CHAPTER 9
“Why do you think she had that envelope? Why keep it?” Will followed behind Luke asking questions. Every morning they went through this routine—Will making lists of evidence trying to prove he wasn’t crazy; Luke tamping down his son’s concerns while his own grew like an unkempt garden choked with weeds. “She always talked about how she had to take medicine to help her get pregnant. Did you ever see her belly? Why aren’t there any pictures?” The questions went on and on.
“I don’t know why she kept it. Yes, I saw her pregnant, and we didn’t take a lot of pictures because I was gone and selfies hadn’t been invented.” Luke reeled off the list of answers like he did every morning. They weren’t always the same questions, but the eerily hopeful tone never changed. It was the way Will asked more than what he asked that disturbed Luke the most.
Even without Will’s obsession, Luke didn’t go more than an hour without thinking about the envelope from Natalie’s memory box and the name written on it. It still bothered him . . . a lot . . . but not because he was in any doubt that Will was his son. No matter which way Will spun the story or how many wild assumptions he made, nothing could make Luke question his son’s paternity. Why all the secrets? That was the question that kept racing through Luke’s mind during these morning interviews—why all the secrets?
He’d planned to throw away the Maranatha envelope, ready to never think about it again. But then a new letter came, this one all about Dr. Neal giving Natalie a box of his wife’s old scarves. That’s all it took. The envelope had been staring at him from the top of his dresser ever since.
“I did a little research, if it makes you feel better. The Maranatha Adoption Agency, it’s in Chicago, and the folks there won’t answer any questions over the phone about something that happened years ago. But that agency has some kind of office in Kalamazoo. It’s called Maranatha House.”
Will’s mouth dropped open. “Are you serious? Isn’t that close to where Mom grew up?” He jammed his hands into the front pockets of the sweatshirt, burrowing them in deep. “Dad, what does that mean?”
“Probably nothing,” Luke said as he plopped the pile of mail into the back pocket of his workbag. He put up his hand to stop Will before he could argue with him further. “But I’m taking the day off work on Thursday to check it out in person. Is that thorough enough for you?”
“I’m coming with you.” Will hung his blue backpack over his shoulder. It was covered in all kinds of doodles done in permanent marker. Luke thought they were graffiti, but Natalie always called them art.
“No, you’re not. They probably won’t talk to me anyway. Do you know how hard it is to adopt a baby, Will?” Luke’s voice went up, and he fought back irritation. He took a deep breath and continued toward the front door. Will followed.
“Okay. Okay. Fine. You go alone.”
Passing through the hall of family pictures, Luke stared straight ahead, still unable to look at the picture of “wedding day Natalie.” Usually it was to avoid the pain inflicted by the happy memories, but lately it was to evade all the doubts clogging his brain.
When they emerged from the hall, Will was behind him, touching his shoulder. “Thank you for doing all this.” His arms wrapped around Luke’s shoulders in a brief hug, and Luke patted his back, wishing he didn’t have to let go.
“I’d do anything for you, Will.” Luke leaned back to look him in the eye. “You’re my son.”
“I know, Dad.”
Luke patted his son’s cheek and held him an arm’s length in front of him. “Now get Clayton, and I’ll drop you at school on the way to work.”
“Okay.” Will nodded and then shouted, “Clay! Time to go!”
“Uh, I said go and get him. I could’ve yelled.” Luke pointed him toward the stairs.
“Fine.” He rolled his eyes and sulked up the stairs, back to his normal teenage-boy self.
Luke sped down I-94 past still-bare trees with tiny buds at the tips of each branch. Even though they were already a week into April, there was still a strong possibility it could snow. But the snow wouldn’t kill the leaf buds. Somehow they survived the late winter storms and premature springs. If only humans were more like trees.
A large green road sign read KALAMAZOO, EXIT 72. He’d been waiting for this moment all week. Flicking on his turn signal, he checked his mirrors, even though no one else had been on the road all morning. It had only taken two hours to get from his house to the western Michigan town, and with everything running through his mind, the time had flown by.
When Luke told Annie about his last-minute “business trip,” she offered to watch Clayton at his house so the handoff with Jessie would go smoothly. Despite Clayton’s immediate friendship with Jessie, Annie would always be first in his heart, and lately that meant big fits at three when it was time to go home. Luke was grateful for one less thing to worry about, even if it meant making sure the dishes were in the dishwasher and that Clayton flushed the toilet after his morning potty break.
Annie had been extra supportive since he’d tagged along with her and Brian to the bar. He didn’t know if it was because he’d helped her with Mick or because she was worried about his state of mind. Annie was one of the most loyal people he’d ever met; she reminded Luke of his mother a little, which was a good thing and a bad thing at the same time. His mother didn’t seem to be able to see the bad in people or even suspect it. This was doubly true of Annie with Natalie. She’d rather assume Luke was going bonkers than question if her deceased best friend had been living a secret life.
Off the highway, Luke focused on slowing down. Pressing gently on the brake, he checked the map on his GPS screen. Two rights, two lefts, one more right, then he’d be there. Maranatha House. He’d been working on his story and his “I need help” face. That morning he’d put on the suit he’d worn at Natalie’s funeral. So much for burning it. He needed it today. The sadness that clung to it like cologne would help him appear more convincing.
Luke followed the voice on his GPS to a narrow lane covered in crumbling blacktop. He took the turn cautiously, avoiding a large divot in the middle of the asphalt. Inching down the road he let his foot hover over the gas pedal, never allowing the speedometer to go above ten miles per hour. The driving instructions told him to go 1.2 miles. As he pushed closer to the red and black dot glowing on the navigation screen, Luke felt a growing urge to make a three-point turn and head home.
Unexpectedly the woman on the GPS told him he’d arrived at his destination. Luke slammed on his brakes far more forcefully than necessary, which tossed his body forward, shoulders nearly bumping the steering wheel. Glancing around, Luke was confused. There was nothing but half-bare branches on the trees and the tips of green bulbs peeking out of heavy blankets of half-rotted leaves on the ground. Shoot. He must have put the wrong address in his GPS.
Checking in the rearview mirror once, Luke pulled out the sheet of paper he’d written down the address on and carefully typed it in again. As the GPS recalculated, he took one more glance around. Thirty yards behind him, something stuck out from a hedge of budding bushes. A silver mailbox. Luke clicked the car into reverse and slowly backed up until he was parallel to the large silver mailbox at the end of an overgrown dirt road. The mailbox’s red flag was up, and the initials MFS were pasted across the side of the box in black letters. MFS. Maranatha Family Services.
So, it was real. He’d been so distracted he’d almost missed the entrance. The desire to leave without finding the Maranatha House had disappeared. Someone had put up the flag on that mailbox, which meant there was probably someone on the other end of the dirt road. Maybe that person would have answers. Luke held his breath as he left the road with a giant double bump as his tires settled into the soft dirt. He couldn’t turn back. He’d come too far. Will was waiting for answers. Damn it, he was waiting for answers.
It took a few accelerations for Luke’s tires to finally get enough traction to head down the dusty road; he was thankful he’d gone with an SUV with four-wheel drive. Otherwise, he probably would be walking now, and his funeral suit would be getting dusty. Thankfully he wasn’t walking, because the road was much longer than he’d expected.
Luke turned in to an empty spot next to a dark-brown Chrysler that had seen better days. The windows were brazenly rolled down, as if the owner was daring the sky to turn dark and rain. Luke patted his coat pocket to make sure the envelope was still there. Inside was an old picture of Natalie, a picture of Will as a baby, and a copy of Will’s birth certificate, just in case. He’d planned out at least a dozen lies he could tell to get information out of the agency, but finally he decided he might as well tell the truth. They probably wouldn’t give him any information either way—far too many legal issues with all the confidentiality agreements he was sure they signed on adoptions.
The large white house had a wraparound porch and sat in the middle of a green meadow, an incongruous site given the godforsaken road he’d just driven down. The battered Chrysler was one in a cluster of dusty cars parked by a barn several yards from the house. A wooden sign that said OFFICE hung off the white fence, the only hint the house wasn’t a private residence. Luke stomped up the steps to the glossy green door at the top. A fluorescent yellow piece of paper, half-bleached from the sun, was taped inside the glass of the storm door. A crude drawing of hands holding a baby was at the top.
“Safe Haven for Babies. Desperate? Need help? You can leave your baby, up to a year old, inside with our staff. No questions asked. Use bell if after hours.” A white button glowed beside the door.
Up to a year old. How could someone leave their one-year-old here, all those feedings, sleepless nights, smiles and giggles? Plus, what girl would want to drive down that dilapidated road to get here? He shook his head and walked through the door, a bell dinging to announce his entrance.
Inside was a surprisingly large lobby for what seemed like such a small organization. The chairs, covered in a rough maroon fabric, were placed in a semicircle facing an L-shaped desk. When the door shut, a woman called out from behind a computer screen. The only thing visible was her bright-pink acrylic nails waving him toward the sitting area.
“Be there in one sec. Take a seat.”
Luke unbuttoned his suit coat and took the seat closest to the desk in case she forgot he was there.
After a few minutes of clacking, the computer woman stood and put a clipboard on the counter. Only she wasn’t a woman; she was a teenager, no older than seventeen or eighteen. She was also very, very pregnant.
“Oh, hey there.” She smiled when she saw Luke sitting alone and pointed to a large wooden door with a sign of a man and woman on it. “Your daughter going to the bathroom?” Luke opened his mouth to talk, but the girl interrupted. “Well, my name is Lacey. When your daughter gets out, you can have her fill all this out. I’ll call Ms. Stephani so we can get right to orientation.”
She put a tan headset to her ear and pressed several buttons, her nails tapping loudly against each one. Luke snagged up the clipboard and scanned the page.
Maranatha Family Services Maternity House Manual (Applicant Edition)
This Crisis Pregnancy Center is a nonprofit organization providing physical, emotional, and spiritual support services to women and families during pregnancy and provides residential services to women ages 12–19, regardless of income, who are pregnant and have chosen adoption.
Replacing the receiver on the phone, the girl called out to him, “Go ahead and read that, and then Ms. Stephani will take you into the office to do the rest of the paperwork. I’m not allowed in there, confidentiality and all.” She whispered the last part, cupping her hand around her mouth. She looked at the bathroom door, eyebrows raised. “You sure she’s okay in there? Maybe she’s carsick?”
“No, I don’t think that’s the problem . . .”
A tall woman with bleached-blonde spiral curls and dark roots came through the open door. She had a giant smile, a light-blue shirt buttoned to the top, and bigger gums than Luke had ever seen. This must be Ms. Stephani.
“So, you’re Dana’s dad. So nice to meet you.” She thrust out her hand, her excitement so real Luke almost felt bad he didn’t have a pregnant daughter hanging out in the restroom for a ridiculous amount of time. Luke shook her hand once.
“Actually, I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. I’m not here with my daughter.”
Ms. Stephani took her hand back and tilted her head side to side like a cockatoo, her friendly demeanor fading fast.
“Oh? Did she change her mind?” Her face looked older when she wasn’t smiling. Late fifties maybe.
“No. My daughter is nine and is having fun in the fourth grade learning about tadpoles and long division.” He wanted to add “thank God,” but thought that could sound judgmental.
“Your daughter is nine?” Lacey chimed in, leaning over the counter.
“Hush, Lacey. Go into the house. This is none of your business.” Ms. Stephani shooed the girl, flapping her hand toward the open doorway. “Now. Or you lose your front desk shift and have to switch with Daisy in the kitchen.”
“Fine,” Lacey huffed but stood and waddled toward the door, glancing at the closed bathroom one last time before turning the corner as if she still expected someone to come out of it. Once she was gone, Ms. Stephani turned around to face Luke, her face distorted, suspicious.
“Please, follow me into the office.” On the other side of the desk, there was a sliding door with an OFFICE sign printed in bold letters above it. The office within the office. This couldn’t be good. Once when Luke was eleven, his fifth-grade teacher sent him to the principal’s office when he refused to dissect a frog in science class. Eleven-year-old Luke was only slightly more nervous than thirty-seven-year-old Luke at that moment.
Luke didn’t know what to expect inside the Maranatha House office. Judging by Ms. Stephani’s appearance, he’d guess piles of dusty books and maybe a cat or two. So what met him inside was a pleasant surprise. First, a large oak desk with a rolling leather chair behind it and two neatly upholstered wing-back chairs covered in a floral print. The room was painted a soft yellow with white trim; pictures hung on the wall with hundreds of anonymous faces staring back at him. He felt like he was in the sitting room of an old country farmhouse, not the office of a mysterious adoption agency. Once they both sat down, Ms. Stephani spoke first.
“I’m going to stop making assumptions about who you are or why you are here. But before you speak, please understand we respect our residents’ privacy and cannot release any information about guests past or present or their children. So if you are here to ask questions of a confidential nature, I’m sorry, but I must ask you to leave.”
Ignoring her request, Luke reached into his coat pocket, grabbed a slick piece of glossy photograph paper, and slapped it down on the amber wood desktop. “This is my wife.”
It was a picture of Natalie two Easters ago, when her mother visited and insisted the children attend church. Before Ewing’s sarcoma was a regular part of their vocabulary. Natalie wore a yellow sundress with lace around the shoulders and neckline. The yellow made her skin look like porcelain. May wore a light-pink dress with tiny flowers printed on it. She was seven at the time and looked like a smaller version of her current self. Will had gone through puberty since then. The little boy in that picture, his hair combed back with a perfect part, tie on crooked, was so familiar, yet so different than the son he’d left at home.
Ms. Stephani didn’t move to touch the photo, but leaned forward just enough to peek at it. “She seems very nice, but we don’t serve adults here, only young women ages twelve to nineteen.”
“She’s not pregnant.” He nudged the picture forward. “Her name was Natalie Richardson, and she’s dead.” Luke tried to gauge Ms. Stephani’s reaction to hearing Natalie’s name, but her face was blank. “While going through some of her belongings, my fourteen-year-old son found an envelope from Maranatha Family Services postmarked a few weeks before his birth. Now the kid has it in his mind he’s adopted.”
Ms. Stephani kept her arms folded in front of her on the desk, not letting her gaze leave Luke’s. “I still don’t see how we can help you.”
“Listen. I know he’s not adopted.” He wrestled the folded envelope out of his pocket, a flake of spiral notebook paper fluttering onto his thigh. Luke stared at it for a moment before sliding it off into his palm. As discreetly as possible he dropped it back into his pocket, patting it softly to make sure the scrap of paper was secure. Ms. Stephani cleared her throat, and Luke remembered why he was there. “I mean, I wasn’t actually there through the whole pregnancy, but still . . .” Luke unfolded the envelope and held it up for Ms. Stephani to inspect. “I was hoping you’d have some idea where this envelope came from since I can’t exactly ask Natalie.”
She squinted, her lashes, heavy with mascara, nearly touching. “That is from the legal arm of our organization in Chicago. It facilitates any adoption from a young lady who spent her time at one of the six Maranatha Family Service homes throughout Illinois, Indiana, and Michigan. The adoptions are usually regional. Other than that, there’s not much I can tell you.” She leaned back in her chair till it squeaked as if the springs were about to break.
This was a dead end.
Swallowing his irritation, Luke snatched the documents and picture off the table and stood quickly. Defeated and disappointed, he needed to get out of the office before he exploded.
“Well, thank you for your help,” he spat, twisting the words enough to make it sound like an accusation. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but an immovable, compassionless wall was not it. Luke turned to leave, his face hot and teeth clenched, but he heard Ms. Stephani’s voice one last time over his shoulder.
“I’m so very sorry for your loss. Natalie was a . . .” Her voice wavered like she was holding back tears. She coughed and tried again. “I’m sure your wife was a wonderful woman.”
When her words soaked in, the room began to spin. He caught hold of the door frame and turned around, mouth open. He’d push harder this time, get real answers. But one look at Ms. Stephani’s face let him know that all kindness and pity were gone. If he was going to go up against this version of Ms. Stephani, he’d need more information and maybe a lawyer.
“Thank you.” Luke cleared his throat and put his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave. Taking a moment at the door he paused, straightened his back, and turned his face to stone before walking into the lobby. In that pause, one of the hundreds of pictures covering the wall caught his eye. It hung right above the door, a group of six smiling couples wearing matching purple T-shirts with Maranatha Family Services across the front. The photo was faded from years of sunlight pouring in from the curtained window on the opposite side of the room, so determining its age was difficult. But looking at the photo he did know one thing—Natalie was one of the faces smiling out at him. Her hair was pulled back in a long dark ponytail, and she was smiling so widely he could almost see her molars. Right next to Natalie was another familiar face: her high school boyfriend, Andy Garner.