“How many children have we killed?” I replied. “I dreamed we were burying dead babies. It seems so real, not like a dream, but like we really did kill them.”
My dreams creep Tim out. Throwing back the covers, he hopped out of bed, his book in hand. “You have the strangest dreams,” he said as he walked out of the room. It was Tim’s way of letting me know he wanted no part in the conversation. I rolled back over and watched him leave. An outstretched hand of morning sun reached through the window and across the duvet in an attempt to soothe me with warmth, but I could not shrug off the chill that had woken me.
Four years would pass before Sarah and I spoke to one another again. By then, Karly would be dead.
Chapter Five
Sarah asked us to adopt her baby. Not Karly, but Hillary, who as I write this is a teenage girl herself, driving, dating, and dreaming of college.
Hillary is the baby Sarah had the year she came to live with us, and in a very conflicted way, Hillary feels like a baby I gave up.
It’s hard to talk about it. There are probably hundreds of families out there with a similar tale: a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a friend, women who’ve suffered miscarriages or adoptions that failed. I imagine they all struggle with the same question. How do I tell others about the child I almost had? The only answer to that question is that you don’t. Best to keep it to yourself. Except for a rare few.
I’m pragmatic about the pitfalls of adolescence, having had an abortion my senior year of high school. Sarah was one of the half-dozen friends who knew the story of the baby I had aborted, and of my regrets. I am sure that is why she felt comfortable confiding in me. She knew I wasn’t going to lecture her.
We talked, heart to heart, then Sarah left town. She relocated to a home for unwed mothers several hours away in Tacoma, Washington. Sarah claimed the decision was her parents’ idea. At the time, I accepted Sarah’s explanation, but I never discussed the matter with Gene and Carol, even though I had strong opinions about Sarah moving away.
There was a time when being pregnant out of wedlock was socially unacceptable, a shameful thing. And while it’s true Sarah’s unplanned pregnancy would have been the scuttlebutt around Pendleton for a while, it would hardly have been headline news.
She was a college student, after all, plenty old enough to be considered capable, whether she planned to keep the baby or adopt it out. While having a baby was sure to interrupt her life, what was the point in hiding away until then?
Despite the distance separating us, Sarah and I grew much closer during her pregnancy. We talked weekly by phone, and when I could, I made trips up to see her. As I expected, she was miserable, living in a home where she had no emotional attachments to anyone. My sister and mother were within a short driving distance of the home, so I would make the six-hour drive, take Sarah out for a while and then head on over to visit with the rest of my family.
The home had rules dictating whom Sarah could see and when she was expected back if she went out. Like many nonprofit agencies, they’d bought the best house in the safest neighborhood they could afford, but it was a dingy place, full of cobbled-together donations: beds, couches, chairs, plates. While the people who ran the house were nice enough, I hated leaving Sarah there. I wanted to put her in the car, sneak her back into Pendleton under the dark of night, and hide her away myself.
Sarah was set on giving the baby up for adoption. The father of the child was reportedly a fellow from the nearby farming community of Heppner. Marrying somebody from a rural place like Heppner was not Sarah’s vision for herself. She had a hunger for a more glamorous life.
It was during her sixth or seventh month of pregnancy that Sarah asked, “Would you and Tim adopt my baby?”
Stunned by the unexpected request, I tried to listen as Sarah thoughtfully explained why she wanted us to adopt her baby, but my mind was racing. Our children had been born in rapid succession. Our youngest daughter was nine, the twins were eleven, and our son was fourteen. Long gone were the playpens, diapers, cribs, strollers and Johnny Jump-Ups. We’d be starting from scratch with a newborn. Could we—more, would we do that?
I knew before I asked what Tim’s response would be. He has always been the most devoted of fathers, so it was more a question of whether I would start over.
Tim responded exactly as I expected he would. He did a little hot-diggity-dog jig in the dining room and said, “I hope you told her yes!”
“Not exactly,” I replied.
Tim removed his tie and walked into the bedroom. When he came back out, he asked, “Why not?”
I didn’t know where to begin. Now that the kids were old enough, I had actually begun to figure out who I was, in addition to being their mother. I wasn’t sure I was ready to let go of my newfound independence.
There was one other looming matter discouraging any elation I felt: What would Gene and Carol think? This would be their grandchild. How would they feel about Tim and me raising up this child across town from them? If they had, as Sarah maintained, sent her away to have this baby, then surely they wouldn’t like the idea of the child virtually coming home.
I suggested to Tim that, if we were going to adopt Sarah’s baby, we should only do it if Gene and Carol extended their blessings. Tim was in full agreement.
Sarah balked. She didn’t see any need to ask her parents’ blessing. “It’s my baby,” she said. “If I choose you and Tim, why should it matter whether my parents agree with my decision?”
The discussion over getting the Brills’ blessing went on for about six weeks. I told Sarah I wanted her involved in the baby’s life. The adoption would need to be an open one. This child would always know Sarah in some intimate way. On that matter, we agreed.
Sometime early into her third trimester, Sarah told us her father was okay with us adopting, but her mother was not. Carol did not want Tim and me raising her grandchild. I never asked Carol why. I’m not sure I wanted to know. I think it was because the hidden part of me was relieved.
Sarah was miffed when she told me her mother wouldn’t give her consent. She was upset at me and at her mom. She didn’t understand why it mattered what her mother thought. But now I wonder if Sarah really ever discussed the matter with her parents. Over the years, I’ve come to second-guess everything Sarah said.
I had one confidant in town whom I shared all this with, Janice Wells, who, then, suggested an alternative couple for Sarah. Janice had friends in Portland who were possible candidates. Chuck and Missy McDonald already had a big family, like ours, but they wanted to add to it. Sarah was initially reluctant but eventually agreed to at least meet with Missy.
I didn’t know much about the couple, only what Janice told me. But after several phone calls back and forth between all parties involved, and with Sarah’s permission, I arranged for us all to meet. Missy drove up from Portland and I drove over from Pendleton, picking up Sarah along the way. We gathered in Westport, Washington, where my sister lives.
Out over the Pacific, and there in that harbor community, agitated clouds hung heavy and low. Looking back now, I might regard the darkening sky as an omen of the trouble sure to follow. But at that time, it made sense to trust fate to deal with whatever capricious winds were brewing.
Chapter Six
Sarah was raped, or so she says now.
The first time I came across the rape claim I was leafing through a pile of documents Shawn’s defense attorney gave me. Right there on Sarah’s medical records was a request that she have an all-female delivery staff because Sarah said her first pregnancy had been traumatic: the result of rape.
The next time I read that statement was in a report filed by the detective who interviewed her parents in the wake of Karly’s death.
“Sarah was a handful, a major challenge,” Gene Brill told the officer. “One year we had to send her off to a Christian boarding school in San Diego because we were afraid she was going to run off somewhere.”
“Was that the year she got pregnant?” asked Detective
Mike Wells.
“No,” Carol Brill said. “Sarah mimicked her birth mother. She waited to get pregnant until she was the same age her mother had been when she was born. Her mother was twenty. Sarah was twenty. She was trying to make some sort of connection.”
“And that was a boyfriend? Or a rape she got pregnant from?” Detective Wells asked.
“A boyfriend,” Gene replied.
Detective Wells was confused. Sarah claimed she’d been raped and that was why she’d been pregnant.
“It was a casual relationship,” Gene said. “It wasn’t anything long-term.”
That’s exactly how I remember it. The baby’s father was a cowboy from Heppner. Sarah told me they’d been drinking and got carried away. We even discussed whether she should get his consent for an adoption. I urged her to tell the young man she was pregnant with his child and to seek his consent. I would never have suggested it if I’d thought for one minute that Sarah had been raped. Sarah assured me they had talked and that he agreed with her decision.
Once she moved off to Corvallis, however, it appears Sarah’s life took on the fictional characteristics of a James Frey memoir. She claimed she got pregnant from a date rape. According to several of her friends, who heard Sarah repeat different versions over the years, Sarah said a fellow she knew had climbed in her bedroom window and raped her.
Detective Mike Wells had his work cut out for him, trying to sort out fact from fiction. He interviewed Shelley, Sarah’s best friend and sometime roommate, before speaking to the Brills.
Wells said, “The way Shelley understood it, when Sarah was fifteen or seventeen, she was raped, got pregnant, and was sent away to some type of boarding facility, and the baby was adopted out.”
“That’s not how it happened,” Carol said. “Sarah had willingly gone to the home for unwed mothers.” But Carol added, “It had probably been another mistake, sending her there.”
“Yeah, it’d been a hard time for her,” Gene said.
“Sarah didn’t fit in well there,” Carol explained. “All the other girls there were on welfare.”
“Yeah,” Gene said. “Sarah hated that place. I mean, they were really good Christian people and all involved there, but Sarah decided on her own to give that baby up, and in the end it devastated her. But Sarah was wise enough to know she wasn’t ready to care for a baby. So she lost that one. And now look—this one is gone, too.”
Gene and Carol never told Detective Wells that Sarah wanted to give her first child to Tim and me. They didn’t mention how upset they’d been with her for getting pregnant. They didn’t say that Sarah had returned to Pendleton after giving Hillary away and lived with our family, not theirs.
Chapter Seven
We met for lunch at a touristy restaurant down on the docks, Sarah, Missy, my sister Linda and me. Sarah barely looked pregnant. She wore a blue-jean skort, with thick white stockings and a denim blouse. Her baby bump was hidden under an oversized white knit sweater. Her hair, usually cut short, was longer now and softly curled.
Dancer thin, Missy looked more like a college coed than the mother of five in her jeans and leather bomber jacket. Her blonde hair was shoulder-length and curly, most likely the result of the spiral perms so popular then. Sarah was pleased that Missy was so pretty and I was happy that Missy was so genuine. She greeted us all with lingering hugs and an infectious smile.
Everybody had a case of the jitters. Meeting potential parents as a birth mom is a lot like going on a blind date; it’s a search for the right mix of character and chemistry. The conversation started slowly but my sister Linda, who isn’t really the sort to insert herself, filled in the holes with tidbits of information about Westport and its tourist trade.
Sarah has always been soft-spoken. She never had to demand center stage; when the spotlight was turned her way, no one shone brighter. Hollywood might say she has that “IT” factor, a beguiling charisma that attracts people to her.
Carol Brill said Sarah is the sort of person who has many casual friends but few people really know her in an intimate way. I saw that in her, too. Sarah played everything close to the vest. No matter how well a person thought they knew Sarah, it was always difficult to know what she was thinking.
Yet, by midafternoon, it was obvious Missy had enchanted Sarah. The laughter came easy and the conversation soon turned to chatter, as though the two were old friends. Missy appeared to be all that Sarah was seeking in an adoptive mother. She was gregarious, warm, funny, and a good listener.
By early evening, I felt like the dying woman who had just introduced her husband to his next wife. I was elated for everyone else but grieving the loss up ahead. Sarah was so comfortable with Missy, I felt replaced. It’s one of my least favorite emotions, an ugly mix of jealousy and insecurity, undergirded by the fear that I no longer matter. I couldn’t tell Missy or Sarah what I was feeling, so I confided in my sister, who assured me it was normal, and part of the process of letting go.
I knew before we left the beach the next morning that Sarah would adopt her baby out to Chuck and Missy. She never said so but I knew it deep in my bones. I uttered a prayer of gratitude; Missy was going to be the perfect mother for Sarah’s child. However, I cried as I drove, knowing full well I had given up something very precious.
Sarah called me from the hospital on a sunny spring day when the cherry tree was in bloom.
“I’m in labor,” she said. “Can you get here as soon as possible?”
“That’s terrific, honey,” I said. “Is your mother there?”
“Yes.”
“And Missy and Chuck? Are they there, too?”
“Yes,” Sarah said.
“Great. That’s just great,” I said. “How are you doing?”
“Okay,” she said. “But when are you getting here? You need to hurry.”
I was pacing the floor between the living room and the dining room. I did a quick mental check. Everybody was pretty self-sufficient, and Tim would understand if I packed up at a moment’s notice. He always understood when it came to Sarah. Nevertheless, I was torn between a desire to be there for the birth of this child and the realization that my presence, while a comfort to Sarah, would be uncomfortable for everyone else.
“Sarah, honey, I’m not coming,” I said.
Silence sliced the air. Sarah had not imagined I wouldn’t come when called, that I would ever in a million years miss this event.
“Why?” she cried.
“I don’t belong there, Sarah. You have your mother. You have Missy. This is a time for you all.”
“But I want you here,” Sarah said, pleading. “Come on. Please. I need you.”
Sarah’s entreaties almost swayed me but the mother in me held me back. I didn’t want to stomp over holy ground. This was a time, I hoped, for healing between Sarah and Carol. I did not want them to risk missing this chance.
I told Sarah she could call me anytime, day or night, no matter what. But I was not going to make the trip because I would be in the way.
“You need this time alone with your baby, with your mama, and with Chuck and Missy.”
Someone, I don’t remember whom, called me later to tell me that Sarah had given birth to a healthy baby girl. Hillary Jane, called Hillary, was born the day before her mother’s twentieth birthday.
The next call I got came from a very distraught Missy, who told me Sarah was reluctant to relinquish the infant. I had expected as much. Missy was hoping I could talk some sense into Sarah, get her to realize she couldn’t possibly handle motherhood. There was desperation in Missy’s voice. She was afraid Sarah was going to change her mind.
I assured Missy I would talk to Sarah, try to figure out where her heart was in all of this. A flurry of phone calls took place over the next forty-eight hours. Janice Wells called. I called Sarah. Sarah called me. Missy called me.
If Carol was part of this decision-making, I didn’t know it. Carol and I never spoke about Sarah’s pregnancy, or Hillary’s adoption. If Missy
called Carol and spoke with her, she never mentioned it to me. It seems wrong now that I would not have welcomed Carol’s input, but I’m sure at the time I was simply trying to honor Sarah’s wishes.
I wanted to extract myself from the situation and to let things progress naturally, but here I was in the thick of it. If I felt that much pressure, I couldn’t imagine how Sarah must have felt. I had wanted more than anything to protect her from that.
Chuck and Missy decided if Sarah wasn’t ready to relinquish the infant child, well, by golly, they would take the whole kit and caboodle home with them. They invited Sarah to bring Hillary and come live with them for a while.
I have often thought that, had I gone up to Tacoma the day Hillary was born, all of this might have been avoided. Not the pain part: giving up Hillary was hard on Sarah. Anyone who knew her knew that. She really had mixed feelings about her decision, in part because Sarah needed to belong to somebody. She needed to be a mother.
Three weeks later, with Sarah still in their home, Chuck and Missy grew more worried. Would they get so attached to Hillary, only to have Sarah yank her out of their arms? Had they set themselves up for heartbreak? The few times I spoke with Missy she was every bit as emotional as Sarah. Everyone’s nerves were on edge.
In the balance hung the welfare of an infant unaware, and a birth mother who was all too keenly aware of her separation from the baby she’d carried for nine months. Her child was in the arms of another woman. Sarah was not nursing or tending Hillary. Close as she was, Sarah was a visitor to Hillary, not a mother. If she left Hillary with Chuck and Missy, that’s all she would ever be to Hillary: the visitor who had birthed her.
Sarah was struggling to figure out who she was and what she was going to do with the rest of her life now. She might as well have been trying to figure out how to maneuver around New York City on a zip line. Loneliness loomed before her like a dark street. Without a baby to care for, what was her purpose? She had no idea what she was going to do, or where she was going to go.
KARLY SHEEHAN: True Crime behind Karly's Law Page 3