“I see you’re back,” the receptionist said as Bernadette approached the desk.
“This time I have an appointment.”
“You’re lucky Crenshaw is still here.”
“She got another job, I guess.”
“Not after the trouble she got herself into, I wouldn’t think.”
“Oh?”
“People have to follow the rules.”
“What did she do?”
“Uh-uh, I’m not one to gossip,” the receptionist said with a wag of her bony, misshapen finger. “The waiting room is down the hall to your right. I’ll tell them you’re here.”
***
Compared to the chaos and sadness of the reception area, the adoptions waiting room was upbeat, with pictures of fat, happy children on the walls; and it was comfortable, too, with a thick-cushioned dark blue sofa and two matching oak-framed chairs. Bernadette sat down and reached for the current edition of Parenting magazine on the coffee table. Then she peeled off her wet sandals and tucked her feet under her on the couch.
“Mrs. Baker?”
She unfolded her legs and scrambled to put her sandals back on. A young woman stood before her, chunky and not pretty in the traditional sense, more like cute in a ruffled red blouse and short denim skirt. She kept tucking her hair behind her ears the way Veronica always had, which endeared her to Bernadette immediately.
“I’m Briony Reid,” the young woman said. “I’m an intern here.”
“Nice to meet you, Briony. What high school do you go to?”
“I’m a senior at UT. It’s okay,” she said with a wave of her hand, “Everyone says I look younger than I am.”
Briony’s upturned nose and the smattering of freckles on her round, rosy cheeks didn’t only make her look young; in Bernadette’s opinion, she looked way too innocent and vulnerable to be working at a place like this.
“Ms. Crenshaw’s running late,” Briony said. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“I’m fine. I don’t mind waiting.”
But, of course, she really did mind. She opened the magazine, pretending to read, and speculated about what Mary Jane might have to tell her and whether there was any hidden meaning to her tardiness.
Bernadette glanced up at the clock on the wall. Marty would be at the doctor’s office about now.
“I’ll be okay,” he’d said when he kissed her goodbye that morning.
“I should be going with you,” she’d said.
“I don’t plan on dying soon.”
“You’d better not be.” She’d forced a smile, tried to make it sound like a joke.
But in spite of Marty’s reassurances, she knew she was letting him down, and it made her feel guilty to imagine him sitting there all alone at the doctor’s office. She tried turning her mind to other things, like how much longer she would have to wait, what kind of trouble Mary Jane Crenshaw might have gotten herself into, the blood on the floor in Maxine Blackwell’s house, how everything was going to be over after Raelynn’s execution in a couple of weeks. But no matter how hard she tried, her thoughts kept returning to Marty and what she’d said to Fin about acceptance. Well, some things in life were too unacceptable to be considered even remotely possible. Losing Marty was one of those things. That, she could never accept. And wasn’t she here instead of with him at the clinic right now because she knew he was not going to die, but Raelynn Blackwell was? She stood up and stretched, then sat back down and reached into her purse for the list of questions she had brought along.
Just as she was checking the list to be sure she wouldn’t forget anything, Mary Jane Crenshaw was ready to see her. The first thing Bernadette noticed was that Mary Jane didn’t seem on edge as she had on Monday. In fact, she appeared quite confident—or was it determined? Her office, on the other hand, no longer felt warm and welcoming. With the pictures, plants, and most of the books gone, it now had a stark, almost desolate feel about it. One lone box remained in the corner, waiting to be filled with last-minute personal items. There was a folder on the table that was about three inches thick and frayed around the edges, bulging—Bernadette hoped—with all the information she was looking for. Her heartbeat sped up in anticipation of such good fortune as she squinted, stretched her neck, and tried to read the name on the tab without being too obvious about it.
Mary Jane nodded at the folder and motioned for her to sit down. “It was in the archives,” she said. “Nowadays, of course, everything’s computerized.”
Briony came into the office and sat behind them on a chair by the wall and a look of irritation flashed across Mary Jane’s face. She leaned over the folder as if protecting its contents from the young intern.
“You understand that I’m only allowed to give you general information,” Mary Jane said with a surreptitious glance in Briony’s direction.
“Yes.”
“But there is one thing I can tell you.” Mary Jane slapped her hand on the folder. “The Blackwell children had to be better off anywhere other than in that home situation.”
“Even Rae? What about what happened to her in foster care?”
Briony leaned forward in her chair, her eyes watchful, and Mary Jane Crenshaw shrugged her off with a flick of her shoulder. “What happened to that girl should never have happened,” she said, “but things did turn out better for the other children. At least it seems so.”
“What can you tell me?”
“The two boys were placed in separate foster homes.”
“Were they allowed to see each other?”
“That information would be in the foster care file, which I don’t have. But after their mother terminated her parental rights, a middle-aged couple with no other children adopted both of them.”
Bernadette smiled. This was far better news than she’d expected.
“Do you know what happened to them?”
“There was some suspicion that Timothy might have learning disabilities. Maybe fetal alcohol syndrome.”
Briony coughed in the background, and Mary Jane shot her another irritated look.
“What about Raelynn’s sister?”
“Jennifer was three years old when the children were removed from the home. Her foster parents ended up adopting her. They had three older children of their own and two other adopted children. I think you can assume things worked out okay for her.”
“I can’t tell you how much this means,” Bernadette said with a smile.
Mary Jane Crenshaw did not smile back but instead held Bernadette’s gaze as if she were turning something over in her head. Then she glanced at her watch and started to talk faster.
“The baby, of course, was adopted at birth. I’m sorry, Bernadette. Right now I have to leave to get some papers signed. It shouldn’t take long. Fifteen minutes, max.”
She stood up, patted the cover of the folder with her open hand, and took a step toward the door. But then she hesitated and came back. “Sometimes,” she said, touching Bernadette’s shoulder, “it’s better not to dig too deep.”
Mary Jane motioned to Briony with a brusque flick of her finger. The intern, looking confused, followed her out of the room, leaving Bernadette to wonder if something more happened to Rae’s siblings than Mary Jane had told her. She decided that, even if there was more to the story, she already had all the information she needed. Or did she? She averted her eyes from the folder and looked out the window to see that the sky was darkening and another storm was rolling in.
THIRTY
Marty stopped at BookPeople on his way home from the clinic, where he and Dr. Sortiev had finalized plans for his surgery. It was his favorite place to linger over a latté and a good book, although this morning he felt a bit too squeamish for the latté part. Just inside the bookstore’s front entrance, he spotted The Book of Dead Philosophers, which he’d wanted to buy ever since he’d read a review in the New York Times. He picked up a copy and, with a reverence usually reserved for sacred texts like the Bible or the Koran, carried it to the
checkout counter along with his credit card.
Back home, he settled in with the book in the living room, reading for a while and then closing his eyes with a satisfied smile, at times even laughing out loud. How peculiar, it seemed, that reading about death made him feel so alive. The time passed quite pleasantly as he savored each word as if it were his own, from time to time stopping to appreciate the author’s deft prose style by re-reading a phrase. The book made him think about the positive attitude he presented to his family about having cancer even as he kept the source of his optimism—his acceptance of death—to himself. Like Bernie, he believed things were going to be okay; yet, unlike her, he left room for the possibility that they might not be. But he never said any of that aloud, out of a desire to protect his family and because he didn’t want to sound pessimistic, which he wasn’t.
He looked forward to telling Bernie about the book, hoped that she would find it as amusing as he did. He wanted her to know how reading it gave him the strength to look death in the face and see that it was nothing more than a part of life. But, of course, the first thing he would tell her was that the doctor had said everything was going as expected and that Marty had gotten the distinct impression that meant he was going to lick this thing.
When he heard the sound of rolling thunder, Marty put the book down and looked out the window. New storm clouds churned across the darkening sky, and winds whipped the branches of the pecan tree from side to side in the front yard. Bernie should be home by now, but there was no need to worry; if she was still meeting with the adoption worker, that must mean she was getting lots of information.
A flash of lightning slit the sky, and he hoped she hadn’t gotten caught in the storm on her way home. He considered calling her but then remembered what she told him about the dangers of talking on the phone during a lightning storm. Knowing Bernie, she was probably waiting out the storm somewhere. He could see her sitting in Starbucks right now, drinking coffee and going over her notes from her meeting, planning her next move. He turned back to the comfort of his book, secure in the knowledge that if anyone knew what to do when caught in a storm—or anything else, for that matter—it was his Bernie.
THIRTY-ONE
Bernadette stared down at the folder on the other side of the table. Mary Jane Crenshaw’s words still rang in her ears. Sometimes it’s better not to dig too deep. If that was supposed to be some kind of warning, then why did Mary Jane leave her here all alone with the damn case file sitting on the table like this? She resisted the temptation to look. It wouldn’t be right. But the harder she fought off the urge to sneak just a little peek, the stronger her desire became. Finally it took hold of her. What would it hurt? If something jumped out at her, wouldn’t that mean she was supposed to see it?
She slid her clammy fingers across the table. She only had fifteen minutes. Well, less than that now, though she wasn’t sure how much less. She had to act fast. Just as she pulled the folder closer, she heard someone out in the hall and shoved the case file away with such force that it landed right on the edge of the table, poised to tip onto the floor. She stared at the doorknob, waited for it to turn, her chest about to explode. Time stood still. Maybe Mary Jane had realized she shouldn’t have left Bernadette alone with the folder and had come back to get it. Or maybe the intern had come back to keep watch over her. The silence in the room was as piercing as a scream in her head. Unable to bear it any longer, she crept over to the door and put her ear against it. Hearing nothing, she opened it a crack, just enough to see that no one was there. She closed the door and collapsed with her back against it, silently releasing the air she’d held captive in her lungs until then.
She sat back down and took three deep breaths. Then, with trembling fingers, she pulled the folder toward her again. It was close enough for her to make out the words on the tab—Blackwell, Maxine, PS #6875413—when she snatched her hand back. What was she thinking? It wasn’t right to mess with people’s lives, without their permission, like this. It just wasn’t right.
But she couldn’t help herself. She caressed the cover of the folder with her fingertips. She knew she was playing with fire, but she meant no harm. Still, what if she got caught? What would Mary Jane say if she came back now? Bernadette removed her hand from the folder and wiped away the moisture that had gathered above her upper lip.
Still, the folder was relentless in calling to her, and soon she found its tantalizing edge between her thumb and forefinger. She was meant to read it. Why else was it staring at her? With a defiance that matched the way Mary Jane Crenshaw had looked at the watchful intern earlier, she flipped open the case file. All she wanted was peace of mind for Raelynn Blackwell. How could that be a bad thing?
In the end, she came up with a compromise. When she came across any names or other identifying information, she would cover them up, erase them from her mind. She did glance at Maxine Blackwell’s name and the names and birthdates of her children on the brittle and yellowing cover page, but that didn’t count because she already had that information. As soon as she turned the page, though, the disapproving side of her kicked in again. She imagined the newspaper headlines, the shame brought down on her family if she were found to have violated the law. It sent shivers through her.
It wasn’t too late to close the folder and do the right thing, but then, wasn’t it the spirit of the law that mattered? Didn’t the situation require her to consider one good over another? She looked at her watch. If she hurried, she could go to just the most relevant parts. She flipped through the pages, stopping at a child protection worker’s report written around the time Rae and her siblings were first placed in foster care.
Based on a phone call from the oldest daughter, an investigation was conducted to determine the safety of the Blackwell children. During a home visit on December 22, 1983, it was determined that Maxine Blackwell, almost eight months pregnant, was despondent to the point of being incapable of caring for her children or herself. The mother had left Raelynn, the oldest, in charge and the girl seemed overwhelmed and frightened. The only food in the house was an almost empty bottle of ketchup in the refrigerator and a piece of moldy cheese; empty alcohol bottles were broken and scattered everywhere, including on the floor; the children and their clothes were filthy and there was clutter over every inch of surface. Due to the seriousness of the situation the children were removed and placed on a temporary basis in separate foster homes until one could be found to take all of them.
A tear slipped from Bernadette’s eye and dropped onto the page. She read on, desperate for more reassuring information. She skipped over the names of the foster parents whenever she could and tried to delete any identifying information from her mind when she couldn’t, until she came to an entry that stopped her in her tracks.
Maxine Blackwell had given birth to a healthy seven-pound girl.
So the baby was a girl, not a boy. And she was healthy. Bernadette read faster.
Maxine Blackwell voluntarily terminated her parental rights and a temporary six-month placement of the newborn was made after which…
Just then there was the distinct sound of footsteps coming down the hall. Bernadette slammed the folder shut and slid it over to the other side of the table just as the footsteps stopped right outside the door. There was a rustling sound, followed by a loud knock, and then the door opened.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” A chubby man in a janitor’s uniform stood in the doorway. “I was just fixing to see if Miz Crenshaw might be needing any more boxes.”
Bernadette placed her chin in her open hand and tried to act nonchalant, but she must have looked guilty or something because the man’s face turned red and he made a hasty retreat, mumbling something about coming back later. Only when she could no longer hear his footsteps was Bernadette able to breathe again. She looked askance at the folder and warned herself to stop, that the next time she might not be so lucky.
But then she thought more about what she’d read. Rae’s baby sister was placed so
mewhere, but where? And why for just six months? She supposed she could ask Mary Jane those questions, but how could she do that without revealing that she’d opened the folder? More questions about the baby buzzed around her like fruit flies harassing a peach, refusing to leave until they landed on some answers. She grabbed the folder and opened it again, fumbling with the pages until she found the place where she’d left off.
. . . a temporary six-month placement of the newborn was made with the adoptive parents after which it is expected that the adoption will be finalized.
Yes, yes, yes, Bernadette said to herself as she read on.
The adoptive parents have two children of their own, the older one a girl, the younger a boy.
This was perfect. Rae would be so happy to know her baby sister had older siblings to look after her.
The adoptive mother, a devoted stay-at-home mom, is a former teacher with a college degree in special education.
Excellent. If Rae’s baby sister turned out to have fetal alcohol syndrome or other special needs like those her brother Timmy may have had—which would be no surprise given Maxine’s history of drug and alcohol addiction—the adoptive mom would have known what to do.
The adoptive father is committed to his family and very involved with his children.
Bernadette smiled. Reading the case file had been the right thing to do after all. Now she would be able to tell Rae what had happened to her siblings with much more satisfying detail than what Mary Jane had given her. She went back to the file.
When the adoption is finalized, a modified birth certificate will be issued to the adoptive parents.
Just Mercy: A Novel Page 17