Who Is Amanda Jane Riley?

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Sunlight washed a blaze of color through the stained glass, across the white marble floor, and onto my Ruth Smith's white casket. I now found the many lilies and roses surrounding her cloying and oppressive. As I sat alone with her one last time, I heard echoing footfalls grow louder as they approached. I'd hoped for some quiet time to say goodbye. The footsteps stopped next to me at the end of my pew, and an unfamiliar male voice asked are you "Amanda Jane Riley?"

 I did not turn, "Yes,"

The man handed me a manilla envelope and then walked away. I'd recently received so many such envelopes that I didn't bother to look inside. I tucked it into my bag, whispered goodbye to Aunt Rose, and left.

The next day I opened the envelope, figuring it was another bank or Trust form for me to sign. It was not, and it was blank. Thinking this was odd as I opened the seal. Inside was a deed to a property in Kentucky, a sealed note card addressed to Mr. Treadwell in Hopesville, Kentucky, and a letter written in Aunt Rose's lovely script.

Dearest Amanda,

You know that your Uncle Morris and I adopted you. I'm sorry, but we never told the truth about it.

The cottage in Hopeville, Kentucky, is in trust for you. Mr. Treadwell, the attorney, will help you. Give him the enclosed note card.

Much Love, Aunt Ruth

Well, that was unexpected since I'd lived in Michigan my entire life and knew no one in Kentucky. I read the letter several times. I taught first grade at the local elementary, and summer break was just a week away, so why not? Aunt Ruth's attorney told me he knew nothing about the matter but suggested that I follow my Aunt's wishes and go to Hopevill to learn more.

It made sense, but why wasn't Kentucky or my Aunt and uncle's family ever mentioned?

A few weeks later, I flew from Detroit Metro Airport to Blue Grass, Kentucky. Airport. I rented a car, and GPS helped me drive up, down, and around the correct mountains and valleys. The area was beautiful but quite challenging to navigate, and it took five hours to get to Hopeville.

The drive took four hours; by then, it was eleven p.m. I let out a sigh of relief when I found a motel and rented a room for a week. It was acceptable (clean), so I dropped my suitcase, lay on the covers, and fell asleep.

The following morning I went straight to the lawyer's office, which was easy in a one-light town. I'd called and learned that I needed no appointment. Mr. Treadwell showed me into his office. He looked to be in his fifties, younger than I expected, then realized he was Mr. Treadwell Junior. He asked me to call him Tom.

I handed him the envelope, and he opened the note with his name on it with a furrowed brow. He looked over the top of his glasses and asked, "What is your name again?"

"Amanda Jane Riley."

He next read the letter Aunt Ruth had written to me and casually scanned the deed, then stood, saying, "My Dad's retired, but he still keeps his foot in the game, so to speak. He should look at this. Please, come with me."

I followed him to his car, and we drove a few blocks. Mr. Treadwell greeted us on the porch of a lovely white farmhouse, and we followed him into his home office.

We took a seat, and Mr. Treadwell Sr. opened the envelope, read it, looked at me, reread it, and looked at me longer. "You are Amanda Jane Riley?"

"Yes." This was becoming tiresome.

He handed it to Tom, who also looked at me. "You're adopted?"

"Yes, my aunt and uncle told me about it when I was young."

Mr. Treadwell made a phone call. "Hi, may we come over for a chat? Now? Great!"

"We might have more answers from the Hopeville newspaper. Their office is across the street. "This is very curious indeed. And since it was over twenty years ago, the paper's probably the best place to start.

"Tom handed the papers to the editor, Mr. Jameson, a heavyset older man who read them and also stared at me.

My voice quivered, "Will someone please tell me what's going on?"

Mr. Jameson took a key from his desk drawer. He said, "Just a moment," unlocked a nearby door, and descended into the basement.

We listened to boxes being moved and papers rustling. He returned with an old newspaper that smelled of mold and dust and handed it to Tom. Tom stared at the front page, his eyebrows shot up as he showed it to his father, "Do you think this is her?"

I was losing patience, "What?!"

Tom said, "There's no easy way to inform you about all of this," and he handed me the note, and I read my Aunt's handwriting:

Amanda Jane Riley, the young woman delivering this note, is Christine Anne Bradford. Signed, Ruth J. Riley.

Next, he handed the newspaper to me, and the headline read:

NEWBORN MISSING! The Bradford family of Ohio Street celebrated the Fourth of July in their home with two couples. The infant, Christine Anne Bradford, slept while their friend's two children slept in another room. After watching the town's fireworks, the adults returned to check on the children. They discovered that Christine was gone from her crib, and her infant carrier and diaper bag were also missing! The other children were safe and watched the firework display with the adults.

I placed the note on the desk and sat back, feeling stunned, and my hands shook. How could this be? They kidnapped me? My whole life was a lie?

Tom brought me a glass of water, asking, "Are you

alright? This is quite a shock. I'll call Doc."

I shook my head. "I'll be fine. It's probably low blood sugar causing my hands to shake, and I've only had a granola bar since yesterday, which may be why I'm shaking."

Mr. Treadwell said, "That's a good idea!"

Tom smiled, "Sure. Dad loves going to Selma's for any reason."

Selma's was a small restaurant with photos of local people and Hopeville events covering the walls. We choose a booth near the back.

 A young woman handed us menus and smiled. "Mornin.' Guys." Then looked at me but didn't ask who I was. I realized she knew better by now and said, "Hi, I'm Sally."

My stomach clenched. Indeed, who was? "I'm Amanda." I forced a smile and nodded. I'd never felt so confused and frightened about what I was getting myself into.

"Nice to meet you, Amanda. I'm Sally."

It didn't help when the Sheriff walked in. He was tall, middle-aged, and wore a tan uniform. I noted that he carried a gun, of course, but I'd never felt uneasy like this. Were my Aunt and Uncle involved in something illegal? I was sure I'd done nothing wrong, but I felt like my life was being played out by an eight-ball toy, never knowing what would come next.

Mr. Treadwell said, "That's Sherriff Matthews," he's a good egg. We should bring this information to his office soon and get everything straightened out. Don't worry, Miss Amanda, everything will be okay.

 The next day was Saturday, so I drove to the cabin I was told was mine. It sat on three acres, which was unusual for this town, predating most of the homes surrounding it. The driveway was a narrow, unpaved lane, but the brush and trees were cleared back, so I didn't have to worry about scratching the rental car.

I gasped as I entered an open area with the most amazing view I'd ever seen! The log cabin was larger than I'd expected, and beyond about an acre of land were mountains, The Smokies, I guessed. Three large oak trees grew near the house. A wrap-around porch overhang was covered in rose vines, white roses in all their glory this time of year.

I stayed in the car, just taking in the view when a tall man sporting a cowboy hat stepped off the porch and came toward me. He was in silhouette against the brilliant sunlight and reminded me of a young Sam Elliot when he came closer.

Still feeling the area's power, I stepped out and said, "Hello. I'm sorry to intrude, but I . "

He held out his hand and said, "I know all about it. Don't worry. I'm Sam Wilson. I live in town, but I'm paid to take care of the cabin and grounds. Tom asked me to greet you."

I chuckled when he said his name was Sam, and I hoped he passed it off as nerves on my part.

"Oh." I had no words. We shook hands. Finally, I said, "Wow! This is so much more than I expected."

"Yeah, I know. If you haven't seen it, you'd think it was just a rustic little cabin in the woods." he said, "And it was over a hundred years ago. The original cabin burned down during the war. The civil war, that is. That name always confounds me. How can a war be civil ?" We chuckled. Then he said, "Sorry, I get talkin' too much when I meet new people."

Oh my, that charming smile! I said, "I know. I'm really flummoxed about this whole thing. I guess you heard that I was kidnapped as an infant, so I have no idea what this,' I swept my arm across the view, "is all coming from."

He handed me the key and walked with me to the porch. "I left my name and number on a piece of paper on the kitchen table. Oh, and there's a letter for you too. Nice meeting you." he tipped his hat and walked away down the drive.

I climbed the porch steps and went inside. I was surprised at how much light filled the room. I'd always thought of log cabins with a few tiny windows, but the entire back wall here was glass, with large sliding doors and the view nearly overwhelmed me from this perspective.

The ground floor consisted of two rooms, one large room with a modern kitchen on one side and a stone fireplace, sofa, and wooden rocking chair on the other. The other room was a bedroom wallpapered in a cream color with roses scattered across it. I felt a tug at my heart, thinking of Aunt Rose. There was also a bathroom with a large clawfoot soaking tub. A nice hot bath would feel wonderful, but I shook that thought off. I wasn't even certain this was my property.

I went upstairs and found another bedroom and bath decorated sparsely. I wondered if I stayed up here when working on the house and grounds.

I went back downstairs and remembered the letter mentioned. I opened it, and again, it was Aunt Rose's cursive.

Dearest Amanda.

By now, you know your true name is Christine Anne Bradford. I'm so sorry for misleading you all these years, but Uncle Morris and I decided it was for the best. His dying wish was for me to keep this secret until he and I had both passed.

The cabin you are sitting in belonged to your great-geat-grandparents. The cabin was much smaller and more humble than it is now. Your Uncle and I stopped here asking for help when our car broke down while we were on our tenth-anniversary trip. This was the only place for miles back then. Your mother's name was Amelia Kerby until she married your father. We spent two nights here, and you were only a few weeks old.

We'd always wanted children and tried for so long, then were told I couldn't have any. I don't know what possessed us, but we fell in love with you as soon as we saw you. Your father went for parts, fixed our car, and invited us to stay and watch the fireworks, but we did not. We were desperate and didn't want to leave you, so while the family and friends were out back, we simply picked you up and drove away. We never regretted it until later when we realized what an awful thing we'd done. So we ensured that you had a happy and fulfilling life.

Your mother died of a heart attack a few years after that, and I always feared that it was our fault, that she really died of a broken heart. Your father joined the military and is buried in Arlington, Cemetery, and you have no other family. I'm so, so sorry, Dear. We loved you so much.

I kept up with what was happening in Hopesville as best I could back then. When I learned the cabin and property were for sale, I bought it and had it updated and maintained, hoping you might want to return after we were gone.

Love, Aunt Ruth

I returned to town and asked Sherrif Matthews if another couple was mentioned anywhere in the file.  He handed it to me, and as I read it, there were only a few words about a couple who stayed with them for a few days but left before the fireworks started.

I handed the file back to him, and he read the notation. My theory was that my Aunt and Uncle appeared to have left but were, in reality, only a short distance from the cabin. 

The Sherrif and I agreed that's what must have happened, and nobody followed up on it.

So now I know who I really am, as much as anyone can. I still go by Amanda Jane Riley.