Chapter 5: The Woman Who Arranged My Adoption
By Monday morning, I had stopped sleeping properly.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the photograph of Patricia Cole standing behind my parents outside the hospital.
Then I saw the message.
You don't know what your parents agreed to.
I kept wondering whether the sender was trying to frighten us away from a lie or warn us about a truth.
At breakfast, Dad examined the phone number.
He called it.
The call went directly to a recording saying the number was unavailable.
He tried again from his office phone.
Nothing.
“Could it have been someone at the hospital?”” I asked.
“Possibly,” he said.
“Or Dr. Harris?””
Dad looked at me.
“I don't know.””
“Or Patricia Cole?””
He put the phone down.
“Jordan, we need to be careful about accusing people.””
I almost laughed.
The irony was unbearable.
For seventeen years, everyone had been careful about what they said.
Now we were being warned to remain careful about what we discovered.
I decided to search for Patricia Cole myself.
Her name appeared in an old adoption-agency brochure Dad found in his filing cabinet.
The agency had closed several years earlier.
But the brochure listed a mailing address and a telephone number.
The number no longer worked.
The address led to an office building that had been converted into apartments.
I showed Maya the brochure after school.
She read it twice.
“There's a photograph of her,” she said.
Patricia stood beside a smiling couple and a young child.
She wore the same dark, professional expression as the woman in our adoption-day photograph.
Beneath the picture was a quotation about the importance of placing children in loving homes.
Maya stared at it.
“My mother trusted people like her.””
I sat beside Maya at the small table in her aunt's apartment.
“Did Renee ever mention Patricia by name?””
“Not in the letter.””
“What about her other papers?””
Maya went to a cabinet in the living room and returned with a box.
Inside were old photographs, hospital bills, handwritten notes, and documents her mother had kept over the years.
We spread them across the table.
Most of the papers were ordinary.
Receipts.
Insurance statements.
School forms.
Then Maya found a small notebook with a faded blue cover.
“This was hers,” she said.
She turned the pages carefully.
The handwriting was familiar from the letter.
Several pages contained dates and names.
One entry read:
*March 14 — Called Harris again. He says the records speak for themselves. Which records? He refuses to explain.*
Another said:
*April 2 — Asked about the adoption agency. The woman who handled everything was Patricia Cole. Nobody will tell me how she was connected to the hospital.*
Maya stopped turning the pages.
“She knew about Patricia.””
I leaned closer.
There were more entries.
*June 19 — Harris says I should stop searching. Says I need to think about my daughter's future. Why would finding my son hurt my daughter?*
Maya covered her mouth.
Her mother had been asking the same questions we were asking now.
And she'd been asking them for years.
We kept reading.
Near the end of the notebook, Renee had written a sentence that made my stomach tighten.
*Patricia says the adoption was legal. She says the Mitchells were given a healthy baby and the matter is closed. She refuses to tell me who signed the release.*
I looked at Maya.
“Your mother spoke to Patricia?””
“Apparently.””
“When?””
Maya checked the dates.
“About eight years ago.””
“Did she write down where they met?””
She searched the next page.
There it was.
A street address in Atlanta.
Beneath it, Renee had written:
*She agreed to meet me at the old records office. She brought a copy of the form. She said there was a second signature, but it was never meant for me to see it.*
I read the sentence again.
“What does that mean?””
“I don't know.””
Maya flipped to the next page.
The entry ended abruptly.
There was no explanation.
No additional name.
Only a phone number written in the margin.
The final four digits had been crossed out.
We called the number anyway.
A recorded message announced that the number was no longer in service.
Maya stared at the notebook.
“My mother was so close.””
I reached for her hand.
“Maybe she found out something she couldn't write down.””
“Or maybe someone stopped her.””
Neither possibility offered comfort.
That afternoon, Dad contacted the attorney he had mentioned.
His name was Robert Lawson, a family lawyer who had helped my parents prepare their wills several years earlier.
We met him in his office the following day.
He listened carefully while Dad explained the adoption, the hospital records, and the identity discrepancy review.
When Dad finished, Mr. Lawson removed his glasses.
“I need to ask you something,” he said.
Dad nodded.
“Did you ever receive an independent copy of the adoption order?””
“We received documents from the agency,” Dad replied.
“That's not what I asked. Did you obtain the order directly from the court?””
Dad looked at Mom.
She shook her head.
“No,” he said.
Mr. Lawson made a note.
“Did you have independent legal representation when you signed the adoption papers?””
“No. Patricia said the agency would handle everything.””
The lawyer sat back.
“That concerns me.””
Mom's voice trembled.
“Are you saying we did something illegal?””
“I'm saying we need to review the actual court record before drawing conclusions.””
He asked for every document my parents had.
Dad provided the folder.
Mr. Lawson examined the papers one at a time.
The application.
The agency correspondence.
The consent forms.
The final adoption certificate.
He stopped at the last document.
“This is unusual.””
“What?”” Dad asked.
“The certificate references a judicial order, but the order itself isn't attached.””
“Could it have been filed separately?”” Mom asked.
“Yes. That's possible.””
He turned the page.
“But this copy doesn't contain the court's certification stamp.””
Dad leaned forward.
“Does that mean the adoption wasn't legal?””
“Not necessarily. It means this copy alone doesn't establish that the order was properly entered.””
I felt my heart begin to pound.
“So what do we do?””
“We request the official court file.””
Maya placed Renee's hospital form on his desk.
“And this?””
Mr. Lawson studied the two signatures.
His expression became more serious.
“Where did you get this?””
“From my mother's papers.””
He examined the code in the corner.
“ID-17B.””
“Do you know what it means?”” I asked.
“Not yet. But if this document is authentic, it may be important.””
Maya pointed to Patricia's name.
“She arranged Jordan's adoption.””
The lawyer nodded slowly.
“Then we need to determine whether she was acting in an administrative capacity, whether she had authorization from the birth mother, and why she was involved in a hospital identity review.””
Dad looked ill.
“Can you find her?””
“I can try.””
Before we left, Mr. Lawson asked us to send him the threatening messages.
He also advised us not to confront anyone else until he had reviewed the records.
For the first time since the discovery, I felt as though someone was taking us seriously.
But that feeling lasted less than a day.
On Wednesday afternoon, Maya called me from her aunt's apartment.
“I found something.””
Her voice was so urgent that I grabbed my backpack and left before my mother could ask where I was going.
When I arrived, Maya had the blue notebook open on the table.
Beside it lay a folded sheet of paper that hadn't been in the box when we searched it the first time.
“Where did you find that?”” I asked.
“Inside the back cover. It was stuck between the cardboard and the lining.””
She handed it to me.
The paper contained a typed list of names.
Three nurses.
One hospital administrator.
Dr. Elliot Harris.
Patricia Cole.
And a final entry that had been circled in red ink.
*Authorization for release: D. Mitchell.*
I stared at the name.
“David Mitchell?””
Maya nodded.
“My mother wrote a question beside it.””
She turned the paper around.
In Renee's handwriting were six words.
*Why did the father sign twice?*
For several seconds, I couldn't breathe.
“My dad wasn't my biological father,” I said.
“He was the adoptive father.””
“Unless the signature wasn't what we think it was.””
I looked at her.
“What else could it mean?””
Maya shook her head.
“I don't know. But this list was hidden in my mother's notebook. She thought it mattered.””
I examined the paper.
The typed names were arranged in columns.
One column was labeled Initial authorization.
The other was labeled Final release.
Dr. Harris appeared under the first.
Patricia Cole appeared under both.
And David Mitchell's name was listed under the final release column.
Beside it were two dates.
The first was the day before I was born.
The second was three days afterward.
I checked them again.
My father had supposedly met Patricia after the hospital contacted him about adopting a newborn.
But this document suggested that someone bearing his name had authorized a release before I was born.
And signed again after the birth.
I called Dad.
He answered immediately.
“Jordan? What's wrong?””
I looked at Maya.
Then I read him the names and dates.
He didn't interrupt.
When I finished, he was silent for so long that I thought the call had dropped.
“Dad?””
His voice came back, quieter than before.
“I need you to send me a photograph of that page.””
“Do you recognize it?””
“I need to see it first.””
I sent the picture.
A minute passed.
Then another.
Finally, my phone rang.
Dad's voice sounded strained.
“Jordan, listen to me. I never signed anything before you were born.””
“Then why is your name on the list?””
“I don't know.””
“Did you sign anything three days after I was born?””
“Yes. Patricia brought papers to our house.””
“What papers?””
“She said they were routine confirmation documents.””
“Did you read them?””
“I read what she told me to read.””
The answer chilled me.
Dad had trusted Patricia enough to sign legal documents without independently verifying them.
But that still didn't explain the first date.
“Dad, someone signed your name the day before I was born.””
“I know what the page says.””
“Could someone have forged it?””
“I don't know.””
He paused.
Then he asked a question I hadn't expected.
“Did the page identify the person who witnessed the first signature?””
Maya and I looked at the document.
There was a small notation beneath the first date.
A witness's initials.
E.H.
Dr. Elliot Harris.
I read them aloud.
Dad didn't say anything.
Then, in a voice that sounded almost unfamiliar, he said, “Don't let anyone else see that page.””
The call ended.
Maya stared at me.
“Why would he say that?””
I looked at the hidden document.
May you like
Because he was afraid, I thought.
But I couldn't tell whether he was afraid of what someone had done to us or what we might discover about him.
