Somewhere Out There (26 page)

It only took a few rings for her mother to answer. “Hi, honey,” she said, sounding guarded.

“Hi,” Natalie replied. “Thanks again for taking the kids yesterday. They had a great time.”

“Oh, good.”

Natalie decided the best thing she could do was get right to the point. “So, finding out I have a sister sort of put me in a tailspin. I’m sorry I haven’t called to talk about it.”

“Sweetie—” her mother began, but Natalie interrupted her.

“The truth is, I can’t pretend to understand all your reasons for not telling me about Brooke.” She paused, trying to sort out exactly the right thing to say. “I know you’re afraid of losing me, which you never will, but I guess it makes sense you might feel that way. And I don’t really know how else to tell you this, but I found her. My sister.” The word felt stiff and strange inside Natalie’s mouth, as though it belonged to a foreign language. “I met the social worker who handled our case and it took a few weeks after that. Brooke still lives in Seattle. She grew up here. We talked on the phone Friday, and I met with her yesterday.”

Her mother finally spoke. “Does she know where . . . did you find . . . your birth mother, too?”

“No,” Natalie said, thinking about the way Brooke had shut down when Natalie asked her about their mother. “Not yet.”

“So she . . . your sister,” her mother said, “isn’t in contact with her?”

“No. She grew up in and out of foster homes, but mostly lived at Hillcrest.”

Her mom let out a tiny, surprised yip. “She was never adopted?”

“No.” Natalie was quiet then, letting this bit of information settle in before she spoke again. “I just wanted to be honest with you about what’s going on. I don’t want to keep anything from you.”

“The way we kept this from you,” her mother said in a barely audible voice. She didn’t wait for Natalie’s reply. “I’m so sorry, honey. I wish . . .” Her mother sounded as though she were about to say more, but then allowed her words to trail off into nothing.

“I know,” Natalie said, feeling a flash of suspicion that her parents might still be keeping something from her, but she decided she wasn’t up to pushing the issue. “You did what you thought was best at the time. There’s no way to change it now.”

When I finally left the infirmary in late July of 1987, Blake had been transferred to a high-security prison and I hadn’t been to the vet clinic for over a month. Her attack on me had resulted in a severe concussion, a broken cheekbone, and four cracked ribs. One of my lungs had collapsed, too, which was the reason I had to stay in the prison medical wing for so long—the doctors needed to make sure all of my ribs had healed so they wouldn’t pierce my other lung when I got back up and around.

The only thing that kept Blake from beating me to death had been Trixie—when the guards found us in the hall, I was bloody and unconscious, but Blake was on her back with Trixie’s snarling muzzle fixed directly over her jugular. She didn’t bite the woman, but the threat she imposed was what saved me.

The morning I rejoined the rest of the inmates for breakfast, O’Brien handed me a special tray filled with French toast and bacon, which she knew was my favorite. “Missed you, girl,” she said.

“Me, too.” Other than Myer and Randy, I hadn’t been allowed visitors in the infirmary. I never thought I’d be so happy to see my fellow prisoners.

“You headed back to the clinic today?” O’Brien asked.

“Nope,” I said. “Meeting with Myer right after I eat.”

“Maybe he’ll put you back in the kitchen, where you belong.” She winked at me, and I smiled, carrying my tray over to an empty table, where I ate slowly, taking small bites. My cheekbone had mostly healed, but chewing hurt if I wasn’t careful. My ribs ached if I twisted too far in one direction or the other, so mostly, I stayed still. I wondered how my injuries would affect my ability to run and move while working with the dogs. I wondered if Trixie had been adopted while I couldn’t take care of her. Randy told me several families had met with her, but as of a couple of weeks ago, she was still in the shelter. She hadn’t been allowed to visit me in the prison’s medical wing.

Several other inmates joined me at the table, and many issued their condolences, which I appreciated. I knew I’d been luckier than most during my internment; conflicts ending in a beating were common occurrences, and this had been my first. It was probably stupid of me to have pushed her, but seeing her kick Trixie had sparked a fury inside me I couldn’t hold back. I was happy she’d been transferred. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d had to see her again.

I finished my meal as quickly as I could, then made my way to Myer’s office. The door was open, so I stuck my head inside, surprised to see Randy already sitting opposite Myer, who was at his desk.

“Sorry,” I said. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, no,” Randy said. “Come on in.” He gestured for me to sit in the chair next to him, which I did, after closing the door.

“You’re looking better,” Myer said. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” I said. “Not perfect, but yes. Definitely better.”

“Glad to hear it,” Myer said, and I gave Randy a questioning look.

“So, you wanted to see me?” I said, glancing back to Myer. Was he going to tell me I couldn’t work with Randy anymore? Would he say that Trixie was too dangerous to have on the premises? My heart fluttered at the thought of losing the one thing in my life that made me feel proud. The one thing that had helped me survive.

“I did,” Myer said. “We did, actually.” He nodded toward Randy, who sat there with a close-lipped, smug smile on his face.

“Okay . . .” I said, drawing out the word. “Is everything all right? Am I losing my work-release privileges?”

“Not exactly,” Randy said, and again, I looked at him, confused.

“We brought your case in front of the parole board last week,” Myer said. “And Randy testified on your behalf. As did a few of his employees.”

“What?” I said. “But . . . my hearing isn’t supposed to be until the end of August. Right?”

“Yes,” Myer said, “but with what happened, and how well you’ve been doing overall since you started working with Randy, I decided to move it up.”

“They approved your release,” Randy said with a huge grin. He reached over and squeezed the top of my leg. “You’re getting out today.”

“What?” I said again. I dropped back against my chair, feeling like all the air had been pushed from my body. My mind immediately flashed back to the last time I’d been released, the bus ride into Seattle, my mother slamming the door in my face, blood running down that little girl’s face. I felt my face flame red, the room began to spin, and I had to close my eyes. “No,” I said, unsure if I’d spoken the word out loud or only in my head, until Randy replied.

“What do you mean, no?” he asked. “This is great news. You get to leave. You can come work for me full-time. My wife even found a tiny house for rent. We had to sign the lease for you, so we’ll actually be your landlords. But it’s already furnished. You can sleep there tonight. With Trixie. She’s all yours.”

I shook my head, unable to process what he was telling me. When I finally opened my eyes, both men were staring at me, waiting for me to issue some kind of appropriate response. “The parole board just . . . let me go?” I asked. “Without even talking to me?”

“With your clean track record in here, plus the testimony of Randy and his employees, you were a shoo-in,” Myer told me. And then he did a rare thing—he smiled, too. “You’ve done great work since you came back, Walker. Hopefully you learned your lesson. I don’t want you here again.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I whispered. “I can’t believe it.” My head spun with a muddled mix of excitement and dread. Could I do this? Would I be okay on the outside this time around? I’d have a job. I’d have a place to live and people I worked with who knew and respected me. There’d be no reason to screw things up.

Still, a tiny sliver of doubt niggled beneath my skin. If I’d lost it the last time I encountered children, what was to keep me from losing it again? What if the only way for me to keep the past from destroying me was to stay locked up? What would I do the next time I encountered a child who reminded me of my girls?

“Well, believe it,” Randy said. “I’m here to take you home.”

And that’s when the tears came, hearing that last word. I sniffed them back as best I could. “Thank you,” I whispered. “You’ve done so much for me.” I looked at Myer. “Both of you.”

“I don’t get too many success stories in here,” Myer said. “Don’t screw this up.”

•  •  •

After my release, for the next five years, I led a quiet life, but a good one. It was 1992 and I was thirty-two years old, spending most of my days at the clinic working as a vet tech, assisting Randy with exams or treatment protocols. I was also a trainer for shelter dogs, as well as clients’ animals who were boarded with us. Sometimes, I even brought home foster animals, but with my limited space and the long hours I worked, it was difficult to keep them long-term. I did manage to go back to school and get my bachelor’s of science in animal biology; it took me three years, but fortunately, my time working for Randy counted toward the supervised clinical hours requirement. I had to take out a student loan, but with Randy and Myer’s recommendation, I also received a decent scholarship reserved for former prison inmates.

I still lived in the small, one-bedroom house Randy and his wife had found. The house had a square living room with a fireplace and large, arched windows looking out into the yard. The kitchen was tiny but functional, and the bathroom was just down the hall from my bedroom. After a few years of building a little of my own credit, I had taken over the lease from Randy and Lisa, and with my landlord’s permission, I’d painted all the rooms a creamy ivory and decorated with pieces of furniture I found at a local thrift store. It was perfect for me and Trixie, who had gradually lost her puppy energy and grown into a mellow, extremely well-behaved, sweet girl that slept in my bed and barely lifted her head when my alarm went off at four a.m. to start our day. But by the time I was finished getting ready, she had gone outside through the dog door and sat patiently by her bowl in the kitchen, waiting to be fed.

After work, Trixie and I spent our evenings curled up together on the couch, watching television or reading. Sometimes, if I came across a particularly funny passage in a book or magazine, I’d read it aloud to her, and she’d stare at me with her dark, interested eyes, as though she could understand exactly what I was saying.

When I told Randy about this, he laughed and shook his head. “You need to get out more. To the movies or on a date.”

I’d smiled, too, but waved him off. I liked things as they were. Simple. Uncomplicated. I had a routine and I kept to it. I avoided elementary schools and parks. When I did come in contact with children, with little girls, especially, I felt a little like I was watching my interactions with them from above, policing my every word, ready to jump in and remove myself from the situation if I showed even a twinge of doing or saying something wrong.

Sometimes, I’d catch myself searching faces in a crowd, wondering if any of the young women I saw could be one of my girls. Brooke would be a teenager, now, a junior in high school, and Natalie would be twelve. I still wondered if my older daughter would recognize me if she saw me on the street. I wondered if she’d run the other way. I ached to know if they were okay, if their new family had given them everything I wished I could. The urge to search them out throbbed in my body, right along with my pulse. I went through bouts of wanting to find Gina Ortiz, to bang on her door and force her to tell me where my children were. Only I’d lost my right to know them. In fact, I had no more legal claim to them than a stranger. All I could do was write my letters to them on their birthdays, telling them everything I wished I could have said in person.

You’re the age now that I was when I had you,
I wrote Brooke back in August, when she turned sixteen.
I was so full of myself, so convinced that I knew exactly what was best for me and my life. I thought I was so mature, ready to take on the responsibilities of being your mother, when really, looking back, I realize I was still just a baby, myself.

I hope you have people in your life who support you. I hope you have more common sense than I did back then, and parents and friends, teachers who you’d feel safe talking to about your problems. I always felt like my mother didn’t have enough energy to deal with her own problems, let alone with mine, which is probably why I never talked with her about needing birth control. When I found out I was pregnant, all I could think about was holding you. I promised myself I’d do everything right. I’d have a happy marriage with Michael, the boy who was your father, and I’d take care of you the way you deserved. I made myself . . . and you . . . so many promises, Brooke. Promises I couldn’t keep. I’m so sorry for that, honey. I’m sorry we lived in our car and that there were nights when you went to sleep still hungry and crying. I’m sorry I sometimes left you alone in the dark. I wish I’d had the strength to do better . . . to be better for you and your sister. I want you to know that even though I failed you, even though I couldn’t give you the kind of life you deserved, I loved you so, so much. I love you, still.

Now, it was an early, icy-cold January morning, and as I thought about the letters I’d written, I reminded myself that I couldn’t allow my thoughts to drift into the maudlin. That it was safer for me to focus on the life I led now instead of the one I’d ruined. I needed to get to work.

“Come on, girl,” I said, after Trixie had eaten her breakfast and I’d poured myself a travel mug full of hot coffee. I pulled on my winter jacket and we headed out the door. Trixie followed voice commands well enough that she didn’t need a leash, but since the law required it, I linked it to her collar and looped the other end loosely around my wrist.

Outside, it was still dark, but clear enough to see the sparkle of stars against the black sky. My right cheekbone and my ribs ached, as they always did when winter came. It was a painful reminder of the beating I’d taken. I had a car—a used, 1983 Nissan Stanza I was finally able to buy last year—but unless it was pouring down rain, I enjoyed walking the ten blocks to work, basking in the utter peace and silence of the early day before the rest of the world woke up.