"Oh, after the first, you stop springing for the forty-five-dollar pictures, the refrigerator magnet, the keychain, all that happy horses.h.i.t." Gerry motioned to the couch again. "Come on, sit."
"Thanks." Ellen walked over, sank into the couch, and sipped the coffee, which was surprisingly good. "Wow."
"I put in real cream. That"s my secret." Gerry sat down heavily, catty-corner to the couch, pulling an ancient beanbag ashtray onto the chair arm. Her expression looked softer, her hard lines smoothed by the low light. Her hair was a tinted brown with gray roots, the ends frayed, and she wore it tucked behind her ears. Her nose was stubby on a wide face, but she had a motherly smile.
"Why did you laugh outside?" Ellen asked, her fingers tight around her gla.s.s mug.
"First, tell me about Amy and this baby." Gerry took a drag on the brown cigarette.
"He was sick, in the hospital. I did a story on it, a series." Ellen reached into her purse, pulled out the clipping from her file, and showed it to Gerry, who barely glanced at it, so she put it back. "You may have seen them in the paper."
"We don"t get the paper."
"Okay. Will, the baby I adopted, was in cardiac intensive care when I met him. He had a heart defect."
"And you think he was Amy"s baby?"
"I know so."
"How?" Gerry sucked on her cigarette, then blew out a cone of smoke from the side of her mouth, meaning to be polite. "I mean, where"d you get your information?"
"From a lawyer, who died. My lawyer, mine and Amy"s. It was a private adoption, and she brokered the deal between us."
"Amy brokered it?"
"No, the lawyer did. Karen Batz."
"It"s a lady lawyer?"
"Yes. Does the name mean anything to you?"
Gerry shook her head. "You sure sure it"s Amy? My Amy?" it"s Amy? My Amy?"
"Yes." Ellen set the coffee down on the metal tray, reached into her envelope, and rifled through the papers. She found Amy"s consent to the adoption and the letter with the Corinth Avenue return address and handed them to Gerry, who took them and didn"t say anything for a minute, reading to herself and dragging on her cigarette. The smoke hit the court papers and billowed back on itself, like a wave crashing against a seawall.
"This is nuts," Gerry said, half to herself, and Ellen"s chest tightened.
"Is that Amy"s signature, on the consent?"
"It looks like it."
"How about on the letter?"
"There, too."
"Good. Now we"re getting somewhere. So it"s your Amy." Ellen reached over and turned the page to the consent form, pointing. "Is that your signature?"
"No way. I never signed this." Gerry"s lips flattened to a grim line, again bringing out the wrinkles around her mouth. "And this other signature, it"s not Cheryl"s, either."
Ellen"s heart sank. "Maybe Amy forged the signatures. Maybe she wanted to put her baby up for adoption and didn"t want her family to know."
"That can"t be it."
"Why not?" Ellen asked, and Gerry shook her head, the papers reflecting white on her face.
"Amy couldn"t have kids."
Ellen"s mouth went dry.
"She had an operation, when she was seventeen. She had a problem with her ovaries. What was it called?" Gerry paused a minute. "One day she woke up in cramps real bad, so I knew she wasn"t fakin" to get outta school. We took her to the emergency and they said she had a twisted ovary, it was called. The ovary got all full of blood, and they had to take it out right away. They said she had almost no chance of getting pregnant."
Ellen tried to process it. "But not no chance. She still had one ovary left, right?"
"Yeah, but they said it was very-what did they say-unlikely she could have kids." she could have kids."
"But she had a child."
"I think if you take out an ovary, it affects the hormones, at least that"s what they said, something like that, is all I remember." Gerry looked confused. "Whatever, if she had a kid, it"s news to me."
"She didn"t tell you?"
"No, like I said, we haven"t talked. She didn"t tell me nothin" anyway. I don"t even know where she is. I was tellin" you the truth, outside."
Ellen couldn"t accept that it was a dead end. "What about any of her sisters, or her brother? You never heard from any of them about her having a baby?"
"I don"t think she talks to anybody but Cheryl, and she lives down in Delaware. I can call her and ask. I will, later." Gerry snorted, her nostrils emitting puffs of smoke. "Nice to know if I had another grandchild."
Ellen tried another tack. "Or maybe when the baby got really sick, that"s the kind of thing you might tell someone."
"If Amy had a baby that got really sick, she couldn"t handle it. She"d be lookin" for an easy out."
Ellen cringed at the harsh words. "That"s the sort of thing that would overwhelm anyone, especially a young girl."
"It didn"t take much to overwhelm overwhelm Amy. If I asked her to take out the trash, that Amy. If I asked her to take out the trash, that overwhelmed overwhelmed her." her."
Ellen let it go. She needed more information. "Can you just tell me a little more about her? What is she like?"
"She was always my wild child. I never could get a handle on that girl."
Ellen found it hard to hear. She had imagined Amy so differently. She wondered if all adoptive mothers had fantasy birth mothers.
"Smart girl, but got lousy grades. Didn"t give a s.h.i.t. I always thought she had, like, ADD, but the teachers said no." Gerry took another puff. "She did her share of drinkin" and drugs. I had no control with her. She was outta here after graduation."
"She ran away?"
"Not like that, just left."
"No college?"
"No way." Gerry smiled crookedly, and Ellen caught a trace of Amy"s wisecracking grin.
"Why did she go, may I ask?"
"Didn"t like my boyfriend, Tom. They used to get into it all the time. Now she"s gone and so"s he." Gerry emitted another puff. "I made her stay and graduate high school, but after that, she went off on her own."
"Hold on a sec." Ellen rifled through the papers and handed Gerry the father"s consent form. "Look at this. My son"s birth father is Charles Cartmell, from Philly. Do you know him?"
"No."
"The name isn"t familiar at all? He lives on Grant Avenue in the Northeast." Ellen had checked online last night but couldn"t get a phone number or find a listing of the address.
"I don"t know the name."
"If Amy is twenty-five now and gave birth to Will three years ago, it means she had him when she was twenty-two. So maybe the father was someone from high school, or the area?"
"She didn"t go steady in high school." Gerry shook her head. "She saw a lot of different guys. I didn"t ask no questions, believe me."
"Do you have her high school yearbook? Maybe we could look at it?"
"She didn"t buy the yearbook. She wasn"t the type." Gerry waved her off. "She was my baby, and I spoiled her, yes I did."
"Could I see her bedroom? There might be something in there that would help me."
"I cleared it out a long time ago. I use it for my son"s girlfriend now."
Ellen began thinking out loud. "She must have stayed in the Philadelphia area, because she chose a lawyer in Ardmore. She even had meetings with the lawyer."
Gerry shrugged. "Cheryl might know."
"Can I have her number?"
Gerry hesitated. "Why exactly are you tryin" to find Amy?"
"It"s a medical thing, about the baby," Ellen lied, having prepared for the question.
"Does she have to give it a kidney or something?"
"No, not at all. At most it"s a blood test. His heart is acting up again, and I need to know more about her medical history."
"She didn"t have no heart problems. None of us have heart problems. We got cancer, runs in the family."
"I"m sure, but the blood test will show more than that." Ellen was freewheeling. "If you"d prefer it, maybe you could give Cheryl my number and ask her to call me?"
"Okay, I"ll do that." Gerry reached out and patted her hand. "Don"t worry. I"m sure the baby will be okay."
"I don"t want to lose him," Ellen added, unaccountably.
Chapter Twenty-seven.
Ellen got into the cold car, turned the heat up, and took off down the street under a cloudy sky. Her BlackBerry started ringing as soon as she left the block, and she steered the car with one hand and dug in her purse with the other, finding the device by its smooth feel. She pulled it out, and the screen showed the same unknown number as before, so she answered the call.
"Ellen, where are you?" It was Sarah Liu, sounding panicky. "I"ve been calling you. You missed the projects meeting. Marcelo asked about the think piece."
"d.a.m.n." The Thursday projects meeting. She"d completely forgotten about it, preoccupied with finding Amy.
"Where are you?"
"I wasn"t feeling well this morning." Ellen was fast becoming an accomplished liar. "Was Marcelo p.i.s.sed?"
"What do you think? When are you coming in?"
"I"m not sure, why?" Ellen checked the dashboard clock-10:37.
"We should meet about the think piece. I want to see your draft." Ellen tensed. The week had flown. She hadn"t even transcribed her notes from Laticia Williams. "We don"t need to meet and my draft isn"t ready-"
"When will it be? Our deadline"s tomorrow."
"Sarah, we"re grown-ups. I don"t have time to give you a draft, and I don"t need yours. Don"t tell Daddy."
"What the h.e.l.l are you doing? You didn"t call Julia Guest, and I greased it for you."
Ellen switched lanes to pa.s.s a VW Beetle, fighting annoyance. "Thanks, but I have my own leads. I won"t need to talk to her."
"She"s connected in the community, and she wants to talk to us."
"People who want to talk are never good leads. I don"t need the community spokesperson."
"Why not call her, even for background?"
"I know what I"m doing." Ellen braked, checking the car on the way downhill. "Let me handle my end. You handle yours."
"Have it your way, but make that deadline."
"I will."
"Good-bye." Sarah hung up, and Ellen hit the gas. She had to make the deadline, or she was out of a job. She pressed the b.u.t.ton for information, then took the ramp to the expressway.
Heading east under a threatening sky.