Identity Issues Page 2

  Darned if Mr. Bredel didn’t call again. Would this ever end? This time, he sounded downright pissed. I calmly explained to him that Jon did not know him and would never call him back. Mr. Bredel couldn’t let it go.

  "How do you know my husband?" I asked.

  "Your husband taught at my school, Acacia Primary School, in Botswana."

  "My husband has never been to Botswana, and does not teach," I said in my best schoolteacher voice. I set the receiver into the cradle, praying he wouldn’t call back.

  The following night when the phone rang at 10:00 p.m., it caught me off guard. I’d gotten the kids down for the night, pulled out the newspaper, and curled up in the worn overstuffed chair that served as my personal comfort zone. I’d spoken with Jon earlier, and friends and family knew better than to telephone at this late hour. Surprisingly, I heard a woman’s voice with a heavy, English–is–my–second–language accent.

  "Mrs. Stitsill?" she asked.

  "Yes," I answered.

  "My name is Aebling Bredel. You have spoken with my husband several times, and I wonder that you have never had your husband return his calls." Her voice reminded me of the battle–ax nurse at the pediatrician’s office. Nasal, bossy, and disapproving.

  "Yes, I’ve spoken to your husband, but you must understand that my husband has never been to Botswana. He has always lived in the Midwestern United States and while he does travel on business, it’s never to Africa."

  "Your husband worked under my husband’s direction when he taught in Botswana years ago as part of his service in the Peace Corps."

  "You have the wrong Jon Stitsill, Mrs. Bredel. My husband has never been in the Peace Corps, has never been a teacher, and has never been to Botswana."

  "My husband has an urgent matter to discuss with him."

  "Well, it seems that while you have found a man with the same name, my husband is not the man you are looking for."

  "How old is your husband?" Mrs. Bredel seemed determined to get some information.

  I took a moment to think about this. Maybe if I divulged some facts, it would convince this woman and her husband that my Jon wasn’t their guy.

  "Mrs. Bredel, I’m sorry, but my husband is not the man you are looking for. He is forty years old. He has lived and worked in the United States his entire life. He travels extensively, but only for business and never to Africa."

  Our phone call ended with each of us using our best manners.

  "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Stitsill." Mrs. Bredel’s tone bespoke exasperation.

  "You’re welcome." I recradled the receiver.

  The following Saturday morning, we were poised to head out the door for coffee when the phone rang at 8:45 a.m.

  I answered in my cheeriest voice. "Hello?"

  "May I speak with Jon, please?" The female voice was unfamiliar.

  I wrestled momentarily and then tossed the idea that this call would yank Jon into the office. Then, the familiar accent kicked up recent memories. A split second later, I summoned him to the phone, he picked up, and I stayed on the line.

  "It’s Suzanne."

  "Suzanne who?" Jon asked.

  "You know. Don’t play games with me!"

  "I don’t know. Who are you?" Jon said.

  "Suzanne from Botswana."

  "Well, Suzanne from Botswana, I’m sorry, but you’ve reached the wrong guy. Someone’s been calling lately, and I’ve told them each time that they have the wrong Jon Stitsill."

  If something happened to one of us, Jon evidently assumed it happened to both of us. Interesting. Jon had never been home for those calls or when the letter had arrived. Maybe now he’d understand what I’d gone through in his absence.

  "Let me refresh your memory, Jon," Suzanne said. "You were here eleven years ago, and you taught in my father’s school. You knew me well enough to shag me. All the promises you made, the love you professed. All that is simply forgotten? A distant memory? Might I remind you of my age? Some would say you took advantage of me."

  "Listen, whoever you’re looking for, it’s not me. I’ve never been to Botswana."

  "I cannot believe you are treating me this way. We have a child. Not that you would have known, leaving in such a rush, but your daughter is ten years old." A snuffle and pause. "Anne. Each time I look at her, I see you. She has your clear blue eyes, your blonde hair…"

  "Look, my hair is brown, my eyes green," Jon said disgustedly, his patience wearing thin.

  "My father is Alexander Bredel! He served as headmaster when you were here with the Peace Corps!" Suzanne sounded determined to prove her point.

  "Settle down," Jon demanded. "Yes, my name is Jon Stitsill, and I believe that you are looking for a man with my name, but that man is not me."

  "I don’t understand why you are acting this way. Is it because of Anne? You don’t want to take responsibility for her? She is just an innocent child! Don’t you think she is entitled to know her father?"

  As Suzanne’s voice rose, I held the phone away from my ear and wondered why these people had waited so long to call. If this guy, not my husband, had fathered a child, wouldn’t they have contacted him sooner?

  "Did your father tell you that he and your mother have called here several times?" Jon’s voice calmed momentarily. "They finally seemed to understand that I am not the guy."

  "My parents have tried to keep me from you. They see you as poison. Your sudden departure without word to anyone. You didn’t even fulfill your Peace Corps obligation. Many people have been looking for you for a very long time. Even the authorities. Your disappearance caused great suspicion. Perhaps my parents were right about you."

  "This conversation is over."

  "No, don’t hang up!" Suzanne cried.

  "I’m sorry for your situation, but I’ve never served in the Peace Corps. I have never been to Botswana, and I am not a teacher."

  I heard Jon sigh heavily.

  "Does my voice even sound familiar to you?" he said. "If you knew me, you would remember my voice, wouldn’t you?"

  "I thi…nk you are the ma…n I am loo…king for," she said between choked sobs.

  "I am not," Jon replied. "I’m not sure how to resolve this situation, but I truly am not the guy."

  While his reasoning sounded logical to me, Suzanne wasn’t buying it.

  "YOU are not the man I thought you were. I thought that you were nob…le… and k…k…kind, but I have been f…f…fooling myself all this time."

  "Suzanne, I hope you find the man you’re looking for," Jon said with a gentleness reserved for wailing children and injured animals. I heard him click off and followed his lead. He showed up in the kitchen, giving my shoulder a squeeze.

  "I stayed on the line," I told him.

  "That’s fine. At least it’s finally over."

  "Are you sure?" I frowned. "Did you hear what she said? People are looking for this guy. And have been. For years."

  "Clearly, I’m not the guy they’re after."

  "I understand that, but they don’t believe you." After all, I was the one stuck out in the middle of nowhere, locking up tight when he was thousands of miles away. Double checking my locking up tight.

  "It’s over," Jon said.

  "Mommy!" Lizzie shrieked. "Nick is touching my baby doll. He’s gonna throw her away!"

  I rolled my eyes at Jon. "Ok, kids, pack up for the Daily Grind. Let’s move ‘em out."

  Chapter Three

  IN EARLY NOVEMBER, Jon and I had planned a weekend in Chicago to celebrate our wedding anniversary, but a business trip to Asia interfered. With no choice in the matter, I sucked air through my teeth and said, "No problem."

  Instead of looking forward to some alone time with my hubby, an ungodly week stretched ahead of me. Parent–teacher conferences. Conferences added two twelve hour days to my schedule. Two long days of teaching, wolfing down lousy fast food suppers, and hustling into parent–presentable clothing. The unfamiliar toothbrush that I kept at school had scrub brush bristles,
another marker of the interminable days ahead. Funny how a foreign toothbrush made me cockeyed. And I couldn’t go across the street for an adult beverage after the last of the parents disappeared. That disappointed me more than anything. I needed to hurry home to my kids.

  Thankfully, my neighbor, Laura Jacobs, volunteered to watch the children. By the time I reached her place at 9:00 p.m., I could only hope that my remaining duties would be limited to driving them home, feeding them a snack, and tucking them into bed.

  Thursday evening, I sat with my chin cupped in my hand for the second long day, reading the driest of education articles while my favorite colleagues, Jack Kowalski and Diane Rossi, had long single file lines stretching out in front of their tables in the gloomy gymnasium. Special education teacher’s lines are always sparse. Especially in poor school districts where parents are too preoccupied with trying to make ends meet to check in on their child’s progress.

  I sensed a presence though and glanced up to find a timid–looking, unfamiliar woman in my line. Ugly beige metal folding chairs were placed about twenty feet from our tables to offer the illusion of confidentiality. That’s why I didn’t notice her right away. A polite woman, I decided, she’d waited patiently until I finished my reading.

  I’d met most of my student’s parents at Open House, but I didn’t recognize her. My confusion must have been evident. She approached my table and explained, "You shouldn’t know me. I’m Mrs. Stitsill, Emilio Vieira’s mom. Emilio is a student on your team, but he’s not a special student."

  MRS. STITSILL? Shocked, I stared at her for a long moment. "How do you do, Mrs. Stitsill? Please, sit down."

  "I’ve wanted to meet you for years," she explained, "but you know how busy children can keep you."

  I nodded, still a bit off–balanced.

  "When my sons attended elementary school, Mr. Davis, the principal, told me that a teacher in the district shared my last name."

  More like she shared my last name.

  She looked much older than the typical parent of a twelve year old, wearing what my mom would’ve referred to as a sixties shirtwaist dress. It had buttons from the waist up, tight little pearl buttons, a Peter Pan collar, and a full–flowing skirt which covered her plump middle. A simple gold cross on a fine linked chain circled her thicker neck. Not much over five feet tall, she appeared to be Hispanic, with a round face, black eyes, and thick, curly hair, cropped short.

  "It’s a pleasure to meet you," I managed, offering her my hand. Finding her hands cold and clammy, I continued to take mental notes. Her grasp felt tentative for someone who claimed she wanted to meet me.

  "Is Stitsill your last name, or did you marry into it like I did?" I asked.

  "My husband’s name," she replied in a soft voice.

  She looked gentle, but a deep sorrow spilled from her gaze. Not unusual for me to see parents in grief over their children’s disabilities, but her pain seemed to come from a different place. I already knew that Emilio was bright, had impeccable manners, and was a great–looking kid to boot. Didn’t seem the sadness had anything to do with him.

  "Where is your husband from?"

  "Canada," she said quietly.

  "Really? I’m not familiar with any Stitsill’s in Canada." Click. A woman called Jon a few years back and claimed he was her father. From Canada.

  I recalled that Saturday morning while Jon and I had lazed in bed after setting up the kids with cartoons. The phone rang, I answered it. A woman asked for Jon, and I handed the phone to him. The woman had apparently traced her father to the Midwest, and she claimed he had the same name as my Jon. Jon spoke with her at length, finally persuading her that they were too close in age to be father and daughter.

  "Yes," she said as she looked off.

  "What does your husband do?"

  "He’s deceased," she answered, her voice flat.

  That explained the sadness. "I’m so sorry. Was he ill?"

  She hesitated. "Yes," she said. Then, finally looking directly into my eyes, serious and intent, she continued, "He worked for a firm in Worthington Hills as an engineer."

  "That’s a coincidence. My husband is an engineer as well. I guess we have even more in common." My thoughts led me back to the letter from Botswana, the phone calls, Jon’s missing passport. Bell. Whistle. Ding.

  "Yes," she whispered.

  "What was your husband’s first name?" I asked.

  "Jon."

  That stopped my breathing for at least sixty solid seconds. "My husband’s name is Jon. How did he spell it? J–o–h–n, or J–o–n?"

  "J–o–n."

  "Jonathon?" I asked. I wanted it to be Jonathon.

  "No, just Jon," she said.

  "And your husband’s middle name?"

  "Lyon. L–Y–O–N," she spelled.

  "That’s an interesting middle name," I observed.

  She nodded. "A family name."

  Whistle. I willed my still heart to begin beating again. Lyon is my Jon’s middle name. "Your husband must have been young," I said, craving more information.

  "Let’s see. He was born June 25, 1962."

  Totally spooky. My husband’s name is just Jon, middle name Lyon, his birth date, June 25, 1972.

  "How did you meet him?" I asked, interviewing her now.

  "It was summertime, and we met at a cantina near Oaxaca. Jon was passing through Mexico, returning from a tour in the Peace Corps. I fell in love at first sight."

  I noticed a softer look on her face. Then fear replaced it, as if she’d braked hard for a deer that had darted out onto the road in front of her car.

  "After just three weeks, he asked me to come with him to the United States. I could not refuse such a handsome man." She spoke now as if gripped by that same spell.

  "It must have been difficult to leave your country."

  "Everyone wishes to come to the United States," she said without pause. "Emilio and I lived alone and were barely making ends meet, so we welcomed the gift of a man who wanted both of us."

  "He must have been very special."

  She nodded.

  I watched as she appeared to struggle with what to say next. My mind cranked a four minute mile. Who was she? What did she really want? Why had she approached me?

  "What did your husband do in the Peace Corps?" I tried to help her along.

  She looked pleased by my question. "He taught children at a primary school in Botswana."

  I stared at her, then nodded, trying to keep my eyes from saucering. "How fascinating!"

  "Yes, Jon was born in New York, but he grew up in Toronto. He has four grown children there. We married just two years before he died."

  The hair on my nape stood at attention. "I’m so sorry you lost your husband. How long has it been?"

  "He died on June 6, eight years ago." She looked down at her hands. Her gaze drew mine to them as well. She wrung them, squeezing her fingers to an unnatural shade of white.

  "It must be difficult, raising your children by yourself." I did that all the time. Active listening, they call it. It’s what got me into trouble more often than not, accounting for the SUCKER sign flashing on my forehead.

  We wrapped up our conversation, more than enough said to absorb at one sitting. Silly as it sounds, I felt a strange bond with her, combined with suspicion. She hugged me before she left, and my heart went out to her. After all, her impulsive decision to marry this man had resulted in widowhood. She was now a single mother with two young boys in a country not her own.

  My body trembled despite the stuffiness of the gym, still air ripe with the heat of adolescent sweat. Here we go with another "As the Stitsill’s Turn" story, I thought. My skin crawled with a rush of adrenaline. I couldn’t contain myself.

  Getting this off my chest would help.

  I looked to Jack Kowalski first. Jack, another of the teachers with whom I teamed, filled my ‘best friend’ slot at work. A good ten years my junior, 6’4", and exceedingly handsome, he made sixth grade girls and
teachers alike swoon. Sandy brown hair complimented robin’s egg blue eyes, while broad shoulders and the trim build of a basketball player made him all the more appealing. Mostly, Jack and I horsed around. Teasing infused our lighthearted banter. Underneath all that, we were tight.

  Having mastered the fast–talking art of the parent–teacher conference, Jack dismissed his line of parents long before Diane. Typical man, he judged my story as coincidental, but still, I noticed as I turned away, his mental wheels spun like a windmill on a gusty day.

  My friend Diane would be more obvious in her reaction. Both she and Jack knew about the passport theft, the letter, and the phone calls from Botswana. A great teacher, recently divorced and Italian to the core with rich russet hair, a curvy and toned body, fiery brown eyes, and an anxiety–ridden nature, she would flip out. She and Jack were complete opposites. That’s what I loved about them.

  When she finished her conference, I gave her the scoop. I’d nailed it. She was frantic.

  "What are you going to do, Sam? This is horrifying. Aren’t you scared?"

  "It’s okay, Di. Nothing bad’s happened. But I have to tell you, something is up with this woman."

  "Take a look at Emilio’s birth certificate," Di suggested.

  "But it won’t tell us about his stepfather," I reminded her.

  "Beggars can’t be choosers, Sam. It’s a place to start. And there might be other interesting docs in the kid’s file."

  "You’re brilliant, Di."

  Every child in school has a birth certificate in their CA–60 file in the school office. I headed down the too quiet, long, dark and dingy hall, stomach churning, pulse racing. I tried to quell my anxiety, but I couldn’t will myself to a state of calm. I would be crossing a line once I lifted that birth certificate. Not my style. Ever.

  When Jon and I had received the Botswana letter and the Bredel’s phone calls, I’d dealt with it. The puzzle arrived in bits and pieces. Manageable bits. Suddenly, the pieces began to fit into place, but instead of looking complete, they remained mysterious and even a bit alarming.