With This Child.... Sally Carleen
to one thing.
Her hands trembled as she forced herself to read the two typewritten pages again, to see if she’d imagined the insane story they had to tell:
Dear Marcie:
I must be dead or you wouldn’t be reading this.
I can’t go to meet my Maker with this secret on my soul, but I don’t have the guts to tell you face-to-face.
You know I’ve always wanted the best for you, and so has your mama.
It wasn’t easy on her raising you alone after your daddy died when you were just a little thing. It hit her hard when you got pregnant your junior year in high school. Raising that baby would have made it tough for you to get a good education and have a better life than she did.
You were always so easy-going, and your mama thought at first she could talk you into giving your baby up for adoption, but I knew you’d never agree to that. When I gave you the news, your whole face lit up with love, and I knew this would be the first time you defied your mama.
I guess you think I’m taking my time getting to the point, but to tell the truth, I’m not all that anxious to get there. My head thinks I did the right thing, but my heart’s not so sure.
To get on with it, right after you had your baby, I did an emergency C-section on another woman. Did you know Lisa Kramer? She was a few years older than you, and her folks lived a little ways outside of town, so you might not have. Anyway, she was a real nice girl. Married a fellow named Sam Woodward that she met at college, and they moved to McAlester so he could coach football at the high school. But she came back home to have her baby. That baby had a defective heart, only lived a few hours. Lisa had problems, and I had to do a hysterectomy.
Your baby, however, was born alive and kicking. Your mama was there, of course, and while you were resting and Lisa was in the recovery room, we went down to the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee. I was pretty upset, knowing Lisa’s baby was dying and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. I’d already told Sam, and he was all broken up. I dreaded telling Lisa when she came out of the anaesthetic. I knew how much she wanted children, what a good mother she would have been, what a nice fellow Sam seemed like.
Your mama said it was a shame Lisa’s baby wouldn’t live when it would have had such a good life, and it was a shame your baby, precious as she was, would ruin your life and have a tough time growing up with a single mother. She sat there in the hospital cafeteria and looked at me, and I knew what she was thinking even before she said it.
Marcie, I want you to know this wasn’t an easy decision for either of us. We both wanted to do what was best for you and for your baby. I falsified all the records, and only your mama, my nurse and I know the truth. Lisa and Sam never knew their baby died.
May God forgive me because you probably never will, I switched your baby for theirs.
You buried their child. Your daughter is alive.
Marcie lowered the pages to the wooden surface of the bar. She needed a drink... iced tea, wine, a soft drink, water, anything wet. But she couldn’t seem to move.
It wasn’t possible. She’d have known if her baby was alive.
She’d dreamed about her every night that first year, but surely that was normal, didn’t mean anything.
After she managed to lock away the pain, the dreams had stopped.
Now this letter, almost thirteen years later, was asking her to unlock that pain, to think about her baby again, to hope and pray and dream that she was alive, that she’d be able to see her and hold her.
She couldn’t do that.
Dr. Franklin had been old, probably senile. She’d pitch this insane letter and get on with the life she’d so painstakingly built for herself.
But she couldn’t do that, either. It was too late.
Even this glimmer of hope had revived the old pain, the old love.
If there was even the slightest chance her child was alive, she had to know.
Chapter One
Marcie drove slowly down the small neighborhood streets of McAlester, Oklahoma. As she stared out the window, carefully following the directions given her by the detective she’d hired to find her daughter, her fingers fidgeted with the envelope containing everything she had of her baby—the letter from Dr. Franklin, the detective’s report, and pictures of Kyla and Sam Woodward.
Kyla Woodward...twelve years old...thirteen next month... Going into eighth grade...active in sports... Lisa Woodward died seven years ago...congenital heart problems... Sam Woodward, coach of high school football team...coaches Kyla’s softball team... Neighbors say they’re a happy, well-adjusted family.
She’d read the report until she knew it by heart, looked at those photographs a thousand times, memorizing every detail, searching for her features in Kyla Woodward’s face.
Her mother, embarrassed at being caught but unrepentant, had verified Dr. Franklin’s story, but still Marcie had held back. She couldn’t face the possibility of holding her daughter, only to have that child yanked away because her mother and Dr. Franklin were wrong.
Over the past couple of days, she’d swung wildly from guarded certainty one minute to doubt and confusion the next.
She had no idea what to do now.
She had no idea why she was searching for their house.
What would she do if she saw Kyla? What would she say to her? To Sam?
She turned onto Maple Street, one hand clutching the envelope in her lap. According to the directions, Sam Woodward’s house was at the end of the third block down. Even though she couldn’t see it from this distance, she could feel its presence.
Claustrophobia suddenly overwhelmed her, making her feel trapped in her small car, propelled by forces beyond her control into a scary unknown world. She wasn’t ready for this, to know for sure whether her baby was alive, to risk seeing her only to lose her again.
Marcie lowered the windows, breathing deeply, focusing on everything around her except that house three blocks away.
It was an older, established neighborhood. Huge trees formed a canopy over the street and colorful flower bloomed everywhere.
Scents she’d almost forgotten assailed her—freshly cut grass, honeysuckle, roses, and all the other fragrances that never reached her fifth-floor condo in Tulsa.
A small boy in a blue sunsuit pedaled his tricycle across the street in front of her.
A young couple diligently painted a house they appeared to be restoring.
An elderly woman puttered in her flower beds.
A tiny Yorkie darted to the end of a sidewalk to bark frantically as Marcie drove past.
Saturday morning in a small town.
Several cars were parked in the street—a common problem with houses too old to have garages—but other than that, the area seemed well cared-for. The detective had told her that much; had assured her that while Sam Woodward might not be getting rich working as a high school football coach, he appeared to be providing well for his daughter. Her daughter.
There was absolutely nothing in this well-kept, comfortable neighborhood to send nervous chills down Marcie’s spine, to cause her palms to sweat, her hands to tremble as they clutched the steering wheel.
Nothing except the two-story white house that seemed to be approaching her, rather than vice versa.
Seeing the picture of the house hadn’t prepared her for the sense of isolation the actual structure made her feel, the sense of total separation from everything inside it.
From Sam and Kyla Woodward.
She drove past, her gaze skimming over the detached garage