Later that afternoon my phone rang. It was Laurie. I turned the record player down and answered.
“What’s up?”
“You’re number four,” she said.
“I’m number four what?”
She paused. “You’re kidding, right? Your book, dummy.”
I had completely forgotten about the list. “Wow. It’s already Wednesday.”
“Yes, it’s Wednesday, there’s a new list, and you’re fourth on it.”
“Great,” I said.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m cleaning.”
“I know you’re cleaning, but what have you done with my author? You practically took my head off last week when I told you that you were three. It took me a half hour today to get up the courage to call you. I was prepared to talk you down from the ledge. I was going to tell you that the only reason you dropped a spot is that three more big books came out, including a Danielle Steele.”
“No worries,” I said.
“You’re freaking me out.” Pause. “Is that . . . Christmas music I hear playing?”
“Yes.”
“So are you done out there?”
“Almost,” I said.
“What does that mean?”
“Almost means very nearly, about, roughly . . .”
“I know what the word means. I want to know what it means in your specific circumstance.”
“I only have the front room to finish, then I’m done. The piano movers come Friday to get the piano.”
“You’re keeping it.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s a Steinway.”
“Do you even know anyone who plays the piano?”
“I play the piano.”
“Another secret emerges from the past. So you meet the movers on Friday, then you fly home?”
“I drive home,” I said.
She groaned. “I forgot you drove. Your publisher’s driving me crazy about the next contract. I was going to try to talk you into flying to New York before going home. I guess that won’t work.”
“I can fly out from Spokane. I’ll just need a few days to collect myself.”
“Then I’ll give them a definite maybe for next week,” she said. “So back to you. How are you?”
“Good.”
“Find anything interesting?”
“I found a lot of interesting things.”
“Have you found what you’re looking for?”
“It would help if I knew what I’m looking for. But no. Not really. Maybe there’s nothing to find.”
“All right,” she said. “Don’t forget me.”
“Never. Ciao.”
“Ciao.”
I set my phone on the piano bench, then turned the Christmas music back up. I began listening through the Christmas albums. I was listening to Karen Carpenter belt out “The Christmas Song” (“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire . . .”) when I heard a knock at the door. I turned down the music, walked over, and answered it.
I was expecting to see Elyse. Instead, it was a young woman. She looked about my age, maybe a few years younger. She was pretty. She had almond-shaped eyes and dark-umber hair that tumbled out beneath a wine-colored knit cap. She wore a long scarf and mittens that matched the cap. Something about her looked familiar.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said in an uneasy voice. “But is this the Churcher residence?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
She looked at me anxiously. I couldn’t tell if she was shivering from nerves or the cold. Actually, I had seen this kind of behavior before at book signings and I figured I had a fan. I wondered how she had found out I was there.
“Are you Jacob Churcher?”
Definitely a fan, I thought. “Yes.”
“Ruth Carole Churcher was your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” she said. “My name is Rachel Garner. I . . .” She hesitated. “I’m sorry, I’m a little flustered. I’ve been trying for so long to catch someone here, I really wasn’t expecting anyone to answer.”
I looked at her quizzically. “Who are you looking for?”
“I’m looking for my mother. Has your family lived in this house for thirty years?”
“More than thirty-five,” I said. “I was born here.”
She nodded. “Would you know if a young woman lived here about thirty years ago? She was pregnant?”
“A pregnant woman?” I said. “No.”
She looked down, clearly upset. “Is it possible that you don’t remember?”
“I would have been four, but it seems like the kind of thing I’d remember. Or know.”
She looked even more upset. Actually, she looked heartbroken.
“Here, come inside,” I said. “It’s cold.”
“Thank you.”
She stepped inside the house, and I closed the door behind her. I could tell from her expression that the state of the room surprised her.
“I know, it’s crazy in here,” I said. “I didn’t know that my mother was a hoarder. I’m just cleaning up the mess. I’d offer you a seat, but . . .” I gestured to the pile of boxes that hid the sofa. “But that’s the seat.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “I don’t mind standing. Thank you for talking to me. I know it’s a difficult time for you.”
“Difficult?”
Her forehead furrowed. “I’m sorry, didn’t your mother just pass away?”
“Yes. Of course,” I said, feeling embarrassed that I wasn’t experiencing the usual grief.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“We weren’t close.”
“Then I’m sorry for that too,” she said. She rubbed her hands together. “It’s so cold in Salt Lake.”
“You’re not from around here?”
“No. I live in St. George. Are you from here?”
“I was born here, but I live in Coeur d’Alene.”
She just looked at me sadly.
“May I take your coat?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
I helped her off with her coat, then took it over to the piano bench, one of the few clean surfaces in the room. “Did you come by yesterday?” I asked, thinking of the footprint I’d seen in the snow.
She nodded. “In the afternoon. I thought I’d try again after that storm.”
“How did you know my mother died?”
“A few weeks ago I saw the obituary in the newspaper, and I thought that maybe someone might be here and I could find some answers.”
There was something about the way she said this that stoked my interest. Maybe it was her vulnerability. Or maybe it was her beauty.
“I’ve got the kitchen cleaned up. We can sit in there.” I led her there and pulled out a chair at the table, then sat down across from her. “It’s Rachel?”
“Yes, Rachel.”
“Why did you think your mother was here?”
“I was told that she might have been living here when I was born.”
“Are you sure you have the right place?”
“I’m pretty sure. Scott and Ruth Churcher?”
“Those are my parents’ names.”
“I think my mother—my birth mother—lived with them. I was adopted as a baby, and a few years ago I decided to try to find out more about her, to try to find her. I went to the state but my adoption records were sealed. They sent a letter to her to see if she would be interested in meeting me, but she never even replied. I don’t know if she’s still alive or if she just doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.
“Then, about four years ago, a friend introduced me to her new boyfriend. He worked in the state records department. I asked him if there was anything he could do to help me and he said he would look into it. He called me a few days later. He told me what I already knew, that the record was sealed. He said that he couldn’t give me that information or else he could lose his job and face prosecution as well as a civil lawsuit. I figured that I was just out of luck
. Then he told me something I didn’t know. He said that my birth mother was only seventeen when she gave birth and wasn’t married. He said that the record showed that my mother had come to live with a family with the last name Churcher. I think her family may have sent her away when they found out she was pregnant.”
I looked at her curiously. “What year was that?”
“I was born in 1986.”
I thought for a moment, then said, “I was only three or four years old. It’s possible I could have forgotten. It was also a very traumatic time. It was the year my brother died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you know your mother’s name?”
She frowned. “No.”
“No, of course you don’t,” I said. “My mother would have known. It’s too bad you didn’t come here before she died.”
“Actually, I did. I came here at least a dozen times and rang the doorbell, but no one would ever answer. I could usually tell that someone was inside, but . . .” She sighed. “I even tracked down the phone number and called, but no one answered that either.”
I wasn’t surprised my mother hadn’t answered the phone. She rarely did when I lived with her, and it appeared that she had become even more of a recluse in her last days.
“When I came across the obituary for your mother, I figured that if there was family, they might be here.”
“And you might find someone who knew about your mother.”
She nodded. “I was hoping.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you.”
Her eyes welled up with tears. She looked down for moment, then said, “Do you have any siblings or relatives who might know anything?”
“I only had my brother. And my mother was an only child.”
“What about your father?”
“That’s another dead end. I don’t have any contact with him. I don’t even know where he lives.”
She wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry.” I could tell she was becoming more emotional, as her eyes welled still more. Suddenly she started to stand. “I’ve wasted enough of your time. I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Wait,” I said, a thought occurring to me. “There’s an elderly woman who came by to visit. She was my mother’s best friend. She’s lived in the neighborhood longer than I’ve been alive. She ought to know. She just lives a couple houses from here.”
Her face lit up. “Could you ask her?”
“We can go ask her right now.”
“Thank you.”
I helped her back on with her coat, then got my own and we walked out.
“Watch your step,” I said. “It’s pretty icy.”
“I know. I fell trying to get over that snowbank. I’m glad no one was watching.”
We walked down the drive and I helped her over the bank, then straddled it myself to get over. We crossed the street and walked up to Elyse’s front door. I rang the doorbell. I could hear a chime inside, but no one came. Then Rachel knocked with her gloved hand.
I looked at her and laughed. “That was about as loud as a kitten falling onto a pillow.”
“Nice use of simile,” she said.
“It’s my job. I’m a writer.” I rang the doorbell again, then pounded on the door. Nothing.
“What kind of writer?” she asked.
“Books. Mostly.”
“That’s cool,” she said. “Can you make a living doing that?”
I smiled. “Some do. I get by.”
“I admire people who throw caution to the wind to pursue their dreams.”
“Throwing it every day,” I said. It pleased me that she didn’t know who I was.
“Look,” she said, returning to the matter at hand. “There’s just one set of tire tracks in the driveway. She must have left.”
“Good deduction,” I said. “Let’s go back.”
We walked back across the street. Once we were inside the house, I took off my coat and said, “I’ll tell you what. Give me your phone number and I’ll call you once I talk to her.”
“Thank you. Do you have something to write on?”
“I’ll put it in my phone.” I input her number, then said, “You mentioned that you wouldn’t be up here that long . . .”
She frowned. “No. I’ve got to get back to St. George by Saturday.”
“Work?”
“No. I’m kind of between jobs.”
“What do you do?”
“I was a dental assistant, but my boss retired. I don’t think I’ll have much trouble finding work, but I thought, as long as I’m free, I’d look again. But it’s bugging my fiancé. He thinks I’m crazy.”
Hearing that she had a fiancé bothered me. “Your fiancé?”
“Yes. Brandon. We finally set a wedding date for next April, so he’s nervous that I’m not working enough and saving money right now.”
I just nodded.
“The truth is, he thinks this whole thing is a waste of time.”
“What ‘whole thing’?”
“Looking for my mother. He says, ‘So you find her, then what? It’s not like you can change anything. What are you even going to say? Hi, I’m the baby you didn’t want.’ He’s just practical that way.”
Practical wasn’t the word that came to mind. “What would you say to her?”
“I don’t know. I think in the moment I’ll know. Her eyes met mine, and I couldn’t believe how beautiful she looked. “That probably sounds dumb to you.”
“No,” I said. “I understand why you need to find her. It’s the same reason millions of people do their genealogy. They’re looking for clues to who they are. It’s the same reason I’m cleaning my mother’s house.”
Her expression relaxed. “Thank you for understanding. I was beginning to feel like I was crazy.”
“I’m sorry your fiancé makes you feel that way. It’s not right.” I breathed out heavily. “Well, I better get back to cleaning.”
Her eyes panned the room. “Do you want some help?”
I looked at her with surprise. “You’re offering to help me clean this dump?”
She shrugged. “Why not? I have to go right now, but I have nothing tomorrow. And when your neighbor gets home, we can talk to her.”
I wasn’t sure why she was offering, but I liked the idea of having her around.
“I’d be a fool to pass that up.”
She smiled. “Tomorrow it is. What time do we start?”
“I usually get here in the morning around ten.”
“I’ll be here,” she said. She smiled at me. “I’d better go.” I followed her to the door and opened it for her. She looked into my eyes. She looked vulnerable again. “Thank you for caring. I don’t know why you do, but thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
“Me too. Bye.”
She carefully walked down the snowy walkway, awkwardly climbing over the snowbank. I watched from the doorway as she got to her car. Before climbing in, she looked back once more. She smiled and waved to me. I waved back. There was something about her that was different from any woman I’d ever met. Something about her felt like home.
CHAPTER
Eleven
The things my mother kept were inexplicable. Old dishes, pots, unfinished crocheting projects, stacks of every magazine you could think of, paperback books (none of mine), eight-tracks, a porcelain hula dancer. The place was like a flea market on crack.
I learned things about my mother that I hadn’t known. For one thing, she had a Troll Doll collection unlike anything I had ever seen. It took up three boxes. The trolls were in mint condition and I didn’t feel good about throwing them away, so I stacked them up in the hallway to give to charity.
I hadn’t eaten lunch and was about to go out to get dinner when there was again a knock at the door. This time it was Elyse. Again she had brought food. “I brought you some dinner,” she said.
“Come in,” I said, stepping bac
k.
She walked directly to the kitchen and set the food on the table. “I just came from a funeral. When you get to my age, it’s pretty much the main social activity. I helped make supper for the family. The usual funeral fare: fried chicken, funeral potatoes, green Jell-O with grated carrots, strawberry salad, and potato rolls. The rolls just came from the store, so they’re nothing to write home about.”
“Funeral potatoes?” I asked.
“I know, it’s a ghastly name,” she said. “Sounds like you’re eating something from a casket. But they are delicious.”
“Now I’m really intrigued. What are they?”
“Nothing fancy. It’s a Mormon dish. Basically they’re hash browns mixed with cream of chicken soup with cheese and cornflakes on top.”
“Cornflakes?”
“Cornflakes,” she said. She looked around the room. “You’re making progress.”
“Slowly. The front room is more work than I expected.”
“You could fill a Dumpster just with that.”
“I did find an old record player and some records.”
She smiled. “That’s exciting. Finding old music is like running into an old friend, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “I like that. Do you mind if I eat?”
“No. That’s why I brought it.”
I got a plate and silverware, dished up some food, and brought it over to the table. “Did you want anything?”
“Heavens no. I’ve been pilfering calories all day.”
“Well, thank you for thinking of me.”
She waited until I sat down, then said, “How’s it coming?”
“It’s taking longer than I thought it would.”
“I know. When you said you would only be a few days, I wondered if you knew what you’d gotten yourself into.”
I lifted a full fork. “Funeral potatoes?”
“Funeral potatoes,” she confirmed.
I took a bite. They were good. “Well, at least I don’t have to do anything with the yard.”
“Until the last few years you wouldn’t have had to. Your mother spent a lot of time gardening. I think it was her therapy. Her yard was beautiful. That was before she stopped going outside. After that . . .” She didn’t finish.