Say Yes, Sarah

SAY YES, SARAH

by

Blanche Marriott

Copyright 2013 by Blanche Marriott

Smashwords Edition

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

LICENSE NOTES

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not given to you as part of an authorized lending program, please delete it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

DEDICATION

To my big sister, Jeannine Bolka,

who always tolerated, without complaint, the little sister tagging along.

Thank you for being such an admirable role model.

In loving memory of Mom, Dad, Roger and Robert.

Cover by www.stanzalonedesign.weebly.com

Dear Reader,

When my mother passed away, I said some day I would write a piece of her story. This book is that some day.

The events surrounding the twins--their birth, death, and mysterious resting place--all really happened. While my parents went on to have many children, their firstborn twins were something that always fascinated me. I asked my mother one day where they were buried and wasn’t prepared to hear that she didn’t know. As a mother, I couldn’t fathom not knowing where my babies were.

Thus began my search. I interviewed relatives, City Hall workers, hospital personnel, and cemetery caretakers. It took awhile, but my search was successful. I put all the gathered information in a nice little folder for my mother, including a short essay about the journey.

She treasured that folder and eagerly brought it out whenever anyone visited. For me, it was like finishing a book. I couldn’t bear to let that story go without a happy ending.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

About the Author

Books by Blanche Marriott

Excerpt – One More Night

CHAPTER 1

Gram, do you want the Bible in the same box with your photo albums?

Yes, came the unsteady voice from the kitchen as Sarah continued to pack boxes in the living room.

Sarah Chapman ran a finger down the spine, its soft leather cool against her heated skin. Cradling the book in her palm, she thumbed the delicate pages and watched their shiny red edges shimmer as they fanned back-to-front. Before she closed the cover, some handwriting on an inside page caught her eye. She backed up for a second look and was surprised to find a family history. Most of the names were familiar—Grandpa, Aunt Sophie, Mom, but two names puzzled her just below her grandparents’ names: Roger and Robert. They were on the same branch as her mother and Aunt Sophie, but had no descending branches of their own.

Who were they? Did Sarah have two uncles she didn’t know about? Why had she never heard of them?

A shuffling sound behind her made Sarah turn. Gram, looking tired and bewildered, stepped carefully into the room and around a tower of boxes.

Poor Gram. Packing up a lifetime of belongings couldn’t be easy on her. But she knew it was time to move on, time to let someone else--Sarah--take care of her and look out for her safety. She hadn’t put up much of an argument when Sarah insisted after the latest hospital stay. And to Sarah, opening her home to the family matriarch was a no-brainer.

Gram, who are Roger and Robert?

Gram gazed around the room, her look as confused as the chaos around her. Who?

Roger and Robert. Their names are in your Bible, on the family tree. Who are they?

Her confused look turned sad. She dabbed at a silver wave that fell over her forehead as though she could coax it into place with her crooked fingers.

The twins, was all she said in response, and turned to gaze at the family photo on the nearby mantle.

Twins? Sarah had never heard of any twins. Judging from the sad look on Gram’s face, it was not a happy story.

What twins, Gram? I don’t remember any twins in the family.

The sad look drifted away, replaced by a blank stare. She lifted the family photo—Gram, Grandpa, Mom, and Aunt Sophie—and placed it in a nearby box.

My twins. I had twin boys who died at birth.

What? Sarah almost couldn’t believe her ears. She had twin uncles that no one ever bothered to tell her about?

And then, a familiar ache returned to clutch her heart. She knew the pain of losing a child. She knew the loss as deep as a bottomless hole that could never be filled. But she couldn’t imagine forgetting about her offspring and never talking about them.

What happened Gram?

Gram’s face softened. Why don’t you take a break? Let’s go in the kitchen and have a cup of tea.

After Gram had poured the tea and Sarah had laid out napkins and a package of Gram’s favorite vanilla cookies, they sat facing one another at the table. Gram sipped her tea quietly, a contemplative frown wrinkled her brow.

The twins were my firstborn. I had no idea there were two. But I was so big and when I went into labor in my seventh month, I knew something was wrong. It was too early and I was so scared. I was only eighteen and Grandpa was twenty-two. Thankfully, he knew enough to call the doctor. Back then we had our babies at home.

She sipped her tea. A thoughtful look etched her small eyes behind glasses almost too big for her face. When she finally returned the cup to its matching saucer, the delicate clink drew Sarah’s gaze to the gold pattern around the edge. Its beauty should not be hidden away or boxed up for another generation. Sarah made a mental note to keep the tea service out once Gram moved in with her.

With a shuddering sigh, Gram continued, but with less conviction. The doctor did what he could, but they were so small. He told us they wouldn’t have a chance unless he got them to the hospital immediately. We couldn’t afford a hospital, but we couldn’t say no either. I was so weak and tired, I barely remember Grandpa telling the doctor to do whatever he could.

Gram’s face stilled. She held the teacup with both hands. Her eyes turned watery and her voice dropped to a whisper.

I never held my babies. They wrapped them up and rushed them to the hospital. I never even held them. One died a few hours later. The other lived for ten days. But I never saw them because back then you were restricted to bed for two weeks after childbirth.

Sarah gasped. The thought of never holding your own babies seemed unfathomable. Sarah had at least held her baby, talked to her, explained what was happening. But Gram hadn’t even known the outcome, that she’d never see them again.

Sarah got up and gave her grandmother a hug. I’m sorry, Gram, I never knew.

Gram sighed. It was a long time ago. Talking about it wouldn’t have changed things.

I’m just surprised Mom never mentioned it, or visited their graves. Where are they buried?

A bewildered look overtook Gram’s face. She stared out the window. I don’t know.

Sarah jerked her head forward, not believing what she heard. What? You don’t know where they are buried? How could you not know? Didn’t you ever visit their graves?

Gram looked back at Sarah with a knowing gaze borne of wisdom and age. It was a different time then. I was restricted to bed. Grandpa had to deal with the arrangements. I don’t know how he did it; we had no money. But he was strong and took care of everything, as well as me. I didn’t want to add to the pressure by asking what was going on. I figured he’d tell me what I needed to know.

But, Gram, they were your babies. How could you live not knowing what happened to them?

Again, that knowing look, but this time softened with sympathy. The same as you do, not knowing where your baby is.

* * *

The next day Gram was all moved in, most of her belongings either in storage or given to charity, and the house was put on the market. A lot of hard choices. That seemed to be the rule of thumb for women in Sarah’s family.

Through it all, Sarah couldn’t seem to shake the thought of Gram’s dead twins. Worse, she couldn’t disconnect her own loss from Gram’s. Although her baby wasn’t dead, Sarah had no idea where she was, nor would she ever see her again. Like Gram, she’d had no choice, the baby taken from her when there was no alternative.

Would she be able to live as Gram had never knowing the whereabouts of her baby? A lump formed in her throat at the prospect of such a painful future, though no more painful than the last fifteen years.

She put aside her sewing as Gram came into the workroom, her cane supporting her weak side.

Are you hungry, Gram?

No. I just came in to tell you about the segment I just saw on one of those talk shows. It was all about families reuniting after a child had been adopted. They said there are places you can search on the internet, or leave messages for someone looking for you. It was all very moving.

Yes, but is it fair to everyone involved? What about the adoptive parents? They might feel intimidated.

With a one-sided shrug, Gram appeared sorry she’d mentioned it. I just thought it was touching. Parents who never thought they’d ever see their birth children are now a part of their lives and they all seem so happy.

Sarah blinked back a tear. Gram, do you think I should do that, look for my daughter? Should I admit to her I was a reckless fifteen-year-old who didn’t have the courage to keep her and love her?

Gram pushed aside the pieces of a dress pinned to a pattern draped over the stuffed armchair, then sat, but not before allowing her fingers to linger on the satin fabric, as though remembering her own sewing work from years ago.

I just thought I’d let you know what they said. You have a computer, right? I don’t know anything about them, but they made it sound easy enough to start a search.

I don’t know if I could bear the heartbreak if it turned out badly. Teenage pain is one thing, but opening a fresh wound at my age might be more than I can handle.

* * *

Soon Sarah and Gram settled in to a comfortable routine, one that involved Sarah going into Gram’s room at bedtime to say goodnight. Each time she passed the bureau with the family photo on top, she thought of the missing pieces—the twins—which inevitably left her thinking about her own missing piece. Kim.

Just saying her name put a tremendous strain on Sarah’s heart. In a note to the adoptive parents, she’d requested that they keep her name, Kim. Not a day went by that she didn’t think about her, wonder what she was doing, what she looked like, was she happy. Not knowing was more than half the struggle. The other half was guilt.

If only there’d been someone to help her keep her baby. If only Woody Hallebeck had been there for her. If only she hadn’t been so stupid in the first place.

Looking back now, she knew it wasn’t only the stupidity. It was the strained relationship between Sarah and her parents. She’d been born a rebel. She bucked her father’s authority at every turn, and resented her mother’s nonintervention when her father went too far. She could deal with her father’s anger and uncivil outbursts. It was all on the surface and easy to understand.

But her mother always baffled her. The weepy, frightened woman cowered to her husband’s every command and anticipated his daily arrivals like an upcoming storm. Sarah fought with her father for her own independence as much as her mother’s until she realized that her mother was so deeply entrenched in the volatile relationship, she wore it like an old sweater. It fit her and kept her warm. Hard choices.

One night after Gram had gone to bed and Sarah had put her sewing away for the night, she switched on the computer to check her email for incoming orders. Her seamstress business had grown considerably since Aunt Sophie died, leaving her a full complement of steady, and wealthy, clients. They often emailed her with questions, suggestions, and even pictures of dresses they’d seen elsewhere hoping Sarah could adapt them for their own needs.

Once the computer finished booting, she immediately lost interest in email as her mind drifted to Gram’s comments. How did those parents find their children? Was it really as simple as going to a website?

On impulse, she typed in a search for adoptees. Hundreds of sites came up. She narrowed the search to those that dealt with connecting adoptees with birth parents and was amazed at the sophistication of some of the sites. She bounced around, checking out a dozen or so until she landed on one with a message board that caught her attention. She scrolled down to read dozens of posts laden with guilt and anxiety. Sarah felt herself being pulled into a tide of regret, each story tragically touching her painful memories and years of unhealing.

Before she knew it, Sarah was composing her own post. She kept it simple: date she gave birth, baby’s given name at the time, location. She stopped short of blubbering her anguish at signing the adoption papers and sat back to read what she’d written.

The chances of this ever being read by her daughter were probably a million to one. Right now, Kim was only fifteen. Any internet surfing she did was most likely limited to social media sites and research for homework. She may not even know she was adopted, and if she did, the odds were even less that she cared to find the mother who abandoned her, or hated her for doing it.

Sarah reached for the delete button. She should just leave well enough alone. No amount of wishful thinking would get her daughter back and she didn’t deserve a chance at a mother/daughter bond. She gave that up along with her rights when she’d signed the papers.

As she was about to hit the delete button, she heard her own words to Gram in her head. How could she go through life not knowing what happened to her babies? Maybe it was a long shot, but if she didn’t take it, she would always wonder, always wish. She’d continue to search every girl’s face in a crowd looking for a telltale resemblance. One insane attempt to bridge that gap couldn’t hurt. At least she wouldn’t wake up someday at eight-five and never have made