Somewhere Out There(46)
It was another drizzly day, typical of Seattle in early October, so Natalie held her coat over her head as she made her way up the front steps and pushed open the glass door to where a heavyset man with broad shoulders and a shaved head sat at a desk to her right. He wore a black uniform, which she assumed meant he was a security guard. Two metal detectors stood in front of her, similar to those found at airport checkpoints, as well as a machine with a black conveyor belt that looked like the ones travelers had to put their carry-on luggage through.
“Can I help you?” the man asked. In contrast to his substantial build, his voice was high pitched and nasal. He sported a closely shorn, black goatee.
“I hope so,” Natalie replied, readjusting her jacket so it hung correctly. “My sister and I stayed here when we were kids. We were separated thirty years ago, and I’m trying to find her.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Um . . . no, actually. I wasn’t sure if I’d need one. I was just hoping to talk to an administrator.”
The man looked her over, as though trying to decide something. “Let me see if anyone’s available.” Natalie thanked him, and he grabbed for the phone on his desk. “Hey, Lizzie. I’ve got a woman here needing to talk to someone about the time she and her sister stayed here.” He paused, listening for a moment. “Yeah. Okay, thanks. I’ll let her know.” He hung up and looked back at Natalie. “You’re in luck. One of our case managers is free. She’ll be down in a minute.”
“Thanks so much,” Natalie said, relieved.
“No problem. Can you sign in here, please?” He pointed to a clipboard on his desk, and Natalie took a couple of steps over so she could comply. After she had, he nodded in the direction of the metal detector. “Go ahead and walk through now, and put your purse on the conveyor belt.”
Natalie did as he asked, feeling a bit like she was entering a prison. She wondered if the kids who stayed here felt the same way, having to be checked for weapons every time they entered the building, being treated like criminals in a place they were supposed to call home. After picking up her purse, she waited for the case manager, taking in her surroundings. The floor was dingy white linoleum with several cracks and missing chunks along its surface, and the air had a stale, locker-room quality. The walls were gray cinder block, which Natalie thought only added to the jail-like feel of the building. There was nothing soft or inviting about the space; she could only imagine what spending the majority of her childhood here might have done to Brooke. What kind of person it might have turned her into.
“Hello,” a voice said, interrupting Natalie’s thoughts. She turned to see a blond woman coming toward her. The woman looked to be in her mid-to late twenties and wore jeans, a blue-and-white–striped sweater, and black Converse sneakers. Her long hair was pulled into a simple, sleek ponytail at the base of her neck. “I’m Melissa Locke.” She held out her hand, and Natalie shook it.
“Natalie Clark,” she said. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“You caught me at a rare slow moment,” Melissa said, with a smile. “How can I help you?” Natalie took a moment to explain why she was there, and when she finished, Melissa spoke again. “Hmm. Well, we can check our files, but it’s unlikely we’d know where your sister went after she aged out, unless she kept in contact with someone here. What year did you say she left us?”
“I’m pretty sure it was 1994,” Natalie said. “That’s the year she would have turned eighteen.”
“Okay,” Melissa said. “Let’s go see what we can find.”
Natalie followed the younger woman to her office, a cramped, cube-shaped room without a window but with three walls lined with tall black filing cabinets. Melissa gestured for Natalie to sit in the chair on the other side of her desk while Melissa sat in front of her computer. “Most of our records are digitized, so we should have something on her,” she said as she typed. “Here we go. Brooke Walker.” Her eyes moved over the screen, reading aloud what she saw on it. “Brought in with her six-month-old sister, Natalie, in October of 1980.” She paused, reading more, silently. “You were right. Looks like she did age out in 1994, but we don’t have anything on her after that. Nothing official, anyway.”
“Would there be something unofficial?” Despite having known that the odds were against there being anything substantive here about her sister’s whereabouts, Natalie couldn’t help but feel disappointed.
“We actually have one employee who worked here back then. Miss Dottie, our kitchen manager. She was only twenty when she was hired, and has been here almost forty years. The kids love her, and she’s got a great memory. A real knack for names. Maybe she knew Brooke.”
“Is she here?” Natalie asked, feeling a surge of hope.
“She should be. Let me check.” Melissa reached for the phone on her desk, and after a quick conversation, she hung up and looked at Natalie. “She’s in the middle of overseeing lunch prep, but we can head down to the cafeteria and wait for her, if you like.”
“That would be great,” Natalie said, fingering the edge of her leather purse strap. “I was wondering, though . . . if it’s not an inconvenience, is there any way I can see a bit of the building? Where Brooke might have stayed?”