The Four Seasons

by Mary Alice Monroe

  After the fifth ring, the answering machine picked up.

  “Hello, you’ve reached the Connor residence. This is Dennis. Please leave a brief message after the beep.”

  She opened her mouth to speak but found she couldn’t. Why had he changed the message? Why didn’t he mention her name? After a moment’s hesitation, she disconnected the phone, then stared at it for a moment. Her gaze flicked over to the alarm clock. It was 10:50 p.m. Where could Dennis be? It wasn’t like him to be out late on a weeknight. With a shaky hand she slowly set down the small cell phone on the bedside table. She inched her way under the blankets and brought her legs up, cuddling her pillow. Birdie fell asleep with a whimper.

  Later that night, Rose was hot on the adoption search trail and had struck gold. She wanted to wake up Birdie, to call Jilly and tell her right away. Glancing at her watch, she frowned, cursing the lateness of the hour. Birdie was out like a light and Jilly had said she was exhausted and was going right to sleep too. Tucking away her disappointment, she bookmarked the location of the Soundex Reunion Registry, telling herself it could wait until morning.

  Then, with a deep breath, she switched to the e-mail. When she saw one from DannyBoy waiting for her, she grinned from ear to ear. She knew at that moment just how much he had come to mean to her.

  Dear Rosebud,

  I thought about you a lot today. I thought about what to write to you about myself. It would be easier just to send a picture, but I know you don’t want to do that. So, here goes.

  I’m 38 years old. I’m 5’10” and weigh 170 pounds. My hair is brown and my eyes are blue. I don’t have a mustache now, but the jury is still out on that. I’m a simple man. I like to camp and hunt. I guess I’m in the truck so much that when I’m not, I like to stretch my legs and get away from the road. I like to cook and I’m pretty good at it. I prefer to mix things myself and not follow recipes. I guess you could say I’m more of a loner. My job and my hobbies point that out. But I like people, too, especially family.

  I’m divorced. I have a ten-year-old son. He lives with his mom. She’s a good mother. My son means the world to me and I see him whenever I’m home. Which is in Nebraska.

  I know you’re not too far from Green Bay right now and I’m wondering if you know how long you’ll be in Hodges? My haul will be finished in a few days and I can try to make it to Wisconsin in about a week. If it works out, would you like to meet?

  DannyBoy

  Rose felt the blood drain from her face. Meet? My God, he wanted to meet?

  She slumped back in her chair and exhaled the breath she’d been holding. All along she’d supposed in the back of her mind that he’d want to meet her. But she’d managed to keep that possibility pushed far, far back in the nether regions of her brain. She’d read stories of how couples who had communicated by e-mail finally met and either got married and lived happily ever after or figured out pretty quickly that they weren’t meant for each other.

  She didn’t want that to happen to her and DannyBoy. She liked things just the way they were. Dropping her gaze she closed the e-mail and shut down the computer. She suddenly felt very cold and very tired. She climbed into her bed as silent as a mouse so as not to wake Birdie, who was once again sleeping fitfully. She lay staring out into the dark, listening to the clank and whir of the ancient heater while her mind cranked out different solutions to his simple question: “Would you like to meet?”

  She was only able to fall asleep much later when, exhausted, she told herself that it would be okay if she just didn’t reply to his e-mail, at least not for a while.

  14

  JILLY SAT WITH HER NOSE CLOSE to the screen, one hand clutching the mouse and the other a cup of coffee. Her blood raced with the first real ray of hope since being told by Catholic Social Services that they could not release information about her own child.

  “What is this place?” she asked, bubbling with excitement.

  Rose sat beside her on the bed grinning with delight that she’d been able to contribute to the search at last. “It’s the Soundex Reunion Registry. I just found it on the Internet last night.”

  “I can’t believe it. This can put me in direct contact with my daughter?”

  “Only if she registers, too. Think of it as a match service.”

  “So, how can I sign up? What do I have to do?”

  “It’s not an e-mail registry,” Rose explained patiently. “But we can write to request a registration form by mail or phone.”

  “Hang the mail. Let’s call.”

  “Okay, we will, but hold on. There’s something else I want to show you first.” She moved to the keyboard to type in an address and took Jilly to a site where birth mothers contributed information and stories about their search. Jilly set her coffee cup down, settled into a comfortable position and began to read.

  An hour later tears flowed down Jilly’s cheeks. The stories of other mothers who had gone through similar birth experiences had shaken her belief that she was alone. She wasn’t. There were so many who felt like her. Their pain was hers. Their loss was hers. Like her, many of them had had no real choice but to give up the baby for adoption. Like her, they’d been made to feel like a criminal deserving of some punishment. Some women had denied that the experience had happened. Others were haunted by worries for their child. Some women had gone on to have other children while others never had any more. All of them, however, shared a profound grief at having been separated from their child.

  Afterward, Jilly felt energized with hope and was eager to chase down every trail. On the Internet she’d collected the names and addresses of many groups and agencies that offered help and support. She dressed quickly in jeans and a sweater, heaved her soft leather handbag over her shoulder and went to Rajiv to buy stationery and stamps.

  “What brings you here this afternoon?” Rajiv asked, looking up from a stack of papers on his desk. “Looking for tea?” His smile transformed his serious, almost severe expression into a warm one Jilly couldn’t help but return.

  “I’m not quite the beggar that little dog is.” Then looking around, “But if you have some handy…”

  “I could make a fresh pot.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m starving and should go get something to eat. I’ve been so busy I sort of forgot.” She stepped closer to the counter and leaned against it, slightly flirty. “I discovered the Internet this morning.”

  He leaned back in his chair and raised his brows. “Your search has expanded, I see. Gone high-tech.”

  “Don’t tease. I knew what the Net was all about, barely, but I never really got involved with it. I didn’t need it in my line of work. I had no idea what I’d been missing. Thank goodness for Rose.”

  “What line of work were you in?”

  “Oh…modeling,” she replied somewhat defensively. “In Europe.” She struggled to keep her hand from straightening her hair. She knew she must look a fright with her hair a wild mess pulled back with a plastic clip and her sleepy face void of makeup. At least she’d brushed her teeth this morning, thank God. “Do you sell stamps?”

  “No. But I can give you one.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I need lots. In fact, I think I’ll express-mail this application. Where is the nearest post office?”

  “I’ll take you there. I have some things to mail myself.”

  Her brows lifted. “Thank you,” she replied, glad to spend some time with him. After all, she imagined talking to him was infinitely better than just thinking about him.

  The following day when she returned from her walk she was met at her room door by Rose waving a large envelope. Birdie and Hannah hovered close, their eyes shining.

  “This came for you while you were gone,” she said, handing over a FedEx.

  Jilly accepted the package reverently. “It’s from Mr. Collins.”

  “We were dying here waiting for you to get back.” She cradled the envelope like a newborn baby. It was neither thick nor heavy. What could be in it? sh
e wondered. One name? Many? Maybe an address? She felt the supportive presence of her sisters as she pulled the string and opened the envelope. She pulled out a few sheets of paper topped with a letter from Mr. Collins. Sitting down on the bed, she licked her lips and began to read.

  “He says that this is the list of names that his contact had provided for him. He reminds us that the contact could not reveal her sources, blah, blah, blah, but he feels confident that one of the names on the list is…” She looked up, her eyes round. “Is my daughter.”

  “Thank God,” Rose said. “Go on!”

  “He also writes that there will be a delay in the release of the adoption records.” She looked up. “Damn.”

  “Go on!”

  “The judge felt it necessary to appoint an intermediary,” she read. “Mr. Collins is surprised by this development and suspects it’s because the adoptive family might be wary of any contact with the dreaded birth mother.”

  “They didn’t say that!” Hannah was indignant.

  “I may have embellished a bit, but that’s my take on it.” She looked back at the letter. “He also warns us not to lose hope, that this is merely a delay. Yours sincerely, et cetera.”

  Jillian lay the papers in her lap. “I’m afraid to look.”

  “I’m not,” Birdie said, nudging her shoulder. “Aren’t you dying of curiosity? We already know what the baby was named.”

  “It’s getting so real. With each step we take, we’re that much closer to contact with her. After years of denial, this is all happening pretty fast.”

  “I understand how you feel,” Rose said, moving closer. “Sometimes we’re not ready to face things. We need a little more time. If you want to go slow, we’ll understand. We told you we’d support you.”

  Part of her wanted to wait. But hadn’t she waited too long already? Unlike Rose, it was her nature to be impulsive. Taking a deep breath, she moved Mr. Collins’s letter and looked at the list.

  There were eight names, three of them were variations of Anne. Two of them had foreign-sounding last names, which she doubted could be her daughter’s. The Seasons were English and Irish with red hair and blue-green eyes. Sister Celestine had assured her that they’d make every effort to match ethnicity and coloring.

  “I thought we knew her name was Anne,” Hannah said, looking over her mother’s shoulder as they crowded around the list.

  “I thought so, too,” Birdie replied. “But they may have changed it again.”

  Jilly shook her head. “I don’t think so. It would be different if I’d named the baby Ann.” She rolled her eyes. “Fat chance of that. But for the sake of argument, if I had, then I could understand the adopted family wanting to choose a name of their own for their child. But I didn’t name the baby. I was told not to, since it might make me more attached. So, if the adopted family named her Anne, why would they change it again? It wouldn’t make sense.” Looking at Birdie she asked, “Would you have changed Hannah’s name after you arrived home?”

  Birdie shook her head. “No, I see your point.”

  “Then why the other names?”

  There was a silence as they thought about this.

  “I think we should eliminate all the names except the variations of Anne,” Birdie said. “That way we’ll narrow our search focus. We were lucky to get the tip from the hospital records. Let’s go with it.”

  “I agree,” said Jilly. She took out a pen from the drawer, spread the paper out on the desk and she put an X beside three names.

  Ann Josephine Neville.

  Anne Rutledge.

  Anne Marie Parker.

  They stared at the list, each of them wondering which of these names was the one.

  “Who would have thought in a million years that the baby would have been given the same name as our mother?” said Birdie with a touch of awe. “What kind of irony is that?”

  “I think it’s poetic justice,” Rose said.

  “I call it sweet revenge,” Jilly scoffed. “Mother is probably rolling over in her grave.”

  “My God, are you bitter!” Rose exclaimed.

  “You bet I am,” Jilly replied, feeling the same pulse of fury she did every time she thought of her mother. “I never would have named my daughter after her.”

  “Get over it, Jilly,” Birdie retorted. “She wasn’t in the labor room with me, either. I wouldn’t have wanted her to be. She wasn’t that kind of mother.”

  “Oh, come on, Birdie,” Jilly snapped. “Let’s not pretend to compare our situations. I’m not referring to Mother being in the delivery room with me. She pretended that this delivery didn’t even take place.”

  “She was a flake, yes. She probably never should have had four children, but she loved us. I never doubted that.”

  “Sometimes loving a child isn’t enough,” Jilly countered.

  “Yeah,” Hannah muttered, crossing her arms.

  Birdie swung her head around to search her daughter’s face. It was mutinous and full of accusation.

  Jilly saw the stark pain etched on Birdie’s face, and a second later, saw it start to crumple. That was something she never thought she’d see. They’d called her The Iron Bird in high school because no one or nothing could make Beatrice Season cry.

  “Let’s not argue. This is our first real lead. Let’s get to work instead,” she said, rising to a standing position. She met Rose’s gaze and was relieved to see her nod in agreement.

  “Okay then!” Rose said, eager to begin. “We’ve got names. What do we do next?”

  “I’ll get the journal,” said Jilly. Her lithe, catlike body stretched across the bed as she grabbed the journal from inside her leather bag. “Okay, junior birdmen. Do you have your decoder rings on?” She looked up to see Birdie’s lips twist into a reluctant smile. Glancing at Hannah, she saw that the teenager had missed the reference completely. “We’re lucky Mr. Collins got us last names. From what I read on the Net this morning, it can take months for some women to get this far. According to the journal,” she said, scanning the page, “we should start at the county library and check out the city directories for the year of the birth.”

  “We know that the baby was born in Green Bay County. If we get a map, we can begin with a radius of fifty miles and start spreading out. Then we’ll hit the local phone books.”

  “It could take hours,” Hannah whined. “Days.”

  “Hey,” Jilly said sharply. Hannah’s head snapped up. “What are we here for? If you prefer—” she cut her niece a withering glance “—you can stay in the room and watch TV.”

  Hannah appeared a bit shaken by her favorite aunt’s sharp tone. “No, no, I want to come and help.”

  “Good,” Jilly said with a quick nod. She didn’t want to play the “good” aunt if it was causing trouble between Birdie and her daughter. Plus, she was getting increasingly concerned about the deliberate snubbing Hannah was giving her mother. Little digs like not sharing a room with her, not choosing a seat beside her in the restaurant, ignoring her mother’s comments or paying extraordinary attention to anything Jilly said.

  They all stood and grabbed their coats. Hannah left the room first, followed by Rose. As Jilly dug the key out of her purse to lock up, Birdie touched her sleeve.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “It’s nothing,” she replied breezily, then paused to meet her eye. “But between you and me, try not to see Hannah just as a child. Try to see her as a woman. You might find out she’s pretty mature.” She winked and started walking out of the room. “Hey, listen to me. I’m starting to get a handle on this mother-daughter thing.”

  The task of searching for an address match was not as easy as they’d thought it would be. Even dividing the labor between the four of them, two more days of searching had not uncovered a single match. The tension began to mount. Each afternoon, Jilly raced home to see if there was anything in the mail from Mr. Collins. Each evening Birdie called Dennis only to reach his answering machine. Each night Rose looked longi
ngly at the computer, but did not turn it on to check her e-mail. It sat closed and cold, like her heart felt.

  They filled their spare time prowling through Hodges’ shops. Rose bought an old hooked rug, lamps, doilies and a coverlet at the antique shop. Jilly bought glasses and teacups to cozy up their rooms. But nothing could lift their spirits as the search stalled. After three days of searching addresses, their morale was slipping. Jilly looked at her sagging troops and decided they needed reinforcements.

  “Girls,” Jilly said, popping a Hershey kiss into her mouth the way Caesar would a grape, “I think I’ve hit a new low.”

  Spread out over the two double beds in her room was a greasy cardboard carton with one cold slice of cheese-tomato-olive pizza left in the center. A bag of Hershey Kisses, a bag of chocolate chip cookies, an empty bag of Doritos and a bag of gummy bears lay opened beside it.

  “Let me guess,” Birdie said, pummeling her pillows to prop up behind her aching back. “In elegant France, the ladies never binge.”

  “Chérie,” Jilly said with a pout, “perhaps on fine Swiss chocolate and champagne. But on pizza and beer? Mais non!”

  “They don’t know what they’re missing. This is what I like to call the All-American-All-Girls Slumber Party. It’s better than Prozac.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had so much junk food in one sitting,” said Rose, rolling over onto her stomach beside Jilly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “No, you aren’t. You’re just too full of lentil and soy. A little decadence is good for the soul,” Birdie said, popping another cookie.

  “But bad for the waistline,” Jilly countered. Then, tossing a candy at Birdie, she added, “I can’t believe you’re a physician.”

  “You know what they say,” Birdie replied, catching it readily. “Physician heal thyself.”

  “We’ll pay tomorrow,” Jilly predicted, pushing the bags of candy farther away from her on the bed. “All except Hannah. Look at our budding beauty over there.” She pointed to Hannah who was sitting on the floor doing her nails. “Am I the only one who noticed she only had one piece of pizza and not a single bite of chocolate?”