May 2024
Anneliese
ANNELIESE TOOK A mid-morning train to Den Bosch. She had called in sick to work, which wasn’t exactly a lie. Her stomach roiled from nerves.
She tried to keep her expectations low. After all, her biological parents were dead. What could she possibly gain? Maybe a little knowledge about her origins. Maybe confirmation that her blood family was better than the Bakkers.
The Foundation for Aiding Unwed Mothers (FAM) took up a floor in a boxy five-story building, the kind furnished with drab metal desks and sagging venetian blinds.
Reception didn’t disappoint: orange plastic chairs and a scuffed gray linoleum floor. She had only just sat down when an interior door opened, and a middle-aged woman came through.
“Miss Bakker? I’m Miss Jansen. Please come this way.”
Anneliese took the chair indicated in front of a beige metal desk that was littered with stacks of papers.
The social worker smoothed her blonde hair, though it looked as if it hadn’t moved a millimeter in decades. “Your adoption was one of my first cases. The circumstances came back to me as I was reading the notes. You were born in a hotel.”
“Why didn’t my mother go to a hospital?”
“There wasn’t time. She experienced an unusually rapid labor and delivery.” Miss Jansen cleared her throat. “Your mother named you Mirella. The Bakkers changed it when they adopted you.”
“Mirella,” Anneliese repeated softly. It was a pretty name, but she didn’t feel like a Mirella. “What was my mother’s name?”
“As I mentioned on the telephone, your adoption was closed. I can’t tell you her name without her express permission.”
“How can she give her permission when she’s dead?”
Miss Jansen’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you think that?”
“Tineke and Ray told me both my parents were dead.”
“I’m sorry, Anneliese. We urge adoptive parents to be truthful about their child’s origins. Your mother was very much alive when she placed you for adoption. She came here with her sister.”
Anneliese’s fantasy of star-crossed lovers like Romeo and Juliet was instantly shattered. Why would Tineke and Ray lie? After thinking about it for two seconds, she realized it was typical of their behavior. They had lied to everyone, including themselves, about Daan, their precious biological son.
“What can you tell me about her?”
Miss Jansen opened a folder. “Your mother was nineteen years old and in good health. She was a university student and unmarried. That’s all I can say. I’m sorry.”
“And my father?”
“Your mother said she didn’t know who he was.”
She must have had some idea. There was only a tiny window each month when the fruit was ripe for plucking, narrowing the field of possibilities.
“Did you believe her?”
“Some clients don’t want the father to know about the child, for instance, if the relationship is over, or he’s married, or she’s afraid of him. There are many reasons, as I’m sure you can imagine. It’s not my place to speculate.”
Anneliese considered. Maybe her mother had slept around—or worse, been raped.
“Are you all right?” the social worker asked, pity on her face.
Anneliese took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.
“My mother might have changed her mind after twenty-four years. Can you put me in touch with her?”
“I can write her a letter and propose a meeting.”
It was possible that Anneliese’s mother, father, and aunt were still alive. Maybe she had cousins or even siblings. Blood relatives. The only kind that counted.
The next day, Anneliese went back to work at the upscale office in the center of Amsterdam. In the seventeenth century, the house had been owned by a rich merchant. Now it housed the private equity firm that managed the inherited wealth of the merchant’s undeserving descendants. Blood trumps.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better today,” her boss said while peering down the deep V of her blouse. Her wardrobe was her means to keeping the job for which she was unqualified, but he had taken one look at her and offered her the position. A very capable man in the office took up the slack. Her biggest challenge was managing her boss’s sexual expectations. If things got sticky, she would quit and request a new assignment from the temp agency.
Two weeks later Anneliese had had enough of Mr. Private Equity. She sat in her tiny apartment waiting for a call from the temp agency about a new opportunity, as if a menial administrative job could be more than a means to pay the rent and put food on the table. When her phone rang, she snatched it up.
“Miss Bakker, this is Irene Jansen.”
It took her a moment to remember that Miss Jansen was the social worker at FAM.
Her heart took off at a gallop. “Yes?”
“I received a reply from your mother in the post today. Do you want me to mail it to you, or do you want to pick it up?”
“I have the day off,” Anneliese said, which was true in a way. “I’ll pick it up.”
A few hours later, she was sitting in front of Miss Jansen’s messy desk. The social worker smiled stiffly and handed Anneliese a cream-colored envelope. She could tell at a glance that it was expensive stationery. Anneliese turned over the envelope. “Why is it blank on both sides?”
“The envelope was inside one addressed to me.”
Her hands trembled as she picked the seal loose. She read the letter slowly, weighed each word. Her mother didn’t want to meet her. She didn’t even want to know Anneliese’s name. Certain phrases in the letter stung her heart like nettle.
Dear Mirella, Your adoptive parents are your real parents … I think of you every day … after everything we did to keep the pregnancy a secret … no wish to hurt anyone … please don’t contact me again … I wish you the best.
The letter was unsigned—no Mom or Mother and no name.
Anneliese swore.
The social worker tutted and held out her hand. “May I?”
Anneliese handed over the letter.
Miss Jansen took her time reading and laid the letter on her desk. She stroked her helmet of blonde hair, probably deciding which of several stock responses to make. “Perhaps your mother isn’t ready. We might try to contact her again in a few years.”
“In a few years? She’s had twenty-four years already.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Give me the letter,” Anneliese said.
“Of course, after I make a copy for our file.”
“I want a copy of my adoption papers too.”
“It’s your right, but first I need to mark through text that might reveal your mother’s identity. Do you want to wait or—?”
“I’ll wait.”
Anneliese returned to reception, picked up a magazine from a side table, and squirmed in a plastic chair with all the contours in the wrong places. Disappointment milked her heart.
An hour later the redacted version of her adoption papers was ready, tucked into a transparent plastic file.
Lost in thought, Anneliese retraced her footsteps along the Visstraat, toward the train station. She was barely conscious of the bustling shops she passed. She planned to read the file at her leisure on the train, but she couldn’t wait. After crossing the bridge, she sat down on a bench facing the river and opened the file. Swipes of black highlighter hid names and other personal details. She turned the pages, searching for clues the social worker had missed.
Miss Jansen hadn’t struck out the name and address of the hotel where Anneliese was born, and it was located right there in Den Bosch. She opened the maps app on her phone and took a moment to get her bearings. The hotel was only a twenty-minute walk away.