Not One of Us(21)

“No. I just stopped in to visit for a bit.” I sat on the sofa beside her and pointed at her lap. “What are you looking at?”

She held up a black-and-white photo of a young couple standing on the shore, holding a pudgy baby. “This was Jackson at seven months old. His first trip to the beach.”

“Hmm. Sounds fun.”

Tressie held up another photo. “And here he is at age three, playing with Tinker Toys. Such a sweet baby.”

I’d seen all the photos dozens of times, but I nodded appreciatively. “What about all those old letters?” I asked.

“I used to have a pen pal from Germany named Ann Marie. Her father was in the army, and she was in the American school. Do people have pen pals anymore?”

“Nah.” I smiled gently. “There’s this new thing called the internet, and we all keep in touch on social media.”

She blinked at me, and I suppressed my amusement. Mimi and Tressie were sisters, but so different. Mimi was remarkably modern and was always piddling around on her laptop and smartphone.

“Actually, I came to ask you about Jackson,” I began nervously. “Mimi happened to let it slip today that he was adopted. How come I never heard about this before? Why did everyone keep it a secret?”

Aunt Tressie shifted her weight in the chair, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about it.”

“But why?”

“It was all arranged very quietly.” Her eyes looked dreamy. “And quickly too. We didn’t have to go through an agency and wait for months or years.” She flashed a triumphant grin. “We decided we wanted to adopt, and in no time, we had our Jackson.”

“If you didn’t go through an agency, then how—”

“Mrs. Ensley? Time for . . .” A male nurse entered the room, then stopped short at the sight of me. “Sorry. Didn’t know you had company. We can reschedule your social worker appointment, if you’d like.”

Disappointment and frustration whipped through me. I wanted more time alone with Aunt Tressie to dig out information.

“What appointment?” Aunt Tressie asked, brow furrowed.

“Your monthly interview with Mrs. Prescott.” He faced me to explain. “She interviews all the residents monthly to see if they need anything or have any concerns with their care. I can reschedule for later in the day, though,” he offered.

I rose, forcing a smile. “No, no. I don’t want to interfere with her routine.”

“If you’re sure . . . ,” he said.

He offered his hand to Tressie, and she frowned. “Where am I going now?”

“To see Mrs. Prescott.”

“But all my papers.” She gestured at everything in her lap.

“Don’t worry. I’ll put them away for you,” I said, beginning to gather her stuff.

“If you’re sure . . . they go in the cedar chest by the TV.”

“Right. Go on along, and I’ll come back another day for a nice, long chat.”

I waved at her as she left and then went to the old-fashioned hope chest where she stored her sentimental memorabilia. The lid creaked open, and the faint scent of cedar and dried rose petals greeted me. I laid the papers on the top fold-out drawer and then paused. Maybe there were answers in this chest. Guiltily, I looked over my shoulder and saw that the room’s door was shut, leaving me with total privacy. When would I ever get this chance again?

I riffled through the papers and photographs in the top drawer, but I’d seen them all dozens of times. I dug deeper, dragging out handfuls of photo albums, papers, and envelopes. I wasn’t even exactly sure what I was searching for. I quickly shuffled through letters, then Jackson’s elementary and junior high school report cards, smiling at the occasional old photos of Mimi and my mother. Back before Mom had children. Before the cancer. She looked so carefree and happy, unencumbered instead of beaten down by life—which is mainly how I remembered her these days.

I tore into an eight-by-ten manila envelope and saw it was filled with official-looking mimeographed documents. I scanned the contents, and my pulse quickened as I found a birth certificate.

Jackson Earl Fairhope

Born: March 13, 1975, 5 pounds 3 ounces, father unknown. Mother: Grace Lee Fairhope, Hospital: Mobile General, Mobile, Alabama.

Quickly, I photographed the birth certificate and continued rummaging, hoping to find the private adoption papers. There were none. If there had ever been any, Aunt Tressie hadn’t kept them.

Grace Lee Fairhope. Mobile was less than an hour away. Was there any chance the birth mother still lived nearby? What the hell, it was worth a shot. I entered her name and location on my phone and immediately found links to several newspaper articles. I clicked on the first one, which pulled up a stark black-and-white photo of a woman staring into the camera with dead eyes. Thin, scraggly hair framed a sunken face. Her lips were chapped and split, her cheeks pocked with scabs. Mobile Woman Charged with Prostitution & Drug Possession.

The article mentioned Fairhope’s previous arrests for the same crimes, dating back over three decades. No wonder Jackson had been born on the thin side if his mom had been using while pregnant. Had his biology contributed to his delinquency later in life? Guilt pinged in my chest at the thought. It was unfair. People were more than their biology. They had free will and made their own choices.