A Wedding To Die For

5

The next morning, I traveled south again, switching the car radio station back and forth between NPR and a local talk show for entertainment. Some days I am easily amused. Forty-five minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot at St. Mary’s Hospital and stepped out into more typical south Texas weather than the previous frigid days: temperature in the low sixties, gray skies, and enough humidity to make even big hair wilt.

After entering the St. Mary’s lobby with my leather attaché in hand, I stopped at the information desk situated in front of a floor-to-ceiling aquarium and was given directions to the baby ward. I rode the elevator alone and soon found myself staring through picture windows at five clear bassinets holding infants wrapped up like sausages in their white receiving blankets. I was looking at three boys and two girls from their color-coded knit caps.

A woman in fuchsia surgical scrubs, maybe mid-fifties, spotted me and smiled broadly. She came around through a door to my left and said, “Which sweetheart do you belong to? I’ll bring the baby closer to the window for you.”

“Though I would love to belong to one of these sweethearts, I came about a baby who was born here many years ago. Can I ask you a few questions?” I took out a business card, the one identifying Yellow Rose Investigations as specializing in adoptions.

I handed it to her, and while she read, I noted the picture ID hanging from a lanyard identifying her as C. Worthington, R.N.

“If this is about an adoption, I can’t talk about it,” she said kindly, handing the card back. “All patient records are confidential.”

I opened my attaché and produced the notarized release of information letter Megan had addressed to the hospital, the one I used the last time I came here and spoke to the administrator.

She looked, but didn’t touch. “Did you go through administration, Ms. Rose?”

“Yes. Worked with a Mr. Hansen.” I didn’t add that I had bypassed him today. Before she could question me further, I exchanged the release letter for the birth certificate. “This young woman hired me to help her find her mother. Megan Beadford was here once, just like those cute little kids beyond the window.”

The nurse shifted her gaze to the bassinets, her eyes softening. “They are so precious when they sleep. So wonderful.” She refocused on me. “But as much as I’d like to help, I don’t see how I can, Ms. Rose.”

“How long have you worked here?” I asked.

“Ten years, and from the date on the birth certificate, your client made her entrance into the world long before I arrived on the scene.”

“Okay, but maybe you know someone who’s worked here longer.”

She squinted in thought, then said, “No. And if you got no help from Sister Nell, then—”

“Sister Nell?”

“The medical records administrator. But I assume that’s where Mr. Hansen directed you first.”

A baby started wailing—the boy in the middle crib. The nurse glanced back at him and smiled her loving, unruffled smile.

I said, “You probably need to take care of him, so—”

“Darien’s had everything I can offer,” she said evenly. “Fed, burped, changed, rocked. He’s fine.”

I looked uneasily at the wide-mouthed Darien. The kid was into a rhythm and getting louder and more red faced by the second. But since Nurse Worthington wasn’t responding to his screams, I went on. “I visited with Mr. Hansen several weeks ago. When he could find nothing during his computer search, he said he would contact medical records and get back to me.”

“And did he?” Her crossed arms and amused features told me she knew plenty about Mr. Hansen—stuff I obviously did not.

“I had to call him back.”

She nodded knowingly.

I said, “He told me medical records only had baby charts that went back twenty years.”

“Really? I suggest you speak directly with Sister Nell. She’s been here since they opened St. Mary’s doors.”

“Sister Nell. Does she have a last name or—”

“Everyone knows Sister Nell. You’ll find her.”

More noise erupted from the peanut gallery, but the nurse remained unperturbed, despite my sincere belief that Darien, who’d woken the rest of his buddies, was about to burst a blood vessel in his head. I had to get out of here. “Thanks. Is medical records on the first floor?”

She nodded and gave me a little wave, then turned and walked back into the nursery.

Meanwhile I hightailed it to the elevator. If this job would be taking me to more maternity wards in the future, I wasn’t sure I could stay in the business.

Back downstairs, the open door to medical records revealed an office with a fatigued-looking receptionist wearing a white shirt as pale as her face. Her desk was piled with file folders. There were doors on either side of her desk and one behind her.

“My name is Abby Rose and I’m looking for Sister Nell.” I put the business card on the woman’s desk.

She glanced at it just as the phone rang, then waved me in the direction of the door behind her before she picked up the receiver.

I followed a tile path around the desk and stopped in the entry to what I assumed was Sister Nell’s office. Though the receptionist’s desk had been piled ominously high, every available square foot in this room was stacked with books, binders, and manila file folders. Apparently the front desk was the first port of call and everything eventually ended up here.

A graying kinky-haired woman sat at a desk against the left wall staring at a computer screen, her back to me. The monitor was not elevated, and she had to crane her neck and hunch her shoulders.

“Bet you go to bed with a backache,” I said.

She jerked around, hand to her heart. “Mercy, young woman, you scared the bejesus out of me.”

She wore a navy blue sweater, white high-collar blouse, and a charcoal-colored skirt. So where was her nun’s veil?

“Sorry if I startled you,” I said. “But your monitor is too low. That can cause back pain.” Weird image, I thought. Nuns and computers just didn’t seem to go together.

“Oh, you’re the technician. Every time I turn around they’ve got someone new.” She rolled her chair away from the desk. “Have at this evil machine. I cannot seem to make it do my bidding.”

“What’s the problem?” I came around cardboard file boxes filled to overflowing with documents.

“I keep losing the network and I have files to upload, files to download, files to scan, files, nothing but files. And forgive me if I make it sound like a Shakespearean tragedy, but it’s the God’s truth.” She took a deep breath, fingering the crucifix hanging around her neck.

“Hmmm. Could be something simple.” I got down on my hands and knees and checked the network cable running beneath her desk to the wall jack, saw the problem, and looked up at her. “I think you have a furry friend, one who likes to gnaw.”

“The mouse?” She had joined me on the floor. “I’ve been trying to catch that little bastard for a week.”

Little bastard? I smiled to myself. I might just like Sister Nell. I pointed to tiny teeth marks on the cable. “He’ll zap himself if he takes a bigger bite, but my guess is he’s learned his lesson. All you need is an undamaged line and you’ll be fine.”

She steepled her hands and raised her green eyes to the ceiling. “Praise God they sent me someone with some common sense this time.”

I stood and offered her a hand up, which she gratefully accepted. She was a lean, fit-looking woman, but I did hear her knees crack when she rose.

“I may have common sense, but I don’t work here,” I said.

“Really?” Her eyes crinkled with delight. “Perhaps I should buy an extra lottery ticket then, since this seems to be my lucky day. Of course I’d share the ten million with you if I knew your name.”

“Abby Rose,” I said. “I came to ask you a few questions.”

“Hang on a sec, Abby.” She picked up her office phone and dialed four numbers. “Roger, I need a new cable for my computer.”

She listened, then said, “How would I know—”

“You need an Ethernet cable,” I said.

She relayed this information with a satisfied smile and hung up. “You are quite a useful, young woman. Quite competent. What can I do for you?”

I glanced around. “Can we, um... sit?”

“Oh, God forgive me, yes. Don’t have many visitors aside from doctors and they never sit.” She wove her way through the clutter—reminded me of home—and opened a closet door on the far wall. Several thin boxes fell from a shelf and hospital stationery spilled everywhere. A broom toppled as well. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she muttered before returning with a padded folding chair. She left the fallen items where they lay.

Once we were seated with her swivel chair facing me, I handed her my card. “I’m helping a young woman find her birth mother and not having much luck. Maybe you can help.”

After glancing at the card, she put it down, pursed her lips, and closed her eyes, wagging a finger. “If it’s a medical record you need, let me assure you they are like a nun’s dreams—not to be shared with the public.”

“I understand, but could I explain? That might give you a better idea on how you might help me.”

“Well, you’ve certainly helped me out, so if I can do a damn thing—make that a blessed thing—I will.”

I told her about the case, including my conversation with the nurse today. The more I talked, the more tight her features grew.

When I finished, she said, “Let me see your confidentiality release and the birth certificate.”

I removed the birth certificate from the envelope and handed it to her along with the release. After returning them, she sat back, lips tight with anger. “I am not without fault, won’t ever be nominated for sainthood, but I don’t abide liars.”

Liars? What the heck was she talking about? “Have I done something wrong?”

“Not you, dear. Him.”

“Him?”

“Our administrator. But I suppose when you mix the healing arts with business, you should expect that kind of behavior. Mr. Hansen told you the records went back only twenty years?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a damn lie and he knows it. He was simply too lazy to follow through on your request.”

Whoa. Obviously there was more about Mr. Hansen she’d be willing to share, but I tried to get her back on track. “I returned to pursue this, so it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay and he will hear about this. And then he better get his fat ass to confession.” She crossed her arms and leaned back. And then unexpectedly grinned. “Of course, I’ll be right alongside him, don’t you know?”

I laughed, felt myself relax. “Bet you will.”

“Now,” she said, “let’s get to work on your Megan.” She put her hands on the keyboard, then stopped. “Damn. Where’s Roger with that cable?”

She picked up the phone and dialed the four numbers again. “Roger? When did you think you’d get that stupid cable over here? Next year?” She put down the receiver without saying good-bye and smiled at me. “I tend to annoy people. That’s why I work alone.”

“I call it the broken-record technique,” I said.

“I like that. And broken records are actually good for something. They get results.”

Seconds later the man who I assumed was Roger scurried in carrying the cable. Sister Nell rose and backed away from her desk, bumping into a filing cabinet when she did. She clutched her elbow and winced, but if she swore this time I didn’t hear her.

Once Roger made the switch, she returned to her computer and booted up.

“Hand me the certificate again,” she said.

After I gave it to her, she checked the date and gave it back.

I was about to return it to my briefcase, but then realized I’d never looked at the copy after Megan gave it to me, not gotten “the good look” Angel suggested.

I stared down at it now and noticed a small difference in the darkness of the type in spots. The hospital name definitely seemed lighter than both Megan’s and her adopted parents’ names. And I noted a smudge beneath “U.S.A.” in the country of birth box. Did this mean anything? Or—

“Here we go,” said Sister Nell. “Got the year pulled up.”

I was sitting at an angle, unable to see much of her screen, but she appeared to be scrolling down a list.

“Something’s wrong,” she said. “Read me the date one more time.”

After I did, she said, “Hmmm. Let me check the day before and the day after. Perhaps someone made a mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?” I scooted my chair closer to look over her shoulder.

“Move away,” she snapped. “These are confidential records.”

“Sorry.” I sat back, feeling like I had in first grade when I was sent to the principal for showing my underwear to a boy in the cafeteria.

Sister Nell absently patted my knee, her gaze still on the monitor. “Sorry to be short with you. Did I mention I annoy people?” She put her face closer to the screen. “Let me try one more run through this list. Perhaps a baby was entered as a medical or surgical patient that day by mistake.”

“You mean you can’t find her?” I said.

She didn’t answer, just stared a few seconds longer, shook her head, and turned off the monitor. “Very puzzling. Of course, I would not have found a child named Megan Beadford, since her adoptive parents no doubt named her, but I did expect to be able to pursue this on my own after I had the names of any girls born that day. Maybe contact a possible birth mother candidate and convince her to contact the Adoption Registry.”

“But you can’t do that?”

“No,” she said, “because despite what it says on that birth certificate, no baby girls were born here on that date, just two boys. No babies were born at all on the day before. And one single boy was born the day after.” She raised her eyebrows. “So what does that tell you?”

I looked down at the birth certificate still in my hand and blinked several times. “It tells me that either Megan Beadford had a sex change or this case just made a hard right turn down a very different road.”