A Secret Identity (6 page)

“I’m afraid I don’t know anyone in the family with the first name Lehman.” She sounded truly sorry for her lack of information. Again I heard that slight emphasis on
first name
.

“Maybe you know someone where Lehman is the middle name?”

“No, dear. I’m sorry. I only know people with Lehman as the last name. There are lots of Lehmans in this area, you know.”

I sighed. The nice thing about Biemsderfer was that it was fairly uncommon, unlike Lehman. I was genuinely thankful for an unusual name simply because the process of elimination wouldn’t be so lengthy. “The man I’m trying to trace was born a long time ago. Lehman was born in 1918.”

“Nineteen-eighteen? Why that’s almost as old as me. I wish there was someone left around here who is as old as me. It gets lonely. Everybody keeps dying or going into one of those awful nursing homes. Retirement homes, they call them nowadays, but they’re just death traps, whatever their name. Everyone who goes there dies. I made the boys promise me never,
never
! I’ve been a widow for almost ten years, you know. Too long. And they made me move to a smaller house. But that’s okay because it wasn’t a retirement home. I always say I’m not homesick, I’m dog sick. They wouldn’t let me bring Bingo with me. We called him Bingo after that song the grandchildren liked to sing.” And she began to quaver, “B-I-N-G-O, and Bingo was his name-o.”

I stared at the list of Biemsderfers remaining uncalled, and wondered how to get away from this lonely, slightly fey woman without being rude. Then an idea struck.

“Say, Mrs. Biemsderfer, how many sons do you have?”

“Five.”

“And do they live locally?”

“Three do. And so do five grandsons.”

“Can you give me their names?”

“Alan, Gerhard, Marlin Junior, Link, Edward, Duane, Wesley, and Peter.”

I glanced down the list of names again. Alan, Edward, Gerhard, Peter, and Wesley were all there. Duane and Link were not. They were probably younger grandsons who still lived with their parents and didn’t have their own landlines.

“Thanks. You’ve saved me from making some phone calls, I think,” I said.

“You know,” she said, sounding suddenly very alert and authoritative. “The boys never had any interest in genealogy. They said it was boring. But that Alma is a different story. She’s close to obsessed. At least I tease her that she is.”

“Alma?”

“My daughter. She’s taken courses on genealogy, and she spends hours on that Internet looking for more information. ‘I got another leaf,’ she’ll say, whatever that means. She’s done all types of family studies, and she’s made this very complicated family tree. Goes way back to William Penn’s time, even back to Germany before that. That’s when the first settlers came to this area, you know, back in the early seventeen hundreds.”

“No, I didn’t know.” My mouth began watering for a view of that family tree. “Tell me more about Alma and her tree.”

But before the next breath was drawn and a sentence spoken, the clouds of mental fog rolled in again, blocking the sweet sun of sanity from Mrs. Biemsderfer. Even the sound of her voice became different, slow and tremulous, breathy.

“When Lizzie was a little girl—she was my favorite cousin—our families were good friends, and she and I used to play together a lot. We’d sneak away and play down by the river on the farm. That’s the Conestoga River, you know. We always got into trouble because the adults thought we would fall in and drown. But they didn’t tell us that was their reason. They always said, ‘You’ll get yourselves too muddy down there.’ I guess they didn’t want to scare us.”

Her voice was warm with reminiscence. “Once Lizzie did fall in, but I pulled her out. Then we had to take off her dress and wash it in the river so that she wouldn’t go back to the house with a muddy dress. We never thought about the fact that a soaking wet dress might give us away.” She laughed like a child might, high and giggly.

Feeling like Alice down the rabbit hole, I said desperately, “But you know of no Lehman Biemsderfer?”

“No, dear.”

“And no one in your family gave up a baby for adoption?”

“My grand-niece did about two years ago. I was so sad when she got pregnant, but kids today don’t seem to mind, do they? It’s not like it used to be, believe me. I didn’t even know that men and women did such things when I got married. I thought it was only animals. I’m a farm girl, you know. I didn’t know where babies came from, maybe kissing, I suppose. Nice girls never knew in my day.” She sighed. “But,” and I could hear a smile come into her voice, “Marlin taught me everything I needed to know. He was a very good teacher.”

I thought she and Marlin must have enjoyed their marriage quite a bit. Five sons and a daughter were some indication.

“Did you know he’s been dead almost ten years now? The boys are so good to me. They made me move, but they didn’t make me go to a retirement home. I don’t get homesick, I always say. I get dog sick. They wouldn’t let me bring him with me, you know. His name was Bingo, after that children’s song.”

I knew she was going to break into song again any second so I cut in desperately. “Mrs. Biemsderfer, how can I get in touch with Lizzie? Or Alma?”

“Lizzie lives in one of those retirement homes, poor thing,” she said.

“Where’s that?” I asked.

Mrs. Biemsderfer didn’t answer me. Instead she said, “Call Alma. She can help you. Sometimes my mind wanders, I think. But Alma can help.”

I scanned the phone book but I already knew there was no Alma Biemsderfer. I took a minute to mourn all the Biemsderfer women who were no longer known by this name and therefore impossible for me to find easily.

“Alma Stoltzfus,” Mrs. Marlin, Sr., said.

Stoltzfus. What a unique name. I flipped to the S’s and stared in horror at all the Stoltzfus names. Apparently it wasn’t so unique after all, at least not in Lancaster. “What’s her husband’s name?” I asked.

“Arthur—Art. They live in Camp Hill.”

“Camp Hill?”

“Yes. It’s near Harrisburg, just across the river a bit. That’s the Susquehanna, dear, not the Conestoga.”

“Do you have her phone number?”

“Of course,” she said. “It’s here somewhere.”

I heard her put the phone down and pictured her wandering about her house, looking for her address/phone book. When the wandering went on for several minutes, I realized that Mrs. Marlin wasn’t going to give me Alma’s number. She had, in fact, forgotten about me.

Just then the phone was picked up, and I thought for a brief flicker of time that I had misread the genteel woman. A quick click of the receiver as she hung her phone up disabused me of that idea. I smiled sadly but was thankful neither Mom nor Pop had gotten so mentally confused. The physical deterioration had been bad enough to watch. I couldn’t imagine witnessing a mental decline that took away the person you had loved for so many years.

I stared at the phone for a few minutes. Should I call Alma Stoltzfus, or was that name and its potential help just the imaginings of a confused mind? But the old lady had seemed very aware during that brief part of our conversation. I shrugged. Why not call? I had spent the morning talking to a bunch of strangers. Why not one more?

I dialed information and wrote down the number of an Arthur Stoltzfus in Camp Hill. I hoped the name wasn’t as common over there in Dauphin County as it was here in Lancaster.

In a short time I was connected with Alma Stoltzfus, nee Biemsderfer. Once again I explained what I was looking for.

“Lehman Biemsderfer?” she said. “Never heard of anyone named that. Lehman’s usually a last name.”

“Yes, so I understand.” I found I was gripping the phone again like it was my life line and I was a drowning person. I forced my hand to relax, and it actually did for about five seconds. “Your mother told me you had a family tree. I thought maybe it could give me some help. You know, all the branches of Biemsderfers.”

I held my breath. Was this where she told me she couldn’t exchange family information over the phone? After all, sensible, middle-aged women were usually cautious.

“You know,” she said warily, “I hate to give out private family information on the phone.”

I sighed. What a surprise. And I couldn’t blame her.

“After all,” she said, “how do I know who you are? How do I know you’re trustworthy? How do I know you aren’t trying to pull some scam?” There was no animosity in her voice, just a reasonable understanding that the world is full of con artists and nasty people.

“I sympathize with your concern,” I said. “I know I’m reputable, but how can I convince you?” I thought for a minute. Too bad I couldn’t tell her I was a Bentley of Bentley Marts, though come to think of it, why should she believe that? “You could contact my attorney,” I suggested.

“Mmm,” she said. “That’s a possibility. And who might that be?”

I gave her not only Todd’s name and number, but I fished Mr. Havens’ business card out of my purse and gave her that name too.

“A lawyer in both Pennsylvania and Maryland?” she said.

“I live in Maryland. I’m here seeking this information, and I needed to know Pennsylvania law about adoption and adoption searches.”

“This is an adoption thing?” Alma asked, her voice pricking with interest. “I didn’t realize that.” She was silent for a couple of beats. “Illegitimacy in 1918 was quite a stigma, especially in Lancaster County, steeped as it is in Amish and Mennonite culture.”

“I know. I’ve thought a lot about that and how desperate Pop’s mother must have been.”

“Anyone who was a mother back then would be long dead,” Alma said.

“Yes. Even if I knew her name, I couldn’t speak with her. And adoption papers are guarded like the gold at Fort Knox. Getting to them is next to impossible. Otherwise I wouldn’t be bothering you like this.”

There was a moment of silence during which I could almost hear Alma thinking.

“Look,” she finally said, “I’d like to help you if I can. I don’t know that our family is who you’re looking for, but who knows? Maybe we are. I’m coming to Lancaster next Thursday to get Mom and bring her home for a visit. Why don’t you and I meet then? I’ll check your references, and I’ll bring along the family tree and any other family documents I think might be pertinent.”

“And I’ll bring along Pop’s adoption certificate and the papers I have.”

We set noon as our meeting time and the Olive Garden by Park City Mall as our meeting place.

When I hung up, I was restless and excited.
Five days
. I had to wait five whole days. I started to pace. It seemed such a long time, but it looked like I might be on the verge of getting some excellent information. I shivered with anticipation. But five days! I could hardly stand it.

I looked around at the tan walls, the brown-plaid comforters with the orange accent stripes, the brown rug, and the cheap bureau with a portable TV bolted to its surface. I thought of the paper-thin towels hanging on the corroded rack in the dingy bathroom. They couldn’t begin to cope with my hair when it was wet. The motel’s saving grace was that it took pets. I smiled at Rainbow, who snored back. Her company made the skimpy towels passable—for the moment.

If I had to wait five days until my appointment with Alma, I didn’t want to wait in this room. I’d go nuts. In fact, I couldn’t stay in it a minute longer. I grabbed my purse and went outside into the humid June noon. The sun was high, the sky a misty-blue wash, and the highway bursting with traffic, mostly tourists if the variety of license plates was any indication.

I looked at all the cars, vans, and tour buses with disfavor, climbed into my car and joined the flow going west toward Lancaster City. I stopped in a little restaurant called T. Burk and Co. and read an inspirational romance by one of my competitors as I ate. I had to admit the book wasn’t half bad, but I also had to admit that I thought I did it better. Feeling somewhat smug, I returned to the Horse and Buggy.

I spent a relaxing afternoon at the pool in the front yard of the motel. Granted, in one way it was hard to relax under the scrutiny of all the traffic streaming by only a matter of feet from the fenced area in which I sat on a plastic recliner, but in another, the sheer number of cars made the people in them meaningless.

When I dragged myself back to my room, I was sleepy with sun.

“Just a quick minute,” I said to Rainbow as I laid down beside her. “Just a quick minute.”

I woke two hours later, rested and restless. I took a shower, pulled my still wet hair back in a tan scrunchie, threw on my new tan jeans and a beige knit top, and went looking for somewhere to eat dinner. This time I turned east and found the Bird-in-Hand Restaurant. The parking lot was full—a good sign. I went in and found a lobby crammed with people waiting for tables. Since I had nothing better to do than wait, I decided I might as well give my name and take a seat. I could people-watch or read the next book on my list. Like many writers I knew, I never went anywhere without a book. When I packed for vacation, I packed my books first and my clothes second. The mere thought of being caught without something to read made me hyperventilate. I patted my purse and the book tucked inside.

On my way to the hostess to put my name on the waiting list, I noticed a circular rack of books and stopped dead in my tracks. Staring at me were several copies of
As the Deer
. I approached the rack, heart pounding in delight. My book! Here in the lobby of a restaurant! For anybody to buy! I glanced at the top of the rack and read
Choice Books
. I looked at the other titles and realized every book was from one Christian publishing house or another. Some titles were fiction, some nonfiction, some were by friends, some by people I’d never heard of. As I circled the rack, I came to
So My Soul
.

Yes!
I thought, mentally waving my fists triumphantly in the air and doing a Rocky Balboa trot around the lobby. I hated it when I found
As the Deer
without
So My Soul
since they were written to be a pair.
As the Deer
followed the heroine, one Marci Lerner, to the point of her conversion to Jesus Christ.
So My Soul
examined the ramifications of this decision on her life and the lives of the others she was involved with. Through both books I developed her romance with Scott Henderson.