Regarding Anna

by Florence Osmund

  “I have a birth certificate, so I guess I do have at least one fact.” She let out a nervous laugh. “I probably have more, but I don’t know what’s important.”

  “Who is listed as your parents?”

  “My parents’ names are on it, but I don’t believe they’re my biological parents.”

  I spent the next hour asking her questions, only some of which she was able to answer.

  Her story stunned me.

  Her parents had died six months from each other—her mother first from cancer. After her father died in a boating accident, she had found adoption papers in a safe deposit box that indicated her birth mother was Rosa Lindroth—my mother! Well, not my real mother...I don’t think. But she discovered strange errors on the adoption papers which she thought may have been forged to make it look like a legal adoption when it wasn’t. I didn’t tell her this, but some of the documents she mentioned should have never left the court and/or the agency.

  There were other things that hadn’t made sense to her, and she later found clues that led her to Anna’s boardinghouse. Over time, Fern located Anna’s friend, Esmeralda “Essie” Noe, the same friend Minnie had found for me. She went on to say that in order to get close to Essie, she’d joined Essie’s church and became involved in the same activities.

  After going to this church for several months, Fern learned from Essie that she had volunteered with her best friend Rosa at the Our Lady of the Angels School after their tragic fire. I remembered that tragedy—it happened in 1958 when I was a senior in high school. That put Essie and Rosa together after Anna’s death.

  I concluded the meeting by telling her I had enough information to get started on her case and would be back in touch.

  At first, I thought it too bizarre that Essie had known both my mother and Anna, but then I thought that was just one more piece of evidence tying all this—whatever this was—together in my case. And learning Essie had known my mother, I wondered if I had actually met Essie at some point.

  I had an obvious ethical dilemma. How could I charge this woman for investigating a case that would benefit my own interests? And giving her a bogus name complicated matters. That had been a rash decision on my part. In hindsight, I was not sure I should have done that.

  The first thing I did was start a background check on Fern Herschberger, which, thanks to the many contacts I’d made, I was able to do over the phone.

  I learned that she lived in Portage Park, taught fifth grade at T. Roosevelt Elementary School in Cicero, and had a bachelor’s degree from the University of Illinois. She had a valid driver’s license, no judgments or liens against her, and no criminal record. Nothing conflicted with what she had told me.

  I had been taught in school that a private investigator should never handle his own case. Now I understood why—something happened to the reasoning part of the brain when it was your own case. I walked out to Naomi’s desk to clear my head. I hadn’t seen Elmer yet, and I asked Naomi about him just to pass the time.

  “He said he’ll be in court all day,” she told me, rolling her eyes. “Has me working on his personal stuff.”

  I glanced down at her desk at what seemed to be a bank statement. It appeared he had her balancing his checkbook. None of my business.

  “Okay. Well, I’ll be in all day, I think.”

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “Yes. Everything is okay. Thanks for covering for me back there.”

  “Um, Nora Edgar called and said she’s found another agency to help her and won’t be needing your services.”

  Shit. I had let the Storage Room case slip through the cracks in deference to my own case.

  I went back to my office and waited until Naomi ran across the street to buy a sandwich for lunch. Something had prompted me to fish around her desk for Elmer’s bank statement. It was from North Community Bank and had been mailed to Waddershins Trust, 5405 W. Ferdinand Street, Chicago, Illinois.

  Seeing first-hand that Elmer was associated with Waddershins Trust, the trust that had purchased my parents’ house after they died, made me wince. Seeing proof that Elmer was living in my old house on Ferdinand made me sick.

  SIXTEEN

  Doing the Right Thing

  Three nights later, at ten o’clock, armed with a flashlight, camera, and a can of Mountain Dew, I climbed the twenty-five-foot chain-link ladder to Flora’s sons’ backyard tree fort and settled into the five-by-five-foot wooden box that smelled a little like a wet dog. It was my first stakeout for the Midnighter case. I scrunched my legs up under me—there wasn’t much else I could do with them—and watched the neighborhood.

  It was early April. The cool evening air felt more like a winter leftover than a promise of what spring was about to deliver. Minutes stretched into hours, and I passed the time pondering what to do about Fern. There seemed to be three options. I could continue using the fake name and work on the case like I would any other. I could tell her I had a conflict of interest and couldn’t work on her case at all. Or I could come clean and work with her.

  When one-thirty A.M. rolled around and the only movement I had seen was a large stumpy-tailed cat slinking across the next door neighbor’s backyard, I decided to call it a night.

  The next day, I decided to make contact with Essie on my own before making a decision about Fern. If Essie could provide more information, it would make the decision easier.

  I knew Essie worked, so I waited until after dinner to call her.

  “Esmeralda Noe?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Grace Lindroth, and—”

  She hung up on me.

  * * *

  I stewed for days, going from surprised to insulted to confused and then to angry. Essie wouldn’t have reacted that way after hearing my name if she hadn’t had something she wanted to keep from me.

  I had such mixed emotions about Elmer and his connection with my parents’ house. The trusting side of me wanted to believe there was a reasonable explanation for his having purchased it and then having lied about living there. For example, it was possible that he had innocently taken advantage of a good deal by buying it and now was embarrassed for me to know because he realized the reason I was not in that house was due to a personal tragedy. But the suspicious side of me didn’t buy that story.

  And I continued to anguish over Fern. If we worked together, we would have a better chance of resolving the issues than if we worked separately, and joining forces would end my deception of her. What was the worst that could happen? I didn’t know the answer to that—a bad position to be in. One thing I did know for sure was that I either had to come clean with her right then or forget coming clean at all. I decided to sleep on it one more night.

  The next day, I got ready for work, and as soon as I walked in the office door, Naomi told me Minnie was on the phone.

  “Are you sitting down?” she asked me.

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “That cousin Henry Sikes talked about?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Elmer Berghorn.”

  * * *

  What I would have given to be able to talk to someone about my situation—someone my age, someone who knew me well, someone to whom I could tell anything and all I would get back was support, someone who made it easier for me to be me. Attempts to rekindle that kind of relationship with Beth proved to be a lost cause—she was too wrapped up in her marriage and pregnancy. Not that I thought there was anything wrong with that. On the contrary, I was very happy for her. I just wasn’t very happy for myself just then.

  Thanks to the Midnighter case, I hadn’t slept well in days, and that had taken a toll on me. I had sat in that damn tree fort every other night for a week and seen nothing. On the nights I hadn’t been there, there were reports of stolen items. It was very peculiar, like someone was tipping off the burglar that I was there watching.

  Earlier in the day, Naomi had noticed I wasn’t myself and had asked me several times how she coul
d help. The problem with giving her work was that most of what I could give to her required me to do some upfront work first, and I wasn’t always up to it. That was a problem—I had lost two clients in two days because I hadn’t gotten back to them in a timely manner. I felt like things were starting to fall apart.

  Fern had left a message with Naomi for me to call her. I had to make a decision one way or another on what to do with her. It wasn’t fair to keep stringing her along.

  I went out and asked Naomi to call Fern back to see if she could come in to my office at seven o’clock that evening.

  * * *

  The afternoon and early evening dragged on. Each time I looked at the clock, it was only a few minutes later than the last time I’d looked. Before Naomi left for the day at five-thirty, she brought in a sandwich.

  “You can’t have your meeting on an empty stomach,” she said.

  I was lucky to have her.

  An hour before Fern arrived, I tried to eat the sandwich, but when the first bite stuck in my throat and wouldn’t go down, I put it aside. Damn nerves. I sipped on a cup of hot tea while I waited for her.

  When Fern arrived, without saying anything I brought her to my back room where I had spread out on the table all the photographs from my parents’ attic.

  “Before we start, Miss Herschberger, could you take a look at these photographs and tell me if anyone looks familiar to you?”

  Fern took her time studying the photos and then picked up the one of a newborn baby swaddled in a checkered blanket.

  “I know lots of babies look alike, but this one looks like me in some of my baby pictures. In fact, I have a picture of me right after I was born wrapped in the same kind of blanket.” She glanced up at me. “Same hospital maybe?”

  “Let’s sit down, Fern. I have so much to tell you.”

  SEVENTEEN

  One of Us Is Wrong

  It took me close to two hours to tell Fern everything I knew. When I got to the part about Anna’s death, she stared past me for several seconds with a lifeless expression.

  “I didn’t know that,” she muttered.

  “Fern, by any chance did you envision a joyful reunion with her if she turned out to be your birth mother?”

  “It never crossed my mind that she could be dead. A joyful reunion? No, I guess...”

  “Let me explain something to you. Less than fifty percent of these types of reunions result in something positive. Most people wish they had never made the effort in the first place.”

  She shot me a sharp look. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “No. Just more realistic.”

  She didn’t say anything else, so I continued, but she didn’t appear to be listening.

  A few minutes later, she said, “I’m not sure if I want to go on.”

  “Listening to my story?”

  “Searching for the truth.”

  “What’s making it less important than it was the day you walked into my office?”

  “That she’s dead. What’s the point if she’s dead?”

  “That’s up to you, but for me, it wouldn’t matter if she was dead or alive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The first morning I woke up after realizing my parents may not have been my birth parents, it was like waking up with amnesia, like I was living without a past. For me, I won’t be whole until I understand my past, and then my goal is to transcend the past, whatever that may be, and develop a meaningful future.”

  “But you have a past with wonderful parents, you told me. Just like I did.”

  “I know, but it’s not complete, and that’s a roadblock for me.”

  Fern nodded in agreement...barely. “I think I understand that. Maybe I need time to think about it...and get over Anna’s death. Please continue.”

  When I finished telling her the rest of what I knew, I leaned back in my chair and asked her what she thought.

  Without saying a word, she got up and walked toward the door.

  “Fern?”

  She opened the door and, after a brief pause, went through it.

  I was tempted to run after her, but instead I put myself in her place, her frame of mind, and knew it wouldn’t have been the right thing to do. She needed time—at least I hoped that was all it was. If not, I was afraid I had screwed up—big time. Up until I’d told her Anna was dead, I’d thought I had done the right thing by being completely honest with her. Now I wasn’t so sure.

  I waited thirty minutes until I was confident she wasn’t coming back before I went up to my apartment, poured myself a generous glass of wine, and curled up on the sofa. Each minute that ticked by strengthened the possibility that I might have seen the last of Fern Herschberger, and that was upsetting.

  The wine calmed my nerves some. I closed my eyes and rested my head on the back of the sofa, letting the savory red liquid glide down my throat. I had decided sipping wine was better than ironing—maybe not healthier but certainly more enjoyable.

  The knock on my door startled me, causing a thin stream of wine to slosh onto the sofa. Glass still in hand, I answered the door.

  Fern focused on the wine. “Do you have any more of that?” she asked.

  We laughed in harmony—long enough to dispel the awkwardness of the moment. I didn’t remember telling her that I lived upstairs, but I must have, and I was glad for that, even though I was embarrassed to have anyone see the place.

  “You asked me what I thought,” she began after tasting the wine. It was humiliating having to serve a guest Mad Dog, but it was all I had. “I don’t know what to think, and maybe that’s why I left—because I needed to process those thoughts.”

  “And?”

  “The more I thought about what you said, the part about living without a past, the more I thought that may really be the root of my problems as well. Let me clarify something for you. During our first meeting, you asked me the reason I wanted to find my birth mother. Well, what I told you was a lie—the same lie I keep telling my boyfriend, the same lie I keep telling myself really.”

  “That you want a family medical history before having children?”

  “Yes. But in my heart I know the real reason isn’t that at all. I’m angry. What kind of person abandons a newborn child? I wanted to confront her and have her explain to me why—why she gave me away. And so when you told me she was dead, I felt like I had nowhere to vent that anger. Keeping it bottled up inside has been painful—physically and emotionally. But you know something? I think sharing it with you has helped.”

  “You’ve stirred it up, and that’s the first step to releasing it. Now you need to find the truth to push it all the way out.”

  “It all makes sense. Where did you learn all this?”

  “I had to take a few psychology classes in my law enforcement program. At least some of what I learned has paid off. Getting back to Anna—and don’t forget we have no proof she was your mother, so whoever your mother was—I’ve read enough case studies on this to know there are some very legitimate reasons for mothers to choose adoption rather than raise the child on their own.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like they may not have the financial means to provide a safe and healthy place to live. Like they may not have the emotional stability it takes to raise a child. Like she may have been too young to be a good mother. Like—”

  “They sound like excuses to me. I’d find a way to make more money. I’d get counseling. I’d ask for help. I’d do whatever it took before I ever abandoned a child.”

  “You may be stronger than some women.”

  Fern was silent.

  “I hope I haven’t overstepped any boundaries,” I told her.

  She let out a heavy sigh. “No. You’re just doing your job.”

  “I’m trying to be your friend, Fern, not your hired PI.”

  “Okay, Lily.”

  “Touché. And one thing we haven’t talked about is that it looks like we were born six months apart, and
we both think Anna is our mother. At least one of us has to be wrong.”

  “It appears that way. Unless you were premature.”

  “Or we don’t know our real birthdays.”

  “Or one of us is lying.”

  “Will you ever forgive me for that?”

  “You know what?” she said. “I am so glad I picked your company out of the phone book that day.”

  “Me too. But tell me, out of all the PIs listed, what made you pick me, if you don’t mind my asking.”

  She stared at me without responding.

  “Fern?”

  “I’m not sure I should say.”

  “You don’t have to tell me, but considering—”

  “I called a bunch of them. You were the cheapest.”

  I was slow to laugh, and when I did, it came from deep inside my belly.

  “By a long shot.”

  Now we were both laughing so hard, we were swiping away tears.

  “In one case, by half,” she roared.

  “Okay, you can stop now.”

  It took us a while to compose ourselves, and when we did, we talked for another hour. We weren’t able to come up with any new revelations by combining what we knew, but we did agree that Essie Noe was most likely the one who could get us closer to the truth, and it was obvious I wasn’t the one who was going to get anything from her.

  We parted ways with Fern agreeing to try to get better connected with Essie—just how, she wasn’t sure.

  I poured myself another half-glass of wine and plopped down on the sofa. I was spent—physically, mentally, and emotionally—but it felt good. I had done the right thing.

  I took a last sip of Mad Dog, drew a nice hot bubble bath, and soaked long enough to get prune skin. As I put on my coziest pajamas, I thought about the soothing effect that crawling between the freshly laundered and ironed sheets would have on me.