Kiss Me Awake (9 page)

Auggie popped the rest of an egg roll in his mouth and cleared away the trash then tossed her a pre-wrapped fortune cookie. “Fresh out of the oven.”

She tore into the plastic wrap. Without breaking the crisp golden cookie, she slid the edge of the fortune out with the tips of her fingernails and held the faint red print up to the light. “Charm is deceitful, and beauty is passing, but a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised.”

“Where did you get this? From a Chinese restaurant or an evangelist?”

“Both. The owner is a Christian man.” He chucked her chin. “If nothing else, they’re wise words. Now, get Lance off your brain and get back to work.”

Nettled by the self-professed heathen defining Scripture as “wise words,” she pinched the fortune from her cookie into a tiny ball and flicked it into the wastebasket. Was he crossing over?

Wise words, truth, or mere babble, they had a mild impact. But she learned to shut them out before, and she would do it again.

J
aida sat back and watched the fax machine kick out page after page of her adoption history, and now the final sheet inched its way to the top of the tray.   

    
When she reached Barbara Ellenburg and explained the purpose of her call, the woman was more than accommodating. The only thing she required of Jaida was proof of her identity. But the question of legality swirled in the back of her mind. Was the move lawful without going through the courts? She kept the concern to herself, afraid this gift she’d been handed would be snatched away from her.

    
The hum of the machine went quiet, and she collected the stack of papers from the tray. She carried them to the kitchen table then settled into the padded chair, every beat of her heart pronounced.

    
There were eight pages including the cover page. Pen and highlighter in hand, she uncapped them both and looked over the first document. It was the Court Report of Adoption.

    
She skimmed over the legalese and focused on the portions that mattered. No birth name was given. Her date of birth had been listed, but was it the actual date she was born, or just an educated guess?

Based on the story she’d been told, the date recorded had to be within a day of her birth. Other than her gender, most of the fields in Part One of the form were either listed as unknown or left blank: place of birth, birth parents’ names, attending physician. Had there even been one? 

Jaida slipped the page from the top of the pile and set it face down on the table then started on the next document. It was a legal form that terminated parental rights. According to this, voluntary consent had been given. But how could that be? Unless… Her gaze raced down the page. If consent had been given, then her birth mother’s name would have been documented at the time of the adoption. Legally it had to be.

She picked up the next page and read the header: Affidavit for Termination. This should be it. She made quick work of skimming over the document then homed in on the name typed in the box. She slammed the paper down on the table. “How could they do this?” she yelled at the ceiling. Jane Doe. They had her listed as Jane Doe.

No name, but they did manage to include “Jane’s” birth date. She was seventeen years old
,
a minor when she gave birth.

She read the instructional paragraph above the empty fields. As a minor, the parents’ names and address were required, but the indicated spaces w
ere left blank. Convenient. But for whom?

What kind of sham adoption was this? How could a judge approve this? Nothing made any sense. And why would her mother come back after dumping her in the park? Why step forward at all?

The rest of the fax was her medical history compiled shortly after she’d been found, and some photocopies of handwritten notes. She highlighted the name of the hospital and the physician who examined her, wondering if the hospital and the medical group involved had more detailed records than this.

The jotted notes were Mark Vickery’s work product. It surprised her that Ms. Ellenburg included them. Jaida read through the scrawled drafts. Doubling back over the second paragraph, her breath caught. She
had
read that right. Laurel Gordon, Spencer’s mother, was present throughout the adoption process.

Eva was thirty-five and single when she adopted her. A longtime friend of Laurel’s, she was visiting at the Gordon home the day Spencer found her. Still, she had no idea how involved Laurel had been.

How much did she know? She pushed up from the chair, slipped her shoes on, and reached for her car keys. She would just have to find out.

                                 *

Fueled by sentiment, Jaida sat in the idling car and flipped through the CD case. What she was searching for was her Achilles heel, her kryptonite, but right now she was desperate for the poison.  

She slid the disc out of the case and fed “That’s Amore” into the slot, giving herself permission to reminisce. She put the car in reverse and backed out, squinting as she passed from the darkness of the garage into the harsh sunlight, her fingers scrabbling for the sunglasses in the console.

Across the alley, Marilyn Carter wrestled a heavy-duty trash bag into the plastic bin, the point of her red scarf flapping over her short gray hair. She slapped the lid on the can then turned and waved Jaida down, signaling for her to stop. Jaida hit the brakes and lowered the window.

Marilyn leaned close. “Do you have someone staying with you?” She rolled a mint over her tongue and tucked it inside her cheek. “A man in his mid to late forties? Looks like he wears a rug?”

Jaida frowned and shook her head. “No. Why?” 

“Then you better make sure your house is locked up tight. I saw a man snooping around your back door yesterday. He even jiggled the handle. I would have called the cops, but I wasn’t sure if he was a friend or maybe you had a relative who was locked out.” 

“I’m expecting a plumber,” she said. But they were supposed to call first.

Marilyn stepped away from the car and moved in the direction of her house. “Maybe that’s all he was about, but you better watch yourself. Especially since you live alone.”   

“Will do.” Jaida rolled up the window, the outside heat already encroaching on the cooled interior. Whoever Marilyn saw may have been harmless—a peddler or the plumber—but her warning resonated, and she would take heed.      

She turned up the volume on the stereo and pulled onto the street. The warble that was unique to Dean Martin’s vocal cords came out sharp and clear. If Dean was still alive, would he have minded that she borrowed his last name? Spencer had. It wasn’t her choice in replacements that bothered him, but rather her choice to change it at all.

“My One and Only Love” was already half played out. She tried to recall the lyrics about the April breeze, but they escaped her until the line repeated and she crooned them in a duet with Dean.

Spencer had made it her song, their song. Her lower lip trembled and she bit down hard, trading the emotional pain for the physical. 

Her participation in the vocals had long since ended, and she gave Dean the privilege of serenading her with one more verse before she turned off the music, turning off the past.

Jaida parked in the lot of the nursing care facility then craned her neck for a quick look in the rearview mirror. She dabbed at the corner of her eyes, then sat back in the seat long enough to chase away the sorrow her nostalgia had conjured up.

She didn’t want Laurel to see her like this. She took a few calming breaths and practiced smiling as if it mattered. Happy or sad, her mood would go unnoticed. And if today turned out to be one of Laurel’s bad days, she wouldn’t notice her at all.

With a manila envelope tucked under her arm, Jaida walked past the main desk. On the other side of the chest-high blue laminate counter, a nurse and two aides conversed. The tall one in print scrubs waved at her as she passed.

Jaida nodded back, her mouth only lifting slightly with a smile then headed toward Laurel’s room. She exhaled a nervous breath then drew in another, inhaling the fresh pine scent. The maintenance crew kept this place near to immaculate. And the staff was exceptional. They treated the residents like family. 

This facility was a cut above the home her Grandpa Payne spent his final days in, but then social security didn’t cover much. Spencer had researched the corporation that owned this place and interviewed the director thoroughly before he signed on the dotted line. He always provided the best for those he loved.

Jaida turned the corner at the connecting hallway and clutched the envelope tighter to her chest. She would show this to Laurel. She had to ask. She’d been there. Why had she never said anything? If the memory was still stored in her mind, if this was a good day and she could process the question, and if she could just form the name on her lips…

She laughed at herself.
Look at me. I’m a fool, a desperate one.
Did she honestly expect to be pointed in the right direction by a woman who could barely communicate? A woman whose
lucidity wavered from one minute to the next? But with her case against Gale falling apart, what alternative did she have?

“Well, look who’s here, Roger. It’s Miss Martin.” Jaida turned. Mary, one of the full-time aides was gaining on her with a wheelchair.

“Where are you off to?” Jaida asked.

“Roger just finished rehab for the day,” she said. Mary’s passenger beamed up at Jaida, his wide smile yellowed with age and nicotine. 

“He is such a flirt.” Mary laughed then wheeled the chair around the corner.

Jaida stepped inside the open door to her left. Bright with sunlight and buttercup colored walls, Laurel’s room held warmth. She was seated quietly in the center of the bed with her back to the door. She didn’t move, didn’t turn from the window. The hummingbirds hovering over the feeder had her spellbound.

“Good morning.” The words came out raspy, and Jaida cleared the thickness from her throat.

Laurel shifted and then pivoted her head on a delicate neck. She raised her chin to get a better view of Jaida, but her glassy gaze went straight through her as if she wasn’t even there.

It would be one of
those
days. The visits were getting harder. It was a cruel twist of nature to watch someone you cared for deteriorate until there was nothing familiar but the shell.

She was told this was to be expected. According to the medical world, any improvement at this point was impossible. So why did she always come expecting more?

On the upside, Laurel’s quarters were cheery. There was a twin bed, a whitewashed nightstand and matching dresser with a beveled mirror mounted on top. Like the room, the attached bathroom was private.

Jaida sank down on the bed beside Laurel and opened the crumpled envelope she brought. She slid her hand inside and for reasons she couldn’t explain, bypassed the newsprint, her purpose for coming today, and pulled out a frame with tiny orange stones encircling the perimeter.

It was a color print of the two of them standing arm in arm in Laurel’s yard. Brilliant yellow flowers blooming on the sweet acacia tree dominated the background. She held it out for Laurel to see. “I framed this for you. It’s a picture of the two of us.” 

It was one of the last pictures of Laurel before she’d been disabled by the stroke. Jaida watched her face, looked into her eyes. Was any of it familiar?

Laurel’s jaw worked up and down, her larynx straining but turning out only a grunt. Her eyes flicked up at Jaida then dropped again to the frame.

Again her jaw worked. “J-J-aida.”

She said her name
.
The words were pinched and garbled, but she knew who she was. 

Jaida lifted Laurel’s hand and pressed it to her cheek joy swelling inside of her. “Yes, it’s me. It’s Jaida.”

Laurel jerked her hand away and tucked it close to her side. Like a pricked balloon her joy deflated. It was a reaction, not a rejection, she told herself.

The bed creaked when Jaida stood. She set the picture on the dresser, tilting it enough so Laurel could see it. The photographs arranged on the wall were different than when she was here last. Spencer must have changed them up when they painted.

The grin on his face in one of the pictures sparked something inside of her. She touched the tip of her finger to his lips. A smile touched her own then quickly slipped away when she considered the state of his humor the last time she saw him. But could she blame him? 

The door swung open behind her, and she turned. For one insane moment, she expected to see him standing in the doorway instead of the chunky blonde aide.

“Sorry to interrupt but it’s time for lunch.”

“Thanks. I’ll bring her down,” Jaida said. She picked up Laurel’s sweater folded at the foot of the bed and draped it over her shoulders.

“All righty.” The aide ducked out and closed the door.

Jaida glanced up
once more at the picture of Spencer thinking how odd it was that she’d never run into him here.