Jessica Lost

by Crumpacker/Picariello

  Four hours later, my eyes were blurry and sore. I had a headache and backache from leaning over the musty book. All the excitement I’d started with had drained away, and I was hungry and tired.

  I called Lenny before I left the building. “I’m starving and I have a headache. And that’s all I have.”

  “You should have started at the beginning of the alphabet,” he said confidently.

  “Why?”

  “I think it’s an A or a B. C at the latest,” he said. “I have a feeling.”

  My husband was famous for his “feelings.” He had a “feeling” about the right road to take in a place he’d never been before. He had a “feeling” about how good a restaurant would be, or what stock to invest in, or whether or not a book would be worth reading. The fact that he was as often wrong as right never shook his certainty. And his lack of self-doubt was tremendously convincing to me.

  “Okay,” I said, and a week later I said good morning to Patience and Fortitude and headed for the windowless cave of room 315B. This time I came prepared with an energy bar, a pack of gum, a bottle of water, and three chocolate kisses. I laid out my supplies, unfolded my birth certificate, and opened the book labeled A–K.

  It took ten minutes.

  On page 27, my scanning finger stopped at Month: November. Then Day: The 15th. I slid to the next column. Borough: Manhattan. Then Gender: Female. Finally, I checked the Birth Certificate Number: 1007643. I checked again. 1007643. I looked at my amended birth certificate, sitting on the table next to me. 1007643.

  It was me.

  My heart started pounding and all the air whooshed out of my lungs. I could hear my heartbeat throbbing in my ears, as if I’d just climbed a steep hill, fast.

  Slowly, I moved my shaking finger to the next column: Surname: Aylford.

  Aylford!

  I said it silently, and then whispered it in amazement: Aylford! It had a nice sound, breathy and strong. It made me think of a Jane Austen character, the vicar who comes to tea, or the squire who strolls through the park on Sunday. So elegant! So British! I was born an Aylford ?? I could no more see myself as an Aylford than as a moon maiden or a circus clown. I could have been born an Aylstein or an Aylberg or even an Aylwitz—but an Aylford?

  I looked down. There was a name in the very last column, the name I never knew existed, the name I had been given at birth, the name that was mine, and mine alone.

  I slid my finger over to the last column, which read, “Female.”

  I was confused. Ruth said I had a name. She heard me guess the possibilities. Why would she do that if there was no name? What did the nice foster mother call me all those months?

  My disappointment turning to anger, I pushed back my chair and stood up. What was wrong with these birth parents who couldn’t even be bothered to give a baby a name? Maybe they chose the name when she was pregnant and told Ruth, then something happened at the hospital that stopped them from using it? Maybe there were complications after the delivery, and my birth mother went into a coma? Or maybe they couldn’t agree on a name: They were already divorcing, right?

  I had a lot of theories, but I still had that awful, ungenerous “Female” in the big blue book. It stung—hard, concrete evidence of being unwanted.

  I closed the book and stared at the chocolates, the gum, the bar, and the water. I hadn’t touched any of them. I’d expected to be in the library a long time. Enormous revelations had occurred, my ground had shifted once again, and only about fifteen minutes had passed. Despite feeling angry and let down, I was energized and very curious.

  In the small notebook I’d brought, I wrote Aylford at the top of a blank page, then handed the birth record book back to the man at the information desk.

  “Do you have old phone directories for Manhattan?” I asked him.

  “Next room,” he said, without looking up.

  The woman in the next room pointed me toward several shelves of ancient, crumbling books. I found 1954 and flipped the book open to the As. Aylan… Aylcromb… Aylford. There were two entries: Sara Jane Aylford at 13 East 71st Street, and Edward Aylford at 1 East 57th Street—my birth parents? But weren’t they still living together when I was born?

  Phone books in the 1950s, I discovered, listed professions along with names. Next to Edward Aylford’s number was the tiny abbreviation, “advtg.” Ruth had told me my paternal grandfather was an advertising executive. Edward Aylford had to be my grandfather.

  I had to force myself to breathe slowly. This was all happening so fast!

  Edward Aylford—such a patrician name! I pictured a tall, elegant man with a cane, who looked like Fred Astaire.

  Was Sara Jane my birth mother? It was possible. She couldn’t be Edward’s daughter, because Ruth had told me my birth father’s sister had died. But Ruth also said that my birth father’s father had been married “several” more times after he and my paternal grandmother divorced. Maybe Sara Jane was one of the other Mrs. Aylfords? I wrote “Edward—paternal grandfather” and “Sara Jane—birth mother?” and their 1954 addresses in my notebook, then checked the current Manhattan directory. There were no Aylfords.

  I returned to the woman at the information desk.

  “How can I get information on someone if all I have is a name?” I asked.

  “Are they alive?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Famous?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “American?”

  “Yes,” I said, although I wasn’t totally sure.

  “Try the Master Biography Index and the Genealogy Index, in case they’ve done anything noteworthy. They’re in the back room on the left. Also look in the New York Times Personal Name Index, in the back room on the right. If they’ve ever been in the press or won an award of any kind, they’ll be in there.”

  The Master Biography Index included three Aylfords.

  The first, Henry VanderWater Aylford, was a banker, born 1869, died 1931.

  Joan Aylford, a poet, was still alive, and roughly the right age to be my birth mother. The nonidentifying information sheet had said that my birth mother enjoyed writing. But would a published poet keep using the name of a man she was married to so briefly and so long ago? It seemed unlikely.

  The third was a scientist, Marion K. Aylford, born in 1933. My birth father, Ruth said, was a photographer. Could he somehow have ended up as a scientist?

  In the New York Times Personal Name Index, I found Donald Aylford, a police officer in New Jersey who was killed in 1975 by a sniper named James Carhart. Though I couldn’t figure out where Donald might fit into the puzzle, I read the articles about his killing anyway.

  Then, paydirt! A 1975 obituary of Edward Aylford, advertising executive, prominent enough to merit a chunky obit in the Times. Born in 1908, graduated from the University of Chicago in 1927, had a bunch of jobs in advertising (starting as a copywriter—my job!), then at the ABC radio network. Went back to advertising in Chicago and New York. A lieutenant commander in the Navy in World War II, he died January 28, 1975 of a heart ailment at New York Hospital (where I was born!).

  The last sentence set me trembling: “Mr. Aylford is survived by his wife Rebecca Barnes Aylford and his two sons, Steven Barnes Aylford and John Aylford.”

  I thought it through. Rebecca Barnes Aylford was the last wife of the “several” that Ruth had mentioned. And if Steven’s middle name was Barnes, then he must be Edward’s son with Rebecca, this last wife. But my birth father was the child of his father’s first marriage. John Aylford was my father.

  I sat back, breathless. I had the name of my birth father. Without even realizing it, I’d gotten caught up in the hunt. And I wasn’t ready to stop. I felt titillated, and I wanted more. I had my birth grandfather’s name, his address when I was born, and even his phone number. I might have my birth mother’s name, Sara Jane, as well as that of my birth father. John Aylford—I said it once, and then again: What a handsome, forthright name. Just the kind of a
name a father should have.

  Before I left the library, I headed back to the telephone book collection. The current books for Westchester, Nassau, Suffolk, Syracuse, northern New Jersey, and western Connecticut yielded not a single Aylford. Wherever they are, I thought, they’re not here anymore. I wonder where they are… and if I can find them.

  John Aylford, John Aylford, John Aylford. For days I walked around repeating the name like an incantation, like Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl: “Nicky Arnstein, Nicky Arnstein, Nicky Arnstein.” I kept imagining faces and forms to match this beautiful name. They always ended up looking like Fred Astaire: long and lean, graceful, but with thick, dark hair and green eyes. Was this because my father— the only father I knew—was long and lean, dark-haired and graceful? When I was a little girl, we entered father-daughter dance contests at Catskills’ hotels. My tiny feet on top of his shiny black dress shoes, we swanned our way through “Begin the Beguine” together. It felt like flying, scary and thrilling. But as I wandered through the days humming John Aylford, John Aylford, John Aylford, it never occurred to me that perhaps the father I imagined was invented to match the father I already had.

  It wasn’t until early January, 1997 that I took the next step. Although I wanted more information, I already felt flooded by what I had. Just knowing the names of my birth father and grandfather, their eye color, their hobbies, was overwhelming. I had started out thinking I wanted a little taste—just a name. Now I felt compelled to move forward.

  But I couldn’t have taken the next step without making use of an amazing invention that changed the way everyone did just about everything—the Internet.

  At the time, I was working two days a week at a teen magazine, writing presentations, brochures, and ads. In the last few months, a new function had been installed on my computer at work, called the World Wide Web. I’d used it a couple of times to look up lip gloss on AltaVista, and the names of the singers in ’N Sync. I had seen an article about how to use the Internet to locate someone living in another state. It recommended using a site called Database America, which could search phone directories from all over the country.

  The next day at work I closed the door to my office and opened the Web site. I felt like I was viewing pornography, irrationally afraid that if someone came in and found me, I would be fired. With shaking hands I typed in JOHN AYLFORD. I waited a few long seconds and a list of names came up. There were seven John Aylfords, in Louisiana and Maine, Vermont and Virginia. I printed out the list and stared at it: One of these men was my birth father. It seemed so certain, and so completely impossible.

  I put the list in my purse, where it gathered dust for several days while I tried to figure out what to do. I knew I couldn’t bring myself to call them, even though I had their phone numbers. I couldn’t imagine saying to a total stranger: Hello, my name is Jil and I might be the daughter you gave away forty-two years ago.

  Finally I decided to send them all the same letter. I fiddled with the wording for a few more days, then sat down and wrote what I hoped was a simple, clear letter.

  Dear Mr. Aylford,

  This is a very difficult letter to write. You see, I am an adult adoptee currently searching for my birth parents. I believe my birth father’s name was John Aylford.

  I was born on November 15, 1954 at New York Hospital. I have been told my parents were a young couple who married in the early 1950s after a very brief courtship and then were separated by my father’s time in the service. After his return, they realized that their marriage was not going to work. Finding that they were going to have a baby, they made the decision to put that child up for adoption.

  I am that child, now forty-two years old. I began searching for my birth parents about a year ago. I believe my birth mother’s name was Sara. I know little about her except that her father, a pharmacist, had died several years before I was born of a brain tumor, and she had one sister.

  My birth father was trying to make a living as a photographer when I was born. His father was an advertising executive who died, I believe, in the 1970s. His parents had divorced when he was younger, and he had one sister who died in an accident.

  Mr. Aylford, I don’t know anything about you except that you have the same name as the man I seek. If you are my birth father, please understand that I don’t want to cause problems for anyone, or intrude on a life that may not welcome me. I am just trying to put the missing pieces of my life together—to find out who I am and who I come from.

  Although I found your telephone number, I hesitate to use it—I don’t have the nerve, I guess. As I said earlier, this is a difficult letter to write. I hope that you will write back to me, or call me if you would rather (maybe you have more nerve than I). I would love any information you can offer about my birth family, especially my birth mother. If you are my birth father, I promise I will follow your lead. If you don’t want a surprise forty-two-year-old baby in your life, I understand and I won’t bother you. I would just like to know.

  Thank you.

  I stared at the computer screen on the desk in my bedroom. I changed the last word “know” to “know” then changed it again, then went back to italics. I wanted to be clear: I wasn’t going to bust into his life if he didn’t want me there. But then maybe italicizing it made me sound too intense? He wouldn’t want to hear from some wacko long-lost daughter looking for love, or a daddy, or a new family. I wasn’t looking for any of those things—although I had no idea what I was looking for.

  I stared out my bedroom window. I knew myself well enough to know (know?) that once I let too much analysis creep into a decision, I would see not one side, not even two, but ten or twenty or a hundred different possibilities, and reaching a decision would become impossible. I looked back at the screen. Know: I left the italics and printed out seven copies, signed them, addressed seven envelopes, folded and stamped and sealed them, and slid them into my purse.

  Where they remained for two weeks.

  Once mailed, my world might change, forever. But would it change for better or for worse? I tried to imagine all the possibilities. But every time I did, a bunch of alternative possibilities grew, like vines with tendrils and more tendrils, until my brain was strangled by all the possibilities, none of which I felt equipped to handle.

  What if the letter found the right John Aylford, and he turned out to be a cold bastard who wanted nothing to do with me? What if he thought I was after his money? What if he didn’t know where my birth mother was? What if he did ? What if she was dead, or sick, or mentally ill? What if he was a white-trash deadbeat and she was a trailer-park whore? Worse: What if they were boring? Did I still want to know?

  “I can’t decide what to do,” I moaned to Janey on the phone.

  She had been listening to what if for two weeks.

  “Listen,” she said, in a firm voice. “You had a baby with less thought than this. You got married with a lot less thought than this. There’s no way you’re ever going to know what could happen. You’re forty-two years old. They’re in their sixties. You’re not going to have forever to decide. You just have to do it.”

  “I do?” I asked plaintively.

  “Just mail the letters. You can deal with whatever happens next.”

  I wasn’t sure she was right about that, but the next day I mailed the letters. Then I waited, wondering and worrying.

  A few days later, a man with a Southern twang called. “Mah name is John Aylford,” he drawled, “I live in Sulphur, Louisiana. But I can’t be your daddy ’cause I’m thirty-six years old.” He apologized for taking so long to call me, but, he said, “I wanted to ask my daddy if he knew of anyone in the fam’ly having a baby and giving it away, but he didn’t know anything about it, so I guess you’re not fam’ly to us.” He sounded disappointed. I was, too. I thanked him for the call.

  “That’s quite all right,” he said sympathetically. “Ah wish ah could help you. And me and my daddy are prayin’ for you.”

  I hung up the phone, s
trangely comforted by the sweetness of Louisiana’s John Aylford. If this John Aylford was so kind, maybe my John Aylford would be.

  Two days later, I got a call from John Aylford in Ohio, who was also very kind. He was also not my father. But Ohio’s John Aylford said he would “keep my ears open.”

  Another John Aylford called with the same news. He sounded disappointed to tell me he wasn’t my father, but, he said excitedly, there was going to be a huge Aylford reunion in Seattle that summer, with dozens of Aylfords from all over the country. Since I was born an Aylford, I was more than welcome to come.

  I imagined all sorts of Aylfords introducing themselves to each other. “Hello, I’m Donald Aylford.” “Nice to meet you, I’m Susan Aylford.” “Hi, I’m Bill Aylford.”

  What would my introduction be? “Hello, I’m Female Aylford. I don’t know my first name or how I’m related to you. But I’m an Aylford, too!”

  I thanked him, but I didn’t think I would go.

  I got a letter from John Aylford in Virginia. “I know you have been through a lot,” it said. He was also too young to be my father, but, he wrote, “Keep your head held high. God can help you through this.” He had gotten a letter from Stephanie Aylford in Washington, who was writing a book on the history of the Aylfords. He passed along her address to me in case I wanted to see if she had any information. “Good luck in finding your father,” he said. “And welcome to the family.”

  After a couple of weeks, I had almost stopped thinking about the letters. Either my John Aylford no longer existed, or he didn’t want to be found. The search had reached a dead end. I was disappointed, but also relieved.

  At work one afternoon, I was fiddling around with a piece about hot new singers. The Spice Girls were at the top of the charts, with the Backstreet Boys right behind them. I was trying to figure out whether to focus on hot girls or hot boys. I called home to check my messages.