mirror-calm lake. The oars dipped, dragged, lifted, flashed forward, turned and sliced. The creak of our seats as they slid back and forth, the rush of the bow as it cut through the water—every motion and sound was as familiar and comforting as my own heartbeat.
We followed the row with a two-hour run. Light rain coated the path with a film of moisture which made each footfall treacherous. Rain drizzling on our skin chilled us as we clocked the miles. Although I tried to empty my mind, to focus on breathing, to visualize molecules of fresh air entering my nostrils and filling my lungs—I failed. Instead, I fixated either on the possibility of not being on the Olympic team, or on my birth mother—her name, her appearance, her life.
Later, back in my room, mouth dry and heart clattering, I dialed the Children’s Aid. After the opening pleasantries, I posed my question.
“Of course, you’re a Canadian. Once your adoption became official, the province issued you a new birth certificate. The circumstances of your birth have no bearing on your citizenship.”
Relief. I could forget the letter.
But could I? Could I ignore the presence of my birth mother waiting for me at the Bide-a-While cabins? I flopped on my bed and hauled the duvet over my head, but, no matter how I twisted and turned, I couldn’t get comfortable. Finally, I faced two facts: I wasn’t going to sleep until I set up a meeting, and I needed sleep before I faced her. I thumbed through the telephone book and, before I could change my mind, dialed the Bide-a-While cabins.
“Cabin Ten,” I said.
“The cabins don’t have no phones. You wanna leave a message?”
“Please tell her Anna called and will drop in later.”
Exhaustion washed over me.
Four a.m. Should I go now, before morning training? It wasn’t exactly a normal time to visit, but this wasn’t a normal social call. Sure, I’d wake her, but, in case she turned nasty when I told her there wouldn’t be any money, I’d have the advantage of being wide awake. Just to be on the safe side, in case there was trouble, I tucked my cell phone in the pocket of my track pants.
As I approached the cabins, the fluorescent Bide-a-While sign flickered a lurid welcome. At the last moment, my nerve failed. I drove by, slowed, made a U-turn and parked beside the highway, where I could watch the motel and argue with myself. This was crazy. Who but a burglar appeared at five in the morning? But, if I didn’t do this now, I’d never have another chance.
I peered at the lopsided cabins sloping away from the road. Except for the fourth one, they were dark. While I surveyed the run-down collection of buildings, a car pulled out of the drive and sped past me. Only the first twittering of waking birds and the wailing of a baby broke the silence.
Crazy or not, I had to see her.
Cabin Ten carried its sixty or seventy years badly. The tiny front porch, trimmed with peeling dark green paint, listed slightly to the right. When I stepped inside the porch, it smelled of mildew and garbage. I opened the outer door with the torn screen and knocked gently. Nothing. I banged harder. Still nothing. She must be an exceptionally heavy sleeper. On impulse, I turned the knob and pushed. The door opened.
Inside, my eyes just had time to adjust to the light filtering through the flimsy curtains and to fix on the outline of a substantial woman lying on her back in bed before my nose told me something was wrong—very, very wrong. The place reeked of exhaust.
I rushed to the bed and grabbed the woman’s shoulders.
“Wake up. Wake up.” I shook her and felt her unresponsiveness.
Thanking God for the strength I’d gained during the months of training, I flipped the bedspread on the floor and hauled her heavy body off the bed. Quickly knotting the ends, I grabbed hold and dragged her outside.
She looked dead, but I didn’t check for vitals. Instead I made sure her throat was clear and began CPR.
She was breathing.
I checked her pulse. Thin, irregular, but there. I reached for my cell phone and punched 911.
“It’s Anna Marks. I’m calling because I’ve just found a woman nearly dead from carbon monoxide poisoning in Cabin Ten of the Bide-a-While motel on Highway 5.”
God. This was awful. Where had the carbon monoxide come from?
I stared down at her. Blonde hair framed a broad face. My own heavy bone structure.
The ambulance, the firemen and the police arrived. Without seeming to rush, the paramedics clamped an oxygen mask on her face and bundled her into the ambulance, which then shrieked its way toward the hospital. An officer, Constable Stern, suggested I wait in his cruiser. When he joined me, I asked: “Will she live? Were the fumes from a space heater?”
“Hard to say. Why did you think it was a space heater?”
“Because there wasn’t a car outside the cabin, and I’ve read that malfunctioning space heaters kill people. What was her name?”
He eyed me for what seemed like ten minutes before he said: “You don’t know her name, yet you dropped in to see her at what time—five in the morning? Not the usual hour to visit a person you don’t know.”
Nothing for it, the story had to be told. “It’s very weird, but here’s what happened.”
After I’d finished, he said, “Who else knew of this blackmail threat?”
“No one. The letter arrived yesterday and, except for talking to the director of the Children’s Aid, I haven’t told anyone.” I couldn’t wait any longer. “What is her name?”
“Her name? You really didn’t know?”
“No. She didn’t sign the letter.”
“Wilhemina Groenveldt.”
Wilhemina—like the Dutch royal family. Had my, my what, my biological grandmother named her after the queen, or was it a family name? And I was Julianna, the mother of Beatrix, today’s Queen. Tears clogged my throat.
“Are you okay?”
I swallowed. “No. But, if you’re finished, I should get back to training camp.”
“We’ll have more questions, but that’s it for now.
I’d missed the first rowing session. Back at the university, I sprinted from the parking lot to the gym, grabbed what I needed and joined the pack of runners stretching and jogging-on-the-spot while they waited for the laggards. On the two-hour run, my mind returned again and again to Wilhemina Groenveldt’s face. What if there hadn’t been a space heater? If there hadn’t, that meant that someone… I shook my head. Denial. It couldn’t be, but what if it was? What if someone had tried to kill her?
The letter. Could it have been because of the threat to keep me out of the Olympics? But no one knew about the letter. My pace slowed. I hadn’t told anyone except the director, but I’d given my keys to Bobbie. What if she’d snooped through my desk and found it? A surge of intense anger propelled me past other runners. As we traversed the edge of a steep ravine, I caught up with Bobbie.
“Why
