It was a frigid January day when Shelly McCarthy hailed a cab at the Madison, Wisconsin airport. Shelly hadn’t slept for days, in anticipation of this trip, and it had been another exhausting journey. The cold Wisconsin wind nipped at her face and froze her fingertips. As she impatiently waited for the cab, she decided that she needed sleep in the worst way. “Some warmth would be nice too,” she thought.
Shelly directed the cab driver to the hotel that she had booked. Once again, she didn’t even bother to unpack her bags when she arrived in her room. She was beginning to wonder if it was all worth it. “Oh well, too tired to worry about those things today,” she thought. Shelly flopped on the bed, and was sound asleep within minutes.
After living the past several months with his in-laws, Dylan Robertson had decided that it was time for a change. He couldn’t just sit there numb in Hope’s childhood house day-after-day. It had been over a month since her death. While time seemed to have stood still for him, the rest of the world was still turning. Hope wouldn’t have wanted him to sit around, half dead himself.
Dylan had purchased a modestly priced condominium. Since Hope’s death, he had accumulated a few pieces of furniture that had been stored in Vern and Ida’s basement, along with the items that had not been sold at the auction. So, with the help of some friends, Dylan was moving out. There wasn’t a lot of stuff, but enough to require the rental of a medium-sized truck. And he was chided more than once for picking the coldest day of the New Year for this task.
“Don’t you guys worry about the weather,” was Dylan’s retort, “I’m treating for dinner tonight. And you can drink all of the beer that you want!” They were more than willing to endure the cold just to help Dylan, but dinner and drinks was certainly a nice perk. And Dylan thought it would be nice to hang out with some of the old gang again.
Shelly McCarthy was up at the crack of dawn that day, ready to take on new challenges. She had learned from the adoption records that her mother’s name was Hope Quinlan. The father’s name was barely intelligible – it appeared to have been smeared. She couldn’t make out the last name, other than the middle letters, “bert.” And as best as she could tell, the first name was four or five letters – perhaps one of them was an “L.” Not a lot to go on.
Shelly had done her homework ahead of the trip, and could not locate a single Hope Quinlan in the Madison phone book. For that matter, there didn’t appear to be a single person in the state by that name. “Of course,” Shelly had thought, “what are the odds that she even lived in Madison in any more?” But Shelly had uncovered a lead. There was one Quinlan with a Madison address, Vern and Ida Quinlan. She had thought of calling, but then decided to pay a personal visit given the sensitivity of the issue. Shelly realized that she might not be a welcome sight. But it would be harder for someone to turn her away, if she was there at the doorstep.
Shelly was nervous and a little nauseated as she climbed into the cab. “130 Winston Circle, please.” She said it with a crack in her voice, and she could feel the butterflies fluttering wildly in her stomach. The thoughts went wild in her head. “Maybe it’s not my mom, but what if they’re related to me? Maybe it’s an aunt and uncle. Maybe Vern is my brother, for all I know.” Shelly squeezed her hands tight, and shut her eyes, “I just pray to God that they can help me.”
Dylan’s friends had driven the truck away to get a head start on the unloading, while he checked the house over once more for anything that might have been left behind. He knew that there was nothing left to move, but he needed some time alone in Hope’s room. Vern and Ida had told Dylan that he could take anything that he wanted from Hope’s room. He left it intact, though. Dylan couldn’t stand the thought of dismantling it. Besides, he could visit anytime that he wanted – anytime he wanted or needed to feel a little closer to Hope.
Dylan sat on the bed, looking around. “Such a wonderful person, such a wonderful life, why did it have to end?” A lone tear streamed down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away because it reminded him that he was alive – it was nice to feel that way, instead of numb. The tear slowly ran from his cheek down his neck. “I wish I could at least see her one more time, just one more time.”
As Dylan stood up, he looked out the window to see a cab pull up to the curb. He could hardly believe his eyes when he saw Hope climb out the back. “Oh my God,” he said out loud. “How could this be?” Dylan was sure that he was hallucinating as he sprinted down the staircase, two steps at time. “Vern! Ida!” He called to the back family room. “This is incredible! I don’t know what I’m seeing but I think it’s Hope!”
Dylan ran to the front door, slinging it wide open, just as Shelly had stepped onto the porch. She stepped back, startled. Shelly saw a man with a look of joy on his face. As he focused in on her face, though, the joy turned to puzzlement. Dylan stopped dead in his tracks. “This is Hope alright, but she doesn’t look a day over twenty,” he thought. Dylan recalled their conversations about reincarnation. “Could there be some truth to it all?” he wondered.
Shelly had a speech prepared, but she totally forgotten it in the moment. The man on the porch looked oddly familiar, but she couldn’t figure out why. Shelly stared back at him for a moment, and then snapped out of it enough to speak a few words. “Uhm, sir,” Shelly said, “I’m looking for Hope Quinlan. Does she live here by chance?”
“Why no,” Dylan replied, “Hope died a little over a month ago. Who are you? Why do you want to see Hope?” Dylan could not get over the uncanny resemblance.
Shelly’s heart sunk to her feet. She had missed meeting her mother by a month. She didn’t know why – maybe it was the culmination of so many months of hard times and so much work all for nothing – but Shelly began to cry.
Almost instinctively, Dylan walked to Shelly, drew her into his chest, and hugged her. Shelly didn’t resist. It was nice to be hugged again. She had been so lonely for so many months. She sobbed as she spoke some of the words of her speech, a speech that was now irrelevant.
“My name is Shelly McCarthy. I was adopted shortly after my birth. Hope Quinlan was my mother.”
Dylan couldn’t believe his ears. For a split second, he wondered if this was some sort of con. Then he realized that the woman before him looked too much like Hope to be a lie.
“Oh my,” he said taking a step back, “then I’m your father. Perhaps we should get in out of the cold. We’ve got a lot to talk about, and there are some people inside that you would probably like to meet.”
Vern and Ida had been peering out the living room windows. They walked to the front foyer, as Dylan and Shelly entered the house.
“Vern and Ida,” Dylan proclaimed proudly, “I’d like you to meet your granddaughter. I guess there’s a little bit of Hope alive after all.”
Chapters
About The Author
- Rick
- I work in the Compliance Department of American Family Mutual Insurance Company, where I'm the Company's Compliance Director. I'm married to Julie, who also works at American Family, in the Claims Division. We've been married since 1995. I have a daughter, Allison, who lives in Bellingham, Washington, and who recently graduated from Western Washington University.
January 15, 2008
Chapter 25 - You'll Understand What Happiness Is
Hope lay there so peacefully, so still. It seemed as if she was in a deep peaceful slumber as she lay on the couch. Dylan had covered her with a blanket, and the cats climbed all over her, sniffing for any sign of life. Finally, one of them lay down close to her head, and the other nestled itself between her feet.
Hope’s mother walked back through the room after phoning the funeral parlor, and was upset with the cats. She shooed them away, apparently fearful that they would harm Hope in some way that Dylan could not understand. Dylan felt angry, believing that the cats were entitled to say goodbye in their own way, but he didn’t have the energy to put up a fuss. He just sat across the room, numb. He didn’t have any more energy for crying. There was nothing left. He just sat; staring at Hope, wishing it was just a bad dream.
Dylan jumped when the front doorbell rang, about an hour later. The funeral home folks had arrived. They asked the Robertsons to say their good-byes. Dylan held Hope tight. She was cold to the touch, but he couldn’t let go - he didn’t want to let go, for he knew that he would never see her again.
Hope’s father delicately pulled Dylan away, and led him to the kitchen. There they sat as the morticians wheeled a stretcher in, on top of which lay a body bag. They had asked that the family leave Hope, so that they could place her in the bag. Dylan became impatient, as the minutes ticked away, stranded in the kitchen. As he peered around the corner to check on their progress, the mortician zipped the bag around Hope. His last memory of Hope’s face was now the cold look of the canvas bag being zipped round and over her head. They wheeled Hope out of the house, into the cold sunny breeze. With his face pressed against the window, Dylan thought that Hope would have enjoyed feeling the warmth of the sun one more time on her face.
There is no rest when there’s a death in the family. There are so many details. Dylan had to make arrangements with the funeral home – although Hope’s situation was fairly “easy,” because she had requested that her body be cremated. Still, Dylan had to meet with the minister. He had to call and email friends and relatives to let them know of the death. And then the phone started ringing nonstop. Amidst all of that, Dylan had to come up with an obituary.
Dylan wanted Hope’s obituary to be something special. When he called the newspaper, they said they needed it by noon. He told them that he wanted time to think. They gave him three extra hours. He scrawled out some words, and began to edit. Funny thing, even though Dylan was writing about Hope, the process took his mind off her death. He was so intent on coming up with something special that he lost sight of what he was actually doing. When Dylan reread it several days later, though, he doubted that he had done justice to Hope’s exuberant existence.
He felt the same sense of failure when it came to Hope’s funeral. Even though Dylan had lived for years in the shadow of her imminent death, he was still unprepared when it happened. He sat there, talking to the minister about the eulogy, trying to reduce Hope’s life to mere words. Hope and Dylan weren’t exactly church-going folks, so the minister hardly even knew Hope. All that Dylan could think of was things like “she liked to run,” “she was a good cook,” “she loved her cats” – things that were all true, but really didn’t get to the heart of things.
Truth be told, Hope loved to run, and it was a part of her life. It was part of what made her Hope. When she was sad or stressed, she ran to make herself feel better. When she was happy, she ran like the wind. And her bright smile greeted all who she encountered. Perhaps they in turn then smiled at someone else, and on and on. But now, that ripple effect is gone forever.
And her cooking – it wasn’t just a meal. It was feast, every time. It was a way that Hope showed how much she loved herself and those around her. Even the simplest meals had little garnishes or other special touches. Perhaps the napkins were folded in a special way, or candles adorned the table’s center. Her meals were another form of her love. And that too had an effect on many lives.
Dylan found it difficult to express how the simple things that made up Hope had such a dramatic impact on the lives around her. The words of her obituary and eulogy did not do her life justice - neither for those who knew her, nor for the casual newspaper reader who happened to read her column that day. No one fully understands the impact of the Hopes in their lives until it’s too late. Just as people take for granted the air that they breathe, the water that they drink, everyone has Hopes in their lives who they do not fully appreciate.
One thing Dylan felt he did do right was to have a special song played during Hope’s memorial service. They had begun their trip with a visit to the Chicago Schubert Theater’s production of “Cats,” and enjoyed the show very much. Dylan had never realized what a poignant piece “Memory” was until then. It really hit home that night. The lyric, “if you touch me you'll understand what happiness is,” always made him think of Hope. True to his word, he would always remember Hope. And now, everyone who attended the memorial would think of Hope too whenever the song was played.
In the days and weeks that followed Hope’s death, Dylan felt numb and lethargic. Nothing mattered at all. He couldn’t smile. It hurt to eat. It hurt to breathe. He didn’t even care if he ate or breathed.
Dylan didn’t want to sleep, as it was no escape. Night after night, he had awful, inexplicable nightmares about Hope. He would see her crouched over, alone, consumed by flames, screaming. And there was nothing that he could do - he just stood there watching, while she knelt in the midst of the searing flames. When his brain could take it no longer, Dylan would awake with a start, his sheets soaking wet from sweat.
Night after night, Dylan would lie in bed, as the grandfather clock chimed 1 a.m., 2 a.m., 3 a.m. – whatever ungodly hour it might be – and he would try to fall back asleep. But he couldn’t. His sheets were wet and cold, and he had the uneasy feeling that he had abandoned Hope, just left her to suffer in the flames. But he couldn’t figure out what the flames meant. And Dylan felt fear as he lay in his bed - an odd, bewildering sensation that Hope was there in the room, but that she was angry. The feeling perplexed him. Perhaps the countless nights of restless sleep were finally getting to him. Dylan knew that it was irrational, but it felt real, all too real.
Night after night, Dylan would finally give up on the idea of falling back to sleep. When he could muster the courage to pull the sheets off his head and get out of bed, he would arise well before the dawn to watch some inane television show. To say that he actually watched it isn’t really accurate – it was more like he stared at the tube, simply for the company, simply so he didn’t feel so alone.
Dylan tried to discern the meaning of his dream. “Surely, someone like Hope could never end up in hell,” he thought. “If Hope were in hell, there was no justice in the universe, and there was no God that deserved his respect.” While Hope was not a religious person by any means, Dylan believed that she was as good as a person could be. She respected life, and lived it to the fullest. She was a saint to one and all, and never hurt a fly. “If living a life like Hope’s doesn’t get a person into heaven, then the hell with it all,” Dylan thought.
Dylan still believed that nothing happens when a person dies. But even the most steadfast of people can waiver from time-to-time. With Hope on the “other side,” whatever that might be, things became cloudy, and the subject of heaven and hell even more poignant in his mind. Hope was still alive in Dylan’s thoughts and dreams, so perhaps she was still alive somewhere else.
And he wondered why would he even imagine that Hope would be in hell? What in the world could she have ever done that would make him think such a horrible thought? And then he remembered the baby.
Vern and Ida also had the baby on their minds. One day during breakfast, and completely out of the blue, they raised the subject with Dylan. This came as quite a shock to him, as they hadn’t discussed it with him in over two decades.
“Dylan, we owe you something,” Vern said.
“Yes,” Ida said, “and it’s way overdue.”
“What do you mean?” Dylan replied, still half asleep after another restless night.
“We owe you an apology about how we handled the situation with the baby,” Vern said softly. His voice cracked, and Ida took over.
“Dylan, dear, we didn’t handle that situation well at all. The way we treated you and Hope during that time was awful. We made our peace with her before she died….” Dylan was at a loss for words, and sat there dumbfounded.
“What Ida’s trying to say, son, is that we’re really sorry. We took so much out on you during that time, but it was just as much Hope’s fault. Hell, it was probably somehow our fault too, in one way or another.”
“Yes,” Ida continued. “We blamed you for Hope’s pregnancy. And just because you were the father, well, it doesn’t make you totally to blame.”
“This means a lot coming from you guys,” Dylan said. “Thank you.”
“Well, it’s just that you were so good to Hope. We can’t believe that we chased you out of her life back in high school. And we didn’t exactly welcome you back when you guys hooked up later.”
“Yes, Dylan,” Ida said, “we’re just trying to say that we really appreciated everything you did for Hope, and we are so grateful that you were a part of her life.” Ida began to cry, and tears welled up in Dylan’s eyes too.
“And thinking back, Ida and I sure wished we wouldn’t have put so much pressure on Hope to give up the baby for adoption.”
“Oh, don’t feel bad about that,” Dylan interjected. “It was the right thing to do at the time. Hope’s life would have never been the same with a baby in high school. She really didn’t have a choice. She knew that too. Don’t be so hard on yourselves.”
Ida tried to regain her composure. “It’s just that if the child were around – oh this sounds so selfish – but if the child were around, at least we’d have a grandchild now. At least their Hope would have a legacy. At least there would be a little bit of Hope still alive.“
Hope’s mother walked back through the room after phoning the funeral parlor, and was upset with the cats. She shooed them away, apparently fearful that they would harm Hope in some way that Dylan could not understand. Dylan felt angry, believing that the cats were entitled to say goodbye in their own way, but he didn’t have the energy to put up a fuss. He just sat across the room, numb. He didn’t have any more energy for crying. There was nothing left. He just sat; staring at Hope, wishing it was just a bad dream.
Dylan jumped when the front doorbell rang, about an hour later. The funeral home folks had arrived. They asked the Robertsons to say their good-byes. Dylan held Hope tight. She was cold to the touch, but he couldn’t let go - he didn’t want to let go, for he knew that he would never see her again.
Hope’s father delicately pulled Dylan away, and led him to the kitchen. There they sat as the morticians wheeled a stretcher in, on top of which lay a body bag. They had asked that the family leave Hope, so that they could place her in the bag. Dylan became impatient, as the minutes ticked away, stranded in the kitchen. As he peered around the corner to check on their progress, the mortician zipped the bag around Hope. His last memory of Hope’s face was now the cold look of the canvas bag being zipped round and over her head. They wheeled Hope out of the house, into the cold sunny breeze. With his face pressed against the window, Dylan thought that Hope would have enjoyed feeling the warmth of the sun one more time on her face.
There is no rest when there’s a death in the family. There are so many details. Dylan had to make arrangements with the funeral home – although Hope’s situation was fairly “easy,” because she had requested that her body be cremated. Still, Dylan had to meet with the minister. He had to call and email friends and relatives to let them know of the death. And then the phone started ringing nonstop. Amidst all of that, Dylan had to come up with an obituary.
Dylan wanted Hope’s obituary to be something special. When he called the newspaper, they said they needed it by noon. He told them that he wanted time to think. They gave him three extra hours. He scrawled out some words, and began to edit. Funny thing, even though Dylan was writing about Hope, the process took his mind off her death. He was so intent on coming up with something special that he lost sight of what he was actually doing. When Dylan reread it several days later, though, he doubted that he had done justice to Hope’s exuberant existence.
He felt the same sense of failure when it came to Hope’s funeral. Even though Dylan had lived for years in the shadow of her imminent death, he was still unprepared when it happened. He sat there, talking to the minister about the eulogy, trying to reduce Hope’s life to mere words. Hope and Dylan weren’t exactly church-going folks, so the minister hardly even knew Hope. All that Dylan could think of was things like “she liked to run,” “she was a good cook,” “she loved her cats” – things that were all true, but really didn’t get to the heart of things.
Truth be told, Hope loved to run, and it was a part of her life. It was part of what made her Hope. When she was sad or stressed, she ran to make herself feel better. When she was happy, she ran like the wind. And her bright smile greeted all who she encountered. Perhaps they in turn then smiled at someone else, and on and on. But now, that ripple effect is gone forever.
And her cooking – it wasn’t just a meal. It was feast, every time. It was a way that Hope showed how much she loved herself and those around her. Even the simplest meals had little garnishes or other special touches. Perhaps the napkins were folded in a special way, or candles adorned the table’s center. Her meals were another form of her love. And that too had an effect on many lives.
Dylan found it difficult to express how the simple things that made up Hope had such a dramatic impact on the lives around her. The words of her obituary and eulogy did not do her life justice - neither for those who knew her, nor for the casual newspaper reader who happened to read her column that day. No one fully understands the impact of the Hopes in their lives until it’s too late. Just as people take for granted the air that they breathe, the water that they drink, everyone has Hopes in their lives who they do not fully appreciate.
One thing Dylan felt he did do right was to have a special song played during Hope’s memorial service. They had begun their trip with a visit to the Chicago Schubert Theater’s production of “Cats,” and enjoyed the show very much. Dylan had never realized what a poignant piece “Memory” was until then. It really hit home that night. The lyric, “if you touch me you'll understand what happiness is,” always made him think of Hope. True to his word, he would always remember Hope. And now, everyone who attended the memorial would think of Hope too whenever the song was played.
In the days and weeks that followed Hope’s death, Dylan felt numb and lethargic. Nothing mattered at all. He couldn’t smile. It hurt to eat. It hurt to breathe. He didn’t even care if he ate or breathed.
Dylan didn’t want to sleep, as it was no escape. Night after night, he had awful, inexplicable nightmares about Hope. He would see her crouched over, alone, consumed by flames, screaming. And there was nothing that he could do - he just stood there watching, while she knelt in the midst of the searing flames. When his brain could take it no longer, Dylan would awake with a start, his sheets soaking wet from sweat.
Night after night, Dylan would lie in bed, as the grandfather clock chimed 1 a.m., 2 a.m., 3 a.m. – whatever ungodly hour it might be – and he would try to fall back asleep. But he couldn’t. His sheets were wet and cold, and he had the uneasy feeling that he had abandoned Hope, just left her to suffer in the flames. But he couldn’t figure out what the flames meant. And Dylan felt fear as he lay in his bed - an odd, bewildering sensation that Hope was there in the room, but that she was angry. The feeling perplexed him. Perhaps the countless nights of restless sleep were finally getting to him. Dylan knew that it was irrational, but it felt real, all too real.
Night after night, Dylan would finally give up on the idea of falling back to sleep. When he could muster the courage to pull the sheets off his head and get out of bed, he would arise well before the dawn to watch some inane television show. To say that he actually watched it isn’t really accurate – it was more like he stared at the tube, simply for the company, simply so he didn’t feel so alone.
Dylan tried to discern the meaning of his dream. “Surely, someone like Hope could never end up in hell,” he thought. “If Hope were in hell, there was no justice in the universe, and there was no God that deserved his respect.” While Hope was not a religious person by any means, Dylan believed that she was as good as a person could be. She respected life, and lived it to the fullest. She was a saint to one and all, and never hurt a fly. “If living a life like Hope’s doesn’t get a person into heaven, then the hell with it all,” Dylan thought.
Dylan still believed that nothing happens when a person dies. But even the most steadfast of people can waiver from time-to-time. With Hope on the “other side,” whatever that might be, things became cloudy, and the subject of heaven and hell even more poignant in his mind. Hope was still alive in Dylan’s thoughts and dreams, so perhaps she was still alive somewhere else.
And he wondered why would he even imagine that Hope would be in hell? What in the world could she have ever done that would make him think such a horrible thought? And then he remembered the baby.
Vern and Ida also had the baby on their minds. One day during breakfast, and completely out of the blue, they raised the subject with Dylan. This came as quite a shock to him, as they hadn’t discussed it with him in over two decades.
“Dylan, we owe you something,” Vern said.
“Yes,” Ida said, “and it’s way overdue.”
“What do you mean?” Dylan replied, still half asleep after another restless night.
“We owe you an apology about how we handled the situation with the baby,” Vern said softly. His voice cracked, and Ida took over.
“Dylan, dear, we didn’t handle that situation well at all. The way we treated you and Hope during that time was awful. We made our peace with her before she died….” Dylan was at a loss for words, and sat there dumbfounded.
“What Ida’s trying to say, son, is that we’re really sorry. We took so much out on you during that time, but it was just as much Hope’s fault. Hell, it was probably somehow our fault too, in one way or another.”
“Yes,” Ida continued. “We blamed you for Hope’s pregnancy. And just because you were the father, well, it doesn’t make you totally to blame.”
“This means a lot coming from you guys,” Dylan said. “Thank you.”
“Well, it’s just that you were so good to Hope. We can’t believe that we chased you out of her life back in high school. And we didn’t exactly welcome you back when you guys hooked up later.”
“Yes, Dylan,” Ida said, “we’re just trying to say that we really appreciated everything you did for Hope, and we are so grateful that you were a part of her life.” Ida began to cry, and tears welled up in Dylan’s eyes too.
“And thinking back, Ida and I sure wished we wouldn’t have put so much pressure on Hope to give up the baby for adoption.”
“Oh, don’t feel bad about that,” Dylan interjected. “It was the right thing to do at the time. Hope’s life would have never been the same with a baby in high school. She really didn’t have a choice. She knew that too. Don’t be so hard on yourselves.”
Ida tried to regain her composure. “It’s just that if the child were around – oh this sounds so selfish – but if the child were around, at least we’d have a grandchild now. At least their Hope would have a legacy. At least there would be a little bit of Hope still alive.“
Chapter 24 - A Peaceful Ending
The days that followed were quiet and uneventful as Hope's life wound down. Dylan spent hours just staring out the front living room window of the house, watching the traffic glide by and the school children marching off to school, then meandering back home. Autumn had reached its peak, and now Wisconsin was spiraling toward winter. Day after day was filled with clouds, as rain pelted the once colorful leaves onto the ground. Thanksgiving was approaching, yet there seemed to be little for which to be thankful.
Hope's condition had deteriorated significantly, and there was nothing that Dylan could do, but helplessly stand by and watch. Recent x-rays, which would be her last, showed that her lungs had been eaten away to nearly half their original size. Hope was now on pure oxygen virtually all of the time. It was so difficult for her to even walk around the house that she became for all intents and purposes a permanent resident of the living room sofa. A large oxygen tank, nearly the size of a man, rested vertically on the floor beside her, a cold constant reminder that Hope's demise, like the falling leaves outside, was inevitable.
Dylan did what he could to comfort Hope, but there was little to do. She was often in a semi-conscious state, usually napping throughout the day and night. He helped her to reach the toilet when necessary, and gave her sponge baths everyday. Hope's appetite was all but gone, and Dylan could rarely even lure her to eat with tempting treats like chocolate chip cookies or bread pudding, goodies that she had only weeks earlier loved to gobble down with much delight. Dylan hated to leave her alone, so he often sat near her, gently running his hands through her hair and over her head to try to sooth her pain. The cats sensed that something was wrong, and usually lay nestled beside her in constant vigil for signs of improvement.
Regretfully, Dylan felt that he had his own life to live too, so he spent time looking for work. He knew that someday he would be on his own again, and that he could not plan to live with Hope's parents forever. As he drove to the occasional job interview, he even glanced at the sporadic "House for Sale" signs, giving consideration to where he might live on his own again.
Dylan’s affect during this time was dull and depressed, and he put on some terrible performances during many job interviews. It was such a waste of time, and it sometimes consumed him with guilt when he returned home from those outings. “How dare I live my life while Hope lies behind limp and dying?” he would think. But then he knew that Hope would want it that way, and that she could not and would not expect him to just sit there hour after hour, day after day, watching her die.
Dylan would share stories with Hope about his job hunting – but never about his passing glances at houses – and she would listen intently and nod. But she would rarely hear the ends of his stories, as she usually slipped back into slumber several minutes after awakening. Dylan would find himself alone again, talking to no one but the cats. Hope's parents both continued with their jobs, as they were not wealthy people and needed the income to stay afloat. So Dylan just sat there beside Hope, listening to her labored breathing and praying that her end would come easily and peacefully.
It was all beginning to seem like an eternity. Dylan could hardly even remember what life was like when Hope wasn't sick. He secretly prayed that the end would come soon. He couldn't stand to see Hope suffer, and he could no longer stand the uncertainty of whether her death would be a peaceful one or painful. “No one ever teaches you anything about dying,” he thought. “It happens to all of us, but we're all pretty much left on our own to figure it out.” Dylan had no idea how the end would come for Hope, and he began to fear the worst.
Years earlier, Dylan had an awful experience with the slow death of a pet cat, Kathryn. He worried incessantly that Hope’s life would end equally badly. Kathryn lived to thirteen years, and her body finally just gave out one day. Her hind legs could hardly move, and she could no longer climb stairs. Dylan spent an entire afternoon and night beside her on the floor, attempting to comfort her. He barely slept, listening to Kathryn’s labored, irregular breathing throughout the night. On several occasions, the breathing seemed to stop, and Dylan thought the end had come peacefully. But then the breathing would once again resume.
Dylan spent the better part of the next day, cuddled beside the dying cat. He dozed off for a mid-afternoon nap, and awoke to her frantically struggling and gasping for air. Dylan became a blubbering lunatic, crying a river, as he took Kathryn to the vet. He couldn’t stand the thought of actually seeing the vet euthanize her, though, and begged the vet to take care of it without him. He hung his head as the vet took Kathryn into a cold, sterile room alone. He was ashamed that he had abandoned his little friend in her greatest time of need.
And Dylan feared the worst with Hope. During Hope’s last days, he often cried himself to sleep at night, not so much because Hope was dying – he had come to accept that fact – but because he feared that he would let her down in her time of need. He worried that Hope’s death would not be peaceful, but that it would be violent and painful. He silently vowed over and over again that he would stick with Hope, whatever the circumstances. Dylan only hoped that he would have the courage to live up to his secret vow.
Thanksgiving came, and they tried to make the best of it. Vern and Ida invited Dylan’s parents for lunch. Hope somehow mustered the strength to make an appearance at the dinner table, but it was short-lived. She had several bites of turkey and mashed potatoes, and then whispered to Dylan that she needed to rest. She lay down on the living room couch while the others continued to dine. The five left at the table said very little. When they retired to the living room to watch football, it seemed that they were really there to watch Hope die.
December came, and while the first official day of winter was several weeks away, the ground was already covered with snow. Hope, who had comes to term with her condition, told Dylan that it was appropriate for her to die at this time. She always hated this time of year. Everything had died, and was now being buried by the snow.
Hope no longer had the strength to climb the stairs to her upstairs bedroom. She spent her last days in the living room, lying on the couch. She had also needed the large tanks of oxygen at this time, as she could only survive on a nearly pure oxygen mixture. The tanks were too large and heavy to haul upstairs, anyway, so the living room was a reasonable choice.
Day after day, Dylan thought that maybe that would be the day, the day that he found Hope dead on the couch. He had tried to sleep in the living room with Hope for several nights, but it did not work. Her breathing was just too loud and disruptive, and he could not survive under the stress of the times without sleep. He had resigned himself to sleeping in Hope's room, and making the uncertain journey downstairs each morning, never knowing what he would find. He hated the thought of leaving Hope alone on the couch, but there seemed to be no alternative.
On an early December evening, Dylan bade Hope goodnight, like every night before since he had returned to sleeping in her bed. He hugged her, and said, “I love you.” Hope didn't respond, laying there deep in sleep, or unconsciousness. The line between the two was becoming harder and hard to define. When Hope first began using the large tanks of oxygen, they lasted for a week or more. She was now going through the tanks at a rate of one every two days.
As Dylan walked upstairs, he turned to look at Hope, overcome by the fear that this might be the last time that he saw her alive. His eyes swelled with tears, and he rushed back to the couch. Hope was oblivious to his presence as he sobbed uncontrollably be her side. Dylan decided that he would not leave her side that night, and that he would be there for her. He didn't sleep at all that night, but finally dozed off as the first glimmer of daylight appeared outside.
Dylan awoke several hours later, and was startled by Hope's absence. He yelled for her, but heard no reply. The toilet flushed, and he rushed to the bathroom door. Hope emerged, shuffling her feet, and pushing the portable oxygen tank used for these small trips. She forced a small smile, and Dylan assisted her back to the couch.
When Hope reached the couch, she tried to speak, but she was out of breath after walking from the bathroom. She gasped for air, and Dylan switched her to the floor tank. Hope began to sob as she caught her breath, and then she embarked on an unexpected tirade.
"Why did I give up my baby, Dylan?" She said over and over. "How could I do such an awful thing?" Why did you let me do that? I am such a terrible person." Dylan tried to calm her down, but his efforts were to no avail. Finally, Hope just wore herself out, and the delirious blather ceased. She fell into a deep sleep, and she didn’t wake up again that day.
Dylan was a wreck, and now feared the worst. It was only 10:00 a.m., but he rushed to the kitchen, found the liquor cabinet, and poured a shot of whiskey. He needed something to calm his nerves. But as he put the tumbler to his lips, he realized that alcohol was not the answer. He turned to the sink, and dumped the contents of the glass down the drain. Dylan sat at the kitchen table, with his hands on his head, and cried himself to sleep. He didn't wake up until Hope's mother returned home from work later that afternoon.
Dylan, Vern, and Ida watched TV that night sitting beside Hope. A humorous Christmas movie was on, and they tried to make the best of things. They chuckled some, but the mood that night was somber in stark contrast to the levity on the TV screen. Then Dylan realized that Christmas was going on all around them, but there was no sign of it in the house.
Dylan woke up the next morning to find Hope still alive, but his nudges could not bring her to consciousness. Dylan left the house that day, the first time in almost a week, and ventured out in the snow for a Christmas tree. When he returned, Hope was still asleep. He set the tree up in the corner of the living room across from her, and began to decorate it. When it was properly glimmering with tinsel, and the bulbs burned bright in every strand, he awoke Hope from her deep sleep. Dylan had to prod her more than once, but he finally brought her back to consciousness.
Christmas was something special to Hope. The holiday always brings out the best in people, but it seemed to have an even bigger impact on her. She would smile and sing non-stop, while she baked cookies for all of her coworkers and everyone in the neighborhood. She absolutely loved that time of year – it was almost as if her heart had a little bit of Santa built right in.
Dylan could hardly believe that he had let so many days pass since Thanksgiving without putting up the Christmas tree. For Hope, there was never a delay. While others may have flocked to the malls on the day after Thanksgiving, Hope always headed straight for the basement. She didn’t want to miss a day of Christmas festivities, and was always up bright and early on the day after Thanksgiving, retrieving box after box of Christmas decorations and ornaments. The tree ornaments were always her favorites, as they held so many memories. Many of them had special stories behind them related to how she received them or on what trip they were purchased. Everyone always said that the Robertsons had the best Christmas trees that they had ever seen.
When Dylan directed Hope's attention to the Christmas tree that December 12, her eyes opened wide. "Oh Dylan, it's beautiful," and "Is it Christmas?" were her only words. Dylan helped her up, and they walked over to the opposite corner. Darkness was approaching, and the only light in the room came from the tree. Dylan had put some Christmas music on the stereo, and one of Hope's favorite songs "White Christmas," played softly in the background. Hope carefully looked the tree over with a smile on her face, and then she gave Dylan a firm hug. He escorted her back to the couch, where she continued to eye Dylan’s tribute to Christmas. She asked that he leave the tree lights on that night, and eyed them from her pillow as she drifted back to sleep.
Hope's parents were gone for the evening, attending a work-related holiday function. Dylan sat in the living room with Hope, staring at the tree, thinking about wonderful Christmases past. He made plans to go shopping the next day. Even if Hope couldn’t enjoy them, she deserved some presents. When he finally tired of sitting, Dylan hugged Hope, and kissed her good night.
Friday, December 13. It hadn't even occurred to Dylan as he woke up that morning that he was opening his eyes to such an ominous day, Friday the thirteenth. He walked down the stairs like he had every other day that month. Hope wasn't on the couch, and he imagined that she had found her way to the bathroom. Dylan glanced down the hall to the bathroom, though, but no sign of Hope. He panicked, and ran to the living room. Dylan found Hope in the corner by the Christmas tree, barely alive, barely breathing. Sometime during the night, she had freed herself from the oxygen. Hope had crawled to the tree to nestle herself within its protection.
Dylan carried Hope to the couch, and tried to reattach the oxygen to her face. She was semi-conscious, and shook her head no, as she pushed the mask away.
“It’s time, honey, it’s time. I’m ready.” She could barely speak, but Dylan understood. And he accepted her wish.
Dylan cradled Hope in his arms. “What can I do to make it easier, sweetie? What can I do for you?” Dylan felt panic, along with a million other emotions rushing through his body like a shot of adrenalin. He kept his cool, though, reassured by Hope's strength.
With calmness and conviction, Hope opened her eyes, looked up at him, and whispered, "I love you."
Dylan whispered, "I love you" in return. Hope closed her eyes, and her breathing stopped. She died peacefully in Dylan’s arms.
And it was over. The worries of how she would die, of when she would die, if Dylan would be there when she died, and on and on and on - none of that mattered anymore. It was over. And Dylan was in shock. Despite weeks of preparation, Dylan was not prepared for that morning.
Hope's death was so peaceful that it was almost beautiful. “I should have known that someone of Hope's character would bow out so gracefully, so courageously,” Dylan said to Vern and Ida, who had just reached the downstairs.
Dylan looked at Hope's parents from across the room. They stopped in their tracks at the base of the staircase. Dylan’s hands began to tremble, and he cried uncontrollably. He cried first because he had lost his cherished loved one, his best friend. Then he cried out of relief that it had ended peacefully. And then he cried because he was all alone.
Hope's condition had deteriorated significantly, and there was nothing that Dylan could do, but helplessly stand by and watch. Recent x-rays, which would be her last, showed that her lungs had been eaten away to nearly half their original size. Hope was now on pure oxygen virtually all of the time. It was so difficult for her to even walk around the house that she became for all intents and purposes a permanent resident of the living room sofa. A large oxygen tank, nearly the size of a man, rested vertically on the floor beside her, a cold constant reminder that Hope's demise, like the falling leaves outside, was inevitable.
Dylan did what he could to comfort Hope, but there was little to do. She was often in a semi-conscious state, usually napping throughout the day and night. He helped her to reach the toilet when necessary, and gave her sponge baths everyday. Hope's appetite was all but gone, and Dylan could rarely even lure her to eat with tempting treats like chocolate chip cookies or bread pudding, goodies that she had only weeks earlier loved to gobble down with much delight. Dylan hated to leave her alone, so he often sat near her, gently running his hands through her hair and over her head to try to sooth her pain. The cats sensed that something was wrong, and usually lay nestled beside her in constant vigil for signs of improvement.
Regretfully, Dylan felt that he had his own life to live too, so he spent time looking for work. He knew that someday he would be on his own again, and that he could not plan to live with Hope's parents forever. As he drove to the occasional job interview, he even glanced at the sporadic "House for Sale" signs, giving consideration to where he might live on his own again.
Dylan’s affect during this time was dull and depressed, and he put on some terrible performances during many job interviews. It was such a waste of time, and it sometimes consumed him with guilt when he returned home from those outings. “How dare I live my life while Hope lies behind limp and dying?” he would think. But then he knew that Hope would want it that way, and that she could not and would not expect him to just sit there hour after hour, day after day, watching her die.
Dylan would share stories with Hope about his job hunting – but never about his passing glances at houses – and she would listen intently and nod. But she would rarely hear the ends of his stories, as she usually slipped back into slumber several minutes after awakening. Dylan would find himself alone again, talking to no one but the cats. Hope's parents both continued with their jobs, as they were not wealthy people and needed the income to stay afloat. So Dylan just sat there beside Hope, listening to her labored breathing and praying that her end would come easily and peacefully.
It was all beginning to seem like an eternity. Dylan could hardly even remember what life was like when Hope wasn't sick. He secretly prayed that the end would come soon. He couldn't stand to see Hope suffer, and he could no longer stand the uncertainty of whether her death would be a peaceful one or painful. “No one ever teaches you anything about dying,” he thought. “It happens to all of us, but we're all pretty much left on our own to figure it out.” Dylan had no idea how the end would come for Hope, and he began to fear the worst.
Years earlier, Dylan had an awful experience with the slow death of a pet cat, Kathryn. He worried incessantly that Hope’s life would end equally badly. Kathryn lived to thirteen years, and her body finally just gave out one day. Her hind legs could hardly move, and she could no longer climb stairs. Dylan spent an entire afternoon and night beside her on the floor, attempting to comfort her. He barely slept, listening to Kathryn’s labored, irregular breathing throughout the night. On several occasions, the breathing seemed to stop, and Dylan thought the end had come peacefully. But then the breathing would once again resume.
Dylan spent the better part of the next day, cuddled beside the dying cat. He dozed off for a mid-afternoon nap, and awoke to her frantically struggling and gasping for air. Dylan became a blubbering lunatic, crying a river, as he took Kathryn to the vet. He couldn’t stand the thought of actually seeing the vet euthanize her, though, and begged the vet to take care of it without him. He hung his head as the vet took Kathryn into a cold, sterile room alone. He was ashamed that he had abandoned his little friend in her greatest time of need.
And Dylan feared the worst with Hope. During Hope’s last days, he often cried himself to sleep at night, not so much because Hope was dying – he had come to accept that fact – but because he feared that he would let her down in her time of need. He worried that Hope’s death would not be peaceful, but that it would be violent and painful. He silently vowed over and over again that he would stick with Hope, whatever the circumstances. Dylan only hoped that he would have the courage to live up to his secret vow.
Thanksgiving came, and they tried to make the best of it. Vern and Ida invited Dylan’s parents for lunch. Hope somehow mustered the strength to make an appearance at the dinner table, but it was short-lived. She had several bites of turkey and mashed potatoes, and then whispered to Dylan that she needed to rest. She lay down on the living room couch while the others continued to dine. The five left at the table said very little. When they retired to the living room to watch football, it seemed that they were really there to watch Hope die.
December came, and while the first official day of winter was several weeks away, the ground was already covered with snow. Hope, who had comes to term with her condition, told Dylan that it was appropriate for her to die at this time. She always hated this time of year. Everything had died, and was now being buried by the snow.
Hope no longer had the strength to climb the stairs to her upstairs bedroom. She spent her last days in the living room, lying on the couch. She had also needed the large tanks of oxygen at this time, as she could only survive on a nearly pure oxygen mixture. The tanks were too large and heavy to haul upstairs, anyway, so the living room was a reasonable choice.
Day after day, Dylan thought that maybe that would be the day, the day that he found Hope dead on the couch. He had tried to sleep in the living room with Hope for several nights, but it did not work. Her breathing was just too loud and disruptive, and he could not survive under the stress of the times without sleep. He had resigned himself to sleeping in Hope's room, and making the uncertain journey downstairs each morning, never knowing what he would find. He hated the thought of leaving Hope alone on the couch, but there seemed to be no alternative.
On an early December evening, Dylan bade Hope goodnight, like every night before since he had returned to sleeping in her bed. He hugged her, and said, “I love you.” Hope didn't respond, laying there deep in sleep, or unconsciousness. The line between the two was becoming harder and hard to define. When Hope first began using the large tanks of oxygen, they lasted for a week or more. She was now going through the tanks at a rate of one every two days.
As Dylan walked upstairs, he turned to look at Hope, overcome by the fear that this might be the last time that he saw her alive. His eyes swelled with tears, and he rushed back to the couch. Hope was oblivious to his presence as he sobbed uncontrollably be her side. Dylan decided that he would not leave her side that night, and that he would be there for her. He didn't sleep at all that night, but finally dozed off as the first glimmer of daylight appeared outside.
Dylan awoke several hours later, and was startled by Hope's absence. He yelled for her, but heard no reply. The toilet flushed, and he rushed to the bathroom door. Hope emerged, shuffling her feet, and pushing the portable oxygen tank used for these small trips. She forced a small smile, and Dylan assisted her back to the couch.
When Hope reached the couch, she tried to speak, but she was out of breath after walking from the bathroom. She gasped for air, and Dylan switched her to the floor tank. Hope began to sob as she caught her breath, and then she embarked on an unexpected tirade.
"Why did I give up my baby, Dylan?" She said over and over. "How could I do such an awful thing?" Why did you let me do that? I am such a terrible person." Dylan tried to calm her down, but his efforts were to no avail. Finally, Hope just wore herself out, and the delirious blather ceased. She fell into a deep sleep, and she didn’t wake up again that day.
Dylan was a wreck, and now feared the worst. It was only 10:00 a.m., but he rushed to the kitchen, found the liquor cabinet, and poured a shot of whiskey. He needed something to calm his nerves. But as he put the tumbler to his lips, he realized that alcohol was not the answer. He turned to the sink, and dumped the contents of the glass down the drain. Dylan sat at the kitchen table, with his hands on his head, and cried himself to sleep. He didn't wake up until Hope's mother returned home from work later that afternoon.
Dylan, Vern, and Ida watched TV that night sitting beside Hope. A humorous Christmas movie was on, and they tried to make the best of things. They chuckled some, but the mood that night was somber in stark contrast to the levity on the TV screen. Then Dylan realized that Christmas was going on all around them, but there was no sign of it in the house.
Dylan woke up the next morning to find Hope still alive, but his nudges could not bring her to consciousness. Dylan left the house that day, the first time in almost a week, and ventured out in the snow for a Christmas tree. When he returned, Hope was still asleep. He set the tree up in the corner of the living room across from her, and began to decorate it. When it was properly glimmering with tinsel, and the bulbs burned bright in every strand, he awoke Hope from her deep sleep. Dylan had to prod her more than once, but he finally brought her back to consciousness.
Christmas was something special to Hope. The holiday always brings out the best in people, but it seemed to have an even bigger impact on her. She would smile and sing non-stop, while she baked cookies for all of her coworkers and everyone in the neighborhood. She absolutely loved that time of year – it was almost as if her heart had a little bit of Santa built right in.
Dylan could hardly believe that he had let so many days pass since Thanksgiving without putting up the Christmas tree. For Hope, there was never a delay. While others may have flocked to the malls on the day after Thanksgiving, Hope always headed straight for the basement. She didn’t want to miss a day of Christmas festivities, and was always up bright and early on the day after Thanksgiving, retrieving box after box of Christmas decorations and ornaments. The tree ornaments were always her favorites, as they held so many memories. Many of them had special stories behind them related to how she received them or on what trip they were purchased. Everyone always said that the Robertsons had the best Christmas trees that they had ever seen.
When Dylan directed Hope's attention to the Christmas tree that December 12, her eyes opened wide. "Oh Dylan, it's beautiful," and "Is it Christmas?" were her only words. Dylan helped her up, and they walked over to the opposite corner. Darkness was approaching, and the only light in the room came from the tree. Dylan had put some Christmas music on the stereo, and one of Hope's favorite songs "White Christmas," played softly in the background. Hope carefully looked the tree over with a smile on her face, and then she gave Dylan a firm hug. He escorted her back to the couch, where she continued to eye Dylan’s tribute to Christmas. She asked that he leave the tree lights on that night, and eyed them from her pillow as she drifted back to sleep.
Hope's parents were gone for the evening, attending a work-related holiday function. Dylan sat in the living room with Hope, staring at the tree, thinking about wonderful Christmases past. He made plans to go shopping the next day. Even if Hope couldn’t enjoy them, she deserved some presents. When he finally tired of sitting, Dylan hugged Hope, and kissed her good night.
Friday, December 13. It hadn't even occurred to Dylan as he woke up that morning that he was opening his eyes to such an ominous day, Friday the thirteenth. He walked down the stairs like he had every other day that month. Hope wasn't on the couch, and he imagined that she had found her way to the bathroom. Dylan glanced down the hall to the bathroom, though, but no sign of Hope. He panicked, and ran to the living room. Dylan found Hope in the corner by the Christmas tree, barely alive, barely breathing. Sometime during the night, she had freed herself from the oxygen. Hope had crawled to the tree to nestle herself within its protection.
Dylan carried Hope to the couch, and tried to reattach the oxygen to her face. She was semi-conscious, and shook her head no, as she pushed the mask away.
“It’s time, honey, it’s time. I’m ready.” She could barely speak, but Dylan understood. And he accepted her wish.
Dylan cradled Hope in his arms. “What can I do to make it easier, sweetie? What can I do for you?” Dylan felt panic, along with a million other emotions rushing through his body like a shot of adrenalin. He kept his cool, though, reassured by Hope's strength.
With calmness and conviction, Hope opened her eyes, looked up at him, and whispered, "I love you."
Dylan whispered, "I love you" in return. Hope closed her eyes, and her breathing stopped. She died peacefully in Dylan’s arms.
And it was over. The worries of how she would die, of when she would die, if Dylan would be there when she died, and on and on and on - none of that mattered anymore. It was over. And Dylan was in shock. Despite weeks of preparation, Dylan was not prepared for that morning.
Hope's death was so peaceful that it was almost beautiful. “I should have known that someone of Hope's character would bow out so gracefully, so courageously,” Dylan said to Vern and Ida, who had just reached the downstairs.
Dylan looked at Hope's parents from across the room. They stopped in their tracks at the base of the staircase. Dylan’s hands began to tremble, and he cried uncontrollably. He cried first because he had lost his cherished loved one, his best friend. Then he cried out of relief that it had ended peacefully. And then he cried because he was all alone.
Chapter 23 - A Welcome Home
It was late November by the time Hope and Dylan headed back to Wisconsin. As Dylan lay there that last night in the St. Augustine hotel listening to Hope laboriously breathe, he was surprised with how quickly the time had flown by, and with how quickly Hope’s condition had deteriorated.
“I guess I thought that we would be on the road a lot longer than we have been,” he thought. “Boy, I really was in denial…. But Hope always seemed healthy overall.” It was shocking for him to see the frail shell of what she once was only six months after they had set out on their journey.
Hope woke up late in the morning the next day. Dylan lay there beside her all night and into the morning, just biding his time until she awoke, not wanting to disturb her. There was so much planning to do that Dylan just couldn’t sleep.
“Perhaps I was naïve, but I never thought it would all end this way. I feel terrible for Hope. Where are we to go? What were we going to do?” In hindsight, Dylan wondered whether the whole trip was a mistake. “But it was surely worth it for all of the wonderful times that Hope and I shared during her last days.”
Dylan had made arrangements for the couple to stay with Hope’s parents in Madison. Vern and Ida were more than happy to have us stay with them. They were decent people, but Dylan’s relationship with them had been strained going all of the way back to the time when Hope and he had dated in high school. And about the best that Dylan had to offer at the moment was a hotel or an apartment.
“I’ll just swallow my pride,” he thought. “It would certainly be better for Hope to stay with her parents, rather than some sterile hotel room.” Hope and Dylan would be staying in her old bedroom, and maybe that would provide some comfort for her.
Hope turned to Dylan as he lay beside her. She forced a small smile, and asked for his assistance. Dylan helped her get out of bed so that she could go to the bathroom. She was in there for quite awhile, and he became concerned, so he crept near the door. Dylan could hear sobbing, and he gently tapped on the door. “You okay in there, honey?”
“No, I’m not, Dylan, but please don’t come in. I’ll be okay.” The sobbing continued. Dylan returned to the bed, feeling useless and helpless.
Hope emerged ten or so minutes later, asking for Dylan’s assistance so she could shower. He helped her undress, and they set the oxygen tank near the tub, so that she could inhale from the tube when she needed. Her shower was a brief one. She didn’t have the strength to stand for very long.
They left for the airport shortly after finishing their last room service meal. They were glad to be headed home, and Hope’s spirits lifted as they climbed into the rental car. Hope slept all of the way to the Jacksonville airport. As Dylan drove along, the nagging feelings of life without Hope entered his thoughts again. He again thought about what his life would be like without her. And once again he felt terribly guilty about it. It’s not so much that he made specific plans that didn’t include Hope, but he simply began to wonder what the future had in store for him. He tried to turn his thoughts to other things, but Dylan kept coming back to Dylan. He was glad to reach the airport so he could shift his attention to other things.
Dylan stood in line at the check-out counter, while Hope rested on a nearby seat. The airport was crowded, and difficult at times for Hope to maneuver her oxygen through the passing throng. They waited at their gate for only a short while before boarding began.
When they called the Robertsons’ row, they moved into line. Dylan thought nothing then of the airline employee who earlier had been eyeballing Hope’s oxygen tank. Dylan assumed that she was just a leering, obnoxious cretin, without any manners.
“Excuse, me, ma’am. You can’t get on this plane with that oxygen tank.”
Dylan couldn’t believe his ears. “What do you mean? What are you talking about? We need to get home.”
“I’m sorry, sir. You need a certified tank, a special one that can withstand the pressure changes.”
Dylan totally lost his cool at that point. All of the emotions that had been churning inside him - anger, fear, self-pity, and confusion - just boiled over. This was all news to him, and it was not the news that Dylan wanted to hear.
Dylan raised his voice; probably well past a reasonable volume, even under those circumstances. “What the hell are you talking about? How come no one told me about any of this before?” The line behind all took a giant step back. Many of the passengers were just a little scared that Dylan was going to totally lose his temper, and who knew what might happen then.
The employee remained calm, to her credit. But the tinge of sarcasm in her voice when she asked, “Well, did you tell anyone about the oxygen?” was just enough to totally set Dylan off. He began ranting and raving. Hope tried to calm him down, but he was fuming mad.
“Look, we have to get on that plane. My wife is very ill. We have to get on the plane.” Dylan was practically screaming by then. He went totally ballistic, and that poor ticket-taker was unfortunately in the wrong place at the wrong time that day.
Before he knew what happened, two airport security guards grabbed Dylan by the arms. He was adeptly whisked away from the line into a nearby room, kind of like a conference room, but more like some special holding area. “What the hell is going on?” Dylan shrieked. He tried to wiggle free at first, but ultimately succumbed to their strength, realizing that resistance was futile. By the time they pushed Dylan down into a chair, he realized that he may have overreacted. He began to take long, deep breaths in order to calm down.
“Fella, just what the hell were you doing out there?” the larger of the two guards asked. They still had a tight grip on Dylan, even though he was seated.
“Look, I’m really sorry guys,” Dylan said as he looked down at the table. “It’s been a rough couple of days. I’m sorry. I got way out of hand. Sorry.”
When the guards could see that Dylan had regained his composure, they loosened their grip on his arms. Then Hope came into the room, and actually had a smile on her face. “That was quite a show you put on, Dylan.” She came over and hugged him, and he began to cry. She held him tight until she could stand no longer.
"Dylan, I think that I have things worked out. They won’t let me take the oxygen on the plane, but they have special canisters that we can rent. I guess they’re worried about these things exploding or something. We’re going to have to leave this one behind. They’ll have a canister lined up for us within an hour or so.”
Dylan almost lost it again. “We’ll miss the flight –“ Hope gently put her hand across his mouth.
“It’s the best they can do, honey. They’ve got us lined up for the next flight to Madison, which is just a little later this afternoon. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
Dylan heaved a mammoth sigh as Hope finished. The guards suggested that Dylan and Hope could stay in the room while they waited for the next flight. Dylan again apologized as they exited. The room was some sort of private first class lounge, so Hope was able to stretch out on a sofa while the minutes ticked away until their flight. She fell into a deep sleep while Dylan stared out the window. It was a cloudy, dreary day, and the rain that gently streamed down the window reminded him of the countless, unwelcome tears that had recently fallen into Hope’s and his lives.
They boarded the next flight without incident, and were pleasantly surprised to be assigned first class seats. Hope winked at Dylan, saying, “I guess all of your ranting and raving paid off!” Dylan remained embarrassed about the event, and wanted to get out of Florida as soon as possible. But he was glad to see that Hope still had her sense of humor. The crew tended to their every whim and fancy on that flight. Dylan wondered if it was because they were in first class, or because the crew had all heard about the lunatic that would be riding on their plane.
The plane arrived in Madison at around 8:30 p.m. Dylan had arranged for Hope’s parents to pick them up at the airport. They expected a low-key greeting, and never in a million years would Hope and Dylan have expected what they saw that evening.
Dylan would later recall that never in all of his life did he see such an outpouring of love and affection. As they walked off the jet-way, and into the airport terminal, they were greeted by a throng of people - friends and family, former co-workers, former neighbors - all there to pay their respects to Hope. It was a totally unexpected heart-wrenching show of support, reminiscent of the final scene in the movie “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
Hope was exhausted from the flight home, but she stood there and waited as each person greeted her with a hug and a few kind words. There were countless offers to assist in the future in any way necessary. Their words and smiles of support did not reveal it, but the pained expressions in the eyes of the well-wishers made clear that they saw a much different Hope that day than they saw before the six-month journey. Hope had lost at least five or ten pounds in the past week, and she looked so feeble with the oxygen hose running to her nose.
There were so many people there to greet them that Hope eventually had to take a seat in the terminal as the ranks filed by. While Hope would have preferred to just get home and rest, she never let on to the crowd. She remained stoic and appreciative until the last caller had said his piece, some 45 minutes after they landed. Then they loaded up the car, and drove to Hope’s parents. It was an unforgettable homecoming that would unfortunately be overshadowed by the events of the next several weeks.
Autumn was Hope’s favorite season, and it was at its peak when she and Dylan awoke the next day. They felt a certain “culture shock” going from palm trees and heavy humidity to cold air and trees all ablaze in yellow and orange. Halloween had recently come and gone, and one could still sense the youthful excitement in the air.
Hope felt a youthful reinvigoration waking up in her childhood room. The room was much how she had left it, some twenty-five years earlier. She walked around, picking up this and that, reminiscing out loud. Dylan sat in bed listening attentively. She told of past adventures, and of the special significance that her many trinkets and knickknacks held. Hope had certainly led a full life in her short time on earth, and Dylan enjoyed seeing a smile on her face.
She was flipping through the pages of a scrapbook when a newspaper clipping turned her mood somewhat melancholy. When she was in high school, she had entered a poetry contest sponsored by a local bookstore. Hope read her poem aloud:
IRONIC
An autumn tree loses
Its blanket of
Summer leaves
To stand naked
In the cold winter wind.
“Wow, that’s great, Hope. It’s short, sweet, and to the point, yet elegant. I can see why you received a second place award.” Hope was not moved in the least by Dylan’s praise.
"Dylan, I plagiarized this poem. I have never forgiven myself for it, and I feel terrible about it now. You see, I was kind of dating a boy at the time. You didn’t know him, and it was before our time. He was someone I met on a summer vacation, while camping – he didn’t go to our school. Actually, we were more like pen pals. I never did see him again after that summer." Hope paused, staring out the window, lost in thought.
"Tommy Rierdon was his name,” she continued. “He sent me some poems that he had written. I just loved this one, and I entered it. But I intended to enter it under his name, but – I don't remember why – something got screwed up, and the entry was under my name. I was flabbergasted when it won second prize."
"Hope," I interrupted, "that doesn’t sound like plagiarism to me. You never intended to enter it under your name."
"No, but I took all of the credit. I never corrected the error, even though I had more than one opportunity to do so. I feel so ashamed. I got all of this attention in the paper, and I even won a beautiful poetry book." She hunted through her bookcase, and snagged the book. It looked brand new. "I never even opened the book. I just couldn’t stand to…."
Dylan tried to console Hope, but she would have none of it. "Hope, would you feel better if you could tell Tommy about this?"
"Believe it or not, I actually tried to contact him several years later, but I couldn't locate him. His family had moved, and the forwarding order had expired."
Dylan convinced Hope that all was not lost, and that maybe he could track Tommy down. They gathered all of the information that she had on him, and Dylan set out to see what I could do. The Internet was not a resource available to Hope when she last attempted to locate Tommy. Within a short time, Dylan had several reasonable leads. He began making phone calls, and had tracked Tommy down by mid-afternoon. Hope was napping when he finally reached the real Tommy Rierdon. He sounded excited about speaking with her. Hope slept for another hour after Dylan hung up the phone.
Hope's eyes were as big as saucers when Dylan told her the news. They went into Vern’s den to make the call. As Dylan followed her in, Hope turned and gave him a look like a teenage girl about to speak with her first boyfriend – she didn't need him eavesdropping - so Dylan did an "about face," and closed the door behind him as he left the room.
Hope spoke with Tommy for about an hour, and Dylan could hear an occasional giggle or shriek from his resting place in the living room, down the hall. When she emerged from the room, her face was aglow. "Oh, Dylan, that has to be one of the best things that anyone ever did for me. Thank you so much for locating Tommy." She went on non-stop to tell all about his life, his wife, his kids, even his pet cats.
"I want to do something now that I have wanted to do for years!" Hope marched into her bedroom, grabbed the second prize poetry book, and pulled the second prize certificate from her scrapbook. She took some whiteout, and blanked out her name from the certificate. She carefully scrawled "Tommy Reirdon" in its place. They then wrapped the certificate along with the book, and prepared them for mailing to Tommy the next day.
As Hope applied the last stamp, the doorbell rang. "Well, who could that be?"
Hope walked to the door, and nearly fainted when she saw who was on the other side. "Buddy! Felix! What in the world are you guys doing here?"
Unbeknownst to Hope, Dylan had contacted the people with whom they had left their two cats. While the new owners had grown attached to Buddy and Felix over the past several months, they were willing to part with them under the circumstances. It was a tearful reunion for Hope and a sad farewell for the cats' most recent companions. Hope squeezed the little guys so hard that Dylan thought they might burst in her arms. Hope spent the rest of the evening brushing and playing with her furry friends.
Later, when Hope finally retired for bed, it was clear that the day had taken a toll on her. Her face was pale, and she looked utterly exhausted. But a smile was still on her face, as she petted Buddy and Felix beside her. As Dylan kissed her goodnight, Hope whispered, "You did something so nice for me today. My conscience feels so much better, and we have our little furry friends back. This has been one of the best days of my life. Thank you so much."
“I guess I thought that we would be on the road a lot longer than we have been,” he thought. “Boy, I really was in denial…. But Hope always seemed healthy overall.” It was shocking for him to see the frail shell of what she once was only six months after they had set out on their journey.
Hope woke up late in the morning the next day. Dylan lay there beside her all night and into the morning, just biding his time until she awoke, not wanting to disturb her. There was so much planning to do that Dylan just couldn’t sleep.
“Perhaps I was naïve, but I never thought it would all end this way. I feel terrible for Hope. Where are we to go? What were we going to do?” In hindsight, Dylan wondered whether the whole trip was a mistake. “But it was surely worth it for all of the wonderful times that Hope and I shared during her last days.”
Dylan had made arrangements for the couple to stay with Hope’s parents in Madison. Vern and Ida were more than happy to have us stay with them. They were decent people, but Dylan’s relationship with them had been strained going all of the way back to the time when Hope and he had dated in high school. And about the best that Dylan had to offer at the moment was a hotel or an apartment.
“I’ll just swallow my pride,” he thought. “It would certainly be better for Hope to stay with her parents, rather than some sterile hotel room.” Hope and Dylan would be staying in her old bedroom, and maybe that would provide some comfort for her.
Hope turned to Dylan as he lay beside her. She forced a small smile, and asked for his assistance. Dylan helped her get out of bed so that she could go to the bathroom. She was in there for quite awhile, and he became concerned, so he crept near the door. Dylan could hear sobbing, and he gently tapped on the door. “You okay in there, honey?”
“No, I’m not, Dylan, but please don’t come in. I’ll be okay.” The sobbing continued. Dylan returned to the bed, feeling useless and helpless.
Hope emerged ten or so minutes later, asking for Dylan’s assistance so she could shower. He helped her undress, and they set the oxygen tank near the tub, so that she could inhale from the tube when she needed. Her shower was a brief one. She didn’t have the strength to stand for very long.
They left for the airport shortly after finishing their last room service meal. They were glad to be headed home, and Hope’s spirits lifted as they climbed into the rental car. Hope slept all of the way to the Jacksonville airport. As Dylan drove along, the nagging feelings of life without Hope entered his thoughts again. He again thought about what his life would be like without her. And once again he felt terribly guilty about it. It’s not so much that he made specific plans that didn’t include Hope, but he simply began to wonder what the future had in store for him. He tried to turn his thoughts to other things, but Dylan kept coming back to Dylan. He was glad to reach the airport so he could shift his attention to other things.
Dylan stood in line at the check-out counter, while Hope rested on a nearby seat. The airport was crowded, and difficult at times for Hope to maneuver her oxygen through the passing throng. They waited at their gate for only a short while before boarding began.
When they called the Robertsons’ row, they moved into line. Dylan thought nothing then of the airline employee who earlier had been eyeballing Hope’s oxygen tank. Dylan assumed that she was just a leering, obnoxious cretin, without any manners.
“Excuse, me, ma’am. You can’t get on this plane with that oxygen tank.”
Dylan couldn’t believe his ears. “What do you mean? What are you talking about? We need to get home.”
“I’m sorry, sir. You need a certified tank, a special one that can withstand the pressure changes.”
Dylan totally lost his cool at that point. All of the emotions that had been churning inside him - anger, fear, self-pity, and confusion - just boiled over. This was all news to him, and it was not the news that Dylan wanted to hear.
Dylan raised his voice; probably well past a reasonable volume, even under those circumstances. “What the hell are you talking about? How come no one told me about any of this before?” The line behind all took a giant step back. Many of the passengers were just a little scared that Dylan was going to totally lose his temper, and who knew what might happen then.
The employee remained calm, to her credit. But the tinge of sarcasm in her voice when she asked, “Well, did you tell anyone about the oxygen?” was just enough to totally set Dylan off. He began ranting and raving. Hope tried to calm him down, but he was fuming mad.
“Look, we have to get on that plane. My wife is very ill. We have to get on the plane.” Dylan was practically screaming by then. He went totally ballistic, and that poor ticket-taker was unfortunately in the wrong place at the wrong time that day.
Before he knew what happened, two airport security guards grabbed Dylan by the arms. He was adeptly whisked away from the line into a nearby room, kind of like a conference room, but more like some special holding area. “What the hell is going on?” Dylan shrieked. He tried to wiggle free at first, but ultimately succumbed to their strength, realizing that resistance was futile. By the time they pushed Dylan down into a chair, he realized that he may have overreacted. He began to take long, deep breaths in order to calm down.
“Fella, just what the hell were you doing out there?” the larger of the two guards asked. They still had a tight grip on Dylan, even though he was seated.
“Look, I’m really sorry guys,” Dylan said as he looked down at the table. “It’s been a rough couple of days. I’m sorry. I got way out of hand. Sorry.”
When the guards could see that Dylan had regained his composure, they loosened their grip on his arms. Then Hope came into the room, and actually had a smile on her face. “That was quite a show you put on, Dylan.” She came over and hugged him, and he began to cry. She held him tight until she could stand no longer.
"Dylan, I think that I have things worked out. They won’t let me take the oxygen on the plane, but they have special canisters that we can rent. I guess they’re worried about these things exploding or something. We’re going to have to leave this one behind. They’ll have a canister lined up for us within an hour or so.”
Dylan almost lost it again. “We’ll miss the flight –“ Hope gently put her hand across his mouth.
“It’s the best they can do, honey. They’ve got us lined up for the next flight to Madison, which is just a little later this afternoon. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
Dylan heaved a mammoth sigh as Hope finished. The guards suggested that Dylan and Hope could stay in the room while they waited for the next flight. Dylan again apologized as they exited. The room was some sort of private first class lounge, so Hope was able to stretch out on a sofa while the minutes ticked away until their flight. She fell into a deep sleep while Dylan stared out the window. It was a cloudy, dreary day, and the rain that gently streamed down the window reminded him of the countless, unwelcome tears that had recently fallen into Hope’s and his lives.
They boarded the next flight without incident, and were pleasantly surprised to be assigned first class seats. Hope winked at Dylan, saying, “I guess all of your ranting and raving paid off!” Dylan remained embarrassed about the event, and wanted to get out of Florida as soon as possible. But he was glad to see that Hope still had her sense of humor. The crew tended to their every whim and fancy on that flight. Dylan wondered if it was because they were in first class, or because the crew had all heard about the lunatic that would be riding on their plane.
The plane arrived in Madison at around 8:30 p.m. Dylan had arranged for Hope’s parents to pick them up at the airport. They expected a low-key greeting, and never in a million years would Hope and Dylan have expected what they saw that evening.
Dylan would later recall that never in all of his life did he see such an outpouring of love and affection. As they walked off the jet-way, and into the airport terminal, they were greeted by a throng of people - friends and family, former co-workers, former neighbors - all there to pay their respects to Hope. It was a totally unexpected heart-wrenching show of support, reminiscent of the final scene in the movie “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
Hope was exhausted from the flight home, but she stood there and waited as each person greeted her with a hug and a few kind words. There were countless offers to assist in the future in any way necessary. Their words and smiles of support did not reveal it, but the pained expressions in the eyes of the well-wishers made clear that they saw a much different Hope that day than they saw before the six-month journey. Hope had lost at least five or ten pounds in the past week, and she looked so feeble with the oxygen hose running to her nose.
There were so many people there to greet them that Hope eventually had to take a seat in the terminal as the ranks filed by. While Hope would have preferred to just get home and rest, she never let on to the crowd. She remained stoic and appreciative until the last caller had said his piece, some 45 minutes after they landed. Then they loaded up the car, and drove to Hope’s parents. It was an unforgettable homecoming that would unfortunately be overshadowed by the events of the next several weeks.
Autumn was Hope’s favorite season, and it was at its peak when she and Dylan awoke the next day. They felt a certain “culture shock” going from palm trees and heavy humidity to cold air and trees all ablaze in yellow and orange. Halloween had recently come and gone, and one could still sense the youthful excitement in the air.
Hope felt a youthful reinvigoration waking up in her childhood room. The room was much how she had left it, some twenty-five years earlier. She walked around, picking up this and that, reminiscing out loud. Dylan sat in bed listening attentively. She told of past adventures, and of the special significance that her many trinkets and knickknacks held. Hope had certainly led a full life in her short time on earth, and Dylan enjoyed seeing a smile on her face.
She was flipping through the pages of a scrapbook when a newspaper clipping turned her mood somewhat melancholy. When she was in high school, she had entered a poetry contest sponsored by a local bookstore. Hope read her poem aloud:
IRONIC
An autumn tree loses
Its blanket of
Summer leaves
To stand naked
In the cold winter wind.
“Wow, that’s great, Hope. It’s short, sweet, and to the point, yet elegant. I can see why you received a second place award.” Hope was not moved in the least by Dylan’s praise.
"Dylan, I plagiarized this poem. I have never forgiven myself for it, and I feel terrible about it now. You see, I was kind of dating a boy at the time. You didn’t know him, and it was before our time. He was someone I met on a summer vacation, while camping – he didn’t go to our school. Actually, we were more like pen pals. I never did see him again after that summer." Hope paused, staring out the window, lost in thought.
"Tommy Rierdon was his name,” she continued. “He sent me some poems that he had written. I just loved this one, and I entered it. But I intended to enter it under his name, but – I don't remember why – something got screwed up, and the entry was under my name. I was flabbergasted when it won second prize."
"Hope," I interrupted, "that doesn’t sound like plagiarism to me. You never intended to enter it under your name."
"No, but I took all of the credit. I never corrected the error, even though I had more than one opportunity to do so. I feel so ashamed. I got all of this attention in the paper, and I even won a beautiful poetry book." She hunted through her bookcase, and snagged the book. It looked brand new. "I never even opened the book. I just couldn’t stand to…."
Dylan tried to console Hope, but she would have none of it. "Hope, would you feel better if you could tell Tommy about this?"
"Believe it or not, I actually tried to contact him several years later, but I couldn't locate him. His family had moved, and the forwarding order had expired."
Dylan convinced Hope that all was not lost, and that maybe he could track Tommy down. They gathered all of the information that she had on him, and Dylan set out to see what I could do. The Internet was not a resource available to Hope when she last attempted to locate Tommy. Within a short time, Dylan had several reasonable leads. He began making phone calls, and had tracked Tommy down by mid-afternoon. Hope was napping when he finally reached the real Tommy Rierdon. He sounded excited about speaking with her. Hope slept for another hour after Dylan hung up the phone.
Hope's eyes were as big as saucers when Dylan told her the news. They went into Vern’s den to make the call. As Dylan followed her in, Hope turned and gave him a look like a teenage girl about to speak with her first boyfriend – she didn't need him eavesdropping - so Dylan did an "about face," and closed the door behind him as he left the room.
Hope spoke with Tommy for about an hour, and Dylan could hear an occasional giggle or shriek from his resting place in the living room, down the hall. When she emerged from the room, her face was aglow. "Oh, Dylan, that has to be one of the best things that anyone ever did for me. Thank you so much for locating Tommy." She went on non-stop to tell all about his life, his wife, his kids, even his pet cats.
"I want to do something now that I have wanted to do for years!" Hope marched into her bedroom, grabbed the second prize poetry book, and pulled the second prize certificate from her scrapbook. She took some whiteout, and blanked out her name from the certificate. She carefully scrawled "Tommy Reirdon" in its place. They then wrapped the certificate along with the book, and prepared them for mailing to Tommy the next day.
As Hope applied the last stamp, the doorbell rang. "Well, who could that be?"
Hope walked to the door, and nearly fainted when she saw who was on the other side. "Buddy! Felix! What in the world are you guys doing here?"
Unbeknownst to Hope, Dylan had contacted the people with whom they had left their two cats. While the new owners had grown attached to Buddy and Felix over the past several months, they were willing to part with them under the circumstances. It was a tearful reunion for Hope and a sad farewell for the cats' most recent companions. Hope squeezed the little guys so hard that Dylan thought they might burst in her arms. Hope spent the rest of the evening brushing and playing with her furry friends.
Later, when Hope finally retired for bed, it was clear that the day had taken a toll on her. Her face was pale, and she looked utterly exhausted. But a smile was still on her face, as she petted Buddy and Felix beside her. As Dylan kissed her goodnight, Hope whispered, "You did something so nice for me today. My conscience feels so much better, and we have our little furry friends back. This has been one of the best days of my life. Thank you so much."
Chapter 22 - Cold Hard Cash for Information
Shelly slowly awakened, not quite remembering where she had spent the night. The room was dark. She turned to spot the clock, and the unfamiliar red glow of the numbers sent a flood of thoughts rushing back. “Oh, God, if only this had just been a bad nightmare, how nice that would be,” she thought. She lay in bed, not wanting to get up, but unable to fall back asleep.
Staring at the clock’s red minutes slowly clicking by, Shelly felt sorry for herself. The longer she thought, though, she realized that she had much for which to be thankful. Her parents had been loving and kind, and she had a wonderful childhood full of opportunity and potential. And she still had that opportunity and potential - things were just a little different than she had planned they would be.
“I still have a good existence,” she realized. “I’ve just hit a rocky patch.” Shelly could hardly imagine the hellish existence of the countless street people she had seen the day before. Things she had taken for granted - a hot shower, soap, warm meals, a bed with sheets and covers, and on and on - were beyond the grasp of many of these people, and always would be. She vowed then to always look on the bright side, and to not to take the simple things for granted.
Shelly stood in front of the adoption agency some 45 minutes later. She had no plan, no idea what she would do, and only hoped that something would come to her as she once again prepared to sit on the curb. It was a cloudy, chilly, dreary day. For the first time, Shelly noticed puddles of water at her feet, and downed tree branches nearby. A late summer evening thunderstorm had cleared out the heat and humidity of the day before, and Shelly had slept right through it. “My gosh was I ever tired last night. It looks like that storm was a whopper,” she thought.
Shelly found a dry area of concrete, and plopped down. She didn’t want to admit it, but she knew that she sat down in front of the agency for one reason, and one reason only. Shelly was somewhat surprised with herself. She didn’t even feel remorseful or guilty about her decision. She only knew what she had to do, and she was going to do it, regardless of the consequences.
The agency had not yet opened its doors. Twenty to thirty minutes later, a man arrived, unlocked the door, and slowly shuffled his way in. Shelly thought that he may have been the man she encountered on the first floor the day before. Then paranoia rushed through her veins, and she stood up in a bolt. “Cripes, I can’t be sitting here, just waiting for trouble. Everyone who works for that agency will see me, and someone will surely recognize me. This probably calls for some discretion.”
Without wasting a second, Shelly rushed across the street, down to the left. She found an unassuming park bench about seventy-five yards down the street, and made herself comfortable. If she leaned forward, and tilted her head to the right, she could peer past some bushes to get a view of the agency’s front door. She patiently kept watch, but there was little to be seen. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes went by, but no one else entered the building. Shelly checked her watch, as it rounded the corner to 9:00 a.m. “Aw, the heck with this,” she thought, standing up.
Just then, she spied the two women from the second floor approaching about a half a block away to her left. It looked as if they would walk right in front of her. Shelly panicked, not knowing what to do, but knowing for sure that she did not want them to see her. She spotted an old newspaper lying on the ground. It was wet from the rain, but Shelly was desperate. She unfolded it as best she could, water running down her sleeves. Spreading it open wide, she buried her head inside, pretending to read. “Oh, this must be quite a sight,” she thought. “Who is going to believe that I am reading this waterlogged thing?”
Shelly listened attentively as the women passed. They were discussing the evening’s storm, and did not seem to pay the least bit of attention to her. They walked on by, and Shelly was sure that neither woman had even noticed her. Just to be safe, she kept her head buried in the paper for several minutes longer. When she could no longer stand the feeling of moldy water running down her sleeves, she crumpled the paper and tossed it back to the street.
Shelly was startled as she looked up from the street. There standing in front of her was the anonymous woman from the agency. Shelly didn’t know how to react, having been caught off guard.
“What are you doing here? What do you want?”
The woman cast a thoughtful stare and a sly grin. “Oh, I think the better question, ma’am, is what are you doing here and what do you want?” Shelly was caught red-handed, leaving her flustered.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” was Shelly’s only reply, uttered with a sense of indignation.
“Let’s cut through the crap, lady, I know why you’re here.”
Shelly was having second thoughts, and looked down at the ground.
“Okay, first off, lady, are you a cop? You gotta tell me if you’re a cop if I ask you. So don’t you lie to me lady.”
“No, I’m not a cop,” Shelly mumbled.
“You better not be, lady! Okay, I know you want your adoption records, and you know I’m your only hope. I’ve seen this a dozen times.” The woman paused for a second, mildly chuckling to herself. “With this place going out of business, I guess I won’t be seeing this many more times more, though….” The woman drifted off into thought, as if trying to determine where her next scam would be.
“Okay, where was I?” the woman continued, not giving Shelly an opportunity to interrupt. “Look, here’s the way it is. You get me $10,000.00. You meet me at Union Station on Thursday at 7:45 a.m. by the fountain on the Capitol side. You be there with that money, and I’ll get the information you need. This is your one and only chance.” She turned and walked away.
“Hey, wait a minute. You don’t even know my name,” Shelly yelled. The woman marched back, and Shelly continued. “Assuming I wanted this information, how are you going to get if for me by Friday?”
“That’s not the way it works, honey. Money first, cold hard cash - information later. You get me the money, and you’ll have what you need by the end of the day on Friday.”
Shelly was dumbfounded. She couldn’t even believe that she was having this conversation. “But I’m from out of town. How am I going to come up with that much cash by tomorrow?”
“Hey, that’s your problem, lady. See you tomorrow. Oh, and by the way, no cops – or I’ll kick your ass good.” And the woman hurried across the street, and into the agency.
Shelly had a million thoughts running through her brain. “How am I going to get that much money in a day? How can I trust this total stranger? What if someone saw us? I could go to jail for this.” Her mind raced, but she just stood there, staring blankly down the street, self-absorbed in her own thoughts. She didn’t budge until a passing pedestrian brushed against her.
“Well, I’ve got to get the money. If I have to risk $10,000.00 to find my birth parents, I’m prepared to take that chance.”
Her first thought was to try a cash advance on her credit card. The first bank she tried wouldn’t advance that much cash, and made her feel like a criminal. The second bank wouldn’t do a cash advance either. But Shelly found a compassionate ear at that bank. The teller suggested that she arrange for her bank to wire the money. The teller could have cash in Shelly’s hand within the hour. Shelly made the necessary arrangements, and had the money in hand before lunch.
After she had the money, Shelly felt paranoid again. She wondered if the lady was just setting her up. What if the woman had someone trailing her, and was going to jump her now that she had a bundle of money? Shelly trembled as she pushed her way through the revolving door to exit the bank. She went straight to her hotel room, and hid the money. Too scared to leave, she arranged for room service, spending the rest of the day barricaded behind her hotel room door.
Shelly didn’t sleep at all that night. Her mixed emotions ran the gamut from fear to jubilation. She worried about jail or a mugging one minute. The next she fidgeted with excitement at the prospect of learning the names of her parents. The covert and illegal nature of her expedition also intrigued her. She fancied herself as a CIA agent or 007 off on another mission to save the world.
Shelly was waiting at the Union Station fountain well before 7:00 a.m. on the day of the rendezvous. She found a nearby park bench, and tried not to look conspicuous. That was difficult as the cool air of the day before was blowing through with blustery gusts and blasts that left poor Shelly fearing that her purse full of money might blow away. She tried to read a newspaper flapping in the wind, but finally conceded that no one in her right mind would be relaxing on a park bench that windy morning.
She walked across the street to Union Station, and had a cup of coffee, impatiently waiting for the designated quarter hour to approach. Shelly brought the paper with her, but had become too nervous to read it. She scanned the rushing crowd for a familiar face, hoping to view the woman from the agency. She could think of nothing better than to complete this transaction as soon as possible. The woman never appeared in the station, though, so Shelly marched back outside at about 7:40.
Shelly didn’t have to wait long. The agency woman appeared promptly as scheduled. She had clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. Her clothing was in disarray, her hair was a mess, and her appearance was more that of a street person, than a professional.
“You got the cash?” The woman was annoyed and short with Shelly. Certainly not the demeanor she expected from someone who was receiving so much money from her. Shelly started to hand the money over, then stopped short.
“Hey, you know, I don’t even know your name,” Shelly muttered, somewhat fearful of the woman. Then she mustered up more courage. “I’m giving you a lot of money. How do I know that you’re going to live up to your end of the bargain? What am I supposed to do if you just take this money and I never see you again?”
“Look, lady, I don’t have time for this shit. You’re dealing with a criminal, and you and I are about to break the law. This is the way it goes, and you’re just going to have to trust me.”
“B-b-but -,” Shelly stammered.
“Aw, forget you,” and the lady stormed off. Shelly chased after her, and grabbed her coat sleeve.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Shelly pleaded. “We’ll do it your way. You’ll get no more grief from me. Please don’t leave. Please.”
“Christ, lady, settle down. Don’t make a scene. We don’t need that kind of attention.” The woman pulled out a small note pad. “I need some information from you, you know, name, birth date - that kind of crap.” Shelly obliged, and told the woman everything that she needed to know. “Okay, now give me the money, and I’ll be on my way.”
Shelly pulled out a two-inch wad of twenty dollar bills from her purse. “Jesus, lady, don’t you have a brain in your head!” The woman snatched the money from Shelly, and crammed it quickly in her coat pocket. “I thought you would have had the sense to put it in a bag or something. Christ, you want everyone around looking at us?” The woman started to walk off.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Shelly yelled, catching up to her. “Where do we meet again? When do I get my information?” Without even slowing, the woman turned around, and barked, “Be here tonight at 7:00 p.m.” By then, the woman was already lost in the crowd. Shelly hoped that her money wasn’t lost too.
It was another long day for Shelly, like way too many that had preceded it. She was tiring of all of the stress and uncertainty in her life. Shelly was too worried to do anything constructive with her time. “What if the lady is an undercover cop or an informant? What if I get arrested when I go back to Union Station? Why did I do this?” She calmed herself by rationalizing that there were bigger things for the police to worry about. “And besides, if they were after me, wouldn’t they have arrested me by now? Why wait until tonight?”
Shelly’s biggest fear was that the woman had simply absconded with her money, and that she would never see her again. It wasn’t so much the idea of losing $10,000 - although that would be bad enough - but Shelly feared that this was her last and only hope. If this mysterious stranger did not pull through for her, Shelly might never have another chance to learn the names of her parents. It bothered her that so much depended on this anonymous woman.
Shelly hung around her hotel room until about 6:30 p.m. She worried herself so sick that she ate nothing the entire day. She was much less enthused about leaving the room than she was in the morning. All of her worrying had left her quite skeptical and fearful about the entire process. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to show up for the meeting. In the end, as she exited the hotel, she muttered out loud, “I’ve come this far, I might as well see this thing through.”
Union Station was surprisingly desolate at 7:00 p.m. Clearly, no one hung around downtown Washington D.C. in the evening, unless they had to. The absence of people made Shelly feel even more paranoid. She had felt better being in a crowd.
As she approached the fountain, Shelly saw a homeless man sprawled out on her park bench. And two more men in a similar state lay beside him on the concrete. She stayed clear of them, and found another bench on the opposite side of the fountain. She felt somewhat safe there, as the height of the fountain obscured their view of her and her view of them. They must have seen her approaching, though, as they wasted no time hooking up with Shelly.
“Excuse me, ma’am, spare change for some food?” The first man to approach looked to be in his seventies, although Shelly imagined that life on the street aged a person quicker. “Yeah,” said the second one, “just some change would really help us out.”
Shelly felt vulnerable, and didn’t want to open her purse to pull out any money. She feared that the men might try to rob her if they thought there was more money available. “I’m sorry, no money on me at all.”
The men did not take kindly to that. Maybe they had too much to drink already, maybe they had mental disorders, or maybe Shelly’s refusal just came at the wrong time. By now, the third member of the threesome had joined them in front of Shelly. He yelled loudly, obviously angered, “What do you mean, no money? Look at your clothes - you got money. You got a purse right there. We need money, lady.”
Shelly was petrified. She wasn’t sure whether to cry or scream. Just as she was about to stand and flee, a police officer appeared. Shelly was relieved to see the officer, but her heart raced even faster as she feared that the officer might be there to arrest her instead of the vagrants. Shelly stood to greet the officer, trying her best not to appear guilty of anything.
“All right you guys, move along, leave this lady alone.” The officer spoke with a tone of authority that the men instantly recognized and responded to. They didn’t say anything, just grumbled something unintelligible. They moved along like cattle, on to some other park bench, probably only to go through the entire scene again, maybe later today or the next.
The officer turned to Shelly. “Ma’am, Union Station isn’t the best place to be this time of day. I suggest that you find someplace else to relax.”
Shelly was ecstatic inside, realizing that she was not going to be arrested. “Oh yes sir. I’m just waiting for a friend. I won’t be here much longer.” The officer suggested that she pick a different meeting spot next time, and walked away. Shelly chuckled to herself, “Next time, yeah right.”
Checking her watch, Shelly’s complexion turned pale. “Oh my God, it’s 7:27. Where is that woman?” Shelly had lost track of time, having no idea that her recent saga had lasted so long. She was convinced that she had been swindled. She plopped down on the bench, and buried her face in her hands. “Surely, she would have been here by now. But maybe all of the excitement scared her away.”
Like an angel sent from heaven, Shelly felt a tap on her shoulder. She looked up and it was the woman. Shelly was so happy, she wanted to jump up and hug her, but thought better of that and merely stood up to greet her.
“Jesus H. Christ, lady. I saw the cop here, and almost turned and ran. Then I realized the cop was here ‘cause of the bums. You’re damn lucky that I took a second look. I’ve been waiting over at the station ‘til things calmed down out here.”
“Oh, thank you so much for waiting. I don’t know what I would have -- “
“Enough of the formalities, lady. Here’s a copy of your folder. Don’t lose it, ‘cause there ain’t no more where that came from.”
Shelly began paging through the photocopy, not even realizing that the woman had walked away. Then, she looked up, and saw her off in the distance. “Thank you!” Shelly yelled in a cheery sing-song way. The woman didn’t even turn back, just threw her arm up in the air in a kind of wave, and walked out of Shelly’s life.
Shelly sat down to read the papers more closely. After several minutes, she looked up with a triumphant grin, and proclaimed, “Look out Wisconsin, here I come.”
Staring at the clock’s red minutes slowly clicking by, Shelly felt sorry for herself. The longer she thought, though, she realized that she had much for which to be thankful. Her parents had been loving and kind, and she had a wonderful childhood full of opportunity and potential. And she still had that opportunity and potential - things were just a little different than she had planned they would be.
“I still have a good existence,” she realized. “I’ve just hit a rocky patch.” Shelly could hardly imagine the hellish existence of the countless street people she had seen the day before. Things she had taken for granted - a hot shower, soap, warm meals, a bed with sheets and covers, and on and on - were beyond the grasp of many of these people, and always would be. She vowed then to always look on the bright side, and to not to take the simple things for granted.
Shelly stood in front of the adoption agency some 45 minutes later. She had no plan, no idea what she would do, and only hoped that something would come to her as she once again prepared to sit on the curb. It was a cloudy, chilly, dreary day. For the first time, Shelly noticed puddles of water at her feet, and downed tree branches nearby. A late summer evening thunderstorm had cleared out the heat and humidity of the day before, and Shelly had slept right through it. “My gosh was I ever tired last night. It looks like that storm was a whopper,” she thought.
Shelly found a dry area of concrete, and plopped down. She didn’t want to admit it, but she knew that she sat down in front of the agency for one reason, and one reason only. Shelly was somewhat surprised with herself. She didn’t even feel remorseful or guilty about her decision. She only knew what she had to do, and she was going to do it, regardless of the consequences.
The agency had not yet opened its doors. Twenty to thirty minutes later, a man arrived, unlocked the door, and slowly shuffled his way in. Shelly thought that he may have been the man she encountered on the first floor the day before. Then paranoia rushed through her veins, and she stood up in a bolt. “Cripes, I can’t be sitting here, just waiting for trouble. Everyone who works for that agency will see me, and someone will surely recognize me. This probably calls for some discretion.”
Without wasting a second, Shelly rushed across the street, down to the left. She found an unassuming park bench about seventy-five yards down the street, and made herself comfortable. If she leaned forward, and tilted her head to the right, she could peer past some bushes to get a view of the agency’s front door. She patiently kept watch, but there was little to be seen. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes went by, but no one else entered the building. Shelly checked her watch, as it rounded the corner to 9:00 a.m. “Aw, the heck with this,” she thought, standing up.
Just then, she spied the two women from the second floor approaching about a half a block away to her left. It looked as if they would walk right in front of her. Shelly panicked, not knowing what to do, but knowing for sure that she did not want them to see her. She spotted an old newspaper lying on the ground. It was wet from the rain, but Shelly was desperate. She unfolded it as best she could, water running down her sleeves. Spreading it open wide, she buried her head inside, pretending to read. “Oh, this must be quite a sight,” she thought. “Who is going to believe that I am reading this waterlogged thing?”
Shelly listened attentively as the women passed. They were discussing the evening’s storm, and did not seem to pay the least bit of attention to her. They walked on by, and Shelly was sure that neither woman had even noticed her. Just to be safe, she kept her head buried in the paper for several minutes longer. When she could no longer stand the feeling of moldy water running down her sleeves, she crumpled the paper and tossed it back to the street.
Shelly was startled as she looked up from the street. There standing in front of her was the anonymous woman from the agency. Shelly didn’t know how to react, having been caught off guard.
“What are you doing here? What do you want?”
The woman cast a thoughtful stare and a sly grin. “Oh, I think the better question, ma’am, is what are you doing here and what do you want?” Shelly was caught red-handed, leaving her flustered.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” was Shelly’s only reply, uttered with a sense of indignation.
“Let’s cut through the crap, lady, I know why you’re here.”
Shelly was having second thoughts, and looked down at the ground.
“Okay, first off, lady, are you a cop? You gotta tell me if you’re a cop if I ask you. So don’t you lie to me lady.”
“No, I’m not a cop,” Shelly mumbled.
“You better not be, lady! Okay, I know you want your adoption records, and you know I’m your only hope. I’ve seen this a dozen times.” The woman paused for a second, mildly chuckling to herself. “With this place going out of business, I guess I won’t be seeing this many more times more, though….” The woman drifted off into thought, as if trying to determine where her next scam would be.
“Okay, where was I?” the woman continued, not giving Shelly an opportunity to interrupt. “Look, here’s the way it is. You get me $10,000.00. You meet me at Union Station on Thursday at 7:45 a.m. by the fountain on the Capitol side. You be there with that money, and I’ll get the information you need. This is your one and only chance.” She turned and walked away.
“Hey, wait a minute. You don’t even know my name,” Shelly yelled. The woman marched back, and Shelly continued. “Assuming I wanted this information, how are you going to get if for me by Friday?”
“That’s not the way it works, honey. Money first, cold hard cash - information later. You get me the money, and you’ll have what you need by the end of the day on Friday.”
Shelly was dumbfounded. She couldn’t even believe that she was having this conversation. “But I’m from out of town. How am I going to come up with that much cash by tomorrow?”
“Hey, that’s your problem, lady. See you tomorrow. Oh, and by the way, no cops – or I’ll kick your ass good.” And the woman hurried across the street, and into the agency.
Shelly had a million thoughts running through her brain. “How am I going to get that much money in a day? How can I trust this total stranger? What if someone saw us? I could go to jail for this.” Her mind raced, but she just stood there, staring blankly down the street, self-absorbed in her own thoughts. She didn’t budge until a passing pedestrian brushed against her.
“Well, I’ve got to get the money. If I have to risk $10,000.00 to find my birth parents, I’m prepared to take that chance.”
Her first thought was to try a cash advance on her credit card. The first bank she tried wouldn’t advance that much cash, and made her feel like a criminal. The second bank wouldn’t do a cash advance either. But Shelly found a compassionate ear at that bank. The teller suggested that she arrange for her bank to wire the money. The teller could have cash in Shelly’s hand within the hour. Shelly made the necessary arrangements, and had the money in hand before lunch.
After she had the money, Shelly felt paranoid again. She wondered if the lady was just setting her up. What if the woman had someone trailing her, and was going to jump her now that she had a bundle of money? Shelly trembled as she pushed her way through the revolving door to exit the bank. She went straight to her hotel room, and hid the money. Too scared to leave, she arranged for room service, spending the rest of the day barricaded behind her hotel room door.
Shelly didn’t sleep at all that night. Her mixed emotions ran the gamut from fear to jubilation. She worried about jail or a mugging one minute. The next she fidgeted with excitement at the prospect of learning the names of her parents. The covert and illegal nature of her expedition also intrigued her. She fancied herself as a CIA agent or 007 off on another mission to save the world.
Shelly was waiting at the Union Station fountain well before 7:00 a.m. on the day of the rendezvous. She found a nearby park bench, and tried not to look conspicuous. That was difficult as the cool air of the day before was blowing through with blustery gusts and blasts that left poor Shelly fearing that her purse full of money might blow away. She tried to read a newspaper flapping in the wind, but finally conceded that no one in her right mind would be relaxing on a park bench that windy morning.
She walked across the street to Union Station, and had a cup of coffee, impatiently waiting for the designated quarter hour to approach. Shelly brought the paper with her, but had become too nervous to read it. She scanned the rushing crowd for a familiar face, hoping to view the woman from the agency. She could think of nothing better than to complete this transaction as soon as possible. The woman never appeared in the station, though, so Shelly marched back outside at about 7:40.
Shelly didn’t have to wait long. The agency woman appeared promptly as scheduled. She had clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. Her clothing was in disarray, her hair was a mess, and her appearance was more that of a street person, than a professional.
“You got the cash?” The woman was annoyed and short with Shelly. Certainly not the demeanor she expected from someone who was receiving so much money from her. Shelly started to hand the money over, then stopped short.
“Hey, you know, I don’t even know your name,” Shelly muttered, somewhat fearful of the woman. Then she mustered up more courage. “I’m giving you a lot of money. How do I know that you’re going to live up to your end of the bargain? What am I supposed to do if you just take this money and I never see you again?”
“Look, lady, I don’t have time for this shit. You’re dealing with a criminal, and you and I are about to break the law. This is the way it goes, and you’re just going to have to trust me.”
“B-b-but -,” Shelly stammered.
“Aw, forget you,” and the lady stormed off. Shelly chased after her, and grabbed her coat sleeve.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Shelly pleaded. “We’ll do it your way. You’ll get no more grief from me. Please don’t leave. Please.”
“Christ, lady, settle down. Don’t make a scene. We don’t need that kind of attention.” The woman pulled out a small note pad. “I need some information from you, you know, name, birth date - that kind of crap.” Shelly obliged, and told the woman everything that she needed to know. “Okay, now give me the money, and I’ll be on my way.”
Shelly pulled out a two-inch wad of twenty dollar bills from her purse. “Jesus, lady, don’t you have a brain in your head!” The woman snatched the money from Shelly, and crammed it quickly in her coat pocket. “I thought you would have had the sense to put it in a bag or something. Christ, you want everyone around looking at us?” The woman started to walk off.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Shelly yelled, catching up to her. “Where do we meet again? When do I get my information?” Without even slowing, the woman turned around, and barked, “Be here tonight at 7:00 p.m.” By then, the woman was already lost in the crowd. Shelly hoped that her money wasn’t lost too.
It was another long day for Shelly, like way too many that had preceded it. She was tiring of all of the stress and uncertainty in her life. Shelly was too worried to do anything constructive with her time. “What if the lady is an undercover cop or an informant? What if I get arrested when I go back to Union Station? Why did I do this?” She calmed herself by rationalizing that there were bigger things for the police to worry about. “And besides, if they were after me, wouldn’t they have arrested me by now? Why wait until tonight?”
Shelly’s biggest fear was that the woman had simply absconded with her money, and that she would never see her again. It wasn’t so much the idea of losing $10,000 - although that would be bad enough - but Shelly feared that this was her last and only hope. If this mysterious stranger did not pull through for her, Shelly might never have another chance to learn the names of her parents. It bothered her that so much depended on this anonymous woman.
Shelly hung around her hotel room until about 6:30 p.m. She worried herself so sick that she ate nothing the entire day. She was much less enthused about leaving the room than she was in the morning. All of her worrying had left her quite skeptical and fearful about the entire process. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to show up for the meeting. In the end, as she exited the hotel, she muttered out loud, “I’ve come this far, I might as well see this thing through.”
Union Station was surprisingly desolate at 7:00 p.m. Clearly, no one hung around downtown Washington D.C. in the evening, unless they had to. The absence of people made Shelly feel even more paranoid. She had felt better being in a crowd.
As she approached the fountain, Shelly saw a homeless man sprawled out on her park bench. And two more men in a similar state lay beside him on the concrete. She stayed clear of them, and found another bench on the opposite side of the fountain. She felt somewhat safe there, as the height of the fountain obscured their view of her and her view of them. They must have seen her approaching, though, as they wasted no time hooking up with Shelly.
“Excuse me, ma’am, spare change for some food?” The first man to approach looked to be in his seventies, although Shelly imagined that life on the street aged a person quicker. “Yeah,” said the second one, “just some change would really help us out.”
Shelly felt vulnerable, and didn’t want to open her purse to pull out any money. She feared that the men might try to rob her if they thought there was more money available. “I’m sorry, no money on me at all.”
The men did not take kindly to that. Maybe they had too much to drink already, maybe they had mental disorders, or maybe Shelly’s refusal just came at the wrong time. By now, the third member of the threesome had joined them in front of Shelly. He yelled loudly, obviously angered, “What do you mean, no money? Look at your clothes - you got money. You got a purse right there. We need money, lady.”
Shelly was petrified. She wasn’t sure whether to cry or scream. Just as she was about to stand and flee, a police officer appeared. Shelly was relieved to see the officer, but her heart raced even faster as she feared that the officer might be there to arrest her instead of the vagrants. Shelly stood to greet the officer, trying her best not to appear guilty of anything.
“All right you guys, move along, leave this lady alone.” The officer spoke with a tone of authority that the men instantly recognized and responded to. They didn’t say anything, just grumbled something unintelligible. They moved along like cattle, on to some other park bench, probably only to go through the entire scene again, maybe later today or the next.
The officer turned to Shelly. “Ma’am, Union Station isn’t the best place to be this time of day. I suggest that you find someplace else to relax.”
Shelly was ecstatic inside, realizing that she was not going to be arrested. “Oh yes sir. I’m just waiting for a friend. I won’t be here much longer.” The officer suggested that she pick a different meeting spot next time, and walked away. Shelly chuckled to herself, “Next time, yeah right.”
Checking her watch, Shelly’s complexion turned pale. “Oh my God, it’s 7:27. Where is that woman?” Shelly had lost track of time, having no idea that her recent saga had lasted so long. She was convinced that she had been swindled. She plopped down on the bench, and buried her face in her hands. “Surely, she would have been here by now. But maybe all of the excitement scared her away.”
Like an angel sent from heaven, Shelly felt a tap on her shoulder. She looked up and it was the woman. Shelly was so happy, she wanted to jump up and hug her, but thought better of that and merely stood up to greet her.
“Jesus H. Christ, lady. I saw the cop here, and almost turned and ran. Then I realized the cop was here ‘cause of the bums. You’re damn lucky that I took a second look. I’ve been waiting over at the station ‘til things calmed down out here.”
“Oh, thank you so much for waiting. I don’t know what I would have -- “
“Enough of the formalities, lady. Here’s a copy of your folder. Don’t lose it, ‘cause there ain’t no more where that came from.”
Shelly began paging through the photocopy, not even realizing that the woman had walked away. Then, she looked up, and saw her off in the distance. “Thank you!” Shelly yelled in a cheery sing-song way. The woman didn’t even turn back, just threw her arm up in the air in a kind of wave, and walked out of Shelly’s life.
Shelly sat down to read the papers more closely. After several minutes, she looked up with a triumphant grin, and proclaimed, “Look out Wisconsin, here I come.”
Chapter 21 - A Turn for the Worse
Hope woke up bright and early the next day. She managed to shower without disturbing Dylan, but grew impatient seeing him slumber even after her hairdryer noise had filled the suite. Dylan awoke to her nudging, and opened his eyes to one of the best sights he had seen in days or maybe even weeks. There before him was Hope, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with a huge grin plastered across her face.
“Come on, sleepy head! We’ve got places to go, and the day’s wasting away!”
It was so nice to see Hope in such high spirits. It reminded Dylan of the old days, when she was filled with eternal optimism. Back then, she really seemed to believe, even in the worst situation, that things would turn out for the best. Her outlook and attitude had changed in recent years.
It was also a treat for Dylan to see Hope awake and ready before he even climbed out of bed. That, too, was like the old days. His energetic Hope, full of vim, vigor, and a zest for life, was back. He couldn’t believe his eyes, and had to check to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming as he climbed out of bed.
“Dylan, remember that goofy alligator farm on the edge of town? I would really like to go there. We had so much fun last time.”
“Wow, Hope, believe it or not, I forgot all about that old place. Sure, that would be a blast!”
While Dylan showered and dressed as quickly as possible, Hope left to round up some milk and doughnuts. He was to meet her in the parking lot. Dylan ran out of the room as quickly as he could, and there she was, waiting for him in the car. Hope had discovered a little park in the old downtown district. They headed to the park to eat breakfast.
It was a glorious day, and the weather was perfect. Hope spread out a blanket on the ground, and they sat in the warm morning sun, laughing and giggling about silly, stupid things. They reminisced about their last visit to the gator farm, and their prized crocodile, “Gargantuan,” “Godzilla,” or something like that. He was this immense guy - must have weighed about a ton - who just sat there alone, leering at the tourists against the backdrop of some huge sign, bragging about his colossal size. It was like a circus side show, and it gave Hope and Dylan quite the chuckle.
They arrived at the reptile ranch, only to discover that Gargantuan had died since their last visit. Instead of giving the poor guy a break from the tourists, and a decent burial, they had his stuffed carcass on display for all to see. Patting his leathery head, Hope joked, “Please don’t do this to me!” Dylan forced a chuckle, but it was hard for him to joke about such things.
Hope and Dylan enjoyed the farm, but it wasn’t the same without “Gargantuan.” They left after an hour or so, heading for Castillo de San Marco, the old Spanish fort along the shore. The fort made a romantic setting for photographs, and Dylan took countless ones of Hope that day. She was in just the right mood to joke around, pretending that she was a model, and Dylan played along. They carried the act on to such an extreme that some of the other tourists actually believed that they were involved in some sort of photo shoot.
Lunch time found them famished. They headed back to the same little bistro for lunch that day. It was filled to the brim with a 30-minute wait for a table, so they opted for sub sandwiches from a nearby New York style delicatessen. Dylan didn’t dare say a word for fear that he would jinx their wonderful day, but it looked as if Hope was starting to tire after lunch.
As they walked through town, an enterprising young entrepreneur coaxed them into renting a pedal car for the afternoon. The four-wheeled, two-seat contraption somewhat resembled an old fashioned “horseless carriage.” However, it was not powered with an engine, but with foot pedals, much like a bicycle.
Hope and Dylan had a grand old time pedaling the “car” around the streets of old St. Augustine. They annoyed several car drivers with their methodical pace, however, and even managed to get honked at once or twice. They ignored them all, though, holding hands and singing old childhood songs like “Oh, Susanna” and “Row Your Boat” as they merrily prodded along. When they ran out of old songs, they serenaded passersby with songs by the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and others. Most of the onlookers probably thought that they were nuts, or drunk, but they didn’t care.
After they had pedaled around town for a good two hours, Hope was forced to admit that she was getting tired, actually exhausted. Dylan didn’t mind because he was tired too. They returned the chariot, and headed back to the hotel.
Dylan drove along with the radio blasting and the windows down, momentarily oblivious to Hope’s plight. He eventually realized that she was gasping for air, and immediately pulled the car to the side of the road. “Hope, gosh, I’m sorry, I didn’t notice sooner. Are you okay?”
It was all that Hope could do to shake her head in the negative. Pooling together every available ounce of energy, she said that she needed a doctor. Dylan tore down the streets like a terror. He drove like a madman, honking and swerving through rush hour traffic, somehow managing to find the local hospital. After explaining the situation, he was directed to wait in the cold, sterile lobby while Hope was rushed off to the emergency room. As she was whisked away, Dylan didn’t know if he would ever see Hope again; he didn’t know what was happening.
Then he heard a voice call his name. “Dylan Robertson?”
He spun around to see a doctor approaching, her head buried in a chart while she spoke. “Mr. Robertson, I’m your wife’s doctor.”
“How’s she doing? Is she going to make it?” Dread was evident in Dylan’s voice.
“Your wife’s situation is under control. She’s on oxygen now, and her breathing is less labored. I have some bad news, however.” The doctor paused, and Dylan grew impatient.
“She seemed so healthy the past day or so. I almost forgot that she had cancer. I thought that maybe she was recovering or something. What’s going on here?”
“Mr. Robertson, I’m sorry, but Hope is going to need to be on oxygen for the rest of her life. Her lung capacity is greatly diminished. At first, she can be on a small portable unit. She’ll be able to regulate the oxygen flow. In time, though, maybe a month or two, maybe a little longer, she will need a larger unit. At that point, she will pretty much be confined to a bed.”
Dylan stood there dumbfounded in silence. The physician continued, “I was amazed to hear about your recent activities. I have no idea where your wife pulled together the strength to endure what she did. She’s obviously a fighter, but her body could only endure so much. Her lungs finally reached the point where there isn’t enough tissue left to work without help. She is comfortable now, and you can visit her if you would like.”
The doctor escorted him to Hope’s room. There she was, lying there with an oxygen hose fastened to her nose. Hope forced a weak grin as he sat down beside her, placing his hand on top of hers.
“Well, I’ve really gone and wrecked things now, haven’t I Dylan?”
Dylan didn’t know how to respond. He broke down and cried, hugging Hope tightly. Strong as always, she gently patted his back as he sobbed on her shoulder.
When he finally sat up, his eyes reddened and puffy, Dylan saw that Hope had drifted off to sleep. He decided to leave her be, and quietly sneaked out of the room. He located the doctor to get more information. Hope was approved to be discharged whenever she was up to it. She would need to be outfitted with a portable oxygen tank. Dylan checked back on Hope, and she was still asleep, so he left a note advising that he would return in the morning.
It was dark by the time that Dylan left the hospital. He hadn’t eaten since lunch. His gut had a sick, empty feeling, but it wasn’t hunger. He returned to the hotel room. Assuming that Hope would want to leave as soon as she could, he made arrangements for a flight back to Wisconsin two days later. He then called Hope’s parents and his folks, and broke the good news, bad news. At least they were coming home, that was good news of a sort.
Dylan didn’t sleep a wink that night. He worried about Hope, worried about himself, and worried about where they would live in Wisconsin. He second-guessed whether they made the right decision to sell the house. “How could we have thought this trip would last more than a few months? What were we thinking? What will happen to us now?”
Dylan felt guilty because he began to accept the fact that Hope was going die. His mind wandered, and he thought about funeral plans. He even thought about things that for himself – things like buying a new house, retrieving the truck from Seattle, finding a job - plans that didn’t involve Hope. Dylan was disgusted with himself, and he felt like vomiting. “How can I put her in the grave when she’s still alive? I need to focus on the here and now,” he told himself. “There will be plenty of time for worrying about me.” But he couldn’t stop thinking about the future no matter how hard he tried.
Dylan looked like hell when he finally dragged himself out of bed the next day. The sight of the hospital looming on the horizon as he drove across town was not a welcome one. He didn’t want to return to that awful place. He was sick and tired of hospitals, and he knew that Hope felt the same. He was tired of the antiseptic smell of the hospital, and he was tired of the nurses in white with their phony cheery dispositions.
Dylan thought back to the first time that Hope received a chemotherapy treatment. “’Chemotherapy,’” Dylan thought. “Now there’s a word you hear all of the time, but how often does anyone ever think about what it really means. It means burning; it means pain - that’s what it’s all about.”
As Dylan walked from the rental car to the St. Augustine hospital, he recalled sitting there helplessly while the nurse gave brave Hope her first chemotherapy injection. He saw Hope writhe and squirm as the burning napalm entered her forearm and slowly spread itself throughout her body. Something so potent not only attacks cancer cells, but beats the entire body into submission.
At that point, Dylan was about as low as he could be. He was disgusted with the entire process. All of the pain, all of the hassle, all of Hope’s persistence and hard work, and it was all for nothing. The system had failed Hope, and was now prepared to let her die.
He arrived to find Hope awake and slowly walking around. But what a shock it was to see her pushing a portable oxygen container, her beautiful face obscured by a clear plastic tube running to her nose. She lethargically waved from one end of the hall as he approached.
Dylan could see that Hope was beat. Her eyes were sunk in her head and her skin was pale, as she shuffled along. Her breathing remained labored, even with the oxygen. She cried as Dylan got closer, indicating only that she wanted to get home. “Dylan, I just want to get out of here. Please take me home.”
Home – wherever and whatever that was - would have to wait another day. But Dylan was at least able to get Hope out of the hospital, and back to their hotel room. They had room service for lunch, and rested for the afternoon in front of the TV. Hope slipped in and out of a light sleep as they sat there alone. Even when she was awake, she looked tired. For a woman in her early 40’s, Hope suddenly looked like someone who had lived many more years. It was shocking for Dylan to see how her condition had changed so quickly in such a short time.
Hope felt better by dinner time. While she still had a tired look in her eyes, her mood and appearance were refreshed. Her bed rest seemed to have done her well. They decided to break out of the room for dinner. “Dylan, let’s bring the oxygen along, but I don’t want to take it into the restaurant. Everyone always stares whenever someone comes along with something like that.”
“The hell with them, Hope,” was Dylan’s reply. He didn’t think Hope should worry about what anyone else thought. As far as Dylan was concerned, Hope had no reason to feel embarrassed or ashamed of the oxygen canister. Then, he reconsidered. “It’s easy for me to think that way, though,” Dylan thought. “I’m not the one people will be gawking at.”
“Sorry about that, Hope,” Dylan said. “Whatever you want to do with the oxygen is fine by me.”
“Thank you, Dylan. You know, it’s not so much that I’m embarrassed about the oxygen. I just don’t want to think that I was a cigarette smoker. That’s what everyone thinks when they see the oxygen – ‘stupid smoker – he got what was coming to him.’ I just don’t want people to get the wrong idea. Do you think that’s silly?”
Hope was weak without the oxygen. She couldn’t walk on her own, and Dylan needed to hold her arm as they shuffled into the restaurant. Dylan tried to make small talk, but they said little during dinner. Without her oxygen, it was all Hope could do to just sit and eat. When she spoke, it was just above a whisper. Once they returned to the car, Hope was relieved to breathe pure oxygen, having virtually suffocated through dinner. That was the last time that Hope went anywhere without her canister.
“Come on, sleepy head! We’ve got places to go, and the day’s wasting away!”
It was so nice to see Hope in such high spirits. It reminded Dylan of the old days, when she was filled with eternal optimism. Back then, she really seemed to believe, even in the worst situation, that things would turn out for the best. Her outlook and attitude had changed in recent years.
It was also a treat for Dylan to see Hope awake and ready before he even climbed out of bed. That, too, was like the old days. His energetic Hope, full of vim, vigor, and a zest for life, was back. He couldn’t believe his eyes, and had to check to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming as he climbed out of bed.
“Dylan, remember that goofy alligator farm on the edge of town? I would really like to go there. We had so much fun last time.”
“Wow, Hope, believe it or not, I forgot all about that old place. Sure, that would be a blast!”
While Dylan showered and dressed as quickly as possible, Hope left to round up some milk and doughnuts. He was to meet her in the parking lot. Dylan ran out of the room as quickly as he could, and there she was, waiting for him in the car. Hope had discovered a little park in the old downtown district. They headed to the park to eat breakfast.
It was a glorious day, and the weather was perfect. Hope spread out a blanket on the ground, and they sat in the warm morning sun, laughing and giggling about silly, stupid things. They reminisced about their last visit to the gator farm, and their prized crocodile, “Gargantuan,” “Godzilla,” or something like that. He was this immense guy - must have weighed about a ton - who just sat there alone, leering at the tourists against the backdrop of some huge sign, bragging about his colossal size. It was like a circus side show, and it gave Hope and Dylan quite the chuckle.
They arrived at the reptile ranch, only to discover that Gargantuan had died since their last visit. Instead of giving the poor guy a break from the tourists, and a decent burial, they had his stuffed carcass on display for all to see. Patting his leathery head, Hope joked, “Please don’t do this to me!” Dylan forced a chuckle, but it was hard for him to joke about such things.
Hope and Dylan enjoyed the farm, but it wasn’t the same without “Gargantuan.” They left after an hour or so, heading for Castillo de San Marco, the old Spanish fort along the shore. The fort made a romantic setting for photographs, and Dylan took countless ones of Hope that day. She was in just the right mood to joke around, pretending that she was a model, and Dylan played along. They carried the act on to such an extreme that some of the other tourists actually believed that they were involved in some sort of photo shoot.
Lunch time found them famished. They headed back to the same little bistro for lunch that day. It was filled to the brim with a 30-minute wait for a table, so they opted for sub sandwiches from a nearby New York style delicatessen. Dylan didn’t dare say a word for fear that he would jinx their wonderful day, but it looked as if Hope was starting to tire after lunch.
As they walked through town, an enterprising young entrepreneur coaxed them into renting a pedal car for the afternoon. The four-wheeled, two-seat contraption somewhat resembled an old fashioned “horseless carriage.” However, it was not powered with an engine, but with foot pedals, much like a bicycle.
Hope and Dylan had a grand old time pedaling the “car” around the streets of old St. Augustine. They annoyed several car drivers with their methodical pace, however, and even managed to get honked at once or twice. They ignored them all, though, holding hands and singing old childhood songs like “Oh, Susanna” and “Row Your Boat” as they merrily prodded along. When they ran out of old songs, they serenaded passersby with songs by the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and others. Most of the onlookers probably thought that they were nuts, or drunk, but they didn’t care.
After they had pedaled around town for a good two hours, Hope was forced to admit that she was getting tired, actually exhausted. Dylan didn’t mind because he was tired too. They returned the chariot, and headed back to the hotel.
Dylan drove along with the radio blasting and the windows down, momentarily oblivious to Hope’s plight. He eventually realized that she was gasping for air, and immediately pulled the car to the side of the road. “Hope, gosh, I’m sorry, I didn’t notice sooner. Are you okay?”
It was all that Hope could do to shake her head in the negative. Pooling together every available ounce of energy, she said that she needed a doctor. Dylan tore down the streets like a terror. He drove like a madman, honking and swerving through rush hour traffic, somehow managing to find the local hospital. After explaining the situation, he was directed to wait in the cold, sterile lobby while Hope was rushed off to the emergency room. As she was whisked away, Dylan didn’t know if he would ever see Hope again; he didn’t know what was happening.
Then he heard a voice call his name. “Dylan Robertson?”
He spun around to see a doctor approaching, her head buried in a chart while she spoke. “Mr. Robertson, I’m your wife’s doctor.”
“How’s she doing? Is she going to make it?” Dread was evident in Dylan’s voice.
“Your wife’s situation is under control. She’s on oxygen now, and her breathing is less labored. I have some bad news, however.” The doctor paused, and Dylan grew impatient.
“She seemed so healthy the past day or so. I almost forgot that she had cancer. I thought that maybe she was recovering or something. What’s going on here?”
“Mr. Robertson, I’m sorry, but Hope is going to need to be on oxygen for the rest of her life. Her lung capacity is greatly diminished. At first, she can be on a small portable unit. She’ll be able to regulate the oxygen flow. In time, though, maybe a month or two, maybe a little longer, she will need a larger unit. At that point, she will pretty much be confined to a bed.”
Dylan stood there dumbfounded in silence. The physician continued, “I was amazed to hear about your recent activities. I have no idea where your wife pulled together the strength to endure what she did. She’s obviously a fighter, but her body could only endure so much. Her lungs finally reached the point where there isn’t enough tissue left to work without help. She is comfortable now, and you can visit her if you would like.”
The doctor escorted him to Hope’s room. There she was, lying there with an oxygen hose fastened to her nose. Hope forced a weak grin as he sat down beside her, placing his hand on top of hers.
“Well, I’ve really gone and wrecked things now, haven’t I Dylan?”
Dylan didn’t know how to respond. He broke down and cried, hugging Hope tightly. Strong as always, she gently patted his back as he sobbed on her shoulder.
When he finally sat up, his eyes reddened and puffy, Dylan saw that Hope had drifted off to sleep. He decided to leave her be, and quietly sneaked out of the room. He located the doctor to get more information. Hope was approved to be discharged whenever she was up to it. She would need to be outfitted with a portable oxygen tank. Dylan checked back on Hope, and she was still asleep, so he left a note advising that he would return in the morning.
It was dark by the time that Dylan left the hospital. He hadn’t eaten since lunch. His gut had a sick, empty feeling, but it wasn’t hunger. He returned to the hotel room. Assuming that Hope would want to leave as soon as she could, he made arrangements for a flight back to Wisconsin two days later. He then called Hope’s parents and his folks, and broke the good news, bad news. At least they were coming home, that was good news of a sort.
Dylan didn’t sleep a wink that night. He worried about Hope, worried about himself, and worried about where they would live in Wisconsin. He second-guessed whether they made the right decision to sell the house. “How could we have thought this trip would last more than a few months? What were we thinking? What will happen to us now?”
Dylan felt guilty because he began to accept the fact that Hope was going die. His mind wandered, and he thought about funeral plans. He even thought about things that for himself – things like buying a new house, retrieving the truck from Seattle, finding a job - plans that didn’t involve Hope. Dylan was disgusted with himself, and he felt like vomiting. “How can I put her in the grave when she’s still alive? I need to focus on the here and now,” he told himself. “There will be plenty of time for worrying about me.” But he couldn’t stop thinking about the future no matter how hard he tried.
Dylan looked like hell when he finally dragged himself out of bed the next day. The sight of the hospital looming on the horizon as he drove across town was not a welcome one. He didn’t want to return to that awful place. He was sick and tired of hospitals, and he knew that Hope felt the same. He was tired of the antiseptic smell of the hospital, and he was tired of the nurses in white with their phony cheery dispositions.
Dylan thought back to the first time that Hope received a chemotherapy treatment. “’Chemotherapy,’” Dylan thought. “Now there’s a word you hear all of the time, but how often does anyone ever think about what it really means. It means burning; it means pain - that’s what it’s all about.”
As Dylan walked from the rental car to the St. Augustine hospital, he recalled sitting there helplessly while the nurse gave brave Hope her first chemotherapy injection. He saw Hope writhe and squirm as the burning napalm entered her forearm and slowly spread itself throughout her body. Something so potent not only attacks cancer cells, but beats the entire body into submission.
At that point, Dylan was about as low as he could be. He was disgusted with the entire process. All of the pain, all of the hassle, all of Hope’s persistence and hard work, and it was all for nothing. The system had failed Hope, and was now prepared to let her die.
He arrived to find Hope awake and slowly walking around. But what a shock it was to see her pushing a portable oxygen container, her beautiful face obscured by a clear plastic tube running to her nose. She lethargically waved from one end of the hall as he approached.
Dylan could see that Hope was beat. Her eyes were sunk in her head and her skin was pale, as she shuffled along. Her breathing remained labored, even with the oxygen. She cried as Dylan got closer, indicating only that she wanted to get home. “Dylan, I just want to get out of here. Please take me home.”
Home – wherever and whatever that was - would have to wait another day. But Dylan was at least able to get Hope out of the hospital, and back to their hotel room. They had room service for lunch, and rested for the afternoon in front of the TV. Hope slipped in and out of a light sleep as they sat there alone. Even when she was awake, she looked tired. For a woman in her early 40’s, Hope suddenly looked like someone who had lived many more years. It was shocking for Dylan to see how her condition had changed so quickly in such a short time.
Hope felt better by dinner time. While she still had a tired look in her eyes, her mood and appearance were refreshed. Her bed rest seemed to have done her well. They decided to break out of the room for dinner. “Dylan, let’s bring the oxygen along, but I don’t want to take it into the restaurant. Everyone always stares whenever someone comes along with something like that.”
“The hell with them, Hope,” was Dylan’s reply. He didn’t think Hope should worry about what anyone else thought. As far as Dylan was concerned, Hope had no reason to feel embarrassed or ashamed of the oxygen canister. Then, he reconsidered. “It’s easy for me to think that way, though,” Dylan thought. “I’m not the one people will be gawking at.”
“Sorry about that, Hope,” Dylan said. “Whatever you want to do with the oxygen is fine by me.”
“Thank you, Dylan. You know, it’s not so much that I’m embarrassed about the oxygen. I just don’t want to think that I was a cigarette smoker. That’s what everyone thinks when they see the oxygen – ‘stupid smoker – he got what was coming to him.’ I just don’t want people to get the wrong idea. Do you think that’s silly?”
Hope was weak without the oxygen. She couldn’t walk on her own, and Dylan needed to hold her arm as they shuffled into the restaurant. Dylan tried to make small talk, but they said little during dinner. Without her oxygen, it was all Hope could do to just sit and eat. When she spoke, it was just above a whisper. Once they returned to the car, Hope was relieved to breathe pure oxygen, having virtually suffocated through dinner. That was the last time that Hope went anywhere without her canister.
Chapter 20 - High Spirits on the Coast
It was late and they were exhausted by the time that Hope and Dylan retrieved their bags from the Jacksonville airport baggage pickup. St. Augustine was at least an hour away, as the rental agent handed over the keys to a mid-sized sedan. Dylan was tired, in no shape to drive so late at night. And Hope was clearly beat. They decided to find an airport hotel, and prepared to make a fresh start the next day.
Dylan slept in until around 8:30 a.m. the next day. Hope remained sound asleep as he quietly slipped out the door to find a newspaper. When Dylan returned, he didn’t want to wake Hope up. So he tip-toed into the bathroom, where he read the paper from front to back while perched on his porcelain throne.
He checked on Hope at around 10:00 a.m. - still out like a light. By then, Dylan figured that Hope wouldn’t mind waking up. So he hopped into the shower, assuming that the noise of the running water would eventually intrude on her slumber. The hot water felt good on his back after the long flight the day before, so he soaked in the shower for a good 10-15 minutes.
Dylan emerged from the bathroom in a prune-like state, only to find Hope still sound asleep. He became concerned and walked beside her. He could hear her labored breathing, but it was faint and uneven. He brushed his fingers over her hair to try to gently wake her. Nothing happened, and Dylan felt the rush of adrenaline course through my arteries.
“Hope, wake up honey,” he whispered in her ear. Nothing. Then he spoke it louder. Still nothing. He gently shook her, and Hope moaned, slowly opening her eyes. She smiled, but it was evident that she was weak. “My gosh, did you ever scare me! I was so worried that you were dying on me.”
“Oh, Dylan, I am dying on you …. but you’re not getting rid of me that easily.” Hope forced a smiled, and slowly raised herself to a seated position.
She looked so very tired. Dylan could see that the end was near. This was not the same Hope Quinlan that he had married. She was tired, and was by all appearances resigned to dying. Dylan couldn’t blame her. Hope had gallantly fought a long and difficult battle. Dylan realized from her words that she had come to terms with her life and death, and was prepared to take the next step.
Unfortunately, the reality of the entire situation was just finally sinking in with Dylan, and he wanted Hope to fight more. He didn’t want to see her concede defeat, even though the doctors had said that she was beat. He was months, maybe even years, behind the psychological place where Hope found herself that morning. She was at peace with the world, and Dylan was finally emerging from a cocoon of denial.
“Sweetheart, how about if you call for some room service, and I’ll get in the shower? I want to get on our way to St. Augustine as soon as we can.” Hope was quite chipper, and Dylan obliged, summoning a large feast of pancakes, bacon, fruit, and rolls. They devoured the food, and bolted out the door on the way to Highway A1A.
The Florida coast never looked so inviting. The autumn off-season was just beginning, and there was a cool bite in the morning air. They rolled the car windows so they could inhale the crisp salty air. They stopped from time-to-time along the way to comb the beach for seashells. Dylan had forgotten how they had enjoyed doing that so many years earlier. “Such a carefree life we led back then,” he thought.
On their honeymoon, Hope and Dylan had collected a huge bag of seashells, and placed them in a clear glass vase when they returned. The vase was proudly displayed on their fireplace mantle for several years. It was eventually moved from room to room as they accumulated more possessions, finally finding its way to the basement. Prized possession one day – basement junk the next.
Hope and Dylan walked along the beach hand-in-hand, hardly encountering a soul on that beautiful sunny day. “Say, Dylan, whatever happened to those seashells that we had in the vase from our last trip?”
“That’s funny that you ask, honey. I was just thinking about those. You know, I think that we may have thrown those things away. Can you believe that?” Dylan was astonished to think that they could have discarded something that would seem so precious to them now.
“Dylan, let’s gather some more. You can put them on the mantle and think back fondly on this day whenever you need some comfort.”
Dylan forced a grin as a tear streamed down his cheek. “That’s a fine idea, Hope.”
“Let’s have none of that crying today, honey. We’ve got work to do!”
Dylan was amazed at Hope’s strength that day. She was full of energy and zeal. They dodged waves landing ashore, and dug through the sand, filling a backpack full of precious seashells. Hope’s shoes got wet when she was caught off guard by an unexpected wave, so they ditched their shoes and socks, rolled up their pants, and had a grand old time frolicking along the shore.
That backpack must have weighed ten or fifteen pounds by the time they filled it. Some months later, Dylan located a glass vase much like the home for their original batch of shells. That vase of memories remained the centerpiece on his fireplace throughout his days.
When Hope and Dylan had their fill of beach combing, they rinsed their feet, and climbed back into the cruiser. They found themselves in downtown St. Augustine in no time. There were some tourists in town, but it appeared rather sleepy, much the way they remembered it years earlier.
“Dylan, remember the restaurant with the most excellent key lime pie? Oh, and the margaritas!”
“Hey, you read my mind! Let’s check it out.”
Sure enough, the restaurant was still there, and they sat down on the patio for a late lunch. Hope had pretty much abstained from drinking alcohol to keep her strength up, but she wasn’t about to pass up what they recalled as being one of the most delicious margaritas known to humankind. They ordered up a pitcher, and all of their cares drifted away as they sipped the intoxicating mixture and reminisced about their honeymoon.
It was ironic that Hope and Dylan wound up in St. Augustine for the last leg of their trip – ironic because Hope was about to die. Yet legend had it that Ponce de Leon had discovered the Fountain of Youth on that very spot. Perhaps there was some truth to the legend, as Hope appeared reinvigorated while they giggled away the afternoon on that sunlit terrace.
After a fantastic lunch of coconut shrimp, they ordered the coup de grace, the icing on the cake, the key lime pie. It was every bit as delicious as they remembered it. “Heck,” Dylan recalled years later, “it tasted so good that the trip to Florida was worth it for the pie alone. It was worth it too because Hope was in such high spirits.” They had fun on that memorable day, just keeping each other company, frittering and wasting the hours away. As Hope often said, “The simple pleasures really are the best.”
Dylan slept in until around 8:30 a.m. the next day. Hope remained sound asleep as he quietly slipped out the door to find a newspaper. When Dylan returned, he didn’t want to wake Hope up. So he tip-toed into the bathroom, where he read the paper from front to back while perched on his porcelain throne.
He checked on Hope at around 10:00 a.m. - still out like a light. By then, Dylan figured that Hope wouldn’t mind waking up. So he hopped into the shower, assuming that the noise of the running water would eventually intrude on her slumber. The hot water felt good on his back after the long flight the day before, so he soaked in the shower for a good 10-15 minutes.
Dylan emerged from the bathroom in a prune-like state, only to find Hope still sound asleep. He became concerned and walked beside her. He could hear her labored breathing, but it was faint and uneven. He brushed his fingers over her hair to try to gently wake her. Nothing happened, and Dylan felt the rush of adrenaline course through my arteries.
“Hope, wake up honey,” he whispered in her ear. Nothing. Then he spoke it louder. Still nothing. He gently shook her, and Hope moaned, slowly opening her eyes. She smiled, but it was evident that she was weak. “My gosh, did you ever scare me! I was so worried that you were dying on me.”
“Oh, Dylan, I am dying on you …. but you’re not getting rid of me that easily.” Hope forced a smiled, and slowly raised herself to a seated position.
She looked so very tired. Dylan could see that the end was near. This was not the same Hope Quinlan that he had married. She was tired, and was by all appearances resigned to dying. Dylan couldn’t blame her. Hope had gallantly fought a long and difficult battle. Dylan realized from her words that she had come to terms with her life and death, and was prepared to take the next step.
Unfortunately, the reality of the entire situation was just finally sinking in with Dylan, and he wanted Hope to fight more. He didn’t want to see her concede defeat, even though the doctors had said that she was beat. He was months, maybe even years, behind the psychological place where Hope found herself that morning. She was at peace with the world, and Dylan was finally emerging from a cocoon of denial.
“Sweetheart, how about if you call for some room service, and I’ll get in the shower? I want to get on our way to St. Augustine as soon as we can.” Hope was quite chipper, and Dylan obliged, summoning a large feast of pancakes, bacon, fruit, and rolls. They devoured the food, and bolted out the door on the way to Highway A1A.
The Florida coast never looked so inviting. The autumn off-season was just beginning, and there was a cool bite in the morning air. They rolled the car windows so they could inhale the crisp salty air. They stopped from time-to-time along the way to comb the beach for seashells. Dylan had forgotten how they had enjoyed doing that so many years earlier. “Such a carefree life we led back then,” he thought.
On their honeymoon, Hope and Dylan had collected a huge bag of seashells, and placed them in a clear glass vase when they returned. The vase was proudly displayed on their fireplace mantle for several years. It was eventually moved from room to room as they accumulated more possessions, finally finding its way to the basement. Prized possession one day – basement junk the next.
Hope and Dylan walked along the beach hand-in-hand, hardly encountering a soul on that beautiful sunny day. “Say, Dylan, whatever happened to those seashells that we had in the vase from our last trip?”
“That’s funny that you ask, honey. I was just thinking about those. You know, I think that we may have thrown those things away. Can you believe that?” Dylan was astonished to think that they could have discarded something that would seem so precious to them now.
“Dylan, let’s gather some more. You can put them on the mantle and think back fondly on this day whenever you need some comfort.”
Dylan forced a grin as a tear streamed down his cheek. “That’s a fine idea, Hope.”
“Let’s have none of that crying today, honey. We’ve got work to do!”
Dylan was amazed at Hope’s strength that day. She was full of energy and zeal. They dodged waves landing ashore, and dug through the sand, filling a backpack full of precious seashells. Hope’s shoes got wet when she was caught off guard by an unexpected wave, so they ditched their shoes and socks, rolled up their pants, and had a grand old time frolicking along the shore.
That backpack must have weighed ten or fifteen pounds by the time they filled it. Some months later, Dylan located a glass vase much like the home for their original batch of shells. That vase of memories remained the centerpiece on his fireplace throughout his days.
When Hope and Dylan had their fill of beach combing, they rinsed their feet, and climbed back into the cruiser. They found themselves in downtown St. Augustine in no time. There were some tourists in town, but it appeared rather sleepy, much the way they remembered it years earlier.
“Dylan, remember the restaurant with the most excellent key lime pie? Oh, and the margaritas!”
“Hey, you read my mind! Let’s check it out.”
Sure enough, the restaurant was still there, and they sat down on the patio for a late lunch. Hope had pretty much abstained from drinking alcohol to keep her strength up, but she wasn’t about to pass up what they recalled as being one of the most delicious margaritas known to humankind. They ordered up a pitcher, and all of their cares drifted away as they sipped the intoxicating mixture and reminisced about their honeymoon.
It was ironic that Hope and Dylan wound up in St. Augustine for the last leg of their trip – ironic because Hope was about to die. Yet legend had it that Ponce de Leon had discovered the Fountain of Youth on that very spot. Perhaps there was some truth to the legend, as Hope appeared reinvigorated while they giggled away the afternoon on that sunlit terrace.
After a fantastic lunch of coconut shrimp, they ordered the coup de grace, the icing on the cake, the key lime pie. It was every bit as delicious as they remembered it. “Heck,” Dylan recalled years later, “it tasted so good that the trip to Florida was worth it for the pie alone. It was worth it too because Hope was in such high spirits.” They had fun on that memorable day, just keeping each other company, frittering and wasting the hours away. As Hope often said, “The simple pleasures really are the best.”
Chapter 19 - Crimes and Misdemeanors in D.C.
After her Manhattan detour, Shelly was excited about the prospect of traveling to Washington, DC. She had not been to the capitol city since a summer vacation several years ago with Charles and Beth. She thought back fondly on that trip. It was an educational experience second to none, but it was also terribly hot there. And she expected that it would be a cooker for this late summer trip too.
Rather than drive, Shelly elected to get to Washington as quickly as possible, even though her late minute fare was quite costly. She had wasted too much time in New York without any answers, and wanted to get to the bottom of her adoption. She threw a few things in her suit case, and rushed out the door to the cab that waited patiently by the curb for her.
In the blink of an eye, Shelly found herself in Washington shortly after noon. The airport was a bustle with commuters going in every direction. She made her way to the subway station. They rode the subway on her last trip, and she recalled it being rather fun and convenient.
The airport stop was an outdoor one, and the Washington summer humidity hit her with full force. Shelly baked in the hot noontime sun for several minutes, gazing at the Washington Monument off in the hazy distance, before her train glided into the boarding area. It was so hot that Shelly was coated in sweat, simply from standing on the platform waiting for the train. The cool air escaping from the opening train door was welcome relief.
The metro was packed, as Shelly squeezed herself into the last car on the Blue Line. There was standing room only, but she didn’t mind. She had much more important things to worry about - in a few short hours she would know the names of her real parents. Then she hoped to be on the road for her next journey, hopefully to locate her parents and introduce herself.
Shelly lost her footing as the train launched itself toward the city. She had forgotten to hold the hand rail above her head, and had been standing in the aisle without any support. Her face turned bright red, as she peered around the train car. Realizing that no one had paid any heed to her stumbling, Shelly grabbed the bar, and stared straight ahead, expressionless, like all of the other anonymous travelers surrounding her.
Many of the train’s passengers abandoned ship at the Pentagon stops, and Shelly was then able to rest her feet. She took the opportunity to study her map to make sure that she left the train at the right stop. It was lucky for her because she realized then that she needed to switch trains to reach her destination. Shelly made the train switch, and found herself at Union Station several minutes later.
“Shoot, I went too far,” she muttered to herself once she became oriented back on the surface. “I should have gotten off one stop earlier. Oh well, good thing I wore comfortable shoes.”
Shelly backtracked along E Street to the 4th Street intersection. She was dismayed by the number of homeless people she saw on that short trek. Two men had asked her for spare change, and countless others simply stared hopelessly into space as she passed them by. She even saw a man urinating on a wall adjacent to the sidewalk, in plain view for all to see. Shelly realized just how lucky she was to have had such caring and loving parents like Charles and Beth. Had they not adopted her, who knows, maybe she would have ended up homeless some day. It made her shudder to think how precarious each person’s life is, and how any one event might have a dramatic impact on a person’s life.
Shelly wondered about her birth parents. Maybe she didn’t want to know who they are. What if they were drug addicts or alcoholics, living homeless on some Wisconsin street? Or what if they were in prison? Until then, she had had this “fairy tale” image of Ozzie and Harriet Nelson, patiently waiting in their cozy suburban home for their long lost adopted daughter to return. “Maybe that’s not the case at all,” Shelly thought.
She reached the adoption agency, and paused in front. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to take that next step. She couldn’t go in the door. She stood there for a long time, not knowing what to do. “Do I really want to know the truth?” she thought. “Everything was fine having Charles and Beth as my parents. Maybe I should just leave well enough alone.” Shelly eventually moved to the curb, and sat herself down, slowing starting to sob. She was confused and scared. “Why did this have to happen to me? Why me?”
Shelly collected herself and stopped crying, but she could not bring herself to stand up. A homeless man sat down beside her, mumbling something about Vietnam. He smelled of sweat and booze. Shelly pitied the worn and torn man. She reached into her purse, pulled out a $5.00 bill, handed it to him. He grabbed the paper with his left hand and wadded it into a ball, staring straight ahead the entire time. His mumbling turned into a meandering atonal whistle as he shoved the crumpled bill into his front shirt pocket. He turned to Shelly, winked, and trotted off down the street.
“I suppose he’ll just buy more liquor,” she thought to herself. But it made her feel good to bring some cheer into that downtrodden man’s life. “Who knows, maybe that will make a difference. Probably not, but I can only hope….”
Shelly mustered the strength to face her past, and walked into the agency. It was quiet inside, more like a lifeless morgue than the hustle and bustle she expected from an adoption agency. There was no reception area, and only a long, dark hallway ahead of her with numerous offices to her left and right. The doors were old, with cloudy glass windows on top. Many of the doors were closed, but Shelly could still see that they were unoccupied with only gray shadows lurking behind the clouded panes.
She finally came upon an open door. Inside the office was a lone man shuffling through papers scattered all over his desk. His shuffling appeared mindless, as if he was doing it for no reason other than to pass time. Shelly startled him, clearing her throat to get his attention. He reacted angrily, probably because Shelly had caught him playing his senseless game.
“Excuse me,” she said with an apologetic tone to her voice. “I’m trying to find someone who can answer a question about an old adoption. I guess I need your records division, or something like - -“
“Upstairs, third door on the left,” he spitefully muttered without hardly looking up. Without a second thought, he went back to his paper shuffling, hunched over his desk peering at each paper. Focused only on the papers and muttering to himself, the worker reminded her of the homeless man with the blank stare outside. “I guess there’s a pretty thin line between having a job and being homeless for some people,” she thought.
The man’s rudeness ignited a spark in Shelly. “Thanks for your help,” she replied. He grunted some sort of noise in response. Shelly marched upstairs, now feeling confident, ready to finally resolve the questions that had plagued her those past few months. The upstairs hallways remained sparsely populated. Even when she located the records division, there was an eerie absence of any human activity. Shelly walked to the counter where a lone woman stood, talking on the phone. The woman saw Shelly, but ignored her and refused to acknowledge her presence.
After several minutes, Shelly grew impatient as it became evident that the woman was involved in a personal call, simply gossiping with some friend or relative about “Uncle Arthur’s” recent drunk driving ticket. Shelly’s impatience must have been evident, as the woman took the phone from her ear, “I’ll be with you in a second.” That “second” dragged on for several more minutes.
Shelly turned away from the counter. The walls of the office were barren, with signs of old tape or glue lingering behind. Shelly observed a small cubicle in the corner of this room in which another woman diligently typed away at her keyboard, her back to Shelly. She had a huge stack of files on the floor to her right, and appeared to be doing some type of data entry, as she swiftly and adeptly went from one file to the next.
“Can I help you?” Shelly spun around back to the counter.
“Why, ah, yes.” Shelly tried to regain her composure. She was caught off guard. Despite having rehearsed this “speech” in her head many times over the past few days, she now was at a loss for words.
“Look, ah, you see, I’m - I’m trying to locate someone.” The woman at the counter gave Shelly a blank, glazed over stare, light a deer in headlights. She couldn’t have cared less about Shelly or her problem.
Shelly realized that she was getting nowhere fast as her tongue stumbled over word after word. She composed herself for a second, and then blurted out a stream of consciousness. “I’m adopted; at least I’m pretty sure that I am. You see, my parents died - a few months ago - and I found some papers in the basement.
Digging through her bag while she spoke, “here they are. And I’ve tracked you guys down. It looks to me that you are the place that, uh, uh, coordinated the whole thing. I’m hoping that you can help me. Can you help me? I am trying to find out the names of my parents, and where they live, and you know, that kind of stuff.”
As Shelly rambled on, the clerk had directed her gaze downward, fiddling with a staple in a large pack of papers. When Shelly finally finished, an uneasy silence fell over the room. The shuffle of the papers in the cubicle behind was the only sound to be heard.
Shelly cleared her throat after what seemed like at least a minute. “Well, can you help me? Or can you please tell me where I need to go for help?”
“Lady, you’re in the right place. But you aren’t getting any information from me without a court order. And I can tell you, the court doesn’t normally give orders unless it’s a life or death situation.”
Shelly stood there dumbfounded for a moment. Then her eyes swelled up with tears. This all came as shock to her. “You’ve got to be kidding. I’ve come so far; there’s no one else to help me. I’ve got no family. What am I supposed to do? I’m all alone….”
“Sorry, lady. And you better hurry up if you want to see these records. This agency is closing down. There’s no more funding. There’s just the three of us left, and this is all going to be gone in a week or so. I don’t know where the records will end up after that.”
Shelly’s tears turned to sobs. She didn’t know what to say or do. She never felt so helpless before. She lost all of her composure. Crying out loud, she ran from the room, down the stairs, and out to the street. “Oh my God, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?” Shelly sat down on the curb and put her head down between her legs.
After awhile, Shelly sensed that someone had sat down beside her on the curb. She figured it was the homeless man, looking for more money from an easy mark. “Go away; I’m not giving you any more money.” Shelly spoke sternly without looking up.
“Excuse me, ma’m.” It was a woman’s voice. Shelly slowly raised her head, turning to the left. She didn’t recognize her at first, but then she realized that it was the woman from the agency, the one stuck in the cubicle shuffling papers.
“I overhead what happened in there. Betsy’s not totally right. You can get that information without a court order.”
Shelly perked up. “What do you mean? What are you talking about? Just exactly who are you?
The woman lowered her voice, and suggested that Shelly do the same. “I’m just saying there are other ways to get the information that you need, if you catch my drift. For a small fee, I can get that information for you by tomorrow.”
“What kind of fee are you talking about?” Shelly began to suspect that this was not in the least bit legitimate.
“$10,000.00 will get you a complete copy of your file. Heck, you’d pay more than that to have a lawyer get you a court order.”
Shelly stood up. She had no interest in anything like that. “Thank you, but I’m not interested. As Shelly walked away the woman offered, “you know where to find me if you change your mind.”
Shelly muttered to herself, “the nerve of some people.” She always considered herself a good law-abiding citizen. Surely, there is a legal and right way to get that information, she thought. She set a course for the nearest phone booth. Spying one, she made a beeline across the street, only to discover that the phone book was missing. Shelly must have walked a mile, from booth to booth, diagonally back and forth across the streets of Washington before she finally found a phone booth with the yellow pages intact.
“Let’s see, Architects, Artists, Asphalt, Astrologers…. Maybe an astrologer is what I really need!” she chuckled. “Okay, here it is - Attorneys.” She skimmed through the book looking for an ad indicating expertise with adoption issues. She found several. Looking left, then right down the street, no one was in sight. Shelly tore the pages from the book, and marched on to the nearest bench. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“Okay, it looks like these guys are the closest - Schmidt, O’Neil & Timmerman. Oh, and Timmerman is a woman. That would be good; I’d prefer to deal with a woman.” Shelly marched back to the phone booth, and scheduled an appointment for later that day. Then she looked at the address. “Oh, gosh, this lawyer is clear out by Maryland. Oh well, I guess it’s back to the Metro.”
She boarded the train, and her car was nearly empty. A lone elderly woman sat back in the corner. Shelly had time to think about the day’s events. She never felt so alone and miserable in all of her life. She held back the tears as she ruminated on her misfortune. “Why does this have to be so hard? Isn’t it bad enough that I lost my parents, er uh, Beth and Charles? Now I have to go through this. When am I going to get a break?”
Shelly was exhausted, the stress of it all was too much for her. She was tired, and she leaned back in the hard plastic seat. Her eyes closed, and it felt good. Next thing she knew, she was nudged from the side by a woman with two large shopping bags. The once empty train was now loaded with commuters. “Oh my God, what time is it?” Shelly scrambled to sit up straight, and checked her watch to see that she had only ten minutes until the appointment with the attorney.
“Excuse me ma’m, can you tell me what the next stop is?” Before the woman could answer, the intercom came on, “Chevy Chase, next stop Chevy Chase.” She quickly checked her pocket map. “Aw, crap, I went too far,” Shelly muttered.
Shelly disembarked, got her bearings straight, and checked for the train heading back into town. She nearly had a heart attack when she realized that is was just across the way, ready to depart for the next station. Shelly ran as fast as she could, the doors closing as she approached. She jammed her hand in between a set of doors, and they bounced back open. Shelly jumped onto the crowed train, with only inches of space to spare.
It was standing room only, but she was relieved to be headed back on track. Two stops later, Shelly emerged from the underground tunnel to the surface above. She was down to two and one-half minutes left before her appointment, so Shelly ran as fast as she could. She found herself at the lawyer’s front door with no time to spare. Shelly paused for a second, straightened her hair, caught her breath, then slowly opened the reception area door, and walked in.
The fine cherry wood foyer was an impressive site, with striped wallpaper accenting the rich wood. Furnished with antique chairs and sofas, it looked more like George Washington’s living room, than the entrance to a lawyer’s office. The receptionist’s desk sat empty, as a woman walked in from an adjacent hallway.
“Shelly McCarthy, by chance?” the woman said.
“Why, yes, I am.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Lori Timmerman. Come on back to my office.”
“She’s certainly pleasant enough,” Shelly thought. “Maybe things will work out after all.”
After the obligatory small talk, Timmerman invited Shelly to tell her story. After such a frustrating and exhausting day, Shelly would occasionally get off track, even crying from time to time, but Timmerman would always steer her back on course. After Shelly had gone on for ten minutes or so, Attorney Timmerman held her hand up like a traffic cop, signaling for Shelly to stop.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to cut you off, Shelly, but I think that I’ve heard enough. I can’t even begin to comprehend what you are going through, and I would be happy to help you in any way that I can…,” her voice trailed off.
Timmerman turned to the window, her back turned to Shelly. “I’m sorry, though, but you don’t have a case. Unless this is a life or death situation, there is no way that I can help you. And, even if it were a life or death situation - for instance, if you needed a bone marrow transplant or a kidney - the courts are still reluctant to grant access to adoption records. The judge would make sure there was no other way to save your life. It would be days and days of hearings. These are highly confidential records.”
Shelly couldn’t believe her ears. She sat dumbfounded for the longest time, while Attorney Timmerman remained fixated on the view outside. “What am I to do? This isn’t fair. Don’t I have the right to know something as basic as the names of my parents?”
“I’m afraid not, Shelly. Basically, the courts have concluded, in most cases, that your parents’ right to privacy is more important than your right to know their names. I’ve taken cases somewhat similar to yours all the way to the Supreme Court, and lost.”
Shelly’s mind raced. She was running out of time. She thought of the woman on the street. “Say, if someone offered to get this information for me without a court order, would that be against the law? Could I go to jail?
Attorney Timmerman slowly turned around, her hands folded as if in prayer, pressed against her lips. She put them down to her side, walked around her desk, sitting down beside Shelly. Timmerman looked Shelly straight in the eyes, “I can’t tell you to do something like that. It is against the law. You could find yourself in jail. But I have heard of others who have obtained information in such a fashion. More than likely, the only people who would ever complain would be your parents. If you find one or both of them, and they don’t want to see you, you could find yourself in a whole lot of trouble. Maybe it’s a chance that you want to take. I have to tell you that I advise against it, but it’s probably your only realistic hope.”
Shelly thanked the attorney for her time, and headed back to the subway. She couldn’t take any more. She needed to rest, and took the train into town. Shelly found a room at a Capitol Hill Hotel, and collapsed on her bed. All of the thoughts swirling around in her brain would just have to wait for tomorrow. Shelly fell into a deep sleep on top of the bed spread, still wearing her street clothes.
Rather than drive, Shelly elected to get to Washington as quickly as possible, even though her late minute fare was quite costly. She had wasted too much time in New York without any answers, and wanted to get to the bottom of her adoption. She threw a few things in her suit case, and rushed out the door to the cab that waited patiently by the curb for her.
In the blink of an eye, Shelly found herself in Washington shortly after noon. The airport was a bustle with commuters going in every direction. She made her way to the subway station. They rode the subway on her last trip, and she recalled it being rather fun and convenient.
The airport stop was an outdoor one, and the Washington summer humidity hit her with full force. Shelly baked in the hot noontime sun for several minutes, gazing at the Washington Monument off in the hazy distance, before her train glided into the boarding area. It was so hot that Shelly was coated in sweat, simply from standing on the platform waiting for the train. The cool air escaping from the opening train door was welcome relief.
The metro was packed, as Shelly squeezed herself into the last car on the Blue Line. There was standing room only, but she didn’t mind. She had much more important things to worry about - in a few short hours she would know the names of her real parents. Then she hoped to be on the road for her next journey, hopefully to locate her parents and introduce herself.
Shelly lost her footing as the train launched itself toward the city. She had forgotten to hold the hand rail above her head, and had been standing in the aisle without any support. Her face turned bright red, as she peered around the train car. Realizing that no one had paid any heed to her stumbling, Shelly grabbed the bar, and stared straight ahead, expressionless, like all of the other anonymous travelers surrounding her.
Many of the train’s passengers abandoned ship at the Pentagon stops, and Shelly was then able to rest her feet. She took the opportunity to study her map to make sure that she left the train at the right stop. It was lucky for her because she realized then that she needed to switch trains to reach her destination. Shelly made the train switch, and found herself at Union Station several minutes later.
“Shoot, I went too far,” she muttered to herself once she became oriented back on the surface. “I should have gotten off one stop earlier. Oh well, good thing I wore comfortable shoes.”
Shelly backtracked along E Street to the 4th Street intersection. She was dismayed by the number of homeless people she saw on that short trek. Two men had asked her for spare change, and countless others simply stared hopelessly into space as she passed them by. She even saw a man urinating on a wall adjacent to the sidewalk, in plain view for all to see. Shelly realized just how lucky she was to have had such caring and loving parents like Charles and Beth. Had they not adopted her, who knows, maybe she would have ended up homeless some day. It made her shudder to think how precarious each person’s life is, and how any one event might have a dramatic impact on a person’s life.
Shelly wondered about her birth parents. Maybe she didn’t want to know who they are. What if they were drug addicts or alcoholics, living homeless on some Wisconsin street? Or what if they were in prison? Until then, she had had this “fairy tale” image of Ozzie and Harriet Nelson, patiently waiting in their cozy suburban home for their long lost adopted daughter to return. “Maybe that’s not the case at all,” Shelly thought.
She reached the adoption agency, and paused in front. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to take that next step. She couldn’t go in the door. She stood there for a long time, not knowing what to do. “Do I really want to know the truth?” she thought. “Everything was fine having Charles and Beth as my parents. Maybe I should just leave well enough alone.” Shelly eventually moved to the curb, and sat herself down, slowing starting to sob. She was confused and scared. “Why did this have to happen to me? Why me?”
Shelly collected herself and stopped crying, but she could not bring herself to stand up. A homeless man sat down beside her, mumbling something about Vietnam. He smelled of sweat and booze. Shelly pitied the worn and torn man. She reached into her purse, pulled out a $5.00 bill, handed it to him. He grabbed the paper with his left hand and wadded it into a ball, staring straight ahead the entire time. His mumbling turned into a meandering atonal whistle as he shoved the crumpled bill into his front shirt pocket. He turned to Shelly, winked, and trotted off down the street.
“I suppose he’ll just buy more liquor,” she thought to herself. But it made her feel good to bring some cheer into that downtrodden man’s life. “Who knows, maybe that will make a difference. Probably not, but I can only hope….”
Shelly mustered the strength to face her past, and walked into the agency. It was quiet inside, more like a lifeless morgue than the hustle and bustle she expected from an adoption agency. There was no reception area, and only a long, dark hallway ahead of her with numerous offices to her left and right. The doors were old, with cloudy glass windows on top. Many of the doors were closed, but Shelly could still see that they were unoccupied with only gray shadows lurking behind the clouded panes.
She finally came upon an open door. Inside the office was a lone man shuffling through papers scattered all over his desk. His shuffling appeared mindless, as if he was doing it for no reason other than to pass time. Shelly startled him, clearing her throat to get his attention. He reacted angrily, probably because Shelly had caught him playing his senseless game.
“Excuse me,” she said with an apologetic tone to her voice. “I’m trying to find someone who can answer a question about an old adoption. I guess I need your records division, or something like - -“
“Upstairs, third door on the left,” he spitefully muttered without hardly looking up. Without a second thought, he went back to his paper shuffling, hunched over his desk peering at each paper. Focused only on the papers and muttering to himself, the worker reminded her of the homeless man with the blank stare outside. “I guess there’s a pretty thin line between having a job and being homeless for some people,” she thought.
The man’s rudeness ignited a spark in Shelly. “Thanks for your help,” she replied. He grunted some sort of noise in response. Shelly marched upstairs, now feeling confident, ready to finally resolve the questions that had plagued her those past few months. The upstairs hallways remained sparsely populated. Even when she located the records division, there was an eerie absence of any human activity. Shelly walked to the counter where a lone woman stood, talking on the phone. The woman saw Shelly, but ignored her and refused to acknowledge her presence.
After several minutes, Shelly grew impatient as it became evident that the woman was involved in a personal call, simply gossiping with some friend or relative about “Uncle Arthur’s” recent drunk driving ticket. Shelly’s impatience must have been evident, as the woman took the phone from her ear, “I’ll be with you in a second.” That “second” dragged on for several more minutes.
Shelly turned away from the counter. The walls of the office were barren, with signs of old tape or glue lingering behind. Shelly observed a small cubicle in the corner of this room in which another woman diligently typed away at her keyboard, her back to Shelly. She had a huge stack of files on the floor to her right, and appeared to be doing some type of data entry, as she swiftly and adeptly went from one file to the next.
“Can I help you?” Shelly spun around back to the counter.
“Why, ah, yes.” Shelly tried to regain her composure. She was caught off guard. Despite having rehearsed this “speech” in her head many times over the past few days, she now was at a loss for words.
“Look, ah, you see, I’m - I’m trying to locate someone.” The woman at the counter gave Shelly a blank, glazed over stare, light a deer in headlights. She couldn’t have cared less about Shelly or her problem.
Shelly realized that she was getting nowhere fast as her tongue stumbled over word after word. She composed herself for a second, and then blurted out a stream of consciousness. “I’m adopted; at least I’m pretty sure that I am. You see, my parents died - a few months ago - and I found some papers in the basement.
Digging through her bag while she spoke, “here they are. And I’ve tracked you guys down. It looks to me that you are the place that, uh, uh, coordinated the whole thing. I’m hoping that you can help me. Can you help me? I am trying to find out the names of my parents, and where they live, and you know, that kind of stuff.”
As Shelly rambled on, the clerk had directed her gaze downward, fiddling with a staple in a large pack of papers. When Shelly finally finished, an uneasy silence fell over the room. The shuffle of the papers in the cubicle behind was the only sound to be heard.
Shelly cleared her throat after what seemed like at least a minute. “Well, can you help me? Or can you please tell me where I need to go for help?”
“Lady, you’re in the right place. But you aren’t getting any information from me without a court order. And I can tell you, the court doesn’t normally give orders unless it’s a life or death situation.”
Shelly stood there dumbfounded for a moment. Then her eyes swelled up with tears. This all came as shock to her. “You’ve got to be kidding. I’ve come so far; there’s no one else to help me. I’ve got no family. What am I supposed to do? I’m all alone….”
“Sorry, lady. And you better hurry up if you want to see these records. This agency is closing down. There’s no more funding. There’s just the three of us left, and this is all going to be gone in a week or so. I don’t know where the records will end up after that.”
Shelly’s tears turned to sobs. She didn’t know what to say or do. She never felt so helpless before. She lost all of her composure. Crying out loud, she ran from the room, down the stairs, and out to the street. “Oh my God, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?” Shelly sat down on the curb and put her head down between her legs.
After awhile, Shelly sensed that someone had sat down beside her on the curb. She figured it was the homeless man, looking for more money from an easy mark. “Go away; I’m not giving you any more money.” Shelly spoke sternly without looking up.
“Excuse me, ma’m.” It was a woman’s voice. Shelly slowly raised her head, turning to the left. She didn’t recognize her at first, but then she realized that it was the woman from the agency, the one stuck in the cubicle shuffling papers.
“I overhead what happened in there. Betsy’s not totally right. You can get that information without a court order.”
Shelly perked up. “What do you mean? What are you talking about? Just exactly who are you?
The woman lowered her voice, and suggested that Shelly do the same. “I’m just saying there are other ways to get the information that you need, if you catch my drift. For a small fee, I can get that information for you by tomorrow.”
“What kind of fee are you talking about?” Shelly began to suspect that this was not in the least bit legitimate.
“$10,000.00 will get you a complete copy of your file. Heck, you’d pay more than that to have a lawyer get you a court order.”
Shelly stood up. She had no interest in anything like that. “Thank you, but I’m not interested. As Shelly walked away the woman offered, “you know where to find me if you change your mind.”
Shelly muttered to herself, “the nerve of some people.” She always considered herself a good law-abiding citizen. Surely, there is a legal and right way to get that information, she thought. She set a course for the nearest phone booth. Spying one, she made a beeline across the street, only to discover that the phone book was missing. Shelly must have walked a mile, from booth to booth, diagonally back and forth across the streets of Washington before she finally found a phone booth with the yellow pages intact.
“Let’s see, Architects, Artists, Asphalt, Astrologers…. Maybe an astrologer is what I really need!” she chuckled. “Okay, here it is - Attorneys.” She skimmed through the book looking for an ad indicating expertise with adoption issues. She found several. Looking left, then right down the street, no one was in sight. Shelly tore the pages from the book, and marched on to the nearest bench. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“Okay, it looks like these guys are the closest - Schmidt, O’Neil & Timmerman. Oh, and Timmerman is a woman. That would be good; I’d prefer to deal with a woman.” Shelly marched back to the phone booth, and scheduled an appointment for later that day. Then she looked at the address. “Oh, gosh, this lawyer is clear out by Maryland. Oh well, I guess it’s back to the Metro.”
She boarded the train, and her car was nearly empty. A lone elderly woman sat back in the corner. Shelly had time to think about the day’s events. She never felt so alone and miserable in all of her life. She held back the tears as she ruminated on her misfortune. “Why does this have to be so hard? Isn’t it bad enough that I lost my parents, er uh, Beth and Charles? Now I have to go through this. When am I going to get a break?”
Shelly was exhausted, the stress of it all was too much for her. She was tired, and she leaned back in the hard plastic seat. Her eyes closed, and it felt good. Next thing she knew, she was nudged from the side by a woman with two large shopping bags. The once empty train was now loaded with commuters. “Oh my God, what time is it?” Shelly scrambled to sit up straight, and checked her watch to see that she had only ten minutes until the appointment with the attorney.
“Excuse me ma’m, can you tell me what the next stop is?” Before the woman could answer, the intercom came on, “Chevy Chase, next stop Chevy Chase.” She quickly checked her pocket map. “Aw, crap, I went too far,” Shelly muttered.
Shelly disembarked, got her bearings straight, and checked for the train heading back into town. She nearly had a heart attack when she realized that is was just across the way, ready to depart for the next station. Shelly ran as fast as she could, the doors closing as she approached. She jammed her hand in between a set of doors, and they bounced back open. Shelly jumped onto the crowed train, with only inches of space to spare.
It was standing room only, but she was relieved to be headed back on track. Two stops later, Shelly emerged from the underground tunnel to the surface above. She was down to two and one-half minutes left before her appointment, so Shelly ran as fast as she could. She found herself at the lawyer’s front door with no time to spare. Shelly paused for a second, straightened her hair, caught her breath, then slowly opened the reception area door, and walked in.
The fine cherry wood foyer was an impressive site, with striped wallpaper accenting the rich wood. Furnished with antique chairs and sofas, it looked more like George Washington’s living room, than the entrance to a lawyer’s office. The receptionist’s desk sat empty, as a woman walked in from an adjacent hallway.
“Shelly McCarthy, by chance?” the woman said.
“Why, yes, I am.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Lori Timmerman. Come on back to my office.”
“She’s certainly pleasant enough,” Shelly thought. “Maybe things will work out after all.”
After the obligatory small talk, Timmerman invited Shelly to tell her story. After such a frustrating and exhausting day, Shelly would occasionally get off track, even crying from time to time, but Timmerman would always steer her back on course. After Shelly had gone on for ten minutes or so, Attorney Timmerman held her hand up like a traffic cop, signaling for Shelly to stop.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to cut you off, Shelly, but I think that I’ve heard enough. I can’t even begin to comprehend what you are going through, and I would be happy to help you in any way that I can…,” her voice trailed off.
Timmerman turned to the window, her back turned to Shelly. “I’m sorry, though, but you don’t have a case. Unless this is a life or death situation, there is no way that I can help you. And, even if it were a life or death situation - for instance, if you needed a bone marrow transplant or a kidney - the courts are still reluctant to grant access to adoption records. The judge would make sure there was no other way to save your life. It would be days and days of hearings. These are highly confidential records.”
Shelly couldn’t believe her ears. She sat dumbfounded for the longest time, while Attorney Timmerman remained fixated on the view outside. “What am I to do? This isn’t fair. Don’t I have the right to know something as basic as the names of my parents?”
“I’m afraid not, Shelly. Basically, the courts have concluded, in most cases, that your parents’ right to privacy is more important than your right to know their names. I’ve taken cases somewhat similar to yours all the way to the Supreme Court, and lost.”
Shelly’s mind raced. She was running out of time. She thought of the woman on the street. “Say, if someone offered to get this information for me without a court order, would that be against the law? Could I go to jail?
Attorney Timmerman slowly turned around, her hands folded as if in prayer, pressed against her lips. She put them down to her side, walked around her desk, sitting down beside Shelly. Timmerman looked Shelly straight in the eyes, “I can’t tell you to do something like that. It is against the law. You could find yourself in jail. But I have heard of others who have obtained information in such a fashion. More than likely, the only people who would ever complain would be your parents. If you find one or both of them, and they don’t want to see you, you could find yourself in a whole lot of trouble. Maybe it’s a chance that you want to take. I have to tell you that I advise against it, but it’s probably your only realistic hope.”
Shelly thanked the attorney for her time, and headed back to the subway. She couldn’t take any more. She needed to rest, and took the train into town. Shelly found a room at a Capitol Hill Hotel, and collapsed on her bed. All of the thoughts swirling around in her brain would just have to wait for tomorrow. Shelly fell into a deep sleep on top of the bed spread, still wearing her street clothes.
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