The Four Seasons

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Rajiv’s clothes were not expensive, but they were spotless and well pressed. His nails were neatly trimmed. His black lace-up shoes were of good quality leather that, though quite worn, was polished.

  He seemed aware of her perusal but she couldn’t be certain. She liked his diffidence. It implied good manners. And self-control. He took his time, offering her cream with a raised brow. She shook her head no. Sugar? No. He handed over the cup and saucer with quiet aplomb. It struck her as all rather bizarre. His Old World elegance was as out of place in this shabby motel office in northern Wisconsin as was the custom of British teatime.

  The tea was lovely, but her mind snapped back to the phone call that was due. “Do you have cigarettes for sale?”

  “I do, but not much of a selection.”

  “I’m rather desperate.”

  He smiled. “In that case, I’ve made a sale. One moment, please.”

  She swallowed the tea in short, quick gulps. The Darjeeling was fragrant and she welcomed the warmth to ward off the chill of the late afternoon. She glanced at her watch, impatient to be back in her room, worried that Mrs. Strobel might not find the file before the end of her workday. When he offered three brand choices, she chose one and paid quickly.

  “Oh, damn,” she exclaimed, setting down her cup and searching frantically in her purse. “I’ve forgotten my key.”

  “I can open the door for you with the master.”

  “Thank you. Could you hurry, please? I’m expecting an important phone call.”

  The phone was ringing when they came to the door. He opened the door quickly and she ran inside, but the line was dead when she picked it up. She felt her heart drop to her shoes and sat on the bed with a heavy sigh, cursing herself for even leaving the room in the first place. She couldn’t have been gone more than ten or fifteen minutes!

  “Was it very important?” he asked.

  “Yes, very,” she replied, raking her hands in her hair.

  “Then whoever it was will call again.” He stepped outside the door. “I should be going. I’ll bring you a cup of tea while you wait.”

  “Thank you.” The phone rang. He opened the door a bit to catch her eye and deliver a grin that said, See, I told you. Smiling, she answered the phone.

  “Hello, Miss Season?”

  “Yes! I’m so glad you returned the call. I doubt I would have endured the night waiting.”

  “I’m sure after twenty-six years, you’ve waited long enough.”

  Her voice was kindly and Jillian knew by the comment that she had already read the file.

  “I have the file before me,” Mrs. Strobel began. “But you realize that by law I cannot disclose identifying information.”

  Jilly wanted to ask why not? This was her daughter, after all. Why could Mrs. Strobel know where her daughter was and not herself? But she knew her complaints would be useless and that Mrs. Strobel was only doing her job.

  “First of all, I’m sure you want to know that your daughter was born healthy and normal in every respect. The adoption was final in 1974 and there are several notations indicating that the adoptive family was overjoyed with their new daughter. In their words, they thought themselves blessed.”

  Jilly tried to be happy for them, yet she couldn’t help begrudge them the blessing that should have been her own. She looked out the window and swallowed hard. “Please go on,” she said. “What was the family like?”

  “Well-educated. Catholic. Father is a professional. Mother stayed home with her daughter. Follow-ups reported that your child was well-adjusted, bright, social. She excelled at school.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Let’s see.” Jilly heard the papers rustle and was in agony wishing she could see them. “She has blue eyes and red hair. It’s noted that she is quite beautiful.” She could hear the smile in Mrs. Strobel’s voice.

  Her daughter had the Season red hair. Her heart skipped a beat. “What did they name her?”

  There was a pause, and Mrs. Strobel said with remorse, “I’m sorry. I cannot divulge names or addresses.”

  “Not even her first name?”

  “I’m sorry. I wish I could.”

  She thanked her and hung up the phone. For a while, she stood still and stared at the little motel room. The paisley-covered beds, the futuristic lamps, opened suitcases on the floor—all looked as they had minutes before. Yet her whole world had shifted.

  It was real. She had a daughter. A redheaded, blue-eyed girl. The urge to find her came suddenly and overwhelmingly.

  There was a knock on the door. Jilly reluctantly went to answer it, knowing it was Rajiv, but wanting to be alone with her news. She opened the door to find him standing there with a small pot of tea and a single cup.

  “Here is your tea.” He handed her the cup and moved to place the pot on the bureau. Then he paused and studied her face, compassion written on his own. “Are you all right? You’ve been crying.”

  Jilly lifted her fingertips to her cheeks. She hadn’t even realized that tears were flowing down her cheeks. “I’m okay,” she replied, smiling wide and quickly wiping them away. She felt a sudden elation, like a balloon had just filled her chest. “I’ve had some news. Wonderful news, actually. About my daughter.” The word daughter still hung on her lips and floated in the air, unfamiliar, but very, very welcome.

  He smiled, pleased. “She must be beautiful, like her mother.”

  Jilly laughed then, she couldn’t help herself. “She is,” she replied, amazed that she knew this. “I only just found out.” When he looked perplexed she went on, “I’m searching for my daughter and I only just learned the first bit of information about her. That was the phone call. You see, I gave her up for adoption after her birth. That’s why we’re here. We’re searching for her. Me and my sisters.”

  “I see.”

  She heard no judgment in his comment. “I had her when I was quite young, not far from here. At Holy Hill.”

  “The home of the Catholic sisters?”

  She smiled at his phrasing. “Yes. A long time ago.”

  “I see,” he repeated. “And did you locate your daughter?”

  “No, not yet. But I will.”

  He turned to pour out a cup of tea and handed it to her. “It’s not champagne, but it is a good-quality tea. Congratulations!”

  The fragrance of the tea floated between them. She thanked him and took a sip. It was heavenly. She closed her eyes, thinking the heady tea much more perfect for a quiet celebration than champagne.

  “Such wonderful tea. Where do you get it?”

  “My family sends it to me from India.”

  “Have you been here long?”

  “Not very. I arrived a year ago this May. My father and uncle came to America twenty years ago. They started with one motel, and now they own several, mostly in the south. Georgia, the Carolinas, Tennessee. I suppose you can call them examples of the American Success Story. They only recently started branching out in the Midwest. I have brothers and cousins managing other motels. My father offered me a start with this motel.” He smiled briefly as his gaze scanned the room. “A rather rough start,” he added without rancor. “I don’t know that he was convinced of my sincerity at this profession. But I’m grateful for the opportunity. I needed a change. My life in India became—” He paused. “Untenable.”

  “You mentioned your family in India. Your wife?”

  His face clouded. “My wife died three years ago.”

  She saw again a glimpse of the fire raging in his eyes and had a hint now of its source. How hard it had been for her to give up her daughter to live with another family. How much harder it must be to give up a loved one to death. “I’m sorry,” she replied, knowing it was inadequate, but enough.

  He accepted her sympathy with a polite nod. His stillness gave nothing away.

  More knocks sounded at the door. “Open up, Aunt Jilly. It’s me!”

  There was a second’s discomfort between them, as though
his being there in her room implied something illicit. Refusing to acknowledge it, she opened the door and smiled with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Wonderful news!” she exclaimed.

  “No, we have wonderf—” Hannah’s sentence ended as she caught sight of Rajiv. Her gaze darted from him to Jilly, her expression changing from surprise to suspicion en route.

  “I had better leave you to your good news. Don’t worry about the teapot,” Rajiv said, outwardly resuming his formality. “I’ll have the maid bring it back when she cleans your room. Good day.”

  When their eyes met, she shared with him a private communication that dissolved the formality between them.

  Birdie and Rose came from their room in time to see Rajiv leaving. Their eyes were as round as the teacups.

  “He came to bring me tea,” she explained, indicating the teapot. “Now, what is your good news?”

  Accepting her explanation at face value, they hurried inside to sit on the bed, excitement brimming in their eyes.

  “We found your hospital records!” Rose exclaimed.

  “What?” Jilly’s breath caught in her throat. She stared dumb-foundedly at her sisters. “But how did you know which hospital?”

  “We didn’t,” Birdie explained. “But we figured it had to be one of the three in the area so we started off at the closest one, and bingo! We got lucky. Does the name University Hospital ring a bell?”

  “No.”

  Birdie laughed. “That’s because the university bought the hospital seven years ago. How about St. Francis?”

  Jilly’s mind clicked as another piece fell into place. “That’s it! That’s it!”

  “We could have been stymied with that for days…weeks. Like I said, we just lucked out.”

  Jilly couldn’t believe their good fortune. “And they just gave the file to you?”

  “Well…no. I told them a plausible story about research I’m doing on live female births in the region in 1973. I gave them my identification and because I’m licensed in the state of Wisconsin, they granted access.”

  “Hannah and I stayed out of the way to avoid suspicion,” Rose added.

  “I had the date of birth and the mother’s name to go on. But guess what? Your memory’s off. You had the birth date wrong by one day.”

  “No!” Jilly said in a hushed whisper, sitting down on the bed. Her knees felt weak. “No. I can’t believe that. How can that be true? I’m the mother. I was there.”

  Birdie shrugged. “Sometime the memory gets a little hazy. You didn’t write it down anywhere or have a birth certificate, and it’s been a long time. Where’s the journal?”

  Rose reached into the shoulder bag, pulled out the green leather journal and handed it to her. Birdie opened it and sat down on the mattress beside Jilly to share the notations. Rose and Hannah clustered near.

  She cleared her throat. “Your daughter was born at 4:14 p.m. on May 17, 1973, at St. Francis Hospital. The attending physician was Dr. Joseph Brewster. The anesthesiologist was Dr. Robert Clayton. Baby Girl Season weighed 7.2 pounds, was twenty-one inches long and in excellent health. She was discharged to Catholic Social Services on May 20.” She looked up and smiled triumphantly at Jilly. “Your daughter’s name is Anne.”

  That evening they went to the Country Diner to celebrate all they had learned. They brought wine with them and shared it with Maude and the older, timid gentleman behind the soda fountain, who turned out to be Larry, Maude’s husband of forty-seven years. Together they owned and worked the restaurant.

  “Were you working here back in 1973?” Jilly asked them.

  “I sure did,” Larry answered a bit shyly. His bushy white brows wagged. Under them, his pale eyes shone warmly. “Not the missus, though. She was at home with the children. And if you’re wondering if I served you a soda, I probably did. I made sodas and milk shakes for a lot of them Marian House girls. Always added an extra scoop for them, too.”

  “For all the girls, I thank you,” she said, raising her glass in a toast.

  More toasts followed. They felt triumphant. Anne had really been born! Another Ann Season with blue eyes and red hair was out there somewhere.

  By the time they arrived back at the motel, everyone was exhausted and a bit tipsy. Hannah and Jilly went directly to their room for sleep. Birdie and Rose did the same.

  “I think I’ll brave it and face the shower,” Birdie said, rubbing the small of her back.

  “Go ahead,” said Rose. “I’m going to go online.”

  Birdie’s back was aching and she felt mild cramping. She was overdue for her period again and had the wishful thought that perhaps she might be pregnant. It was mere reflex after years of trying for another baby and she shook the notion away with irritation at the reminder of all the disappointment. At her age, it was much more likely signs of approaching menopause.

  She stepped into the hot downpour and relished the feel of the water pounding against her back and stiff neck. Laying her palms against the tile, she thought of Dennis and wondered what he was doing at that moment. Was he alone or with friends? Was he thinking of her, too? Over the past several days she’d tried not to think of him at all, or the words he’d flung at her before he left Evanston so abruptly. She could not believe he really meant them. He wouldn’t toss away twenty years because of an argument.

  But he hadn’t returned any of her phone calls. A part of her wanted to punish him for ignoring her, for saying such cruel things and for making her cry, but she missed him. Just the possibility of him leaving her made her ball her fists and start crying. Hating the tears, she put shampoo in her hair and began to scrub her scalp vigorously, all the while sobbing, her tears mingling with the hot water, her cries blending with the loud hiss of the shower.

  When her hair was washed, her tears seemed to be finished as well. Reaching for a towel, she felt a bit foolish but immeasurably better. She began drying her rounded body, noting with dismay how her breasts sagged pendulously and how her once curved waistline flared out in the classic pear shape teens made fun of. Leaning closer to the mirror she plucked at her hair with a frown. When did all that gray come in? she wondered, stunned at seeing the crop creeping in like weeds. How had she been so busy that she didn’t pay attention to such things as her hair, her weight and her nails? Living with Jillian the past week had made her painfully aware of how she’d let herself go over the years. She felt like an elephant next to a gazelle. No one would guess now that Jilly was the elder sister. It was no wonder Dennis left, she thought with utter dejection.

  Stepping out into the chilly room, she was glad Rose wouldn’t be able to tell if she had been crying or just had soap in her eyes. She saw her sister wrapped up in her old baby-blue terry robe, her feet covered in thick wool socks, hunched over the computer busily pounding the keys. Her long strawberry-blond hair was roped up in a disheveled mess on her head that managed to look fetching. Did Rose know how pretty she was? Hers was not a glamorous beauty, like Jilly’s, but a soft, natural one that was easy on the eyes. Birdie felt an old twinge of regret bubble up that, when compared to her sisters, she was not much of a looker.

  Rose looked up briefly to smile, then dove back to whatever it was that had captured her interest. Birdie began to dry her hair. Rose was a funny one, she thought to herself. She remembered how she could sit for hours as a child and sort through her stamps. The family joke was that a bomb could go off and Rose wouldn’t notice if she were concentrating on something.

  “Hey, Rose, what are you doing?”

  Rose looked up again, her eyes sparkling with an excitement rarely seen in her. “I’m researching adoption on the Net. Some of these stories by the birth mothers are incredible. I swear they’ll break your heart when you think of our Jilly. Do you want a look?”

  “Yes,” she replied wearily. “But not now. I’m pooped and I want to call Dennis first.”

  Rose’s smile slipped and Birdie saw the worry crease her brow. “Do you want to talk about it first?”

  Birdie d
idn’t want to talk about it with Rose—or anyone else. Her problems with Dennis were her own business. “There’s nothing more to tell,” she responded breezily. “I’m just checking in with him. Really, we’ll get over our little tiff.”

  “You’ll want to use the phone. I’ll get off the line.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll use my cell phone.”

  “Are you sure?” Rose didn’t look convinced. “Don’t you want privacy? I can go to Jilly’s room.”

  “Rose! You don’t have to stop what you’re doing for me. It wouldn’t be fair to you. I love you and I’m grateful, but you really shouldn’t put yourself out so much.”

  Rose sighed and looked deeply into her eyes. Birdie knew a sudden feeling that, here again, as with the night of Merry’s death, Rose had a depth that she had never appreciated.

  “I don’t mind putting myself out,” she replied by way of explanation rather than defense. “I rather enjoy it. Especially for those I love.”

  Birdie rubbed her hair vigorously with a towel, deeply affected by Rose’s words. “Go on back to your Internet and I’ll use my cell phone. Besides, it’s clear you’re on to something.”

  “I am. But if you change your mind about the privacy thing, just let me know. I’ll go off line and leave the room. It’s no trouble.” She turned back to the monitor and in a moment was lost in her world again.

  Birdie quickly slipped into her long nightgown, boosted the heat a bit, then came to her bed and tucked herself under the covers. Picking up her phone, she dialed her home number. While the phone rang she told herself several times that this wasn’t a major call. She was just calling to let him know where she was.