Firefly Beach (21 page)

Beth put her head in her hands.

Eleanor sighed. “I kept the birth certificate,” she said quietly.

Beth looked up, “What?”

“Susan’s birth certificate. I found it with Katherine’s things when I was cleaning out her room.”

“May I have it?”

“Top left drawer of the dresser.”

Beth crossed to the dresser and opened the drawer. It was filled with silk handkerchiefs and jewelry.

“On the bottom.”

She shuffled past the drawer’s contents and retrieved a manila envelope. Inside was a birth certificate. “Susan Elizabeth Thompson, May twenty-third of 1976,” she read. Her heart stopped for a moment when she saw the “Elizabeth.”

Underneath the birth certificate, she found three letters. She flipped through them. All three were addressed to Rod Thompson in Virginia Point, Maine. Two of them were stamped, but it appeared as if they were never mailed. One of them had been returned to sender because it had no postage, presumably an oversight. All three letters were sealed.

“What are these?” Beth asked, taking shallow breaths. “These were never mailed, I presume,” she said as she held up the two stamped letters. “And this one was returned on November eleventh of that year.”

Eleanor pursed her lips, a look of indifference on her face.

“Here,” Beth shouted as she crossed the room, waving the letters. “Here was Susie’s next of kin. Did it occur to you to let him know of the existence of his granddaughter, Mrs. ‘
every
grandparent wants to know their grandchildren?’”

Eleanor stared at Beth coolly. Then she looked away with a hint of shame. “The transaction was already underway, I—”

“The
transaction?
You are a seriously disturbed woman. ‘Looking into those soft green eyes,’” Beth said, mocking the elderly woman’s voice. “I’ll bet you sold her three days after Katherine disappeared. You’re full of shit.”

Eleanor cast her a look of indignation.

Beth retorted as fast as gunfire. “Don’t you look at me so innocent and offended. You make me sick.”

Eleanor shifted her head to one side. She seemed fatigued. “I am an old woman who has carried an ugly secret for thirty-five years. I’ve finally released it. My conscience is clear.”

“Oh really? I think a little penance…” Beth began. Then she glanced at the woman’s feeble condition and added with no compassion, “or
purgatory
is in order before your soul is cleansed.”

“Listen, young lady,” Eleanor said. “I’ve given you all I have.” She gestured toward the birth certificate and letters.

“Why don’t the
buyers
have the birth certificate?”

“Now that would not have been very helpful to them, would it?” Eleanor said condescendingly. “A friend of my son forged a birth certificate for them. Susie is their daughter now, by birth, as far as the government is concerned, even if only on paper.”

“And you have no idea what their names are? Or what name was given to Susie?”

“I did not see the final paperwork.”

“Can you ask your son?”

“He did not see it, either. I asked him several years later. I wanted to find her myself, but I could not.” She looked away sadly.

“Oh spare me the sob story,” Beth barked. “Perhaps you can tell it to your cronies in prison.”

Eleanor laughed. “Everyone believes that Katherine took Susan. At this point it is my word against yours.”

“Unless Rebecca
quite contrary
was listening.” Beth smirked.

Eleanor glanced nervously toward the door. Then she looked back at Beth. “Anyway, the birth certificate and the letters won’t convict me, either. I simply found them after Katherine and Susan disappeared.”

Beth looked at the old woman with disgust. Eleanor was right. It would be an uphill battle. Although Beth wanted to report this woman and her baby-peddling son, what purpose would it serve now? Wherever Susan was, the young couple had been her parents. She might have had a very loving childhood. Did she really need to be burdened with the news that her parents purchased her? That her mother may have committed suicide or just outright abandoned her? Hell, did she even know she was adopted? It was a whole can of worms that probably did not need to be opened, however satisfying it might be to see the unrepentant old woman squirm.

Beth looked down at the birth certificate in her hand. It would be next to impossible to locate the former Susan if her birth certificate was forged. Was any information on the false certificate the same? Maybe the birth date, but it could be off by several days, if not weeks, and still seem authentic. Was she called Susan? Probably not. Did her new parents ever tell her she was adopted? Would they have given her any clues to her past? Did they even
know
the information on Susan’s real birth certificate?

It was a dead end.
Everything
had led to a dead end. No Katherine, no Susan, no trail.

Rebecca peeked in.

Before the nurse could speak, Beth said, “Never mind, Rebecca. I’m leaving.” She looked over her shoulder as she exited the room. “Rest in peace, Mrs. Sharpe.”

Then she raced down the stairs and out the front door. She sped out of the driveway, the tires throwing gravel in her wake. She drove about five miles before she pulled off to the side of the road, her anxiety at an all-time high. She fumbled in her purse. No anti-anxiety pills.

Beth disliked confrontational conversations, yet she had been more confrontational and openly angry when speaking with Eleanor Sharpe than she had been with Bill during their divorce. In fact, as she recalled, she had barely even raised her voice at Bill. She wondered why she felt so much passion and outrage about two people she never even met. It was as if she were championing them – two women who had no voice in the turn of events.

After sitting in her car for twenty minutes trying to calm down, Beth realized that she was in no condition to drive. So she found a Super 8 and decided it would be prudent to settle in for the night. She hoped she could get some rest and be fit to drive in the morning. She inserted the keycard in the lock and walked into the small, clean motel room. A bathroom and two queen beds with green-and-gold paisley print comforters were on the left. On the right, a television and a small desk stood pressed against the wall.

Beth threw her purse on the bed nearest the bathroom. She crossed the room and opened the curtains, and then she flopped down on the other bed. She stared at the ceiling for nearly half an hour, thoughts racing through her head. Real or interpretive images circled in her mind: Katherine, Susan, Mrs. Sharpe, Rod Thompson, the Bennings, and a young couple from upstate New York – characters from an ongoing saga of the search for the diary’s author. Over and over again the details played in her head. She felt like she was suffocating in a melodrama she wished she had never invited into her life.

Suddenly she sat up, grabbed her purse, and dumped it out. She found Susan’s birth certificate and Katherine’s letters to her father. The letters. Could there be a clue in the letters? Mrs. Sharpe had never even opened them to check. She probably did not want to know.
The transaction,
as she had put it, had already been initiated.

Beth opened one of the stamped letters that appeared to have never been mailed. It was dated May 29, 1976. The other unmailed letter was written on December 24, 1975. She read the December letter first:

Dear Dad:

I’m sorry I ran away. I was afraid to tell you the news, which still may come as a shock to you.

I’m pregnant. The baby is due in May. Please call me if you are not angry. I love you and I want to see you. Do you want to see me?

It was signed “Love Always, Katherine.” Underneath her name she wrote a phone number, presumably Eleanor Sharpe’s.

Beth grabbed the letter dated May 29, 1976.

Dear Dad:

I am so sorry I have not contacted you. So many times I’ve started letters that I never finished. I almost mailed you a letter at Christmastime. But I was afraid you would be mad at me. I couldn’t mail it.

I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll just come out and say it. You have a granddaughter. Susan Elizabeth. She was born six days ago. I would love for you to meet her.

Please call me, and please forgive me for running away.

“Why didn’t you mail these, Katherine?” Beth said in desperation. “Why? So much could have been different.”

Beth picked up the last letter, the one with a returned postmark of November 11, 1977. She opened it and a picture fell out. Beth looked at the photo. A young girl, presumably Katherine, held a baby in her arms. Susan had peach fuzz hair, a round nose, and playful eyes. She grasped a small toy and her mouth was open as if in surprise. Katherine wore jeans and a bright yellow t-shirt. Her brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. She looked a little disheveled, but her face radiated joy.

A lump formed in Beth’s throat. Here was the woman whose trail she had been chasing for nearly two weeks. Only two weeks? It felt like months. Beth tried to find a resemblance between Katherine and the red-haired interpretation she had created. After a careful examination of the photo she concluded that any similarity was imagined at best. Beth sighed. Perhaps there was a likeness in essence. She would have to be satisfied with that.

She gently placed the picture on the bedside table and picked up the letter.

Dear Dad:

I am so very sorry. I keep trying to write, but I can’t seem to mail the letters. It has been over two years. You must be very worried about me. I am so ashamed about the way I left you, I can hardly bear it. But I am afraid of what you will say when you hear my story…

As you can see from the picture, I have a daughter – your granddaughter. Her name is Susan. She is a beautiful, cheerful child. Oh, how I’ve longed to tell you. I miss you like you’ll never know.

Are you mad at me?

I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry I ignored your advice. I’m sorry I did not tell you I was pregnant. I’m sorry I waited this long to make it right.

I must come visit. I can’t let things remain the way they are any longer. I will drive down this weekend. I will come by myself. I think that is best. I can bring Susan next time.

Love Always and Always,

Katherine

Beth put the letter on the bed. She looked at the envelope and tried to sort out the details. Assuming Eleanor Sharpe was telling the truth, and that was a huge assumption, this letter had been with Katherine’s things. It was rejected by the post office on the eleventh. Katherine probably received it on the twelfth. She left on the thirteenth. Surely she would have noticed that the letter was returned due to lack of postage.

“Surely she understood this,” Beth whispered aloud.

But what if she hadn’t? What if she had seen the return stamp and thought her father had refused to accept the letter? How would she have taken it? As a sign of rejection? Beth remembered what Eleanor had said about the day Katherine left – the moodiness, the long hug for Susan. Beth closed her eyes and tried to pray, tried to comfort herself. After all, the idea was ridiculous. It should have been clear to anyone in her right mind that the letter was missing a stamp.

Anyone in her right mind…

Beth neatly returned the letters to their envelopes and reclined on the bed holding the picture. She lightly touched the face of Katherine and then Susan. Afterward she sighed and placed the photo on the bedside table.

Sleep did not come easily, and what sleep she did manage was so inundated with nightmares, it hardly counted as rest. The flying dream was the most prevalent. But it was littered with distorted images of her father’s face – sometimes behind the wheel of the oncoming car, sometimes floating in the air. A variety of toy ducks made their appearance, typically falling through the air or rolling down the embankment at the side of the forest-lined road.
Stupid ducks
.

The sun was always setting in her dream. The shadows of the trees lengthened and the road gradually grew darker. As the twilight slipped away, the sense of panic and lack of control escalated. Why couldn’t she move off to the side of the road? Why wouldn’t the car stop?
Why didn’t you come home that dreadful night when I was ten?

Another duck tumbled down the incline. She watched it go. She could not see to the bottom of the hill. It seemed to go on forever. Small trees and broken branches blocked her view. Moss and rocks briefly interfered with the duck’s descent, but it continued to roll until it was lost in the foliage.

As the flying Beth zoomed around one bend, she saw a tattered sign with a picture of a duck and some words she could not distinguish. The sign was posted on the side of a tree in a distinctive patch of the woods. A group of three trees grew near the road. The one with the sign was relatively straight, but the other two jutted out at approximately forty-five degree angles on either side. Beth continued to fly, but the car approached, faster and faster. She saw the driver behind the wheel.

This time it was not her father. It was the redheaded girl from her painting.

Beth jolted and screamed. She sat up in her bed, sweat dripping from her temples. A chill traveled up her spine to the nape of her neck.

Why did I not think of it before?

Chapter 21

Regrets

Rod Thompson returned to Virginia Point early Tuesday morning. He eased
The Bottomless Blue
gently into her slip, cut the engine, and secured her to the dock.

He walked slowly toward land, tired in both body and spirit. Damn that meddlesome woman. Why did she have to come into his life and dredge up buried memories? He rarely thought about Katherine anymore, but even those memories were cool and fleeting. Images of her faded as the years progressed.

He would not see Katherine ever again. She had cut him out of her life. In the first few years, he had hoped she might return. As the years passed, that hope slowly evaporated until, more than a decade later, he became resigned. She was never going to come home. Eventually, when Old Charlie was taken out of service, Rod left the cottage. He could no longer endure wandering within its walls, haunted by the echoes of unfinished conversations.