The Figgs, page 18
Randy pulled into the gravel lot of the fuck park. There was no sign of Marissa or Jaxx. A lone duck waddled past the playground equipment and down the bank toward the river.
“I don’t see any Furries.” Vanessa flipped the vanity mirror closed.
“He’s home!” Derek announced, leaning forward in his seat, eyes fixed to the screen of his iPhone. “Tom just texted.”
“Where did she take him?” June asked.
“He didn’t say. Only Marissa just brought Jaxx.”
June told Randy to drive. No one expected Marissa to still be there when they returned to the house, but she and Tom were sitting on the back deck with Jaxx between them, facing the sun in his bouncy chair. It took several seconds for the Figgs to make like things were cool and casual, and not as though they’d returned from a failed neighbourhood search. Marissa ate blue ice cream from a waffle cone.
“Hey,” Marissa said, between licks. “Sorry, my phone died.” She held up the black screen of her Samsung. “I didn’t think we’d be gone so long, but I had a craving for ice cream.”
June twitched upon noticing that Jaxx appeared to have been given a taste. She fiddled with her shoe so she could continue to eavesdrop, but Randy nudged her to go in the house. Derek picked up Jaxx from his chair and held him close before taking a seat across from Marissa. June had wanted to do the same thing. She wanted to pick him up and hide him in the closet where she could keep tabs on him, but instead she took Randy’s outstretched hand and followed him into the house. Vanessa went to her room.
“I wanted to hear what she had to say,” June said, safely behind closed doors.
“What’s there to hear?” Randy opened the fridge. “They went for ice cream.”
“But what if that was a lie? What if she had planned to abduct him and it didn’t work out. Like it was a practice run.” She thought of the 9/11 terrorists. “Did you know James Woods was on a test-flight with some of the hijackers a month before the 9/11 attacks?”
“Who’s James Woods?”
“A famous actor.”
“How did he know they were terrorists?”
“Because they were acting weird on the flight.”
“But Marissa isn’t acting weird or suspicious.”
“Not to us, maybe, but we don’t know her very well.” June put a tea biscuit in the microwave.
“Make me one too,” Randy said. “I think you’re overreacting. Maybe we need to trust Derek on this one. She doesn’t seem at all like she wants to be a mother. Derek showed more interest in caring for his Sea-Monkeys than Marissa does for Jaxx.”
June watched the pair of tea biscuits go around in the microwave.
“Do you want help?” Randy asked. “Getting the boxes?”
“Yes, please.” June removed the tea biscuits and carried them to the basement.
Randy hauled one of Margaret’s boxes down from a stack and set it at June’s feet.
“I don’t even know what I’m looking for.” She kneeled on the floor in front of the box and removed the lid.
“What are you doing?” Vanessa asked. She stood at the bottom of the stairs with a lollipop jammed in her mouth.
“I’m going through your grandma’s stuff.” June pulled out a stack of bank statements. “See if I can find any information on my adoption.”
Vanessa twisted the stick of the lollipop and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the second box Randy had retrieved.
“That good for now?” Randy put a hand on June’s shoulder.
“Yup,” she said, without looking up, the stack of bank statements sliding off her lap.
Randy finished his tea biscuit. “You okay if I go work on the table?”
“Sure.”
He patted her shoulder again. “Let me know if you find something.”
Tom arrived minutes later with a load of laundry.
“Is Marissa still up there?” June asked.
“No, she left.” He stuffed an armful of jeans into the washing machine and looked at the boxes lined up on the floor. “Are those Grandma’s?”
“They are,” June replied.
Tom bent over a box and pulled out a tiny copper bell. “I used to love this bell!”
Vanessa took the sucker out of her mouth. “What in the hell for?”
“Grandma used to ring it every time I cleaned up without her asking.”
“I don’t remember that.” Vanessa pulled out a bag of coupons.
June rifled through more bank papers. “Why does that not surprise me?”
Tom took the lid off the remaining box. “What exactly are we looking for?”
“Mom’s adoption papers.”
“What do they look like?”
“I’m not sure, so you have go through every item piece by piece.”
Tom removed a pile. “These are mostly greeting cards,” he said, leafing through.
“Doesn’t matter.” June flipped through a cookbook. “Open every one of them just in case.”
June returned her focus to the pile mounting on either side of her knees. So far she had turned up nothing official or important. An hour passed, and her neck ached from leaning forward. Vanessa had finished her box and gone upstairs, leaving the contents on the floor. June found sealed envelopes twice, but the first contained pressed flowers, and the second produced a handful of flattened one- and two-dollar bills.
Tom held up a glossy travel brochure with the Great Wall on the cover. “I never knew Grandma went to China.”
“She didn’t.”
He flipped through the first few pages, which were marked with asterisks and handwritten notes. “Why not?”
“Grandpa died.” June held up a tiny lamb figurine. Both of the ears were chipped.
Tom heaved himself up from the floor. “No adoption papers in this one,” he said, nudging a box with his toe. “What do you want me to do with all of this stuff?”
“Just throw it back in,” June waved, reaching for another stack of papers.
Tom set a few items aside and refilled the box. “I’m outta here.”
“Thanks for your help,” she replied without looking up.
Toward the bottom of the box, June pulled out a leather-bound book. It had belonged to her father. It was full of sketches of fences and floor plans. Lines and arrows and measurements all labelled with tiny perfect numbers in black ink. About a third of the way through, between the blueprints of a doghouse and a tree house, there was another envelope. Manila, unsealed. The papers. Her birthdate, her name. Her place of birth. Hereby, thereby, whereby. So many words and lines. Everything punctuated, official, stamped. Everything but her mother’s name. It was blacked out. Blindfolded.
“Of course,” she sighed. “This is how it would play out.” She exhaled with frustration. With sorrow. And then she folded the paper, once, and then twice. It was during that second fold. Her father’s same perfect handwriting appeared on the reverse side of her adoption record. Her mother’s name. Two words. They were upside down. In block letters, fixed at a slight angle as though they’d been blown to the right. DORIS CHANEY.
“Randy!” June scrambled to her feet and raced to the computer. The heavy monitor creaked when she banged into the desk. “What was the name of the site that had my birth mom on it?”
Randy appeared at his workshop door with safety goggles strapped tight to his face. “I’m not sure,” he said. “The kids were searching on Vanessa’s laptop. Did you find something?”
“Doris Chaney,” she replied. She was breathing heavily the way she did when she swam in deep water. Doris Chaney. She repeated the name several times in her head.
“Just type in Doris Chaney and see what happens.”
June entered her birth mother’s name slowly and methodically as though she were entering the numbers of a Lotto 649 ticket. A number of Doris Chaneys responded. LinkedIn counted twelve of them. Facebook another thirteen. A row of Doris Chaney images also spread across the screen like a filmstrip. All of them looked between sixty and seventy.
“Click on her!” Randy said, behind her shoulder.
June brought up all of the Google images of Doris Chaney. “This is confusing,” she commented. “There’s no information.”
“There’s not supposed to be. Google images are just that — images. But maybe you’ll see someone who looks like you.”
She considered the possibility of someone other than Derek looking like her. She remembered the anticipation of meeting new relatives. Would there be a ginger among them? A waif? Someone with short arms? Heart-shaped ears? Pronounced kneecaps? She had one aunt who was fair and freckled and thin like she was, but June later learned she had a digestive disorder. She scrolled down the images. There was a Sears portrait-style picture of a nice-looking woman in her sixties, wearing a satiny green blouse and pearl earrings. A stone cottage with a broken wheelbarrow on the front walk. A mug shot in front of a Virginia Beach prison. Someone in her thirties jumping off a dock with her nose plugged. A family photo of a couple and four girls, with no indication of which one was Doris. A promotional photo of Annette Funicello. A picture of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. A black and white of a hairy-faced man-creature fondling a bow and arrow. A clown. “I don’t get this,” June said, frustrated. “I don’t see a single picture of my mom.”
“You don’t know that for certain,” Randy said. “Maybe you got your red hair from your dad.” He scrolled further down the page, passing a number of headshots. “Maybe that’s her,” he said, singling out a picture of a woman holding an apple, which was still attached to a tree. “Or her.” He smiled.
June stared at the image of the clown. She had an elongated forehead, exaggerated pink eyebrows, and a yellow wig with heavy fringe that reminded June of Betsey Johnson. She was making a sad face, presumably because the balloon she was holding on a stick had popped. Or maybe she was sad because she was channelling June’s disappointment that her mother appeared to be a wheelbarrow or a convict. She sat back in her chair, deflated.
“Why don’t you put in Fergus?” she suggested.
“I’ve done it before,” Randy said. “Wasn’t helpful.” He entered Fergus images into the search box and sat back for June to view the results. The collection was similarly random. A cartoon train with teeth, a model in a beige unitard with an orange afro covering her face, a plate of sweet potato fries, a map of an Ontario town, a middle-aged Asian woman holding a trombone.
“I think we need to go back to the adoption sites.” June’s enthusiasm had burst like the clown’s balloon. She thought of Birte and Earle becoming increasingly unified by their shared goal of owning property in Phoenix. She could see them scrunched up on their couch reviewing properties on Earle’s laptop, squealing and high-fiving at the prospect of a ground-level suite with a toaster oven and side-by-side laundry because Birte was too short for a stackable pair. June was envious. She and Randy were becoming closer in an AA sort of way. Bonding over weekly adoption meetings with store-bought tea biscuits in the basement. And when they weren’t searching for their birth families, they were searching for others. Marissa and Jaxx, or signs of pre-lesbian Vanessa. June often found herself thinking about pre-lesbian Vanessa, which seemed ridiculous because outwardly there were very few changes. It wasn’t like Vanessa had transitioned and was living as Vaughn Figg or Vincent Figg. In fact, lesbian Vanessa seemed nicer and less angry than pre-lesbian Vanessa. The letters LGBT popped out of newspapers and resounded from the radio. LGBT, KGB, BLT.
Randy pulled up an adoption site.
“Put in Doris Chaney,” June said.
“It’s my turn.” Randy entered the name Fergus. “I haven’t tried this site before.”
June thought of retirement ads on TV, in which couples her age took turns zip-lining or flying small planes, while she and Randy took turns searching for ghost mothers and sons. She felt like the old man who picked through the garbage bins at Tim Hortons for refundable bottles.
“They probably didn’t name him Fergus,” June said flatly.
“Then how can I find him?”
“You’re better off searching his birthdate and hospital.”
Randy’s shoulders slumped forward as though his entire body was pouting. “I’ve put the date in a million times. Nothing comes up.”
June considered the possibility that Fergus did not know he was adopted. Maybe he’d been placed with a family that looked like him or shared some of his tendencies. Or maybe the family had moved to Argentina or Boston, and there was just no way of searching. Randy went back to the top of the forum and entered June’s birth year. A hefty list of names and cities came up but nothing matching her summer birthdate.
“Let me do it,” she said. “We need to find the ARE YOU MY DAUGHTER? ad.” June typed the question into a yahoo search engine but it garnered a list of daughter quotes and no adoption records. “Why can’t I find it?”
“Beats me,” Randy said. “There are a hundred adoption sites. You’re better off going through each one and checking that way.” Randy pulled out a black science lab notebook from the desk drawer. Inside he’d created a log of websites he’d searched, the information he’d entered and the date. There were notes written in the margin with green felt pen. Most of them ended with question marks. He placed the book on June’s lap and excused himself. “I have to go work on the table.”
She touched his hand as he passed and then moved her chair forward so she could get closer to the screen. She ignored the book on her lap and typed in DORIS CHANEY but every Doris she clicked on lived in North Dakota or High River. They were the wrong age, wrong race, wrong look. Randy turned his workshop radio on low. She could hear the sound of wood being stacked, the same clapping sound she heard when the older neighbourhood trees blew into each other during a storm. It did not feel like Mother’s Day. She felt childish and weak and nothing like the mother of three adult children. She put Randy’s adoption logbook back in the drawer and pulled out a Ziploc bag of stale brazil nuts, which she ate anyway.
The computer went into sleep mode. June closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. She tried to visualize the website. ARE YOU MY DAUGHTER? It was written in white block letters, the background blue. Something .net. She leaned forward and struck the keys on the keyboard, waking the computer. She typed in “find my adopted daughter Grace Hospital June.” The phrase ARE YOU MY DAUGHTER? popped up in the body of the second site listed in the search results. June clicked on it six times. A blue screen appeared. It was the correct site. She scrolled madly up and down the page. Where was ARE YOU MY DAUGHTER? She plugged in her birthdate.
Randy started cutting wood in the workshop. The sounds were awful. Screeching and grinding. Slaughterhouse pigs. Dental work. She thought she might have a heart attack. She stared at the screen until the block letters appeared. ARE YOU MY DAUGHTER?
June clicked on the word DAUGHTER. She scanned the paragraph — football, cheddar, blue hand, Wanda. She clicked on the reply button but a window opened instructing her to register. She lifted herself off her chair and dropped back down again. Why do I need to register, you idiot? She couldn’t remember her email.
“Randy, what’s our email address?” she hollered, though she knew her question fell on covered ears. She went to their Gmail account. If she entered the correct letter the address and password should show up. Was it RANDYJUNE or JUNERANDY? Was there a number in there somewhere? An asterisk? When she typed “R”, Gmail completed the email. RANDYJUNE82. What was the significance of the 82? Random, or Fergus’s birth year? One new message. June saw the sender before she read the subject line. Glenda Mitten. June nearly swallowed her tongue.
Glenda Mitten. Glenda the long-haired child-maker Mitten. Randy’s machines continued to chomp and smash in the background. Was he cutting metal? Crashing cars? She yelled, “Shut up!” even though she couldn’t hear the words leave her mouth. Subject line: CHARLES FERGUS ZACHARELLIS. She said it aloud. “Charles Fergus Zacharellis.” Charles. Charlie. Charles Zacharellis. She thought of Chaplin and Darwin and Machiavelli. Macaroni. Marconi. She cried with glee. It was not only Mother’s Day. It was Father’s Day. “Randy!” she hollered. “You are the father!” She laughed with holy hysteria the way they did in Texan Pentecostal churches. She wiped tears of joy from her face, the laughter reduced to a few elongated ha has. The sounds from the workshop remained obnoxious and productive as she opened the email. There was nothing in the body, just an attachment. Would he look like him? she wondered. Maybe he’ll look like Derek or Tom. Jaxx! She opened the attachment. Fergus’s obituary took up the entire page.
The noise in Randy’s workshop ceased, with the exception of his radio, which was playing something quiet. She could make out a harmonica. She tried to close the screen in front of her, but her hands fumbled as though the mouse was electrically charged. In a panic she pulled off her sweatshirt and draped it over the monitor like a drop cloth. She placed her elbows on the desk, her hands together, poised for prayer. “What do I do?” she whispered. She got up from her chair and walked down the hall, hands braced against the wood panelling for support. Randy was bent over a can of nails, one finger fishing through it. Table legs were scattered on the floor below. He did not see her. He picked out several nails and sang bits of Paul Simon’s “Graceland,” while the radio issued an extreme weather warning for communities south of Calgary. Hail in May. She backed out of the room undetected, knees buckling, arms over her head like the sky was falling and returned to the computer. She lifted her sweatshirt off the screen, scrunched it into a ball, and hit a few random keys. The obituary resurfaced.
ZACHARELLIS, CHARLES FERGUS: The family of Charles Fergus Zacharellis, 22, of Red Deer announces his sad and sudden passing on July 13, 2004, as the result of a motor vehicle accident. “Charlie” was born April 11, 1982, in Calgary, Alberta. He was the loving son of Frank and Laura Zacharellis. Charlie was an all-star pitcher for the Red Deer Riggers and garnered national attention for pitching both a perfect game and a no-hitter in one season. When he was not on the pitcher’s mound, Charlie could be found playing with his border collie, Bruce, hanging out with friends, or building things in the garage. A graduate from Lindsay Thurber High School, Charlie was enrolled in the forestry program at Red Deer College; he wanted to become a forest technician in Alberta’s north. He was known for his unwavering optimism and million-dollar smile. He was a kind and compassionate young man who loved working with his hands and helping others. He is survived by his parents, Frank and Laura Zacharellis (Luntz), maternal grandmother, Dorothy Luntz, and many aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends. He was predeceased by his paternal grandparents, Frank and Libby Zacharellis, and maternal grandfather, Eugene Luntz. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Red Deer Minor Baseball CHARLES ZACHARELLIS Memorial Scholarship Fund or the SPCA. Viewing will be held Friday, July 16 at 7pm at Parkland Funeral Home. Burial will be held at 1pm Saturday at the Red Deer Cemetery.
