Chosen for Death (21 page)

Henry David Thoreau said, "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." It was certainly true for these people. An unhomogenized group, mixed by age, sex, and ethnic background, they shared a common bond, their desperate need to find out who they were. I was astonished, though it was naive of me, to realize how many people were going through these serious personal quests without the world really noticing them. But my own sister had been one of these questing people, and I, who thought I knew her so well, hadn't really noticed or understood. I hadn’t given her feelings the respect they deserved, and Mom and Dad had simply denied everything and hoped it would go away. But everyone has their secrets. These people lacked identity. I lacked love. It helped me understand.

Before Carol's blunt words, I hadn't thought of my search that way. But I couldn't argue with her conclusion. I did intend to use the search to find Carrie's killer, but where I'd thought of the search in terms of process, she thought of it in terms of people. "It's not as concrete as you make it sound," I said. "I don't know that she even found them... only that she was close. By duplicating the process, I hope to find what she found, and somewhere there is a clue to her death."

"Well, that sounds comfortably vague and distanced," she said, "but there are real people involved here, not just a process. But even the process isn't simple. Don't delude yourself. You heard what people were saying at the meeting. A search can take years." She looked at her watch. "I'm sorry. I've got to go, and I have to lock up first."

I put a restraining hand on her arm. "Mrs. Anderson, please. I heard what people were saying—how important it is to find out who they are. My sister was only twenty-one. She never had a chance to live, or find out who she was, or anything. Someone took that chance away from her. I can't let the person who killed her get away with it. I always promised her I'd take care of her, and I failed at that. This is the only thing left that I can do for her. And I must do it as quickly as I can before clues are lost or memories fade. But to do it quickly, I need someone with experience, like you, to guide me. Please say you'll help me."

I don't know whether she felt sorry for me, or was just worn down by my persistence. Whatever it was, she hesitated, then fumbled in the canvas bag she carried. She pulled out a small booklet and held it toward me. Her set mouth told me how reluctantly she did it. "I've already told you, I can't help. This has the best information we know about how to search. The rest is up to you. Now please, will you leave." I took the booklet and left.

I spent the rest of the day at the library, with the booklet, Carrie's notes, and several books, outlining a plan of attack. My passion for organization has always been a family joke, but it works for me. Michael used to say I wouldn't cross the street without an outline, which is why they were so surprised when I married David so soon after I met him, and without the big wedding Mom had always counted on. So I may strike the world as rigid and cautious, but I have an impulsive streak. This whole search business was an impulse—even if I was taking a methodical approach.

The most important thing, it seemed, was to learn the name of Carrie's birth mother, and, if possible, where she came from. But because of the stigma on illegitimate births, particularly back in the pro-abortion era, the identity of the birth mother, or of the birth parents, was the fundamental secret of the adoption process. It was usually a closely guarded secret. The rationale was that this allowed the birth mother to return to her former life, put her dirty little secret behind her, and erase the whole episode from her mind. Keeping the secret also protected the adoptive parents from any personal knowledge of the sinful origins of their child, allowing them to bask in the myth that the child was theirs alone, always had been and would be, and that it had no connection with anyone else.

The books suggested several sources of information that might be helpful. If Carrie's mother had been in a maternity home, they might have records which a sympathetic staff person might be willing to share. The original birth certificate, if I could get it, would have the mother's name, unless she'd used a false one, but these were often sealed and inaccessible. The doctor might still be in practice, and still have records, and his name might be on the amended certificate. The name of the hospital where she was born would also appear on the birth certificate, and hospitals, even when they claimed to have no records, often stored decades' worth of records in their basements or on microfilm.

To start, I needed a copy of Carrie's birth certificate. That meant a trip to Boston, if I didn't want to waste a week or two, and that meant that neither Suzanne nor I would be at work on Monday, since state offices are closed on weekends.

Too bad Carrie hadn't kept a copy of her birth certificate with her notes, but then, these notes weren't her working file, I could tell. They weren't complete enough. Her working file, like her diary, was missing. It looked like she'd pursued the same course I was planning, but kept a record of her results somewhere else. She had left me one gem, though: the name of the maternity home. Carrie's anonymous mother had awaited her birth in a place run by the Sisters of Harmony in Braintree, called Serenity House. The reference to Serenity House was crossed out. I didn't know whether that meant it had been an unproductive lead, that she couldn't find it, or only that she'd found it and moved on.

I asked the librarian where they kept phone books. The Braintree phone book had no listing for Serenity House, but the Sisters of Harmony were listed, with a street address. The librarian directed me to a pay phone, and I called the number. The woman who answered asked me to hold, and referred my call to a brusque woman who identified herself as Mrs. Ireland. Mrs. Ireland admitted that the order still ran Serenity House, and asked what the purpose of my call was.

Carol Anderson's reaction had made me cautious. This time I didn't launch into my tale of murder. I told her only that I was interested in information about a child whose mother had been at Serenity House before she was born. But Mrs. Ireland wanted to know much more. I ended up telling her that I was searching for my own birth mother. She was neither friendly nor unfriendly, but neutral and carefully guarded. She explained that it was the policy of Serenity House not to reveal any identifying information without the consent of the adoptive parents. I admitted I didn't have the consent of my parents. She tried to end the conversation right there with a homily about the value of protecting family privacy.

When I persisted, she suggested I make an appointment to speak with their social worker, Ms. Pappas, gave me a different number to call, and terminated the conversation. I was left with the impression that Mrs. Ireland was unhappily familiar with adoptees searching for their birth mothers. Even though it was Saturday, I called the new number, and someone answered, "Esther Pappas."

I explained who I was, except this time I said I was helping my sister conduct a search, and asked if she could help me. She repeated, almost verbatim, what Mrs. Ireland had said, trying to discourage me, but when I refused to be discouraged, she agreed to meet with me to discuss the matter further if I could be there by four-thirty. By my watch, it was almost three-thirty, which meant that if l exceeded the speed limit, ran into no traffic jams, and could find the place, I might just make it. I said I'd be there, hung up, and ran out of the library.

Chapter 17

Several times on my way to Braintree I thought I was going to find out whether the air bag on my rented Saab worked, but whoever watches over the foolish and the desperate was watching over me. My mind wasn't on driving. I was rehearsing what I was going to say to Ms. Pappas. The driver of the black BMW in front of me must have been rehearsing for a square dance; he kept changing lanes without signaling and without paying any attention to the other cars. I finally passed him before he gave me a heart attack, and discovered his inattention was due to the animated phone conversation he was conducting. People who talk with their hands shouldn't be allowed to have car phones.

I arrived at Serenity House and found a parking space with fifty seconds to spare. Serenity House was an ugly pile of yellow brick four stories high fronted by a diminutive pillared portico as absurd as a bow tie on a fat man. It was set well back from the street and the lot was enclosed by an unfriendly black iron fence. A few demoralized shrubs tried to soften the outside, but the overall appearance was as inviting as a bed of nails. Perhaps, in a more punitive time, that had been the intent. Three young women, girls, actually, were sitting on the steps. All three were hugely pregnant. They stared at my waist as I went by. Another pregnant girl sitting at a desk directed me to Ms. Pappas. None of them looked happy.

I knocked on the door and a voice invited me to enter. Not an inviting voice, but stern and gravelly, which prepared me for what came next. A prison matron. Esther Pappas was tall and square. She wore sensible, black-rimmed spectacles, sensible shoes, and a sensible gray wool jumper over an unadorned white blouse. The blouse had a tiny, round collar. Her graying brown hair was pulled tightly back in a bun. A plain black cardigan hung over the back of her chair. Her colorless eyes were small, her nostrils large, and her mouth turned down at the corners. She looked like she'd never seen anything in her life that she approved of and never expected to.

She held out a large, blunt-fingered hand. "You made good time, Miss Kozak," she said. "Won't you sit down."

I shook the hand and sat down in one of the world's most uncomfortable chairs. It might have been psychology, to keep those sinful little mothers-to-be, or those poor, precatory, infertile couples, from feeling comfortable. More likely it was simply economics. Whatever the reason, I had to hold on to the arms to keep from sliding onto the floor. I was glad I wasn't pregnant. "It's Mrs. Kozak," I said. Her eyes shifted to my left hand and rested on my ring finger. "I'm a widow."

"I see." She leaned back in her chair and tented her fingers. I could tell she found that inappropriate. Probably, like Lorna, she thought widows ought to be old. "What brings you to Serenity House?"

"Mrs. Ireland suggested I contact you," I said. "My sister, Carolyn McKusick, was born at Serenity House. I'm trying to help find her birth parents."

Her eyebrows rose. I had the impression she and Mrs. Ireland weren't simpatico. "How old is Carolyn?" she asked.

"Twenty-one."

"Why isn't she here herself? It's not usual for a family member, like yourself, to be searching, instead of the adoptee. Except, sometimes, for husbands. Husbands sometimes help."

"Carrie isn't able to do this herself. She isn't very well." I didn't tell her how unwell Carrie was. "She asked me to help her, since she can't do it herself." Which was sort of the truth, if you believed in dreams.

Ms. Pappas didn't seem to know what to make of me. I guess I wasn't her usual sort. She took some time to look me over, her nostrils flaring slightly as her eyes roved over the purple shirt. I wished I'd worn something more conservative. She studied her tented hands again. "Do you have any sort of authorization from your sister? Something which would indicate her approval ofthis conversation?" I shook my head. I hadn't thought of that. "I mean," she said, "how do I know you are who you say you are, and that you're really related to this person, Carolyn McKusick, if she is, in fact, one of our adoptees?"

I pulled out my wallet, took out my driver's license and the family photo, and laid them on the desk. She picked them up and studied them. "You're not adopted," she said. "The blond is your sister, Carolyn?"

"Yes." I put my license away. I reached for the photo, but she pulled it back and looked at it again.

"Are your parents aware that your sister wants to conduct this search and that you are helping her?"

That was the question I'd been dreading. The standard rule about lies is to stay as close to the truth as possible and don't lie about things that can be easily checked. She seemed like the type to immediately pick up the phone and call my parents. I didn't want her to do that, so I told the truth. Sort of. "Yes, they know," I said. "They don't want to be involved, and they don't want to know what we find out." Her face was unreadable. So far, other than the nostril flare, she'd reacted to nothing. At this she nodded.

"At Serenity House," she said, "we may be a bit old-fashioned, but we believe that the commitment made to the birth mother to protect her identity should be honored. I recognize that times are changing, and many today are arguing in favor of open adoption. We don't do open adoptions here. It's dangerous, almost obscene, really, letting these young girls go shopping for families for their babies. Practically selling them, sometimes." She shook her head sadly. "Those poor desperate parents will do anything to convince the girls to give them babies. But once the birth parents know the adoptive parents, what is to keep some confused young mother from showing up on the doorstep once, or even many times, changing her mind about whether she's willing to give up the baby? How can adoptive parents ever relax and develop a relationship with their child, not knowing when the birth mother may show up again or what she may do?"