Identity Issues (4 page)

When Jon and I had received the Botswana letter and the Bredel’s phone calls, I’d dealt with it. The puzzle arrived in bits and pieces. Manageable bits. Suddenly, the pieces began to fit into place, but instead of looking complete, they remained mysterious and even a bit alarming.

I decided to take charge. I’d make things happen. Just a hunch, but in the midst of a mound of jumbled clues my legs carried me, my curious nature telling me to move forward. Dread and exhilaration filled me as a mental neon sign flashed…Danger Ahead.

I reached the main office without interruption. A few parents stood at the counter, asking questions and keeping the secretaries busy. Our records room occupied an out of the way corner, perfect since I didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention. I could slip in and out without notice.

I found Emilio’s file and removed the birth certificate. I didn’t want to get caught with it for a host of reasons. My colleagues and bosses trusted me. Emilio was not my student, so I couldn’t explain having the document in my possession. It contained confidential information. I simply hacked out a quick duplicate at the copy machine, tucked it inside my suit jacket, slipped the original back into the appropriate manila file in the records room, and walked away.

My mantra became,
don’t get caught!
 I high–tailed it back to the gym.

Once I returned to my little corner table, I pulled out the document and studied it. Sure enough, Rosita Vieira Stitsill was Emilio’s mother. Emilio Vieira, born in Mexico to a single, twenty–five year old woman, no father listed. Rosita looked much older than her thirty–seven years.

As the eight o’clock hour approached, I faced the fact that I needed to get home, pick up the kids, and tell the rest of my story to Jack and Diane another day. Duty calls, and all that other nonsense. I tossed my purse over my shoulder and, keys in hand, hurried off to my car for the drive home.

I reached Laura’s house within the hour, collected my five constantly energized children, packed up, and headed home. I dipped ice cream for them as the phone rang. I grabbed the receiver, hoping to hear Jon’s voice.

"Hello," I answered.

"Mrs. Stitsill?" said a deeply resonant male voice.

"Yes?"

"This is Detective McGrath from the Lexington Heights Police Department. I wonder if I might ask you a few questions."

Did he say detective? Alarm bells sounded. Sirens, too.

"I’m sorry. Could you tell me what this is about?" The ice cream dribbled off the scoop and onto the front of my suit jacket. Shit. With no kitchen towel in sight, I needed an extra hand while I attempted to nestle the phone next to my shoulder and manage the mess. I signaled Nick to hand me a towel as I gestured to the chocolate dripping down the front of me.

"Yes, ma’am, no problem," the detective answered. "A woman phoned me this evening. Her name is also Mrs. Stitsill. She claims that she spoke to you earlier tonight, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about that meeting and about your husband. She thinks you might be married to hers."

All righty, then. I’d chatted with this woman, listened to her life story, and now she’d turned me into the cops as the wife of a polygamist.
What the hell?
I tossed the ice cream scoop into the sink, grabbed a bottle of wine from the pantry, made quick work of uncorking it, and poured myself a healthy glass.

"What is your badge number, Detective?" After he recited the number, I said, "Thank you. I’ll call you right back."

"Thank you, ma’am."

I hauled out the phone book, looked up the non–emergency number for the Lexington Heights Police Department, and dialed. After I confirmed the badge number with the operator, she put me through, and I heard the familiar voice say, "McGrath. How can I help you?"

"I can talk to you now, Detective. You said you had some questions?"

"Yes, ma’am. Thank you for calling back."

I supposed that his friendliness served him well as a detective, people warming to him without hesitation.

"What would you like to know?"

"How long have you known your husband?" he asked.

"We’ve been married for eleven years," I answered.

After a big gulp, the wine kicked in, and my muscles relaxed. I kicked off my heels, wriggled out of my suit jacket, and curled up in an overstuffed chair in the living room, away from the kids.

"Where is your husband from?" His second request.

"A little town near Louisville, Kentucky."

"Do you know his family?"

"They’re the typical in–laws. Can I ask why you want to know about my husband?"

"Well, ma’am, I think what we have here is a woman who was married to a man she didn’t know very well. It sounds like she wasn’t kept apprised of the family finances, and she just didn’t know much about her husband. She married him, then soon after, he turned up dead. She’s been left alone in a strange country with two young children. For some reason, unexplainable to the reasonable thinker, she thinks you’re married to her husband."

"You’ve got to be kidding me! She thinks I’m married to her dead husband? How is that possible?" Oops, I lost my calm demeanor.

"I can only tell you that he wound up on a slab in the coroner’s office under extraordinary circumstances."

"I’m sorry." I regained my composure. "I don’t understand. I thought he’d been ill and then died."

"The man died under unusual circumstances. In fact, after Mrs. Stitsill called me, it took me a while to locate the case. The records weren’t kept locally, but by the State," Detective McGrath clarified.

"So, are you saying Mr. Stitsill was the victim of a crime?" I downed another slug off wine.

"He died of a self–inflicted gunshot wound." As Detective McGrath spoke, I heard the compassion in his voice. Clearly, he’d done this before. I quickly put aside his agenda, and continued with my own.

"I’m still confused. If Mr. Stitsill is deceased, why would Mrs. Stitsill think that I’m married to her husband? And why doesn’t she believe he’s dead?" I sounded as incredulous as I felt.

"It’s a bit confusing," the detective admitted. "His body was in his vehicle, like I said, but his head was… missing. Mrs. Stitsill never actually viewed his remains. According to the file, he was identified by his personal effects. Perhaps a driver’s license, a wedding ring, or a wallet. Even birthmarks or scars allow identification to be made. And he died in the family car. From what I can tell, she’s wondered for quite some time if you were married to her husband. It took me a while to put this all together, but it seems to be the best explanation for why she spoke to you and then called me."

"I can assure you, Detective, I know my husband, his family, such as they are, his background, and his work place. I’m quite concerned. Over the past few months, I’ve received phone calls from someone in Africa who was apparently searching for the other and very deceased Mr. Stitsill. There are way too many similarities between my husband and this man."

"My guess is that there is nothing for you to be concerned about. As I said, the lady married too quickly, maybe hoping to get to the States, and he just happened to have the same name as yours," McGrath said.

Okay, I thought, I’m no detective, but shouldn’t Detective McGrath be just a little curious about the two Mr. Jon Lyon Stitsills? He just wants this to go away, I realized in a moment of clarity. Typical government employee.

We ended our phone call, me feeling like I shouldn’t close my eyes, Detective McGrath apparently feeling like he’d just earned his day’s pay. Disgusted with all bureaucracy, I let exhaustion take over and climbed the stairs, following the kids to bed. Jon could sort this out when he got home.

With school out of session the following day as compensation for the long hours of conferences, I fretted on and off about the other Mrs. Stitsill, but by the time Monday rolled around, I had pushed away my restless thoughts courtesy of a weekend filled with kids and an absent husband.

Diane and I strolled down the hall to the office as part of our usual Monday morning routine. When I reached my mailbox, I pulled out a tri–fold sheet of paper that had been stapled in the upper left hand corner. As I unfolded it, I couldn’t quite make sense of its contents. Two grainy Xeroxed photographs. The first, a snapshot of a woman clad in a white satin dress and holding a bouquet of roses with baby’s breath tucked in between them. She stood before a latticed arbor decorated with vines and curled ribbons. Although somewhat familiar, I couldn’t place her. It was difficult to discern her age. She was all round curves with a full bust and fleshy arms spilling out of her short–sleeved dress. She wore a serious expression on her face, and looked soft and sad. Medium length dark hair and dark eyes, she looked a little scared.

The second photo was of a seemingly younger woman, thin and tall with pale hair. She stood with an older man, perhaps in his forties. Handsome. Taller than the young woman. A marked resemblance between the two. Father and daughter? His hair appeared light, but it could have been gray. Slender with charismatic eyes. Not at all familiar, but compelling nonetheless, and well–dressed in an expensive pinstripe suit.

A wedding? Hard to tell the bride. The younger woman or the older one? They all stood in front of the arbor. The older woman, the one in the white dress who held the bouquet, stood alone in a photograph. The younger woman appeared with the gentleman, but why not a picture of the bride and groom together?

I got it. Rosita Stitsill. Emilio’s mother. How and why was this in my school mailbox? I asked Yolanda Kostrovich, our school secretary, if she knew anything about it. She tugged me into the records room.

"Friday morning when teachers were off, a woman came into the office with these pictures and asked me if I’d ever met your husband. I told her ‘yes’, and then she asked me if I’d recognize a picture of him. I said I would, so she showed me these pictures. I assured her that your Jon wasn’t in any of them, but I don’t think she believed me. She acted odd, seriously strange. And when she left the photos behind, I felt they should go to you."

Yolanda has been school secretary for a very long time. The mistress of discretion, she kept everyone’s secrets.

"Did you recognize the woman?" My brow creased as I spoke.

She nodded. "Emilio Vieira’s mother."

"Thanks, Yolanda." I slipped through the crowd gathered around her desk and into the hall.

Diane waited for me outside the office door. She’d witnessed me viewing the photos. We were half–way back down the hallway before she asked me to fill her in.

I told her what I knew. I also gave her the Reader’s Digest version of the phone call with Detective McGrath.

"Aren’t you afraid?" Diane asked.

"Not really. What am I going to do? Jon’s away on business. The detective certainly didn’t think I had anything to worry about, so I’ll just double check the locks tonight like I always do." Denial. My friend.

Jon’s usually gone from Saturday to Friday when he makes a trip overseas. This time he would be away longer—a Murphy’s Law do–over. I would have to wait until Wednesday to update him.

Later that day, I made Jack listen, this time in serious detail, to my version of the conference with Emilio’s mom and the ensuing phone call from the detective. He thought it made great fodder for the "As the Stitsill’s Turn" anthology. He also told me to watch my back.

"Listen, Stitsill, you’ve had calls from Botswana and the woman in Canada. Now this. It’s been going on for a long time. Something’s up. Keep an eye out. Don’t obsess, but don’t be stupid." His hand rested on my shoulder, reassuring me.

I trusted Jack’s judgment. He may have been younger than me, but I valued his intelligence and common sense.

The call from Canada had come at least five years ago. We’d let it go. At the time, it had seemed like a case of mistaken identity. Now, things began to make more sense, the connections clearer.

I showed Jack the pictures, and he agreed that the young woman in the photo looked like she could be the man’s daughter. Maybe it was the same woman who’d contacted Jon five years ago. Did she even know her dad had died?

My paranoid self imagined all sorts of scenarios.

Who are these people? And why are they intruding on my life?

Most of all, I wanted to know why Rosita lived in the school district where I taught. Her husband had been dead for eight years, and her kids had attended this school district since kindergarten. Why had she waited so long to approach me? Too many unanswered questions kept me awake a good part of that night.

Unnerved and feeling very alone, I began to question why my husband’s jaunts took him to another continent whenever anything concerning his "double" popped up.

Wednesday couldn’t come soon enough. Jon, jet lagged and reeking of closed up airplane, wanted to shower. I had different ideas. No rest for him. No, sir. I made him sit down and filled him in. After all, it all had to do with him.
His
name had caused the problems. And not only did I have to go to work, hunt down the runaway dog, and corral five kids, I had to deal with this stressful bullshit, too.

Jon tried to listen and act like he cared, but I could tell he couldn’t muster up the energy. A few days later he came to terms with the reality of the situation. The following Monday, he began to ask questions.

"This detective called from where? What did this woman say to you? The guy’s name is exactly the same? He was in the Peace Corps as a teacher in Botswana?" Jon fired the questions at me faster than I could answer them.

I knew my husband well. He’d become an executive by pondering, making decisions in a timely manner but with a good deal of careful thought.

"Do you have this detective’s name and number?" Jon asked.

"I do."

"Would you leave it on my dresser?"

"Sure, honey," I obliged.

I knew that it would take Jon several days to make the call. Although concerned, his job would get in the way. Everyone wanted a piece of him when he first got home. Me, included.