Empty Arms: A Novel (19 page)

If it wasn’t for a last-minute cancellation, I wouldn’t be meeting with Detective Walsh until May. But the sudden opening means that I get to meet with him on Tuesday morning at nine o’clock. I call Delaney to let her know that I’m going to be late, but she’s tied up with an emergency so one of the nurses promises to give her the message.

When I pull up to the faded black awning of Walsh Investigative Agency, I realize I’ve driven by this place on my way to work every day for the last fourteen years, but this is the first time I’ve ever noticed it. It’s a small operation, tucked among the shops on Main Street between Palace of India, whose curry-laced cooking has infiltrated the office, and Mother & Child, whose past patrons, including myself, Melody, and our friends from The Home, have grown up and are now clients of Detective Walsh.

When I step inside, a young brunette woman glances up from a nail file. My breath catches in my throat. She’s the right age, the right coloring. I approach her carefully, wondering if she’s adopted.

“Name?” she asks, snapping her gum.

“Catharine Chase.”

She nods and returns to filing her nails. “Have a seat. He’s not in yet.”

I check my watch every few minutes and glance out the window. Hopefully he’s out finding people.

It’s twenty after nine by the time a jet-black Porsche rumbles to a stop in front of the building. The man from the commercial barrels through the door wearing a bright yellow leather jacket with a black silk shirt underneath. The top button of his shirt is open, revealing a tuft of wiry black and gray chest hair, which I can only hope was an accident. His hair is the same color as his car, but strands of gray are working their way up his sideburns, like English ivy crawling up the side of an old house. He looks like he belongs in Florida, not in upstate New York. The cool spring breeze pushes the reek of his cologne into my nostrils as the door swings shut behind him. “Morning, Jennifer.” He smiles at the young receptionist.

“Good morning, Detective Walsh.” Her voice is so sweet it’s hard to believe she’s the same person who greeted me. “Your nine o’clock appointment is here.” She gestures in my direction.

He turns to me and lifts his sunglasses. I shift in my seat, feeling frumpy and underdressed in my blue scrubs and white clogs. Noticing my discomfort, he shoots me a fake smile. “Come on back,” he says, and I follow him down the hall to his office.

I smile at Jennifer as I walk past, but she just stares at me blankly, and I decide that she’s too rude to be my daughter.

The walls in Detective Walsh’s office are wood paneled and covered with photos of sports cars. “Make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk.

I sit down, eyeing the fake fern next to me. Someone obviously thought to put it here to make this office feel serene, but its dusty fronds and fading color have the opposite effect. I didn’t think it was possible for a fake plant to look so neglected.

Detective Walsh slips off his hideous jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair. I can’t help but stare at the thick patch of hair sprouting from his open button as he slides around in his chair searching for a pen and pad of paper.

“So, tell me, what brings you here, Miss …”—he checks my file for my name—“Chase?” The pen is poised over his pad, and a shiny gold Rolex is prominently displayed on his left wrist. His ring finger is bare, and I can’t help but think that he probably prefers it that way.

“
Mrs.
Chase,” I correct. “And I’m here because I want to find my daughter.”

“Is she missing? A runaway?”

“No. I gave her up for adoption.”

He raises an eyebrow and writes something. “I see.”

Even though my faith in Jackson Walsh is leaking out of me like a water balloon that’s been pierced by a pin, I bite my lip and pray that he’s half as good as his commercial claims.

“Tell me, Mrs. Chase, after all these years, why do you suddenly want to find someone you gave away? Why is this person suddenly so important to you?”

The question is like a slap in the face. “She’s always been important to me. I never wanted to give her up for adoption, but I was sixteen when I had her. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Ah, a Baby Scoop Mother.”

“A Baby what?”

“Baby Scoop Mother. You’ve never heard that?”

“No. I’ve never heard that.” My voice is thick with anger.

“That’s what they call you gals that got knocked up back in the day and were forced to give up your kids. There are millions of women just like you.” He says it as if that’s supposed to make me feel better, but the idea that millions of women are going through this too is reprehensible.

“Look, do you think you can you help me or not?”

“It depends. What can you tell me about her?”

“Well, she was born on March 25, 1973, at Lowville General.”

He writes the information on his notepad.

“She had auburn hair and blue eyes, although I suppose those things could’ve changed. I named her Emily.”

He looks up. “Is that the name on her birth certificate?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen her birth certificate.”

“What about a Social Security number? Do you have that?”

I shake my head and my faith shrinks even more. Each question is a painful reminder of how little I know about my own daughter.

“Do you know the names of her adoptive parents?”

“No.” My fingers bolt up my sleeve, hunting for the crisp edge of a loose scab. As my nails rake across the healing skin, I remember what Melody said about guilt and self-harm. I pull my hand out of my sleeve and wedge it beneath my thigh.

“Do you know which state she was raised in?”

“No! All right? I don’t know anything about her.”

He jerks back and stares at me like I belong in an anger management program.

“Sorry,” I whisper, wondering if all Baby Scoop Mothers are as temperamental as I am.

He taps his pen on the page in front of him. “Mrs. Chase, I want to help you. I do. But without some information to go on, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

W
HEN
I
GET TO WORK
, there’s wrath in Delaney’s eyes. “Nice of you to finally show up.”

“Sorry I’m late. I had an appointment.”

“I don’t have time for excuses, Chase.” She storms by me and barrels down the hall.

“What’s with her?” I ask a nearby nurse.

“We lost a patient this morning.”

My heart sags under the weight of her words. I should’ve been here. “Who was it?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think she had a name.”

I push past her and sprint down the corridor to the Special Care Nursery, but the isolette is empty. My lungs constrict, and panic rises from my fingertips. It’s okay, I reassure myself, they probably just moved her to the regular nursery with the healthy babies. But the ill feeling in my stomach begs to differ. I chase Delaney down the hall and catch up with her just before she reaches her office. “Where is she?” I pant. “Where’s Baby Girl Glass?”

“Maybe if you would’ve been here on time you’d know.” She storms into her office and the door slams behind her.

I consider apologizing through the thick wood and begging for an answer, but that would only make things worse. I stagger back to the Special Care Nursery. A nursing assistant is stripping the linens out of the incubator and unplugging wires that are strewn about like lifeless tentacles.

“By any chance do you know what happened to this patient?” I ask.

“Her heart stopped beating. They tried to revive her, but she just wasn’t strong enough.”

I fall into the chair next to the isolette. If only I’d been here, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe an extra set of hands would’ve made all the difference. I stare at the glass box, but all I see is the reflection of a selfish woman.

W
HEN
I
FINALLY FALL
into bed, I reach for Paul’s pillow but it’s gone. The vacant space drives a knife into my heart. My face plunges into the downy darkness of my own pillow, and an anguished moan escapes followed by a deluge of tears. I cry for the baby girl I lost years ago, the daughter I don’t know anything about, for the baby girl I lost today and how I let her down, and for my husband, whose existence is disintegrating before my very eyes. I wrap my empty arms around me and sob until my tear ducts dry up, but the well of shame is still deep.

When I finally manage to catch my breath, I pick up the phone and dial Melody. Her voice is heavy with sleep, but once she hears the misery in mine she insists that she’s awake.

“Cate, what’s wrong?”

The problems tumble out of my mouth like falling rocks: missing pillows and razors and the baby that died while I was meeting with Detective Walsh. “And the worst part is he can’t even help me find her because I don’t know anything about her.” I exhale as the momentum of my problems slam into me all at once. “I knew this was going to be hard but I didn’t think it would be so … impossible.”

“They don’t make it easy, that’s for sure.”

“Did you have this much trouble finding Bryan?”

“No, but my Mom gave me his Social Security number, so that helped. Is there any chance your mom has Emily’s somewhere?”

“Even if she does, she won’t give it to me.”

“Why not?”

“Because she doesn’t want me to find her. She doesn’t want her bastard granddaughter reminding her that she’s a bad mother.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, try telling her that.”

“So what are you going to do?”

A long sigh escapes. “I have no idea.”

“Sleep on it,” she says. “You’ll figure it out.”

The sand feels like hot coals beneath my feet. The heat rises in waves, scorching my legs as I stagger through the desert, shielding my face from the sun. In my right hand is a baby carrier with dark netting draped over the top to shield Emily from the unforgiving rays. Cactuses scrape at my arms, drawing blood, and snakes rattle at my ankles. I try to walk faster, but my feet sink beneath me. I try to run, but my legs feel like they’re made of cement.

In the distance I spot a man standing in a lone palm’s shade. I wave and trudge toward him, lugging the heavy carrier, careful not to jar the sleeping child. When I reach him, I step into the cool shade. My eyes adjust and find a familiar face. James.

“Thank God,” I say, diving into his arms.

“Who’s that?” he asks, pointing to the baby carrier.

“This is our daughter.” I remove the protective mesh but all I find is a balled up blanket and a mess of wires and tubes.

“Where is she?” he asks.

I stare at the empty carrier. “I don’t know.”

“We have to find her.”

“You’re right.” I turn to him, but I’m standing alone.

I
’M SWEATING WHEN I WAKE UP
. I toss the covers off me and wipe my forehead with my sleeve. The dream comes back in bits and pieces. And then I remember what James said:
We have to find her.
We. I climb out of bed and grab the phone book. Suddenly I know what I want to do.

I dial the airport in Albany and speak with a ticketing agent who informs me that there’s no easy way to get to Eagle Pass. I could fly into Piedras Negras, which is only six miles away from James’s town but also happens to be in Mexico. Since I don’t have a passport, my only other option is to fly into Del Rio, Texas, which means transferring planes in Cleveland, renting a car in Del Rio, and then driving an hour through a place I’ve never been. It’s not ideal, but it’s the only decent option, so I ask her to book it.

Delaney puts up a fight when I request time off. “You know we need at least a month’s notice.”

“I know, but I was hoping you could make an exception. I’ve got some personal issues I’m dealing with.”

“I’ll make you a deal. People are already starting to request time off on the Fourth of July. I know it’s your birthday, but if you agree to work a double shift, I’ll make this exception for you.”

“Deal,” I say, thankful for an excuse to let the depressing milestone pass quietly. Besides, it’s not like I have anyone to celebrate it with anyway.