Destiny's Daughters

by Gwynne Forster

  “Are you there, Ms. Dixon?”

  Jamilla cleared her throat in an effort to calm her quivering tongue. “Yes.”

  “Please understand that this is only the beginning—a positive one, but still only the beginning. If they haven’t changed their names or hyphenated them like you did, it will make our job so much easier.”

  “What about my birth certificate?”

  “We didn’t find your original birth certificate, only the one from your adoption. In most states when someone is adopted, the original birth certificate is sealed.”

  “My birth certificate doesn’t say that I’m of a multiple birth.”

  “Mr. Brewington was looking at the actual birth records, which contain more information than appears on the actual certificate. But then also remember that once you were adopted, everything about your natural birth was changed in the records.”

  Jamilla’s head began to pound as she tried to comprehend all of the information Ayasah Bennett was imparting. “So what’s next?”

  “We’ve started looking for your sisters in hopes they, too, kept the name Holmes.”

  “Oh my God!” Jamilla had an epiphany. “If their last name is Holmes and he has their birth date, he really can find them through their driver’s licenses or employment.”

  “Exactly!” Ayasah’s grin could be felt through the phone.

  This news was more than Jamilla had ever hoped for—this soon or even ever. The two ladies made idle chitchat for a couple more minutes before Jamilla pressed the END button. A sense of relief mixed with anxiety washed over her. She lifted herself off the floor and ran to her computer. For the first time in days, or had it been weeks, she felt like she could write.

  Chapter 8

  This time it wasn’t screaming babies that jolted Jamilla from her deep sleep. Sleep that had been so sweet in coming had been stolen away by grown women with her face. In her dream she’d been in a country town with streets that weren’t paved. Transportation was horse-drawn buggies instead of cars. The women were dressed in modern clothes in this Old West setting. When she approached them and they turned, it was her own face that stared back at her.

  “Who are you?” she’d asked frightened.

  “I’m Clarissa,” the woman in the red dress hissed as she stared back at Jamilla.

  “And I’m Leticia,” the woman in the black dress whined as she lifted the veil. “Why have you summoned us to this dreadful place?”

  “I didn’t call you here.”

  “Indeed you have,” Clarissa barked. “We were content in our lives, but you couldn’t leave us alone.”

  “You’ve been calling us since we were twelve.” Leticia moved closer to Jamilla. “But we didn’t know how to find you.”

  “More importantly, we didn’t want to be found.” Clarissa pulled a gun from her red purse and aimed it at Jamilla. “You’re the reason my soul has been empty for so many years. I’ve had no peace for twenty-one years, and as long as you keep longing for us, we won’t.”

  Jamilla stared at the barrel of the gun that reminded her of Clint Eastwood in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. “What are you going to do with that?” Panic engulfed her.

  “I’m going to shoot you so you’ll leave us alone,” Clarissa said calmly as she pulled back the hammer on the Colt .45.

  The resounding “No” Jamilla screamed woke her as she sat up suddenly. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear it as she felt her chest to see if she was shot. There was no blood, but pain seemed to surround her. She slowly threw back the covers and swung her body around so her feet would touch the floor.

  “What in God’s name was that supposed to mean?” Jamilla spoke to her image in the mirror perched above the triple dresser. Even in the darkness she could see that dark circles surrounded sunken eyes with bags big enough to double as a carry-on.

  Was her subconscious trying to tell her that she needed to drop the search? She couldn’t. She wouldn’t! There was no dream that would stop her from searching for her sisters. She only wondered if they wanted to find her as much as she did them. Was it at all possible that they were together, living and loving like sisters, and she was the lone one?

  Trying to fall asleep at this point would be futile, so she decided that she might as well try her hand at writing. She glanced at the clock for the first time and saw that she’d been asleep for less than an hour. She couldn’t continue this way, she thought, as she fell back onto the bed. She wanted to call Maxwell but thought better of it.

  Thoughts of a reunion with her sisters battled in her head as the pros and cons war raged. Until this dream she hadn’t thought their reunion would be anything but pleasant. In her mind’s eye she had seen them embracing while sharing stories of what their time apart had been like.

  Jamilla’s eyes fell onto the large white envelope on the nightstand on the opposite side of the bed. She’d read the report from Fred Brewington at least one hundred times, but decided that just once more couldn’t possibly hurt. She reached for the envelope and then turned on the light. She sat up in bed and pulled the down comforter up close to her neck as she felt a sudden chill.

  She slowly removed the yellow sheets of paper. According to the report, the investigation had taken Fred Brewington to Columbus, Georgia, where a woman by the name of Clarissa Holmes resided with her teenage son. The woman was a bookkeeper for a dental office where she’d been employed for more than five years. She owned a simple home and drove a late-model Ford. Her skin tone was close to Jamilla’s, but she didn’t have her face. In all of her visions and dreams her sisters always had her face.

  Fred had been confident that he’d completed the job for which she had paid so handsomely. Jamilla ran her finger around the edge of the picture as tears filled her eyes. Though her heart had longed for this moment, her mind had told her it may never come. Fred had offered to make the introduction, but now Jamilla didn’t know if she was ready.

  She’d played out several scenarios in her mind, but her favorite was to knock on Clarissa Holmes’s door early on a Sunday morning. Her sister would take one look at her and know. She would throw her arms around her and they would begin to bridge the thirty-three-year gap.

  Then she’d thought of starting with a phone call. She didn’t want to give the woman a heart attack and have her die before they even had a chance to meet. She flung the pages to the side as she tossed her tired body back against the maple headboard.

  If only she could manage to get a good night’s sleep, then maybe making a decision would become an easier task.

  Chapter 9

  Jamilla didn’t know how long she’d been sitting across from 1129 El Domingo Circle, staring at the front door, when the basketball bounced off the hood of the burgundy rental car. She jumped involuntarily as the lad ran up to her, apologizing for overthrowing the ball.

  Once she’d gathered her wits, she decided that she hadn’t come all the way across the country not to meet her sister. She turned the key in the ignition and the engine died. The music continued to play as Luther’s voice filled the air around her. She removed the key and slipped it into her purse, then took one last look at the house before she opened the car door.

  The blinds opened in the window she presumed to be the living room a short while before—someone was at home. She stood close to the car, trying to fortify her steps. “Put one foot in front of the other,” she said aloud.

  She’d decided against calling ahead to announce her arrival. She didn’t want to be deterred before she got started. It would be a lot harder to reject her in person. Fred had strongly suggested otherwise. She thanked him for his concern and proceeded to make reservations for the trip. She’d arrived the day before. She’d driven past the house several times but never stopped.

  Now her mouth tasted like onions. Fear was like her next of kin but she knew she had to press on. She moved her right foot, then her left, and soon she was walking. Her knees wobbled and her ankles shook. I should have worn flat shoes, Jamilla
thought idly as her body moved toward the house. She didn’t remember the final steps that landed her on the porch with the lovers’ swing and beautiful potted plants.

  She stood before the door with her hands to the side, hoping she could will herself to ring the doorbell when suddenly it opened. The two women startled each other. The woman on the inside blinked several times before she asked, “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for . . .” Jamilla started but suddenly had lost all of her resolve. “I’m a . . .”

  The woman eyed her suspiciously. “What can I do for you?” the stranger with the cinnamon complexion and shoulder-length dark hair with blond highlights asked as she placed her hand on the handle of a black wire mesh door that did double duty guarding against winged and two-legged intruders.

  Jamilla tried again to state her purpose. “I’m Jamilla Holmes Dixon.” She waited for the slightest hint of recognition. There was none.

  “Holmes?” The woman relaxed her hand slightly.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s my name.”

  “I know—that’s why I’m here.” Jamilla let the words spill forward.

  “Excuse me?” The woman tensed up again.

  Jamilla let her breath escape slowly, then took in more of the warm, moist air into her lungs, trying to slow her pounding heart. “May I come in?”

  “What is it that you need?”

  “I’ve searched for you a long time,” Jamilla stated nervously.

  This time it was the woman on the other side of the door who was getting nervous. “For what?”

  Jamilla looked around before she continued. “I’d really rather not discuss this on the front porch.”

  The woman crossed her arms and leaned back on her left hip.

  Sighing, Jamilla knew she’d have to share more information. “I actually found you through a private investigator I hired. I believe we share something very important.”

  “Don’t be coming up in here with none of that Sittin’ in the Front Pew mess,” she snapped.

  Confused, Jamilla asked, “What?”

  “Don’t come up in here telling me my daddy is your daddy. I’m not having it!”

  Actually, my mother is your mother. Almost relieved, Jamilla started to laugh. “No, I assure you that isn’t the case. But it would be so much easier if I could come in and speak with you.”

  The woman hesitated, then decided that Jamilla posed no threat. Besides, now her curiosity was getting the better of her. She flipped the latch on the door and opened it. “Come in,” she said as she stepped to the side.

  Jamilla stepped inside the medium-sized house with the warmth that made it a home. Pictures of Clarissa and a young man Jamilla believed to be her son were generously distributed around the room. There were pictures of Clarissa with a man who had his arm thrown over her shoulder as they both smiled broadly. She took a few steps toward the center of the room before she turned. “You have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you.” The woman moved past her toward the animal-print chaise. “Please have a seat in here.”

  Jamilla obediently followed her, sitting across from her on the matching sofa. She cleared her throat, trying to find her well-rehearsed words. “I’m sorry to intrude like this. You opened the door like you were about to leave.”

  Still cautious, the woman said, “I was going to tell Martin that it was time for lunch. That boy would play basketball twenty-four-seven if I’d let him.”

  The resemblance between this woman and the young man who’d apologized for hitting the car struck her. Martin was her nephew. “I won’t keep you, I promise.”

  Her patience waning, she asked, “What can I do for you, Ms. Dixon?”

  Jamilla took a deep breath and began. “I guess I need to first ask if I’m at the right house. Are you the Clarissa Holmes born on October 17, 1973?”

  The woman looked shocked. “How do you know my birthday?”

  Jamilla worked hard to relax. She needed to calm the battle raging in the pit of her stomach if she was ever going to get through this. “I did a lot of research before I showed up on your doorstep.”

  “Research?”

  Jamilla forced a smile. “As I tried to explain earlier, I hired a private investigator to find you.”

  “I’m really confused.” Clarissa shifted uneasily in her seat. “Why would you hire a private investigator to find me?” She laughed nervously. “I didn’t know I was lost. And you said that you weren’t trying to say that my father is your father.”

  “I was born in a little town right outside of Dale, Georgia, thirty-three years ago on October 17.” She waited a beat, hoping she’d struck a familiar chord, then continued. “I’m one of three baby girls born that day.” Still nothing.

  “You’re a triplet?”

  So are you. “Yes.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met a triplet before.” Clarissa relaxed slightly. “Only met twins once.”

  “My mother died giving birth to us.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. That must have been very difficult on all of you.”

  This isn’t going anything like I thought it would. By now I would have thought she would have thrown herself into my arms and said, ‘Oh my God, you’re my sister.’ “We were all separated.” Jamilla struggled to hide her disappointment. “Well, at least I was separated. A wonderful couple in Los Angeles adopted me and I’ve had a good life, but there’s a vital part of me missing. Actually it’s more like two vital parts of me.”

  As though someone had thrown cold water on her, Clarissa leapt from the chaise as she realized why Jamilla was there. “You think I’m one of your sisters?”

  Giving the thought a chance to take root to become a realization, Jamilla waited. The look on Clarissa’s face made Jamilla believe this had all been a horrible mistake. She should have left well enough alone, gone on with her life, and if it had been meant to be, she would have met her sisters. The syndicated sitcom Sister-Sister played out in her mind. The twin girls had been shopping at a mall when they encountered each other. But that was television. In real life if you wanted something to happen, you had to orchestrate it. “I do.”

  “You’re nuts.” Clarissa could hear herself screaming but couldn’t do anything to control it. “My parents live on the other side of town where I grew up.”

  “Until my parents told me the whole story on my twelfth birthday, I didn’t know, either.” Jamilla deliberately spoke softly and slowly. “They just thought it was the time to tell me. But they could have just as easily taken this secret to the grave.”

  “But I have brothers and sisters. Some younger, some older.”

  Oh, she’s making this so much harder than it has to be. She’s fighting the inevitable. Denying it doesn’t make it untrue. Jamilla tried to calm her trembling hands, but they refused to cooperate. She had to continue. She’d come much too far to let this woman’s disbelief deter her. “Where were you born?”

  “Right here in Columbus at St. Francis Hospital. Just like all of us were.”

  That can’t be right. “What’s your parents’ last name?”

  “Holmes.”

  This time, Jamilla felt like the one who’d been splashed with cold water. “Really?” was all she could manage.

  “Really.”

  “But we were born on the same day.” Feelings of desperation caused panic in Jamilla. She was too close to her sisters to have this woman snatch her fulfillment away.

  “I think that has already been established.” Clarissa began to feel sorry for the stranger. “But on that day I was born to Daisy and Willis Holmes. I have pictures of them bringing me home from the hospital.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything.” Finally, this was something Jamilla could rebut. “They could have been bringing you from anywhere.”

  Clarissa thought for a moment and realized Jamilla was correct—the picture proved nothing. But none of this made any sense. She was and always had been the third child of Mr. and Mrs.
Willis Holmes. “You’re wrong,” she managed, not totally convinced.

  “Don’t you see, Clarissa, they could have picked you up from Dale.”

  Clarissa shook her head, refusing to believe her parents would have lied to her for thirty-three years. “Like I said before,” she paused for emphasis, “you’re nuts. I’m sorry you don’t know where your sisters are, but believe me, you haven’t found one here.”

  “Please hear me out.”

  Clarissa folded her arms across her chest. “I’m done hearing!”

  “Please,” Jamilla pleaded.

  Nothing.

  “Give me five minutes. If I haven’t convinced you in that time, I’ll leave and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  “Five minutes.” Clarissa didn’t know whether to listen to what she had to say or throw her out. How dare she come into her home spewing such nonsense? “Not another second.”

  “Let’s just suppose Willis Holmes was related to my mother Minnie Lou. When he heard she’d died, he came to rescue you. Maybe I was already gone. Maybe our other sister was gone, too.

  “So he and your mother have raised you just like they gave birth to you without making you any the wiser. And I ain’t mad. Sometimes I wish my mom and dad hadn’t told me.”

  Clarissa’s expression told Jamilla she was pondering what she’d just heard. “But we look nothing alike. How do you explain that?”

  “I can’t,” Jamilla said softly, unable to hide her disappointment. “In all my dreams my sisters always had my face.”

  “Your dreams?”

  Jamilla went on to explain how dreams had plagued her since her twelfth birthday and now they were becoming visions during her waking hours.

  “This is all too bizarre.”

  “I know it seems too much for you to believe. I’ve been living with it for more than twenty-one years.” Jamilla stood and began pacing. “Clarissa . . .’

  Clarissa looked up from the pattern she studied in the area rug beneath the coffee table. “Yes?”