Chapter 8: The County Clerk Door
We were at the county building before it opened. I sat in the passenger seat of Maya's car and watched the clerk unlock the glass doors at 8:58. Maya had her hand on the keys in her lap and didn't turn the engine off until the woman propped the door open with a rubber wedge.
That morning I was a husband who hadn't spent his wedding night with his wife. Maya had slept in our apartment. I had slept on the couch in my old apartment that I was supposed to have cleared out last week. We hadn't fought. We had just quietly decided we needed a door between us.
My name is Ethan.
The clerk's office smelled like old paper and coffee. The woman at the counter was in her fifties with gray hair pulled back and reading glasses on a chain. I slid the two pieces of paper across the laminate to her. On the left, my adoption decree, the one my parents had kept in a fireproof box. On the right, the photocopy Diane had given Maya, folded and refolded until the crease was soft. The small off-white note was still in my tuxedo pocket at home. I hadn't been able to look at it again.
"I was hoping you could tell me if these connect," I said.
She looked at them without touching them at first, then pulled them closer with her fingertips. She studied the agency stamp on both. The same name. The same county seal. The same file-number format with the 96 in the middle.
"Sealed records," she said. "You know that, right?"
"I was told she died," I said. My voice was flat. "My adoptive parents told me my birth mother died."
She gave me a small, careful nod. She didn't react like it was shocking. She'd probably heard it before.
"I can't unseal this for you," she said. "Not at this counter. You need a court petition. Judge reviews it, agency responds. It takes weeks. Sometimes longer if the agency pushes back."
Maya stood next to me with her arms crossed, her wedding ring catching the fluorescent light.
"But the format," Maya said. "Does that match?"
The clerk tapped the copy Diane had provided. "The agency name is correct for that year. The date format, the numbering, that is how they did it in '96 before they digitized. I can tell you this copy looks consistent with our records. But consistent isn't certified. You need the court order for certified."
"Weeks," I said.
"Weeks," she repeated. She slid the papers back to me. "I can give you the petition form. The judge here is fair. If you have consent from the birth parent, it goes faster."
I folded both papers and put them in the envelope Maya had brought. My hands were steady. I realized I was holding my breath and let it out slowly.
The library was two blocks over. It was the kind of place with a low brick front and a flag out front that snapped in the wind. Maya had looked it up while I was still talking to the clerk. She had the reference librarian pull microfilm without me having to ask.
We sat at a reader that hummed and threw pale light on our faces. Maya threaded the film from June of 1996. The wheel clicked as she turned it. Police blotter, city council minutes, classifieds for used trucks. She moved slowly.
"There," she said, and stopped.
It was a two-sentence blurb at the bottom of page three. Under the heading Sheriff's Calls. June 14, 1996. 11:42 p.m. County Hospital reports unattended birth, young female, infant transferred to county agency care. No charges filed.
Maya didn't say anything at first. She just looked at me. Her eyes were red from not sleeping.
"That's her age," she said quietly. "She would have been nineteen."
I stared at the blurred print. The microfilm made the letters swim. I reached over and put my thumb on the glass like I could hold the words still.
"It doesn't say her name," I said.
"It doesn't need to," Maya said. "It lines up. Hospital. Agency. Date."
I nodded. The screen buzzed. A librarian walked past with a cart of books and the wheels squeaked.
"What do you want to do?" Maya asked.
I had been dreading that question since we left the apartment. On the church steps I'd frozen. Last night I'd let everyone else talk. The clerk had given me an official way to wait weeks and not decide anything.
"I don't want to wait for a judge to tell me what's already in front of me," I said. I turned the reader off and the image shrank to a white dot. "I need to talk to her again. Not with my parents there. Not with everyone watching."
Maya's mouth tightened. She didn't pull away, but she didn't reach for me either.
"Alone?" she said.
"At the diner on Main," I said. "You can be in the lot. I just need to hear it without anyone else writing the story for me."
She studied my face for a long moment. I felt the tiredness in my shoulders and the way my jaw was clenched.
"Okay," she said finally. "But we don't pretend this is done after that. We get the petition filed. And Ethan, we didn't postpone the honeymoon just to sit in separate places for two weeks."
May you like
"I know," I said.
Outside, the air was clear and cold for late morning. We stood on the sidewalk with the envelope between us. The library flag kept snapping. I realized I was still keeping my distance from her, and that she was letting me.
