The Idaho Bureau of Vital Records and Health Statistics is located in a redbrick building in downtown Boise. My stomach sinks when I see all the people crowded into the waiting room. There’s a machine where you take a number that they’ll call when it’s your turn.
My number is E145.
We’re currently on E122.
Nyla sits next to me and starts knitting a pair of socks that I instinctively know is for my mom. My mom was the one who taught Nyla to knit, actually, a couple of years ago. She keeps offering to teach me, but I tried it a few times and I always end up with a mass of tangled yarn. I’m not crafty. But it would be nice to know how to knit at a time like this. It would at least give my hands something to do.
My leg’s bouncing. Nyla puts her hand out to stop it. “You all right?”
“Not really.”
Nyla’s mouth twists. “Do you want to talk about the sch—”
“Nope.” If I didn’t want to talk about it on the four-hour drive over here, I for sure don’t want to talk about it now. I’m think I’m good with never talking about it, ever again.
“Okay. But if you want to talk about it, I’m—”
“Still nope.”
“Okay.” She takes her hand away and resumes her knitting, humming her country music.
I pick up a three-year-old People magazine and try to steady my breathing. Get the letter, I remind myself, trying to stay focused on my mom in all this. Then we’ll go from there.
I look at my watch every thirty seconds, so I know that Nyla and I wait approximately fifty-two minutes before my number is called.
“I got you,” Nyla says quietly as I lumber to my feet.
“Yeah.” I feel numb, like I’m floating out of my body and watching it all from above, like this isn’t really my life, again—it’s that scene where Cass gets the letter from her birth mother.
How do you even prepare for that kind of thing?
“How can I help you?” asks the clerk as I stumble up to the desk.
I hold out the appropriate piece of paper with a shaky hand. “I need to give you this form. I had it notarized.”
The clerk takes the form. “Thank you.” She looks it over. “All right. It’s all in order.” She stamps it, makes a copy, and hands it back to me. Then she leans forward to call out, “Next.”
I’m confused. “That’s it? But then don’t I get—”
“You could have mailed the form in,” the lady says cheerfully but also like she thinks I should have mailed the form in and therefore not wasted her precious time. “But it’s good to bring it in person if you need a copy. Which I gave you.”
“But now I get the letter, right?” I ask.
“Letter?” Now she’s the one who’s confused.
“The letter that my birth mother left for me.”
The clerk’s expression goes totally blank. “Who told you there’d be a letter?”
“My mom,” I answer. “And then on the website for the Department of Health and Welfare I thought it said I had to come make a request for the letter in person. And I had to bring this form, signed by a notary.”
The clerk turns around and calls into the back of the office. “Linda? Can you come here a second?”
A lady in a pink sweater—Linda, I presume—strolls up to the counter.
“This girl is asking about a letter written by her birth mother,” says the clerk, loudly this time. Now everyone in the office—the people in the waiting room and the people working the desk—is staring at me with that look—the poor-adopted-you look. All except for Nyla, who just looks worried.
“Hi,” I say awkwardly to Linda.
“Oh, yes, hello,” Linda says apologetically. “There was a program—it ended about fifteen years ago, but there’s an archive of these letters.”
“Okay. I would like my letter, please,” I say.
“They’re in storage in another facility,” Linda informs me.
I want to say So get it, but I know that would be rude.
“We hired someone last year to sort through them and handle the requests, but you see, unfortunately, there are fifteen years of requests that nobody has been taking care of until now. So there’s a significant backlog,” Linda says.
It sounds like I’m not getting the letter today.
“What does that mean?” I ask a bit hoarsely. “How long will I have to wait?”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “It could be some time after you file your request that you receive the letter. It could be months. Maybe even years. I’m very sorry.”
So I’m not getting the letter in the next six weeks.
I can feel my jaw tightening. “This is my life, you know.” My voice sounds high and sharp and not like my voice at all. “This isn’t just paperwork for me.”
And now everybody is really staring. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nyla stand up. I turn to leave.
“Do you still wish to file the waiver of confidentiality?” Linda asks.
I swivel back. “To get the letter? Yes. Right? That’s why I’m here.”
“No, the letter archive is a separate issue,” she explains. “I’ll put your name on the list for the letter archive right away.” She copies down my name, my date of birth, and my contact information onto a yellow legal pad. There’s not even an official form for the letter thing, apparently, which makes me think that this is never going to work, not if there are fifteen years of backlogged names on legal pads waiting for their letters.
“So wait, what’s the waiver for, then?” I ask after that’s done.
Linda looks at me with pity but also like I’m a moron. Because I obviously didn’t read this thing I had a notary sign and everything. “It’s if you wish to waive your right to confidentiality in the case of your adoption. We have a matching program, here. If the biological parents both submit a waiver of confidentiality, and the adopted child also submits a waiver, we can legally share the contact information between the involved parties.”
“I bet there’s a backlog for that, too.” Okay, maybe I’m being a little rude.
Linda doesn’t seem bothered, though. She works for the government and therefore deals with rude people all the time, apparently. “It’s a careful process, and yes, it takes time.”
It’s all starting to sink in.
“So what you’re saying is that if my birth mother wants to find me,” I say slowly, “she can fill out this form, and if I also fill out the form, you’ll give me her information and you’ll give her my information.”
“If the biological father also fills out a form, or if there’s no way to locate him in a timely manner, then yes. That’s how it works in the state of Idaho.”
“Okay. Yes. I still would like to file the waiver.” I let out the breath I feel like I’ve been holding since this morning. “And I’m not going to receive anything today,” I say, just to be sure.
“That’s all we can do for you today.” Linda smiles patiently. The other clerk is helping someone else by now.
“Thank you.” I shuffle like a zombie to the parking lot, Nyla trailing behind me. It’s starting to snow, tiny light flakes that melt the second they touch my skin. A huge wave of relief and disappointment crashes over me, so strong my knees almost buckle with it.
“Are you okay?” Nyla asks.
I close my eyes and picture the way my face must have looked during that entire exchange with poor Linda. Then I start laughing, laughing so hard I double over and tears come to my eyes.
“All right. Definitely not okay,” Nyla assesses.
I can’t stop laughing. It’s the weirdest thing.
When I finally look up, gasping for air, there’s an old man standing in front of the building looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. Which I’m pretty sure I have.
“Hi,” I call out. “Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?” I turn my face up to the snow and take a deep, shuddering breath.
“Oh, good. Welcome back,” Nyla says. “What do you want to do now?”
“Nothing.” I look around for where she parked Bernice. “Let’s go home.”