Empty Arms: A Novel (22 page)

“Of course it is, but I just don’t know what else to do.”

“You’ve got to get creative. Think about the places you could find information about Emily.”

“I already told you, her file is missing from the Adoption Registry, and my mom refuses to help me.”

“Have you tried searching old newspapers for her birth announcement?”

“No.”

“Have you tracked down the doctor who delivered her or the agency that handled her adoption?”

“I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“Cate, if you really want to find Emily, you have to act like a detective and follow every possible lead.”

Melody’s right, so the next day, during my lunch hour, I huddle next to the payphone in the hospital lobby and dial the number for the adoption agency we work with.

“Good afternoon, Children’s Hope,” a pleasant voice answers.

“Yes, hi. I’m calling from Lowville General to inquire about an adoption record.”

“One moment, please. I’ll transfer you to records.”

I tap my fingers nervously. Even if this works, I could lose my job.

“Records,” a woman answers, and immediately I can sense her dour mood.

“Hi, there.” I say in the friendliest voice I can manage, hoping that somehow her own unhappiness won’t impede my search. “I’m calling from Lowville General to inquire about a case.”

“Date?”

“March 25, 1973.”

“Don’t have it.”

“How do you know? You didn’t even look.”

An indignant huff fills my ear. “I don’t have to look. We didn’t start working with Lowville General until 1980.”

“I see. Do you happen to know the name of the agency we worked with before you?”

“We don’t have that information. But shouldn’t you know that?”

I laugh nervously. “Probably. But I’m new here.”

“What did you say your name was?”

I hang up and back away from the phone as if she might reach through it and grab me. I scurry back up to the fifth floor and smile nervously when I pass Delaney on my way to the nursery. She would know the name of the adoption agency that the hospital worked with back in 1973, but if I ask her she’ll want to know why I would need that information. I can’t very well tell her that I was a patient here when I was sixteen and that my daughter slept in the very nursery where I now work. She never would’ve hired me if she knew all that, and telling her now would only infuriate her and probably get me fired. The only other person who would know is Harper. But I can’t exactly ask him either.

The peacefulness of the nursery does little to quiet my mind. Little Ryan Thomas Murdoch is fussing, so I pick him up and rock him back to sleep. But my mind isn’t on the infant I’m holding, it’s on the one I held twenty-three years ago.

“C
AN YOU DO ME A FAVOR?”
I ask Melody, when I call her after work to tell her about my conversation with Children’s Hope. Little voices echo in the background, and it sounds like they’re banging on pots and pans. She’s probably in the middle of fixing dinner, and suddenly I feel selfish for burdening her with my needs too.

“What’s the favor?” Her voice is thin with exhaustion, which only makes me feel worse.

“Can you call the Adoption Registry at Lowville General tomorrow and ask for the name of the agency that handled the adoptions back in 1973? I hate to ask, but Harper won’t recognize your voice.”

“It’s not a problem. I’ll do it.”

“Are you all right, Mel? You sound tired.”

She sighs and lowers her voice so the children don’t hear. “It’s just … no one tells you how hard this is.” The banging fades a little, and I assume she’s stepped out of the room. “As much as it kills me to even think this, I’ve started wondering if giving up Teddy really was for the best.”

“You’re just exhausted. You don’t mean that.”

“Cate, I can barely handle these kids at my age. A baby at sixteen would’ve been impossible.”

“But you have four kids, not just one. That would be difficult for anyone.”

Crying erupts in the background. “What happened?” she yells, and I hear her footsteps running across the floor. “Oh, geez. Cate, I gotta go. I’ll make the call first thing tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I say, but she’s already gone. I hang up the phone, but I can’t get her words out of my mind.

The next day, over my lunch hour, I return to the payphone in the lobby and call Melody.

“I’m just heading out the door with the kids,” she says. “So I can’t talk. But I called the Registry this morning and found out the name of the adoption agency that Lowville General used back in the seventies.”

“Come on, Mommy,” Timmy whines.

“Be right there,” she calls to him. “It’s called Christian Cradle.”

“Melody, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Good luck,” she says and hangs up.

I reach for the phone book and flip through the yellow pages, but there’s no listing for Christian Cradle. I try the white pages, but it’s not there either. Maybe it’s unlisted? But why would a business not list its number?

I call information and ask the operator. I have to repeat the name twice, but finally she finds the number and connects me. But the line doesn’t ring. Instead, a recording tells me that the number is out of service. I try the number again, but the same message plays in my ear. Annoyed, I hang up and call the first adoption agency I find.

A young woman answers. “Adoption Advocates of New York, how may I help you?”

“Hi, I’m hoping you can help me out. I’m trying to obtain a file from Christian Cradle, but I can’t get through to them. Do you happen to have a number for them?”

“Christian Cradle?” She repeats. “I’ve never even heard of them.”

Melody said Christian Cradle, didn’t she?

“Hang on a moment. Let me ask my supervisor.” She sets the phone down, and I hear voices in the background. Then a man gets on the line. “Ma’am, you’re looking for Christian Cradle?”

“Yes. Do you know how I can get in touch with them?”

“As far as I know, they haven’t been in business since the late seventies.”

Defeat weighs on me. “Thanks anyway.”

Since the adoption agency is a dead end, I decide to try a different route. On Saturday morning, I go down to the library and ask the librarian to see
The Lowville Journal
from 1973. She shows me to a private viewing station and loads a reel of microfiche. I fast forward to March and scour the pages, looking for anything about The Home for Fallen Women, babies, or adoptions. Nothing. I scan the birth announcements on March 25, but the only one listed is a son who was born to Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey Warren. On March 24, a daughter was born to Mr. and Mrs. David Martin. And on March 26, twin girls were born to Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Slater. Emily’s birth hadn’t even been worth recording.

I scan every issue through the end of 1973, but the only thing that catches my attention is an obituary for Lowville General’s Chief of Surgery, Dr. Vincent Sullivan. My eyes travel to the last line
. He is survived by his son, Dr. George
Sullivan
. The name rings a bell. He was the obstetrician who delivered Emily.

I make my way over to the reference shelf, locate a telephone book, and flip through the pages until I find a listing for Dr. George Sullivan on Spruce Street. I jot down the address and make a beeline for the front door.

The warm May air fills me with optimism as I cut across town, following Main Street until the shops give way to small homes, then medium-sized homes, and eventually small estates. I pull into the regal old neighborhood and turn onto Spruce Street, scanning the house numbers for Dr. Sullivan’s. I stop in front of a sprawling stone home tucked beneath towering sycamores and pull into the driveway. Lilies and cherry blossoms line the front walk, and I breathe in their sweet scent as I make my way to the front door.

The door is open, and through the screen I see a Persian rug covering cherry floors and a minimal amount of furniture. I ring the bell and step back when I hear footsteps. A woman, who looks only slightly older than me, appears. She must be his daughter. “Can I help you with something?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I was hoping to see Dr. Sullivan.”

“Oh dear. I’m afraid you’re about six months too late.”

The high I’d been feeling on the drive over disappears. “He passed away?”

Her face fills with alarm. “No, no! They moved. He and his wife moved into an assisted living community. We bought the house from them about six months ago.”

“Oh.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Do you happen to have his new address?”

She taps her chin. “I might. Let me check.” She disappears down the hallway, leaving me pacing on the front porch. There’s an assisted living community a mile up the road from the hospital. I bet that’s where they moved. If I can find the man who delivered my baby, maybe he’ll know something that can help me find Emily.

When she returns with a piece of paper in her hand, a small flame of hope ignites inside me. “Here you are.”

I take the paper and my hope is snuffed out once again. “They’re in Boca Raton?”

“Lucky ducks. I guess they got tired of our New York winters.”

W
HEN
I
GET HOME
, I dial Dr. Sullivan’s number. I was hoping to see him in person to help him remember me, but a phone call will have to do.

A weathered voice answers.

“Is this Dr. Sullivan?”

“Hello?” he asks again, louder. The man on the other end must be in his late seventies or early eighties by now, and he probably wears a hearing aide.

“Dr. Sullivan?” I shout.

“Yes? Who’s speaking?”

“My name is Catharine White.” I wait, hoping my maiden name will ring a bell. “I was a patient of yours back in 1973.”

“A patient?”

“Yes. You delivered my daughter.”

“How nice.”

It’s not exactly the word I’d choose to describe the experience, but I don’t have the energy to set the record straight. “Dr. Sullivan, I’m trying to find my daughter. I need your help.”

“Did you give her up for adoption?”

I resist the urge to tell him that she was pulled from my arms by his nurses and aides. “Yes. And now I want to find her. I was wondering if you have any information about the people who adopted her?”

“Dear, that information would be at the Adoption Registry in Lowville. Did you try petitioning the courts to get access to her file?”

“That’s the problem. Her file is missing. I was wondering if you might have it?”

“Me? Goodness no. All of my patient files stayed at the hospital.”

“Do you have any idea where it could be?”

“Have you asked the clerks to look for it?”

I think of Harper. “They don’t know where it is either.”

“My word, that’s quite a dilemma. I wish I could be of help, but I don’t know anything about your file.”

I frown. “So I guess you probably don’t remember me? I came to you when I was sixteen. I had long, wavy brown hair and green eyes.”

“Ms. White, I saw hundreds of unwed mothers over the years. It’s impossible for me to remember them all.”

“What about my daughter? I called her Emily. She had auburn hair and beautiful blue eyes.” My voice is shaking.

“I’m sorry, dear. I have no memory of you or your daughter.”