Page 115 of The High Tide Club
Marie met them at the front door of the Ardsley Park home where Brooke had grown up. She transferred the limp, dozing toddler to her mother’s outstretched arms.
“He feels a little warm,” Marie whispered, touching the child’s pink cheek.
“There’s some children’s Tylenol in here,” Brooke said, handing her mother the diaper bag. “Give him that with some juice.”
“We’ll be fine,” Marie said. “Call me and let me know how it’s going.”
“I will. Thanks again for pinch-hitting, Mom. Love you.”
Brooke made the turn from Victory Drive onto the impressive-looking grounds of the Catholic diocese campus. “This used to be a children’s home too,” she told her passengers. “When I was growing up, it was St. Elizabeth’s. But the grounds were so overgrown with trees and moss, it looked really spooky.”
They parked and started walking toward the entry. “Rule number one for seeking information you probably don’t have any right to is always make friends with clerks and secretaries,” Lizzie said as they mounted the marble steps.
“You mean suck up to the man?” Felicia asked.
“No. Not the man. The man’s secretary or assistant or clerk, who is almost always a woman. The gatekeeper, if you will. Now watch and learn,” Lizzie said.
She swung open the door and approached a middle-aged woman at a reception desk.
“Hi,” she said brightly. “I’m Lizzie Quinlan.”
“Hello.” The woman looked quizzical. “How can I help you ladies?”
“I’d like to see some records from a now-defunct Catholic children’s home here in town, and I understand you have those on microfilm? The years I’m interested in are roughly 1942 through 1948 or ’49. And I’d be happy to pay whatever photocopying costs are incurred.”
“I’m sorry. We have strict privacy rules. Those records are only open to the actual children who were placed in the home and their biological mothers.”
“Oh.” Lizzie’s shoulders slumped dramatically. She stared down at the clerk’s nameplate, which saidDebbie Winters.
“Well, I guess I did see something about that on the archdiocesan website, but I just thought maybe, because of the special circumstances, you all might make an exception, just this one time. And we’ve come such a long way too.”
“That’s a shame,” Debbie said. “Where are you ladies from?”
“I’m actually from California, and she’s from Florida,” Lizzie said, pointing to Felicia. “You see, Debbie,” she continued, “our dad is very, very ill. He’s in his seventies and we really don’t know how much longer we’ll have him with us.”
“Is it…?”
“Cancer? Yes. Very advanced. And very, very aggressive.”
“My sympathy to you girls,” Debbie said.
“He only recently shared with us the story of how his mother left him—abandoned him, actually—in a church here in Savannah. It was the first time he’s completely opened up to any of us about this. Naturally, my sisters and I wanted to follow up and get to the truth.”
“Naturally.” Debbie nodded.
“He told us that the priest in one of the churches in town found him under a pew when he was an infant after mass one Sunday morning.”
Debbie’s face registered her disbelief. “But that’s horrifying.”
“Shocking,” Felicia put in. “We had no idea.”
Debbie looked from Felicia to Lizzie, obviously puzzled. “Who is this?”
“Oh, uh, that’s my sister, Felicia. From Florida.”
“Half sister,” Felicia corrected. “Same dad. Different mamas.”
“Same for me,” Brooke said.
