My Future in Black and White

Standing in the middle of the cobblestone bridge, she pulls a hair tie from her purse. Tired of fighting with her windblown hair, she gathers her long, charcoal locks. As she twirls them into a bun, Bernadette watches an old black and white photograph, lifted by the wind, land by her boot. Plopping the bun on her head, she bends to pick up the face-down photograph. 

A barely legible note on the back of the photo reads, “If ound, ease retu to Ms. roth shbur in ville, C.” After reading what she can, she instinctively turns it over. She sucks in air as she studies the beautiful mystery woman and shakes her head as if trying to shake away a thought. Turning the photo over, she reads the back again. 

“If found, please return to Ms. . . .” As much as she tries, she cannot figure out the rest of the note. She turns it over one more time and thinks for a minute she is holding a mirror, not a photograph. A chill runs down her spine as she places it in her purse. 

Even with the distraction, she still wants to try out her new used Nikon. Photography is new to her. As with anything new, she likes to learn everything she can about it. Today, though, she is only interested in taking pictures. 

Focusing on the delightful waterfront town across the bridge, she waits as a grumpy cloud eases in front of the sun. To her pleasure, the sun casts glorious rays down on the old white church by the water. In the gazebo, close to the church, stands a couple embracing in a kiss. As she clicks away she remembers what she read in Photography 4 Life Magazine. “Anyone can take a picture, but what makes one a photographer is a keen eye for what makes a spectacular work of art.” 

After a few more random shots, she turns and walks back the way she came over the bridge and toward home. Always looking for the perfect shot, she observes her surroundings, but her thoughts shift back to the photograph once more. 

Questions zig zag inside her head like a hyperactive pinball. Where was this taken? How did this find me? How can it be me in the photo? Why would someone put that note on the back, and what does the rest of it say? So many questions. Absolutely zero sensible answers at this time. 

Not one to be defeated, Bernadette places her camera and bag on the table and grabs the photo, a notepad, and pen. Considering the wind, she decides to sit in the living room instead of on the deck. The number one reason she is willing to pay a little extra for her apartment is the view of the pleasant little town and waterway which separates them. 

She flips to the back of the photo again, and she writes what she knows. 

If found, please return to Ms. roth shbur in ville, C

Typical of Bernadette when deep in thought, she begins thinking out loud. 

“I know this needs to be returned to a woman. Okay, so the r would be capitalized if roth was her first name.”

She writes the first name at the bottom of the paper and folds it so all she has is the roth. “That’s better.” Still struggling, she pulls out her phone and types in “girl's name with roth in it.” Of course, she knows this will not be easy. Everything she never wanted to know about Roth pops up and only one that offers girl names that end in roth. Considering she never heard of those five names, she writes them down . . . just in case. 

She types in “older names for a female,” and although she finds some really cute names should she ever have a daughter, she does not see anything on the initial list of fifty so she keeps scrolling. There it is tucked away in an alphabetical list under the letter d.

“Dorothy! It must be Dorothy!”

She wrote it all out again, only this time adding Dorothy. “Okay, so Dorothy somebody lives in somewhere, C. 

California. Colorado. Connecticut. 

“Connecticut. Where I was presumably born and where I was definitely left as a newborn. It’s not that far from here so that would make sense.” 

Another, even grumpier cloud skims across the sky as Bernadette rubs under Ms. Daisy’s chin. Large droplets pelt the roof, drowning her ability to focus while a window-rattling boom sends Ms. Daisy running for cover under Bernadette’s bed.

Setting the teapot on the burner, Bernadette leans against the fridge. The soft whistle jars her, and she plops the Moroccan Mint teabag in her cup and places the cup on the saucer. The teapot always reminds her of an overexcited new referee at a basketball game when the water boils. Placing the saucer on the table, she pulls out her phone with her free hand.

Ville. She types in towns and villages in Connecticut that end in ville. “Well, that’s not too many,” she tells Ms. Daisy who peers out from the corner of the bed skirt. Without having a full name, Bernadette gets discouraged. She writes shbur on a clean piece of paper and stares at it until her eyes burn. Frustrated, she places the paper on the coffee table and goes about the rest of her day.

“Come on, Ms. Daisy.” She pats a spot beside her on the bed as she pulls the covers up around her waist. Back against the headboard, Bernadette reaches for the sweet book she started reading last night. Ms. Daisy decides she is ready to come to bed but first walks triumphantly, head held high, over Bernadette’s book and runs her fluffy white tail under Bernadette’s nose.

“Girl. You are something else.” Bernadette continues to read until she realizes the battle is over and her heavy eyelids win. Closing the book, she places it on the table next to the bed and goes into the bathroom. Crawling back into bed, she shuts off the light and stares at the ceiling long enough to decide to read a little more. 

“Stan should be home shortly. He is going by Mr. Washburn’s grocery to see if there is any slow-roasted chicken left and to pick up a couple of side items.” Bernadette sits up straight. Rereading that line, her eyes widen. She runs to the living room and snatches her notes from the coffee table. 

Shbur. “Washburn’s. Washburn.” Her jaw drops. “I wonder.” 

Taking the pen from the table, she writes what she thinks she knows. 

If found, please return to Ms. Dorothy Washburn in ville, CT. 

Too excited to sleep, Bernadette plays with the villes in Connecticut. She writes out the towns and villages with the word ville in them and plans her day around finding Ms. Washburn. As if it can be this easy. She wonders how much of her concern is returning Dorothy’s photo and how much is her belief that this photo may lead to some unanswered questions.

No grumpy clouds this morning as the sun’s rays eagerly wash over Bernadette. She pulls the covers over her head to block the sun until she remembers her plans for the day. Throwing off her covers she jumps up, and Ms. Daisy fitfully wriggles her way out from under the avalanche of covers. 

Patiently waiting for the appropriate time to make a phone call, she finally gives up and makes the call. 

“Hi, um. Good morning. May I speak to Dorothy Washburn? Oh. Her old number. No, I understand. Sorry to bother you.” Tapping the table, her mind racing, she says, “Ms. Daisy, this may be crazy, but I’m going to Rockville. I just feel like I almost have all the pieces to the puzzle, and I can’t give up now.”

She grabs her purse, the photo, and her notes and runs out the door. The hour drive feels like no time. She pulls into town and finds the library. Not sure where to begin, she stops at the desk for ideas. Coming around the desk, the young man leads Bernadette to the public records. Two hours into perusing records, she finds a Ralph and Dorothy Washburn who bought 151 Birch Street almost fifty years ago. She puts the address in her phone. 

Her stomach swirls as she leaves the parking lot. Right, straight, left, right, and there it is. It is a broken-down old house with plywood covering the upstairs windows and a broken walkway leading to the cracked front steps and semi-attached handrail. Determined, Bernadette walks up the steps onto the porch. As she is about to knock, an older woman bent in the middle jerks open the door.

“What do you want?” 

Startled, Bernadette asks, “Are you Dorothy Washburn?”

“Nope.” 

As the door closes, Bernadette says, “Excuse, please. I must find her. Do you know her or where she is?”

As well as she can, the woman looks up at her. “Retirement home on Salisbury. Apartment 3B.” 

Bernadette almost squeals. Not wanting to push her luck, she thanks her as the door slams in her face and gets out of there.

Without hesitation, she is at the door of apartment B3. Although there is a resemblance to the woman in the photo, she does not appear to be the person answering the door. It is difficult to tell through the crack of the door.

“May I help you?” the woman asks. A moment of doubt makes Bernadette wonder what she is doing here. 

“Uh. I.” As she hesitates, the woman opens the door a little wider and brings her hand to her mouth. 

Bernadette swallows hard and goes for it. “Dorothy Washburn?” 

The woman nods, hand still over her mouth. “I found this.” Taking the photo of Bernadette’s twin from days long gone, a tear slips down her cheek. Surprised by Dorothy’s response, she continues, “It must mean a lot to you.” 

Running a hand over her cheek, she says, “Forgive me for being rude, please come in. Here, have a seat. I will be right back.” 

She watches as Dorothy goes to the back of the apartment. Bernadette, a little leery of the situation, hears her whispering. As she comes up the hall she asks if Bernadette would stay for tea and says she has something to show her. Hoping it is all the answers to all the questions she has ever wondered about her family, she agrees. She knows there can be no other explanation why she resembles the mystery woman other than they are related.

“Yes. That would be nice. Thank you.” 

Dorthy places the tray on the coffee table and tells her to help herself as she goes back down the hall. This time no whispering, but she does return with a couple of photo albums: one an old-style leather album with a metal clasp. 

“I apologize for my reaction at the door. This was the reason for it.” She opens the antique photo album and lays it across Bernadette’s lap. Sucking in air, Bernadette gazes at the open pages. The woman she is looking at is herself, but it cannot be her. Some of the photos are yellowed, some cracked, blotchy, and faded, and they are obviously old. She flips to the front of the album, amazed at how much the mystery woman’s baby pictures look like her own. As she continues, so does the resemblance. As she latches the album, she looks up at Dorothy.

“I have more questions now than when I got here. I’m not even sure where to begin. Who is she?”

“Her name is Iliana Dimopoulos, and she is my mother. Her parents came to America a year before she was born. I am amazed at how much you favor her. Is your family from Greece as well?”

“Um,” Bernadette tries to organize the wild horses in her head, “I do not know my family. One early morning a couple of days after I was born, I was left in a baby carrier in an emergency room. What I know about my family is the person who left me, presumably my mother, was young and wore a green and yellow hoodie and ratty blue jeans the day she left me. Hospital personnel looked at every bit of footage to see if they could find any additional information. The girl walked to the hospital and left the same way. In one piece of footage, they caught just enough of a glimpse of her face to see she was young. Of course, they checked records of babies born within the past few days to see if I was born in their hospital, but I wasn’t.”

Trembling, fighting tears, Dorothy responds, “Oh my. You poor girl. You must hate your birth mother for what she did.”

“No. Not at all. I am not even angry with her. She was young and probably scared and knew she could not take care of me the way she needed to.”

Buzz, buzz. Dorothy excuses herself to answer the door.

Bernadette stands. Dorothy is followed in by a woman who looks almost identical to her, except for short black hair. They both share light brown skin and deep brown eyes. To guess, Bernadadette would say she is about twenty years younger than Dorothy and roughly fifteen years older than Bernadette. Obviously, this woman is related to Dorothy. They look like twins only separated by years.

One look at Bernadette and she sobs. It is at that moment, Bernadette, gently shaking her head, already knows and has to sit back down. 

Silence. Sniffle, sniffle. Silence. Sob. Silence. Spinning . . . in and out of the reality of what is happening. 

Sitting across the room from Bernadette, the woman speaks. “I carried that picture of your great-great grandmom, Iliana, everywhere I went after I saw you in the magazine article. You look so much like her. I had to find you and see for myself how much you favor her. When I finally found you and saw you in person, I was shocked and overjoyed. Shocked because although you may be a little taller, you are Iliana’s twin. Fear kept me from approaching you. I wish I had been bolder.” 

“I’m confused,” Bernadette barely whispers.

“No one knew I was pregnant. My mom only recently found out about you. The guilt and heartbreak I carried all these years nearly destroyed me, and she helped me through.” 

She hesitates, controls her breathing, and finds the courage to continue. “I was fifteen. Your father, in Connecticut for school, had one semester left when I told him I was pregnant. He accused me of being with several of the guys on campus and called me horrible things. He told me he came here for a degree, not a family.”

Dorothy offers Bernadette the tissue box, Bernadette takes several and dabs her eyes as the woman continues. 

“He was the first and only boy I had been with contrary to his accusations. I saved my money and found someone who would secretly help me when it was time to have you. They stayed with me for a day then dropped me off a half-mile from the hospital where I dropped you off.”

Dorothy, now crying, puts her head in her hands. 

“I’m so sor . . .” Before the woman can finish her sentence, she breaks down, uttering deep, painful groans. 

Compassion for this hurting woman overwhelms Bernadette. “It’s, it’s okay. Please. I’m shocked to meet you, but I am not angry. I forgave you and my father years ago. What kind of life would I have if I carried anger and bitterness around? What happened, happened.”

Dorothy looks up. The woman, trying to catch her breath, shakes her head and brings her hand in front of her mouth. 

She nods. “You were raised well. The day I lost the photo of my grandmother, my heart broke, and I thought that was the second-worst day of my life. It turns out losing it would lead to the best day of my life.” 

Bernadette stands and steadies herself. She walks across the room and puts her arms out. “Hi, Mom.” She smiles softly. “I’m Bernadette. We have a lot to learn about each other and the rest of our lives to do so.”