Ties That Bind

by Debbie White

  “Well, my husband—Charles, and I own a private investigation service. We’re mostly retired now, but still have the business.”

  “Just like Magnum P.I.?” She asked with a giggle.

  “We’ve had some fascinating clients, and it was pretty exciting in our youth. Like everything, age has transformed it some. We still try to find missing persons and follow husbands and wives, but the real strange stuff . . . well, we leave that to the younger investigators.”

  She nodded. “What about the time you got locked in the freezer in that old warehouse?” She asked.

  I’d totally forgotten about that. Some of the neighborhood kids found an old freezer in an abandoned warehouse. It was the kind used for meat storage. They were playing in it. Lisa even got inside. I just stood and watched then, however, the following day, I went back alone. At least, I thought I was. After I had climbed inside, a boy that didn’t much care for me locked me inside.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking going back alone, and then getting inside the darn thing,” I said disgusted I had acted so foolishly.

  Lisa nodded. “We were all young and dumb,” she said laughing. “I’m just glad your Daddy went looking for you,” she added.

  “Me too,” I said. “Daddy got concerned because I hadn’t come home by the time I should have and went out looking for me. For some reason, he checked the warehouse. When he saw that old freezer, he opened it up and found me locked inside. When he pulled me out, I was red in the face with sweat dripping from my forehead and temples. He took a switch to my behind all the way home.”

  “What possessed you to go back alone the next day?” Lisa asked.

  “I suppose, I was curious. I remember after I got inside and couldn’t get out that I was rather calm. I tried kicking the top and screaming. After a while, I just gave up,” I said solemnly.

  “Why do you suppose you gave up?” She asked.

  “Maybe I just knew my Daddy would find me. I don’t know. I just remember feeling calm and at peace.”

  “It still gives me goose bumps just thinking about what could have happened,” Lisa said.

  * * *

  Lisa drove me back home. “Don’t be a stranger,” she called out as she drove away.

  Charles was sitting on the couch with Spunky when I came in.

  “Did you have a nice lunch?” He said looking up from the yellow legal pad he was writing on.

  “We did. We did a lot of reminiscing. She reminded me of things I’d forgotten about,” I said, leaning down giving him a peck on the cheek.

  “Like what?” He asked.

  “Just kid stuff. Nothing to help us with what we’re doing. In fact, we didn’t even talk about that. Strange, huh?” I called out from the kitchen.

  “Well, I spoke to Francis Stewart. We’re going to meet him at Cindy’s coffee shop tomorrow.

  “That’s interesting,” I said plopping down next to him on the couch. “I’m nervous about meeting him.”

  “Nothing to be nervous about, Pat. You’re with me, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You know that, right?” He added.

  “When I was younger the adrenalin would be pumping a mile a minute with this adventure. Now, I’m just nervous,” I said trying to explain my emotion.

  * * *

  The following day we drove to Cindy’s coffee shop. It was more of a diner. It had lots of glass windows that looked out to a rather busy street. Its location was ideal. We weren’t sure what Francis would look like, so I scoured the place looking for an older man with glasses and short hair. I don’t know why. I just thought that’s what he’d look like. I knew he wouldn’t be holding up a sign saying “Phillips Family.” That much I was sure of.

  The diner was busy, and only a few seats remained unoccupied. Just as we were about to give up, thinking perhaps we’d been sent on a wild goose chase, a short man with glasses and graying hair approached Charles.

  “Are you Charles?” He asked.

  Charles and I looked at one another, and then we both nodded. The man led us to a table he had secured in the back corner. Charles and I sat next to one another with Francis sitting across from Charles.

  After we ordered some coffee, Charles engaged Francis in a conversation about local events, sports, and the weather. I had learned early on that part of being a good detective is to get your source softened up, so they spill the beans later. Charles was doing just that.

  “I knew your sister, Patsy.”

  Those words stumbled around inside my brain for a few seconds while I digested what I’d heard. Finally, I said, “Oh.”

  “I dated her after her husband passed away,” he added, hoping that would get me to say more.

  “Husband passed away?” I repeated, looking at Charles then back to Francis.

  “Eddie Spencer was his name.”

  “Does this mean Teresa is still alive?” I queried.

  “Yes, she is. She’s in a convalescent home. However, she’s been diagnosed with a rare bone disease and unable to walk. Her son—”

  “Does her son live here too?” I interjected.

  “No. I believe James moved to Texas,” he responded.

  “What happened to her husband?” I asked.

  “He abused alcohol and passed away several years ago,” Francis said.

  Softening my face the news, I asked about her son. “And James, what do you know about him?”

  Frances responded, “I believe he is a lawyer.”

  “I’d like any information you have on James as well,” Charles said boldly.

  I swallowed. I was ready to ask more questions. “What can you tell me, if anything about my parents?

  “You mean your biological parents?” He asked.

  I was about to correct him, when he added, “I know who your real parents are.”

  I pondered his statement and what it could mean for me. Was I ready to know the truth? I swallowed hard.

  Charles looked over at me.

  “Hang on just a moment,” Charles said, patting my hand lightly to reassure me “Let’s give Pat a chance to absorb this.”

  Francis, realizing he may have coughed up a bit more than we were ready to handle, leaned back in the booth and let out a sigh. “I’m probably a bit overzealous in my approach given that you just started your search and all,” he said.

  I nodded. Clearing my throat, I asked, “Do you have the address of the convalescent home?”

  He scribbled down the address on a bit of paper and slid it across the table.

  As I reached for it, he took it back. “You might want her son’s information too.” He scribbled something else on the paper and moved it back to our side of the table.

  “Do you know who my parents were?” I blurted out.

  “Yes, I believe so. I know what Teresa told me. However, based on some other information I have, it may not be true. Unfortunately, she had a habit of not always telling the truth. That’s why we broke up. I’ll reserve the rest of the information I have until you can confirm or deny some things. We’ll meet again,” he said looking at Charles and me with a smile.

  Chapter Thirteen

  That night, over grilled cheese sandwiches and hot tomato soup, we discussed our plan of action.

  “Do you think he’s telling the truth? How do we know he's not a bald-faced liar?” I asked tasting my soup.

  “If he is, he’s a good one,” Charles said in between bites. “I, truthfully, think he knows something more. How much more remains to be seen,” he said looking me deep in my eyes.

  “Well, I trust your instincts better than mine,” I murmured. “I’m probably too close to the situation,”

  * * *

  I tried to sleep that night, but all I could hear in my head were the words that my sister and her son were still alive. I wondered if she’d mellowed in her older years, and maybe even got a bit nicer. We’d find out soon enough, I supposed. I tried to close my eyes and rest. I knew I had a big day coming up.

&nbs
p; * * *

  Arriving the next morning at the convalescent hospital, we discovered that it was an older wooden building with wings on both sides of the central building. Charles parked the car, we walked through the sliding front doors and approached the front desk. Several people were busy answering phones, looking at charts, and helping other visitors. It resembled a hospital.

  “Can I help you?” A pleasant voice asked.

  “Yes, my wife and I would like to visit one of the residents. Her name is Teresa Bowman-Spencer. We believe she’s a resident here. We’re relatives visiting from out of state,” he added.

  The young attendant looked at a chart and then directed us to room fifteen. We walked down a hallway bustling with activity. There were residents in wheelchairs, nurses pushing medicine carts, and down at one end, we could see the meal cart delivering lunch. When we got to room fifteen, we paused and then knocked before entering.

  The room had two beds, but only one appeared to be in use. The bed closest to the window was neatly made and had a couple of stuffed animals on top. On the built-in dresser top were personal items such as a handheld mirror, brush, comb, and pictures of people. I walked over to look at the photos.

  There was one of a young woman with a small child and a man. I assumed it was Teresa and her husband when their family was just starting out. The other picture was of Irma and Teresa during the latter years of Mother’s life. No picture of Daddy, and none of me.

  “Do you think this is her?” Charles asked pointing at one of the photos.

  “Ahem,” a voice said behind us.

  We both turned around to see a woman in her late seventies in a wheelchair. I could immediately see the resemblance and knew it was her.

  “Can I help you with something?” She said in a clipped tone.

  “Yes, you can,” Charles said. “My name is Charles Phillips, and this is my wife, Patricia. You may have known her as Patsy,” he added.

  The woman looked at me, paused for about two seconds, and then shouted, “Why are you here? I don’t want to see you. Get out. Get out the both of you. Leave now before I call security.”

  I started to shake. Charles reached for my hand.

  “Listen, there’s no reason to get loud or be belligerent. We came in peace. Pat is just trying to find out some things regarding her childhood. We were hoping you’d help us. I can see that is out of the question, so as you requested, we’ll leave.”

  “What is it you want?” She said through clenched teeth.

  “Answers about my mother,” I said as calmly as I could.

  “You never cared a thing about Irma. Why now?” She growled.

  “Are you serious? She was my mother. I always cared about her and wanted her to love me, but she never did. You two had a better relationship than we did, and you weren’t her daughter either.” I yelled.

  “She was more of a mother to me than my own was,” Teresa spat. “I took care of her until she died. Where were you?” She snipped.

  “I was in California raising a family of my own. Now look, we just have a few questions, and then we’ll be gone. Please tell me who my real parents were.”

  “Lyle and Irma were your parents.”

  “I don’t believe that. Maybe Lyle was my dad, but there is no way in heck Irma was my mother. She detested the very earth I walked on.” I said boldly.

  She looked at me with narrowed eyes, and spoke in a low, angry tone, “Don’t you be coming here trying to stir up old stuff. That was a lot of years ago.”

  Charles had had enough of the back and forth and not getting anywhere.

  “Francis thought you might be able to help us,” he said straightforward. “Obviously, he was wrong.”

  She looked him up and down. She curled her lips and out came the hatred I was accustomed to. Nothing had changed, not even in a seventy-something old woman. “Francis is full of B.S. He doesn’t know a thing,” she spewed.

  “So, is that your final answer? You’re not going to give us any information about anything. Not a name, a place, or a date we could investigate further?” Charles said in a challenging tone.

  She only growled in response.

  As we walked past her toward the door, Charles tossed a business card with our local phone number on it into her lap. “Just in case you change your mind,” he said irritably.

  We both sat in the car for a few minutes calming down and gathering our thoughts. I was breathing heavy. Charles took my hand and said, “Take some deep breaths, it’ll be ok. That woman knows something.”

  “I think she does too but doesn’t look like she wants to tell me . . . us,” I stammered.

  We drove toward home but stopped to pick up some wine and a take-out pizza. It would take more than tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches to comfort us that night.

  Over the pizza and wine just like old times. We were hunkered down around a coffee table, reviewing what we had learned, and discussing our plan of attack.

  “I think we should look up her son,” Charles said in his best Magnum P.I.—Tom Selleck voice.

  I got a little tipsy on the wine. It did that to me sometimes, especially if I was stressed or overtired. I was both. I started to get a little playful with Charles.

  * * *

  The next morning, we acted like shy, young lovers. We talked about our plans for the day over coffee. “With your permission, I’d like to contact James,” Charles asked.

  “Ok, that’s fine. Go ahead,” I said ready for the next step.

  But, James would neither take our calls nor respond to the messages we left. We were back to square one.

  “So . . . Pat, what do you want to do? Teresa won’t talk to us, and neither will James. That leaves Francis. He’s the only one who will.”

  Nodding my head, I agreed. He was our only link left. “Call him,” I said.

  We set the appointment up for a couple of days later. We both agreed that a trip back to the farmhouse was in order as well. Maybe the lady of the house would have a change of heart.

  * * *

  “I know you said you didn’t know the Bowman’s at all,” Charles started off telling the woman who greeted us in the gravel driveway.

  “Yep, that’s right. I don’t know the Bowman’s,” she spat.

  “What about the Browns? Did you know anyone with that last name?” I probed.

  The lady just stared at the two of us.

  “How long has your family lived here?” I asked.

  “Listen, I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work. I told you then, and I’m telling you now. I don’t know any Brown’s or Bowman’s.”

  I reached out and gently touched her arm. “Ma’am, I’m not attempting to stir up any trouble or bring up undesirable memories. I just want to find my family, can you help us please?”

  She stopped trying to get away, paused a moment, and turned to face me.

  “Come inside,” she said in a quiet voice

  Charles and I looked at each other. No one had to invite us a second time.

  The farmhouse hadn’t changed a whole lot since I was a kid. White kitchen cabinets, linoleum on the floor, and a large rock fireplace in the living room told the story of a neglected old house. It even smelled that way, ancient and musty—as if it needed a good airing out.

  “Pull up a chair. What would you like? Coffee, tea, or water?” She asked politely.

  We both answered coffee at the same time. Seemed she’d mellowed out.

  “Louise, what can you tell us, if anything about Pat’s family?” Charles asked.

  “We were cousins Lyle, Jessie, and me.” Louise said grinning.

  “So let me get this straight. You and Pat’s dad were cousins?” Charles asked.

  Louise nodded her head as she took a sip of her coffee. “Our daddies were brothers,” she informed us.

  “Mary and I were friends. She’d visit me often, and it seemed she was always timing it for when Lyle was here. One thing led to another, and they were a coupl
e. Quite a scandal them two,” she added with a grin.

  “Why a scandal?” Charles asked.

  “The age difference was one concern, and the second one was because he’d been married before.”

  “I was close to my daddy’s sisters, and of course, Whitey. But now you’re telling me Daddy had other relatives too?”

  “Well, Whitey was the son of your Aunt Margie’s husband from a previous relationship. He wasn’t blood kin to you,” Louise said dropping yet another bombshell on my head.

  “I’d never asked how I was related to Whitey. I was just always told he was my cousin. Seemed there were a lot of second wives and husbands in my family’s past,” I said.

  Then a thought occurred to me, “Was Aunt Margie’s husband married to Whitey’s mom?”

  Shaking her head, Louise confirmed what I already knew. There was no marriage, just another indiscretion.

  “I don’t recall seeing any strange women hanging around. Who was she?”

  “Well, that’s another mystery, dear. You see, he never would confirm who Whitey’s mother was. I’ve heard different names throughout the years, but I don’t know for sure.”

  I thought back to the time Whitey and I had gotten into an argument, and he blurted out that my mother was a whore. It now appeared his mother may have been one as well.

  “That’s so odd that Aunt Margie never told me that Whitey wasn’t her real son. That tells me she was good at keeping secrets just like the rest of the family. Maybe even the one regarding who my real parents were.”

  “Well, since you didn’t know about that little detail, you probably don’t know that you also have a half-brother named Thomas,” she blurted out.

  My palms were getting wet, and I could feel my face burn with redness.

  “This brother, was he Teresa’s brother or my brother from another mother?” I said, not purposely trying to create a rhyme.

  She said grinning, “Different moms. Teresa’s mom was a fat pig. Plain and simple. I don’t know what Lyle saw in her, but they were married and had Teresa,” she confirmed.

  “Thomas was several years younger than Teresa. Your daddy sure had some children,” she said.