Looking for Jane (79)

“Good timing,” Nancy mutters to herself. She needs a stretch anyway.

She walks down the short, carpeted hallway to the office door and scoops up the mail. She tosses most of it into the in-tray at the front counter, but takes the newspaper back to her desk.

She spreads the paper out and leans forward, breathing in the smell of fresh ink. She peruses the day’s news in a cursory way before she flips to the back section and folds the paper over to isolate the classifieds. Nancy usually never looks through the classifieds, but she and Michael have been on the lookout for a secondhand dining set for when they move into their new shared apartment after the wedding, so she’s been scoping out the ads regularly for the past couple of weeks, but to no avail. Her eyes scan the appeals for nannies and handymen, the used vehicle offerings. She finally spots an ad claiming to have an oak table and chairs for sale in Mississauga for a price just slightly over their budget. Hoping Michael might be able to leverage his charm to haggle it down, she circles the ad with a highlighter. It feels like everything is coming together.

Nancy reaches out for the telephone on her desk, finger poised to dial the number, when her eyes slide sideways to the ad beside the one for the table.


SEEKING LOST CHILD. Looking for my daughter who was adopted from St. Agnes’s Home in 1961. Trying to contact her if she is still in Toronto area.



A phone number is listed below the ad, but no name.

Nancy’s heart leaps up into her throat, hammering hard. The moment stretches out until the silence is shattered by an aggressive beeping issuing from the phone receiver in her hand. She’s waited too long to dial. The automated voice tells her to hang up and try again.

She lays the receiver back down on its cradle, breathes in deeply, then lets it all out in a long stream.

There’s nothing to say this classified ad was placed by a Margaret Roberts. There’s no name attached to it, and there must have been lots of babies born in those homes in the sixties.

But in 1961 specifically?

What are the chances? How many girls would have given up babies in a single year? Possibly quite a few. And why is this ad so vague? Why isn’t there a name attached, or a precise birth date? There’s nothing to confirm for Nancy whether she should even attempt to call the number.

And what if it’s not her birth mother? Odds are it isn’t. What if she calls and a woman answers and thinks her long-lost daughter has finally made contact, only to discover that it’s the wrong girl? She doesn’t want to cause anyone that kind of pain. Besides, she’s wondered before whether perhaps Margaret felt differently about the adoption years later. If that note was written right when Nancy was adopted, hardly a week after Margaret gave birth, of course the girl was distraught; of course, in the rawness of her pain, she would write a note swearing such undying love and determination to find her baby. But what if Margaret changed her mind later on, once she had some distance on the decision and moved on with her life?

Nancy’s changed her mind about wanting children, too. It wasn’t until she was in the right life circumstances, found the right partner in Michael, that the idea of motherhood became appealing in a way it certainly hadn’t been when she had the abortion years ago. People change. Margaret probably did, too.

Nancy made a deliberate decision not to look for her; a responsible, adult decision that helped offset her guilt at the childish act of sneaking around her parents’ bedroom searching for clues. She’d like to think she’s grown since then, become less impulsive. More mature. In a few months she’ll be a married woman, and Michael is keen to start a family. She might even have children of her own soon. Recklessness is a youthful indulgence. She has to be responsible and sensible now.

The truth is, it was easier not to look for Margaret because she had no leads to work from. But now this one has dropped into her lap. What if this ad was placed by Margaret Roberts?

She has to try.

Nancy reaches for the phone again, and in that moment, she’s back in the upstairs hallway of her parents’ house, turning the door handle. She dials the number and starts to shiver.

It’s ringing. She waits.

“Hello?” a man’s voice asks.

Nancy’s mouth has gone dry.

“Hello?”

“I’m sorry,” Nancy croaks. “I’ve got the wrong number. I was looking for someone else.”

“Who—” The man begins, but Nancy slams the phone back down with a crash.

Not three seconds later, the phone rings again, blaring like a fire alarm. She glances up at the clock on the wall above her door. It’s opening time. This could be a patron. She reaches out and picks up the receiver.

“This is the rare book library. Miss Mitchell speaking.”

Michael’s voice sings through the line. “Hello, soon-to-be Mrs. Birch! I’ve been testing it out, what do you think? Can’t believe I tricked you into marrying me.”

“Ha!” Nancy grips the phone with a sweaty palm. “Hey, Mike. How are you doing? Didn’t we just see each other?” Her voice cracks, and she curses herself.

Michael pauses. “Nance? You okay? You sound a little funny.”

Nancy can’t breathe. She should tell him. Everything. Now’s the time. But she hesitates, and the tension stretches tighter and tighter before finally—inevitably—it snaps.