Emily Pry had unfinished business with Daniel X. Bryant, and scorned herself when her sweaty hands shook at the thought.

So what if he was once a priest? He hadn’t earned my trust then, I expect nothing more now.

Exiting the bus on Michigan Avenue, Emily followed a hydraulic whoosh then boarded the next Greyhound to Cleveland. All she had was a postcard from Sister Barbara indicating the former priest’s new position as Police Chaplain.

Somehow that man always lands on his feet.

“Cleveland,” she had said curtly at the ticket counter before tossing her small satchel in the “Euby,” the “under-bus” compartment. The fact she even knew the term was evidence of her low-cost travels throughout the Mid-West. A scenario she hoped would have ended long ago.

The lost always seek to be found, she believed. And the finder never tires.

But Millie had grown weary, cementing why an audience with Father Bryant—correction, “Chaplain Dan,” was her next move.

If she could get away with it, she’d call him neither.

Emily had driven east to Cleveland a few years ago when Sister Barbara relocated to the rusty city and reclaimed her legal name, leaving Emily stuttering, “Hello Sister… I ah, I mean Judith,” as awkward as all get out, facing the former nun who returned a generous smile. She felt bad she hadn’t set up a lunch with Judith this time, but had other priorities—and they all pointed back to a face-to-face with Father Bry… I ah, I mean Chaplin Dan.

Yippee.

The rhythm of the bus soothed her as her mind wandered to Lake Erie and a picturesque journey up the coast from Cleveland—where she could enjoy Fairport Harbor, its boardwalk, a bench on the pier, and a Coney.

A harsh bump in the road shifted her focus to a “Cleveland City Limits” sign, and the growing congestion that choked her travel.

She strummed the tabs on her big blue binder, full of unfinished family connections, detailing the open cases she hoped Father Bryant could help her solve. Even with the unsealed records many were left with broken threads that were left hanging.

It had become her job to mend them.

All because of an article written a decade ago, when she was just a kid. At the time Millie loved the attention, and the response to her and her sister Penny’s story, a story searching families in Calhoun County hoped to replicate. However, after the records were unsealed, for many there was little hope. But that one—then another—reunion of older mothers with their grown babies lit a ferocious fire among those still searching.

“Please Miss Emily, I’ve heard you have a gift. You can find my Tommy… please say you’ll try!” She hated that the repeated request had become tedious, leading to self-admonitions, “If I can help, aren’t I obligated to try?” The small donations she collected augmented her slight salary from the Marshall News, and helped cover travel and other miscellanies that arose from her effort.

The disappointment outweighed the joy.

139 cases opened, but less than half of those solved. Many were not willing to participate, protecting their privacy reluctant to upset the applecart. More than double that still unclaimed. She’d die of frustration—or old age—before her docket was cleared. The broken record played.

“If I can help, aren’t I obligated to try?”

It costs too much; too much reflection, too much hope, and too much disappointment. Emily had gone down more than one rabbit hole following leads that had impacted her own story. She found an uncle who died during World War II, a child who was listed on a census with no additional details.

When she started a case for a client, it became a search for her truth as much as theirs.

All because of one question which doubled her casework.

“What if?”

Emily was haunted by the broken threads of her own story and filled her late nights with one more look into the records, if she was able to get her hands on them. But it was time to focus, and her drive to Cleveland had her tied to a totally different story.

The story of a priest and a nun, and exactly how deeply they were involved in the adoptions of over 600 children decades ago—and the secrets that remain for the families still searching.

Including, her own.

Janet E. Fichter, Author