Ties That Bind

by Debbie White

  “That’s too bad. We have a job to do.” I said matter of fact.

  Charles shot me a quick grin. “Wow. You're a bit tough today,” he said squeezing my leg.

  “I’m learning from the best,” I whispered.

  Charles started the car. We were just about to drive off when the woman from the house came running out and in her arms–Henry!

  I threw open the car door and stood on the sidewalk.

  “You. You had him all the time?” I blurted.

  She handed him over to me.

  “Take him. I didn’t want to have him. He made me do it.”

  Charles approached the woman. “What do you mean, he made you do it?”

  “He said Henry was valuable. He wanted to use him as a negotiating tool. Mrs. Peters was to get a hefty sum of money in the divorce proceedings.”

  Now I’d heard everything. Holding a harmless little pup as a negotiating tool in a divorce proceeding. I shook my head. “I’m just glad he’s safe. We’ll return him to Mrs. Peters,” I said.

  I slid in the front seat of the car holding Henry on my lap. He licked my face and it made me giggle. He was such a cute little guy with his smashed up little face. I petted him and tried to comfort him while Charles finished up with the girlfriend. I never did get her name. We called her Blondie.

  “She’s going to have to explain to Mr. Peters why she gave up Henry. I don’t envy her. Sounds like he’s an idiot. I wonder what she saw in him,” Charles said.

  I blinked a couple of times. Charles did not see the forest for the trees. “She went along with it for the money, Charles,” I said.

  He nodded. “It always comes down to the money, doesn’t it?”

  I softened my smile and gazed lovingly into his eyes. “It will never come down to money with us.”

  Chapter Four

  Considering how my life had begun, I was elated to see how it had evolved. I was a pretty happy person. Oh sure I had my days of self-doubt, and mild depression but Charles seemed to bring out only the best in me, and I didn’t think about the bad days very often.

  I wrote to the city records department to get a certified copy of my birth certificate only to be told there wasn’t one. Instead, I received a copy of a certificate of live birth with both my adoptive parents listed, Irma and Lyle. I wrote again, inquiring about the adoption specifically, and received yet another correspondence saying the adoption was closed, and no information could be released. It seemed one roadblock after another was placed in my way as I tried to discover who my biological parents were.

  As Charles and I got to know one another, my adoption became a topic of interest with him. His investigative personality was intrigued by it, and he would often ask me questions surrounding the event. I’d try to tell him as much as I recalled. Much of it was fuzzy. I told him I thought I was connected to the family in some way, and that a big secret was being kept buried. I told him the few incidents of words slipping from family member’s mouths, and how my daddy’s sisters - my aunts loved me to pieces. The biggest clue that I may belong to the family in some way was the way in which Irma; my mother, and my half-sister, Teresa treated me.

  As I aged, I felt more comfortable with that situation, and although I was still interested in knowing my past, it wasn’t more than just curiosity. Years later my curiosity would turn in to more than a curiosity. It became a driving need to know.

  It was after one of our big deep discussions involving Iowa and my adoption that he leaned in and kissed me. I wasn’t expecting it but welcomed it just the same. His lips were warm as he gently pushed my lips apart. I don’t recall much about that evening, my head swirling from warm, wet kisses. But that night changed our relationship forever, and Charles became the family I never had.

  In between finding lost spouses and the occasional runaway teenager, we nourished our relationship. Soft kisses turned into longer, more romantic kisses, and the passion I felt deep in the pit of my stomach let me know Charles was the one.

  * * *

  We decided we’d be married by the Justice of the Peace - a simple ceremony for simple people. I invited my aunts; Toots and Margie to witness the ceremony and to celebrate the marriage. We went to dinner at a nice restaurant and decided our future over steak and lobster.

  We were doing pretty well financially, so Charles said we could take a few days and go on a honeymoon.

  I’d never flown before and was a little scared when he suggested Hawaii. Nevertheless, the explorer in me took over, and I was excited about my first flight over the ocean to the sandy shores of Hawaii.

  We stayed in an ocean view room, drank funny little fruity drinks with umbrellas, and took long walks along the beach holding each other tight. We truly were in paradise.

  Not knowing the extent of Charles’s experience in the sex department, and not wanting to know either, I was a little nervous about our first night together as husband and wife.

  * * *

  After we had returned to the mainland, we settled into marriage great. Our union was a happy one filled with much laughter and kindness. I craved those things, and Charles made sure every day was filled with both.

  We still were hitting the pavement, chasing bad guys, or gals, and reaping the monetary awards for a job well done. The work seemed to never end. We were newlyweds, though, and so in between our jobs, we always made time for one another.

  * * *

  I’d never felt any love for Irma or Teresa—definitely not the way I felt love for Charles. However, when my aunt brought over the Obituary for Irma, I did feel a little pang deep in the pit of my stomach. I guess because that part of the puzzle was now gone from my life forever.

  “Who sent this to you?” I asked my aunts.

  Straight forward, just like I like it, Aunt Margie said, “Teresa.”

  Running my finger over the glossy bookmarked obituary, I nodded and asked, “Where’s she at these days?”

  “Still in Sioux City,” Aunt Toots replied.

  “Ah, yes, I see that now,” I said, feeling a bit stupid that I’d asked the question in the first place.

  “Well, thanks for this,” I said holding up the bookmarker.

  “I know you haven’t had any contact with the family back there . . .” Aunt Annie trailed off.

  “Nope, and I don’t plan to,” I said directly to all three of them.

  “Just think about it, honey. You just might want them in your life one of these days,” Aunt Margie murmured.

  Being the strong willed character that I was, I replied, “No way. They were never there for me, why would I ever need them? You’re all the family I ever need,” I said looking first at Margie, and then Annie before settling my eyes on Toots.

  “Well, that brings us to another topic. Whitey is going to drink himself to death.” Aunt Toots bellowed.

  “It’s a real shame too because he just got a record contract with RCA,” Aunt Margie said before adding under her breath, “What an idiot.”

  “I’ll talk to him. I’m pretty busy helping Charles with the business, but I’ll make time to see him.” I told them both.

  * * *

  I did as I promised and tried to talk some sense into Whitey, but drinking and women seemed to be his passion these days along with singing and making records. It was a shame that was the path he chose.

  I got him alone. I gently touched him on the arm. I wanted him to know I cared. “Whitey everyone is concerned you’re going to end up hurting yourself, or worse, someone else. Can’t you slow down on the drinking?” I pleaded.

  I learned a long time ago that you can’t help those who will not help themselves. Whitey went on to become a famous singer and guitar player, but his drinking made him a one hit wonder, and sadly, it eventually cost him his life. What a shame too. He had talent.

  * * *

  Life was better than perfect, with Charles. Or so it should have been. He was a wonderful husband, a great provider, and he was the love of my life. So why did I feel like I
was missing something?

  Charles thought maybe once we started our family, the emptiness I felt, would be filled with the laughter of children. I hoped he was right.

  The pitter-patter of little feet was exactly what I needed, and our first child, a boy, we named Charles Jr. filled me up with more joy than I thought was possible.

  Charlie, as we affectionately called him, was the love of our lives. We worshiped him as much as any parent could. He was happy, healthy, and we were madly in love with that little boy.

  I still helped with the business, but mainly just paperwork. I wanted to be a stay at home mom for Charlie. That was a priority. Now and then, I would get sad about Charlie not having grandparents nearby. Having my aunts nearby was the next best thing, and they smothered him in love just like they’d done for me as a small child.

  Charles leaned around and kissed me on the cheek. “Everything ok?” he asked. He must have seen the tears in my eyes.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I wish Charlie had family nearby,” I said.

  Charles cocked his head, “family?”

  “Grandparents,” I said.

  He nodded. “Pat, Charlie is not the only kid without grandparents,” he said walking toward the fridge.

  I reached into the drawer and handed him the bottle opener.

  Popping the top off his beer, I watched him take a swish of the cold brew. “He’ll be well-rounded and well loved,” he said patting me on the behind.

  * * *

  When Charlie was about two, along came Carole. Carole was named after Charles’s little sister who’d been killed. Our Carole was a quiet child, but she filled our hearts as much as Charlie did.

  It was great to have the kids only two years apart. To this day, they’re close. We had a little longer break in between Carole and child number three. We decided to change letters and capture names that started with “P” like my own, Patricia.

  Peter was a delightful child, but headstrong. He was always challenging my authority and kept Charles and me on our toes. He would be the child that continually pushed the boundaries.

  There was about eight years difference between Peter and Carole, but she didn’t see him as a bothersome little brother. She loved to take him for walks, and played with him outside. Charlie was also a big help with his little brother. I knew if Peter was with either of the older children he’d be well taken care of.

  Life couldn’t be any better. I had a house with a picket fence on a tree-lined street, married to the love of my life, and three beautiful children. What more could a girl want?

  I asked myself that over and over on the days when I couldn’t get out of bed, or on the days when the children irritated me, or the days I’d pick an argument with Charles or the children.

  I tried to take Charles approach that some things we just can’t change. I guess I was a fixer and didn’t realize it. I knew too many years had passed for any sort of reconciliation with Irma, or Teresa, or any of my long lost family. Yet, sometimes I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs that I wanted answers, and I wanted them now.

  * * *

  My life probably wasn’t much different than many others who were brought up in a dysfunctional family. Some children can rise above their circumstances and put all the ugliness behind them. I tried. Charles made it easy to move forward, and after the children came along, I found even more purpose for my life.

  But, I wasn’t prepared for losing the few remaining family relatives. I would say blood relatives, but I wasn’t sure of that. However, my aunts were the closest thing I had, and when one by one they passed away, I felt a little of me go with them. I was particularly saddened by the death of my Aunt Margie.

  Charles and I had moved, leaving my aunts in Southern California. Now distance separated us. As our children grew, they didn't seem to miss having aunts, uncles or even grandparents around, something I wanted for them when they were younger. It would be years later during one of my talks with Carole that I would learn she missed not having extended family around.

  After the children were grown and gone, I would make an occasional bus trip to Southern California. I’d try to find out some details about my adoption in the most subtle ways. After a while, I gave up. My aunts were not interested in dredging up old stuff, and I felt the same way.

  My last visit would be with Aunt Margie only. Aunt Toots and Aunt Annie were already gone.

  I told myself that I wouldn’t ask her. It was hard when I saw her slipping away and maybe taking my last chance of knowing the truth with her.

  Chapter Five

  On Aunt Margie’s deathbed, I asked her if she knew who my real parents were. I felt like it was my last opportunity, and I went for it.

  I took her hand in mine. Her hand felt cold, and I could feel the frailty, bone by bone. Her eyes were closed, but she was conscious. “Aunt Margie. Is there anything you want to tell me about my daddy?”

  She squeezed her eyes tighter. I wasn’t sure if she was in pain, or trying to gather her thoughts. “Patsy. Let it go.”

  I nodded even though she couldn’t see it. She was going to take the big secret to her grave.

  She opened her eyes and turned her head toward me. “There’s a black box in the bureau. It’s yours. Take it. Maybe it will give you some comfort.” She closed her eyes. She was gone.

  I retrieved the black metal box and remembered seeing it in our home when I was little. It was crudely made (my daddy had made it out of some type of tin), but it had a latch, a handle, and was fireproof.

  Inside it held two copies of the article that ran in the local Sioux City paper regarding me, a glossy bookmark style obituary of Irma, and the obituary from my dad. Also, in the box were some trinkets; a ring that appeared to be homemade, dog tags, and my dad’s social security card.

  There were a few picture albums as well. I opened each one, and the story of me, and my family began to unfold; starting in Iowa and ending in California.

  * * *

  I was sitting alone in the living room. The children were in school, and Charles was at the office. I retrieved the old black box from our closet and held Daddy’s dog tags in my hands. I placed the metal ring on my finger. It was too big; probably made for a man or a woman with a fat finger, maybe Irma, I wondered, or perhaps Teresa’s mother.

  It was during quiet times like this that my mind wandered, and I began to recall times in Iowa like the time when Daddy was arrested for making moonshine.

  It was common knowledge that Daddy made the best. He’d barter other goods and money in exchange for the alcohol. Mother even got into making it.

  I recall hearing that someone had stiffed Daddy on payment in one form or another. An argument ensued, and in the end, someone must have ratted on Daddy because the cops showed up at our house.

  I was so young, I didn’t realize what he was doing was illegal. When the cops showed up, I could hear bits and pieces for the reason of their visit.

  I guess I thought I was helping Daddy because I showed the cops right where the stuff was hidden. My mother’s eyes grew wide as she watched me lift up the loose floorboard and point to what was below.

  They hauled Daddy off to jail.

  I was crying and couldn’t understand what I’d done. Mother with her hands on her hips furrowed her brow. “Now look what you’ve done,” she said shaking her finger at me.

  Mother kept her stash hidden in the ringer washer, suds and all. Years later, I’d play the scenario over, but instead of showing the cops the loose floorboard, I took them to the ringer washer.

  Daddy wasn’t angry at me in the least, though. He knew I didn’t mean to get him in trouble—I was just an innocent child thinking I was helping out.

  After he’d been at the jail for a few hours, I pleaded with Mother to take me to visit him.

  She let out an over exaggerated sigh. She turned her back as if to ignore me. I tugged on her dress. “I want to see Daddy,” I pleaded.

  Suds were flying as she tried to wash
dishes. My crying becoming louder and began to be more like wailing. Finally, she tossed the dishrag into the sink and grabbed me by the arm. “Let’s go,” she roared.

  I smiled even though she was pulling me along by the arm. I was going to see my Daddy.

  Daddy, happy to see me, smiled showing all of his missing teeth. We visited for a while. When the guards told him it was dinnertime. Daddy quietly asked them if I could stay and eat with him.

  Mother huffed and puffed about what an idiotic idea it was. “You’re going to let a child stay here and eat dinner with you?” She bellowed.

  He nodded his head. He was a man of few words.

  It was one of the best dinners I’d had in a long time - Spaghetti and meatballs.

  I also recalled another time when Daddy had drunk too much of his moonshine; Mother made him sleep out in the car. I begged and pleaded with her to let him come inside, but that only made it worse for the both of us. She tried hard to break up our little partnership, but it didn’t work. I loved him dearly, and the day he died, I lost the one and only real parent I knew loved me the way I loved them.

  Once in a while, Daddy would sit on the front porch and sing to me. Sometimes, my cousin, Whitey would play his guitar.

  Mother would come out, look at us with a stern face letting us know we were being too loud. “Lyle, it’s getting late. The neighbors are going to complain,” she said.

  When we’d ignore her, and she’d walk back inside letting the screen door slam, as if to tell us we were bothering her. We didn’t stop. In fact, we sang even louder, and Whitey strummed his guitar with more force. We loved getting under her skin. If she’d only known what we said about her behind her back, she’d have been very angry.

  Tears would often form in my eyes when I had these flashbacks. I tried to be strong in front of Charles and the children, but for better or worse, memories of the past had me wanting to pursue the truth about my parents—or, at least, the truth surrounding my birth. The memories of my days in Iowa pulled me back there, like it or not.