“Now, don’t get upset. I realize she was your friend and that you ladies have expended considerable time and effort completing this task for her, but unearthing information of this nature could have traumatic consequences for this child.”
Carol rolled her eyes. “This child is thirty years old, Dr. Dorfman.”
“Nevertheless, Pennsylvania specifically prohibits releasing names of adopting parents and their adopted children.”
“But if we could get those records,” Beth ventured, barging into their conversation. “If they were perhaps leaked to us. . .”
“They’d be of no use,” Dorfman said.
“And why is that?” Carol was growing tired of going around in circles.
“Because in Pennsylvania back in 1980, the infant’s name would have been blacked out on sealed adoption forms and substituted with her adopted name. There would be no record, either, of the biological mother ever having given birth. In other words, according to our commonwealth, the baby Julia Swann never existed.”
Beth vaguely remembered this from Lynne’s letter, though it was no less stunning. How could a person simply be . . . erased?
“Not in public records, but the original names would be identified in private law office records, yes?” Carol corrected.
“Ms. Goodworthy,” he said firmly, “the birth mother is dead. The family has moved on. Take it from a wise old physician, it’s in everyone’s best interest to let well enough alone.”
Beth was astonished. What about Lynne? What about the letter? They couldn’t give up just like that. From Mary Kay’s startled expression, obviously she felt the same way too.
“But finding Julia was so important to Lynne,” Beth pleaded. “In her letter, she said making sure her daughter knew that Lynne loved her was the only way she could rest in eternal peace.”
Dorfman was strangely silent for so long Mary Kay and Carol wondered if they’d lost their connection. “Dr. Dorfman?” Carol asked. “Are you there?”
“I am.” He paused again. “I get the impression that you ladies are determined and there’s nothing I can say or do to prevent you from going to Andersson’s office even if it is a complete waste of time. That said, perhaps I can offer you a tip.”
They didn’t dare breathe.
“If you happen to be passing by Wilkes-Barre on your way back to Connecticut, you might want to check out the Crescent Hollow area. There’s a scenic overlook of the Susquehanna at Council Cup near there. Supposedly, on a clear day you can see thirty miles and the foliage is spectacular and, conveniently, it’ll be on your way home.”
Mary Kay made a face at Carol who was just as confused as she and Beth were. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not following. You said you were offering us a tip?”
“Exactly. I think you’ll understand if you happen to come across the names of the adopting parents. And if you don’t find those names? Then you can take solace in knowing that you left no stone unturned.”
“Thank you,” Carol said, though she wasn’t exactly sure what for. “Thank you very much, Dr. Dorfman.”
He hung up and she decided knowledge really was power. Dorfman had it and they didn’t and for that reason, they—and Lynne’s hopes—were at the mercy of others.
While Carol and Mary Kay disappeared into the redbrick Andersson law office to try their luck with Doug Andersson, Beth sat in the car and called Marc. Her father’s appointment was at eight and already it was past ten and there’d been no word. She was getting nervous.
“No big deal,” Marc said. “Your dad’s doctor got called down to the emergency room so the appointment was pushed back. Anyway, I spoke to the receptionist a few minutes ago and she said he’s on his way so I’m headed to the cafeteria to find your parents. They couldn’t take waiting around in his office with a bunch of elderly heart patients. It was depressing.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling guilty that he’d sacrificed a whole morning to manage her responsibilities. “I should be there.”
“Would you stop with that? Hey, what else was I going to do, make a few cold calls? You know how I’d rather do anything but sell insurance.”
Marc had no business being in this business. “Still, you’re a sweetheart for doing this.”
“I’m a sweetheart, period. And your dad’s a buddy of mine, so I’m glad to help. Seriously, Beth, go do what you have to do and quit worrying. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”
With plenty of time to kill, she got out of the car, locked it, and headed off to explore the town in search of a cup of coffee and maybe a bookstore.
It was refreshing to take a walk, considering she hadn’t had much exercise since her run with Carol two days before. And Calais wasn’t that dingy, just your usual small town with a couple of banks, a post office, a former Woolworth’s that now sold gently used clothing, a small shabby grocery store, and a corner newsstand.
Beth went inside, poured herself a cup of thick, burnt coffee, and debated whether to get a homemade blueberry muffin wrapped in plastic, the debate ending when her stomach growled in reply. At the cash register, she asked the clerk where she could find a bookstore.
“A bookstore?” The clerk acted as if she’d asked directions to the nearest crack house. “There’s a Borders about eight miles from here in the mall, I think.”
Eight miles was too far, since Beth really didn’t want to get back in the car if she didn’t have to. “There’s nothing downtown?” All she had in her purse was Middlemarch, too dense for her dizzy head.
“You could go there.” He pointed to a low gray stone building set slightly back from the street next to the post office. “The public library.”
The library! Her haven. Her oasis. Happily, Beth crossed the street and sat on the library front steps. While she finished her stale muffin and caffeine sludge, she checked her phone to see if Marc or Mary Kay had called. Then she went inside.
The library was small, about the size of her beloved one back in Marshfield. It was also about as old, with dark wood running halfway up the walls, green shaded lamps, and two outdated computers on oak desks where patrons sat perusing job openings, killing time.
She introduced herself to the woman sitting behind Returns and Renewals—Annie Marx, head librarian just like her. After briefly talking shop about budgets and staffing and fund-raising, she headed to New Fiction to see what a place like Calais could afford when it came to recently released hardcovers. Turned out, not much.
“So I’ve got to ask,” Annie said as Beth was inspecting the latest James Patterson. “What brings you all the way from Connecticut to Calais?”
“A long story.” But since Annie didn’t seem to be in any hurry and since no one was tapping their toes at Returns and Renewals, Beth gave her the abridged version. Having also lost a friend to cancer, Annie was sincerely sympathetic.
“I am so sick of women in the prime of their lives getting struck down by this disease,” she said, shaking her head. “It gets freakier when they’re your age, too. Did she go to CRHS?”
“What’s CRHS?”
“The local high school. If she grew up in Calais, she probably did.”
“Then, she probably did unless there’s a Catholic school nearby.”
“Our Lady of Lourdes. That’s where I went.” Annie pushed back her chair. “Let’s find out.”
Beth replaced James Patterson and went with Annie to the stacks in Reference, where navy spines of old yearbooks aligned in a neat row. “Nineteen seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty . . . Got it.” She slid out the Calais Regional High School Bugle and flipped to the back. “You said her name was Swann?”
“Like the bird, only with two n’s.” Beth tried peering over the top of the book as Annie scanned the page of s’s.
Flipping it around, Annie said, “Is this her?” She pointed to a black-and-white photo of a freckled face with ridiculous Molly Ringwald bangs.
Lynne beamed up at them, her smiling eyes looking off into the d
istance as if the future promised nothing but endless adventures ahead. “Yes,” she said as Annie laid the book in her arms. “That’s Lynne.” Her fingers traced the bangs, the pointed collar of the shirt, the tidy pullover sweater.
So young and fresh. So innocent.
“I better get back to the desk,” Annie whispered. “There’s a bench against the wall if you want to sit down and go through it.”
Beth couldn’t take her eyes off the photo. Lynne was nothing like the hippie chick she’d imagined. Quite the contrary. With the wool sweater and haircut, she’d been kind of preppy. She searched the back for Lynne’s list of organizations. Yearbook. Glee Club. Art Society. That figured. Drama.
Then Beth started at the front, inspecting each page. She passed the teachers and administration and support staff and ignored the endless photos of the CRHS Hurricanes football team and its roster of stars. It came as no surprise that Calais, Pennsylvania, would be a town that loved its Friday night football.
Finally, she found a photo of Lynne dressed up as Lady Macbeth for the fall senior play, her hair yanked into a tight bun and makeup so overdone that she could have been acting in kabuki rather than Shakespeare. Behind her, Macbeth himself, slightly shorter, placed a protective hand around her waist.
The caption read LADY MACBETH (LYNNE SWANN) AND MACBETH (DOUG ANDERSSON) CONTEMPLATE THEIR EVIL DEEDS.
Beth read it again. And again.
Doug Andersson. But it couldn’t be the same. Didn’t Dr. Dorfman say he ran with a different crowd? Beth turned to the back and, under the a’s, found Doug Andersson, equally preppy in his button-down shirt and vest, his hair parted on the side. Debate. Tennis. Yearbook. Drama. What a geek.
She quickly flipped through to the group photo of the yearbook staff. Doug and Lynne again. Side-by-side. Beth inspected every inch of that book and counted no fewer than four more photos of Lynne—Lynne walking to class, Lynne sitting on the grass in front of the school, eating lunch in the cafeteria, at the prom.
And in each one, Doug Andersson was by her side, grinning at her with puppy-dog adoration.
Beth slapped the book shut and marched over to Returns and Renewals. Annie said, “You find out anything more?”
“I need to ask you a huge favor, librarian to librarian,” Beth whispered. “I know this is a reference book, but would you please let me take it outside of the building so I can show it to my friends?”
“Oooh.” Annie cocked her head, doubtful. “There’s a photocopier in the corner. I’m afraid I can’t let you leave with this. You know the rules of reference.”
“Please.” Beth clasped her hands together. “I swear that by noon it’ll be back on this desk. Photocopies won’t have the same effect.” She didn’t want to get Annie in trouble, but this was a matter of life or death. Almost literally. “This book could help us find my friend’s daughter.”
Annie sighed. “Only because you’re a fellow librarian.” She nodded. “But please don’t forget to bring it back. Not like they’re issuing any more 1980 Bugles.”
Beth practically flew out the door, clutching the yearbook to her chest like a treasure, as if it were more valuable than the Holy Grail.
The bell to the Andersson law office tinkled as Mary Kay and Carol let themselves into a small lobby with weathered red carpet and framed maps of various local points of interest. It smelled of musty journals, as law offices should, and dampness from the creek that ran behind Main Street. It was very quaint with its old-fashioned charm.
“May I help you?” A frazzled woman looked up from a desk piled high with manila folders. Also quaint, Carol thought, considering how every last letter, memo, and file was digitally converted at Deloutte Watkins. It was like stumbling into a law office circa 1954, right down to the tarnished brass nameplate: JEANINE DECARLO.
“Hello, Jeanine. I’m Carol Goodworthy, an attorney with Deloutte Watkins in New York City.” Carol handed her a card. “And this is my, um, associate, Mary Kay LeBlanc.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Mary Kay said, extending her hand.
“I wonder if we might have a brief word with Douglass Andersson Junior.”
Jeanine pinched the card between her fingers as she rotated on her chair. “And this is regarding? . . .” she asked, eyes wide with suspicion.
Carol said, “It’s confidential.”
“I see.” Jeanine carefully punched #1 on her desk phone. “There’s a”—she glanced at the card—“Carol Goodworthy from a firm called Deloutte Watkins in New York City here to see you. She says it’s confidential. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. OK, I’ll tell her.” Jeanine returned Carol’s card. “Unfortunately, you’ve caught Mr. Andersson at a bad time and he can’t see you today. But if you make an appointment for next week, I’m sure he can fit you in.”
“Jeanine,” Carol said gently, “this won’t take long. Please.”
“There’s nothing I can do, Ms. Goodworthy. When the boss says he can’t be disturbed, the boss can’t be disturbed.”
“Look, I have no intention of going all the way back to New York and then returning in a week. So, how about you look the other way while I poke my head into his office. You can pretend I snuck in.”
Jeanine said, “I think your friend beat you to the punch.” She nodded to her left, where Mary Kay was sauntering into Douglass Andersson Jr.’s office like she owned the place.
“Thank you,” Carol mouthed, joining Mary Kay and closing the door behind them.
Douglass Andersson wore his dark hair, graying at the temples, in a stylized helmet and his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. The firm grip of his handshake was manly, businesslike. He smiled broadly, as if not only had he been expecting them but had been eagerly anticipating their visit all morning.
“Guess you gals done flushed me out,” he said, hitching up his pants. “I thought I could hide and get some work finished, but Mary Kay just walked right in and introduced herself.” He winked to show they were pals nonetheless.
Mary Kay said, “I’m sorry. Carol was talking to your receptionist and I just started wandering, peeking in doors. Should we leave?”
“That depends. How long are we talking, here?”
“Five minutes, tops,” Carol said. “Trust me, I know how annoying it is to be interrupted in the middle of the day.”
He motioned for them to have a seat. Carol took in the plaques on the wall. Pitt Law School. Member Pennsylvania Bar Association. President, Pennsylvania Young Lawyers Association. A citation from the Rotarians. Another from the Special Olympics. Two from the Democratic Party and one highly valued, front-and-center plaque proclaiming adoration of the local steelworkers.
There was also a formal family photo taken on the wraparound porch of a stately Victorian home: a blond woman holding a toddler in an adorable striped shirt and shorts. Three other boys, ranging from college age to preteen, flanked her protectively, the de rigueur golden Lab at their feet. Douglass Andersson towered behind them, one hand on the shoulder of his wife, the other on the shoulder of his firstborn. Pater familias.
“So I assume you’re here about Lynne Swann’s baby,” he said bluntly, rocking back in his chair.
“You got it. Dr. Dorfman called this morning and mentioned you’d spoken,” Carol said. “But we wanted to hear what you had to say, considering you’re the lawyer and he’s just. . . a doctor.”
“I’m a doctor, too. So are you. Doctors of jurisprudence.”
She laughed like this was a new one. “I never thought of that before.” She had. Every lawyer has. “About Lynne’s file. . .”
He rocked forward and linked his hands earnestly. “Let me cut to the chase, Carol. The law doesn’t permit release of her file, and to be perfectly frank, records that old . . . I wouldn’t even know where to begin the search. We had a flood in our basement a few years back that wiped out most of our older papers.”
Carol offered another suggestion. “Perhaps, if you have a way of contacting the adoptive parents, you could give them a call for us.
We have a letter for Lynne’s daughter and that’s all we need to do, deliver the letter. You wouldn’t be violating your code of ethics since you’re acting on behalf of your father, who was their lawyer.”
He rubbed his chin. “I can’t make any promises, but why don’t you give me the letter and I’ll try.”
Carol thought, No dice. “Stupidly, I left the letter with our friend who’s not with us. I’d have to make a return trip. However, if I knew for certain that you’d spoken to the parents. . .”
“Like I said. The adoption file—if we had one stored in the basement—is lost. The best I can do is keep your letter on record and should the adoptive parents happen to contact us, though I can’t for the life of me reason why they would, I’ll willingly share what Lynne wrote.”
That would never do, especially since Doug was right—the chances of the parents contacting his law office were slim.
Mary Kay crossed her legs and tried a different tack. “Dr. Dorfman says you went to school with Lynne.”
“I dimly remember her. In all fairness, it was a big regional high school. More than seven hundred kids in our class.” He frowned. “Shame what happened. If my wife got sick and died, well, you might say I don’t know how I’d go on. She’s my everything. Not to mention what it’d do to our boys.”
Carol gestured to the photo. “Is that your family?”
“They’re two years older now.” He rubbed a smudge off the glass. “I should probably get a new one.”
“Thinking back,” Mary Kay said, “is there anyone who might have hung out with Lynne senior year you might know? A good friend? A boyfriend?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry to be shooting blanks here, but I didn’t even know Lynne Swann well enough to say hello. Her friends were into drama and art. I was into tennis and debating. Our paths just simply wouldn’t have crossed.” He got up and went to the door. “I wish I could be more help. What you two are doing is yeoman’s work. But my hands are tied and, you know, we’re talking about thirty years gone by.”
He opened it and smiled. “Five minutes.”
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