by L. E. Rico
“Yeah, it is kind of fun, isn’t it?” I agree, shooting her a smile. “Beats the heck out of playing Clue.”
“Oh, now I don’t know about that,” she says with a scowl. “I was the Clue champion of the O’Halloran family for five years running.”
“Were you now? Well, clearly, you were a much cooler kid than I was.”
“I thought you were plenty cool,” she says.
“You did?”
She nods. “Sure. I had a crush on you when I was about fourteen.”
Her confession makes me sit up a little straighter. “Really?” I ask incredulously, glancing her way from time to time to see if she’s pulling my leg. She’s not.
“I did,” Jameson confirms with a nod that sends her red hair bobbing up and down on her shoulders. I have to tear my eyes away before I drive us right off the highway. “It’s funny because I’ve never told anyone that—not even Henny. Probably because she had a little thing for you when you were at Mayhem High together. And I was a bit younger, so you wouldn’t have known me, of course,” she’s saying. “You graduated the year I started high school. But I used to see you around all the time…”
“Oh, I knew you.” I say this a little too quickly, and she looks surprised.
“You did?”
“Sure,” I say, turning to give her a grin. “You were hard to miss.”
“You mean because of the freckles and the crazy red hair and the big glasses.”
“Well, yeah, kinda. I’ve always thought your hair looked like pennies. It still does.”
I can feel her looking at me, even as I keep my eyes trained on the road. Now she’s the one trying to figure out if I’m pulling her leg. I’m not.
We spend the next several miles quietly in our own thoughts—the only sound between us being Jackson’s snoring and some classical music playing softly on the radio. When we finally see the sign for the Edgerly city limits, I take a long, deep breath. That’s when I feel her hand on my forearm.
“It’s going to be fine. Whatever the truth turns out to be…it’s going to be fine,” she reassures me with a confidence I wish I had.
“I hope so,” I murmur. I plan to expound on this thought a little, but it’s at this very moment that a toy car comes flying out of the backseat, smacking me in the head. It’s only plastic, but apparently the kid’s got an arm like Nolan Ryan. “Owww!” I howl, keeping one hand on the steering wheel while the other reaches back to feel for blood.
“Unca Sock!” Jackson exclaims delightedly and chuckles.
“Jackson Winston Clarke!” his mother scolds. “You do not throw things at people! Say you’re sorry to Uncle Scott!”
“Unca Sock!” Jackson cackles happily. “Unca unca unca unca…” he babbles away, suddenly interested in what’s going on outside the window. “Cow, mama! Mooooo!”
I see the irritation melt right off Jameson’s face, replaced with the blush of motherly pride. “That’s right, baby! That is a cow,” she coos back at him, her tone and her volume considerably softer than they were a few moments ago. “And the cow goes moo!”
By the time we get to the Edgerly Town Hall, we’ve spotted twelve more cows, sung six rounds of “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” and counted to ten at least a dozen times. It’s exhausting and tedious and so domestic that I should be trying to claw my way out of this car…and yet I find my adventure-loving, wander-lusting, unencumbered soul loving every single second of it. Something I’m still puzzling over as we approach a tall guy in his early twenties standing behind the counter. The nameplate in front of him reads: Dennis.
“Can I help you?” he greets us with disinterest.
“Uh, yeah, hi…” I begin. “I’m interested in my birth certificate?”
“Okay. You just fill out this form and we’ll have it sent to you—”
“No, actually, I was, uh, hoping to see the copy on file. You do that, don’t you? Keep a copy on file?”
“Well, yes, if you were born here…”
“I was,” I reply quickly and with more confidence in the answer than I actually possess.
“But I can’t give you a copy of it.”
“I don’t care, I just need to see it, please.”
“What’s the last name?”
“Clarke. With an e at the end.”
“I’ll need some identification, please,” he says, and I produce my passport. After he’s made a copy of it, he disappears around a tall set of bookcases with huge binders lining the shelves. I can hear the sound of volumes being pulled and shifted and put back, one after another, while Jameson, Jackson, and I wait in silence. She doesn’t notice me watching her watching him, her long hair falling over her shoulders as she leans forward to brush bangs—in the identical shade of red—back against his forehead.
This Dennis guy may or may not come back with the information I need. So, in that respect, I’m standing on a precipice here. It’s entirely possible that, in the next few minutes, I could find out something that changes my perspective on the entire world. And, if that’s the case, these are the last few minutes of my life as I know it. And, if that’s the case, I’m sharing them with Jameson who—for some reason known only to the universe—feels like exactly the right person to be standing here beside me. Not because she’s pretty or sweet or smart or any of the things that make up the essence of who she is. But because of something deeper.
It’s as if there’s a part of her that speaks to a part of me on some level that can’t be described in words. When I’m in Jameson’s orbit, that weird axis-tilting thing happens in reverse. It’s like things click into place and, for the first time, everything feels right in my world. She centers me, grounds me, in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible. When she’s nearby, I’m brave and calm and focused. And, at this very moment, as Dennis returns from the back, I’ve never been more grateful for anything or anyone in my life.
He’s carrying a huge binder. Jameson looks at it, then me, and gives a tiny shrug. She’s obviously thinking what I am—if he’s got it, there must be something here in Edgerley. Right? Dennis bolsters that theory when he sets the binder down on the counter and starts to flip through its oversize, plastic-sleeved pages.
“Here we go,” he says, turning the book around so that it faces me.
I’m holding my breath as I look down at the document, yellowing at the corners and clearly typed with an actual typewriter. But it all looks as it should. My father’s name and my mother’s. My date of birth and my full name. No smoking gun here. When I go to flip the page, Dennis puts a hand out to stop me.
“I’m sorry, but you’re only authorized to see your own document. I can’t allow you to see anyone else’s unless you have a power of attorney or something official like that.”
Crap. There’s more to see, I know there is.
“Unca Sock!” Jackson crows with delight. Dennis leans over the counter, just noticing the child for the first time.
“Hey there, little man,” he says with a downward chuckle. The kid waves up at him with a gummy grin. He points to his nose. “Shoe!”
“Hmm, I’m not too sure about that one,” Dennis says.
“We’re a little sketchy on our facial features,” Jameson explains. Then she does something absolutely brilliant. She, somehow with her one good arm, picks Jackson up and plops him on the counter where he delightedly reaches for Dennis.
“Uh, do you mind?” Dennis asks Jameson. “I have a nephew about his age. Real cool little dude.”
She gives him her brightest smile and nods enthusiastically. For his part, once Jackson is in Dennis’s arms, he gently pats his scruffy-haired cheek and giggles. Dennis is clearly smitten.
“So, Dennis,” Jameson begins softly, leaning over the counter. “I’m hoping you can help us. My husband here thinks he may have been adopted. If that’s the case, this birth certificate would be amended. I’m wondering if there’s some way to confirm that and, if it is, maybe find the original?”
I’d be impressed
if I weren’t so stunned by her calling me her husband. I just stare at her, brows drawn in, jaw hanging open until she shoots me a glare, purposely widening her eyes with a “play along, dummy!” look.
“Oh, well, you know…if that’s the case, the records are probably sealed…” Dennis is saying as Jackson tries to shove a chubby fist into his mouth.
Jameson just looks at him with a small, expectant smile. Jackson moves on to tugging at his ears, and Dennis begins to chuckle.
“Okay, okay, Little Man, I’m handing you back to Mama,” he says, passing the baby back over the counter. I take him and place him in the stroller again.
“You are so good with him! Your nephew must adore you.” She beams, and Dennis blushes.
“Yeah, I get along pretty well with the little dudes.”
“So, what do you think, Dennis?” Jameson presses. “Is there anything you can tell us? Anything at all?” Her face is so hopeful that even I want to help her.
He sighs deeply, his mouth pursed in contemplation. Finally, he holds up a finger and goes to sit in front of his desktop computer. He taps and mouses and clicks and shakes his head and starts again. And again. Finally, he takes a piece of scrap paper, jots a few notes on it, and returns to where we’re waiting.
“Okay, so, I’m going to keep this as vague as I can so as not to break too many laws here,” he mutters and glances down at his paper. “Yes, you’re right, a baby boy with your last name, born in the same hospital, in the same year does, indeed, have an amended birth certificate. Nine times out of ten, that’s because of an adoption. Unfortunately, I cannot confirm that or any other details because the file is sealed.”
“Well, how do we get that unsealed?” I ask, a mixture of excitement, dread, and hope building as we get one step closer. What I’m not sure of is which way I want this to go…what’s the answer that I’m hoping to find behind “door number one?”
“We don’t. Adoption records are sealed for one hundred years from the date of the adoption.”
“What?” Jameson gasps from next to me. “But how is that possible? What if you want to know who your parents are?”
Dennis shrugs. “There’s a process. You fill out forms, and they’re considered by a processor to determine if you have standing to access the files. If the processor determines that to be the case, it has to go before a judge who may, or may not, order the records unsealed.”
“Of course,” I mutter. “Why would this be easy?”
“What the helllll, Unca Sock!” Jackson parrots from the stroller, clapping his hands.
Dennis bursts out laughing, but then he seems to notice my angst and sobers up again. “Look, man, I can push the paperwork through, but it could be weeks…maybe months. I’m sorry I can’t do more for you. Do you want to fill out the forms?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
“Yes,” Jameson says at exactly the same moment, nodding.
“Scott, honey,” Jameson coos, “it can’t hurt. The sooner you ask, the sooner you’ll get an answer. There’s no sense in dragging this out any more than need be.”
I look at her lovely lips—the perfect shade of pink. This woman should never wear any of that lipstick or gloss or tint or whatever they’re supposed to put on their mouths to make them sexy. She doesn’t need a damn thing.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right, honey,” I say with a long sigh of resignation. “Take my advice, Dennis…when you find a good woman, don’t let her go. For anything. Or anyone. The right one only comes around once. And that’s if you’re lucky enough to get to her before some other idiot does.”
Dennis has a half smile on his face and a slightly furrowed brow as he tries to puzzle through that one. “Yeah, okay, man. Here, you can sit down at that table over there and fill these out,” he says, handing me a clipboard loaded with blank documents and a pen.
I take them from him and start the long, tedious process of unsealing my life. And my truth. Whatever it may be.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jameson
Something occurs to me while Scott’s filling out the paperwork.
“Umm, Dennis, what’s the name of the local newspaper around here?”
He scratches his head as he thinks. “Uh, well, I suppose that would’ve been the Edgerly Enquirer. I used to deliver it when I was a kid. But it folded up like ten years ago.”
Well there goes that theory. Unless…
“Do you think they’ve got it archived somewhere?” I ask hopefully.
“Oh, you looking for back issues?”
I nod. “Well, if I’m not mistaken, some guy bought out the entire set-up—equipment, phones, desks—all of it right down to the last paperclip. If anyone’d have them, it’d be him.”
I say a quick prayer for a teeny-tiny miracle, and then I ask, “I don’t suppose…do you…do you happen to know who he was or where he was from?”
It doesn’t take him a second to answer. “Sure, he was from that town down south of here. The one with the whacky pie lady who tells fortunes.”
I suck in a breath. “You mean…Mayhem?”
“Yup. That’d be the place… God, what was his name? Something weird and…aristocratic, maybe? Uhhh…Prince? No, that’s not right,” he mutters to himself.
“King?” I offer. “Could it have been King Colby?”
Both Dennis and Scott are now staring at me as if I’ve morphed into a giant leprechaun on the verge of breaking out into a jig. And I’m tempted to do just that…the jig part, anyway. Not the leprechaun bit. Though I do look good in green…
…
It takes most of the trip back home to Mayhem for me to explain what I’m thinking…and why. While he seems impressed with my ability to think “out of the box,” Scott doesn’t seem to be nearly as excited about this prospect as I am. And I’m very excited as we pull up onto Main Street and park—not in front of O’Halloran’s, but across the street, in front of the office of the Mayhem Gazette.
Scott’s got Jackson in the stroller and is fast on my heels as I push through the glass door and walk up to the counter. That’s when Jackson catches sight of Bryan, who rents office space here.
“What the helllllll, Brybry!” he shrieks.
Bryan’s assistant, Helen, stops her phone conversation mid-sentence to look at us, her garish orange eyebrows perched high above her bejeweled cat-eye glasses.
“Sorry!” I mouth quietly so as not to further interrupt her transaction. She shakes her head and smiles.
“Jameson, good to see you!” Bryan says as he approaches us. “And Scott, good to see you, man. How’s Big Win doing?”
“Well, there was a little improvement with his vitals yesterday, and he’s responding to painful stimulus, so that’s good,” Scott says, “but we’re still in the window of time where things could go either way.”
“Well, we’re all thinking about him,” Bryan assures us and then drops down onto his haunches to be at eye level with Jackson. “Hey there, little man! Gimme five!”
Jackson smacks Bryan’s palm with his own considerably smaller hand and starts to jump up and down excitedly until Bryan liberates him from the stroller.
“Bryyyyybry!” he squeals when Bryan starts to tickle him.
“Oh for goodness’ sake, Bryan!” Helen squawks as she slams down the handset on her desk phone. “How do you expect me to get any work done when you keep torturing that boy!”
“Helen, I’m so sorry—” I offer.
“No, no, no, no,” she says, shaking her head as she approaches us. “Here. Give me that child.” Bryan reluctantly hands him over, and she proceeds to bounce him gently up and down in her arms while speaking softly and sweetly to him. “How’s my big guy, huh?” Jackson is transfixed with her voice and, I dare say, her cotton candy-textured orange hair. When he reaches for a fistful of it, she snatches his chubby little hand and pretends to chew it. “Nom nom nom nom.”
“Helen, this is Scott Clarke, Big Win’s son,” I say, gesturing towa
rd Scott standing behind me.
“Oh, nice to meet you, Scott. We’re all pulling for your dad,” she says with a nod.
“Uhhh, thanks…” Scott murmurs, staring a little too closely at the troll doll-like woman.
“Helen, is King around?” I ask before she notices.
“He’s just stepped out for a little lunch. Is there something I can help you with?” she asks, still jostling my son.
“I hope so…I understand that some time ago, King acquired what was left of the Edgerly Enquirer after it folded—including their archives. Any chance he held onto those?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve got those all filed down in the basement. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“I am…I’m just not sure what that is…” I explain with a sheepish smile.
“You sound like King when he’s in ‘investigation’ mode,” she says knowingly. “Well, they’re not digital or anything, but I’ve got it sorted by date if you want to thumb through the files…”
“Oh, Helen, that would be amazing!” I exclaim, trying not to jump up and down like Jackson. “I just need to call the pub and see if someone can take the baby for awhile…”
“No need. I can keep an eye on this one for you.” She pokes the toddler’s belly, and he chuckles, as if he’s the Pillsbury Dough Boy.
“Really?” Bryan and I both ask at the same time.
“Who’s going to answer the phones?” he asks. “And handle the walk-ins?”
She quirks an irritated eyebrow at him. “You’re a big boy, Bryan. I think you can answer your own phone for an hour or two. And King’ll be back any minute,” she informs him and turns her attention back to us. “The door to the basement is back there on the left. The light’s at the top of the stairs. You’ll find the archives in the black lateral filing cabinets, organized by year, month, and date. Help yourself to the copy machine.”
I can only beam at the strange, sweet, surly woman who’s managed to thoroughly enchant my child.