It’s the weekend, so we don’t hear back from Blitz’s lawyer about his progress in finding the adoption contract and figuring out Gabriella’s legal status with Denham.
On Sunday morning, we sit out on the balcony of the hotel room, and I realize the church is open. I could probably go into the office during the service, when everyone is occupied, and find that adoption contract. I know where the files are.
I also know where they keep the keys. I volunteered there for years.
Blitz sits next to me, his feet propped up on the rail, sunglasses obscuring his face. The weather is still warm, so we’re in lightweight track suits, enjoying the January sunshine.
“Can you take me to my old church?” I ask him.
Blitz slides his sunglasses up on his head to peer at me. “You need to confess something? Because that thing you did last night might have been a crime against the Good Book.”
I kick his leg so that his foot comes off the rail and lands on the floor with a thud. He laughs and reaches across the glass table between us to take my hand. “You want to see your brother again?” he asks.
We did go there once a few weeks back so I could get a quick hug from Andy. My parents won’t let me see him otherwise.
“Actually, I would probably avoid my parents,” I say. “I think I can get that adoption contract quickly and spare your lawyer trying to track it down.”
“You sure you want to do all that cloak-and-dagger stuff?” Blitz says. “Jeff can get it.”
“Yes, but we can do it faster. And I’m terribly curious about what my father put on the birth certificate. I remember there was a name, but not what it was.”
Blitz sits up, both feet down. “All right, let’s hit it. Should we put on our ninja warrior clothes?”
“I think you’re enjoying this a little bit too much,” I say.
“You keep my life very interesting, Princess,” he says. “I like it.”
We head inside. I want to blend in as we walk into the church, so I switch to a simple skirt and light sweater. Blitz puts on khakis and the purple shirt I rejected before the parent dinner. He hasn’t mentioned when we might see his mom and dad again, but I’m guessing it won’t be soon.
“Let’s get our church on!” he says.
We head down to the lobby. This time, a plain silver Mazda waits for us with the valet.
“Your rental?” I ask.
“Boring as I could get it,” he says. “If you like it, I’ll buy you one.”
“I can’t even drive,” I tell him. My parents never let me have that freedom.
“Right,” he says. “We need to fix that.”
We take off down the sunny streets. I try to steady my nerves.
The last time I showed up at church, we waited in the parking lot for my parents to come out. So I didn’t see anyone else or revisit the places I once knew. This time, we have to actually go in.
We arrive just as the service begins. A few latecomers hurry across the lot. “Park on the curb,” I say.
“Your wish is my command,” Blitz says. “I’m just the getaway driver.”
His light manner helps calm me. “I’m going in alone,” I say. “You might be recognized and attract attention.”
“I would never jeopardize the mission,” he says with a wink. “I’ll just sit here with my best movie mafia look.” He smacks the steering wheel. “I knew I should have brought my mustache collection from LA.”
“Oh, Blitz,” I say.
“What? You don’t think I’d look sexy with a mustache?”
I stare out the window. The parking lot is empty now. It’s five after the hour. My stomach flutters with nerves.
Which is ridiculous. I know everybody here. But I’m going in to steal something. I don’t think I can risk the time it would take to make a copy at the ancient machine behind Irma’s desk.
Actually, I have my phone. I can just take a picture of the documents.
“I’m going in,” I say. “I’ll text you if anything goes wrong.”
Blitz grips the steering wheel and hunkers down low. “I’ll be ready.”
This makes me laugh as I open the door. Blitz helps, always.
One more latecomer parks as I cross the lot, and I feel anxious that it might be someone who knows my family well enough to approach them about seeing me. I don’t want anyone to tip Dad off that I am here.
I try to surreptitiously glance at the car as an elderly husband and wife get out. We know them, but not well. I can’t think of their names. Should be safe enough.
They will go through the main door to the sanctuary. I’ll be going in the side to the office.
I pass Mom’s white minivan and run my fingers through the dirt on the side. They are here, of course. They never miss a Sunday.
The couple moves toward the front of the building. I approach the side and take a deep breath. The office should be deserted. If it’s not, I’ll think of something.
My hand tugs the handle forward. When the door swings open, I peek in. Irma’s desk is just inside, her seat vacant. I feel a pang as I look around the room I used to work in every week.
It’s empty.
My shoes are silent on the wood floor as I cross the office. The muffled sound of the organ assures me that the service is underway. This should go just fine.
I head straight for the closet at the back of the room where I know the private forms are kept. When I tug on the handle, it doesn’t budge. Of course. It’s locked. I knew that.
I hurry to Irma’s desk and open the drawer where she keeps the keys. They are there, as always. The ring jingles as I lift it out and hurry back to the door.
I’m familiar with the keys and pull out the correct one on the first try. The closet swings open. There is a tall file cabinet and I try to remember which drawer has the adoption files. It was low, not high. I remember that.
I try the second from the bottom. It’s filled with tax forms and payment slips for the employees of the church for the past couple of decades. No adoption records.
I slam it closed and open the bottom one. Here are dozens of individual folders. This is it. I finger through them. They are arranged by year. I choose 2012 and tug it out.
The file is thin but there are still unrelated papers in it. Some funeral records. A couple wills that bequeath things to the church.
Then I see it. Gabriella’s adoption contract.
I sit on the floor and tug out my phone. I snap a shot of the top page and open it to the second. There are many pages to this document, and I’m on page four when I hear a quiet “Livia?”
My heart slams as I look up.
It’s Irma, the church secretary.
She’s holding a little device and I recognize it as one that lets her know when someone comes in the side door. I’ve forgotten it exists.
“Hey,” I say. I don’t try to cover up the papers or hide my phone. She’s already seen it.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I decide the best thing to do is just keep working, get as far as I can. I flip to the back page, the birth certificate, and snap a shot. “This is my paperwork,” I say, working backwards now, snapping the next-to-last page. “I need to be able to read it.”
“You can’t do that,” Irma says, bending down for the papers. “These are private church documents.”
I get one more shot done before she picks them up. I want to snatch them from her, but I don’t. She looks so shocked, her face red beneath her chestnut hair, piled on her head with bits sticking out.
“I need those,” I say. “They are about my daughter. And I have a legal situation.”
Irma glances down at the pages. “This is about an adoption. It can’t be yours…” Her voice falters, probably as she reads the name on the front page. Her hand presses against the front of her pale blue paisley dress. “Oh my word.”
“It was my baby,” I say. “I was forced to give her up for adoption and this church was part of it, before my parents let me attend services. Before you and I met.” I hold out my hand. “Please give me those back.”
“You’re so young,” she says, but she passes me the pages. “I had no idea.”
“I was very young then,” I say. “And so was her father.”
I drop the packet on the desk and find a page I haven’t photographed. I’ve done two more pages, when I hear Irma gasp and a large man’s hand covers the words.
I know that hand. I look up.
It’s my father.
“It won’t do you any good to fight this,” he says. “Your baby is a long way from here now.”
I jerk the packet from beneath his hand and flip to another page. “I have a lawyer who will advise me on that.”
“Is it that rich man? That dancer?” he asks, his voice harsh. “Did you spread your legs for him too?
“Mr. Mason!” Irma gasps. “We are in the house of the Lord!”
“Ray!” My mom is behind him, and behind her, my eight-year-old brother Andy.
“The Lord does not object to the truth!” my father says. “Are you lying with that man?”
I move away from him and calmly flip the page to photograph it. I only have a couple more, I think. Inside I want to cry out at what my father is saying, but I have to focus. I need the document.
Still, my hand shakes as I hold the phone over the page, trying to get a clean shot where the words are clear.
“It doesn’t matter if you get that document,” my dad says. “Your baby is in a good home far from here.”
I don’t know why he keeps saying that. I know exactly where my daughter is. But I’m not going to tell him.
I get the last page photographed, and I pick up the packet. “Thank you,” I say to Irma, and pass her the pages. “I’m sorry I snuck in for it.” I cut my eyes at my father. “I’m sure you see why.”
Irma takes the pages, her eyes full of tears. “I’m so sorry, Livia. I had no idea.”
I look behind my mother at Andy. “I miss you, Buddy,” I tell him.
He tries to come around her to get to me, but Mom grabs him and holds him back.
“I’ll try to find a way to see you,” I tell him.
“Like hell you will,” my father says. “I won’t have you corrupting him too.”
I turn to my father. When I lived with him, I always bent to his will, thinking I had so much penance to pay, I would never be free of my guilt. But now I know better.
“Denham isn’t my brother,” I tell him. “He was DNA-tested. And now he knows about the baby and wants her.”
My mother gasps. “How do you know that?”
I turn to her. “He found me. And he’s looking for the baby. I’m getting these to protect her.” I point to the paper Irma holds. “And to clean up the mess you all made.”
“Didi told me he was my son,” my father says, his voice less threatening now.
“Well, she lied,” I say. “And you fell for it. For someone who wants to talk about my relationships, you sure have a dirty history yourself. How long had you been seeing Mom when you were with that woman?”
My father’s hand comes up as if he would slap me, but Irma steps between us. “You will not lay a hand on this child in God’s house,” she says. Her voice quivers. “Livia, do you need me to walk you to your car?”
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “I’m no longer afraid of him.” I head for the door. “I’ve grown up, Father,” I say. “And you don’t control me.”
Despite my confident words, I feel like I might throw up as I cross the parking lot again. For a moment, I’m confused, as I don’t see Blitz’s red Ferrari. The I remember the silver car on the curb, and head toward it.
“How did it go?” Blitz asks as I get in.
“I got the pictures,” I say. “Now step on it.”
Blitz doesn’t ask anything else, just punches the gas and we speed away.