridors like me, busy among themselves and avoiding any direct eye contact.
I reached the end of the corridor. I knocked on the door and opened it. There were two desks standing across from each other, each with its own clerk. One of them lifted her head toward me, and the other continued to bend over the papers on her desk.
“How can I help you?” the first one asked in a pleasant and inviting voice. I moved closer to her. All of a sudden I didn’t know how to describe what I was looking for.
“How can I help you?” she asked again. Then I saw the other clerk lift her head to look at me curiously.
I decided to tell the truth. “A few years ago, I found this birth certificate at my house,” I said. I handed her the sheet of paper. “I don’t recognize the name, and the name of the mother isn’t listed. I thought someone might need the certificate and would be happy to receive it.”
She took it from me and studied it. “Strange,” she said. “We always write the name of the mother on the birth certificate, but there’s nothing written here. I see the year of the birth is 1974. I’ll have to look it up in the archives. The computer contains births only from 1980 on. All the previous certificates are located in the archives.”
The clerk sitting across from her asked to see the certificate as well. She was a lot older than the one that answered. I passed the sheet to her and she inspected it. Then she opened a drawer in her desk, and took out a magnifying glass. She moved it back and forth, and the sentence she said completely shocked me. “Someone tampered with the name of the mother.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“Someone erased the line where the mother’s name is written.”
“But who would do that?” I asked. I immediately realized I had asked a stupid question.
The secretary looked at me for a long time with untrusting eyes.
“I didn’t do it! I didn’t even know someone tampered with the certificate.”
Both clerks looked at one another, and unspoken words passed between them.
“Where did you get this birth certificate?” asked the older one.
“I found it at home,” I answered.
“And you didn’t show it to anyone, your parents, for example?”
“My parents were killed in a car accident. I don’t have anyone else to show it to.”
I thought I saw the expression on the older one’s face soften a bit.
“I’ll go to the archives and check,” she announced. She got up from her chair and left the room with the certificate in her hand.
I didn’t know what to do with myself. I stood between the two desks and regretted coming. I could have kept the certificate in one of the drawers at home and forgotten about it. The young clerk bent over her papers and pretended to be busy. I knew that she, just like me, was waiting for her friend to solve the mystery that had brought a bit of color to their otherwise gray office.
Twenty minutes went by before the door opened and the older clerk walked back in. She held two pieces of paper in one hand and a cardboard box in the other. She put the papers side by side on the desk, straightened them out with the palm of her hand, and asked me to come closer to the desk.
I bent my head over the pages, looking from one to the other. The page from the archives was almost exactly like the one I had brought from home, except for one detail. Where the name of the mother was missing on my copy, their copy said Nichka Weiss.
“How about an address? Is one listed anywhere?” I asked.
“Sometimes we have an address, although most of the addresses are phony. At that time, they didn’t take pains to write down exact information on the patients. The women that came to have babies in this hospital did their best to submit as little information as possible. We required first and last names but no other details. And when they did give details, the information wasn’t necessarily correct. This hospital was a shelter for girls who got pregnant out of wedlock, usually without the knowledge of their family. Many of them gave up their babies even before they were delivered—they were put up for immediate adoption or transferred to an orphanage. Things are different today. Each delivery is documented in the computer, and we require the mother to give us correct information. Today, having a child out of wedlock is no big thing—women do it at both public and private hospitals. Those that come to us these days are mostly young girls whose parents don’t have the money to pay for hospitalization somewhere else. We only charge a minimal price.”
“I see,” I murmured. “So you don’t have the address for the mother?”
“Hold on,” she said and opened the file she brought from the archives. She flipped through it and pulled out a partially printed page. “There’s an address here, but like I said, it’s very possible that it’s fake. It says here that the mother lives at a place called Cypress Beach and there’s also the name of a street… I can hardly make out what’s written here,” she mumbled. “I think it says Main Street.” She picked up the glasses that were lying on her desk and placed them on the end of her nose. “Yes, absolutely. It says 16 Main Street, if I’m not mistaken. The number isn’t that clear.”
I thanked them, took the birth certificate, and left the room. I wrote down the address she gave me on the back of the page and debated whether to go home or drive to the address. It was the noon hour. I was flooded with curiosity and armed with hope. Perhaps, after such a long time, I might actually find out who this Ethel is, and how she is connected to my house. I set out toward the address in my hand.
More than an hour later, after getting lost a few times and retracing my steps, I reached the place known as Cypress Beach, located on the southern shore of a cerulean lake. The road I took was wide and circled the lake. Next to it was a boardwalk, and a few tourists were walking around. The weather was pleasant, even though a chilly wind was blowing. It was a nice day for a walk, but it wasn’t warm enough to take a dip in the sea. From my right window, I saw that the sea was stormy. White foam pounded the coast relentlessly. The sky was blue, adorned by feathery clouds, as light as angel wings. I slowed down and took a deep breath of the air outside. The road continued endlessly. To my left, there were restaurants and cafes filled with people.
I stopped on the shoulder of the road to try and determine where I was. A young man walked to my car window and bent his head down, almost touching mine. He said, “Can I help you?” I was so surprised that I recoiled in alarm.
“I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry! You looked a little helpless.”
“It’s OK,” I said, and tried to make my voice light and easy. “I do actually need help. I’m looking for Main Street. Do you know how I get there from here?”
“It’s obviously the main street of the city,” he said and smiled, revealing two rows of teeth as white as the moon.
“Am I on
it?”
“Yes, but you are probably on the wrong side. You need to go to the residential area—that’s further down. You should just keep driving until you reach a boulevard lined with tall cypress trees. Then you’ll know you’ve reached the residential neighborhood of the city. Would you like me to show you where it is? I’m free and I don’t have any plans…” Again he gave me his shiny white smile. I was tempted to open the door for him and let him in the car, but years of not being spontaneous had taken their toll, and that took precedence.
I said, “Thanks, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.” I hit the gas pedal and put some distance between me and the chance of an adventure.
I drove to the boulevard, admiring its cypress trees, so tall they must touch the sky. I drove slowly, checking the house numbers every once in a while, and finally stopped in front of number 16, where my heart began to race. As usual, doubts began to toy with me. What am I going to say? How will I explain the reason I’m showing up? How will I introduce myself? The house, like all the other houses on the street, was a one-story light gray house. The window frames were painted dark pink, and the lawns in front of the houses were manicured and healthy. Sprinklers were working on both sides of the path. Parallel to the path were flower beds, straight as an arrow, with colorful flowers at the peak of their bloom.
I rang the doorbell and the door was opened immediately by a woman in her forties. She had an apron around her hips and her arms were held high to protect the ball of dough in her hands. It was obvious that she was in the middle of making bread. Even so, she had a nice smile.
“Hello,” she said first.
“Hello,” I answered weakly, still looking for the right sentence to begin the conversation.
“My name is Eva, and I’m looking for someone by the name of Nichka Weiss. I received this address…”
“Nichka Weiss,” she repeated the name. “And she lives at this address? Are you sure?”
She must have seen the disappointment on my face, because she said, “The name sounds familiar, but I’m not sure where I know it from.”
I kept quiet, hoping she’d remember. “You know, I think the previous tenants who lived here—their name was Weiss. I’ve lived here for fifteen years already, from the day I got married, but I remember that during those first years, mail used to arrive with the name Weiss on it.”
“Do you still have the letters?”
“No, after a few years, I threw them away. I didn’t see any reason to keep them. Nobody came to ask for them.”
“I see. Do you know anything about this family?”
“I think the real estate agent told me they left after their son was killed. But I’m not sure that’s true.”
“Anything else, perhaps?”
“No, I’m sorry. But maybe you should ask the neighbors. I don’t know which ones, though. Edith and Paul, who live next door, moved here after I did, so they wouldn’t be able to help you, and their house is empty most of the time anyway. The family only comes during the summer for vacations.”
The dough began to drip between her fingers. She gave me an apologetic expression.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she replied, and went into the house.
I got in my car and sat behind the steering wheel, frustrated and disappointed. On the way home, I thought about my lack of progress. Ethel remains a name on a sheet of paper and on a box. Aside from the new information about the name of her mother, I don’t know anything else—no address, no connection to my house. Maybe the solution to the mystery is simpler than I’m imagining. Maybe Ethel is the daughter of neighbors that lived nearby, or her family lived at my house before my parents came here. I decided to leave Ethel alone for now, but fate, it seems, had other plans.
When I got home, there was a message on the answering machine. I pressed the button and listened. “Eva, this is Josh. Call me, I have something for you.” It took a few seconds before I remembered that Josh was the nice guy that promised to try and find my mother.
I dialed him immediately and the secretary’s voice answered after one ring. “Hello, may I speak with Josh?”
“I’m sorry, he just went out. One minute, one minute—” I heard her call Josh. “Before you go out, answer the phone, it’s for you.”
“Hello?”
“Josh, this is Eva Brown.”
“Eva, how are you?” His voice sounded just as cheerful as I remembered. “I left you a message this morning.”
“Yes, I just heard it and called you right back.”
“Well, I have some good news for you. We were able to locate someone by the name of Sonia Schwartz, who once lived in a place called Cypress Beach.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“I just came from there.”
There was a pause. Then he asked, “Did you find her yourself?”
“No, it’s complicated. I was looking for someone else and they sent me there. It must be a coincidence. In any case, thank you, Josh. You’ve been a big help.”
“You’re welcome,” he answered.
***
I plopped down on the sofa. I didn’t know what to think. This strange coincidence was beyond imagination. It was disturbing. I was flooded with vague information and unclear feelings.
My fingers dialed the number automatically. His voice answered after two rings. “Roy?”
“Yes, Eva.”
It had been a month since we’d spoken last. I had called him once but hung up before he could answer. Being separated from him was hard for me and increased my feeling of loneliness. I was angry that he was able to refrain from calling me for such a long time. I imagined him meeting someone else. The thought drove me crazy, but it also helped me stay angry and not call him again.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you busy?”
“Not especially. Did something happen?”
“Yes and no…”
“I don’t understand.”
“Can you come over?” I blurted out.
“I’m not sure I should,” he said after a moment.
“Are you mad at me?”
“Yes and no,” he said, and I thought I heard a smile in his voice. “When should I come?”
“Now?” I tried.
“I’ll be right there.”
Roy didn’t know how to play games, and that was exactly what I loved about him. He was the straightest person I knew. That’s why he preferred to cut himself off from me. He knew he couldn’t pretend. Suddenly I felt an intense longing for him—for his long face, his warm smile, his familiar knock on the door, his honest concern, everything. When the knock came, I ran to the door, flung it wide open, and jumped straight into his arms.
“What is this?” he asked after I released him from my hug.
“I missed you,” I said softly.
I could see he wanted to say something back, but he changed his mind and became businesslike. “What did you want to tell me?”
“Would you like something to drink?”
“No!”
“To eat?”
“Eva…”
“OK, sorry.”
I told him about my meeting with Ron, my father’s brother. Every once in a while, I stopped to think about what to tell him and what not to, but Roy, who knew me so well, wasn’t misled. He said, “Eva, tell me everything.” So I told him everything about my despicable father that gave me life and the name he gave me when I was born. I lifted my eyes to his face to see his reaction, but his eyes remained steady and his face didn’t show any shock.
“Did you hear what I said? He named me after Hitler’s mistress.”
“I know.”
“You know? How?”
“I just know.”
I became despondent. Roy got up, poured us both a glass of water and came back to sit next to me.
“What else, Eva? Did you discover anything else?”
I shoo
k my head, and Roy waited patiently for me to continue.
“I looked for Ethel.” Roy raised his eyebrows in surprise.
I told Roy about my recent discoveries. His curiosity was piqued. “Are you saying that your mother and Ethel’s family lived on the same street?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s weird. So, what are you going to do about it now?”
I said, drawing out my words, “I was thinking that maybe you would agree to come with me to the address I received.”
Roy let out a long sigh and said, “You’ve been very busy lately.”
I didn’t answer, just looked at him with anticipation.
“When would you like to go?” he said.
I was so happy that I threw my arms around his neck and planted a big fat kiss on his lips. Roy was surprised, but snapped out of it quickly. He unwrapped my arms from his neck, took my head in his hands, and kissed me. When he tried to pull away from me, I wouldn’t let him. I continued to attach myself to his warm lips. I moved him closer to me so our bodies were pressed together until we became one entity. When we finally separated from each other, he only asked, “Mickey?”
“Over,” I answered.
36
The days that followed flew by like a young sparrow on a clear spring day. The horizon, which had always seemed beyond reach, grew closer and seemed more promising.
Roy came over every day now. We spent every free moment together. The question of moving in together hadn’t come up yet. It seemed only natural that he would move back to the house, but we decided it wasn’t time yet. We needed more time to digest the change in our relationship. We still hadn’t slept together either. We were building a new connection based on an old one and it was fantastic. I had more energy, and I smiled more.
I noticed that Donna was sneaking glances at me, although she avoided asking about the change in me. One day at the office, the department head came over and said that I was doing excellent work. I had never been told that before. I had never felt so alive, so awake. The future suddenly seemed brighter, full of hope.
Life in a Box Page 29
