Somewhere Out There(52)

But Brooke was already distracted enough. All she could think about was Claire, the way her skin had gone from white to gray in the time it took the medics to arrive. All she wanted was for her foster mother to be okay.

Two hours later, Gina knocked on the apartment door. When she entered, she had dark half-moons bruised under her eyes and her flowered, black gunnysack dress with the white lace collar was rumpled.

“I’m not leaving!” Brooke said as she took in her social worker’s unkempt appearance. Her entire body went rigid, bracing itself for whatever Gina might say or do. “You can’t make me!”

Gina glanced at Mrs. Connelly. “Thanks for staying with her. Can you give us a minute?”

“Of course,” the older woman said. She rose from the couch and headed toward the door, pausing before she went through it. “I’m in Two-B, if you need me.”

Gina thanked her again, and then joined Brooke on the couch. “I just came from the hospital,” she said.

“Is she awake?” Brooke said.

“No, honey, she’s not. She’s stable, for now, but still unconscious.”

“Why?” Brooke’s bottom lip trembled.

“Because she took too many pills.”

“Maybe it was an accident . . .”

“It wasn’t an accident, Brooke. The doctors had to pump her stomach. It was a suicide attempt.”

“She did it on purpose?” Brooke began crying again. If Claire had felt bad enough to try to kill herself, then she’d been lying to Brooke. Writing a list couldn’t make anything better; focusing on a silver lining didn’t do a damn thing to help. “Why? Was it . . . me?”

“Oh, honey,” Gina said. “You didn’t have anything to do with it. The truth is she has a history of depression that we didn’t know about, and now she needs to work on getting better. She won’t be coming home for a while.”

“But I can help her when she does!” Brooke said. Her nose began to run, and she swiped at it with the back of her hand. “I’ll take care of her! We take care of each other!”

Gina reached out a hand toward her, and Brooke pulled back. She didn’t want the other woman to touch her. The pity in Gina’s eyes only made Brooke feel worse. “That’s not how it works,” Gina said. “I have to take you back to Hillcrest. You need to pack your things.”

Brooke shook her head, pressing her lips together as hard as she could. She balled her fingers into tight fists, trying to fight off the wave of sadness that rushed over her. No, she thought. No, no, no. She couldn’t leave. Claire was the only person who ever understood her. She was the only one Brooke needed. Brooke would write silver lining lists for them both and then stand next to Claire’s hospital bed, reading them to her until she woke up.

“Come on, honey,” Gina said, reaching out for her again, and this time, feeling defeated, Brooke didn’t pull away. She knew it was pointless to resist. She let Gina put an arm around her, stand her up from the couch, and lead her to her room, where her social worker put as many clothes as she could in a black plastic bag, because Brooke still didn’t have a suitcase. Brooke stood by, numbly watching, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Can I at least go see her?” Brooke asked after they’d grabbed her backpack along with her clothes and left the apartment. Her eyes stung and were swollen.

“I’m sorry,” Gina said again. “But no.”

As they drove away from the place Brooke had thought she’d forever call home, something closed down inside her. A heavy door slammed shut. Her tears ebbed, and she felt hollow and numb. And the only thing Brooke knew for sure was that she would never put her heart at risk like that again.

Twenty-six years later, Brooke thought about that moment in Gina’s car the morning Ryan called her and she hung up on him. She reminded herself that emotional neediness was not a quality she wanted to possess. No matter what Ryan thought, she had decided to have this baby, and letting herself fall victim to pregnancy hormones and god-knew-whatever else that was causing her to feel weak toward him was the absolute last thing she wanted. Opening herself up, allowing someone else to see her messy insides, was just not something she did.

She was done with silver linings; she had learned to live with the clouds.





Jennifer


I turned twenty-seven in March of 1987, almost six years after my first meeting with Randy in the community room. In that amount of time, despite my initial doubt about participating in the program, I managed to earn my GED, as well as my certification as a dog trainer, for both basic obedience and service animals. The previous spring, I’d begun an online program for prisoners sponsored by a local vocational college, and combining that with my work experience at Randy’s clinic, I now had an associate’s degree as a veterinary technician. I was just over four years away from being released. With good behavior, it might be sooner. I had a parole hearing coming up in August, and this time, if I was let out early, I swore I wouldn’t screw it up. This time, I promised myself I’d have a plan—a place to live and a job—so I wouldn’t end up right back behind bars.

Unlike during the first year I’d spent in prison, my days were full, but no matter how much I kept myself busy working and studying, my girls were constantly on my mind. Brooke would be eleven soon, and Natalie would turn seven. The ache I felt for them was a wound that wouldn’t heal—if I allowed my thoughts to pick at its edges too much, it began to bleed.