government keeping track of the gun buyers!” I said.
I could feel Al seething on the other end of the line. Finally, he said, “Listen, you tree-hugging feminist, I’m just
not
going to have this fight with you. And, anyway, maybe you should be
thanking
me instead of
yelling
at me.”
I was suitably rebuked and decidedly chastened. “You’re right. Thank you so much. Really. Don’t be mad, okay?”
He sighed. “No sweat. It’s not your fault. You’re confused.Anyway, I got the skip trace results back on the two women from the hospital. I’ll fax them over to you.”
“Thanks. Really. I owe you one.”
“Don’t owe me. Come work with me.”
I laughed.
“I’m not kidding,” he said.
I’ D already figured that the younger woman, Brenda Fessler, was the mom. I knew that Bobby had been adopted through Jewish Family Services, and Fessler sounded like a Jewish name. Moreover, I thought a nineteen-year-old was more likely to put up a child for adoption than a twenty-six-year-old. The skip trace had turned her up in Reno, Nevada. I tried the telephone number but found it disconnected. I tapped my fingers on the table for a moment, irritated at the dead end. Then, figuring what the heck, I could afford the ninety cents, I called information. There was no Brenda Fessler listed, but there was a Jason Fessler. I decided to give it a whirl. The phone rang once and was picked up by a jaunty voice. I wasn’t really expecting much, but when I asked for Brenda the man yelled out, “Hey, Ma! Now you’re getting
phone calls
at my house! Here, give me the baby.”
“Hello?” The voice was as bright and cheerful as the man’s, and I hoped that this might be the woman I was looking for.
“Hi. I hope you can help me. I’m trying to track down the mother of a baby boy born at Haverford Memorial Hospital on February 15, 1972.”
“Again?”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“A nice young man called me about this very thing a month or so ago. He was born on that date and was trying to find his mother. Are you calling about the same baby?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I told him. Much as I wish I could help him, he’s not mine. My Jason was born at Haverford Memorial on February 15, 1972, and he’s right here. You called his house, actually. And I’m holding his son, Jason Jr., who’s six months old. And a doll. Aren’t you? A big precious doll?” I thanked the happy grandmother for her time and hung up.
It had to be Susan Masters. The skip trace had turned up a woman whose maiden name was Susan Masters but whose married name was Sullivan. The fact that confused me was that the date of her name change was 1968, a full four years before Bobby was born. The birth date and the social security number matched, however. For some reason, Susan Sullivan had used her maiden name when she checked into the hospital. Perhaps because she planned to give her baby up for adoption and hoped for some anonymity.
The Sullivans still lived in Los Angeles. Their address was in the Pacific Palisades, a beautiful little community north of Santa Monica. I dialed the number, and a woman’s voice answered almost immediately.
“Hello, I’m looking for Susan Sullivan.”
“This is she.” Did I imagine a whiff of suspicion in her tone?
“Mrs. Sullivan, I’m trying to track down the mother of a baby boy born in Haverford Memorial Hospital on February 15, 1972—”
The phone clicked before I’d even finished my sentence. I was talking to empty air. I tried again, hoping that we’d just been disconnected, but the phone rang and rang. Susan Masters Sullivan did not want to be found. But found she was. I was determined to talk to her and see if she had any information about Bobby’s death, whether she wanted to see me or not.
Unfortunately, I also had to go pick Ruby up from preschool. Isaac, who’d been napping while I made my calls, didn’t even stir when I hoisted him out of bed, flung him over my
I could feel Al seething on the other end of the line. Finally, he said, “Listen, you tree-hugging feminist, I’m just
not
going to have this fight with you. And, anyway, maybe you should be
thanking
me instead of
yelling
at me.”
I was suitably rebuked and decidedly chastened. “You’re right. Thank you so much. Really. Don’t be mad, okay?”
He sighed. “No sweat. It’s not your fault. You’re confused.Anyway, I got the skip trace results back on the two women from the hospital. I’ll fax them over to you.”
“Thanks. Really. I owe you one.”
“Don’t owe me. Come work with me.”
I laughed.
“I’m not kidding,” he said.
I’ D already figured that the younger woman, Brenda Fessler, was the mom. I knew that Bobby had been adopted through Jewish Family Services, and Fessler sounded like a Jewish name. Moreover, I thought a nineteen-year-old was more likely to put up a child for adoption than a twenty-six-year-old. The skip trace had turned her up in Reno, Nevada. I tried the telephone number but found it disconnected. I tapped my fingers on the table for a moment, irritated at the dead end. Then, figuring what the heck, I could afford the ninety cents, I called information. There was no Brenda Fessler listed, but there was a Jason Fessler. I decided to give it a whirl. The phone rang once and was picked up by a jaunty voice. I wasn’t really expecting much, but when I asked for Brenda the man yelled out, “Hey, Ma! Now you’re getting
phone calls
at my house! Here, give me the baby.”
“Hello?” The voice was as bright and cheerful as the man’s, and I hoped that this might be the woman I was looking for.
“Hi. I hope you can help me. I’m trying to track down the mother of a baby boy born at Haverford Memorial Hospital on February 15, 1972.”
“Again?”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“A nice young man called me about this very thing a month or so ago. He was born on that date and was trying to find his mother. Are you calling about the same baby?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I told him. Much as I wish I could help him, he’s not mine. My Jason was born at Haverford Memorial on February 15, 1972, and he’s right here. You called his house, actually. And I’m holding his son, Jason Jr., who’s six months old. And a doll. Aren’t you? A big precious doll?” I thanked the happy grandmother for her time and hung up.
It had to be Susan Masters. The skip trace had turned up a woman whose maiden name was Susan Masters but whose married name was Sullivan. The fact that confused me was that the date of her name change was 1968, a full four years before Bobby was born. The birth date and the social security number matched, however. For some reason, Susan Sullivan had used her maiden name when she checked into the hospital. Perhaps because she planned to give her baby up for adoption and hoped for some anonymity.
The Sullivans still lived in Los Angeles. Their address was in the Pacific Palisades, a beautiful little community north of Santa Monica. I dialed the number, and a woman’s voice answered almost immediately.
“Hello, I’m looking for Susan Sullivan.”
“This is she.” Did I imagine a whiff of suspicion in her tone?
“Mrs. Sullivan, I’m trying to track down the mother of a baby boy born in Haverford Memorial Hospital on February 15, 1972—”
The phone clicked before I’d even finished my sentence. I was talking to empty air. I tried again, hoping that we’d just been disconnected, but the phone rang and rang. Susan Masters Sullivan did not want to be found. But found she was. I was determined to talk to her and see if she had any information about Bobby’s death, whether she wanted to see me or not.
Unfortunately, I also had to go pick Ruby up from preschool. Isaac, who’d been napping while I made my calls, didn’t even stir when I hoisted him out of bed, flung him over my
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