Chapter 43 – December 27, 1988

The mail carrier delivers the package at 10:32 AM on December 27. I join a dozen employees roaming the three-story building, most of whom are finishing end-of-year projects and reports. A sea of denim, stirrup pants, and converse fill the halls and offices, and I smile, breathing in the relaxed environment.

“Mind if I hang out on your floor for a bit?” I ask Tom as I walk through the open door.

He looks up from a binder. “Feel free. You could also use the table.”

“I like the floor better.”

I cut the packaging tape with a pair of his scissors.

“I see Eva’s box arrived… How are you?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Everything feels loud and harsh. I have near panic attacks every time Alex screams or cries, which happens all the time because that’s what sixteen-month-old babies do. I don’t sleep enough, and my brain feels heavy and full. Colin’s constantly worried about me, and his dad stayed home for a week, so Colin could look after me instead of Alex. So… overall, not great.”

“I’m sorry, Ra'Shelle. Anything I can do?”

“Let me hang out on your floor.”

He gestures. “Help yourself.”

I cross my legs, the box in front of me, a legal pad and pen beside me. I quickly glance at the box's contents: letters, photos, synagogue bulletins, and newspaper clippings. All of the photos are originals, but most of the documents are photocopies. A handwritten letter on notebook paper lays on top, which starts: Read this last.

“Tom, toss me a pad of sticky notes, will you?”

I catch them with my right hand and write the number “one” on the top sheet before peeling it off and sticking it to the Congregation Beth Israel bulletin from December 1967. Then I write it on the legal pad.

It takes nearly an hour to organize the box’s contents. I set the photographs aside, knowing they will require the most energy.

Congregation Beth Israel bulletin: my birth announcement San Diego Union: Rich and Simone Dawson wedding announcement San Diego Union: February 23, 1976 article Handwritten letter: Noah to Rich: February 12, 1976

Handwritten letter: Debbie Lassio to Rich: April 10, 1975

Maple Ridge News: March 5, 1986 article Restraining order: William Russell v Richard Dawson: February 13, 1976

Restraining order: William Russell v Marc Hansen: February 13, 1976

“Okay,” I say to myself, “here we go.”

I smile as I read my own birth announcement and my father’s wedding announcement, but my stomach flips as I read Debbie’s letter. Flashes of Pete’s gray gun blend with those of blue pick-up sticks. I clear my throat, take a deep breath, and continue.

**

Item 4:

Rich, I called Mr. Russell, like you asked. He was furious that you gave me his number, but I convinced him to speak to me anyway, and we talked for half an hour.

I’m writing this instead of calling you because I want to make sure I am completely clear.

You need to let this go, Rich. Let it die.

You know I will always appreciate you opening my eyes, and Ana and I both know that returning Pilip was the right decision. But it was hard for us, emotionally and otherwise. We were lucky that no one caught us, and you know that. That was the best outcome for a terrible situation, and we still think of him every day.

I know you want to do what’s right, Rich, but try to see it from his perspective. He and his wife spent $30,000, not to mention enormous energy and hope, on this adoption. You can’t blame them for not wanting to walk away from it. After all, they think they did the right thing, and in my opinion, you will never convince William otherwise.

Think of your girls, Rich. They all need you, and Ra'Shelle is especially going to need you in a few years. Living with Florence can’t be easy for her. And Eva, Naomi, and Simone all adore you. You must think of the big picture.

You lost this one, Rich. Sometimes that happens. Move on and pray that things will work out as they should.

Shalom, Noah (& Ana)

**

I place my head in my hands just as Angelique frantically knocks on the door. “Tom, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to do.”

“What’s going on?” Tom asks, standing from behind his desk.

“Laura from Textiles Emporium is on the phone, telling me, if I’m honest, screaming at me, that she can’t have the coral order ready by Friday, and they need to send tomato instead. Marjorie and Jonas are both off the rest of the week. Do you know what she’s talking about?”

Tom shakes his head. “Not well enough to have an in-depth conversation with her. Have you tried calling Sam?”

“I’ll talk to her,” I say absentmindedly, setting the letter aside. “Laura’s a bully, and I know what she’s talking about; I’ll do it.” I look at Tom. “As long as you give me carte blanche.”

Tom raises his eyebrows. “Carte blanche? We’ve partnered with Textiles Emporium for years. Are you going to break that partnership?”

“That’s not my goal.”

Tom clicks his tongue several times then nods at Angelique. “Send it in here; let’s see what Ra'Shelle can do.”

I gracefully stand from the floor and sit in Tom’s office chair.

“Laura, it’s Ra'Shelle Dawson,” I say in a pitch and tone that absolutely does not match my emotions. “We talked once before several months ago. How are you?”

I let Laura ramble for five full minutes, explaining how our basic expectations are unreasonable. “It’s impossible!” she shrieks three times during the monologue.

“Laura, I appreciate your attempt at a compromise; coral and tomato are similar enough that I can understand why you think that would work. However, the green and blue hues are too different. I believe it’s 127 and eighty versus ninety-nine and seventy-one, and that’s too far apart to pair with our secondary colors, so we can’t accept that order.”

I allow Laura to scream and blubber for another three minutes, then ignore everything she’s said.

“I’ll tell you what we can do, however. We can push the order until Monday. That will be cutting it a little tight, but Friday afternoon versus Monday afternoon isn’t shattering, especially considering the holiday. Of course, if the order is three days late, I expect that LFI will receive a discount, let’s say ten cents per yard.”

More screaming.

“Have you heard of Fabrics and More, the new business that opened in Caldwell a few months ago? I visited them last month, and their prices are higher than yours for sure, but they give discounts to bulk orders, and I started thinking about all the time that Marjorie and Jonas and, come on, sometimes Sam, spend talking to you, and I started running the numbers. Once you take into account everyone’s time, I think LFI ordering from Fabrics and More would actually break even. After everyone returns next week, I’m going to speak to Sam about requesting a quote; that way we can compare our options.”

No yelling. Cool tones, apologies, and promises mostly offset the concerns and excuses.

“You’re right; ten cents might be a little steep,” I say. “Let’s say five cents, and you can take it out of whomever made this difficult for you. But it must be coral, and it must be no later than four o’clock on Monday.” I smile. “Thanks, Laura… You too… Happy holidays.”

I wink at Tom as I replace the phone. “Partnership saved.”

“I have some questions.”

“I thought you might,” I reply, exiting his desk chair.

“How could you possibly know the RGB codes? Did you actually go to Fabrics and More? Did you really expect to receive ten cents off every yard?!”

I return to the floor and my papers. “Creative Design debated salmon, coral, and tomato for days; I saw them in my sleep. I doubt I’ll ever forget those combinations.

“Yes, I really went, and the prices are insane. I do think Sam should contact them, but I doubt they could come down as low as Textiles.

“Finally, no, I always knew we’d only be able to finagle five cents, but if you start at ten, five sounds like a bargain. And seriously, whomever screwed up on her end should be eating the cost, not her. That being said, waiting until after the weekend does present some problems for us. Sam and Brenda will not be happy. Marjorie either, probably.”

He sits in the chair and swivels. “Well, you certainly proved you can do Jonas’ job.”

“Was that ever a question?” I ask. “Negotiation is just verbal chess. Screaming is the equivalent of only moving a pawn in hopes that you can create a promotion. You never win that way. Screamers never win.”

“That’s coming from a very controlled person.”

“Some would say ‘muted’.”

Tom places his hands behind his head. “When was the last time you screamed at someone?”

I look at the ceiling. “Probably… my last conversation with my mother. I at least raised my voice. That’s the only time I can think of as an adult.”

“How’s it going down there?” he asks.

“Definitely testing the ‘ignorance is bliss’ theory of existence.”

Tom rolls back from his desk. “I’m going to Tony’s to pick up lunch. What do you want?”

“You want to buy me lunch?”

“Yes. Want your regular Greek salad?” he asks.

“That’d be great.”

“You’ll be all right while I’m gone?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m an adult, Tom. I can handle being in a room alone for twenty minutes.”

“It has nothing to do with age, Ra'Shelle, and you know it,” he says softly. “You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine, really.”

I read the restraining order against Marc Hansen, an apparent ally of my father, and the order against my father–twice. I can’t understand how my father would make decisions that would require legal actions against him, but Eva’s words ring in my ears: He made a bad decision for a good reason, and it cost him his life and our childhoods.

“Okay. Articles.”

**

Item 3:

A shooting occurred early yesterday morning at the corner of University and First. One man was shot and died at the scene. Witnesses report a minor was in the back seat but was unharmed. Police are not releasing additional information at this time, stating that both the shooter and victim are well-known in the community. No charges will be filed.

**

I rub my forehead and hold the final document, Item 6, while taking deep, slow breaths.

The first three columns of the article discussed the Sixties Scoop, including the release of the Kimelman Report. The fourth column begins with an interview.

**

Joseph Deere was 11 when he was placed into foster care.

“On a Tuesday, a social worker came to the community and interviewed several families. The next week, she returned with three other adults and they snatched me, my sister, and four other kids, including an infant, away from our families. They placed us in foster care and then up for adoption.”

Deere was adopted by a family in California; his sister was placed with 12 foster families before she turned 18. Deere was miserable with his new family.

“They meant well, but every time they disciplined me, I became more resentful. They weren’t my parents, and they never would be. I just wanted to go home.”

Deere repeatedly told his adoptive parents that the social workers had made a mistake, that his biological family was kind and loving, but his new family didn’t believe him.

“They thought I was confused or traumatized, but really I was just lost and desperate.”

But Deere did find one person who believed him.

“There was a guy at shul who saw how miserable I was, and when I told him what was going on, he confronted the adoptive parents. They didn’t believe him–didn’t want to believe him–so he contacted the adoption agency and the local paper, but no one would do anything.”

Eventually, Deere’s advocate took matters into his own hands–with tragic consequences.

“We agreed he’d come to my house after the adults were asleep, abduct me, and return me to my family in Canada. Other people called it ‘kidnapping’, but I saw it as freedom. Unfortunately, my adoptive father woke up and followed us.”

Deere’s advocate was shot and killed eight blocks from Deere’s house. Deere returned to his adoptive family and lived with them until he turned 18.

“I left the day after I graduated from high school, and I hitchhiked back to my tribe. I wrote to my adoptive family to let them know I was okay, but I haven’t spoken to them since. I don’t want to remember that part of my life. I want to enjoy my time with my real family and my community.”

But there are parts of that life which he'll never forget.

“I will always be indebted to the man who tried to save me–and his family. I’ve worked through a lot of the guilt, but I think of him, and that night, often. And I wonder why more adults didn’t ask questions. When the children and teenagers told people that they weren’t abused, why didn’t more people investigate and try to reunite us? Why did they just accept these lies without proof?”

Now, many people are asking those same questions. Why didn’t more people ask for proof and take action? Why weren’t more kids reunited?

**

The article continues with quotes from experts, foster parents, and Native leaders. I scan it once more, my eye catching the byline: Marc Hansen.

I return the documents to the box, along with the photos and Eva’s letter. I sigh and stretch as Tom returns with two brown paper bags.

“Tony is now selling Squeezit and Capri Sun, so we’ll be drinking what I pack in my kids’ lunches.”

I roll my eyes and sit at the table. “Says the guy who runs five miles every morning.”

“Yeah, I do that so that I can eat whatever I want for lunch.”

I chortle and shake my head. “Sure.”

“Finish the box?” he asks as he sits down.

I open my salad. “Except for Eva’s letter, which I assume connects the pieces, but I’ve already done that. I’m going to wait to process the rest of the information before I read it.”

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“I’ve never simultaneously felt so much respect for someone and so abandoned.” I bite my lip. “But that’s for another day. I know the stuff with my dad is what Eva wanted me to know, but all I can think about is Pete.”

I lean back. “It was his mother’s dying wish for my dad to adopt Pete, and she was convinced Dad would obtain full custody of me in a few years.”

I stare at the ceiling and interlock my fingers. “We were supposed to have that life. Eva, Naomi, Pete, and I would have lived with Dad and Simone. We would have grown up in sunny San Diego as a strange, but probably happy, family. I would have had an entirely different childhood; I’d be an entirely different person. Maybe happier, definitely healthier. Pete too.”

Rubbing my eyes, I take a deep breath. “Dad made a choice, and I have no idea what I would do if I was presented with the same dilemma. He did what he thought was right, but in his attempt to save one kid, he set Pete and me on a course of pain and destruction. And I’m sure it wasn’t easy for Simone to raise two kids alone.

“Eva said it cost us our childhoods, and she’s right, but it’s more than that. It cost Pete his adulthood too. I only made it because I scratched and clawed long enough to find Colin waiting for me on the surface.

“And yet… even with the pain and the consequences of that decision, I find myself impressed, in awe of my father. He felt backed into a corner, and instead of surrendering, he tried to save someone else.”

“Like you,” Tom interjects softly.

I take a sharp breath. “Yes, I can understand that impulse.” I lean forward and stab my salad. “I need to visit him. Our path hasn’t forked just yet.”

Tom furrowed his brow. “Who?”

“Pete.”