Ties That Bind

by Debbie White

  “Hello, we’re hoping you can help us,” he smoothly replied. “My wife,” he said nodding in my direction, “has some information that shows her adoptive mother perhaps once lived here as a teen,” Charles said, presenting a copy of the document.

  The sister took the paper and looked it over. She seemed to stare at it for a long time. She looked up at us, first at me, and then at Charles.

  “We keep records of everyone who’s lived here. At one time, we were an orphanage and housed many children. It could be that your mother,” she said glancing over at me, “was in our orphanage and the census doesn’t clearly show that.”

  I spoke up. “My mother told me she was a nun here at this convent.” Then I added, “In fact, many family members corroborated that as well.”

  Charles gently rubbed my arm. “What she means, is, this is the only piece of information we have, and we aren’t sure if there is any value. That’s what we are trying to determine,” Charles said looking over at me.

  The sister looked at me for a long time. “Well, if that’s true, we’ll have records stating that as well. Do you have a telephone number? This information will take some time to gather. I’ll contact you as soon as I have something.”

  We gave the sister our newly assigned telephone number and thanked her for her time.

  On the drive back to our bungalow, Charles asked me again about my mother and her being a nun.

  “Now, how is it that the story developed about your mother being a nun?”

  I shook my head. “It’s beyond me how she could be. She was so mean and evil. But that’s the story I remember someone telling me, and for the life of me, not sure who?” I said.

  “We had wooden crosses that hung on the walls of our house; we blessed all our meals, and we said prayers before going to bed at night. Sundays we’d all go to church but by Sunday evening, the gang would be drinking, cursing and playing cards. Talk about hypocrisy,” I added.

  “Well, as much of a cover up as your adoption has been—from discovering you on a bed in their home to hints about your dad’s indiscretions, I’d say maybe it was more likely Irma lived in a convent because she was homeless,” Charles said matter-of-factly.

  I shot him a look that told him he may be on to something. “That does make more sense,” I agreed.

  “Families have a way of glorifying things or embellishing to make them easier to believe or accept,” he said.

  I thought about what he said. “Yes, and children sometimes don’t remember everything exactly correct,” I said looking over at him.

  I got what he was saying. He was trying to tell me, in a nice way, that either I remembered the nun story wrong, or my family lied to me.

  “Well, I’m ready for whatever the sister finds out,” I finally said.

  “Let’s go to the newspaper office tomorrow. There might be more articles regarding your mysterious appearance in your parents’ house.” He had a good idea. Maybe more than one story had run on the mysterious appearance of Baby Jane Doe. After all, that was big news in a small town back then.

  * * *

  The next day Charles and I hit the road to the newspaper office.

  We entered the office, and a pleasant woman in her fifties offered her assistance.

  As Charles spoke to her, I noticed her features. She had twinkly blue eyes, and when she smiled, she had tiny laugh lines around her eyes and her mouth. Her brown hair had touches of gray in streaks much like my own. Something about her seemed familiar.

  “My wife and I are trying to locate articles about a baby found in a residence sometime around the summer of 1929.”

  The woman looked at me. I smiled. She looked back at Charles. He cleared his throat.

  “This is the one article we do have, but we believe there may be others,” he said handing it to the woman to read.

  After she had finished reading it, she looked back at me.

  “We keep all the articles written on microfiche, and we also have a database on the computer. Have you checked the local library as well?” She asked looking at Charles then at me.

  “Not yet. This is just the first of many stops for us.”

  “This will take some time. Do you live in town?”

  Charles scribbled our telephone number on a pad that was on the counter and pushed it toward the woman.

  “Great. I’ll contact you in a few days.”

  “Thanks for your time,” Charles said.

  “Yes. Thanks for your time,” I echoed.

  Hand in hand we walked out to our parked car.

  “Geez, another call back. I was hoping she would look for something while we waited,” Charles said disgustedly.

  “Something about that woman was familiar,” I said.

  “Maybe you went to school with her. She’s about your age,” Charles queried.

  “What’s our next plan of action?” I asked still trying to remain optimistic.

  “Find a restaurant. I’m hungry,” he said starting the engine.

  * * *

  Over club sandwiches and cold iced tea, Charles and I talked about our children and wondered how everyone was doing. It had been a few days since we’d spoken to them.

  “Have you called the kids recently?” Charles asked.

  “I will in a few days. We don’t have anything to report yet.”

  Smiling, Charles nodded. “No news is good news,” he added.

  “There has to be some relatives still alive in this town, or nearby. Not everyone moved to California, correct?” Charles asked.

  “No, and my aunts and uncles never moved back to Iowa after moving to California. To my knowledge, my mother and half-sister were the only ones to go back. Irma’s family was originally from Texas. If the sister can’t give us any more information regarding my mother’s stay at the convent, it may be a dead end.”

  “Not necessarily. Your sister got married, correct?”

  “Yes. She was married and had a son.”

  “Aha, another lead,” he smiled and munched on his sandwich.

  Chapter Eleven

  It bothered me that my dad’s pool hall and Lisa’s house were no longer standing. If Charles worried about it, he didn’t let on. He was already looking for the next clue.

  After a couple of days, the woman from the newspaper office contacted us. She’d found another article for us to read. We headed over right away to get a copy of it.

  Arriving at the newspaper office, the woman finished with another customer and then handed me the clipping, “This is what I found.”

  I took the newspaper clipping out of her hand. The headline read “Mystery Tot’s Mother.” The article went on to say, “Identity of the woman who abandoned Babe not disclosed. Steps to legally adopt the child however, will be taken immediately. Mrs. Bowman told a Journal reporter Tuesday Evening.”

  I continued, “It also says that Irma knew who the mother was, but didn’t want to divulge the information. It went on to say that she knew the child as likable and would take care of it. That was the joke of the century. As likable as I might have been, she was never nice to me. Wonder what changed her mind.”

  Taking a moment to absorb what I had just read, I said, “This is new information.”

  The lady at the counter responded, “Good, but this other article we have says she didn’t know who my mother was.”

  I smiled at the lady and pointing to the clipping I told her “Thank you so much for this. “By the way, you look very familiar to me. Do we know one another?”

  At that moment, it clicked, she knew it, and so did I.

  “Lisa?” I asked.

  She smiled and nodded her head.

  “Lisa!” I exclaimed. I reached across the counter and gave her a firm hug.

  “I can’t believe it’s you. I thought something about your eyes and your smile seemed familiar. I even said that to Charles the other day,” I said looking over at him and smiling.

  “I didn’t want to say anything to you then. It was str
ange seeing you. I wasn’t quite sure what to say. Especially after you told me what you were here for.”

  I furrowed my brows. “You knew I was adopted. I told you.” I said.

  She lowered her head. “Yes, I knew, and I may know someone who can help you.”

  I stared hard into her eyes. Had I heard her correctly? “Who,” I asked.

  A smile appeared on her face, “Sioux City is still a small town, even after all these years. I did some checking around, and a name surfaced. I’ll give you his number.”

  I hugged Lisa. She handed me a note with the name Francis Stewart on it and phone number. We made arrangements to meet for lunch later in the week.

  Walking hand in hand toward the car, I looked at Charles. “I feel satisfied we’ve accomplished something for the day. I found Lisa, and we received a new clipping that might give us a new lead,” I said looking for a nod.

  Charles nodded. “A very productive day, indeed. I’m hungry,” he said smiling.

  I squeezed his hand, “How about egg salad sandwiches?”

  Charles grin widened. He squeezed my hand in return.

  While we ate, Charles looked at the note Lisa had given me, “Looks like Lisa has given us more information and a new lead. This man may have some more information. Does his name sound familiar to you?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “That’s alright, Pat. Not every name will be. It can be a lead, though, and we must—”

  “I know, follow every lead,” I said finishing his sentence. He smiled.

  “That’s my girl,” he said pulling me in for a hug.

  “Charles, I hope you know how special you are to me. I know I can be a bit moody sometimes, but I want you to know that I love you and thank God every day you’re in my life.”

  “We make a great team, Pat,” he said kissing me lightly.

  Later, we received a call from Sister Mary Margaret. She had located some information for us and asked us to come to the convent.

  As we drove the ten miles or so, my mind began to wander back to the winter when I was about four years old, and a homemade sled Daddy had made.

  All the other children had store-bought sleds, and I had nothing. We were dirt poor, so a store-bought sled was out of the question. My dad went into the garage and made me a toboggan type sled out of sheet metal and rope. Once the kids saw how fast I could slide down a hill, they all wanted to try it too. I was the most popular kid on the hill that day. I smiled at the memory of my dad.

  * * *

  “Please, let’s go in here,” the sister said, directing us down a hallway that led to a large room. Our footsteps echoed as we entered the sparsely furnished room. There was only a large wooden desk placed near the center of the room, two chairs, and a large Bible on a wooden stand that faced a lovely stained glass window. Beyond the window lay a serene courtyard. It was a beautiful setting.

  We sat down as directed and the sister took a seat behind the desk. She cleared her throat before taking out a piece of paper, which she placed on her desk. Turning it so the print would be facing us, she gently slid it closer so we could read it. All I could see was a bunch of names and ages on it. I quickly scanned it for something familiar when she began to talk.

  “I’m sorry. It took me longer than I thought it would to locate the information. But, I wanted to make sure it would be useful and of course, accurate. Although we keep records of all children who’ve passed through our doors, finding the documents can take sometimes awhile,” she said smiling at us.

  I could feel my heart beating in my chest, and I wondered if anyone else could hear it. My palms grew moist in anticipation of the news. Finally, she spoke.

  “Based on the 1910 census information you provided, I was able to find a match. It does appear that a young woman with a child came to the convent seeking refuge approximately in the fall of 1910.”

  She reached into her folder and produced another document.

  “This record shows the young woman left the child with us, but it was only to be temporary.”

  “Temporary? Do you mean she was to come back for the child but never did?” I asked.

  “It appears the arrangement was that once she got a job, secured an apartment, etc. she was going to come back for the child.”

  “It says all of that in the file?” I asked, gesturing to the manila folder she held in her hand.

  The sister looked at me with sad eyes.

  “Yes. It says that the approximate age of the older one is between sixteen to eighteen years old.”

  “The younger one?”

  “The younger one, about four or five,” she replied.

  I paused a moment. Trying to let the new information sink in. I looked deeply into the Sister’s eyes. “On one of the census’s it just says M and P. Initials, I suppose. Do you have any information regarding that?” I asked searching for clues.

  “M was for Mary and P for Priscilla,” she said reading off the file.

  “Mary, I can understand. I have a census that shows my dad, Lyle and Mary listed as occupants. I’m pretty sure my adoptive mother Irma used Mary on some legal documents.”

  The sister nodded she comprehended what I was saying. “Yes, unfortunately, oftentimes occupants gave different names at different times, making the information hard to validate. Sometimes they used nicknames, middle names as first, and so on.”

  “I’m finding that out. I have one that says my name is Patsy and one that says my name is Patricia.”

  Sister Mary Margaret nodded. “It appears as you got older your name reappeared to what you were born with. It’s like Debra and Debbie, Catherine and Cathy,” she added.

  Pushing her chair out from the desk, she offered her hand to Charles and then to me letting us know the meeting was over.

  “Sometimes children are born out of wedlock, and that could be why you still had her last name. Perhaps there was another young woman with the same last name; a sister, cousin; another relative?”

  “She was from Texas, and Brown is a very common name,” I said agreeing with her there must be more to this than it seemed.

  Charles hadn’t said much during the visit. However, just before our meeting was adjourned, he did ask one compelling question.

  “By any chance, are there any photos of this “M. Brown” that we could look at?”

  The sister stared at Charles, not blinking an eyelash. She cleared her throat softly. “We do have some pictures archived here.” Opening a folder, she took out a glossy picture and slid it across the desk toward me.

  I stared at the image. It was of a young woman of about sixteen years old, just like the sister had said. By her side, was a child approximately five years old. It was hard to see their faces. The picture was timeworn and had seen better days. The quality of the image was another issue.

  “I can’t quite make out their features. The older girl could be Irma, but who is the younger one?” I said staring at every inch of the picture, trying to find any clue.

  “Is there any way we could get a copy of this?” Charles asked.

  “You may have it. We have three pictures from that day,” the sister replied.

  We thanked her for the information, and with the photo in hand, we departed the convent and rode home in silence.

  Chapter Twelve

  When we got back to our little bungalow, I went straight into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. I was banging cupboards and clanking cups when Charles entered the kitchen.

  “I know you’re upset. It may not have been the news you were hoping for, but it’s a lead. We’re not throwing in the towel because of what the sister told us,” he said turning me around to face him.

  A tear started to roll down my cheek. I shuddered a little when he brought me in close for a much-needed hug.

  “Don’t cry, Pat. We’ve just begun to touch the tip of the iceberg.”

  I loved how he always made comparisons of our trials and tribulations to old clichés. Realizing he was r
ight, I pulled myself together and was finishing making the coffee when the phone rang. Charles answered and I heard quiet mumbling from the other room.

  “Pat, the phone is for you, it’s Lisa,” he called out.

  I dried my hands and rushed to the phone, “Lisa, I am so glad to hear from you.”

  “Are we still on for lunch?” she asked in her bubbly voice.

  “I’d love that. Where shall we meet?” I asked.

  * * *

  “This is so nice . . . us having lunch together. I thought about you so many times over the years,” she said while she wiped the sweat from her glass.

  “Seems so long ago. Pool hall, apartment, you across the street,” I stammered.

  “Do you remember the time you rescued that family from gas fumes?” She asked.

  I’d totally forgotten about that. All of a sudden the memory came crashing through. They were Lisa’s next-door neighbors, a young couple with an infant.

  Lisa and I accompanied her mother when she went to see the new baby. It was wintertime, and the heater was on in the house. One by one, the occupants started feeling dizzy and sick. I knew something was happening. I quickly grabbed the infant and ran out the front door, collapsing on the stoop. I woke up in the Smithfield’s home with everyone swooning over me.

  Looking her straight in the eyes, I said, “Wow, I forgot about that.”

  Smiling she said, “Yep, you were the citizen of the year after performing that heroic act. If it hadn’t been for your sharp observation and fast acting, we’d all have been dead.”

  “I realize everyone got out, but we never discussed what exactly happened that day,” I said looking for answers.

  “After we saw you grab the baby, it all made sense what was going on. We followed you out the door. I almost dropped to the ground too.” Then she added, “That baby was so lucky.”

  “So tell me, how did you come to be working at the newspaper office?”

  “Well, my family has owned the paper for about thirty years. So, I started out writing obituaries, progressed to news stories, and now, I help with the counter,” she said taking a bite of her salad.

  How about you? What do you and your husband do?