Family Secrets

by Zina Abbott

  The December wedding date registered in my brain as I wrote it down. I made a quick calculation, a feat I knew women everywhere became adept at once they were old enough to understand that babies tend to be born nine months after conception. I noted that they were married a little over six months before I was born.

  Dad and Sherrie had to get married. I raised my eyebrow at that. In the nineties, it was nothing for couples to marry at any point in a pregnancy. But I knew that back in my dad’s day, such an event was still considered shameful.

  I heard the bathroom door open. I quickly shoved my checkbook back in my purse. My heart pounded inside my chest as I realized that there, in my checkbook register, was all this information about me and my birth family that I had not known before. I quickly placed everything back into the large envelope, hoping I got it stacked in the same order in which I found it. I placed the envelope back on top of the photo albums so that it looked the same as it had before Aunt Pat left the room.

  Once she returned to the couch, I turned to Aunt Pat and, as nonchalantly as possible, I asked my next question.

  “What happened to Sherrie? Where is she now?”

  Pat said nothing for a moment. I held my breath as I waited while she debated how much to tell me.

  “I know your father had a difficult time over this whole situation with Sherrie,” she finally said, “He was still working through some problems he brought home from the war, too. To tell you the truth, once the trouble with Sherrie started, your father clammed up and refused talk to me. I really think you need to wait for the right time and ask your father.”

  My heart sank. This part of the story must remain a mystery to me for awhile longer because we both knew that trying to get my dad to talk about something he did not want to discuss was a dead end. I continued to stare at my aunt. I was sure she knew how disappointed I felt.

  About that time, Uncle Leon’s voice boomed from the family room. “You ladies about finished in there? The game is over and my stomach is telling me it’s time to eat.”

  We joked back and forth with the men while Aunt Pat gathered her papers and photographs and returned them to the hatbox. Then, we went to the kitchen where I set the table while Aunt Pat placed a crock pot containing dinner and a basket of bread on the table for the four of us.

  On the way home, I shared with Rob what I had learned about my past. I was almost afraid to tell him about the information I lifted while Aunt Pat was in the bathroom. Once I got up the nerve and told him, he raised his eyebrows and gave me a long, searching look. All he said was, “Remind me not to leave you alone in a room with sensitive documents unless I want you to know what is in them.”

  “Only if it’s about me!” I said as I playfully smacked his arm with the back of my hand. “Otherwise, I’m not a snoop!”

  After I finished my story and read to him what I had recorded in my checkbook register, we lapsed into silence. That was when I began to brood again.

  “What’s eating at you now?” Rob asked me. “I thought you found out a lot of good information about your birth mother.”

  “I did. But, there’s still more. My parents and my aunt and uncle and who knows who else know all this other information about my birth mother that they refuse to tell me. I mean, she’s my birth mother. Why does everyone insist on keeping secrets about this woman? Why are they allowed to know all this stuff while I’m still being kept in the dark?”

  Rob took a deep breath and let it whistle out between his lips.

  “The only thing I can think of, sweetheart, is it’s because no one wants to take on your father and start a family feud.”

  I could understand that point. My father was not someone I ever wanted to cross.

  “Plus, maybe they are trying to protect Jan. Perhaps everyone is afraid that if you get too caught up in learning about your birth mother, you’ll turn your back on the mother you have now.”

  “I would never do that. Besides, Mom said she thought I was old enough to know the truth, even though she refuses to be the one to tell me. It’s trying to deal with all these secrets that drives me from her.”

  “I thought your aunt cleared up a lot of misunderstandings.”

  “I guess.” What I did not say to him then is that I still was not sure of Mom’s intent when she told me I was adopted. “I just still feel like the situation with Sherrie is unresolved for me.”

  “Sweetheart, if it’s really that important to you, then once we’re married, we will save the money and hire a private investigator to find out the details about your birth mother. Until then, try to let love be stronger than blood.”

  Rob’s last comment struck me as being weird, which is why I guess it stuck with me all these years. I was well aware of the saying, “Blood is thicker than water.” But, Rob’s twist on it sounded profound. I knew it would take awhile for me to fully absorb what he meant by it. For the time being, his promise that we could hire an investigator to find the truth for me brought me peace. I no longer felt that I was at the mercy of other people’s whims.

  Chapter 21 – Jennie

  It had been busy all weekend at The Bedazzled Boutique, especially on Black Friday. The customer flow finally started to slow down on Sunday afternoon. Jennie glanced at the clock to see how much longer she had before her lunch break. She made a face at it when she realized she still had ten minutes to go.

  In spite of the longer hours on her job, the entire weekend had dragged for Jennie. She smiled at her customers only because her ingrained customer service persona was on auto-pilot. She kept herself busy. Still, she found herself continually distracted thinking about Garrett. What was he doing? Was he happy with this daddy and his Womack grandparents? Was he crying and begging to come home to his mommy?

  Trish, the assistant manager, had already told Jennie she could work the back room after lunch in order to prep more inventory. That way, their racks would be replenished for Monday without them staying late.

  The store phone rang. With a disgruntled expression, Trish handed Jennie the handset.

  It was Christy.

  “Jennie, you need to call Alice Womack right now. She has been trying to reach you on your cell phone, but it keeps going to voicemail.”

  “I’m at work, Mom.”

  “She says it’s urgent. You need to come and get Garrett, but other than that, she won’t tell me anything.”

  Come get Garrett today? Jennie thought. Something is wrong! What?

  Panicking, Jennie glanced at the clock again. The time was close enough. “Lunch,” she mouthed to Trish as she ran to the “employee’s only” room.

  Jennie grabbed her cell phone from her purse. She kept it stashed in the break area which was nothing more than a table in the corner of the storage room nearest the restroom and a mini-fridge. She retrieved her messages. All Alice said was that Gerald has changed his plans and that she needed to talk to Jennie. Jennie immediately called her mother-in-law.

  “What’s going on?” Jennie asked as soon as Alice answered. “Is Garrett all right?”

  “He’s fine,” Alice assured her. Then her voice began to break as she continued, “Is there any way you can come pick up Garrett tonight? Gerald is up to something. We’re not sure what, but we are really uneasy about it.”

  “What?” Jennie almost screamed into the phone. “Do you have any idea?”

  “Gerald has been distracted and I think he’s suffering from a migraine, but he won’t take anything for it,” Alice said, her voice starting to sob. “He just takes off and won’t tell us where he’s going. Last night he started drinking. This morning he told us he’s leaving tomorrow morning because has to get back to Fort Benning for the rest of his leave. When I asked him about Garrett, he said I already had the time off work, so I could take care of him. Then, a few hours ago he came home with two airplane tickets to Georgia. They were one-way tickets, Jennie. I asked him why he had two. He said that since you were fighting the divorce, he was going to force your hand so that�
��well, I won’t tell you how he put it, but he meant that, if you want to get Garrett back, you’ll hurry up and get the divorce so he’s free. Until then, he’s keeping Garrett where you won’t find him.”

  Jennie collapsed into a nearby chair as her throat choked shut with shock and fear.

  He’s taking him to that woman, Jennie realized. He and that woman are going to try to hide Garrett from me.

  “Jennie! Jennie, can you hear me?” Alice’s voice called through the receiver. “Jennie, I don’t know what else to do. Gerald is my son, and I don’t want to be disloyal to him, but he’s making no sense. Gerald told me to pack up little Garrett’s clothes and toys so he’ll be ready to go in the morning. I’m so afraid for Garrett.”

  “Where is Gerald now? Is he at the house?”

  “No. He’s spending the evening with friends in town. He probably won’t be home until after the bars close. But he has my car with the car seat.”

  Jennie looked at the clock above the employee table. It would be cutting it close, but she should be able to make it to San Luis Obispo before the bars closed if she left right then. She thanked Alice for calling her and promised she would be there as soon as she could.

  Next Jennie phoned her parents. Christy answered the phone before the first ring ended. Jennie quickly relayed what she had learned from Alice.

  “As soon as I wrap up a few things at work, I need to leave so I can go get Garrett, Mom. Please pack an ice chest for me. I’ll be home as soon as I can fill my car with gas.

  “Stay put,” Christy ordered her. “Your father is on his way out the door with stuff for you to take on the road. Meet him in the parking lot behind the store.”

  Jennie smiled at her mother’s words in spite of her worry. In her mind she envisioned her father being on his way out the door because her mother was behind him, pushing as she spoke. Jennie ended the call and dropped her cell phone in her purse and slung it on her shoulder. She quickly grabbed her jacket on her way out to find Trish.

  Chapter 22 – Mike

  As bad as Tet was, the darkest days of the war for me were right after Sarge bought it.

  Our platoon had been inserted for a search and destroy into an area we didn’t know. Butter Bars had decided to sit this one out, so Sarge was in charge. None of us had a feel for what lay beyond each cluster of rocks or clump of trees we moved through. The whole time we sensed Charlie was following closely, ready to ambush us. Toward the end of the week, we were all jumpy.

  The day it happened, Sarge had us spread out and, in his low, no-nonsense voice, warned us to watch for booby-traps. As if we needed reminding. That mission, none of us were new. We had all seen how a Bouncing Betty could tear a body apart, or how a pit filled with sharpened bamboo sticks smeared with urine and feces could spell a miserable death for our guys. With our M-14s clutched in our hands, we scanned both the trees above us and the ground beneath, the whole time watching for trip wires or pit covers.

  We were in a thicket of triple canopy when the firefight exploded on us. Above the deafening shouts and the gunfire, we heard Sarge barking orders, no longer keeping his voice low. We shot into the trees and bushes around us for what seemed like hours, although we knew it was only minutes. All we could do was aim in the direction of the sound of gunfire and muzzle flash while trying to not hit one of our own.

  Then the full force of the attack was over. Only the acrid smell of gunpowder and the soft sounds of bodies brushing against leaves remained as Charlie faded away into the dense foliage.

  I don’t think any of us saw even one VC. We knew they were dragging their dead and wounded with them. They knew we were after body count and they did their best to deny us. But, even as Charlie’s main force left, we felt that some of them were still around. It was too quiet. The word whispered down the line was to hold our position and maintain cover in case there were snipers hidden high in the trees.

  As usual, the moans of our wounded were unnerving. We made out the sounds of our medic crawling to reach them, hoping to patch them up or at least give them a dose of morphine to ease the pain. Any time he had to move where it was fairly open, we sent up a barrage of bullets to cover him.

  Most of the men who were hit seemed to be doing okay. All except for Brantler, Bravo’s squad leader. He’d been leading out and had gotten caught more out in the open than the rest of us. We could see he was torn up bad and losing blood fast. His loud and piercing cries split the air. We willed the worst of it to pass for him, or for our medic to be able to get to him.

  It worked on our nerves worse than the heat of the firefight because we knew Charlie was not going to finish Brantler off.

  Brantler was bait.

  Brantler was their way of buying time so they could get away. They knew we take care of our own, a trait they considered a weakness, because it could take three or four of our men out of the fight to rescue one wounded soldier. All Charlie had to do was wait for some of us to move forward to Brantler’s rescue. Once we did, they would start picking us off.

  I was not right next to Sarge, but close enough I caught bits of the chatter surrounding him. Someone, I think it was Johnson, tried to convince Sarge to let him go after Brantler so he could jam a morphine vial into him. He kept explaining to Sarge the path he intended to take beneath the existing cover, assuring Sarge he could reach Brantler.

  Sarge kept refusing permission. There was no mistaking Sarge’s insistence that if anyone went, it would be him. Brantler belonged to him. Others told Sarge he was crazy to go or to let anyone else move into the trap. Brantler was a dead man, anyway; it was only a matter of time.

  Finally, Sarge had heard enough. He issued orders and started to make his move. Those of us close enough to see what was going on tensed and, gripping our weapons tighter, started laying down cover fire for Sarge. We shot at any location where Charlie might be hiding. It was hard to concentrate on looking for the enemy because our eyes were continually drawn to Sarge sliding toward Brantler. I remember glancing at both Ames and Coelho, our two best marksmen. I felt some comfort that their eyes stayed focused on the trees above us, searching for enemy snipers. Also, Daniels had his M-60 machine gun barking.

  Time moved painfully slow as Sarge inched toward Brantler whose cries grew weaker with the loss of blood. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until the first shot rang out from the treetops. I gasped for air as my eyes were drawn to the copse of trees in front of me and slightly to my left that hid the sniper. At the same time I heard Coelho’s shot and saw the start of the slow tumble of a body from at least thirty feet above us. Then I turned back at the sound of Sarge’s grunt of pain followed by a string of profanity. I watched Sarge, clutching his arm, roll to cover beneath a shrub.

  “Dammit, Sarge!” Johnson called out as he jumped from his position and, while maintaining a crouch, started toward him. Sarge cussed even more as he ordered Johnson to stay under cover, using the hand red with blood to wave him back.

  It was too late. From a tree toward the rear of our position, Charlie shot Johnson in the back of the neck, just above his flak jacket and below his steel pot. Johnson’s hands flew out to his sides, his fingers splayed as both what was left of his head, and his rifle hit the ground about the same time. None of us had to be a medic to know Johnson was dead.

  It took several heartbeats before I could pull my eyes from the grisly sight and turn to the right, firing at the trees from which the shot came. Ames and Coelho had already twisted to scan the trees behind us. Then we stopped. We knew there was at least the one Charlie, maybe more, up in the trees, but we were waiting to see what Sarge would do.

  There was no mistaking the threat in Sarge’s hissed warning that if anyone else broke cover and came after him, he’d shoot them himself. Then Sarge started again to drag himself toward Brantler. Once again, we started covering him with rifle fire.

  It was when Sarge rolled on his stomach and stretched his good arm to pull himself forward that the second bullet tore into his
low back, off to one side. Over the din, after two almost simultaneous shots by both Ames and Coelho, I was aware of the sound of a body snapping branches as it fell toward earth. I didn’t even glance in that direction. Like most of the others, my eyes were glued to Sarge. I winced as Sarge screamed in agony while he rolled on his back, panting for breath. Blood poured out of the exit wound in his gut. I watched his heaving body, his face contorted in pain. Under cover of our continued fire, the medic took the chance and ran toward Sarge.

  Then we heard what we had been waiting for. As soon as we had gone under attack, our radioman had called in our position and asked for a dust-off. The medevacs arrived to extract us. As the Hueys flew near, the side gunners sprayed the treetops around us. Nothing except leaves and bits of branches fell to the ground. By this time, Brantler was silent and not moving. Our medic worked on Sarge.

  We sprang into action. Those of us nearest the wounded and dead grabbed them and headed for the lead copters out in the clearing in front of us. The rest of us stayed on alert, covering the extraction with our fire until we all could climb in a Huey and get out of there.

  Sarge was still alive when he left on the first medevac. But, by the time we got back to the compound, the news about Sarge had spread like wildfire. Sarge died on the way in.

  The platoon honored Sarge by getting drunk and sharing stories about him. We all agreed that he was the meanest cuss in this man’s army. Once we were drunk enough, we freely laughed and cried as we remembered all his quirks and all the ways he had kept us alive. This went on until most of us passed out. The last thing I remember was leading the three-gun salute inside the compound to honor Sarge. Thanks to Butter Bars, I lost my stripe over that and got busted back to a Spec-4, but I didn’t care.

  The whole time we celebrated, we avoided looking at each other directly for any length of time. If we did catch someone else’s eye, we quickly turned away because we saw reflected back to us the monster devouring each of us. We all felt hollowed out inside because of all the buddies we’d lost in Vietnam. But, added that night was the stark terror caused by Sarge’s death. We all asked ourselves the same question. If the Viet Cong could take Sarge down, how were the rest of us going to get out of this war alive?