The sun doesn’t shine this day on McCaysville, a town as grim and black as the inside of a charcoal stove. As I journey past a muddy, turbulent river, its waters churned by relentless rain, a somber hue envelops the landscape under the brooding canopy of an overcast sky.
A chill permeates my spine, casting an eerie shiver that will persist until I’m four miles north of Blue Ridge on Highway 76. Yet, what brings me to McCaysville is not the pleasure of its Faulkner-esque design, but Dr. Thomas Hicks—not for an operation, but to comprehend and absorb the essence of the town and the space where a man allegedly stole and sold as many as 200 babies in an open secret.
As I entered the town, I drove past a forlorn pizza joint, barely registering its name, my mind fixed on reaching my destination. However, upon noticing the absence of a dedicated marker or acknowledgment of the scandal that has profoundly affected the lives of so many in the town and beyond, I pulled into a gas station to search the internet for information. I wasn’t surprised to find that I had crossed into a dead zone.
Eventually, I decided to step into the convenience store and inquire with the clerk. To my surprise, before I could finish my question, she eagerly interjected, revealing that her father was one of Hicks’ alleged babies. With real excitement, she directed me to his gravesite and provided the whereabouts of his former clinic, now a pizza restaurant on Toccoa Avenue.
A vain man’s gravesite
I decided to visit the gravesite first, embarking on a journey that led me across a rickety metal bridge, initially tracing a meandering river path before winding through the densely wooded foothills. Along the way, signs of economic hardship were unmistakable, a reality further underscored by the city’s demographic data, revealing a median family income of just $30,078.00.
As the chill in my spine deepened, so did the density of the trees and the palpable sense of despair emanating from homes so dilapidated that they appeared condemned. Amidst lawns strewn with trash, children played on broken trampolines, serving as a stark reminder of the ambiguous definition of “habitable” and the compromises individuals must endure to survive.
Yet, in the middle of the desolation, pockets of beauty emerged. Lush fields painted in pastel shades of green stood in contrast to the rugged grey rock and red clay characteristic of the region. Vibrant pops of yellow wildflowers, delicate sprays of common violets, and clusters of daffodils adorned the landscape, while maples blazed in fiery red hues. The majestic silhouette of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the near distance framed all of this.
No landscape, however, rivaled the beauty of the graveyard where Dr. Thomas Hicks rested beside an ornate and conspicuous mausoleum. Like a sinister specter, the mausoleum marking his final resting place stood out as a dark blot amidst the tranquil and picturesque setting. Noteworthy is the heavy chain and padlock on the door, calling to mind images of a ghostly Jacob Marley.
The gas station clerk had disclosed that the chain existed due to individuals, mistaking myth for fact, breaking in, and attempting to steal the birth records believed to be hidden within its depths. In a quest to uncover the truth about her parentage, Dr. Hicks’ adopted granddaughter initiated the exhumation of her father’s body in season 1 episode 2 of “Taken at Birth.” However, aside from the records inscribed within his DNA, no other documentation existed within. Yet, according to the documentary, the DNA was sufficient to resolve many questions among the self-identifying “Hicks Babies.” Even after this televised revelation, there are still those who believe that birth records exist within the depths of the mysterious vault.
I lingered over Dr. Hicks’ gravesite, studying the glass beneath the doors and the smooth, solid walls. I contemplated the personality that insisted on a mausoleum amidst a garden of modest headstones. It stood as the only competition to the serene mountain view, in that lonely, haunting hill, in that lonely, haunting city. Plastic Walmart flowers were insufficient for this man who dictated on a whim the lives and futures of hundreds. Standing in this vast space, I felt enveloped by the cold, ambient twilight world of this queer border town. Zipping my coat, I walked to my car as a steady rain descended.
Standing in the back alley
As I re-entered the city limits of McCaysville, the rain had finally ceased, leaving behind a sense of calm. Parking near the downtown bridge, I noticed a police officer stationed nearby. Contemplating the idea of jaywalking, I hesitated, despite the absence of any oncoming traffic. Opting to play it safe and abide by traffic laws, I made my way towards the bridge that spanned the swollen, snaking Toccoa River.
The river’s water level had risen considerably due to the spring showers typical of the region at this time of year. Leaning over the edge of the bridge, I peered into the murky grey waters below. A moment of curiosity washed over me as I wondered what lay hidden beneath the surface. Gazing into the churning water, I couldn’t help but ponder whether anything was watching me back.
After some moments of contemplation, the steady return of rain hastened my onward investigation. Hurrying toward downtown, I passed by a window adorned with a political and religious message, taking note of which held precedence in the mind of the store owner. My attention was then drawn to a window display featuring garish and appalling Easter bunnies, nightmare fuel for children, but seemingly the pride of elderly southern ladies everywhere.
I paused to snap a photo of the diabolical leers of the Easter bunnies, then continued on my way to the building that once housed the Hicks Clinic. The building was unassuming, even anticlimactic. Only a small concrete building of no real consequence. Yet, it was within this faded, obscure establishment that over 200 babies were illegally sold.
Indeed, the documentary “Taken from Birth” alleges a disturbing practice wherein some babies were stolen from mothers who were falsely informed that their children had died at birth. Furthermore, there are credible assertions that labors were induced prematurely, not only to reduce Dr. Hicks’ commitment to the mothers, whom he kept in hotels but also to increase his supply of infants for adoption to willing parents.
As I gazed upon this nondescript building, I realized that I should not have been surprised by how ordinary it looked. Dr. Hicks started his career with illegal abortions, advertising them discreetly in phone booths and on benches. In the bustling railroad and steamboat town of McCaysville, the demand for secrecy and discretion was as prevalent as the transient population. Traveling salesmen, gamblers, and drifters would converge on the town for the night, only to vanish with the dawn. Like any railway town, McCaysville had its share of women, bars, and establishments catering to their needs. Among the prostitutes and saloon owners of the city, serving their needs was Dr. Hicks.
However, his earnings from abortions were limited to a mere $100 per procedure, a considerable amount between the 1950s and 1964. Yet, recognizing the potential for greater profits, Dr. Hicks shifted his focus to organizing black market adoptions. Adoptive parents would enter through the front door empty-handed and leave through the back with a baby, typically significantly under the normal birth weight. A live baby fetched as much as $1,000, a substantial sum in any year. As per the revelations in “Taken at Birth,” birth mothers were omitted from the certificates and compensated a mere $20 for their troubles if they even knew about the transaction at all. This meant that, for the cost of a new dress, they were effectively severed from any possibility of reconnecting with their children in the future. To the doctor, this probably felt like a win-win-win.
I make my way to the back alley and pause near the door where countless lives were forever altered, and in many cases, tragically ended. It’s known that many of the babies associated with Hicks were underweight and believed to be premature. In today’s medical context, premature births often necessitate lengthy stays in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). However, these babies were swiftly transferred from doctor to adoptive parents within mere hours or days of being born. In the event of a medical emergency, one can’t help but wonder: how could adoptive parents seek medical attention for their child when there was no record of them giving birth? I find myself pondering the grim reality that many graves may line the isolated roads of the Blue Ridge Mountains, all to fuel one man’s insatiable greed and vanity. The thought of it sends a shiver down my spine, imagining the lives lost and the families torn apart, all for the sake of lining his own pockets and adorning the walls of his elaborate mausoleum.
Remembering what others tried to forget
As I make my way back to my car, my mind is consumed with somber reflection, especially as the mother of a baby myself. I can’t help but contemplate the cold, lonely town and the surrounding region that harbored such a supply of unwanted children to sell, as well as the poverty-stricken desperation of the women who felt compelled to relinquish their infants for a mere hotel room stay and a $20 bill. It’s a haunting realization and one that fills me with a sense of despair and dread. The oppressive dampness of the mist clinging to my yellow rain jacket only adds to the eerie atmosphere, amplifying the horror of the secrets hidden within this community. As I drive away, I can’t shake a lingering sense of unease—the feeling that the ground beneath this town remembers what others have tried to forget.
Carly McCurry is the publisher of The Cute North Georgian magazine. Her work appears on NowHabersham.com in partnership with Now Network News.
