The official responsible for the form, Miss Eugenia Carter, has explained the infant’s situation in a few short words under clinical-sounding headings. CAUSE FOR RELEASE TO T.C.H. SOCIETY: Born out of wedlock—unable to provide. HOW RELEASED: Surrender signed by mother and father at birth.
“I don’t recognize these names,” I mutter, separating the sheet from the others and setting it quietly on the table. Granted, we have a lot of relatives, but I’ve never seen a Foss or an Anthony on a wedding invitation or met one at a funeral. “I can’t imagine how any of this could be connected to my grandmother. This might’ve been around the year she was born, I guess.” Grandma Judy’s age changes every time you ask her. She admits to nothing and considers it gauche for anyone to inquire in the first place. “Maybe Shad Arthur Foss was someone she knew in school later? Could she have been trying to help a friend track down birth information?”
The next page is a copy of a case history sheet on Baby Boy Foss.
BIRTH DATE: September 1, 1939
BIRTH WEIGHT: premature—4 lbs.
PRESENT WEIGHT: 6 lbs. 9 oz.
BABY: Baby arrived prematurely, weighing only four pounds at birth. He has developed normally in every way. Kahn was negative, Wasserman and smear on mother were negative. Has had no childhood illnesses or immunizations.
MOTHER: 28 years of age, American born, of Polish-Dutch extraction. High school education, blue eyes, blond hair, about 5 ft. 6 in. tall. Weight 115 lbs. Protestant in religion. Considered very attractive and intelligent.
FATHER: 29 years of age, American born, of Scotch-Irish and Cajun-French extraction. High school education, brown eyes, black hair, about 6 ft. 1 in. tall. Weight about 175 lbs. No church affiliation.
No inheritable diseases exist on either side among the families, and despite extramarital errors of these young individuals, both maternal and paternal families are hardworking and well respected in their own communities. None have interest in custody of the children.
I pass the second document across the table to Trent, who’s looking at the first one. The third page reads:
Parent’s or Guardian’s
SURRENDER
To
Tennessee
Children’s Home
Society
—————-—————-—————-
HELP A CHILD FIND A HOME IS OUR MOTTO
Baby Shad’s sad story is told again in uneven type on dashed lines beside questions like Healthy? Robust? Deformed? Crippled? Diseased? Is child ruptured? Is child feebleminded?
Fit to be placed in a home?
Baby Shad is signed, sealed, witnessed, and delivered. He’s transferred to the Memphis Receiving Home for observation and placement.
“I really haven’t a clue what any of this means.” But I do know there’s no way my grandmother would have come here to Edisto repeatedly to meet with Trent Turner, Sr., if it weren’t important. I also find it hard to believe that she would have gone this far to help a friend. She had some personal investment here. “Are there more of these packets? Did your grandfather leave anything else?”
Trent looks away as if he’s trying to decide what to tell me, struggling with his conscience again. Finally, he offers, “Just a few other sealed envelopes with names on them like that one. Most of the papers Granddad was able to give to the owners before he passed on. The packets that were left he pretty much figured were for people who’d died without his knowing it.”
Trent pauses to shift Jonah, who’s falling asleep on his shoulder. “Some cases he kept up with for fifty and sixty years, ever since he started doing the research. How he decided which ones to take on, I don’t know. I never asked him. I vaguely remember clients coming to him with pictures and sitting at the table in the little cottage outside, crying and talking, but it didn’t happen all that often. He did most of his business at the office in Charleston. The only reason I ever saw any of it was that I came here to Edisto with him every chance I got. Once in a while, he’d meet with people here—for privacy, I think. I have a feeling he dealt with some pretty high-profile clients on occasion.” He gives me a meaningful look, and I know he’s lumping me into that category. My skin suddenly itches, and I squirm under my T-shirt.
“I’m still at a loss as to what this has to do with my grandmother. Is there anything in your grandfather’s papers having to do with a woman named May Crandall…or maybe even someone named Fern…or Queenie? I think they might’ve been friends of my grandmother.”
He rests his chin on Jonah’s downy head. “The names don’t sound familiar, but like I told you earlier, I didn’t go back and read any of the documents after Granddad died. I locked his workshop, and I haven’t been in there since.” A shrug indicates the tiny cabin slumbering beneath the glow of a yard lamp. “I just took charge of the envelopes, like he asked me to. Whatever else was left out there, I assumed he didn’t think was important anymore. He had a lot of respect for people’s privacy, given what he went through when he found out the truth about his parents. He never wanted to take the responsibility of altering someone else’s history that way. Not unless they asked for the information.”
“So that means my grandmother definitely came to him?”
“Based on what I know about my grandfather’s work, yes.” He worries his bottom lip contemplatively. I catch myself focusing in on it, almost losing track of what he’s saying. “If someone else had been looking for your grandmother—a lost relative, say—Granddad would’ve given them the paperwork and closed out the file once he’d found your grandmother. He always let his clients make the final decisions about getting in touch. The fact that he hadn’t closed this file and that he’d left it marked Judy Stafford means that your grandmother was looking for someone…a person he wasn’t ever able to find.”
My mind is in hyperdrive now, despite the late hour. “Is there any way I could see the rest of it?” I know how bold it is to request this now, but I’m afraid Trent may change his mind once he’s had time to think about things. A lesson from trial law. If you need your witness to switch tracks, ask for a recess. If not, keep driving hard toward whatever you’re after.
“Believe me, you don’t want to go out there at night. That building is an old slave cabin that was moved onto the property, so it’s not exactly sealed up tight. There’s no telling what might be living in there at this point.”
“I grew up in horse barns. I’m not afraid of much.”
His mouth quirks, bringing out a dimple. “Why does that not surprise me?” He shifts Jonah on his shoulder again. “Let me tuck him back in bed.”
Our gazes tangle, and for a moment, we’re just…looking at each other. Maybe it’s the dim lighting from the vintage fixtures or the quiet intimacy of the cottage, but I feel something I don’t want to feel. It winds through me, languid and warm, noticeable like a tide pool on a summer evening after the air has cooled.
I swirl a toe in the waters, laugh softly, feel myself blush and look down, then steal another glance at Trent. The other side of his mouth curves upward into a smile, and a strange sensation travels all the way to my toes. It’s like lightning crackling far off over the water—something unpredictable and dangerous.
It stuns me for an instant, and I forget where I am and why I came here.
Jonah’s head rolls off his dad’s shoulder, and the spell is broken. I awaken from it like an early-day medical patient coming out of an ether sleep. My mind dawdles. My wits take a moment to line up properly and force me to look away. Somewhere in the process, I glance past my ring finger where, right now, my engagement ring is missing because, before my evening took such a wild track, I removed it so I wouldn’t get lotion on it after my shower.