c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(6-26)
Amanda Breen had always been a strongheaded and independent woman. A characteristic that manifested itself early in her childhood, while moving from one home to another in a search for stability. Once she had made up her mind about a particular subject, it was impossible to alter that perception of right and wrong. She stayed active as an advocate for causes of social justice, homeless individuals, and those marginalized by the greater society. Yet while this predisposition to buck trends and pursue visionary ideals matched the inclinations of her progenitor, it also sparked conflict between the pair.
Jessica had advised her daughter to proceed carefully, when searching for the lost soul that might have been her genetic sire. But that slow pace of action did not fit the raging emotions that swelled in her young bosom. The perky entrepreneur did not seek to delay her quest for information, under any circumstances. What she wanted was an opposite reality. To hunt down this mysterious figure, make contact, and establish some sort of relationship that would uplift both of them as participants in a grand story of rekindled, family ties.
Unsurprisingly, her investigation opened a veritable Pandora’s box of personal details that did not always align neatly with each other.
She discovered various documents that provided little useful insight, while still intensifying her curiosity. First, an accident report from the middle 1980s, with a head-on collision between his Chevrolet Chevette, and a pickup truck, at an intersection outside of town. That factoid at least confirmed that his current residence had been on a street in Chardon. Then, a record of being interrogated at gunpoint by police, while he was working overnight. With no charges filed as a result. A license application for marriage, several loan arrangements, a home purchase in nearby Painesville, and a divorce. Followed by another set of wedding vows, more bank financing, and a second split with his spouse. The addresses he had used were numerous. But nothing in this paper trail indicated where he had landed, in the end.
In a fit of desperation, she searched a telephone database with thousands of meaningless entries. Unpaid bills, disconnected services, upgrades and realignment of providers that took place, and other forms of miscellany. In the midst of that morass, there were entries for a recurring issue with bogus 911 calls being generated by a system malfunction. Apparently as a result of junction boxes being stationed in the swampy soil behind a trailer and its oversized propane tank.
Amanda felt her eyes grow wide as the name she had been chasing appeared in the first entry.
“Townshend Lincoln, Lot 13, Evergreen Estates. The subject reports that he has no landline phone connected at his rural residence. The outdated connection is used only for internet access at this moment. Yet sheriff’s deputies confirm multiple incidents of the emergency number being contacted. On each occasion, there was no voice response, just a hang-up when the call was answered, initially. These unintended incidents have been reported to Windmere Technologies. A conversion to fiber optics is expected to correct the problem...”
She was stunned by the casual nature of this log entry. When she Googled the park of manufactured dwellings, it came up as a small development situated on Pine Trail Road. Located a short distance south of Lake Erie. A place with some history in Ohio folklore, frequently mentioned in newspaper headlines and other media reports. The development had changed owners on so many occasions that it was difficult to track fiscal transactions regarding those in charge. There were outstanding violations still in effect, with the EPA, county commissioners, and township trustees. Lawsuits had multiplied over the course of decades. But no summary judgments ever seemed to have been issued.
And there was no evidence that her target ever left this isolated homestead in the pines.
With patience, she discovered a website for the holding company that controlled day-to-day operations. And brought up a photograph of the park entrance, on her computer monitor. There, in a ragged script spelled out in painted letters, was the motto for their tiny neighborhood.
“Evergreen Estates – A good place to get started, or retire!”
Now, the logjam had been broken.
Frantically, she tapped at her keyboard. A credit notice appeared, with a certification that the original purchase of one, singlewide abode had been satisfied. With the state title duly stamped by a registrar. An unemployment claim, followed by disability forms being submitted. Then, a Medicare enrollment. Everything led back to that same spot in the Buckeye hinterland. He must have surrendered to the fatigue of arthritic joints and a broken heart. With the comfort of beverage alcohol taking over.
Her mother remembered a rebellious, teenaged reprobate in New York. One gifted with too much creativity, and too little self-control. Yet now, she had stumbled upon a different sort of personality. One hardened by failure, alienation, and stalled mobility. A man of many years, stooped by a debilitated physique and a spent capacity to see good in the sunrise of a new day.
Amanda trembled slightly, when considering that this anonymous figure might well be someone unlike the summer boyfriend of her elder kin, and also, far removed from the bright, ebullient artist that he had been, before. Someone who might not desire a reconnection with his former self, or the budding romance that did not last beyond a coming of winter months. A ghostly form shaped by hardship and depravation. A human husk, emptied by fate and circumstance.
On a listing of registered voters, she found that he had declared himself to be Libertarian. Which seemed to match her mother’s memories of someone who refused to think or act, along traditional lines. A trolling of social connections revealed that he had created a plain, nearly friendless account on one of the popular sites. With patience, she scrolled through entries that identified active profiles connected to the Messenger application. That revelation offered a method for reaching out, that could be used directly from her home office.
Taking a deep breath, the California native sent a query to her supposed, genetic link. One expressed with the gentle tone of a lonely life in search of her own origin.
“Hello, Mr. T. C. Lincoln. I am out here on the Pacific coast, my mom is Jess Decosta, and well, I think that I may be your daughter!”
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