PART 8 — DOTTIE’S SECRET
I laughed.
I actually laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because sometimes the truth becomes so impossible that your body refuses to receive it properly.
“Dottie?”
Caroline said nothing.
“My Dottie?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You have the wrong woman.”
“I don’t.”
“Dorothy Wallace?”
“Yes.”
“Lives on Maple Street?”
“Yes.”
“White house with green shutters?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
Dottie had been my friend since we were fourteen.
She had sat beside me at my husband’s funeral.
She had brought casseroles when I couldn’t eat.
She had driven me to this very credit union two days ago.
My bank statements were currently hidden in a drawer inside her house.
“She helped me,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“Then why would she tell Rebecca I abandoned her?”
Caroline sighed.
“Because Dottie has been trying to undo what she did for years.”
I gripped the arms of my chair.
“What did she do?”
“I think you should hear that from her.”
“No.”
My voice came out harder than I expected.
“I am finished hearing that I should wait.”
Nobody spoke.
“Forty-two years,” I said. “Everybody has apparently known pieces of my life except me. My husband knew. Thomas knew. You knew. Scott knew. Dottie knew.”
I looked around the office.
“I am done waiting for people to decide what I can handle.”
Caroline was quiet.
Then she said, “Call Dottie.”
I already had my phone in my hand.
I dialed.
She answered on the second ring.
“Maggie?”
Her voice was cheerful.
Normal.
That almost made it worse.
“Are you still at the bank? Do you need me to come get you?”
I looked at Scott.
Then at the photograph of Rebecca.
“Do you know Rebecca Reed?”
Silence.
Not even breathing.
That was my answer.
“Dottie?”
“Oh, Maggie.”
My eyes closed.
Caroline had called me Margaret.
Scott called me Ma.
My husband had called me Mags.
But Dottie had called me Maggie since we were fourteen.
And suddenly hearing it hurt.
“You know her.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
Another pause.
“Since the day she was born.”
My hand began trembling.
Scott whispered something under his breath.
I ignored him.
“You were there?”
“Yes.”
“At the hospital?”
“Yes.”
I tried to remember.
I couldn’t.
“I don’t remember you.”
“You were heavily medicated.”
“What happened?”
Dottie started crying.
I had heard her cry only three times in my life.
At her father’s funeral.
When her husband left.
And when mine died.
“Maggie, I have wanted to tell you for so long.”
“Then tell me now.”
“Not over the phone.”
“Now.”
She inhaled shakily.
“You didn’t lose the baby.”
I pressed my lips together.
“I know that much.”
“The doctors thought you might.”
“Then?”
“You delivered early.”
“How early?”
“Almost eight weeks.”
My heart pounded.
“Was she sick?”
“She was tiny. But she was breathing.”
I covered my mouth.
My baby had breathed.
For forty-two years I had pictured a child who never took a breath.
“What happened to her?”
Dottie cried harder.
“Your mother happened.”
My eyes opened.
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
My mother had been dead nineteen years.
For nineteen years I had put flowers on her grave every Mother’s Day.
“What did she do?”
“She said the baby couldn’t come home with you.”
“Why?”
“Because of Thomas.”
I stared at the desk.
“You knew?”
“I knew you and Thomas had been close.”
“We weren’t having an affair.”
“I know that now.”
“Now?”
Dottie didn’t answer.
“Did you think Rebecca was his?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Your mother told me.”
I felt sick.
“My mother told you?”
“She told everyone who needed to be convinced.”
“Convinced of what?”
“That the baby had to disappear.”
The room seemed to tilt.
I pressed my palm against the desk.
“Where was my husband?”
“At the hospital.”
“He agreed?”
Dottie went silent.
“Dottie.”
“Yes.”
One word.
Forty-six years of marriage collapsed a little further.
“Why?”
“Your mother told him Rebecca wasn’t his.”
“But apparently she wasn’t Thomas’s either.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Then whose was she?”
“I don’t know.”
I heard Caroline inhale through Scott’s phone.
She knew.
I could feel it.
But Dottie continued.
“Your mother arranged everything before you woke properly.”
“What does that mean?”
“She knew someone who worked at the hospital. Papers were changed. You were told the baby died.”
“And Rebecca?”
“Thomas took her.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Why Thomas?”
“Because he was the only person willing to.”
My chest hurt.
“He knew she wasn’t his?”
“I don’t know what he knew.”
“Did he raise her?”
“Yes.”
“As his daughter?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the photograph again.
Thomas’s hand was resting near Rebecca’s.
Not touching.
But close.
“He loved her?”
Dottie’s voice broke.
“Very much.”
That should have comforted me.
Instead, I cried.
Quietly.
Because somebody had rocked my daughter when she cried.
Somebody had taught her to walk.
Somebody had sat beside her when she was sick.
Somebody had watched her graduate.
It just hadn’t been me.
“Why did you tell her I abandoned her?”
Dottie sobbed.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“What does that mean?”
“She found me.”
“When?”
“Twenty-four years ago.”
The same year Rebecca first tried contacting me.
“She asked me if you knew she was alive.”
I could barely speak.
“What did you say?”
“I panicked.”
“Dottie.”
“I told her you had agreed to the arrangement.”
I shut my eyes.
“Why?”
“Because your mother was still alive.”
I went completely still.
“You were protecting my mother?”
“She threatened me.”
“With what?”
Dottie hesitated.
“My son.”
I frowned.
“Paul?”
“Yes.”
“What did she have on Paul?”
“Nothing.”
“Then how could she threaten you?”
Dottie whispered,
“Because Paul isn’t my biological son.”
I stared at the phone.
Even Scott looked confused.
“What does that have to do with me?”
Dottie was crying so hard she could barely answer.
“Because your mother arranged his adoption too.”
I felt a chill move through me.
My mother.
Rebecca.
Paul.
Changed documents.
Secret adoptions.
This was no longer one terrible decision made during a hospital crisis.
It sounded like a pattern.
“What was my mother involved in?”
“I don’t know everything.”
“Stop saying that!”
My voice echoed through the office.
Dottie went quiet.
I lowered my voice.
“Please. For once, tell me what you know.”
She took several breaths.
“Your mother volunteered with a private maternity home.”
I remembered.
St. Agnes House.
Pregnant girls stayed there.
People called them troubled girls back then.
Their babies often disappeared into closed adoptions.
“St. Agnes,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
My skin prickled.
“Was Rebecca taken there?”
“No.”
“Then why does it matter?”
“Because that’s where your mother learned how to make babies disappear on paper.”
Nobody in the office moved.
I thought of my mother as I remembered her.
Pressed dresses.
Pearl earrings.
Church every Sunday.
Always telling me reputation was something a woman spent her whole life earning and five minutes losing.
“What was she protecting?” I whispered.
Dottie didn’t answer.
I looked at Scott’s phone.
“Caroline?”
Still nothing.
“You know, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me.”
Caroline spoke carefully.
“Margaret, the answer is in the records Rebecca has.”
“I want the answer now.”
“Your mother wasn’t trying to hide an affair.”
“Then what?”
“She was hiding Rebecca’s father.”
I felt my pulse in my throat.
“Who was he?”
Caroline took a breath.
Before she could answer, the manager’s desk phone rang.
She glanced at the display.
Her expression changed.
“Excuse me.”
She answered.
“Yes?”
She listened.
Then looked directly at me.
“She’s here.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who?”
The manager covered the receiver.
“The receptionist says there’s a woman downstairs asking for you.”
My fingers went numb.
“What woman?”
The manager listened again.
Then slowly put down the phone.
“She gave her name as Rebecca Reed.”
Scott shot to his feet.
“Absolutely not.”
I stood too.
My knees were shaking.
Caroline spoke through the phone.
“Margaret, listen to me.”
I picked up Scott’s phone.
“What?”
“Before Rebecca comes into that room, there’s something you need to know.”
I looked toward the office door.
“What?”
Caroline’s voice dropped.
“Rebecca didn’t come alone.”
My heart pounded.
“Who is with her?”
A pause.
Then Caroline answered.
“Her father.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“You said Thomas wasn’t—”
“I know.”
“Then who?”
Before Caroline could answer, there was a knock at the office door.
Once.
Twice.
The manager looked at me.
I nodded.
She opened it.
Rebecca stood in the hallway.
Older than the baby I had mourned.
Younger than the daughter I had imagined.
And beside her was a man leaning heavily on a cane.
Not Thomas Reed.
I recognized him anyway.
I had seen his face every Christmas for most of my life.
And when he looked at me, he whispered,
“Hello, Maggie.”
My knees nearly gave out.
Because the man standing beside the daughter I had been told was dead was my husband’s older brother.
Uncle Raymond
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