Identity Issues (The Samantha Series)

by Whitsitt, Claudia

  Snap out of it, I told myself. You are a happily married woman. It caught me off guard that I was musing about a man other than Jon. Time to get my eyes and my thoughts back on the road. I focused on the sound of the tires humming on the pavement and turned on the radio. I took in the pines, the canopy of pale blue above them, and the groundcover peeking out, green again after winter’s eternal swaddling. Before I knew it, I hit the stoplight that beaconed Almaden’s town center.

  The city clerk’s office in Almaden sat smack dab next to the courthouse in the center of town. Since the town covered a mere two city blocks, I located it easily. A red brick building with two graceful columns, the most official looking building on the block, drew my attention.

  I arrived a little before ten. Perfect timing. The clerk stood right beside her oversized oak desk as I waltzed in. Her name tag read, "Agatha."

  "Harrumph," she said, giving me the once over. An intimidating woman in size and stature, her blue–gray curls coiled out behind clip–on earrings. Her reading glasses, affixed to their gold chain, rested at attention on her notable bosom. Honest to God, she scared the living shit out of me. And I’m a teacher.

  Her chair squeaked as she pushed it out of her way. WD–40 might have helped. Then again, maybe not. She lifted her glasses between her thumb and forefinger, placed them behind her ears with an oft–practiced gesture, and adjusted the spectacles to the tip of her nose. Her expression, one of suspicion and scrutiny, intimidated me.

  "Hello," I began, seeking a confident tone. "I’m so hoping that you can help me. I’m looking for the birth record of a family member who is now deceased. I’m helping my mother–in–law to compile the family tree." I paused to gulp in some much–needed air. "We’ve lost her brother–in–law’s information and would like to find his birth record to make sure that we have complete verification for future generations."

  I sounded so full of shit, I could hardly stand myself. Nervous, too. I should have role–played this at home. Developed a style that sounded convincing.

  To my surprise, Agatha purred like a waitress at a diner, "Honey, I can try to find it for you, but it might take me a little bit."

  Never judge a book by its cover, I reminded myself. My breathing slowed, as did my pulse.

  I recited all the info I had, including the other Jon’s supposed birth date, his parent’s names, and his mother’s maiden name.

  "I can see you and your mother–in–law have done your homework. That’s a big help, hon. We’ve entered all records since 1900 onto the computer. Thank goodness we’re small. We keep many official records, too. Not as trivial a task as one might think."

  "I’m sure you’re very thorough," I assured her. "When my mother–in–law and I did our research we discovered that as a family doing a genealogy search, we’re entitled to this information, isn’t that correct?" The best defense is a good offense, right?

  "Of course. Just let me see your driver’s license, dear. I’m required to follow a specific protocol, and I can’t be too careful."

  "I’m sure you can’t."

  With a disgusted shake of her head, she entered the information I gave her onto her computer.

  I remained motionless. Truthfully, I held my breath, too.

  "That’s strange." Agatha looked pensively at her monitor. "I don’t show any record of your uncle, dear, or his mother. I’ve lived here all my life and know most everyone. The name doesn’t ring a bell." She bent over her keyboard, typing in the mother’s maiden name, Webster.

  "I’m not finding anyone here by that name. Are you sure you’ve got the right town? There are lots of small towns up north."

  "I’m sure this is the town her husband’s parents lived in. Her husband wasn’t born here, but his brother was. My mother–in–law didn’t hesitate when we put all of this together." I thought I sounded pretty convincing.

  "We can check the actual records, but I’ll need to head down to the basement."

  "I’m sorry to trouble you." I felt awful making her trudge to the basement archives. I hated troubling anyone. Then again, this sprightly old gal seemed happy to set out on a worthy mission.

  "Don’t you worry, dear. Why don’t you help yourself to some coffee while I mosey downstairs? Clean mugs are on the shelf under the counter."

  "Thank you." I released a deep sigh, appreciative of Agatha’s kindness and efficiency. I didn’t imagine she’d find a birth record. So far, none of Stitsill’s facts had stood up to scrutiny.

  As she tottered off to the basement, I located the restroom, freshened up, and then sat down on a bench in the reception area with my coffee. I liked Agatha. Despite her tough exterior, she was a softy on the inside.

  As I waited, I began to question myself. Again. What if I was barking up the wrong tree? How would I feel if she actually found the birth record? I’d been agonizing about this impostor for months. What if he was a real guy, legitimate and all? That would certainly knock the wind out of my sail.

  When Agatha reappeared some twenty minutes later, she announced, "Well, Hon, it’s just as I thought. There’s not a thing here with any of these names on it. I checked for the mother, the father, possible siblings, everything. There is absolutely no record of anyone by any of these names. Perhaps they lived in a neighboring town."

  Overwhelming satisfaction engulfed me. I’d been right, after all. Of course, I couldn’t be candid with Agatha. I couldn’t admit I’d suspected all of the information I had was the fabrication of an impostor or that his death had been faked.

  I thanked Agatha, agreeing with her that we’d gotten our information from an unreliable source.

  Chapter Twenty

  ACCORDING TO WEBSTER’S Dictionary, obsession is defined as "a persistent, disturbing preoccupation with an often unreasonable idea or feeling." No doubt about it, I was the poster girl for obsession.

  I moved like a slug as I climbed out of the van at Joey’s house, shut the door, and traipsed around back to retrieve my tutoring materials. Anxiety.

  I heard the slam of a screen door, then the sound of middle school feet. Sure enough, Joey appeared.

  "Mrs. Stitsill! Hi!"

  "How are you, Joey?"

  "Great. Only twenty days of school left! Are you ready for summer?" He bounced like Tigger, and I envied his energy.

  "Teachers are always ready for summer, Joey, maybe even more than the students." I laughed as I handed him a few books, hoping their weight would settle him down a bit. We strolled up the oak shaded driveway together.

  "My mom’s home from the hospital. She said we could go for a bike ride later." He talked a mile a minute. I noticed that his voice cracked appropriately for a kid his age.

  As we entered the back door, I spotted Rosie, stretched out on the couch in the family room.

  "Hello, Rosita. How are you?" I asked, trying to stifle my startled reaction. She’d lost a good twenty–five or thirty pounds, aged half again that much and her complexion displayed the steel gray pallor that accompanies chemo. She slowly pushed herself upright as I entered the room—a good sign.

  "Joey mentioned the two of you are headed out for a bike ride after our session today."

  Already up to my elbows in this woman’s life, I hesitated in the doorway.

  "Yes," Rosie answered. "I can’t wait to go outside. I’ve been cooped up all winter."

  Her smile radiated like Joey’s. It occurred to me that I’d never seen her smile. I had only seen her sad and pensive, afflicted by what I assumed was a perpetual state of worry. I feared this might be her last spurt of energy, the one that often precedes death.

  I smiled back as she continued, "You and Joey go ahead and get started. I don’t want to delay you."

  She sat very still, as if it took a great deal of effort to control her failing body.

  I nodded sympathetically. "Come on, Joey, let’s get to work so you and your mom can enjoy your outing." As we stepped into the kitchen, I stopped dead in my tracks. An ornately framed photograph sat poi
sed on the end table. I stared at a snapshot of Joey’s dad, Jon Stitsill, the same guy that I’d seen emerging from Rosie’s garage. Twice now. A younger version, granted, but plain as day, the same guy.

  I wished I’d hidden my reaction. As I backed away from the photo, I shot Rosie a look of horror. She locked eyes with me. Would she somehow realize that I’d seen this man?

  We busied ourselves with Social Studies, discovering the culture of Central America. Before I knew it, I glanced up at the wall clock and saw that our time had ended. Rosie stood propped up against the doorframe, her head resting against the jam. How long she had been standing there?

  "Mrs. Stitsill, do you have a few minutes?" She glanced at her son. "Joey, why don’t you make sure the bike tires are pumped up and ready to go?"

  "Sure, Mom." He jumped up and dashed outside, the screen door slamming behind him.

  Rosie shuffled into the kitchen. It pained me to watch her struggle to sit at the table.

  "I’ve wanted to speak with you for quite some time," Rosie began hesitantly. "I wanted you to know how much I appreciate the care and concern you’ve shown for Joey. You could have slighted him after I intruded on your life, but you have been very compassionate with him. I think you are an especially decent person."

  I lowered my head, fixed my eyes on the table leg, and regrouped. Sincerely touched by her words, I felt guilty about my recent research. What I really deserved was a good tongue–lashing.

  "You’ve done an amazing job with your boys," I answered. "I know Joey much better than Emilio, but I hear glowing things about him, too. Joey is warm and considerate. You should be incredibly proud."

  Pride and devotion glowed in her eyes, despite a body ravaged by disease. Like it or not, she would soon leave her boys.

  "Thank you. I am proud of them. Very proud."

  Rosie stared off in the distance, fingering the scarf that took the place of her thick brown locks, and then she met my gaze.

  "That’s my husband, Jon," she said, pointing to the photograph. "I set it out the other day. I’m feeling sentimental, I guess. For a time we were a happy couple. I once thought we would be that way forever."

  "I understand." I nodded, then said, "A while back you told me that your husband tried to kill you and the boys." My moxie surprised me.

  "Sometimes Jon would cook dinner for us. He used the opportunity to contaminate our food. Once, the boys and I were so sick, we had to rush to the emergency room."

  "How did you figure out that he was poisoning you?"

  "Quite simple, really," she admitted. "Jon wouldn’t eat. He’d make dinner, nothing fancy, but then he’d make some excuse not to share the meal with us. At the emergency room, he acted like a concerned father and husband. The next day, I went through the garbage and found an empty container of rat poison. We hadn’t had any rodent problems. I confronted him, and he admitted what he had done. He said we were ‘in his way’."

  She sighed heavily, then continued, "He became violent, and it wasn’t the first time. This time, though, he targeted me and the boys. He terrified me, and I had nowhere to go."

  "Soon after, Jon disappeared," she continued. "I was relieved. It had gotten to the point where I was scared to fall asleep at night. I was terrified that he would hurt my boys. Then, when the police showed up to tell me that he’d killed himself, I felt thankful that I wouldn’t ever have to worry again." Rosie pressed her palms together as she looked at me.

  I asked, "Why did you ask if I was married to him? Why did you think he might still be alive?"

  "I didn’t see his body after he died. I didn’t want to. The police told me that he had shot himself in the mouth. That most of his head was gone. There was nothing left to see. But the more I thought about it, the more I began to wonder if he might still be alive."

  "Did you have any other reason to think that? Did he say anything before he disappeared? Were you surprised that he had killed himself? Did he seem suicidal?"

  Okay, I told myself, slow down.

  "I’m sorry," I said, "I’m asking all these questions, and it’s really none of my business."

  "It’s all right. I need to talk about it. My mother is the only one I have. She has enough to worry about with my illness and the boys. I don’t have much time left, and, if you don’t mind, I need to get a few things off my chest." Rosie paused to take a deep breath. "The last time I saw him, Jon told me that he wouldn’t be coming back. I had no idea he meant to kill himself. I thought that he would move away. He had been threatening me, telling me that he hated me and the boys, that we made his life miserable, and that he didn’t know why he had married me. I was exhausted and afraid."

  Defeat punctuated her words. When she looked at me again, tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away and squared her shoulders.

  "How have you been able to make ends meet?" I asked her.

  "Jon left money when he disappeared. Hidden."

  "Money?"

  "I discovered it a long time ago. He kept more than one box. There is a door behind the freezer in the basement, a wooden door with a simple latch. The door leads into a small cubbyhole. I found several metal boxes filled with large sums of cash," she whispered.

  Where did it come from?" I found myself whispering, too.

  "I don’t know, and I don’t want to know."

  "When you spoke to me that night at conferences, you said that your husband was an engineer. Do you really believe that?"

  "That’s what he told me, but now I’m unsure."

  "Has anyone ever come for the money?" I studied her, not wanting to miss any clue she might be able to provide.

  "No one," she answered, "although a few friends have stopped by asking for him. I guess they hadn’t heard that he had died." She was just reporting now, emotion absent from her voice.

  "If he had cash is such large quantities, his dealings may have been illegal. Other people might have been involved."

  "Probably. I… I just couldn't face that," she admitted. "I decided to keep quiet, because I needed the money to raise the boys. The men who came looking for him were very unsavory…kind of like the mobsters you see on TV."

  I nodded, sobered by what she’d experienced.

  "It’s difficult for me to admit, but I didn’t know my husband very well when we married. He took me in with his charm and good looks. He made me feel pretty. I was under his spell, I think." Her tears spilled free.

  "We all pick the wrong guy. At least once, I’m afraid. But I hate for you to be sad today. You’re looking forward to your bike ride with Joey. I’m sorry if I’ve brought up unsettling memories."

  I reached out and rested my hand gently on her arm. She didn’t pull away.

  Rosie lifted her gaze to mine. "There’s something else," she said.

  I nodded, waiting.

  "Before I approached you about my husband, an attorney telephoned me. He claimed to have witnessed Jon’s murder. He was emphatic that Jon had not killed himself."

  I narrowed my eyes and stared at Rosie. Was he the guy McGrath had mentioned to Jon? "Tell me, please," I said.

  "He was at the scene, he said, a self–proclaimed drunk who simply sat and watched one man shoot another."

  "Does that make sense?"

  "He explained that his life had taken a bad turn some years ago. He’d lost his family and his job."

  "Go on," I encouraged.

  "He was making amends. Part of his journey, he said, was to get in touch with me. He’d witnessed Jon’s murder and had done nothing to stop it. He wanted forgiveness."

  "Sounds a little farfetched, don’t you think?"

  "Maybe," she conceded. "But he also claimed that he’d spent years getting his life together, reclaiming his career, and finally looking into who I was and locating me. The most interesting part of his story was that he’d seen two men sitting in Jon’s car. Not one. Not a suicide."

  The pegs began to slide into the proper holes. Her husband had murdered someone else, setting up his own
suicide. "Do you think that’s possible?"

  "I never viewed Jon’s body after his death. I often feel as if someone is watching me. I’ve chalked it up to paranoia, but after all of this…" She looked at her desecrated hands, and touched her bald scalp. "…I don’t know what to believe."

  I inhaled. Talk about a defining moment. Should I tell her about her husband? What purpose would it serve?

  Just then, Joey’s tennies squeaked against the linoleum, and he appeared in the doorway. "Ready, Mom? I got the tires all pumped up."

  I wanted to ask Rosie for the lawyer’s name and phone number, but that question would have to wait.

  Rosie turned her face away from Joey’s, and brushed aside her tears. When she smiled at him, I swallowed hard, the depth of her love for him utterly heartbreaking.

  "Just a moment, sweetheart. You know how ladies can be when they get to chatting."

  "Are you alright?" I asked, leaning forward.

  She nodded, pushed back her chair, slowly rose to her feet, and squared her slender shoulders.

  She looked drawn and exhausted. I longed to usher her out into the sunshine and force life back into her failing body. We made our way out of the back door together. After I patted her on the arm, Joey guided his mother toward the bikes with obvious anticipation.

  I climbed into the van, started the engine, and backed out of the driveway. Through my rearview mirror, I watched the two of them ride off in the other direction. Then, I sobbed as I drove home.

  Chapter Twenty–One

  I DRIED MY TEARS as I slowed down to exit the freeway. I searched for and found the word of the day. Questions. They festered like a nagging child as I lay in bed each night, tossing and turning, struggling for some much needed rest. Questions plagued me by day, as well. Exhaustion dominated my attempts to maintain the normal life of raising my family, complete the school year, and make sense of my marriage. At every turn, I plunged ever deeper into the Stitsill’s life.