Di glanced at me. "I asked him the same question, and he told me Rosie makes big pots of soup. Can you imagine?" Di said.
"Even when you’re sick, there are no time–outs from motherhood. For her, cooking has to be efficient, so she prepares meals she can get some mileage from. I do the same thing, even when I’m not sick."
"He said he and Emilio serve themselves and nuke soup in the microwave. Then, he fixes a bowl for his mom. He uses potholders to take it out of the microwave so he doesn’t burn himself. Then he says, ‘Mom taught me that.’ He got a little teary. And, Sam, my heart almost broke in two right then and there."
"So, if you could keep him from breaking your heart, it would be effortless for you to tutor him."
Di nodded, her eyes brimming over with tears. "Rosie’s always resting on the couch, and Joey’s anxious to see me and get down to business. It’s quiet. No phone calls, no one knocking on the door, no TV blaring, no music playing. Just Joey and me. I try not to think about how sad it is."
Chapter 14
THE DAY I worked up the nerve to call the Medical Examiner’s office, it felt as if nothing could go wrong. I’d made all the arrangements to take a personal day from work the previous evening, and I’d gotten the kids off to school with plenty of time to spare. Bright and sunny, the morning was sublime. Maybe the sun’s radiant energy afforded me the guts to make the call, or maybe the killer workout I’d just finished got the adrenaline coursing in my veins. Whatever the reason, today I wore my ‘Ms. Get to the Bottom of the Story’ badge.
Other times when I had thought about making the call, I felt scared. Not just a little uneasy or nervous. Plain old scared. I don’t know what I thought would happen, but making the call made the entire situation real. That worried me.
I had bookmarked the web address for the coroner’s office on my computer some time ago, and it popped up with a simple click. I punched the coroner’s phone number into the portable phone.
A real human answered my call. Remarkable. Taking a deep breath, I told the clerk what I wanted. Of course, I’d phoned the wrong division. A test of my fortitude, I thought. I’d have to place another call. I took a deep breath and punched in the new number.
"Coroner’s Office," a terse voice answered.
"Yes, I wonder if you could help me." I knew as soon as I said this that my voice, too tentative, gave me away. Where had I left my backbone?
"I can try." She didn’t sound like she wanted to help anyone. Ever.
"I’m seeking a copy of the coroner’s report on a death that occurred in 2004 or 2005," I said.
"Why would you want that?"
"My husband had his identity stolen some years ago, and we are trying to resolve some issues around that." Still too timid. I mentally kicked myself.
"We don’t simply release the reports to anyone who phones us. You must have an appropriate reason to request a coroner’s report."
Shit.
"I see," I answered, then I heard the click of the receiver from her end.
I forged ahead and called her back.
"Hello, I just spoke with you a moment ago. Tell me how I can obtain more information about this death, please, if not the coroner’s report." I tried my pleasant but demanding teacher voice hoping that she wouldn’t shut me down again. She had to give me points for perseverance, right?
"You can call the county clerk’s office. Request the information listed on the death certificate. Here’s the number." She rattled off several digits.
Still buoyed by the rays of sun pouring into the study, I made the next call.
"County Clerk’s office," a woman answered.
"Yes, please tell me how I might receive information on the cause of death of someone who died in either 2004 or 2005. I believe it was in June, but I don’t know the exact date." I spoke with authority this time.
"Sure, I can help you with that. What is the decedent’s name?"
My knees knocked and my hands shook. "His name is Jon Stitsill. J–o–n S–t–i–t–s–i–l–l." I spelled the name for her, hoping the quiver in my voice would settle.
"I have it right here. 2004," she stated.
"And the cause of death?"
She said sympathetically, "The cause of death is listed as a shotgun wound."
I’m sure she expected a different reaction from me. Some evidence of shock. But I hadn’t thought that through either. I just continued with my questions. I must be an amateur sleuth after all.
"Is it possible to access more details about this death? Perhaps a copy of the Coroner’s Report?"
"I’m not sure," she answered, "but you can access a copy of the death certificate online and that’ll give you some information. Let me check on the exact web address for you."
I waited.
"Here it is," she continued. "The exact date of the death is June 7, 2004. You’ll need that to request the record."
Interesting. When Rosita and I had spoken she had told me that her husband had died on June 6. I remembered the date. D–day. My grandfather–in–law had fought in WWII, and Jon called him every year on D–day to thank him for his patriotism, his bravery, his sacrifice. How could she not know the date of her husband’s death?
"Thank you. You’ve been very helpful."
I placed the receiver back in its cradle, and leaned back in my desk chair with satisfaction. But only for a moment. I went online to request a copy of the death certificate. Glad now that I’d asked Di to obtain Joey’s birth certificate, which contained Mr. Stitsill’s birth date, I realized I needed it to apply for the records. Three minutes and twenty dollars later, I anticipated only a few more days of waiting for my very own copy of Mr. Stitsill’s death certificate.
Not that I really believed he was dead.
Subconscious thoughts of Rosie must have been with me, since I had thrown a pot of soup on the stove as I’d gotten the kids off to school earlier. Now, time to finish my effort, I lifted out the chicken, cut it from the bone, strained the stock, and add the freshly chopped onions, celery, and carrots. An ordinary household task, but I didn’t feel ordinary. My heart hammered.
A shotgun wound. Not a suicide. A shotgun wound scared me way more than a suicide. Detective McGrath had said suicide, while the clerk had said shotgun wound. I had a million questions. Questions, and some dread.
Chapter 15
TWO DAYS LATER, I received the death certificate. The U.S. mail service in a rare burst of efficiency. I began to shake again as I struggled to open the envelope. Official in an ‘Oh shit, what now?’ way, it arrived in a certified gray heavyweight envelope. The document, thick and of textured stock, held the county clerk’s name and address embossed on the front. In large bold print, the words Death Certificate stamped the seal. I wondered what new snakes would be revealed when I opened it.
I slowly unfolded the document. I’d never seen a death certificate before. T.M.I. Not only did it state the descendant’s name and cause of death, but his birth date, birth place, ancestry, parents’ names, spouse’s name, level of education, occupation, and type of business or industry. It also listed the location and cause of death, whether an autopsy had been performed, and approximate time between the event and the onset of death. Then, at the very bottom of the document, the medical examiner’s finding that the death had been ruled a suicide.
I decided to hide away with the document. It freaked me out. If the kids saw it, they would panic once they spotted the name of the deceased. I entered the study and closed the door.
As I studied the text, I realized that Rosie’s revelations didn’t hold up. Some modicum of truth existed, as well as several inconsistencies. The first one? Her name. I knew her as Rosita, the same name that appeared on her children’s birth certificates. Her name was Beatriz on the death certificate. Could she be an impostor, too?
It listed Jon’s occupation as a "gauge" man. I’d never heard of a gauge man. Rosie had said her late husband was an engineer. Had Rosie not known her husband as Detective McGrath had impl
ied, or was she complicit, too? According to his death certificate, he’d only completed the 12th grade, not college. Did she tell me he’d gone to college because he had lied to her? Or had she lied to me?
Of course, errors happen. Family members are distraught when a loved one dies. People misspeak. Judy, the man’s daughter who’d called us some years ago, had spoken to the M.E. She was listed as the informant on the document. Perhaps she’d known different things about her dad than Rosie. Then again, why had she called us looking for her dad if she’d believed him dead? Whatever the case, Judy reported her dad born in the U.S., not Canada, as Rosie had said.
According to this record, he’d been born a U.S. citizen. The names of both of his parents were listed. Should I locate the clerk’s office and county birth records to verify the information? Of course, but how would I fit this into my schedule? I taught Monday through Friday, raised kids in my off hours, and tried to keep my marriage afloat.
I also didn’t want to raise any suspicions with Jon. He might not be supportive. Me putting my life in danger and all. Plus, we barely saw each other. I didn’t want this to come between us. It would continue to be my secret sideline. When we were together, I wanted it to be family time. Us time.
My thoughts returned to the details. Whoever had been killed that night had died as the result of a contact shotgun wound to the mouth. Sawed off shotgun? Ruled as a suicide. But even if it turned out to be murder rather than a suicide, the guy was dead. Did it matter? Detective McGrath had told me with certainty that the deceased man had been identified solely by his belongings.
Jon Stitsill. No one had viewed his corpse after the fact except the M.E.
No shotgun found at the scene, but his death had been ruled a suicide. Why?
I couldn’t sleep. Consumed night and day, distracted at work, brooding at home, unable to think of anything but the ambiguities of the Stitsills’ lives and desperate to have the time to examine the contradictions, I behaved and felt like a woman possessed.
"Mom, what’s wrong?" Lizzie asked me after we arrived home from school one day.
"Nothing, honey," I lied. "Just have a lot on my mind."
"Want to play Monopoly?" That worked for her when she had a lot on her mind, so why shouldn’t it work for me?
I laughed. "Sure, sweetie. Let me slide dinner in the oven, then we’ll play for a while."
With Jon overseas again, the weeks passed in a blur. I had been doing this single mom routine for so long, it felt normal. Exhaustion set in, nervous exhaustion. I couldn’t let this go. After Lizzie and I finished our game, we picked up the older kids and returned to the house for dinner preparations and homework. Then, bath and bedtime. At 9:00 p.m., a calm settled over the house.
∞ ∞ ∞
It would take forty minutes to drive to Lexington Heights. I needed to be awake by 5:30 a.m. the next morning. Maybe I’d lost my mind. I checked Annie and found her fast asleep. Jon wouldn’t call again tonight. I slipped down the stairs and into my car, backing out of the garage as quickly and quietly as possible. I told myself I’d be back soon. Driving the back roads, I reduced my travel time. As predicted, I parked just down the street from the Stitsill’s home shortly before 10:00 p.m. All quiet on the block. A light behind the Stitsill’s garage illuminated their yard. The rest of the house looked quiet. Why I felt drawn to this location, drawn enough to leave my kids home alone, I’ll never know.
I sat. I waited. My vehicle became increasingly chilly with the engine off. The hair on my arms stood at attention. Nerves and the cold air.
He appeared from out of the darkness just as before. I caught his shadow out of the corner of my eye. He wore a hat pulled down over his ears, but I recognized his form and face. The tall fluid movements. As he emerged from behind Rosie’s garage, it occurred to me that he had a great shape for a guy in his fifties. Strong and lean. ‘His body, his tool’ came to mind.
I noticed that he carried something under his arm. Looked like a standard plastic packaged water bottle. Odd.
He strode down the street, headed for my van. I checked my door locks and prepared to crouch down. I also counseled myself not to panic. My head pounded. My nerves tightened like taut piano wire. What the hell am I doing? Out here all by myself with a guy who’s supposed to be dead.
Car lights appeared at the far end of the block. I peered over the dash, watching Stitsill’s movements. He disappeared. Gone in the blink of an eye. I couldn’t stop trembling. I ducked down. The car slowly approached.
Calm down, I told myself. Breathe in, breathe out. Footsteps fell outside the window. It must be him. Footsteps drawing closer. My heart slammed against my ribs. Could he see me? I prayed not. I slithered down as low as possible. I waited. I waited a bit more. I heard nothing. Just my own breathing. Very labored.
I needed to get home. Five more minutes. I shielded my wrist with my hand so that I could see the lighted dial on my Timex. 10:20 p.m. A ten minute wait and Jon II, as I decided to call him, had appeared. ESP?
Was Jon II here every night? Or did he visit randomly? What did Rosie know? What the hell was going on?
I drove home, still shaking.
Somehow I stepped into my pajamas before I fell into bed. To my surprise, I slept deeply. When the alarm sounded at 5:30 a.m., I awakened in a fog, unsure of the date. As I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom, I slowly realized that Wednesday had dawned. I needed to get the kids up and off to school, and me to work.
This required coffee. Strong coffee. I struggled downstairs in the dark. Fighting nausea, I scooped beans into the grinder, turned it on, and endured the whine of the machine. I fought off shivers. The coffee brewed slowly. It took its sweet time, just when I needed to mainline. With the first sip, I felt life return to my veins. Thank God.
I felt like a zombie most of the day, but somehow made it through. That night, the kids and I ordered pizza. A ‘no homework’ night, the kids watched a movie I stuffed in the disk player.
Jon called about 8:00 p.m., sounding exhausted. Jet lagged and missing his own bed, he began his day as we finished ours. I ached for him. To feel his touch, see his face. Still days away, I’d have to wait.
"Not much longer, honey," he said, trying to reassure me. "Three more days, and I’ll be home. I know it’s tough on you. It’s a big fort to hold down. I appreciate all you’re doing."
"I know, and I appreciate what you’re doing, too. I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you. You have to be totaled. Have you gotten any sleep at all?" I asked.
"A little, but don’t worry about me. That’s why I get paid the big money." He chuckled.
"You’re the man," I told him. "My man."
"Let me talk to the kids. I love you."
"Love you, too." Glad he couldn’t see me tearing up, I handed the phone to Annie, saying, "Dad’s on the phone." She snatched it out of my hands.
I needed sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
WILL SPOTTED JON’S car as he and Nick played in the front room. Even though they were almost christened teens, they still played like kids with their GI Joe’s.
"Here comes Dad!" Arms lifted in victory, Will looked as though he’d just scored the winning goal.
"Where? Where?" Lizzie asked, peering around Will’s Gumby–like legs, grabbing onto his shoulders and jumping up and down. Will pointed out the window. Rex began to bark, announcing his daddy’s arrival. I opened the garage. Rex darted out, circling and barking.
The girls bounded down the steps. "Is Dad here?" they screeched in unison.
"Duh! Can’t you hear Rex?" Nick’s sardonic voice clashed with the harmony of expectancy.
Jon barely managed to exit the car with all of the jumping about, and cacophony of human and canine voices.
"Okay, okay, let me out!" His smile said it all.
It occurred to me, standing in the wings, that our lives were filled with farewells and homecomings. As I’d grown up, not a day had gone by when I didn’t se
e both of my parents. Not so for our children.
Jon caught a quick shower and changed into a sweatshirt and jeans while I made as many PB and J’s as possible with a loaf of white bread. I repacked the sandwiches in the bread bag and tossed some drink boxes into a recycled grocery sack, in anticipation of our outing to the local baseball diamond.
"Ready to eat some dust?" I fired up the crew.
"Yeah!" they chorused. Annie and Marie stood side by side, arms linked, skinny wrists poking out of overgrown sweatshirts like plump corn dogs on spindly sticks. Lizzie, my Polish rainbow in her mismatched outfit, hopped up and down with glee. The boys brought up the rear, hair still standing on end from a good night’s sleep. My own version of The Little Rascals, adolescent style.
"Grab the gear!" I told them.
A magnificent day, signs of an early spring made the air feel crisp and expectant. Despite the lingering signs of a hard frost, the sun shone. If I squinted hard enough, I detected signs of hyacinth popping through the still solid earth. The kids busily gathered their bats, mitts, and balls from the garage cabinet. They bickered about which mitt belonged to whom since it had been a long winter, months since we’d needed summer sports equipment. The sleds and skates remained in their corner, never quite sure when winter would end.
Then, of course, came the fight for the back seat.
"I got dibs on the ‘way back’!" Annie called out.
"Me, too!" Marie piped in.
"Me, three!" Lizzie added, not to be outdone by her older sisters.
Once we arrived at the park, we had the baseball diamond to ourselves. No one else wanted to brave the unreliable early April afternoon. I wondered if my recent trips to the Stitsill home, phone calls to the County Clerk, and the arrival of the Death Certificate fueled my sentimentality, for I found myself again taking stock of my life.
The kids encouraged and tolerated each other’s age and skills. The occasional squabble broke out, but for the most part they got through it. After the boys beat the girls in the first game, we spread out a blanket and scarfed down our sandwiches and lemonade. Although temperatures remained brisk, we were comfortable. Jon glanced over at me and smiled. I immediately remembered why I loved this man.
Identity Issues (The Samantha Series) Page 9
