Empty Arms: A Novel (24 page)

“Now if I did that, how would I make sure you don’t end up like this again?”

Janice Unger’s house is a small Cape Cod overlooking Lake Erie. It’s such a tranquil place that it’s hard to imagine such a callous woman appreciating it.

I ring the doorbell and an elderly woman answers.

“What do you want? Are you selling something? Because if you are, I’m not interested.”

“No, I’m not selling anything. I’m here to see Janice Unger.”

“You’re looking at her.” She’s completely different from the thick-bodied woman I remember. Her broad shoulders have wilted forward, causing her to hunch. The strong arms that ripped Emily away from me sag where muscles once lived. Her dark hair is now white. The only thing the years haven’t changed is the coldness in her eyes. “So what do you want?”

“My name is Catharine. I was a patient of yours at Lowville General.”

Her eyes narrow. “When?”

“March 25, 1973.”

“What did you say your name is?”

“Catharine. Catharine White.”

She opens the door and waves me in. The family room is drab, and the house smells of stale smoke. Its stillness makes me wonder if she lives here alone. I follow her through a dusty dining room. The table is covered in boxes and obviously hasn’t been used in years. She leads me to a sunny all-season room off the back of the house. In the distance, children fly kites and boats cut across the lake. It’s a spectacular view, but she sits in a well-worn recliner facing away from it. She lights a cigarette and glowers at me. “I remember you.”

“You do?” I lean forward. Finally, someone who might know something that might be able to help me find out what happened to my daughter.

Cigarette smoke curls at her lip. “You’re Evelyn White’s girl.”

“Yes, I am. How did you know that?

“I went to nursing school with your mother. She called me when you … got in trouble.”

I never knew that. “Is that how I ended up in Lowville at The Home for Fallen Women?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s how I ended up in your care?”

She nods and a plume of smoke escapes from her lips.

“Then you must know what happened to my daughter.”

Her expression is vacant.

“Her file is missing from the Adoption Registry, and no one seems to know where it is. Do you?”

She shakes her head.

“Do you know anything about the people who adopted her or the name they gave her? Or how I might find her?”

She takes a long drag of her cigarette and turns to gaze out the window. In the distance, families picnic at the lake’s edge and children splash in the water. “Why do you ask me these questions?”

“Because I want to find my daughter, but I don’t have any information to go on. I just need something: a name, a Social Security number, anything.”

“Why did you come all this way to ask me? Wouldn’t it be easier to just ask your mother?”

“Why? Does she know something?”

She shrugs and inhales her cigarette, causing the ashes to glow.

“I did ask her but she won’t help me.”

“And why is that?”

In the distance, a mother dips her baby’s feet in the cold lake water. “Because she doesn’t want her in our life. She’s mortified by Emily’s existence and doesn’t want any reminder that I got pregnant when I was sixteen. It makes her feel like she wasn’t a good mother. She’s always been terrified of what the neighbors will think. She’d rather I just forget.”

“So why don’t you?”

“I can’t. I tried, but it’s impossible. I think about her every day. I need to know that she’s okay. I have to tell her she was never unwanted by me.”

“And you’re determined to search for your daughter despite your mother’s wishes?”

“I have no choice. I can’t move on with my life until I do this. Please help me.”

She stubs out her cigarette. “I won’t go against your mother’s wishes.”

“Well, thanks for nothing,” I mutter, standing and heading toward the door.

“But I will tell you one thing.”

I stop and glance back at her.

“She did the right thing.”

J
ANICE
U
NGER’S WORDS
torment me as I drive back to Lowville. What does Mom know about Emily? I pull off the thruway at the first rest stop and call her from a pay phone.

“Catharine? Where are you? It sounds like you’re a million miles away.”

I plug my other ear with my finger as a tractor trailer rumbles by. “I’m just outside of Buffalo.”

“Buffalo? What in God’s name are you doing there?”

“I just had a nice visit with one of your old nursing buddies,” I seethe. “Janice Unger.”

Silence fills the phone.

“She told me all about how you two knew each other from nursing school and how you contacted her when I got pregnant.”

“Catharine, why are you doing this?”

“Because I want to find my daughter and you won’t help me.”

“What makes you think I could help you?”

“Janice Unger seems to think you have information about Emily.”

“What exactly did she say?”

“It doesn’t matter what she said. Why don’t you tell me what you’re keeping from me?”

“I’m not keeping anything from you. She gave me a copy of the birth certificate and adoption papers before we left the hospital, but I destroyed them the moment we got home.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I wanted you to move on with your life. I wanted us all to move on with our lives. I just don’t understand why you can’t do that.”

“Because, Mom, this
is
my life! Emily is my life. She’s not some mistake I want to forget about. She’s my daughter and I have to find her.” I slam down the phone and get back in the car, feeling farther from Emily than ever before. My life feels empty and so does my heart. The darkness I experienced after losing her the first time is returning, and it’s seeping in through all of these failed attempts to find her.

W
HEN
I
CROSS INTO
Lowville four hours later, I decide to do something I haven’t done in years. I pull into the parking lot of the first church I see. I’ve never set foot inside Our Lady of Peace, and it’s the first time I’ve been inside a church since Daddy’s funeral. Paul wasn’t religious, which Mom disapproved of, but it suited me just fine. Once he asked me how we’d raise our children. I told him that if God blessed us with a child, I’d return to the church. But God didn’t hold up His end of the bargain, so neither did I.

But tonight, finding myself alone and without hope, the stone cathedral at the edge of town draws me in. The sanctuary is empty, but vigil candles flicker with the prayers of those before me. I deposit a dollar in the donation box and light a candle. “For Emily,” I whisper, “may you one day know how much I love you.” I sit in the very last pew, in the seat farthest from the stained glass likeness of Jesus. I fold my hands in my lap and search for the words, but they don’t come. I guess I forgot how to pray when I realized that my prayers go unanswered.

The last time I asked for God’s help I was sixteen and hell bent on getting Emily back. I stole my mother’s car and headed back to Lowville General, where I planned to sneak into the hospital nursery and steal her back. But I didn’t even make it to the state line before a state trooper that Daddy had sent stopped me and brought me home.

It’s me, God. Catharine. I know it’s been a while but I need your help. I’m still searching for her, and I’m not going to give up. I’m lost without her and I need …
What? What do I need? What could God possibly give me? A sign? Divine intervention? A Social Security number whispered in my ear? “This is stupid,” I mutter, standing and sliding out of the pew. I shouldn’t have come here. God’s not a detective. And even if He was, He wouldn’t help someone like me.

I hurry out of the sanctuary and pass through the atrium. My hands come to rest on the front door when a chorus of voices rises up from the church basement. “Hi, Kristin.” I tilt my ear toward what sounds like an AA meeting.

Feelings of abandonment can manifest in all sorts of detrimental ways: drug abuse, alcohol addiction.
Dr. Sullivan’s words echo in my mind. Could that be my daughter? I move toward the stairwell and strain to hear. A soft voice speaks, but I can’t make out the words. I follow the sound down the stairs to the church basement. All the rooms are dark except one. I tiptoe closer, careful not to make my presence known.

“I found out I was adopted when I was six years old.”

I freeze in my tracks.

“We were outside at recess when one of the boys asked me why I look different from my parents. I never realized that I did, so I didn’t know what to say. Another boy said it was because I was adopted. I didn’t know what that word meant and it scared me. I cried and told the teacher. She sent both boys to the principal’s office and told me to ask my mother about what the boys had said. When I got home that afternoon, I told my mom the whole story. First she cried, then she hugged me and apologized that I had to find out that way. Eventually, she told me everything. I was adopted when I was eight weeks old. I’m half-Chinese on my biological mother’s side. They don’t know anything about my biological father. I asked a lot of questions over the years, and my adoptive mom always did her best to answer, though I could tell it hurt her that my birth mom was on my mind so much. When I turned eighteen, I decided to search for my birth mom. My adoptive mom wasn’t thrilled with the idea, and she kept her distance. She never asked about my search or offered to help. The topic was pretty much off-limits, so I searched by myself. I sent an information request to the state, but they didn’t have consent to release any identifying information. I requested non-identifying information, but the paper I got back only told me that my birth mom was five feet two with black hair and dark brown eyes. I could’ve figured that out on my own.”

A few people chuckle.

“When my adoptive mom saw how much trouble I was having, she finally offered to help. She gave me my adoption papers, which had my birth mom’s name: Anmíng Xiu. Learning her name was like discovering an invisible truth about myself. I imagined that my birth mom was a poor, beautiful young woman who’d fallen in love, gotten pregnant, and wanted to keep her baby more than anything in the world. I fantasized that she gave me away only because she wanted a better life for me and that she thought of me every day, just like I thought of her.

“From that point on, I became obsessed with finding her. My adoption papers also showed that I was born in Queens. I didn’t know if she still lived there, but at least it was a starting point. I went to the library and found a phone book for the borough of Queens. There were thirteen Xius listed, but only one A. Xiu. I dialed the number, but I didn’t expect it to be her. But it was. She didn’t say anything when I told her that I was her daughter. I figured my call had caught her off guard and that she would need time to process what I was telling her. I asked her to meet me that Saturday for lunch. She said no at first, but she finally agreed. I spent the rest of the week trying to decide what to wear and writing down all the questions I had for her. I was dying to know if any of my interests or hobbies came from her. I’m a vegetarian, I run cross-country, and I love to sing. I was certain that all those interests had roots deep inside me.

“When Saturday morning came, I drove to Queens. The moment I walked into the diner, I spotted a beautiful Asian woman having a cup of tea. She looked exactly like I’d imagined her. I walked over to where she was sitting and asked if she was Anmíng. But she said no. I even asked her if she was sure, thinking maybe she had changed her mind about meeting me. But it wasn’t her. I sat in a booth by the door, examining every person who walked in, but none of them was my birth mom. Finally, I took another look around the restaurant, and that’s when I noticed a heavy-set woman with shiny black hair sitting by herself a couple of booths away. Her back was facing me, and she was drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette. I knew she couldn’t be my birth mom because she didn’t fit the image I’d created in my mind. Another ten minutes went by, and then the heavyset woman got up and paid her bill. When she passed by me, I figured I should at least ask if she was Anmíng. She said yes, and I was shocked and a little disappointed. I could tell by her weight and the fact that she smoked that she didn’t share my love of long-distance running.”

Murmurs rustle through the group.

“Nonetheless, I invited her to join me. When the waitress came to take our order, she ordered bacon and eggs. She wasn’t a vegetarian either. I asked her to tell me about herself, hoping to find one piece of common ground. She told me that her parents immigrated to America when she two years old. She never felt like she fit in, which was something I could relate to. She was nineteen when she got pregnant, and she didn’t even tell the father about me. They weren’t married, and she had no desire to get married or have children. She said she was glad that I had found her but admitted that she wouldn’t have searched for me. The more she spoke, the more my disappointment grew. She was nothing like the person I’d imagined, and we didn’t have anything in common. In a desperate attempt to find a connection, I asked her if she liked to sing. I figured that if we just had one little thing to build on, there might be hope for us to have some sort of meaningful relationship. But it turns out she’s tone deaf.