Ariel

Eleven

The Child Placement Service of Greater Charleston occupied a suite of offices on the top floor of a three-story suburban office building on Sam Rittenberg Boulevard. The corporate motto, painted on the frosted glass outer door, was “Bringing Parent and Child Together.” Jeff read it and thought of alternatives. “Caveat Adoptor” had a nice classical ring to it, he thought. Or Roberta’s phrase — “You Never Know What You’re Getting.”

In the sparsely furnished waiting room he leafed through a National Geographic. Instead of paying any mind to the pictures of Cecropia moths and Trobriand Islanders, he kept seeing Ariel’s pale face as he’d seen it Friday from his car. That moment when she turned and met his eyes with her own was engraved firmly in his memory. If he closed his eyes he could see her as he’d seen her then, could recall in all its flavor the sense of déjà vu he’d experienced at the time. As if this were a face he’d known before, in dreams or in another lifetime.

Of course he had seen Ariel before — the time he dropped off Roberta, and before that at Caleb’s funeral. But this was the first time he had ever truly experienced the child. The child. That was Roberta’s phrase for her, and he was beginning to understand the usage. There was something curious about her, a quality unquestionably evident even in a brief meeting of the eyes. A sort of transported quality, at once disturbing and compelling.

“Mr. Channing? This way please.”

He followed a slender young woman into a sizable windowed office where a thickset woman in her late thirties sat behind a large blond oak desk. She rose at Jeff’s approach, introduced herself as Ms. Anne-Marie Craig, and shook hands like a man. She sat down again and Jeff took a chair across the desk from her.

“Now let me make certain I understand the situation,” she said. “You’re an attorney representing Mr. and Mrs. David Jardell. Is that right?”

“Not quite. My client is Mrs. Jardell.”

“The Jardells have separated?”

He shook his head. “But my inquiries are being undertaken on Mrs. Jardell’s behalf and without her husband’s knowledge.”

“I see.” Her eyes dropped to a sheet of paper on her desk. “The Jardells adopted a female infant through our agency some twelve years ago. I believe they named her Ariel.”

“That’s correct.”

“And your purpose in coming here—”

“Is to inquire into Ariel’s parentage.”

”I’m afraid that’s impossible. CPS has a policy absolutely forbidding the release of such information. It’s a two-way street, Mr. Channing. The natural mother is absolutely prevented from making contact with her child, and the child and his adoptive parents are not permitted to know who the mother is. I’m afraid we’re quite strict about that, and I’m sure you can appreciate the advantages of the rule.”

“There have been some cases recently challenging that sort of policy.”

Ms. Craig nodded briskly. “Several of them, and the courts have ruled differently in different states. There’s an argument that an adopted child has a right to information about his or her parentage. Our own policy has been revised accordingly, without altering its basic purpose. When a child reaches maturity, which we define as the age of eighteen, he or she can advise us that he or she — why don’t I just say she since the Jardell child is female?”

“Fine.”

“She can advise us that she wants to contact her natural mother. At this point we release no information. Instead we make an effort to contact the mother ourselves, informing her that the daughter wishes to make contact. If the natural mother is not interested in allowing this, her right to privacy is respected. If the natural mother does want the child made aware of her identity, then we furnish the child with that information. In this particular case, the child will not be eighteen years old for over five years. When the child is a minor, we do not even set about attempting to trace the mother and ascertain her wishes. That’s policy, Mr. Channing, and we won’t bend it.”

He nodded; he’d expected as much. “Suppose what I want, what my client wants, is information about the natural parents.”

“Information which would not serve specifically to identify them?”

“That’s right. The question’s a medical one, Ms. Craig. My client’s concerned about the medical history of the biological parents and the possibility of inherited predisposition to disease.”

“If there were anything of that sort she would have been informed prior to the adoption. You mean some sort of genetic illness like hemophilia or Huntington’s chorea? I checked our files before seeing you, Mr. Channing. Our records indicate the natural mother was in perfect health and had nothing ominous in her medical history.”

“And the father?”

“We have no data on the father.”

“He’s unknown?”

“Unknown to us,” Ms. Craig said. “He may have been known to the mother but she may have elected to keep that information to herself. Many of our mothers prefer to do that.”

He thought of Roberta, keeping the fact of Caleb’s paternity from him. Did Ariel’s father even know that he’d sired a child?

“So there’s nothing known about the father’s medical history,” he said.

“Nothing, I’m afraid. Is Ariel displaying symptoms of some illness?”

“Not a physical illness.”

“Oh?”

“My client is concerned about her daughter’s emotional health. She thought if there were any information available about the mother, information not dealing with her identity per se, it might be helpful in evaluating her present condition. If you could tell us anything about her personality, her lifestyle, her background—”

“Excuse me a moment, Mr. Channing.” He waited while she disappeared through a door on the left. He sat looking out through the window, watching traffic on the boulevard, until she returned.

“Nothing,” she said. “I’m afraid there’s no one here who worked at CPS at the time Ariel was born, so no one remembers her mother. Our records don’t indicate mental illness or eccentricity of personality or anything of the sort. Is Ariel institutionalized at present?”

“No, she’s living with the Jardells.”

“Is she receiving psychiatric treatment?”

“No.”

“But your client is concerned about her emotional state?”

“Yes.”

“Ariel must be on the verge of puberty. A great many children find that stage a stressful one. Sometimes the answer is treatment, sometimes they just have to be allowed to grow out of it. But the problem’s rarely hereditary, Mr. Channing. Adoptive parents sometimes like to think a problem is hereditary in order to absolve themselves of blame. Perhaps you could find a tactful way to suggest as much to Mrs. Jardell.”