Innocent (3 page)

It had hardly come to a stop when the doors opened and two conductors jumped off. Almost instantly, passengers followed. They were greeted with handshakes and hugs by the people waiting for them. All along the platform, other people were saying their last goodbyes. Hugs were often accompanied by tears.

I was so alone. Nobody was here to shed a tear when I left. I’d said my goodbyes to everybody, and now there was nobody here to see me off. There was nobody and nothing for me here. It was time to leave. I opened my purse, pulled out the ticket Joe had bought earlier in the day and walked over to one of the conductors. I handed him my ticket.

“Kingston,” he said. He punched the ticket and handed it back to me.

“Thank you.”

“Do you need help with your baggage?”

“No, thank you. This is all I have.”

He offered me his hand to help me up the steps, and I entered the car. I saw a pair of empty seats and settled into the seat by the window, tucking my suitcase underneath me.

I looked out at the passengers being greeted with joy. Nobody would be on the Kingston platform to greet me that way. Nobody had been here at the end to say goodbye to me—not Toni, not Mrs. Hazelton, not even Joe.

The conductor blew his whistle and climbed back onto the train, disappearing from my view. The train clunked and started to move forward. And then I saw him—Joe, standing at the end of the platform. He had a smile on his face. I caught his eye, and he gave a big wave. I waved back and laughed, and he laughed too. As the train picked up speed, we passed him, leaving the platform behind. I went to spin around, to catch one last glimpse, but I stopped myself. I wasn’t going to struggle to hold on to what was gone. Who knew when or under what circumstances I might see Joe or Toni or Mrs. Hazelton? It could be in a few months or in a few years or longer. It could be by myself or with a husband—perhaps even with children. I could be on this same train or looking through the windshield of a bus or even in a fine car driven by my husband. I didn’t know anything for certain, but I knew it would be good, and I wouldn’t be wearing another woman’s clothes.

Right now I needed to look forward, into my future. But before I could do that, I needed to look deeper into my past.

I NIBBLED ON
the sandwich Joe had made for me. The last thing he’d ever make for me. The last piece of home. I saved one little corner. It wasn’t just that I might be hungry later, but also that as long as I had that little slice, I still had something from home. I rewrapped it in its wax paper and put it back into my purse, nestled in beside the brown envelope—
the
envelope. It stared up as if it had eyes and breath and life. Well, it did have one life—mine—inside it.

I’d now exhausted all the possible excuses I’d put in the way of what I had to do. I’d eaten, looked out the window, even tried unsuccessfully to sleep and then, equally unsuccessfully, to write a letter to Toni. Now there was nothing left in the way. I didn’t know why I was still so afraid of it. It wasn’t as if it contained anything I already didn’t know about.

I looked all around, as if ashamed to have somebody see me look in the envelope, as if any of my few fellow passengers knew what it contained.

Slowly I removed the envelope from my purse. I let it sit on my lap, my fingers running along the edge. Once more I glanced around. An older woman seated across the aisle gave me a small smile, which I returned.

“Beautiful view,” the woman said. I was a little startled.

“Yes, it is, ma’am.”

“Where are you off to?”

“Kingston.”

“I’m visiting my daughter and my grandchildren in Montreal,” she said. “What takes you to Kingston?”

“I’m going for work.”

She looked confused. “You don’t seem old enough to work.”

“I’m older than I look.”

“Unfortunately, I’m as old as I look.” She laughed, and I laughed along. It felt good.

“My daughter and her husband just moved to Montreal. It’s where I was born.”

“I was born in Kingston,” I said.

It was strange to hear those words out loud. I’d never said them to anybody except Joe. Until earlier today, I hadn’t known where I was born. I’d just assumed it was right around Hope. It would have been better if I’d known all along. I wouldn’t have wondered if my mother was somebody I passed in the streets of Hope. And I would have known there was no way I was ever going to see her anywhere.

“Kingston is a lovely town,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy there.”

“I’m sure I will.”

I offered the woman another little smile and glanced down at the envelope. My last excuse was gone, and now my uneasy feelings came to the surface. This was silly. It wasn’t like I didn’t know what was in there. I’d already looked at each slip of paper, read them over a few times, but still, it was so unreal. I hoped by reading them again they’d become more real. In this envelope was my history, my background. Maybe looking back was the way forward—that’s what Mrs. Hazelton had said—but how could any of this information help me move anywhere?

I started with the smallest piece of paper. It was tattered and faded blue.

Certificate of Birth
Name: Elizabeth Anne Roberts
Date of Birth: Dec. 24, 1946
Sex: F
Place of Birth: Kingston, Ontario
Registration: Jan. 14, 1947

I ran my fingers along the words and numbers. There weren’t many, but they were everything I needed to know, everything I
was
.

Elizabeth Anne Roberts. I’d always liked the name Elizabeth—it was regal.
Queen
Elizabeth. How much more regal could you be than the Queen of England? But it wasn’t me. I was just Betty, plain Betty, Betty Shirley, the person I’d been my entire life. Well, not exactly my whole life, but the life I’d known since I was almost four, since I’d come to live at the orphanage, since the time that…I turned to the next two papers.

They were large, faded, yellow with age and delicate to the touch. They had been clipped from the front page of the
Kingston Whig-Standard
newspaper. The first was dated September 11, 1950. The headline was right below the title of the paper. In big bold capital letters, the words practically jumped off the page.

MURDER IN KINGSTON

I read the headline two more times before I read the text, somehow hoping that this time it would say something different.

KINGSTON—Police officers responding to a routine domestic assault in a house in the Inner Harbour District were shocked to discover the body of Kingston resident Victoria Roberts. Along with the body they discovered the woman’s three-year-old daughter, covered in her mother’s blood and clinging to her mother, who had suffered obvious head wounds. The grisly discovery was made in the backyard of the house where the victim resided with her daughter, at the corner of Charles and Montreal. Ambulance services were also dispatched, but Miss Roberts was declared dead on the scene. A twenty-year-old unmarried mother, Miss Roberts was a long-time Kingston resident who had no known relatives, her parents having predeceased her in a car accident.

Police report that there have been previous calls to this address for similar reasons, and an officer reported that he felt it was “just a matter of time until something happens.” The police are seeking a person of interest, Mr. Gordon Sullivan, the boyfriend of the victim. He is described as standing in excess of six feet three inches and weighing over 250 pounds and is well known to the police. Anyone knowing of his whereabouts is requested to contact the police and not to approach, as he is considered dangerous.

The child, Elizabeth Anne, suffered no injuries. The investigating detectives and a matron from social services who interviewed the girl believe she did not actually witness the murder of her mother. She has been taken into protective services awaiting further exploration to find suitable family members.

The report continued on another page—a page that wasn’t included in my package.

No matter how many times I read the article, it didn’t seem real. I felt so sad for that poor child and had to remind myself that
I
was that poor child. I was Elizabeth Anne—that was who I was. I was that little girl, almost four years old, who had clung to the body of her mother in the backyard of her house. I couldn’t remember the house. I couldn’t remember my mother. I couldn’t remember the scene. If it wasn’t for the birth certificate, if it wasn’t for Mrs. Hazelton swearing that it was me, I wouldn’t have believed it.

There was one other newspaper clipping, taken from the front page of the same paper three months later. The headline was equally bold and just as troubling.

MAN CONVICTED OF MURDER

I started to read it again but skipped over the first few paragraphs. I’d gone over it a dozen times as well and didn’t need to know anything more about the trial. I scanned down the page.

Mr. Sullivan, the on-again, off-again boyfriend of the victim, Miss Victoria Roberts, is also the father of the child, Elizabeth Anne Roberts, age three. In a fit of rage and passion, Mr. Sullivan—who has previous convictions for assault—took the life of Miss Roberts and robbed young Elizabeth Anne of both her mother and her father.

Throughout the trial, Mr. Sullivan maintained his innocence, even taking the stand in his own defense and pleading his innocence to the jury. The presiding judge, the Honorable Mr. Justice Stern, said that while the witness was highly credible in arguing his innocence, under cross-examination Mr. Sullivan was not able to provide a suitable explanation for why the murder weapon—a hammer—was found hidden in a closet in his residence. Mr. Sullivan claimed that he was “framed” but was unable to provide either an explanation of who might have done this or names of any other possible suspects who would have had motive to take Miss Roberts’s life.

In addressing the court and jury after hearing the guilty verdict, Mr. Sullivan again maintained his innocence and offered the jury his “forgiveness” for convicting an innocent man and depriving his daughter of the care of her remaining parent.

I felt like my heart had turned to stone. That was me. I was the daughter.

In handing down his sentence, Justice Stern indicated that he felt the murder was a “crime of passion” and not premeditated. He therefore endorsed a verdict of second-degree murder, sparing Mr. Sullivan from the death penalty. However, due to the “cowardly” nature of the attack and the unwillingness of the accused to accept responsibility, the judge sentenced him to the maximum allowable time—25 years—with a strong recommendation that he not be eligible for parole and instead serve his entire sentence.

I felt my breath catch in my throat, and tears started to come to my eyes. I brushed them away with the back of my hand. I went to put the clipping down on my lap and then thought better of it. I put it back in the envelope, out of sight.

Growing up, I’d had the same two dreams, the same two fantasies, that every other orphan—at least, the ones I knew—seemed to have: that someday I’d be adopted, or that one day my
real
mother would walk in and take me away. The two fantasies would ebb and flow, fade and grow. As one got stronger, the other faded.

When I was young, there were always thoughts, whispers, in the back of my head: today could be the day I’d become part of a family. The thoughts were still there when I went to bed at night, and I’d offer them as a prayer. I remembered lying in bed, whispering with Toni in the dark about the families we dreamed about. How we thought it was only going to be a matter of time until it happened. After all, some of the children got adopted. We ignored the fact that they were almost always babies or at least kids who were much younger than we were.

Some of our discussions were about the house we’d live in with our new families. Maybe we wouldn’t have to share a room, maybe we’d have more clothing—
new
clothing—or even a dog. It was our dream to become part of a family, to belong somewhere, to finally be wanted by somebody, even if we hadn’t been wanted by our mothers or fathers.

Sometimes Toni and I talked about one family adopting the two of us. Even if the family only wanted one child, we’d say they had to take us both or they couldn’t have either of us. I don’t know if Toni really would have gone through with it—or if I would have either—but it made us feel better. Not only would we have parents and a home, but also we’d be sisters. But would a true sister have gone away without saying goodbye? I couldn’t let myself think like that. Even if I couldn’t hold on to Toni, I needed to hang on to the memory of our friendship. After all, what else did I have?

My second fantasy was just as strong. Someday the door would open and, instead of an adoptive parent, my real mother or father would walk in, claim me and take me back to my real family and real home. And there would have been a
really good
reason why they had given me up. I’d be reunited with my brothers and sisters, and our house would be beautiful, and my mother would be ever so kind.

Maybe my mother was royalty and there had been a plot against the throne. To protect me, my parents had sent me away, and now the situation had been resolved. I’d forgive them and we’d all live happily ever after.

As we got older the fantasies and dreams came less often, because the reality became stronger. There was only going to be ebb and no flow, fade and no grow. I didn’t remember when the fantasies stopped completely, but they did. Nobody was going to adopt me and nobody was going to rescue me. I came to accept that. Still, in some little corner of my mind, there had been a little slice of hope.

Until I read those articles.

My mother was dead. She wasn’t coming back. I’d never pass her on the street, not knowing who she was. We’d never meet by chance and discover our connection; we’d never embrace and live our futures intertwined. We’d share no past and have no future. Now, finally, that last glimmer of hope had been taken away, killed this very day when I found out that my mother had been killed—had been murdered.

I felt confused. I needed to think. No, I needed
not
to think. I needed to sleep. I shut my eyes tightly and placed a hand against them to block out the light. I’d try to sleep. I just hoped I wouldn’t dream.