Emily Finds Out

“I’m so sorry for you loss.” “Thank you.” Over and over, same words. She didn’t know most of these people. Didn’t know how they knew her, or if they were sincere since her mother had been well known but not always liked.

“Emily, are you ready to head to the cemetery?” I nodded yes. My head hurt. Crying, stressed, the bereft daughter.

That evening, the internment over, I sat on her sunken 1980 fabric sofa sleeper that she had refused to replace. It had claw marks from her cats, worn fabric and springs that made it impossible to sleep on. It smelled of smoke and greasy food. I had already called the 1-800-Junk number to come load up all the crappy furniture the next morning. I curled up on one end with her old crocheted afghan.

The loud knock on the door awakened me and I saw streams of sunlight sneaking through the haphazardly closed velveteen curtains. Another knock, and I headed to the kitchen for a glass of water, guzzling it down. Now I could speak without my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

Ensuring it was the junk crew by peering through the peephole, I whipped the front door open and motioned them in. I followed them and pointed out each item I wanted gone and leaned against the buffet observing. They were fast and didn’t bother to wrap the furniture since they were disposing of it. I would keep the buffet and king sized bed frame in her room. There was a new Lazy Boy recliner in a lovely cream color I was excited to get into my house.

The crew was done inside the house in two hours, then moved to the backyard and the detached garage. By five o’clock it was all cleared out.

I sunk into the Lazy Boy, scrolling through my texts, deleting many and responding to a few. “SIRI, call Janey!” I waited for her to pick up.

“Emily! How did it go today? Sorry I couldn’t be there but I had a presentation at work…”

“It’s OK. You already told me that. It went fine, the household crap is gone and I’m relaxing now. What a total shit show! A cleaning crew is coming tomorrow at seven a.m. prompt. I told them I wanted it done by three o’clock. I have such a headache still. This house has a horrible odor. I’ve opened all the windows. I can’t list it for sale until I can get rid of the odor. Cooking smells, old people smells…I don’t even want to attempt to identify all of the odors. That’s why I rarely visited. My olfactory senses were always over loaded and I would gasp and then sneeze…” she trailed off and it was silent on both ends.

“Emily? Are you OK? Why don’t you spend the night with me? We can go out for a light dinner and then watch a movie and talk. Leave the key with the neighbor and ask them to watch for the cleaning crew. I’ll take tomorrow off. We’ll spend it together. What do you say Sweetie?” Emily burst into tears and through her sobs she agreed.

Emily wandered through the deserted house. It was sad looking now that most of the furniture was gone. She sat in the banquette in the kitchen with its red vinyl bench and the red checked curtains above it. A white climbing rose framed the window. Her mother’s teacups were on an open shelf, collected from her world travels. The crack, Emily’s fault, remained in the porcelain sink. She had dropped the old electric tea pot into the sink one evening and it chipped the enamel and began a small creeping crack. Her mother said “not to worry, I will replace the sink.” She never did.

Emily looked over at the Betty Boop cookie jar she had brought home to her mother from Los Angeles years ago. Her mom’s favorite gift, it was showcased on the middle shelf of the Scandinavian corner shelving. Visible behind the turquoise cookie jar was a tiny black object. Emily got the step stool off the basement door hook and climbed up. Gently moving the cookie jar to the side, she picked up a small black notebook.

Sitting down on the banquette, she flipped through the unlined pages. Each page had a name and phone number, each in different hand writing. Her mother’s handwriting was below each entry, with comments. The names were in flourished print, the comments in Palmer cursive.

Under George (and there were no last names!) her mother had written: ‘Topeka, April 1966, quickie.’ Emily turned the page.

Frank was notated as ‘Chicago, May 1966, weekend, sublime.’

Jimmy was notated ‘Indianapolis, June 1966 weekend, charming, married, new dad - oh the guilt! Won’t see him again.’

Emily continued reading the pages and they progressed through 1966; and then nothing until December 1967. The entry was Henry, ‘St Louis, Christmas through January 6, 1968. LOVE! Tall, all muscle, heading to ‘Nam. I’m scared. Dad would be angry, Mom ashamed. But I love him. We met in Chicago and spent weekends from the summer of ’67 until now when I came to St Louis to be with him. My parents think I am with Janey and her sister. Damn, I’m twenty three and they still try to control me.’

Emily flipped the page. Blank. Next page read: ‘May 1968. Henry writes from ‘Nam when he can.’

1969 April. ‘Henry due home soon. Will meet him in San Diego with Emily.’

Emily’s heart jumped. Will meet him with ME? Emily had been told she was adopted by her mother and father when she was six weeks old. Mom lied to me? Emily grabbed her keys, shoved the book into her purse and headed to Janey’s.

Janey opened the door to her best friend who was sobbing. She embraced her and led her to the kitchen. “Ah, Honey, it’s hard, I know.” Emily was vigorously shaking her head no.

“She lied to me! She lied. Dad isn’t dad. Dad is Henry!”

Janey was gaping at her friend. “What?” Emily shoved the little black notebook at her. Janey took it and grabbed her friend’s hands. “What is going on Emily?”

“Read through it. She lied. She didn’t adopt me. Damn her.”

Janey looked at the first few pages and slowed as she reached the part about Henry in 1967.

November 14 1969, Charlie, Chicago, rich, emerald ring.

December 5 1969, Tom, Schaumburg, pilot, jerk, diamond bracelet, $1000 deposit to bank.

January, five days, 1970, Bert, Cincinnati, stock broker, sweet, older, $5000 deposit to bank.

February Valentine week, 1970, Clancy, Los Angeles, attorney, ruby necklace, $10,000 deposit to bank.

April, 1970, Clancy, LA, attorney, $10,000 deposit to bank. So sweet, falling for him, but he’s older.

May 1970, Clancy, Paris, flew with him on private leased jet. Toured all of France for almost a month, Emily with us. He adores Emily. Upon return twenty-five thousand dollars deposit to bank account.

August 1970 Clancy died in early July. I am depressed. I loved him. She noticed water warping here.

Janey continued to the last entry in the notebook which was marked by a black bookmark ribbon.

September 1971, married Lawrence. Corporate attorney from San Diego. He plans on adopting Emily.

"Oh my God, Emily! Your mother was like a high priced call girl some of those years!”

“Shut the hell up Janey, she was not!”

“Well, all the jewelry and money into accounts? What did she do with that money?”

“My college was totally paid for. The house, the vacation home, the autos, and her overseas trips after Daddy died - nothing financed. I found the titles and her bank account has five hundred thousand dollars in it.”

“So you think,” Janey leafed back to April 1969, “Henry is your real father and because he was mixed race, your mom said you were adopted? To make it more normal having Caucasian parents but are light skinned yourself?”

Emily nodded.

“Maybe Henry died in Vietnam. Or they broke up?”

“I don’t have anyone to ask, now do I!”

Janey shrugged. They talked all night, drinking wine, snacking, walking in the moonlight, finally falling asleep around midnight.

Early the next day Emily’s phone rang. “Hello? Yes, this is she. Yes, I can.” Hanging up, she turned to Janey. “That was daddy’s law partner. I need to go to his office. Will you come?”

When they arrived at the downtown law firm, George Pritchard was at his desk, papers neatly stacked in five piles.

“Emily, I’m so sorry about your mother. Your parents left instructions upon both of them passing. Please open this envelope now as we witness it.” He shoved a thick manila envelope across his executive desk to her.

She undid the clasp and pulled out letters, various documents, and photos of her as a baby, as well as those of unknown adults. A handsome man with caramel skin, hazel eyes and a sparkling smile was in one photo with a note on the back “Christmas 1967, Henry.” There was also a pocket size black notebook. She handed that to Janey, who flipped through it, and pushed it back at Emily, smiling. “Read it Emily.” She nodded at her, smiling.

Emily opened it. “My darling daughter, Emily. I’m leaving all the money I have to you. Twenty thousand dollars. I returned from Vietnam a drug addict and your mother tried to be with me. I ended up in prison. She left me to protect you, and it was not easy for her for many years. Please don’t judge her. She met your daddy, Lawrence, and fell in love. Enclosed are the photos she sent me of you, and our letters, so you know about us. We had a commitment to you even though we couldn’t be together. You are reading this now because I got sick in prison. She sent a lawyer to help me with my end-of-life matters and a will. Be happy now, no sadness about this. Lawrence knew about me. We three decided not to burden you with learning your father was a prisoner. We hope you understand. We all agreed on the adoption cover story. I wanted you protected with no upsetting prison visits. Please do not be angry. You made all of us so proud. Love you, my precious girl.” It was signed simply, Henry.

Emily used the bookmark ribbon in the notebook to flip to another section. It was Henry’s will, a notarized one page will, created by the law firm, folded neatly and clipped to the bookmarked page. She smiled. “Mr. Pritchard, I don’t need the money. Let's honor Henry with a foundation to help people. After we settle my mother’s estate, we’ll meet and brainstorm. She tucked the will into the notebook, placing it in her satchel.

George Pritchard and Emily shook hands. Janey and Emily headed headed to Starbucks and ordered grande triple shot drinks. Emily left a twenty dollar tip. “These little black books held quite the secrets, didn’t they!” They laughed and toasted with coffee.