Chapter 3: The Paper She Kept Folded Since 1996
The vestibule was cooler than the steps outside. It smelled like old wood polish and lilies, and the heavy front doors muffled the organ still playing inside. Diane stood just inside the doors where I'd asked her to come, like she was afraid to step any farther onto the rug. She held her coat closed at the throat with one hand. Maya stayed in the doorway that led to the sanctuary hall, one hand on the frame, not close enough to be part of it, not far enough to leave.
I hadn't let go of the note. It was damp at the edges from my palm.
Diane looked at it, then at me. Her breathing was shallow. I could see her chest rise and fall under that frayed coat.
"You didn't have to come in here," I said.
"I know," she said. Her voice was low and hoarse, like she hadn't used it much that day. "Thank you for not making me stand out there."
Maya shifted her weight but didn't speak. I felt her eyes on the side of my face.
Diane's hands shook when she reached into her coat pocket. Not the outside pocket, the inside one, deep. She pulled out a second piece of paper, folded many times, soft at the creases, off-white like the note but larger, a half sheet. She unfolded it carefully, smoothing it with her fingertips. She didn't hand it to me right away.
"I was nineteen," she said. "Nineteen and alone. My parents wouldn't have me at home if I kept you. My boyfriend was gone. I didn't have money for an apartment. I didn't have anybody."
She held the paper out then. I took it with my other hand so I had one in each.
It was a copy. The type was faded and the seal at the bottom was blurred, but I could read it. County Department of Family Services. Relinquishment of Parental Rights. Date stamped May 14, 1996. The name typed on the line for child was the same name written in blue ink on the small note. The name for mother was Diane M. Keller.
"This was you?" I asked.
She nodded. "They told me it would be a closed adoption. That you'd go to a good family and I wouldn't know where. I signed it at the county building downtown. They let me hold you for five minutes before."
I stared at the two papers. The small note had that same name and date in handwriting. The copy had it typed. The paper was thin and worn, like it had been carried a long time.
"They told me you died?" I said. It wasn't quite a question.
Diane's mouth tightened. She looked down at the stone floor.
"They didn't tell you that," she said. "They told them to tell you that. The caseworker said it was kinder. That you wouldn't spend your life wondering. That if they said I died, you'd have an answer that closed. I didn't know they did it until years later when I asked the agency if you ever asked about me."
My throat got dry. I had been told that story since I was small. My mom and dad sat me down when I was seven, said my birth mother had been very young and had died shortly after I was born, that she had wanted me to have a better life. I had believed it so completely I stopped asking.
"Why now?" I asked. I kept my voice quiet. I didn't want it to sound like an accusation. "Why here?"
Diane finally looked up at me. Her eyes were wet but she wasn't crying hard, just that steady wetness.
"I saw your picture in the paper," she said. "The wedding announcement. In the Gazette last Sunday. Your name. And the church name and the date. I cut it out. I told myself I wouldn't come. I sat in my kitchen for two days with it on the table."
She swallowed.
"I didn't come for money," she said quickly. "I don't want anything from you. I just couldn't let you get married thinking I was dead. I couldn't stay silent another time."
Behind me, I heard Maya take a small step forward, then stop. I knew she wanted to ask something, to be included, but Diane was speaking only to me and I hadn't given Maya a signal to come closer.
I folded the copy paper along its old creases and slid the small note inside it. My hands were steadier than I expected.
"I don't know what to do with this," I said.
Diane nodded, like she had expected that. "I know you don't have proof except what I have. I know you need to check. The county will have records."
"I haven't called my parents," I said. It was important she knew that. "I'm not going to decide anything here on the steps."
She let out a breath she had been holding. Her shoulders dropped a little.
"I'll be in town until Thursday," she said. "I'm at the Motel 6 off Highway 31. Room twelve. You don't have to come. But if you want to ask me anything else, I'll be there."
May you like
I nodded. I didn't say I would come. I didn't say I wouldn't.
Maya's hand was still on the doorframe. She was watching us both, her mouth pressed in a tight line. I wanted to go to her, but I was still standing between them, holding both papers, with no official proof and too many specifics suddenly crowding my head, and I knew the next thing I did couldn't be a decision for everyone else.
