by Janette Oke
She was still aware, though, that there had been love and security, flashes in her memory of moments spent with Papa as he tinkered with repairing his old pocket watch or some other gadget, stories read aloud and tender moments of bedtime ritual. The baby, her toddling sister, was always near at hand. But for some reason, Mama’s face had quickly slipped into a dark oblivion from which it was harder to draw a comforting image. Lillian had fought deep guilt for having let that face fade from her mind. But on the other hand, there had been no one left with whom she could converse, remember, and keep her birth family alive in her memory. She’d been so small and all alone.
It had taken years with her new family before she could fully unwind the pain of the great loss that choked her heart, before she could allow herself to freely give and receive love again. Now as she reached for the first rake hanging on the wall of the shed, her face scrunched again in spite of her resolve to control her grief. It was all coming back now. As if the wound had reopened. Mother had soothed her through the first loss—the loss of Mama and Papa, of little Gracie. Mother was simply unrelenting. Always gentle. Always patient. Always safe. How strange to be such a skillful and confident mother when she’d never been able to have a child of her own.
No, the voice in Lillian’s mind corrected, recalling emphatically spoken words. “You are my own dear daughter. You didn’t come to us in the conventional way, but you’re ours just the same. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Not all people understand the deep bond of adoption.”
It wasn’t difficult to bring up an image of this mother. They were together constantly. Lillian had been Mother’s “most important occupation” during the years when Father had traveled on business, promoting his improvements on railroad car design. Now, as Lillian pulled the garden tools from their place on the wall and deposited them into a large crate, she let her mind wander through the world of her childhood. There had been piano and singing lessons, church classes, and art instruction.
Lillian smiled despite her turbulent feelings. Even with her busy schedule, Mother had fretted that there weren’t more opportunities in their small town. Had Father chosen to settle in one of the nearby prairie cities of Calgary or Lethbridge, there might have been many more womanly arts Lillian would have been trained to do. The thought brought a crooked smile, deep appreciation mixed with sadness. She placed a pair of Mother’s gardening gloves in the crate among the tools.
Mother had been the constant fixture through it all, nearby when Lillian practiced at home and in the audience at every recital. She’d assisted with homework in addition to instructing in all manner of social graces involved in being a proper lady, from needlework and cooking to home management and harmonious relationships. They’d shared all of life together.
However, while Lillian was still in her teenage years, it had dawned on them all slowly through simple oddities that Mother was growing ill. At first she merely took naps more often, gradually attending fewer of Lillian’s events. Father passed it off as “coming to a certain age” and overlooked the weariness easily. But Mother chastised herself vehemently for giving in to what she perceived as her growing laziness. Father argued that it was time for Lillian to learn independence anyway, to need less supervision, have more freedom.
Then Mother began to have difficulty holding on to the hairbrush while helping put up Lillian’s hair for church. Her hand shook ever so slightly while she tucked a flower from her garden in among her daughter’s copper tresses. She frequently forgot their appointments with friends—sometimes even struggling with names of neighbors she’d known for years.
There came the day when Lillian followed Mother down the hallway and noticed for the first time the strange dragging step. Mother had one hand braced on the wall for support, because her left leg didn’t seem to function properly. It lagged behind. Lillian said nothing at the time, but worry began to niggle. She couldn’t remember an injury—and Mother would have shared.
Father appeared to be untroubled by any comments she made. That is, until returning with Mother from a visit to the city doctor. Then he called Lillian into his office and explained that the situation was decidedly worrisome. They weren’t certain which disease Mother had contracted. However, it was clearly getting worse. The prognosis wasn’t good. The physician would call associates in eastern Canada in hopes of discovering more about what he called Mother’s “exacerbations”—her bouts with increased symptoms of weakness.
Lillian was fifteen by then. And in all her life she could never remember having had a temper tantrum. To her young but logical mind there’d never been a reason for such an emotional outburst. But that evening, alone in the barn, stretched out on the back seat of the brand-new family car, she had screamed and kicked and wept out her bitterness to God. She had shouted aloud every angry thought she’d kept bottled up in her heart since she’d lost her first family. At last she’d fallen asleep from utter exhaustion.
Mother, frantic with worry, had discovered Lillian long after darkness engulfed the building, and ushered her back inside. Lying down together on the bed in Lillian’s room, they had held each other and cried softly, unashamed.
Lillian wiped a bead of sweat away from her forehead. Still piling one hand tool upon another, she recalled the many moments when she and Mother had shared the same intimacy over the following years—Mother lying down next to Lillian on her single bed, just being close, just sharing each other’s pain. And then, in the same way that Mother had made Lillian the center of her world, Lillian made Mother her “main occupation,” despite Mother’s frequent objections and resistance. Through most of Lillian’s high school years and after her graduation from the town’s little school, her world had shrunk down to caregiving and assisting.
A sudden rattling of the shed door caused Lillian to startle. Father poked his head inside. “Want me to carry?”
The neglected crate was still only half full. She turned her back toward Father in order to hide her reddened eyes, gesturing at the wall before her. “I’m not quite ready. But I will be soon. You could come back. Or leave it for Otto to care for in the morning.” She added two hammers to the pile. Somehow Lillian managed to perform the task without facing Father.
“I’ll give you a hand, dear. Oh, and the deliverymen came for the trunks. So we’re all set to leave in two days. Just think, in no time we’ll head out for my homeland. Haven’t been back since I was a crwt—or so my old dad used to call me.” He chuckled, pleased to pronounce aloud the word from his childhood. “Lillian, the nearer our trip draws, the more I return in my memories. I’m overcome with hiraeth—with deep longing for my childhood home. I’m sure it won’t be just as I remember, but I’ll show you all the places . . .”
She scrunched her face tight again. She usually loved to hear Father speak the quaint Welsh words, but not today. Just get the tools. Just do the work. These feelings will pass.
There was a knock at the door. Lillian lifted her eyes from the needlework project she’d begun merely as a distraction. She looked toward the sound, to Father and back again.
He asked, “Are you expecting anyone?”
A shake of her head, her shoulders shrugging.
He folded his newspaper carefully and rose from the sofa. They could hear Miss Clare open the door and greet the caller. Father strode out of the parlor and into the foyer. Lillian heard muffled voices in conversation. She kept her seat, though it was difficult to try not to listen. Then an exclamation from Father. “Nonsense! After all this time, how can that be? There must be some mistake, sir.”
Lillian set aside her needlework, rose slowly, then paused at the doorway cautiously. It was uncharacteristic of him to speak so brusquely, especially to a guest.
“I can understand your surprise, Mr. Walsh. But I have documents to prove all of my assertions. May I come in?”
Father hesitated before extending an invitation. “I suppose if you must. What did you say your name was?”
Unable to hold herself back, L
illian slipped just inside the foyer, pressing her back against the paneled wall. She watched silently as the man set down his leather satchel and lifted off his hat, giving it to Miss Clare. Removing his coat, he surrendered that as well.
“My name is William Dorn from Mayberry, Parks, and Dorn. Our office is in Calgary. Now, I’m sorry to come unannounced, but we were told you and your daughter will leave soon on an extended journey. That’s the reason I drove over one hundred miles in order to come here today and speak with you. Mr. Walsh, this investigation has been open for some time. We’re quite anxious to see it settled.”
“Investigation?” The word escaped Lillian’s lips before she could manage restraint.
Mr. Dorn’s face lit up. “Ah, Lillian Walsh, I presume?”
Father stepped between them, brushing aside the man’s extended hand in the process. “Please come to the dining room.” He nodded toward the man’s satchel, recognizing the possible need for a table. “I think we’ll be most comfortable there.” His words were courteous, but his tone betrayed frustration.
The satchel was lifted again and Father led the man across the foyer. Lillian chose a chair at the far end of the room with Father seated between her and the man. He unpacked papers and laid them out neatly on Mother’s dining table before beginning again.
“My company was contacted by the executor of this estate. You see, for many years it’s been held in probate. Legal questions were raised and it was routinely deferred. I’m sure you can understand why we’d prefer this matter be settled.”
“Of course,” Father answered slowly, leaning back and crossing his arms over his houndstooth vest.
“Well, sir, it concerns a couple whom I believe to be the birth parents of Miss Walsh here.”
Lillian stiffened.
“As legal counsel, we’re not immune from the tragedy of this particular situation, the parents of two small daughters dying of consumption about twenty years ago. However, their will is still in probate, contested. A relative from Toronto claimed to be the beneficiary but it could never quite be proven what had happened to the two girls. And this heir didn’t seem in any hurry to see the matter settled. So the court put the proceedings on hold until my company was finally hired by the executor.” He paused and leaned forward. One hand reached out to tap a pointing finger onto the stack of papers in front of him. His eyes turned to Lillian hopefully. “Now that I’ve discovered information about your adoption by Elliott and Mae Walsh, I believe that you, Miss Walsh, might be a rightful heir.”
What? Me? How on earth? But Lillian had little time to process his words as the man hurried on.
“Miss Walsh, am I correct that your birth parents were George and Suzanne Bennett?”
The man searched Lillian’s face for recognition of the names. Instead, she turned helplessly toward Father. He cleared his throat before answering, though his arms had fallen humbly to the table in front of him. Now his hands lay fidgeting with a tuft on Mother’s lace tablecloth. “Yes, those are the correct names of Lillian’s birth parents.”
Mr. Dorn rummaged through his papers. “Very good. I’m so pleased to hear it. We’ll need to provide proof, but your affirmation is an excellent start. So often these cases of adoption have very little paperwork. It makes my job quite complicated. So then, we’ll begin to document it with this form that I’ll have you fill out.”
“Sir, please,” Father pressed, “before you begin, I’d like to know more about what implications this may have.”
Mr. Dorn frowned. He took his wire-rimmed glasses off his nose, folded the arms, and set them on the table as if he were protesting Father’s skepticism. “Well, with proper documentation, Miss Walsh would become a proven heir to this estate. It’s not a large estate, mind you. But it’s been held for twenty years with interest accruing. So most people would be very pleased to hear this kind of news.”
Father cleared his throat again. “And what of the heir in Toronto? As a relative, will he wish to lay some kind of claim to—to my daughter? We weren’t aware of any living relatives.” His voice was noticeably strained.
The man produced a paper from within his stack, then passed it across the table toward Lillian. He drew a pen from inside his jacket pocket, offering it as well. “Your daughter has reached her majority. Had she been a minor still, this man may have had cause to contest the adoption. But as she’s an adult, he can no longer claim any legal rights over Miss Walsh.”
“Well, that’s a reassurance, at least.” Father intercepted the paper and began to scan it carefully. “But, sir, it seems he’s contesting the will. Does he have legal counsel working on his behalf? Is he claiming any specific property? We purchased this house from the Bennetts, for instance—about a year before they fell ill.”
“I had heard that. May I ask, what were the circumstances of the purchase?”
“Oh dear. Well, as I understood things at the time, George Bennett chose to move his family away from the Brookfield area here in order to join his brother on a farm in central Alberta. I was told that the brother had immigrated to Canada from Somerset, England, a couple years earlier. I remember well how, when they showed us through this house, Mae, my wife, was immediately taken with it. She asked Mrs. Bennett why they’d ever want to sell such a lovely home. I’ll never forget what the woman said. ‘Being with family is better than any house.’ You see, they were going to farm together out on the prairie—and apparently Mr. Bennett was already making regular trips on horseback. Can you imagine?” Father shook his head.
Lillian had never heard the particulars of this story before. She sat in shock as Father discussed her deceased parents so casually, as if she weren’t even in the room. For her it was effort enough just to process their names. George and Suzanne Bennett. Yes, those were my parents. I was Lillian Bennett. The name felt strange and uncomfortable.
“If I remember correctly,” Father continued, “I was told later that the brother was unaware he had already contracted consumption—likely picked it up on his ocean voyage here—and because of this, George’s family was also exposed—sometime during all those trips to the prairie, I suppose. Now, they didn’t pass away until at least a year after we bought the house from them. So I can’t imagine that it could possibly be involved in the settlement of this estate. But I’ll admit I’m struggling to understand the implications of all this. It’s quite a lot to consider with such little information.”
“Of course, I understand your concern about the implications to your daughter, sir.”
With a visible shudder, Father seemed to have become aware again of Lillian’s presence. His eyes grew wide. He dropped his head.
“We’re very thorough, Mr. Walsh. I have a short list of assets involved in this case. As I say, there aren’t many. The brother’s farm was heavily mortgaged. But before I came here, I did pay a visit to the town office, where the sale of the Bennetts’ home to you is recorded. It’s clear that the transaction had been completed before they moved away.”
Father nodded solemnly.
The man hesitated. “I have, however, wondered how it came to happen that you and your wife adopted their child after purchasing their home. It’s most unusual. Were you friends of the family?”
“The church . . .” Father rubbed a hand across his dark mustache peppered with gray as he cast an uncomfortable glance toward Lillian. This time it seemed he would temper his response for her sake. “We’d so recently moved to town, had begun to attend a local church. When Mae and I heard the story of this poor family from their friends and neighbors, my wife . . .” He corrected himself with a grimace. “My late wife—she had always longed for children, but . . .” He paused for a difficult moment. “She insisted we . . . you see, Mae felt Lillian had already lost enough and that . . . that being brought back to this familiar home and community would help her to . . . would ease some of her pain.”
“I see. She must have been an exceptional woman, your wife. I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”
; Father shifted in his chair. He glanced toward Lillian again, then back at the man and his paperwork. Lillian could tell that he was struggling with his thoughts, worried now that he had said too much, too little—or perhaps the wrong thing. The subject of adoption was rarely addressed by Father.
“Was there a solicitor involved in the adoption, Mr. Walsh?”
“I know we met with the orphanage in Calgary where Lillian stayed for a very short time—just two weeks, I believe. It’s my understanding that they had papers of some kind drawn up through the hospital that treated the family. I don’t know if legal counsel was involved. And we weren’t given any information regarding the estate. We weren’t even thinking about any assets, just Lillian.”
“Yes, I understand. Unfortunately, these matters have been quite poorly conducted in the past. Almost nothing filed legally in cases of adoption.”
“But there’s no question that Lillian is . . .”
“Yours? No question at all, sir. I’m not here to cast doubt on that. My work is merely with regard to the estate.”
A sigh of relief from Father. “Well, that’s it, then. What do you need from us? I don’t think we care to make a claim on the estate. The other man may keep it all. My daughter has everything she needs.”
“Father, please.” At last Lillian spoke softly. “Please, I’d like to find out more about—all of it. How it happened. About this relative in Toronto. He would be my relative.”
Father’s face fell. It seemed that for a moment he had hoped to hastily dismiss the impact of the situation. “Of course. Foolish of me, my dear. Mr. Dorn, my daughter and I must have time to discuss this unexpected revelation, perhaps even time to consult my own solicitor in order to examine the legal ramifications.”