Chapter Thirteen
The widow opened a door at the end of the hall to reveal a spotlessly kept shrine. A glass-fronted cabinet with all sorts of medical equipment, most of which I had no name for, but I did recognize a stethoscope, a little rubber reflex hammer, and tongue depressers in a glass jar. Wooden and metal filing cabinets lined one wall.
”What is your last name, child? The one you were born with.“ 
”Martinez,“ I said.
”Martinez,“ the widow murmured. ”Here, this is the M cabinet.“ She was too short to pull out the top drawer and look inside. Though I’m sure if her back wasn’t so bent, she could have easily done so.
I pulled out the drawer and flipped through the old files, turning aside to sneeze twice before I got to the MAR’s. Finally, there it was, Martinez, F. I removed the file and set it down on the examining table. I figured it was a better choice than going for the desk. That was sacred ground, I’m sure.
Felicia Martinez was a white woman according to the file. That didn’t surprise me. I was used to being regarded as caucasian because my mother was Latina, from south of the Mexican border even though she was actually born in the US, according to her anyway and my birth certificate. For some reason that border makes you caucasian even if your ancestors were indigenous people, Indian, Native American, First People, whatever name you have for the people who had been here for thousands of years before the Europeans came.
I flipped slowly through the pages of Felicia’s file. Dr Wills’ handwriting was hard to read and the ink was faded. It looked like he used a fountain pen. I didn’t understand a lot of what I was reading. There were some complications with the birth, though. I was able to read that. I asked Mrs Wills to see if she could make out what the notations meant. My mother had hemorraged, but recovered, it appeared, in a few days time. Each page as I went back further in the file, was an earlier date in time and represented a checkup. The bottom page listed all the usual stats, height, weight, blood pressure, blood type. The doctor or his nurse had written down the height wrong. No way was Felicia Martinez 5’6”. My mother didn’t break five foot. At fourteen, I already towered over her and I was barely, 5’2“.
There was no mention of anyone else in the file, excepting medical histories and they meant nothing to me. Faith suggested I copy them down anyway and handed me her notebook. There was a mention of my father. It said he was a hispanic male and that he was healthy. It said his own father had hypothyroidism and was blind in one eye from a farm accident. My father was 18. My mother was 17. She had good teeth and strong bones. The doctor didn’t anticipate any problems. Throughout it appeared to be a routine pregnancy.
“Do you remember my mother?” I did not expect the widow to remember, but I didn’t think I would be coming back and if I didn’t ask the question, I wouldn’t be done here.
“Gracious no. Why it’s been how long? Forty years?” The widow smiled sweetly as she insulted me. I’m almost sure she didn’t mean to.
“Thirty-four.” I said.
“Well now, there you are. Thirty-four years. Doctor saw a lot of patients. He was a general practitioner, you know, not just an obstetrician. This building was his hospital.” She went on proudly. “A private hospital. Not too many in this part of the state, I can tell you. People came all the way from Boise, Idaho to see my husband, to be treated in this hospital.”
“How did my mother afford a private hospital?”
For a moment the widow seemed confused then she smiled again. “Maybe the father’s family paid.”
I didn’t think there was anything more for me to find in the records of Dr James Wills. I closed the medical file and put it back in the cabinet.
I thanked Mrs Wills for her kindness and Faith and I left. Rockie was already in the back seat of the car when we came out of the former hospital. “Let’s go to a park and eat,” I said, ignoring her.
Cynthea McCoy