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  I want to put her at ease, so I don’t pummel her with the choir of questions in my head. Is anyone dangerous? Is there a security alarm on this house?

  “I can handle it,” I say, with more conviction than I feel. “Get going.”

  Instead of leaving, she stands facing me with her hands on her hips.

  “I don’t know what your motive is, but if I find out you’re exploiting these women, I’ll have you tossed out of here before you can say designer handbag. Do you understand me?”

  “Exploit? No. No, I don’t understand.”

  She crosses her arms across her bosom. “Last spring a pretty white woman much like yourself showed up wanting to volunteer. Of course I let her. We need all the help we can get. It wasn’t a week later that the video crew came a-calling. Little Miss Pretty was running for circuit court judge. She wanted the city to see what a swell lady she was, volunteering with the poor black folks on the South Side.”

  “I would never do that. I promise you.”

  We stare at each other until finally she lowers her eyes to her desk.

  “My home phone number is right here,” she says, pointing to a Post-it note. “Call if you have any questions.”

  She grabs her purse and strides from the room without a good-bye or a good luck. I sink into a chair, trying to drum up a reason to be thankful today.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Brad calls me Monday morning, asking if I can stop by his office on my way home from work. All afternoon my hunch gains momentum, and now, as the elevator climbs to the thirty-second floor, it’s no longer a hunch. I’m certain he’s got news about my father.

  He looks up when he sees me and smiles. “Hey, B.B.” He crosses the room and gives me a hug. “Thanks for coming in.” He pulls back from me and scowls. “Everything okay? You look kind of tired.”

  “Exhausted. I can’t seem to get enough sleep these days.” I rub my cheeks, hoping to stir some color to their pale surface. “So tell me, what’s going on?”

  He walks me to the set of chairs and heaves a sigh. “Have a seat.” His voice sounds flat and defeated, and I push back the dread that’s threatening to invade me.

  “Did Pohlonski find my dad?”

  He plops down in the chair next to mine and runs a hand over his face. “He struck out, Brett.”

  “What do you mean, struck out? I thought he had six possibilities.”

  “He called each one. There was one guy he thought might be the one. He was in Chicago during the summer of ’78. But he didn’t know your mom.”

  “Maybe he just forgot. Does this guy play the guitar? Tell him to ask him about Justine’s.”

  “He was a grad student at DePaul at the time. Never heard of Justine’s. No musical ability whatsoever.”

  “Damn!” I pound the edge of the chair. “Why didn’t my mother tell me about Johnny while she was alive? She must have had more information about him. But no, she was too damn selfish. She was more concerned with protecting herself than helping me.” I turn to Brad, trying to tamp down my anger. “So, what’s Pohlonski’s plan now?”

  “He’s done everything he can, I’m afraid. He tried tracking down the owners of Justine’s but they’ve both passed away. It’s likely Johnny was paid under the table, because Steve can’t find any tax records. He even located the property owner of the place on Bosworth.”

  “The landlord? That’s good. He must have an old lease from Johnny Manns, right?”

  “No. Nothing. The old man’s living in a nursing home in Naperville now and has no recollection of Johnny Manns or your parents.”

  “He’s got to keep trying. I’ll keep paying him.”

  Brad’s silence makes me nervous, so I fill it. “Maybe he wasn’t born in North Dakota, after all. We’ll widen this search. We’ll check different spellings, too.”

  “Brett, he’s reached a dead end. There’s just not enough information to go on.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t like this guy, Pohlonski. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “You’re free to find someone else, but take a look at these records.” He hands me a spreadsheet showing the search for Jon, John, Jonathan, Jonothon, or Johnny Manns. Some names are circled; some are crossed out. Notes are scribbled in the margins, indicating dates and times of phone calls. One thing is obvious: This Pohlonski guy has been trying his damnedest to find my father.

  “Okay then, tell him to keep trying. Johnny’s out there somewhere.”

  “I’ve decided to exempt you from this goal.”

  I turn to him. “Exempt me? You’re telling me I should give up?”

  He lifts the spreadsheet from my lap. “You don’t have to give up. I’ll leave that up to you. But I’m not going to hold you to this one, Brett. You’ve tried, but this search is going nowhere.”

  I lean in. “Well, I’ll tell you right now, I’m not giving up. Pohlonski needs to try harder. We need a bigger age span. Maybe my father was older … or younger.”

  “B.B., this could take years. It’ll cost you a fortune. I think you should focus on your other goals for now.”

  “Forget it. I’m not giving up.”

  He frowns at me. “Brett, listen to me. I know you’re running low on cash and—”

  “Not anymore,” I say, interrupting him.

  His eyes land on my naked wrist. “Oh, hell. Where’s your Rolex?”

  I rub the place where my watch used to rest. “I didn’t need it. My cell phone keeps better time than that old watch ever did.”

  His jaw drops. “Jesus, you pawned it?”

  “Sold it. On eBay. Some jewelry, too. Next will be my suits and some purses.”

  He takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his face. “Oh, B.B., I’m so sorry.”

  He thinks I’m wasting my money. He thinks I’ll never find my father. I clutch his arm.

  “Don’t be sorry, because I’m not. I have money now. I can keep searching for my father. And finding him, my friend, is priceless.”

  He offers me a sad little smile. “Fair enough. I’ll tell Pohlonski to keep looking.”

  I nod and swallow hard. “How was San Francisco?”

  He takes a deep breath and sighs. “Not the easiest trip. Jenna was a little preoccupied with a story she’s working on.”

  He tells me about the day trip they took to Half Moon Bay, but I have a hard time focusing. My mind is on my father. Does he look like me? What kind of a man is he? Will he like me, or will he be ashamed of his illegitimate daughter? What if he’s dead? My heart sinks.

  “Can Pohlonski check death records?”

  “What?”

  “I need to find Johnny, even if he’s dead. Tell Pohlonski to check death records as well as birth records.”

  He looks at me, his eyes heavy. When he makes a note on his legal pad, I know he’s doing it to appease me.

  “How was Thanksgiving?” he asks.

  I tell him about my breakup with Andrew. He tries to appear neutral, but I can see approval in his face.

  “You deserve someone who shares your dreams. And remember, your mother was never convinced he was the one.”

  “Yeah, but now that I’m alone, my goals seem even more impossible.”

  He looks directly in my eyes. “You won’t be alone forever. Trust me.”

  My heart does a two-step and I curse myself. Brad has a girlfriend. He’s off-limits. “Whatever,” I say, and look out the window. “After he left, I spent Thanksgiving at Joshua House.”

  “Joshua House?”

  “A women’s shelter. I have a student living there. You wouldn’t believe how great these women are—all except for the director, who despises me. Anyway, a couple of them suffer from mental illness, but most are just normal women who’ve fallen on hard times.”

  He studies me. “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, like Mercedes. She was a single mother who got suckered into an adjustable mortgage. When her interest rate went through the roof and she couldn’t se
ll her house, she had to walk away. Luckily, someone told her about Joshua House. Now she and her kids have a place to stay.”

  Brad watches me with a smile on his face.

  “What?”

  “I really admire you.”

  I wave him off. “Don’t be ridiculous. Hey, I’ve signed up to volunteer on Monday nights. You should stop by next week and meet these women—especially Sanquita. She’s still hard as nails, but she actually invited me to stay for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  He holds up an index finger and gets to his feet. Standing at his file cabinet, he removes my mother’s envelopes and returns to where I sit.

  “Congratulations.” He holds out envelope number twelve: HELP POOR PEOPLE.

  I don’t reach for it. “But I didn’t … I wasn’t …”

  “You did it effortlessly, without ulterior motives. That’s exactly what your mom would have wanted.”

  I think of the five minutes I spent making a donation to Heifer International last week, thinking that might qualify me for my envelope. Even then I knew Mother wanted more from me, but I had no idea what, or where. Serendipitously, Joshua House found me.

  “Shall I open it?” he asks.

  I nod, not trusting my voice.

  “ ‘Darling Brett,

  “ ‘Perhaps you remember the story I used to tell you of the old man in search of happiness. He wanders the world, asking everyone he meets to share with him the secret to a happy life. But nobody is able to articulate what the secret is. Finally, the old man meets a Buddha who agrees to reveal the secret. The Buddha leans down and takes hold of the old man’s hands. He looks into his weary eyes and says, “Don’t do bad things. Always do good things.”

  “ ‘The old man stares at him, confused. “But that’s too simple. I’ve known that since I was three years old!”

  “ ‘ “Yes,” the Buddha says. “We all know this at age three. But at eighty we have forgotten.”

  “ ‘Congratulations, my daughter, for doing good things. It is indeed, the secret to a happy life.’ ”

  I burst into tears and Brad crouches at my side, pulling me into his arms. “I miss her,” I say though my sobs. “I miss her so much.”

  “I know,” he says, rubbing my back. “I know just how you feel.”

  I hear the catch in his voice. I pull back and dab my eyes. “You miss your dad, don’t you?”

  He rubs his throat and nods. “Yeah, the man he was.”

  This time, it’s me rubbing his back and whispering comfort.

  I’m exhausted. I’m weepy. I think my boobs are a bit tender. Even though Andrew and I had sex only twice since my last period, I can’t help but wonder if … no! I can’t even go there. I’ll jinx it if I do. Still, every now and then a bubble of joy rises in me so pure and strong that it nearly lifts me off my feet.

  But Wednesday afternoon, that joy is nowhere to be found. It’s four o’clock when I arrive at Andrew’s loft. Lugging empty boxes, I let myself in and grope for the light switch. It’s chilly in the lifeless space, and a shiver wriggles through me. I toss my coat and gloves onto the sofa and dash up the stairs to the bedroom. I want to be out of here before Andrew gets home from work.

  Without taking care to fold or sort, I stuff my clothes into the empty boxes, clearing the armoire first, and then my closet. When did I accumulate all this stuff? I think of the women at Joshua House, with their three drawers and a shared closet, and feel repulsed by my gluttony. I drag four boxes to my car, drive to my mother’s with the trunk tied down, dump the boxes in her foyer, and return for the next load.

  By eight o’clock I’m out of steam. I’ve emptied the loft of every last article of clothing, makeup, lotion, and hair product belonging to me. With car keys in hand, I meander through the loft one last time. Mentally, I begin to note all the things I brought to the house, everything I purchased since we’ve lived here. Was I trying to fill this loft with pieces of me, hoping it would make it feel like home? Along with paying half the mortgage and utilities, I bought the dining room table, the sofa and love seat, and two high-def TVs. Climbing the stairs, I remember purchasing the bedroom set the first week we moved in. A maple sleigh bed, a chest of drawers, two bedside tables, and the antique armoire I said I couldn’t live without. In the bathroom I spot my sumptuous Ralph Lauren towels, and the Missoni bath mat I found at Neiman Marcus. Shaking my head, I turn out the light and walk downstairs. I step into the kitchen and open the cupboard, spying my Italian dishes, All-Clad pots and pans, Pasquini espresso maker. I put a hand to my mouth.

  Everything in this place, it seems, is mine. There must be tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of inventory! But I cannot empty Andrew’s house. He’d be livid. And really, what would I do with a houseful of furniture now? I’d have to put it in storage until I have my own place. And what if I really am you-know-what? Is it possible I’d move back in?

  I close the kitchen cupboard. He can have it. He can have everything. It’ll be my peace offering.

  I’m buttoning my coat when I hear his key in the door. Shit! I turn out the kitchen light and step into the hallway when the door swings open and I hear a woman’s voice.

  I slip back into the kitchen and plaster myself against the wall, next to the fridge. My heart’s pounding so frantically I’m afraid they’ll hear it.

  “I’ll take your coat,” Andrew says.

  She says something, but I can’t make out the words. But it’s a woman’s voice. No mistaking that. I stand frozen, debating what to do. Why didn’t I just let Andrew know I was here? If I step out now, it’ll look like I’ve been spying. But if they find me in here hiding, I’ll look like his stalker ex-girlfriend.

  “I like having you here,” he says. “You brighten the place.”

  She lets loose a high-pitched giggle and I gasp. I clap my hand over my mouth to keep from crying out.

  I hear him rifle through the liquor cabinet. “C’mon,” he says. “I’ll show you the upstairs.”

  She breaks into a fresh giggle.

  From the darkness of the kitchen I watch Andrew chase Megan up the stairs, a bottle of Glenlivet in one hand, and two glasses in the other.

  The following afternoon I meet the moving van at Andrew’s. Three burly men wearing Carhartt coveralls and leather gloves greet me.

  “Whatcha got for us today, Miss?” the oldest one asks.

  “I want you to move everything out of unit four.”

  “Everything?”

  “Yes. Except the brown chair in the living room.” I open the door to the building. “On second thought, leave the mattress, too.”

  I fill boxes with towels and sheets, dishes and cookware and silver. The movers tackle the big items. It takes the four of us three hours, but we finish before Andrew is home. I look around. The house that never felt like home is completely emptied of me.

  “Where we taking this stuff?” the man with the goatee asks.

  “Carroll Avenue. The Joshua House.”

  On the morning of December 11, armed with a trunk full of gifts and a full tank of gas, I set out for the Newsomes’ annual Christmas brunch. Two hours later, exhausted and queasy, I pull up to the curb alongside a dozen other cars and stare up at a pretty yellow ranch. A yard sign, barely visible in the snowy grounds, reads ANOTHER FAMILY FOR PEACE. I smile, glad to know some things remain constant.

  Footprints of various sizes on the snowy sidewalk tell of people coming and going. I lift my trunk and hear the sound of the front door opening. A woman dressed in jeans and a fleece vest darts from the house and races down the walk. As she nears me, she slips and nearly falls. I catch her and we burst out laughing.

  “Bretel!” she cries. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

  She folds me into her arms and squeezes. My eyes flood with tears.

  “It was worth it,” I whisper. “If only for this.”

  She holds me at arm’s length. “Wow. You’re even prettier than your pictures on Facebook.”

  I shake my head,
taking in the woman before me. Her brown hair is cut short and she carries an extra fifteen pounds on her large frame. Her translucent skin glows pink, and from behind her glasses blue eyes shine big and bright and utterly gleeful. I brush the snow from her sleeve. “You’re beautiful,” I say.

  “C’mon,” she says. “Let’s get you inside.”

  “Wait. Before we go in, I need to do this.” I take her by the arms and look into her eyes. “I am so sorry for the way I treated you, Carrie. Please forgive me.”

  Her face turns pink and she waves me off. “You’re ridiculous. There’s nothing to forgive.” She grabs my elbow. “Now c’mon. Everyone’s so excited to meet you.”

  The scent of freshly brewed coffee, the background hum of laughter and chatter, take me back to the Newsomes’ old bungalow on Arthur Street. Carrie’s three biracial children sit around an oak table with needles and thread, stringing popcorn and cranberries. I crouch beside nine-year-old Tayloe.

  “I remember stringing popcorn with your mother and your grandparents one year. We’d gone up north to Egg Harbor.” I turn to Carrie. “Your grandparents’ old log cabin. Do you remember?”

  She nods. “My parents own it now. My dad’s been pulling out old videos all week, in honor of your visit. I’m sure he’s got some footage of us at Egg Harbor.”

  “He really should have been a filmmaker. He always had that camera with him. Remember when he filmed us sunbathing while there was still snow on the ground?”

  We’re laughing when Stella steps into the kitchen. She’s short and slim, with close-cropped blond hair and dark-framed glasses. She looks smart and serious, like a fitness trainer. But the moment she smiles, her face softens.