chapter.”
“But it’s open now,” Zack said.
“Yes,” Delia said, “and not because I want it to be.” Her fingers touched the pack of cigarettes in front of her as if for reassurance, then she opened her bag and removed the printout of an e-mail exchange. She handed it to Zack. “This arrived in my e-mail on November 22 – two weeks ago today,” she said.
Zack slipped on his reading glasses and began to read. Delia fiddled with her cigarette package until I went to the cupboard, took down an ashtray, and put it in front of her. She mouthed the word “thanks” and lit up. Zack slid the printout to me.
Considering the subject of the note, the tone was cool.
On September 29, 1983, you, Delia Margolis Wainberg, gave birth to a female child in Ottawa Civic Hospital.I have recently discovered that I am that child. My name is Abby Michaels. As an infant I was placed with a family, and until their recent deaths, I believed I was their natural child. My birth certificate, the adoption papers, and the genetic history you supplied to the adoption agency were appended to their wills.
A circumstance in my own life makes it imperative that I possess all data relevant to my genetic background. I would be grateful if you could supply me with the name and contact information of my biological father. You have my word that my only interest in communicating with him is to ascertain relevant medical information. Beyond that, I have no interest in communicating further either with him or with you.
Thank you for your attention to this matter.
I handed the paper back to Delia. “Did you get in touch with her?” I asked.
Delia nodded. “My doctor was on holidays for a few days. When he returned he gave me a précis of everything medically relevant that had come to light in the years since the baby was born. I sent the notes to Abby Michaels on November 30.”
Zack leaned forward in his chair. “What did you tell Ms. Michaels about her biological father?”
“The same thing I told you,” Delia said tightly. “I told her that during the period when I might have been impregnated I was sexually active, and I couldn’t identify her biological father. I wished her well, and said that if she required any further information, she should feel free to get in touch.”
“Did she?” Zack asked.
“She called that day I was in the car with Joanne. She identified herself. Then she said, ‘You’ll have to live with what you’ve done,’ and hung up.”
“Did that make sense to you?” Zack asked.
“No, because I’d done everything she asked me to do. Zack, none of this makes sense. You saw her e-mail to me. Two weeks ago, Abby Michaels was rational and in charge of her life. She wanted medical information, and I supplied it. Friday, she phones, pronounces judgment on me, and hangs up before I can ask her to explain; then yesterday she hands her child over to Isobel and says he belongs with me. What happened?”
“One possibility is postpartum psychosis,” Zack said.
Remembering Zack’s account of the woman who threw her baby from the bridge, my throat tightened, but Delia was cool. “I’ve had a couple of those cases,” she said. “According to my reading, the onset of the disorder is usually quite soon after birth. Jacob is six months old, and the woman who wrote that e-mail didn’t sound as if she was suffering from anything. She was absolutely lucid.”
“But she wasn’t lucid yesterday when she gave her baby to Isobel and said the child belonged with you,” Zack said. “Whatever’s going on, Dee, time is not our friend. The sooner you talk to the cops, the better. If anything happens to Abby Michaels because we screwed up, neither of us is going to be happy.”
Delia inhaled deeply and blew a smoke ring. “Okay, call your friend the Inspector – and tell her I’m Abby Michaels’s birth mother, and I want Jacob with me until they find her.”
Zack shot her a hard look. “You’re sure about
“But it’s open now,” Zack said.
“Yes,” Delia said, “and not because I want it to be.” Her fingers touched the pack of cigarettes in front of her as if for reassurance, then she opened her bag and removed the printout of an e-mail exchange. She handed it to Zack. “This arrived in my e-mail on November 22 – two weeks ago today,” she said.
Zack slipped on his reading glasses and began to read. Delia fiddled with her cigarette package until I went to the cupboard, took down an ashtray, and put it in front of her. She mouthed the word “thanks” and lit up. Zack slid the printout to me.
Considering the subject of the note, the tone was cool.
On September 29, 1983, you, Delia Margolis Wainberg, gave birth to a female child in Ottawa Civic Hospital.I have recently discovered that I am that child. My name is Abby Michaels. As an infant I was placed with a family, and until their recent deaths, I believed I was their natural child. My birth certificate, the adoption papers, and the genetic history you supplied to the adoption agency were appended to their wills.
A circumstance in my own life makes it imperative that I possess all data relevant to my genetic background. I would be grateful if you could supply me with the name and contact information of my biological father. You have my word that my only interest in communicating with him is to ascertain relevant medical information. Beyond that, I have no interest in communicating further either with him or with you.
Thank you for your attention to this matter.
I handed the paper back to Delia. “Did you get in touch with her?” I asked.
Delia nodded. “My doctor was on holidays for a few days. When he returned he gave me a précis of everything medically relevant that had come to light in the years since the baby was born. I sent the notes to Abby Michaels on November 30.”
Zack leaned forward in his chair. “What did you tell Ms. Michaels about her biological father?”
“The same thing I told you,” Delia said tightly. “I told her that during the period when I might have been impregnated I was sexually active, and I couldn’t identify her biological father. I wished her well, and said that if she required any further information, she should feel free to get in touch.”
“Did she?” Zack asked.
“She called that day I was in the car with Joanne. She identified herself. Then she said, ‘You’ll have to live with what you’ve done,’ and hung up.”
“Did that make sense to you?” Zack asked.
“No, because I’d done everything she asked me to do. Zack, none of this makes sense. You saw her e-mail to me. Two weeks ago, Abby Michaels was rational and in charge of her life. She wanted medical information, and I supplied it. Friday, she phones, pronounces judgment on me, and hangs up before I can ask her to explain; then yesterday she hands her child over to Isobel and says he belongs with me. What happened?”
“One possibility is postpartum psychosis,” Zack said.
Remembering Zack’s account of the woman who threw her baby from the bridge, my throat tightened, but Delia was cool. “I’ve had a couple of those cases,” she said. “According to my reading, the onset of the disorder is usually quite soon after birth. Jacob is six months old, and the woman who wrote that e-mail didn’t sound as if she was suffering from anything. She was absolutely lucid.”
“But she wasn’t lucid yesterday when she gave her baby to Isobel and said the child belonged with you,” Zack said. “Whatever’s going on, Dee, time is not our friend. The sooner you talk to the cops, the better. If anything happens to Abby Michaels because we screwed up, neither of us is going to be happy.”
Delia inhaled deeply and blew a smoke ring. “Okay, call your friend the Inspector – and tell her I’m Abby Michaels’s birth mother, and I want Jacob with me until they find her.”
Zack shot her a hard look. “You’re sure about
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