Somewhere Out There(67)

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.