The Woman in the Photo

by Mary Hogan

  “Yesterday was my . . . my . . . birthday.” Without warning, Lee erupted in tears. They spilled from her eyes like paint from a kicked-over can—all thick and spreading across her cheeks. She slapped one hand over her mouth to stop them, but it was too late. A year’s worth of emotions flowed out of her. She cried for her lost future, her old bedroom with the front window that cast slanted shadows on the walls she’d painted herself. She missed Shelby; her brother, Scott; her dad. Beyond any ability to control it, she wept for all the ways life wasn’t the way it was.

  “I’ve been wondering when these would appear,” Valerie softly said, fishing wads of tissues from her purse.

  “Now?” Lee blubbered, causing both her mother and the tall goddess to laugh. Valerie shrugged and said, “Tears happen.”

  Quietly, the young receptionist gripped her handbag and tiptoed for the elevator bank. In the elegant accent of a Somali princess, the woman with the manila folders flagged them inside saying, “I have more tissues at my desk.” Then she lightly placed her hand on Lee’s forearm and squeezed. “I’m Abiyatou,” she said.

  “I don’t usually cry in public,” Lee cried. “Or at all really, that much.”

  “It’s okay. We see a lot of tears in this office. Happiness. Misery. Premenstrual.”

  Lee sniffed and smiled. “Thank you, Abitoy—”

  “Call me Abby.”

  “Thank you, Abby,” Valerie said as they both followed the beautiful woman into a large air-conditioned space full of cubicles and leaning stacks of files. Around them, computers were being shut down, chairs were pushed under desks, lamps were clicked off, totes were swung onto shoulders.

  “Say a prayer that my kids haven’t been playing video games with the a/c blasting all day.” A middle-aged woman with cottony hair joined her coworkers on their way out. “My DWP bill was over two hundred dollars.”

  The sights and sounds of exiting filled the cluttered room. “See you tomorrow. Same time, same place, same bad coffee. Ha ha ha.”

  By the time Lee and Valerie reached Abby’s cubicle near the far window, almost everyone else was gone.

  “It’s my fault we’re late,” Valerie confessed. “Lee would have been here hours ago. I shouldn’t have insisted on coming with her. I know better. Mrs. Adell is always careless with the time. My time. Today, of all days, I should hav—”

  Abby silenced Valerie’s mea culpa with a pat on her hand. “You got lucky today. My ride home is delayed. Have a seat.” She put the manila folders in her in-box and dragged one of her coworkers’ chairs to the opening in her cubicle. With a gentle motion of her slender hand, she invited Lee to sit in the chair beside her desk. Then she seated herself and faced them both. “How can I help you?”

  “I got this letter,” Lee said, wiping her nose with the tissue and inhaling a hefty breath to recover her composure. “Well, we did. My parents. But it’s about me. Sort of. I mean, I think so. Part of me. Yes, me.”

  Lee bit the inside of her cheek to shut herself up. Abby leaned forward and took the letter. As she read it quietly, Val and Lee watched her eyeballs move from side to side like windshield wipers.

  “Let’s see here.” She placed the letter next to her computer and smoothed it flat with her hands. After turning the screen away from Lee and her mother, Abby rested her long fingers on the keyboard. She typed in the case number Lee knew by heart. From their vantage point, all Val and Lee could see was the back of Abby’s computer and the rippled harvest moon of her hair. Keyboard clicking was the only sound in the room. In fact, it wasn’t until Lee audibly sucked in air that she realized she’d been holding her breath.

  “Here we are,” Abby said. “You’re the Parkers?”

  “Yes.” Valerie leaned forward. “I’m Valerie and this is my daughter, Lee.”

  “Elizabeth,” Lee blurted. “My original name. The name on the letter.”

  “Yes. I see.”

  “I know all about my adoption,” Lee added quickly. “It’s never been a secret. I mean, you don’t have to protect us. My mom wants me to know whatever there is to know.”

  Abby nodded as Valerie pressed her lips together in a tense smile. When she reached for Lee’s hand, Lee understood the gesture was meant to calm her down. One, two, three . . . she counted the numbers on Abby’s keyboard. “It’s been a tough year,” Val said.

  “These things are always emotional,” Abby stated, simply. Then she jotted something on a scrap of paper and hit the escape button on her keyboard. “Can I see your ID?”

  Lee pulled out her driver’s license and handed it to Abby. As she held it up to Lee’s face, Abby’s wheat-colored eyes compared the photo with the real girl. Satisfied, she said, “I’ll be right back.” Up she stood.

  Valerie stood, too, moving her chair aside to let Abby out of her office. In silence, Valerie watched Abby glide over to a bank of lateral filing cabinets and consult her paper. She saw her pull out a drawer overstuffed with files. Each file a person. A life. A family. A mystery. Suddenly her cheeks stung. She felt like crying, too. The letter had stated they had information regarding “medical history.” What if they found out that Lee had inherited a disease? Or some kind of defective gene she would pass on to her kids. What if she decided not to have kids as a result? Val would never be a grandmother. Lee would never be a mother. She would die alone with an arthritic cat. Maybe twenty cats. All strays. How was it possible she’d never worried about any of this until that very moment? Critical medical information was never good, was it? No one sent you an official letter to inform you that your genetics pointed to an ancestry of centenarians who died in their sleep.

  “Lee.” Valerie wheeled around and looked at her daughter, seeming so small and vulnerable in the state-issued office chair.

  Instantly, Lee read her mother’s face. “It’s going to be okay,” she said.

  “It’s not too late to forget about the whole shebang and go home.”

  Gripping the vinyl armrests, Lee admitted, “I’m a little scared, too.”

  That’s all Valerie needed to hear. Crouching low before her daughter, she placed both hands on Lee’s knees. Softly, she said, “We can leave, you know. Abby will understand. We can march straight for the elevator right this second. You needn’t ever be more than Lee Parker. My daughter. That has always been—and will always be—enough.”

  Lee looked into her mother’s light green eyes and saw the love she knew would forever be there. She wanted to whisper, Let’s go. Together, they would thank Abby and she would nod knowingly. They would pass the slow elevators and run for the stairs again—set free—handbags flapping in their wake. Outside, in the broiling downtown parking lot, they would tilt their heads up to the setting sun and clamp one hand on their pounding chests and say, “Whew. We dodged a bullet.” On the way home, Valerie would type “ice cream” into Lee’s iPhone and say, “Left at the light. Right two blocks ahead.” All the lights would be green. Inside Baskin-Robbins, Lee would inhale the smell of frost and order a double scoop of Pralines ’n Cream. “Don’t miss that mother lode of caramel,” she’d say, joking but serious. As they slid into pink seats attached to a pink table, they would reach their free hands across the sticky surface to grasp each other in solidarity. It wouldn’t matter that Lee’s fingers were long and thin and her mother’s were Jimmy Dean sausage links.

  Still.

  “If I don’t find out now,” Lee said, her voice quivering, “I will always wonder. I don’t want to always wonder.”

  “Everything okay?” Abby suddenly materialized at the entrance to her cubicle with a single folder in her hands. Lee was shocked to see how thin it was. As if nothing were in it at all. Her heart began to push its way out of her chest.

  “Honey?” Valerie said to her daughter, still squatting.

  “I’m fine.” Lee sat up straight. “I’m ready.”

  “You’re sure?” her mother asked.

  Lee nodded. Not sure she could trust her voice.

  As soon as Valer
ie got up and out of the way, Abby entered the cubicle and sat down. She set the closed file aside. “We’re in no rush here,” she said. “The information we have for you is yours forever.”

  “I want to know,” Lee blurted. “Now. Whatever it is.”

  “Some adoptees wait until they’re ready to have children,” Abby went on. “Others don’t feel the need to know medical history at all. You’re young, Lee. You have plenty of time to find out about yourself. What’s the hurry?”

  How could she answer in front of her mother, the woman who didn’t give her life, but who gave her a life? How could she admit that her need to know who she was had been a shadow standing next to her always?

  “I’m ready,” she said with a period, silently thinking, Right now. Not in another eighteen years or eighteen seconds. Yesterday was her birthday, but that sunny afternoon in Abby’s cubicle was the moment of her birth.

  “What do you have to tell me?” she said.

  Abby nodded. “Okay.”

  For the next several minutes, Abby explained the process. She counseled Lee and her mother on what they might hear, what it might mean. “Genetic predisposition is not fate. It’s an elevated risk due to the discovery of a gene mutation. It may, or may not, result in disease.”

  Valerie squeezed her daughter’s hand. Lee swallowed. Both bobbed their heads even though they didn’t fully comprehend what Abby was saying. Did Lee have a mutant gene?

  After she was done speaking, Abby made a copy of Lee’s driver’s license. She gave her a form to sign and notarized her signature. In a soothing voice, she asked, “How are you feeling?”

  “Nervous as hell,” Valerie said.

  Abby smiled. “I’m wondering how Lee feels, too.”

  Lee paused. How did she feel? Nervous? Yeah. Excited? Yeah. She felt so many different emotions she couldn’t put her finger on one alone. Out of the blue, a thought popped into her mind. She said, “I feel like I’m about to meet myself.”

  At that moment, all doubt vanished like chimney smoke on a cold desert night. “Let ’er rip,” she said.

  Abby opened the skinny file. Over its top edge, Val and Lee again watched her eyeballs move left and right. “Oh,” she spurted. “Interesting.”

  “Interesting?” Lee and Valerie echoed the same word at the same time.

  “Are you familiar with the Ashkenazi tribe?”

  “Indians?” Lee asked. “I mean, Native Americans?”

  “No. The Ashkenazim are an ancient tribe of Jews.”

  “I’m Jewish?”

  “Yes, actually. On the maternal side of your birth genetics is a direct line back to the Ashkenazim. Probably from Germany. Maybe Palestine.”

  “Neat,” Lee said, grinning.

  “The only reason this is potentially important information is because recent genetic testing has revealed that there are some elevated medical risks particular to Ashkenazi women. That’s why your file was flagged.”

  “Risks? Like what?” Valerie leaned forward.

  Abby said, “Again, genetic risks can be relatively small. Although, Ashkenazi women who inherit a certain gene mutation do have to be vigilant. The reason we inform adoptees is so they can make sure this information is a part of their medical record. Your doctor will help you decide if genetic testing is appropriate.”

  “Genetic testing for what?” Lee gripped the armrests again.

  “Well, breast and ovarian cancers are the biggest concerns,” she said, gently.

  “Cancer?” Valerie blanched.

  “And some other diseases like—” Abby’s fingers returned to the computer keyboard. She read: “Bloom syndrome, Canavan disease, Gaucher disease.”

  “I’ve never even heard of those. Is my daughter in danger?”

  Abby replied, “We advise all adoptees and their families to discuss this information with a licensed genetics physician. I can give you a list of referrals in your area.”

  “Thanks,” Val said, still pale. Lee felt numb. She’d come all this way to find out she might get cancer?

  “While I get that for you,” Abby said in a bright voice, “there’s something in your file you might want to see. I have no idea how we ended up with it. Maybe your birth mother attached it to her paperwork? At any rate, I see no harm in showing you if you want to see it.”

  “See what?” Lee blurted.

  “A photograph of your maternal ancestor.”

  Lee’s mouth flew open. “What?” Valerie scooted to the edge of her seat as Abby pulled an old black-and-white photo out of the manila folder. She handed it to Lee, who was surprised to feel her hands tremble. The photo was a small snapshot of two women—one tall, like her, the other short. Both were regal in their way—staring straight into the camera lens. All around them was dirt and rubble. Leaning in to take a look, Valerie squealed, “Honey! That’s you!”

  It was true. The tall woman on the right, slightly in the background, looked just like her. She had dark messily upswept hair, wavy bangs that danced across her forehead, intense eyes like espresso beans. Like Lee’s. In her placid face, Lee saw her own slightly pointed nose, the heart-shaped curve of her upper lip, the same two valleys just below her cheekbones. Lee felt an instant connection. At last, she’d found her people.

  “What’s her name?” she asked, excited.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that,” Abby said. “As you know, yours was a closed adoption. All identifying information is sealed.”

  “Can I keep the photo?”

  “I’m afraid not. It stays with the file. But, go ahead and take a few minutes to look at one of your blood relatives. I’ll be right back.”

  While Abby left to get the physician referrals, Lee gripped the picture tightly in both fists. She lifted it up and held it close to her eyes, examining every millimeter of the tall woman’s body. Every fold in her long skirt, the high collar on her puffy white shirt, the wisps of hair bouncing about her pretty face, the way she stood so very erect in the aftermath of what had obviously been some kind of disaster. Just as Lee was reaching into her pocket for her iPhone—what harm could a quick photo do?—Valerie leaned close to her daughter and read the tiny printing on the back of the snapshot: “‘Woman with Clara Barton.’”

  Pulling back, she looked at Lee quizzically. “Isn’t Clara Barton the woman who started the Red Cross?”

  Just then, Abby returned to the cubicle and plucked the photo out of Lee’s hands. Turning it over, she read the back and said, “You probably shouldn’t have seen that.”

  “Is Lee related to Clara Barton?” Valerie’s eyes were as round and shiny as new quarters.

  “For the record, I believe that Clara Barton is the woman on the left. Lee’s ancestor is the unidentified woman on the right.”

  “Great, great, great,” Lee said, almost to herself.

  “Isn’t it?” Valerie excitedly cupped her daughter’s chin.

  Sitting back in her chair, Lee grinned. Judging by the Victorian hair and clothes in the photograph, she figured the photo was taken sometime in the nineteenth century. Which meant five generations ago. Maybe six. At twenty-five years per generation, the unidentified woman on the right—the one who looked just like her—would be her great-great-great-grandmother. At the very least.

  Thank goodness she was a whiz at math. She now had a starting point.

  CHAPTER 11

  Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association

  SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

  Summer 1888

  Are you unwell, miss?” Nettie’s hazel eyes regard me with concern as I stomp into the cottage and call her to my room.

  “Not in the slightest. Could you please help me out of these clothes?”

  “A royal family is arriving from England today, miss.”

  “They’re not royal. Besides, I don’t care.”

  On my way up the stairs, I reach my hand into my upswept hair to pull out the amethyst-tipped clips. To Nettie I say, “
I’ll wear my brown box-pleat skirt today.”

  Now she looks alarmed. “Surely the other ladies will be dressed in their best sport finery.”

  “Surely. And my plain shirtwaist, too.”

  “Is something wrong with the lavender cotton?”

  “Yes. It’s too lovely for a day alone in my room.”

  Scurrying after me, Nettie watches me yank the final clip from my hair to release my bound-up locks. In a tumble of dark curls, my hair falls nearly all the way to the small of my back. Like a wet dog, I shake my head and feel delicious freedom. Today will be my happiest day of the whole summer. Solitude and liberty. Glorious!

  Inside my room—decorated in the same heliotrope colors as my bedroom in Upper St. Clair—I stand in front of the pier glass between the windows and wait for Nettie to unbutton me. My cheeks are still flushed with indignation. In the reflection of the mirror I see my maid’s freckled hands clasped in front of her. Her body shape is unfortunate. As plump in back as she is in front. Strands of her red hair are stuck to the perspiration on her forehead. Clearly, she fears I’ve gone mad.

  “I’m behind on my correspondence,” I say, by way of explanation. Not that I owe her one. “I’ve decided to stay indoors today. Could you please tell Ida I’ll be taking my meals in my room? Mother, Father, and Henry will be dining at the clubhouse, no doubt.”

  “Are you certain, Miss Elizabeth?”

  “I am. Now help me out of this dress.”

  As Nettie works to extricate me from my corset and layers, I inhale deeply and know that I’m making the right decision. With my debut only a year away, I must focus my efforts solely on gentlemen of substance. Not foreign men who think American ladies are his playthings. The nerve of him.

  Although, I now sigh, the thought of marrying one of the men—boys—from the club depresses me. Julian has the same roly-poly middle as my little brother, Henry. His cheeks are two pomegranates. Roderick—Mr. Vanderhoff’s son—has the swagger of his father. His hair appears to have a mind of its own. And his hands, once encircling my own at a ball, felt as rough as a gardener’s. Roderick’s attempt to grow a mustache and beard like Mr. Carnegie’s and Mr. Frick’s is laughable. One can clearly see the skin within them. Edmond and Oscar are the opposite: barefaced and as soft as baby thighs. All would bore me into spending my days in bed, weeping.