Chapter 6 - A SISTER IN A BLUE SWEATER
Natalie Hale was waiting near the window when I entered the café.
She wore a blue sweater and had her dark hair pulled into a low ponytail. She stood when she saw me, then hesitated. I understood. We were two strangers who might share a mother, and there was no etiquette for that.
“Sarah?”
“Yes.”
“I'm Natalie.”
We shook hands. It felt absurdly formal. I sat across from her and tried not to stare at her face. She had Mom's gray-green eyes, though her nose was narrower and her chin more pointed than mine. I wanted to catalogue every resemblance and feared doing so would make her feel examined.
“Thank you for meeting me,” I said.
“I almost didn't.” She looked down at her coffee. “My mom—Elise—cried when I told her. She said she thought everything had been legal.”
“Does she know about the clinic?”
“She remembers going to a private agency. Her husband—my dad—handled the paperwork. He told her the birth mother had signed consent. She never met her.”
I nodded. “My mother was told the baby died.”
Natalie looked up sharply.
“That can't be true.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“It's not how it sounds. It's what it means.” Her voice trembled. “It means my whole life started with someone taking me.”
I reached for my water instead of her hand. I had no right to touch her just because I was overwhelmed.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “I wish I could make this easier.”
She looked out at the lake for a long time. Then she asked about Mom. I told her about the stroke, the crosswords, the way she tucked extra napkins into her purse, and how she still made chicken soup with too much black pepper. I told her she had spent years believing she'd failed a baby she couldn't keep alive.
Natalie smiled sadly. “Elise makes terrible soup. But she's been good to me.”
“Then I'm glad,” I said.
She searched my face. “Really?”
“Really. If you're Rose, I hate what was done to Mom. I don't hate the people who loved you afterward unless they knew they were hurting her.”
Natalie nodded slowly. “Thank you for saying that.”
We talked for nearly an hour. She was a speech therapist at a children's clinic. She hated loud restaurants and loved old mystery novels. She had once considered searching for her birth family but stopped because she didn't want Elise to think she wasn't enough.
“I don't know what I want yet,” she admitted.
“You don't have to decide today.”
Before leaving, she showed me a faded photograph Elise had given her. It showed Natalie as a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket. A tiny white shoe lay near her feet.
I stared at the shoe.
“Mom kept the other pair,” I whispered. “They were pink and white with a little flower stitched on the toe.”
Natalie looked at the photograph again. The stitching was blurry, but something pale appeared near the top of the shoe.
“We'll know after the test,” she said.
“Yes.”
We went to the recommended lab together, where separate identification procedures were followed. The technician explained what the test could establish and how the results would be shared. Natalie asked several questions. I answered them where I could and stayed quiet where I couldn't.
Outside, she paused beside her car.
“Sarah? If we are sisters, I don't want you to think you can just take me home and make me part of your family.”
I felt a sharp ache but nodded. “I understand.”
“I'm not trying to be cruel.”
“You're being clear. That's different.”
She smiled faintly. “Maybe we can have coffee again.”
“I'd like that.”
I watched her drive away, then sat on a bench until my breathing steadied. I was beginning to understand that a miracle could be complicated. Finding someone did not give you ownership of their life.
Later that afternoon, Nicholas met me outside the legal aid office. He had a bruise along his jaw I hadn't noticed before.
“What happened?” I asked.
“An unpleasant conversation with someone who thought my staff should stop helping you.”
“Andrew?”
“No. One of his business associates.”
“Did you hit him?”
Nicholas met my eyes. “No. I called my attorney, and the police received the threat. I know what people think of me, Sarah. Sometimes they're right to be wary. But I don't intend to make your case harder by settling it in an alley.”
I studied him. “Thank you.”
“Don't thank me for meeting the minimum standard.”
I laughed, surprised by his dry humor. Then he handed me a copy of an archival report.
“My mother's investigator found a transfer record from St. Agnes. A child was moved to a facility called North Shore Infant Care. The receiving signature belongs to Harold Collins.”
“That's proof he took her?”
“It's evidence of his involvement. Not proof of every decision. The investigators will need the original records and testimony.”
I read the date. September 18, 1998. One day after Rose's birth.
“What about Patricia?”
“Her initials are on a separate authorization. Miriam is forwarding it to Reyes.”
My phone rang before I could speak. Detective Reyes.
“Sarah, Andrew Collins was stopped at O'Hare this morning,” she said. “He had a one-way ticket and business documents in his bag. We have a warrant related to financial fraud and forged records. He's in custody.”
I pressed one hand against the bench.
“Is Patricia with him?”
“No. She hasn't been located. We believe she's trying to contact someone connected to the original placement.”
Natalie.
The thought struck both of us at once. I asked Reyes whether Natalie and Elise had been warned. She said they had, and that officers were checking on them.
I ended the call and looked at Nicholas.
“Patricia knows where Natalie lives,” I said.
He nodded. “Then we follow the safety plan. We don't chase her ourselves.”
I wanted to run. I wanted to get into the car and drive until I was certain Natalie was safe. But Natalie had a life, and police officers could do more than a frightened woman arriving at her door.
I called her. She answered on the second ring.
“I'm okay,” she said before I could ask. “Detective Reyes called. Elise is with me. We're staying with friends tonight.”
I exhaled.
“Good.”
There was a pause.
“Sarah?”
After the meeting, I stopped at a bookstore near the lab. I wandered through the children's section without knowing why. A display of picture books about families caught my attention, and I opened one that showed children living with grandparents, step-parents, foster parents, and two mothers. I thought about Natalie saying she didn't want to be taken home. She had seen my hope and mistaken it, understandably, for a demand.
I put the book down. She was twenty-eight, not a child who needed a story about belonging. What I wanted was simpler and harder: a relationship built from her present choices, not my imagination of the little sister I would have known.
Outside, I called Mom and told her Natalie and I had met. I described her blue sweater, her work with children, and the way she paused before answering a difficult question. Mom listened quietly.
“Does she laugh?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Like you?”
“No. More quietly.”
Mom smiled through the phone. “That's something.”
I almost told her about the photograph of the white shoe. Instead, I waited. I didn't want a blurry image to become a promise the lab might later take away.
At Aunt Linda's that evening I found Mom practicing speech exercises. She was reading aloud from an old magazine, repeating difficult words until she could say them without stumbling. When she saw me, she put the magazine down and asked about Natalie's favorite foods. I said I hadn't asked. Mom pretended to be scandalized.
“Next time,” she said, “ask.”
“Next time,” I agreed, grateful for the confidence hidden inside those words.
A few days later Natalie sent a short text: The coffee shop has terrible chairs. Maybe somewhere quieter next time.
I stared at the message, smiling. It was hardly the grand declaration I'd dreamed of. It was better. She was suggesting a next time on her own terms.
I replied with three cafés near the lake and told her she could choose any place, including none of them. She picked a small bakery and added that she wanted to bring Elise if I didn't mind. I said I'd like to meet the woman who had raised her.
That choice brought complicated feelings. I had feared Elise would be another person who stood between us. Yet when I imagined Natalie growing up, I wanted someone to have held her when she was sick, attended her school plays, and remembered her birthdays. I wanted her childhood to have been warm, even if the reason she lived elsewhere was terrible.
I asked my counselor whether those feelings could exist together. She said grief and gratitude often occupied the same room, and there was no rule requiring me to choose one. I wrote that sentence down.
When Nicholas called later, I told him about the text. He said, “A second coffee sounds promising.”
“It does.”
“Will you be all right if it goes slowly?”
“I think I have to be.”
“That's not the same as wanting it.”
“No,” I admitted. “But I can learn.”
“Yes?”
“Whatever the test says, I'm glad we met.”
May you like
I closed my eyes.
“Me too.”
