In Scientia, page 12
“He asked about my grandparents,” I said.
“How sweet,” she joked.
“No,” I thought out loud. “He asked about my mom’s parents completely out of nowhere. It was bizarre.”
“The guy sounds a little bizarre. Maybe… like I keep saying… you’re better off?”
I knew she was right. Logically. But I didn’t want to accept it. Not just because I liked him, but because none of it made any sense, and I desperately needed it to.
We got home around eleven, and I lay in bed, wide-awake, until after two the next morning. My inner voice spiraled out of control, its volume so deafening that by three, frustration forced me out of bed, and I reached for my laptop.
I’d already searched extensively for information about Max online, but what I hadn’t searched was myself. At least, not in a very long time.
I opened a browser.
‘What about your Mom’s parents?’ he’d asked. ‘Where are they?’
He didn’t ask if I still saw them, or why I didn’t talk about them. He asked where they were. It hadn’t felt significant at the time but, thinking back on it, something about it was off. Maybe it wasn’t even the words, but the way he said it.
I entered a search term I’d used a million times: Edith Edie Becker, June 4 1985.
My mother’s maiden name.
As soon as I figured out how to Google, I was typing in her name. I’d read everything there was to read about her, which unsurprisingly wasn’t much—she’d grown up in a different technological decade—but I’d never thoroughly searched for information about my maternal grandparents. I knew they’d died when my mom was a little girl, near her twelfth birthday. She’d been born at home in London, but the exact place I wasn’t sure of.
Finding nothing I hadn’t already seen, I changed the search to: Ernest and Irene Becker, London.
I’d seen their death certificates before, when I had to do a family tree in the fourth grade, but that was about it. I pulled up their records on The General Register Office of Great Britain’s website:
E. Becker, married to A. Becker, died of natural causes on the 14th day of March, 1996. A. Becker, widow of E. Becker, died 6 December 1996.
That was pretty much the extent of the information I knew about them. I clicked through a few more results before stumbling onto something I’d never seen. E Becker’s obituary:
Ernest Becker passed away at his home in Harrogate on Saturday, March 14. Much loved by his wife Irene, family and friends. Private cremation.
I highlighted the word ‘family.’ Why wouldn’t the notice mention his only child, his daughter? I changed the search terms: “Irene Becker” obituary “Ernest Becker 1996”.
It was the second result on Google.
Irene Becker, beloved wife of the late Ernest Becker, died peacefully on 6th December 1996. In lieu of flowers, donations to St Michael’s Hospice.
Again, no mention of a daughter, or any children for that matter. I tried: “Ernest Becker” “Irene Becker” Harrogate daughter.
Nothing related came up, so I removed the quotation marks and put: Ernest Irene Edith Becker death.
Only my parents’ obituary came up:
Paul James Nelson and Edith Nelson, nee Becker, died February 16, 2006. Beloved son of Raymond and Annie Nelson, beloved daughter of the late Ernest and Irene Becker. They leave behind their only child, Eva.
I couldn’t figure it out. I lay on my bed running through (and ruling out) potential reasons why my grandparents’ obituary wouldn’t mention my mom until it was early enough to call my grandparents. They were usually up by 5.30, but I waited until six just to be sure, climbing out onto the fire escape with my laptop and a blanket, so I wouldn’t wake Delilah.
Gran answered after the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Gran. Everything’s okay,” I said, before she had time to panic.
“Eva, hi.” I could tell she was caught off-guard. “Your granddad’s just gone out to the grocery. I can call you when he’s back?”
“It’s okay, I just had a quick question.”
“He’ll be sorry he missed you.”
“I’ve gotta get ready for class,” I lied. “This’ll just take a second.”
“Okay… what’s on your mind?”
“Mom’s parents?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Ernest and Irene Becker.”
“Mm hm.”
“Why wasn’t Mom listed in either of their obituaries?”
“What, dear?” Her voice was croaky, like she’d just woken up, which only made me feel more ridiculous for having called. Yet, I persisted.
“Neither of their obituaries mentioned my mom. Isn’t that strange?”
“Is it?” she asked.
“Yes. Usually it would say, survived by his wife and daughter, or she leaves behind her beloved daughter.”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “They were English, so they might do it differently over there.”
“It’s death. They do it the same everywhere.”
“If you say so,” she replied with a forced yawn that told me she was trying to end the conversation. Of all the topics, death was her least favorite.
“It doesn’t matter what I say; it’s what everyone else’s obituaries in the world say when someone dies and they have a living child.” I knew I was being hostile, but she was being avoidant, even more so than usual. I tried to rein it in. “I’m sorry. It’s just strange, is all.”
“It’s alright, my dear,” she said. “I know it’s hard for you.”
“It’s not hard for me,” I snapped, getting immediately agitated again. “I’m just tired of nothing ever making any sense.”
“Sometimes things don’t make sense, Eva,” she said, as though it were a battle she’d already fought. “And no matter what we do, nothing can change that. We just have to accept it and move on.”
“What if I don’t know how to move on?”
“Hush, now. You can do anything you put your mind to.”
“I just wish I knew more,” I said, trying to contain my frustration. “Sometimes I feel like part of me’s lost forever because I didn’t know her. And it’s just like… no matter what I do, I’m always going to be chasing after that.”
I let that hang in the air. After all, it was the truth, and I’d never said it out loud before.
She didn’t say a word.
“Gran, are you there?” I asked.
“Yes, dear. I’m here.”
“You have nothing else to say?”
She took a long breath, perhaps also trying to contain her frustration. “I wish there was more I could tell you—”
“Can you just have a think? There’s nothing else about her parents that you know? She never mentioned her mother’s maiden name, nothing?”
“You know everything I do, sweetheart.”
“Egg delivery!” my granddad exclaimed from the background.
“Ray, it’s Eva!” She called out, before returning her attention to me. “Though she did sign another name once.”
“What?” I asked, dumbfounded. “Seriously? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’d completely forgotten until you—”
“What was the name? Tell me you at least remember that?!”
“Eva, please don’t speak to me like—” Her voice was breaking, shattering my heart. But years’ worth of fury was working its way into my chest. How could she keep such a crucial piece of information from me?
“Do. You. Remember. Or—” My raised voice echoed off the buildings opposite Anderson. I was certain people in the dorm could hear me, but I didn’t care.
I heard my granddad enter the kitchen where I knew my gran was.
“Annie,” he said. She must have been crying. “Is everything—”
“Sinclair,” she uttered. “Like the gas station.”
“I can’t believe you kept this from me!” I exclaimed, feeling betrayed.
“She said it was a mistake. An old boyfriend’s last name.”
“What’s going on?” asked my Granddad, who sounded as though he was by her side.
I entered a new search in my laptop:
Edie Edith Sinclare born 1985 Deceased 2006
Google corrected me with Sinclair. I selected it.
“I’ve gotta go,” I said.
“Eva, hold on a minute,” my grandma asked.
“Honestly, Gran. I don’t really wanna hear anything you have to say right now.”
Numerous hits lit up my screen. I clicked on the images tab and was struck by a photograph of a couple holding a baby. The woman had fiery red hair with my mother’s cat-like eyes. The man was classically British, but with my mother’s high cheekbones.
My grandma whimpered, as my granddad took the phone.
“Eva, this is your grandfather,” he announced. “What’s going on here?”
“Not now, Gramps,” I said, then hung up on him. I was completely captivated by the photograph in front of me.
Thirteen
Damaged
I’d never seen pictures of my mother as a child, much less a baby, so it was hard to tell if it was her or not.
I clicked on the link and was taken to an archive of a newspaper article. Gem Heirs Welcome Daughter:
Atlantic Mining and Minerals Heir Terence Sinclair and his wife, Alida Sinclair-Dubois, welcome the arrival of their first child, Edith Sophia Sinclair.
I pulled up a new window, and searched: Edith Sinclair Terence Alida.
The vibrant red of the woman’s hair caught my eye immediately. I clicked on a thumbnail, which took me to another photograph. It was of the couple, slightly older, but not much, walking their daughter to school. She looked to be almost a teenager.
I got closer to the screen. Unable to stop staring.
It had to be her.
She had dark brown hair, the piercing blue eyes of a cat, and features that were almost too big for her face. I clicked on the link for the picture’s source, which took me to a news article that read: Classes Commence at Elite Public School.
I scrolled down until I found the picture and its caption:
Ernest and Alida Sinclair bid farewell to their daughter, Edith, 13, who begins class today at the Windsor School.
I clicked back to the previous page to see if I could find more. There weren’t any more photographs of them, just listings of articles about the gem and mineral company and its CEO Terence Sinclair, plus, a few equestrian news articles about Edith Sinclair’s wins at various European championships.
I typed in Terence Sinclair. Google stated:
Terence Sinclair is a British businessman, philanthropist and the chairman of The Atlantic Mining and Minerals Company. He is married to Alida Sinclair-Dubois, an heiress from France’s prominent Dubois family.
I clicked on the first news article: AtMin Stock Rises 80%; Is It Still Under Valued?
There was an image of Terence, now older—early 70s, dignified white hair, tailored suit. He was being interviewed on a cable news program about the company’s quarterly earnings. I clicked to return to the search, as I saw my phone light up.
It was my grandparents. I knew I shouldn’t have hung up on them, but I was too angry to say anything productive so I let it go to voicemail.
A news article farther down the page caught my eye.
Britain’s Priciest Home: Sinclairs Buy Neighboring House for £118m. The article from 2003 stated:
One of Europe’s richest families is set to own the most expensive house in Britain. Terence Sinclair and Alida Sinclair-Dubois, who already own a historic neo-Georgian mansion on London’s so-called Billionaire’s Boulevard, are expanding next door for £118m. Once completed, experts estimate that 22 Kensington Palace Gardens will be worth well over £200m.
I felt like I’d been hit by a tidal wave. Who were these people?
I had to know more.
I searched for their company, Atlantic Mining and Minerals.
They had operations in thirty-six countries but were headquartered in London. It was noon there and without hesitating, I dialed the switchboard number.
As the automated message played, “Hello and welcome to Atlantic Mining and Minerals. If you’d like to be connected to a dial by name directory, press one,” I tried to figure out what I was going to say.
“What are you doing, Eva?” I asked myself out loud.
I pressed the star key for an operator.
Immediately, I was connected with someone.
“Atlantic Mining and Minerals,” said a female voice.
“Hi. I… uh…”
A terrible idea came to me, and I typed London alarm companies in the search bar of my laptop.
“Hello?”
“I need to be connected with Terence Sinclair’s office.”
“Thank you. One moment,” said the voice.
Orchestral music played as I scrolled through the web results.
“Executive Office, Olivia speaking,” said a younger, more energetic voice than the last.
I flicked to a new browser page and typed Atlantic Mining and Minerals Olivia London. Nothing of note came up.
“This is Michelle, with Security Solutions International,” I lied. “I need to speak to a Mr. Terence Sinclair about his property at 22 Kensington Palace Gardens.”
“I’m afraid he’s in a meeting,” she answered automatically. “May I ask what it’s in regards to?”
That was as far as I’d gotten in my head. I had to freestyle.
“Uh… are you an authorized user?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Possibly.”
“I can’t give out any information unless you’re an authorized user on the account. Your full name?”
“Olivia. Mager,” she said.
I typed it into the search bar.
“M-a-g-e-r?” I asked, even though I was already looking at her LinkedIn profile:
Olivia Mager, Executive Assistant, Atlantic Mining and Minerals. One year, two months
“Yes,” she confirmed.
“Hmm. I can see here you were added to the system.” I had to try and do the math. “July of last year?”
“That would have been when I started,” she said.
“Okay, great,” I replied. “Can I have the four-digit number on the account?”
“I’m not sure what they would be. I can have someone call you back?” she said, sounding like I was losing her.
“Of course, only, I’d consider this information time sensitive.”
“May I put you on a brief hold?” she asked. “It will only take—”
I cut her off by pretending I was divulging information. “Between you and me, I’m the same. I can never remember any numbers. We can try it up to three times before it kicks us over to the security questions.”
“Okay, sure,” she said. “Try, seven four seven one.”
Rolling my eyes, I pretended to type.
“I’m afraid not. The system was set up by Mr. Sinclair himself, if that helps at all?” I said, pretending to be accommodating.
“Try, two zero one zero.”
According to Google, that was his wife’s date of birth. People are so predictable.
“Unfortunately, not. Would you like to try another?”
“Zero four zero six?” she added, sounding flustered.
It took me a second to realize, but it was a number I knew by heart. My mother’s date of birth. I almost threw my laptop off the fire escape in shock. It could be a coincidence. Or could it? I argued with myself while trying to remain present. “Unfortunately, not,” I said. “How about we try the security questions.” I had no idea if it was gonna work, but I figured the worst thing I could do was hang up and hope they didn’t use caller ID.
“You know it’s probably best if I transfer you to Ms. Akande, our—”
“Let’s start with the home address and phone number for the main account holder?”
“Oh, umm… it’s 22 Kensington Park Gardens and the number is zero two zero, seven nine three seven, six six eight three.”
Bingo, a direct line to the Sinclairs.
“Fantastic,” I said, pretending to type on my laptop. “I can see here that the system is showing a power outage, but I’ve actually just seen an alert pop up that we’ve contacted someone on the premises and an engineer is en route. We won’t need your help after all,” I said.
“Oh. Oh, well. Okay then.”
“Thank you for choosing Security Solutions International. Have a great day,” I said, hanging up before she had a chance to say goodbye.
I stared at the number in my notes, and without pausing to think or plan, I found myself entering it on the keypad of my phone.
It rang three times before a woman answered in an extremely over-pronounced British accent. “Sinclair Residence, how may I help you?”
“Edie Sinclair,” I said, without thinking.
There was a short pause before she responded in a flat tone: “Ms. Sinclair is deceased.”
I felt my world shake, just slightly. I knew she was dead, of course. The exhilaration of discovering new information had just made me forget for a second. Hope is a dangerous seed.
“I know,” I clarified. I’m writing an article on her—” The phone clicked. “Hello?” I pulled it away from my ear to check. She’d hung up.
I went to my call log and called the number again.
After three rings, the lady was back on the line. “Sinclair Residence. How may I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to someone about Edie Sinclair, if I—” She’d hung up again.
I dialed back immediately, adrenalin taking over my brain.
“Sinclair Residence. How—”
“You may help me by telling me about Edie Sinclair!” I yelled.
Another voice came on the phone. A friendlier one, still refined, but with an unmistakable edge. She had the hint of an accent other than English.
