Prodigal Son(2)

September 25, 1999

Dearest Luke,

Before we ever brought you home — you, our greatest treasure — your father and I agreed that we would find a way to share with you the information that we had about your birth parents should anything happen to the two of us. When we signed the final paperwork to adopt you, though, the social worker told us that the birth mother, a woman we never met, wanted your adoption to be completely closed. We knew nothing about her or your father, and we were so thrilled to have you that we decided that it didn’t really matter. We were a family, and we didn’t need anyone else.

The thought of leaving you alone in the world just haunted me, though, and I convinced your father that we should hire a private investigator to find your birth parents and leave the information with our attorney to share with you once both of us have passed on. Though I was curious, neither of us read the file that the investigator shared with us. We feel like the information is yours — that it’s your history to explore if you wish.

Whoever your birth parents are, they did one wonderful thing, and that was give us the child we wanted so desperately and couldn’t have. We have known more joy as your parents than we ever could have imagined. I don’t know under what circumstances you will read these words. I hope it’s many, many years from now when you’re settled and raising a family of your own, but just in case it’s not, we don’t want you to feel like you’re alone in the world.

We love you, and we’re so very proud of you,

Mom and Dad

The signatures that followed those words were the same ones that had been at the bottom of my report cards, permission slips, and absence notes when I’d been growing up, and a fresh wave of sadness at the fact that I would never again see my parents washed over me. I wondered what Roger and Jeannie would have thought about Daniel and Sable (nee Bellamy) Hall. They were certainly from different walks of life.

I walked over to the bar that faced the living room and decided to pour myself a drink before I cleaned up and headed out for dinner. I spied a miniature bottle of Dewar’s scotch and went in search of a perfectly chilled can of ginger ale in the silver refrigerator behind the bar. I found a rocks glass, added a couple of cubes and mixed my scotch and ginger ale. I walked back over to the window and thought about the enormous differences between my biological and my birth parents.

Roger Callaway, sixty-one years old at the time of the car accident that claimed his life, had been the most respected civil attorney in Flagstaff. Handling wills, divorces, and custody matters, Roger was nearly a mythical creature — an attorney with a reputation for scrupulous honesty and abundant compassion. Jeannie had been a talented goldsmith and jeweler, whose business had allowed her the flexibility to stay home with me for most of my childhood. They’d been well-educated, practical people who’d raised me with patience and love, teaching me that I could become anything that I wanted, as long as I was willing to work hard for it.

Based on what I’d picked up from my quick read of the file, Daniel Hall had never made much of himself, being variously underemployed at several low wage jobs over the course of his life — the one exception being his military career, which he’d completed with distinction. Sable, clearly a smart woman, had briefly attended community college after she’d graduated from high school, but she’d taken a job working as a secretary/receptionist at a construction company, and she’d never moved on. Nothing much about their lives stood out to me, with the exception of the fact that Daniel had, along with his brother, started a motorcycle club called the Savage Sons. Based on the PI’s research, it looked like the club wasn’t exactly one of the outlaw, one-percenter gangs, but they were a rough crew. I was a little curious.

I was also hungry.

I headed into the bathroom, a shiny chrome and marble-filled fantasy, peeled my clothes off and stepped into the shower that was large enough to house a sorority. I felt much better after I’d washed the traveling dirt off myself and was dressed in clean jeans and a fitted black long-sleeved t-shirt. Though the day had been warm, I knew the evening would be a little chilly.

I flipped through the binder in the office — yes, the freakin’ hotel room had an office — and found a listing of restaurants nearby. I was in the mood for a beer — okay, more than one — and I decided on the Falling Rock Taphouse, which looked to have good food and a huge selection of craft beer on tap. I knew the place was likely to be busy on a Saturday night, but I’d never had trouble striking up a conversation with strangers, and I thought it might do me some good to get outside my own head for a few hours.