Before We Were Yours(70)

“Oh…” is all I can come up with.

He catches my gaze. We stop walking before turning onto the path toward his house, and I know the rest of the story is coming. “Jonah has two half brothers he almost doesn’t remember anymore. It doesn’t look like he’ll get the chance to know them unless they decide to reconnect as adults. After the custody hearing, their father wouldn’t let them have anything to do with Jonah, or me. That’s not the way I want it, but that’s the way it is. I understand the people my granddad helped better than you might think.”

“I can see why you would.” I’m surprised by his openness. The depth of his pain and disappointment are obvious. He doesn’t even try to conceal the fact that he’s conflicted about his decisions or that a past error in judgment resulted in a situation filled with difficult choices. Those realities will affect Jonah for the rest of his life.

I come from a world where we would never openly admit to such things, certainly not to someone who’s practically a stranger. In the world I know, a polished exterior and an unblemished reputation are paramount. Trent makes me wonder if I’ve become too accustomed to the constraints that go with upholding public appearances.

What would I do if I faced a situation like his?

“Jonah seems like a really great kid,” I say.

“He is that. I can’t imagine any other kind of life now. I guess every parent feels that way.”

“I’m sure.”

He waits for me to start along the path, then follows. A spiderweb catches me in the face when we enter the yard, and then a second one. Now I remember why my cousins and I always fought about who’d be first on the trails when we rode horses in Hitchcock Woods back home. I pick off the silk and grab a dried-up palm frond to swish the air ahead.

Trent chuckles. “You’re not as urban as you look.”

“I told you I grew up in horse barns.”

“I didn’t really believe you. I thought Granddaddy’s workshop might scare you away when you saw it.”

“Not a chance.” When I glance over my shoulder, he’s grinning. “Were you hoping it would?”

The path opens into the yard, and he sobers as we cross to the small, low-roofed cabin and climb the steps. “I’m not sure. I wish my granddad were here to make these decisions for himself.” Concern draws deep lines over his tanned forehead as he fishes the keys from his pocket and bends to look at them.

“I understand. I really do. I’ve wondered more than once if I should be digging around in my grandmother’s past, but I can’t help myself. I feel like the truth matters more.”

He slips the key into the dead bolt and opens the lock. “Spoken more like a reporter than a politician. You’d better watch out, Avery Stafford. That kind of idealism will come back to bite you in the political world.”

I bristle at that. “Spoken like someone who’s dealt with the wrong kind of politicians.” He’s not saying anything that Leslie hasn’t said to me already. She’s afraid I’m too highbrow and not realistic about what a Senate run could mean. She forgets that all my life I’ve had to listen to random strangers offering their opinions about everything from our clothes to the tuition costs of the private schools we attended. Actually, not just strangers but friends. “In my family, public service is still public service.”

His face is impassive, so I can’t tell whether he agrees with me or not. “Then you won’t like what you’re about to find out in relation to the Tennessee Children’s Home Society. It’s not a pretty story any way you look at it.”

“Why?”

“The place was incredibly well respected, and the woman who ran it, Georgia Tann, operated in powerful circles, socially and politically. She was well thought of publicly. People admired what she was doing. She changed the general perception that orphans were damaged goods. But the reality is that the Tennessee Children’s Home Society in Memphis was rotten to the core. It’s no wonder Granddad never wanted to talk about what he did in this little building. The stories are sad, and they’re gruesome, and there are literally thousands of them. Kids were brokered. Georgia Tann made money by charging huge fees for adoptions, transportation, delivery out of state. She took children from poor families and sold them to celebrities and people with political influence. She had law enforcement agencies and family court judges in her pocket. She duped women in hospital maternity wards into signing surrender papers while they were still under sedation. She told people their babies had died when they hadn’t.” He pulls a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and hands it to me. “There’s quite a bit more than that. I printed this off today between appointments.”

The paper is a printed scan of an old newspaper story. The title pulls no punches. It reads, “Adoption Matron May Have Been Most Prolific Serial Killer.”

Trent stops with his hand on the doorknob. He’s waiting for me to look over the article. “Nobody ever came out here but my grandfather and, occasionally, clients—not even my grandmother. But she didn’t share his interest in the topic either. I told you that she felt that the past should have been left in the past. Maybe she was right. My grandfather must have felt that way in the end too. He told me to clean this place out and destroy whatever was still here. Just be warned before we go in. I have no idea what’s on the other side of this door.”