I wondered whether, if Sheriff Satterfield caught me breaking and entering, he would be as gracious?
Seeing as he was dating my mother, maybe he would.
But there was time enough to worry about that later. For right now, I needed to take Darcy up the hill to St. Jerome’s Hospital, so she could see where she was born.
The hospital is located in Brentwood, up a winding road from Old Hickory Boulevard, just a couple of miles from the interstate. We pulled into the parking lot and stopped in front of the big brick building.
“It’s old,” Darcy said after a moment. “And small.”
I nodded. “It’s a private hospital. Religious. And it’s been here a while. More than a hundred years, judging from the architecture.”
She glanced at me. “So I was born here?”
“That’s what it looks like. Ora Sweet—whoever she is—came here from Sweetwater to give birth.” And had probably gone back home again after.
“Do you want to go inside?” I asked.
She hesitated. “I don’t know what the point would be. The records aren’t here anymore. We saw them yesterday at the police station. And I’m sure things have changed in the past thirty-four years. They probably don’t look the way they did when I was born.”
“I wonder if there’s anyone left who was working here then? Denise Seaver practiced medicine thirty-four years ago, and she’d still be practicing now if she hadn’t gone to prison. It’s possible there’s a nurse who was a young woman when you were born.”
“She probably wouldn’t remember me,” Darcy said, although she sounded intrigued.
“It can’t hurt to ask.” I reached for my door handle. On the other side of the car, Darcy did the same thing.
The desk in the lobby was occupied by the same redhead who’d been sitting there last November. The tag pinned to her top still said her name was Molly Murphy. I remembered her, and when she looked up and I saw her eyes narrow, I realized she must remember me, too.
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”
I nodded. “I saw Doctor Rushing for a few minutes last fall. I was pregnant, and worried that I’d miscarry.”
Molly glanced at my stomach. “What happened?” This obviously wasn’t the same stomach as back then.
“I lost the baby,” I said, my voice steady. “That same night, I think.”
“I’m sorry.” The corners of her mouth turned down. “But it looks like you’re doing well now.”
“Six months along. Everything’s great.”
“Who are you seeing?”
I told her the name of my OB-GYN, and she nodded. “She’s good. Especially with high risk pregnancies. So what can I do for you? Doctor Rushing is no longer here.”
I was aware of that. He’d been killed pretty much at the same time I was having my miscarriage. We’d visited his murderer in prison this morning.
“My friend Darcy was born here,” I said. Molly nodded a greeting. “We were wondering whether you had anyone still on staff who was working here thirty-four years ago. Obviously not Doctor Rushing...”
Although that would have been great. He had probably delivered Darcy. One more disappointment we could chalk up to Denise Seaver, for having put him beyond our questions.
Molly hesitated. She probably didn’t want to help us—confidentiality and all that—but at the same time, she had to know that there had been things going on at St. Jerome’s that hadn’t been on the up and up, and she didn’t want to seem like she was trying to hide anything else.
“Maybe a nurse who worked the maternity ward back then...?” I coaxed.
Molly made a decision. “I’ll check and see if Sister Bridget is working.”
“Sister?” Darcy mouthed while Molly got busy on the computer.
I shrugged.
Sister Bridget was working, as it turned out, and Molly told us to go up to the third floor, where she’d be waiting. “She won’t have a lot of time to talk,” Molly warned, “so try to make it quick.”
“That was easier than I thought it would be,” I whispered to Darcy as we waited for the elevator.
She nodded. “She probably won’t remember anything.”
Maybe not. But maybe we’d get lucky and Sister Bridget was one of those people with long memories who never forget the details.
I expected a nun. I’m sure Darcy did, too. But Sister Bridget was dressed in the same pink or blue scrubs as everyone else on the maternity floor. They brought to mind the prison uniforms we’d seen this morning.
She did keep her hair covered, under a modified wimple that was really just a scarf tied over her head. Little wisps of gray stuck out at her ears and over her forehead.
She was probably ten years older than Mother, in her late sixties or maybe even early seventies, but she moved like a young girl, bouncing back and forth on rubber clogs. Her face was as wrinkled as a dry apple, however. No Botox injections or fancy face creams for Sister Bridget.
When we got off the elevator, she was standing there waiting. A quick glance at the both of us, and she knew who was here to see her. It could have been because Molly Murphy had told her ‘not the pregnant one,’ but I don’t think so.
“You must be Darcy.” She reached out a hand. Darcy took it. “I don’t have a lot of time, but we can take a couple of minutes in the break room. This way.” She squeaked off on rubber soles, pulling Darcy behind her. I brought up the rear, looking around at the closed doors. Halfway down the hall was a big window into the nursery, and my steps slowed as I peered in at all the wrinkled newborns, swaddled in pastel cloths with little color-coded caps on their heads.
Before much longer, one of those would be mine.
Not here, though. There wasn’t enough money in the world to convince me it would be safe to have my baby at St. Jerome’s. What if I woke up the next morning and found that someone had taken him or her?
Granted, with Doctor Rushing dead and Denise Seaver in prison, I’m sure the baby-ring was disbanded. But still. It wasn’t a chance I wanted to take.
More to the point, thirty-four years ago, one of those sleeping or squalling infants had been Darcy. And Sister Bridget might be able to tell us something about that time. I abandoned the view and hustled to catch up.
The break room was a small area behind the nursery. It boasted a sink, a refrigerator, a microwave that had seen better days, a couple of kitchen cabinets, and vending machines for soft drinks and snacks. I was happy to see that nurses didn’t seem any more immune to the lure of sugar than the rest of us.
At the moment it was empty—the room, not the vending machine; that was fully stocked, and calling my name. Sister Bridget sank down on a chair with a little grunt—probably happy to be off her feet—and Darcy took a seat on the other side of the table. I bee-lined for the machine. We still hadn’t had lunch, and the baby was letting me know it.
“Anyone want anything?” I asked over my shoulder.
“No,” Darcy said. “Thank you.”
Sister Bridget shook her head. “I have some yogurt in the fridge I’ll get it in a minute. But you go ahead. Gotta keep that baby fed.”
Yes, indeed. I dug in my purse for coins and fed them into the machine. A few seconds later, a Kit-Kat bar tumbled into the slot. Chocolate, yes, but also crispy wafers. I could almost talk myself into believing it was good for me.
While I tore off the paper and bit in, the other two started talking. “Molly said you were born here,” Sister Bridget said.
Darcy nodded.
“Thirty-four years ago,” I added, around the chocolate. “Denise Seaver in Columbia was her mother’s obstetrician.”
Sister Bridget’s face darkened. “You know what happened to Doctor Seaver?”
“She’s in prison,” Darcy said softly. “We went and saw her this morning.”
If Sister Bridget was surprised, it didn’t show on her face. At her age, she’d probably seen enough—of everything—that nothing much surprised her anymore.
<
br /> “She remembered Ora Sweet,” I added, “but she wouldn’t tell us anything about her. Cited doctor-patient privilege.”
Sister Bridget nodded. “And that’s a real thing. Can’t blame her for that.”
Actually, I could, but it was probably better not to say so. “Darcy just wants to try to find her birth mother,” I said. “Her parents passed on—” Darcy glanced at me, but didn’t interrupt, “and now she wants to know where she came from. And whether she has any biological family who might be interested in getting to know her. Thirty-four years is a long time, and her mother might have changed her mind about not wanting her baby. We think that maybe her mother was responsible for getting Darcy the job she has right now, in Sweetwater.”
“How’s that?” Sister Bridget wanted to know.
We told her the story about the newspaper clipping and the Sweetwater postmark, and she nodded. “Sounds like your mama might have wanted a look at you, precious.”
“And if so,” I said, “her mother did kind of make the first move. So it’s OK for us to try to figure out who she was.”
That was more of a stretch, since Ora—or whatever name she went by these days—hadn’t made a move toward telling Darcy the truth. But it made sense. From where Darcy and I were sitting, anyway.
“I can’t tell you much,” Sister Bridget said. “It was a long time ago. I’ve rocked a lot of babies since then.”
She undoubtedly had.
“But I remember her. You look like her.”
“I do?” Darcy sounded surprised. I was, too. If Darcy’s mother lived in Sweetwater, she must be someone I knew. And if I knew her, I should have noticed the resemblance.
“She was younger than you,” Sister Bridget said, “but not as young as some of our girls. Not married, or if she was, her husband wasn’t with her.”
It hadn’t even crossed my mind that Ora might have been married. I guess because most people who are married, especially when they’re in their mid-twenties, wouldn’t give up a baby for adoption.
Unless she hadn’t. Maybe I’d been right and Denise Seaver had taken it away without Ora’s permission, like she had done with David.
“Did she... was it her choice to put Darcy up for adoption, or did Denise Seaver and Doctor Rushing do that?”
Sister Bridget’s expression was sympathetic. “She did it herself, dear. I’m not sure she wanted to—she was crying when she signed the papers—but she did it herself.”
Bummer.
“Do you remember the baby? Darcy?”
Sister Bridget smiled at her. “You were a pretty little thing. Lots of black hair, like your mama. Your new parents came and got you the next day. They looked like a nice couple.”
“They were,” Darcy said softly. “I had a good life. I’m just... curious, I guess. Especially since my mother—if it was my mother—made sure I got to Sweetwater.”
“Anything else you can tell us?” I asked Sister Bridget. “How long did Darcy’s mother stay here?”
“Another day after the baby left. We kept them forty-eight hours in those days, for a vaginal birth.”
Hearing the word ‘vaginal’ come out of the mouth of a seventy-year-old nun was a little disturbing. Maybe it shouldn’t have been, but I wanted to squirm.
“And you don’t know her real name, right? Did anyone come to visit her while she was here?”
Sister Bridget shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Or if they did, it wasn’t while I was working.” She glanced at the clock above the door. “And speaking of work...”
“We’ll get out of your hair and give you some time to eat your yogurt in peace,” I said, as Darcy got up from the table. “Thank you for your time.”
“My pleasure.” The smile she gave us looked like she meant it. “Your mother loved you, precious. I don’t know why she decided she couldn’t keep you. She must have had her reasons. But it wasn’t because she didn’t want to. I could tell.”
Darcy’s eyes welled up. “Thank you,” she managed.
Sister Bridget nodded briskly and turned her attention to me. “Nice to have met you. You take care of that baby.”
I promised her I would, and then I took Darcy’s arm and led her out of the break room and over to the elevator, since I wasn’t sure she was able to see the way without a little help.
Rafe called when we were halfway to Sweetwater. Neither one of us had said much—Darcy was still processing the information we had learned, and I was thinking about that, and also still about Carmen, and wondering what reason a twenty-five year old woman might have for not wanting to keep her baby.
The car was quiet, and the tones of Hot Stuff cut through the air like a drill sergeant’s whistle. Darcy jumped, and I did, too.
It took me a few seconds to fumble the phone out of my purse. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Rafe said.
“I know it’s you. I have you programmed.”
There was a beat. “You sound grumpy.”
“I’m hungry,” I said. We still hadn’t stopped for lunch, and the effects of the Kit-Kat had long since worn off.
“Sorry, darlin’. Go get yourself something. Where are you?”
“Halfway down the interstate to Sweetwater. We stopped by St. Jerome’s Hospital on the way and spoke to an old nun who was there when Darcy was born. She remembered Ora.”
“Good for Darcy,” my husband’s voice said in my ear. “Now take care of yourself, and my baby. He needs food.”
Or she.
“I’ll stop and get some once we get off the interstate,” I promised. “What can I do for you?”
“It ain’t Jamal,” Rafe said.
“Great!” He didn’t answer, and I added, “It’s good, right?”
“Yes and no,” Rafe said.
“How can it not be good? If it isn’t Jamal, then Jamal’s alive.” And if Jamal was alive, then he would still be able to do the right thing as far as Alexandra was concerned. Whatever ‘the right thing’ in that situation turned out to be.
“So far as we know,” Rafe said.
Well, yes. But surely this was a positive sign? “So who’s the dead person?”
“That’s the bad part,” Rafe said. “Remember the jackass who shot at you yesterday?”
“He didn’t actually shoot. Just sighted. But yes. I remember. He also shot somebody else and left him in my kitchen.”
“That’s the guy.”
“The dead body? He’s the last of your missing three gang members?”
“Uh-huh,” Rafe said.
“But if he’s the dead body, who threw the firebomb through the window? It wasn’t him. Not if he’s dead.”
“That’s what we gotta find out,” Rafe said grimly.
Sixteen
We ended up at Cracker Barrel again. It looked like Darcy and I had found ourselves a place to call our own. Over salad for Darcy and a chicken sandwich for me—I needed something more sustaining than lettuce—I asked her, “How do you feel?”
She shrugged, sort of helplessly. Probably hadn’t sorted it out in her head yet.
“She seemed nice. And sincere.”
Darcy nodded. “But Denise Seaver was right. My mother didn’t want me.”
“That’s not what Sister Bridget said. She said Ora was crying when she signed the papers. I think she did want you, but for one reason or another, she couldn’t keep you.”
“I don’t know why,” Darcy said. “She was of age. She probably had a job. And it didn’t happen so long ago that women were ostracized for having babies out of wedlock.”
Depends on your family. Me getting pregnant out of wedlock last year, at a year or two older than Ora had been when she had Darcy, certainly hadn’t made my mother happy.
Then again, we were Martins. We had to set an example.
So was Ora’s family one that had to set an example, too? And having a baby without a husband was a no-no? Was that why she had given Darcy away?
Hell, maybe Darcy’s mother was my brot
her’s sister Regina. She’s short and dark—Darcy was tall and dark, but she could have gotten the height from her unknown father—and I didn’t think Aunt Regina had been married thirty-four years ago. Maybe she’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock and my grandparents had made her give the baby up for adoption. It would even explain the darker cast to Darcy’s skin. Aunt Regina looks like the Martin side of the family, dark-haired and a bit sallow; a heritage from great-great-grandfather William, the son of the groom. Stuff like that can lie dormant for generations and then suddenly show up out of nowhere.
Naturally I didn’t mention that possibility to Darcy. I’d have to investigate a little more in depth first. I was really just making a wild guess here. One without any foundation in... never mind fact: no foundation in anything expect my imagination.
“We don’t know anything about Ora’s situation,” I said instead. “Maybe when we find her, and ask, it will make sense.”
Darcy nodded, her eyes downcast, picking at her salad.
“Even if she couldn’t keep you then,” I added, dredging a French fry through ketchup and lifting it to my mouth, “she must want to get to know you now. She made sure you came up here and got a job.”
At least it made the most sense, with what we knew now, that it was Ora who had sent the clipping to Birmingham, and not some other entity, like a potential boyfriend. I could probably forget looking into Dix’s client, the one who had asked Darcy for a date repeatedly. If we found Darcy’s biological mother and she denied having sent the clipping, there’d be time enough to look into him later.
Darcy glanced up. “That’s true.”
“I’m sure when you meet her, she’ll explain everything.”
Darcy shrugged, but she looked a bit more cheered.
“I need to go see my aunt this afternoon,” I said, “but tonight we can go over to Denise Seaver’s house, if you want, to look for those records. It’ll be better to do it after dark, anyway. Less chance of anyone seeing us. Or if you just want me to go on my own, that’s OK, too. I don’t mind. That way you don’t have to make the drive from Columbia.”
Uncertain Terms (Savannah Martin Mysteries Book 12) Page 18
