Nighttime Is My Time

5

"Anything else I can do for you, Dr. Sheridan?" the bellman asked.

Jean shook her head.

"You feel all right, Doctor? You look kind of pale."

"I'm fine. Thank you."

"Well, you just let us know if there's anything we can do for you."

At last the door closed behind him, and Jean could sink down on the edge of the bed. She had jammed the fax into the side panel of her shoulder bag. Now she grabbed it and reread the cryptic sentences: "Jean, I guess by now you've verified that I know Lily. Here's my problem. Do I kiss her or kill her? Just a joke. I'll be in touch."

Twenty years ago Dr. Connors had been the physician in Cornwall to whom she had confided her pregnancy. He had reluctantly agreed with her that involving her parents would be a mistake. "I'm going to give up the baby for adoption no matter what they say. I'm eighteen, and it's my decision. But they'll be upset and angry and make my life even more miserable than it is," she had said, weeping.

Dr. Connors told her about the couple who had finally given up hope that they would have their own child and who were planning to adopt. "If you're sure you're not going to keep the baby, I can promise you they will give it a wonderful, loving home."

He had arranged for her to work in a nursing home in Chicago until the baby was due. Then he flew to Chicago, delivered it, and took the baby from her. The following September she began college, and ten years later learned that Dr. Connors died of a heart attack after a fire consumed his medical offices. Jean had heard that all his records were lost.

But perhaps they weren't lost. And if not, who found them, and why after all these years is that person contacting me? Jean agonized.

Lily-that was the name she'd given to the baby whom she'd carried for nine months and then had known for only four hours. Three weeks before Reed's graduation from West Point and hers from Stonecroft, she had realized she was pregnant. They had both been frightened but agreed that they would get married immediately after graduation.

"My parents will love you, Jeannie," Reed had insisted. But she knew he was worried about their reaction. He admitted that his father had warned him about getting serious with anyone until he was at least twenty-five. He never got to tell them about her. A week before graduation he'd been killed by a hit-and-run driver on the West Point campus who'd been speeding along the narrow road on which he was walking. Instead of watching Reed graduate fifth in his class, General, now retired, and Mrs. Carroll Reed Thornton accepted the diploma and sword of their late son in a special presentation at the graduation ceremony.

They never knew they had a granddaughter.

Even if someone had salvaged the record of her adoption, how would he or she have gotten close enough to Lily to take her hairbrush, with long, golden strands of her hair still caught in its bristles? Jean wondered.

That first terrifying communication had contained the brush and a note telling her to "Check the DNA-it's your kid." Stunned, Jean had submitted strands from the lock of hair she had kept from her baby, along with her own DNA sample and strands from the brush to a private DNA laboratory. The report had unequivocally confirmed her worst fears-the hairs on the brush had come from her now nineteen-and-a-half-year-old daughter.

Or is it possible that the wonderful, caring couple who adopted her know who I am, and this is a buildup to asking me for money?

There had been a lot of publicity when her book about Abigail Adams became a best-seller and then a very successful film.

Let it be only about money, Jean prayed as she stood up and reached for the suitcase that it was time to unpack.