CHAPTER 9
Two days afterward, Sophie left neonatal care for a foster home specializing in infants with medical vulnerabilities.
The couple looking after her had the necessary approval and training.
Caleb kept visiting through the authorized arrangements. So did Hank, Ray, and Marcus.
They arrived with diapers, formula, blankets, and whatever other supplies had been approved.
There were no grand gestures and no efforts to attract an audience.
They just kept coming back.
I attempted to resume my normal routine, but normal no longer felt like something I could return to.
The brass key stayed in my kitchen drawer.
Hank requested a week.
“What for?”
“We have to follow the proper steps before clearing Dorothy's apartment.”
“Why not just explain what you know?”
His expression tightened.
“If I get this story wrong when I tell it, I won't forgive myself.”
A week stretched into nine days.
At last, he called.
“Tomorrow's the day.”
“Where do I meet you?”
“The community center Dorothy used to work with.”
“Which center?”
“The place where she volunteered.”
It was roughly a twenty-minute drive from the hospital: an aging brick building squeezed between a laundromat and a tire business.
Some of its windows were newer replacements, and the sign over the entrance appeared fairly recent.
Down in the basement, though, the building smelled its age. Paper, dust, old paint, years gone by.
Hank took me downstairs.
Ray and Marcus were already there, with Caleb beside them. Linda had come as well.
No one offered a smile.
A folding table stood in the middle of the room. Resting on it was a red metal box with scuffed corners and flaking paint.
It had the look of something that might hold an entire life.
I took the key from my pocket and fitted it into the lock.
My fingers shook when I turned it.
The lid lifted.
Inside lay photographs, first a few dozen, then what seemed like hundreds.
Infants, schoolchildren, teenagers, families. Court papers mingled with notes, thank-you messages, and Christmas cards.
At the very top was a faded Polaroid.
A young Asian woman stood in front of that same community center. Dorothy, almost forty years younger.
Next to her was a thin young man with long hair and no beard. Only his eyes let me recognize Hank.
He was wearing a firefighter trainee's uniform, and a newborn lay in his arms.
Across the bottom of the picture was the date:
6/14/88.
I had no words.
Hank sat opposite me.
“Look at the other side.”
I turned the photograph over.
Dorothy had written on the back:
LITTLE GIRL DISCOVERED AT 4:12 A.M.
IN GOOD HEALTH.
CRESCENT-SHAPED BIRTHMARK BEHIND HER LEFT EAR.
HANK WOULDN'T SET HER DOWN.
The Polaroid fell from my hand.
For a moment, the basement seemed to shift beneath me.
“No.”
No one moved.
“No.”
I got up so fast my chair scraped across the floor.
“This isn't something to joke about.”
“Evelyn—”
“No.”
I reached behind my ear, touching the mark my mother had called my moon.
“What am I looking at?”
Hank answered gently.
“You're looking at yourself.”
I stared at him.
“That can't be.”
“Someone left you outside this center.”
I felt those words like a blow.
“A woman used a pay phone to report a baby at the side entrance.”
My fingertips went numb.
“Dorothy was the one who found me?”
“She was.”
He swallowed before continuing.
“I was nearby with a fire crew when the medical call came in. We arrived ahead of the ambulance.”
His gaze moved to the picture.
“You had a green towel wrapped around you.”
My legs weakened. Linda pulled my chair back into place, and I sat down.
“You weren't even crying,” Hank said with a strained smile. “Just looking at everyone.”
“Who gave birth to me?”
“We never learned who she was.”
“What did they do after you found me?”
“You went to the hospital.”
“And afterward?”
“An emergency foster home.”
“What about my parents?”
“They put in an application to adopt you.”
I couldn't seem to get enough air.
“Did they know Dorothy?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't they tell me?”
“They did explain that you were adopted.”
“Yes, but they didn't explain this.”
Hank looked into the box.
“Your mother sent Dorothy a letter every Christmas.”
I went still.
“She did what?”
He brought out a thick stack of envelopes.
There were thirty-three letters, all written by the woman who had raised me.
I knew the handwriting without needing a second look.
My sight blurred as Hank passed me the oldest one.
Dear Mrs. Chen,
We gave the agency our word that we would respect the privacy arrangements. Even so, I can't bear to think that the person who found our daughter might always wonder whether that little girl was loved.
Please let me reassure you.
She is deeply wanted.
She is secure.
She belongs with us.
If the right moment ever comes, I hope she will realize that she was chosen twice.
I pressed a hand against my mouth.
Chosen twice.
My mother had said those words throughout my childhood, whenever we discussed the adoption or I asked why somebody had left me behind.
“You were chosen twice.”
I had understood it as a reference to my birth mother and my adoptive parents.
There had been another meaning all along.
CHAPTER 10
I looked at Hank.
“Why didn't Dorothy contact me?”
“Your parents asked her to keep her distance.”
“Why would they do that?”
“They felt that once you were old enough, deciding whether to find out more ought to be up to you.”
“What happened when I was old enough?”