Three weeks later, Addison strode through the revolving glass doors of the Dayton International Airport with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder, the keys to a rental car clutched in her hand, and the resolve to meet Agnes Beckett set firmly in her mind.
After leaving Jim's office, she'd spent the remainder of the morning trying to decide how to approach her birth mother. Later that afternoon, she'd dialed information, finally summoning enough courage to make the call that evening.
To her surprise and utter dismay, the number had been disconnected. The following day had been a marathon of telephone calls—all to no avail. Physically and emotionally spent, Addison had poured her heart into a letter and mailed it the next morning.
The letter had been returned unopened two days ago.
She'd known beforehand there was a possibility of failure, that she may never actually meet her birth mother. She just hadn't expected the reality of it to hit her so hard—or hurt so badly. A small part of her still harbored the weary hope that by some stroke of luck Agnes Beckett was still in Siloam Springs. Unable to put it aside, Addison left the shop in Gretchen's capable hands while she made the trip she'd dreamed of for nearly ten months now.
As she pulled onto the interstate, she wondered how her birth mother would react to a face-to-face meeting. Would she welcome Addison's sudden appearance? Or would she refuse to see her? Would she be overjoyed? And why had the letter been returned unopened? Had she taken ill? Or had she simply moved away?
Addison considered herself mentally prepared for whatever might accost her in the hours to come. Good or bad; disappointment or fulfillment. She could handle it, she assured herself.
Even so, her heart did a little jig beneath her breast when she spotted the sign for her exit. She slowed the rental car to the speed limit upon entering the town limits, taking in the neat rows of houses with large front porches, the manicured shrubbery, and the tall, bare trees that lined either side of the street. Cheesy Christmas decorations adorned the streetlights, red candlesticks and weather-beaten garland brought to life by blinking lights. A typical small town, Addison mused, endearing and quaint, without the traffic and crime and stress of the city. She wondered what kind of a life her birth mother led here. Absently, she glanced over at the map spread out on the seat beside her. Inside her chest, her heart drummed steadily against her breast.
At the intersection of Route 40, she passed the Red Rooster Motor Lodge, wincing at the sight of the Truckers Welcome sign and the murky swimming pool. Instead of turning in, she continued north. She drove past a boarded-up gas station and an antiquated apartment building with peeling white paint. A Beer on Tap sign blinked in the front window of a shoddy bar called McNinch's. In the distance, a tall, stark-looking grain elevator rose out of the earth like a giant gray pillar, pale and smooth against the slate sky.
She slowed for a double set of railroad tracks, noticing for the first time that the houses weren't quite as large or well kept, the yards not so manicured on this side of town. Addison began to watch for the address.
The reality of what she was about to do hit her when she saw the street sign. She stopped the car and stared at the rusty sign as it fluttered in the brisk wind. Her mouth went dry when she turned onto the street. Potholes marred the asphalt. Modest clapboard homes with rutted driveways and threadbare yards lined the north side of the street. Opposite, bare-branched trees clawed at the horizon as if trying to save themselves from the impending cold, the apparent poverty. Addison took it all in as the rental car idled down the street. At the end of the cul-de-sac, a small mobile home park with a dozen or so trailer homes lay spread out like a grouping of tin boxes.
She knew she should have checked into the motel before corning here. She should have taken a deep breath and counted to ten before rushing in to confront a woman who may very well want to be left alone. But it was emotion driving her now, not logic, and she wouldn't stop until she was at the front door introducing herself to Agnes Beckett.
A cluster of mailboxes punctuated the entrance to the mobile home park. She stopped the car. A flutter of trepidation shot through her when she saw the name. She hadn't realized Agnes Beckett lived in a mobile home.
Addison parked curbside and stared at the rusty blue and white trailer. This is it, she told herself. Right or wrong, she was going to meet Agnes Beckett.