“I don’t know,” Brooke said. “Josephine was so intent on making amendswith her oldest friends, and by extension, us. Right up until the night she died. But if she wanted to make things right, why wouldn’t she mention the fact that she’d given a child up for adoption? Why wouldn’t she try to find him?”
“Not just given him up. Abandoned him,” Felicia said. “And bought off a priest in the process to keep her secret.”
“Of course, we don’t have any proof of that,” Lizzie reminded them. “Just an elderly blind nun’s suspicions.”
“You know what I’ve been wondering?” Felicia said. “What’s C. D. been using to prove his identity all these years? Does he have a birth certificate? Social security card? How’d he get those things if he was supposedly the equivalent of a Catholic Cabbage Patch Kid?”
“Good question,” Lizzie said. “Maybe I can look it up online.”
“Except you can’t,” Brooke said. “Privacy issues again. Only the holder of the birth certificate, or a first-degree relative, or a duly authorized representative of the party in question, like a guardian or attorney, has access to those records in Georgia.”
“So what’s our approach when we get in there?” Felicia asked. “Is Lizzie still our liar in chief?”
“Same general pretext,” Lizzie said. “I’m probably just going to wing it. So nod and agree with whatever I say. I think the aim is to see if we can get a gander at C. D.’s records.”
Brooke had been staring at the administration building, trying to recall some obscure detail that had been nagging at her since she’d driven through the Good Shepherd entrance arch. Something C. D. had said.
She got out of the car and walked toward a nearby building, a brick one-story affair. A brass plaque proclaimed it the Halberg Cottage. She turned and got back in the car.
“What was that all about?” Lizzie asked.
“Just remembering something C. D. said. It was the morning Josephine died when he came to tell us he was Josephine’s son. He said he’d come to a reunion here at Good Shepherd and bumped into a man he’d known all those years ago. Somebody who’d been at St. Joseph’s and then transferred here to GoodShepherd, the same way C. D. had, when he turned six. He was the one who told C. D. he could look up the old records at the archdiocesan offices.”
“Did he mention a name?” Felicia asked.
“I don’t think so,” Brooke said. “If he did, I don’t remember it. Maybe this man could corroborate C. D.’s story.” She pulled out her cell phone and found Louette’s number in her contact list.
Louette answered on the third ring. “Hey, Brooke. How you doing? Finding out anything up there in Savannah?”
“We’ve made some progress, but I’d like to ask C. D. a couple of questions. Do you have his phone number, Louette?”
“I got a number for him, but he don’t ever use a phone,” Louette said. “Half the time it’s turned off or he’s left it behind somewhere.”
“Can you tell me the number anyway? It’s worth a shot. And if you see C. D., will you ask him to call me?”
“I will, but I don’t know where that man’s got to. Haven’t hardly seen him at all this week.”
After she disconnected from Louette, Brooke tried C. D.’s number. Her call went directly to voice mail. She left a message. “C. D., it’s Brooke. I’m in Savannah, trying to track down any records that might prove you’re related to Josephine. Call me, please, as soon as you get this.”
***
A small sign in the lobby of the administration building directed visitors to the upstairs offices. It was late afternoon, nearly four, and the open space with office cubicles lining the outside walls was mostly deserted.
“Hello?” A trim, middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper goatee walked out of his office with a smile. The placard on the wall saidDON SMALLS, DIRECTOR OF DEVELOPMENT.
“Anything I can do for you ladies?”
“Hi,” Lizzie said smoothly. She went into her pretext again, this time adding more drama and substance.
“Dad is at the end of his life,” she said sadly. “And this place has meant somuch to him. He’s sort of searching for his identity, I guess, so that he can pass it along to his daughters.”
Smalls adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Are all three of you sisters?”
“Half sisters,” Felicia said, picking up her cue. “We had three different mothers. They’re all gone now, and Dad’s all we have left.”
“I totally understand,” Smalls said. “Was your father looking to make some sort of bequest to Good Shepherd? As a memoriam?”
“Not at this time, although that could change,” Lizzie said. “His birthday is coming up and we thought we’d put together a memory book as a surprise. He suffers from dementia now, you know. The problem is, we don’t have anything substantive to put in there from his childhood.”
