Empty Arms: A Novel (33 page)

We exchange confused glances and dig deeper.

“I’ve got another birth certificate,” Paul says.

I grab it from him, scanning for any trace of Emily. “It’s Mom’s,” I sigh. I’m about to toss it aside when I notice her date of birth. “Huh.”

Paul notices my expression and steps behind me. “What?”

“Her birth certificate is wrong.”

“How is that possible?”

“Look here. It says her birthday was September 26, 1938.”

“I thought her birthday
was
September 26th.”

“Yes, but she was born in 1935, not 1938.”

He takes the paper from my hand and studies it closer. “You sure about that,

Cate? I don’t think they would screw up something like that.”

“I’m positive. She told me a thousand times she was born in 1935. I remember it clearly because she told me I was born a couple of months before her twenty-first birthday.”

Paul looks at the paper and then at me. “Maybe she lied. Maybe you were really born a couple of months before her eighteenth birthday.”

“Yeah right.
My
mother? Pregnant at
seventeen
?” But as I scoff at the absurdity, all of the pieces begin to click together. Who plans a Pennsylvania wedding in February? What premature baby weighs nine pounds one ounce? What woman gets her tubes tied if she wants to have more children? I look at Paul; maybe his comment isn’t so absurd after all. Maybe my parents’ wedding hadn’t been romantically coordinated with Valentine’s Day but thrown together before the arrival of an illegitimate baby bump. Maybe my July birth wasn’t premature at all but right on schedule. But Mom had her tubes tied right after I was born, which meant she was 100% certain she didn’t want more children. Had she even wanted me? The question gives way to a memory of her telling me that she’d dreamed of being a doctor. She never pursued it and I never asked why. I’d always assumed that she had wanted a family more than a career. It never occurred to me that I might have stood in her way. Of course, it would explain why things were never easy between us and why she never got over the disappointment of my own young pregnancy. It would also explain why she made me give up Emily and insisted that I get an education and focus on my career. And it would make sense why she begrudged me for returning to Lowville to work in the newborn nursery.

I fall into the kitchen chair as the realizations crash over me like a tidal wave. Twenty-three years ago, my mother made me give up my daughter not because she’d been afraid of what the neighbors would think or because I was incapable of raising a child; she made me do it because she wanted me to have the life she never did.

O
N MY WAY TO WORK
on Monday morning, I stop by the bank to deposit the check from the estate sale. The drive-through lane is empty, but the teller informs me that I have to come inside to deposit a check of this size. One look at the line inside and I know I’ll be late for work if I stay, so I head to work instead. There aren’t any new arrivals in the nursery, so I care for the few that still remain from the previous few days.

I return to the bank on my way home and wait behind a woman with a toddler whining and pawing at her legs. The woman keeps shushing the little girl. “Here,” she hisses, giving her a key ring. “Don’t put it in your mouth.” The little girl stops crying and shakes the keys like a tambourine, mesmerized by the jangling noise they make. Despite my love of children, my nerves are frayed and my patience is wearing thin. The little girl shakes them so hard that they fly out of her hand and land at my feet. “Tammy,” the mother scolds. “I’m so sorry,” she says as I reach down to pick them up. As I pass the key ring back to her, I notice a key that’s similar to the one in the little white box.

“Is that a safe deposit box key?” I ask.

The woman eyes me warily.

I dig around in the bottom of my purse until I find the box. I open it and show her my key. “My mother left me this when she passed away, but I don’t know which bank it belongs to. If you don’t mind me asking, where is your safe deposit box located?”

Her eyebrows furrow and she pulls Tammy close to her. “Here.”

“Next,” the teller calls, and the woman grabs her daughter’s arm and walks over to the counter, eager to get away from me. I stare at the key in my palm, eager for my turn.

“Yes, this is one of ours,” the teller says when I show her the key. “But your signature must match the one on file in order to grant you access.”

“The box belonged to my mother. She recently passed away and left the key for me.”

“Let me check her file.” She types something into her computer. “Your mother’s name?”

“Evelyn White.”

“And your name?”

“Catharine Chase. My maiden name was Catharine White.”

She presses a couple of buttons. “And do you have proof of identification, Mrs. Chase?”

I dig my license out of my wallet and slide it across the counter. She looks at it and passes it back to me. “Your mother has granted you access to her safe deposit box upon her death. Do you have a death certificate for her?”

“I do, but not with me right now.”

“Bring back the death certificate and we’ll be able to give you access to the box.”

“How late are you open tonight?”

“We close at five-thirty.”

I glance at the clock. 5:25. “Thanks,” I mutter and leave.

P
AUL HELPS ME SEARCH
through the papers from Mom’s attorney’s office until we find her death certificate. “What do you think is inside?” he asks.

“I have no idea.” I’m annoyed and intrigued. What could she have possibly left me? Money? Jewelry? Something that belonged to Daddy?

The bank isn’t even open yet when I arrive the following morning. I wait outside until the surly guard unlocks the door. I spot the teller from yesterday, and she waves me over. I slide the paper in front of her along with my license. She types something into her computer and then walks around to the front of the desk. “Right this way,” she says, leading me to a door at the far end of the room.

She fiddles with a key that she wears around her wrist and unlocks the door. Inside the walls are covered with shiny doors of all sizes. I imagine drawers full of money and jewels. I follow her to a small door. She inserts her key into the right hole and I insert mine into the left. We turn our keys at the same time and the door opens. “It’s all yours.” She turns and leaves.

I slide the drawer out and set it on the table behind me. My stomach flips as I open it, but it’s just a big white envelope. There’s no writing or any indication of what’s inside. I tear it open and slide out a brown folder. My eyes settle first on the blue and white emblem of a cupped hand with a sleeping baby in its palm and then on the number printed on its tab: 41079.

Adrenaline explodes through my body as I run out of the bank and speed over to Detective Walsh’s office. I rush past the receptionist and barge into his office without knocking. “I found it,” I pant, holding the file in the air. His receptionist is at my back.

Detective Walsh looks up startled and then shoots the young girl a fierce look.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “She ran right by me.”

“Can you excuse me for a moment?” he asks the middle-aged woman sitting across from him, who I hadn’t noticed until now.

The woman stares at me with wide eyes as Detective Walsh pulls me out into the hall. “You can’t barge in here like that.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve waited twenty-three years to find my daughter. I can’t wait another second.”

He grimaces. “All right.” His hand is firm on my arm as he turns me back toward the waiting room. “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll squeeze you in before my next appointment.”

“Thank you.” I’m too excited to sit down, so I slip outside to the payphone next to his office and call Delaney. I think of my personnel file in her desk drawer as I lie about being sick.

“Feel better,” she says before hanging up.

Part of me wonders if she bought my story, while another part of me doesn’t care about anything except finding Emily. I return to the waiting room and pace. The receptionist scowls at me.

A little while later, his office door opens, and the woman emerges with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “I’m sorry again,” he says with a low, stern voice, placing a hand on her shoulder. She sniffles and nods and looks at me like a lunatic on her way out.

“Jennifer, tell my nine-thirty I’ll be ready in a few minutes.” He waves me back, and the girl frowns as I rush past her.

“Now what’s this all about?” he says, ushering me into his office and closing the door.

“I found it. Emily’s adoption records.” I pass him the folder.

His eyebrow tilts. “How did you get this?”

“My mother recently passed away, and she left me a key to a safe deposit box. I found this inside.”

He opens the folder and flips through the papers. “Did you look at these?”

I glance over his shoulder and follow his finger down the page to a series of thick black lines.

“All the information I need has been smudged out.”

I grab the papers. It’s true. In my haste to get here, I didn’t look at them closely. But now I see that the names of Emily’s adoptive parents and the state where she was raised is covered in heavy black ink. I hold it up to the light, but I can’t see through the dark smudges. “Isn’t there anything in there you can use?”

“The only thing here is her Social Security number.”

“Is that enough?”

He strokes his chin. “It might be. I don’t know yet.”

My heart drops like a lead weight.

Detective Walsh glances at his watch, then back at me. “Look, I want to help you with this. Let me get me through the rest of my scheduled appointments, and then I’ll get right on this and see what I can find.”

I nod, trying to calm the waves of nausea battering around in my stomach.

“Of course, before I get started, I’m going to need your first payment.”

I feel around in my purse for my checkbook. “How much?”

“Five hundred.” His voice is as solid as a steel trap. “Cash.”

“But I don’t have—”

“There’s an ATM one block down. See Jennifer when you come back. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.” He opens the door and shows me out. A woman is sitting in the waiting room kneading her hands. She’s about my age, and something in her eyes makes me wonder if she’s searching too.

I walk the block to the ATM, but it rejects my request with an urgent beep. The screen flashes and tells me the amount I’ve requested exceeds my daily limit. I snap my card from its mouth, trudge back to my car and drive back to the bank.

Withdrawing the funds in person is no problem, and the teller tucks the bills into an envelope. I swallow my frustration and drive back to Detective Walsh’s office. Jennifer counts my money twice, snapping her gum and peeling each bill back slowly. I fight the urge to tap my foot to demonstrate my impatience. I’m at Detective Walsh’s mercy now, and there’s no sense making enemies with the front desk girl. She writes my receipt by hand, curling pretty letters across the paper as if I’m paying for a sweet sixteen party.

I check the phone the moment I get home and then remind myself that it will be at least a day or two before Detective Walsh looks into my case. I call Melody, who just put the kids down for a nap, and tell her everything. She tries to ease my nerves, but it’s no use. After we hang up, I pace the kitchen, hugging the phone to my chest, waiting for it to ring. But it doesn’t.

By the time Paul gets home, I’m a nervous wreck. He pours me a glass of wine and tells me about an old sewing factory he’s converting into condos. I rest my hand on his as he talks, thankful for the much needed distraction.