Chosen for Death (22 page)

I didn't know what to say. But it was more a monologue than a conversation, so I just sat and waited for her to finish. At least I knew where she stood—one hundred percent in my mother's camp.

"That," she said, "is why we have a policy of not releasing any identifying information. What did your sister want to know?"

"Anything you could tell us about her mother and father. Their ages, where they came from, religion, ethnic background, were they married, are there other siblings, is there any history of health problems, who her parents were. I know you're familiar with this kind of request, Ms. Pappas. Carrie wants to know what all adoptees want to know—who she is." I imagined some of the people from this morning's meeting sitting here in my place, in this unwelcoming office with this hard, opinionated woman. No wonder they needed support groups. No wonder they were angry. Adults still required to get their parents' permission to find out who they were, forced to listen to lectures about how indecent their desire to search was.

"In my opinion," Ms. Pappas said, "it is a mistake to tell adoptees anything. It only whets their appetites for more, and leads them along the road to tragedy, but our board has decided we can share non-identifying information without violating the privacy of the birth parents or the adoptive parents. I'll see if I have the file." She crossed to a bank of filing cabinets, pulled a key from her pocket, and unlocked one. She jerked open a drawer, thumbed through the index tabs, and hauled out a file. She slammed the door shut and came back to the desk. Before she opened the file, she picked up the photo again, studied it, and looked at me. She seemed angry. Well, she'd told me she didn't approve of this, hadn't she? "I hope you have a pen," she said, "and paper? I'm only going through this once. I should have left half an hour ago. I only stayed to accommodate you."

She opened the file.

I pulled out my notebook. "All set."

"Your sister Carolyn was born at Mercy Hospital on June 18, 1969. Her mother was white, eighteen, and a high school graduate. She was not Catholic, as most of our mothers are, but Protestant. She came from a small town. Her father, that is, the birth mother's father, was a businessman. Her mother was a housewife. The birth mother's name was Elizabeth. She was called Betsy. She was unmarried at the time of the birth. She stayed here at Serenity House for five months. She had no visitors during her stay, and received no mail. Her labor was long and difficult, and the baby weighed less than five pounds. The birth mother was extremely depressed during the pregnancy, and once attempted suicide."

She stopped reading and glared at me. "The mother came from Maine. There is no information in this file about the father, which is a little unusual, except where there was rape or incest. There is no indication either of those was the case here. And that is all." She closed the file firmly. "Perhaps now you will follow the advice your search group has given you, and see if you can find the hospital records. They won't help, even if you can find them. All our mothers used false names to protect their privacy. Which is how it should be."

She stood up and came around the desk. "I won't wish you luck, because I don't want you to have it. I've only complied with the rules of our board. Go home and tell your sister to give up and get on with her life, and leave her birth mother's privacy undisturbed." She handed me back the photo. "You can also tell her I remember talking to her when she came in person, and that no, you didn't learn anything new." She was my height, half again as heavy, and smelled faintly of mothballs.

I put the photo away in my purse. Carrie must have wanted to strangle this woman. I could imagine how awful it was to know the file contained all the information she needed, and to have a few random facts uncharitably doled out by this bitter old witch. Unsocial worker would be a more appropriate title. I paused at the door. "Thank you for your time," I said. "Unfortunately, I can't pass your advice along. Carrie is dead." Her nostrils were twitching violently as I shut the door.

The girl at the desk was gone, and there was no one on the steps when I went out. It was after five; perhaps they were all at supper. I hoped the rest of the institution didn't treat these little mothers with the same bitter charity Ms. Pappas handed out. I felt begrimed with a thick layer of her condemnation and scorn. The cheerful red Saab sitting at the curb seemed like a refuge. I climbed in, locked the doors, and turned the music up loud. Don Henley promised I'd spent my last worthless evening. A lot he knew.

I'd skipped breakfast and lunch, nothing new, and I was hungry enough to eat a horse, or the next pedestrian who crossed my path. Luckily, before I saw a likely pedestrian I saw a shiny, fifties-style diner, replete with chrome and neon lights and a few vintage cars out front. Inside, a perky waitress with a poodle skirt and a ponytail told me to sit anywhere I wanted. I slid onto the vinyl bench in a corner booth. There was a little chrome jukebox at each table. I ordered a burger deluxe, fries, a chocolate milkshake, and fed the box a quarter to play "Mr. Blue" and "Blue Moon." The place was pleasant, but I was still feeling blue.

Right now my world was a wallow of murder, violence, and sad women with unwanted babies. Poor Carrie. Poor me. Chocolate is supposed to contain chemicals which elevate moods, and right now mine needed elevating. I listened to the music and wondered if I'd learned anything helpful. I pulled Carrie's notes out of my briefcase and spread them on the table. No wonder she'd crossed off Serenity House. I didn't know enough to know whether I'd learned anything useful but the book said write down everything. Any random fact might be important—a name, a date, a place. If this was all I ended up with, what could I do? Erect a huge billboard in Kittery that said, "If your name is Betsy, you once attempted suicide, and you had a baby girl at Mercy Hospital on June 18, 1969, please call me"? No. I had to get more.

After Serenity House, Carrie had written
Mercy Hospital
and her birth date. Then just a name, Agnes Deignan, and a telephone number. I didn't want to call the number until I had some idea who Agnes Deignan was. It looked like my next step was Mercy Hospital. I wondered if there was anyone in the records department who might be willing to talk to me on a Saturday night.

I finished eating and asked for my check. It was ridiculously small. I left a big tip for the girl in the poodle skirt and went out to the car. So far, the chocolate was having no effect. I still felt like kicking kittens and babies. I slammed the door with a big, satisfying thunk and sat glaring at the windshield, wondering if I should look for a pay phone. Then I remembered. This was a luxury car. I had a phone right beside me.

I called Mercy Hospital, and asked for the records department. The first person I spoke to didn't even understand what I was talking about. I got her to transfer me to someone else, a woman with such a bad cold she sounded like she should have been hospitalized herself. I asked her if Mercy Hospital still had its records from 1969. She said, "What?" I repeated my question and she repeated her "What?" four times before she said, "I'm sorry. This cold's gotten into my ears and I can't hear a thing you're saying. I'd better transfer you to someone else."

She transferred me to a man with a heavy Boston accent who listened to my question, asked me a few clarifying questions about what I was seeking, and then, just when I'd gotten my hopes up that I might learn something, said, "Sorry, lady, I don't know."

I was getting impatient. Good thing it was a rented car. If it was my own, I might have broken something in exasperation. "Well, sir," I said, "you're the third person I've spoken to who doesn't know. Is there anyone I can speak to who might know?"

"Might know what?" he said.

"Might know if the hospital still has records from 1969," I said, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice.

"Oh well," he said, "you probably oughta speak to someone in the records department."

"I thought you were in the records department."

"Don't know why you'd think that," he said, "I'm just here at the information desk. You shoulda said you wanted records. Hold on. I'll transfer you."

I waited patiently through a series of clicks and silences and ended up listening to a dial tone. I pressed redial and got a bored-sounding voice saying "Mercy Hospital?"

"Records department, please."

"Hold on, please. I'll transfer you." This time the series of clicks and beeps connected me to an answering machine which informed me the department was open Monday through Friday from ten to four and asked me to call back then. I hung up and tried again.

This time I told the bored voice that I needed some information from records right away, and instead of getting the recording I got a real human voice. It wasn't any more helpful than the recording. I persisted, got shuffled around to about seven different people, none of whom knew anything, and finally gave up, sure of only one thing—I never wanted to be a patient at Mercy Hospital. The only useful information I'd obtained was that in the morning Mr. Coffin would be working in records, and he knew everything. I decided to pay Mr. Coffin a visit the next day. It's hard to shuffle someone around or hang up on them when they're standing right in front of you. I started the car and went home to assemble my props.

Chapter 18

I followed Ms. Pappas's advice and wrote a simple letter from Carrie authorizing people to assist me in my search, tracing her signature at the bottom. I planned to tell people, if necessary, that my sister was sick and we needed her parents' medical histories. After consulting my medical dictionary, I decided that if I was pressed about the nature of her illness I would say that Carrie was pregnant and being tested for diabetes, and I was trying to locate the birth parents to see if there was a family history of diabetes. Thus armed, I showered and dressed carefully for my assault on the unknown Mr. Coffin.

Usually I dress to minimize my figure and subdue my wild hair, but there are times, as Suzanne recognized when she rescued me from the hospital, when a genteel yet sexy approach can be very effective. So today I wore a fitted jersey dress in soft sea green with a demure V-neck, a wide belt, green suede pumps with modest heels, and a simple gold necklace. I left my hair loose, wore a tweedy perfume and gold wedding band earrings. What little bruising was left on my face I covered with makeup. I hate makeup but I could see that at times like this it had its uses. It was cold, so I wore my sexy green leather trench coat and carried a black leather briefcase. I creaked like a saddle when I walked.

Mercy Hospital was a hodgepodge of new and old buildings, perched on a mound of high ground at the edge of the city. I left my car in the garage and followed the signs into the main building. I told the woman at the information desk I was there to see Mr. Coffin and asked directions to the records department. "Down the hall, take your second right, and then take the elevator to the third floor and follow the signs," she said. She didn't seem to find it odd that I was there on a Sunday.

I half expected, after the runaround I'd gotten on the phone, that her directions would lead me to some totally random place like the nutrition department or nuclear medicine, but when I exited the elevator on the third floor, a sign said: Records Department. An arrow pointing left said: Office and Inquiries, one pointing right said: Authorized Personnel Only. I went left. Facing the hall was a glass window with three openings. The sign said: Inquiries. I looked through the glass. There was no one interested in answering my inquiry. At the far end of the room, three women were smoking and drinking coffee. I got a business card out of my wallet and knocked on the glass. They stared at me for a while, and finally one woman came over. "We're closed, honey," she said. "Open Monday through Friday, ten to four." She started walking away.

"I'm looking for Mr. Coffin," I said. "Is he here?"

"Down the other way, past the elevators," she said.

I walked past the Authorized Personnel Only sign until I came to a reception desk. A pert little redhead with masses of freckles was reading
People
magazine. She grinned at me. "Authorized personnel only," she said.

I handed her my card. "I'm here to see Mr. Coffin," I said.

She snapped her gum and studied the card. It took her quite a while to read it, even though all it said was "EDGE," which is the name of our consulting group, and Theadora Kozak, with my phone number. "He expecting you? He didn't say anything."

I stepped closer to the desk and leaned forward so that I towered over her. "I don't think so," I said, "but it's very important that I see him."