Somewhere Out There: A Novel

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

I knew the girls would be there any minute, the first time I would see them since the night of my arrest the previous month. I’d never been that long without them, but there I was, about to say good-bye. I was giving them up, making them wards of the state. With Gina’s help, I had made the decision quickly, the way you pull off a sticky bandage, reasoning that it might be less painful than if I dragged the process out, hemming and hawing about whether or not it was the right thing to do. I already knew it was the right thing. For Brooke’s and Natalie’s futures, there was no better choice to make.

As Gina had predicted, I was convicted of both the petty theft and child endangerment and neglect, then sentenced to fifteen months in a minimum-security facility. After that hearing, Gina told me that Brooke and Natalie had been placed in a home with a couple who had been foster parents for years. Knowing they were safe and together was the only thing that sustained me as I lay in my narrow, uncomfortable bunk at King County jail, listening to the thick, rough snores of my cellmates, unable to fall asleep. I felt hollow, as though my insides had all been scraped out. In signing away my parental rights, I was effectively saying that the state knew better what to do with my children than I did. I was admitting failure as a mother. I was saying that if I raised my own babies it would be a mistake.

“Are you sure your mother wouldn’t take care of them until you get out?” Gina had asked me. Even after I told her no, she said that in situations like this, the state required her to call next of kin.

When I saw her the next day, I asked how it had gone. “Not well,” she answered, not looking at me.

“What did she say?”

“That her husband doesn’t like kids.”

“Her husband?” I said, feeling stunned. I had no idea that she had gotten married again. My mother was only twenty-nine when my father left us, unaccustomed to being a sole provider and living alone, and she had been anxious to find another husband. “I miss having someone to curl up with at night,” she said.

“You can curl up with me,” I replied, and she shook her head, looking out the window.

“It’s not the same thing.”

For the next few years, until I got pregnant with Brooke, my mother was always dating someone. But none of her boyfriends stuck around for more than a couple of months. I wondered about the man who’d finally stayed with her, a man I’d never met. I wondered what she would have said if I had reached out to her earlier, before she’d married him, to ask for her help. If I’d admitted how wrong I’d been to move in with Michael; if I’d begged for her forgiveness. I’d thought about doing this a hundred times, but pride kept me from picking up the phone. Pride, and an intense, quiet fear that she’d want nothing to do with me or my daughters. Now, even though I’d been expecting it, I felt my mother’s rejection of her grandchildren—her rejection of me—like a stab in the heart.

“How much longer?” I asked Gina now. She sat with me in the family visiting room at the jail, ready to supervise my last visit with my daughters. None of this seemed real to me yet. I’d signed the papers, answered the judge when he asked me if I understood what I was agreeing to do, and the entire time, I felt removed from my own body, as though I were floating toward the ceiling, watching someone who looked like me go through the appropriate motions and play my part.

“Any minute,” Gina said, reaching over to squeeze my hand. Her fingers warmed my dry, icy skin. The orange industrial soap in the jail’s shower was like sandpaper. “You okay?”

I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “I don’t know if I can do this,” I finally said, my voice barely a whisper.

“The judge already signed off on the order.”

“No,” I said. The tension in my chest was unbearable, my muscles braided themselves into excruciating knots. “I meant I don’t know if I can see them.” I leaned forward, pressing my upper body against my skinny thighs, and grabbed my ankles. Gina placed her hand on my back.

“If you don’t,” she said, “you’ll regret it. Trust me. You need closure.”

Closure, I thought, is impossible. I was convinced giving them up was the right thing, the best thing for them, but the agony I’d felt after making the decision had shattered into sharp metal shavings lodged under my skin. Every move I made, every breath I took hurt more than the last.

Righting myself, I glanced around the room, a small, square space with brick walls painted gray, the table at which we sat, and a sad pile of dirty-looking toys in a basket in the corner. A crooked poster of Sesame Street characters hung by the door; some asshole had drawn a pair of blue breasts on Big Bird.

“Do you think they’ll ever forgive me?” I asked Gina, who paused and gave me a long, thoughtful look before responding.

“I think you’re giving them the very best chance you can.”

As though on cue, the door swung open, and a woman with long silver hair entered, carrying Natalie in a car seat and holding Brooke’s small hand. “Mama!” my older daughter shrilled, racing toward me. “Mama, Mama, Mama!”

“Oh, honey,” I said, opening my arms as she threw herself full force into them, clambering up into my lap. Tears blurred my vision and I buried my face in her dark curls. She was warm and smelled like green apple shampoo; she wore a green-and-blue plaid dress, brown saddle shoes, and clean, white tights. I can’t do it, I thought as I hugged her, kissing her sweet face. I can’t. What the hell was I thinking, that I could give this up? It felt as though I’d agreed to have two perfectly healthy and functional limbs lopped off. From that point on, I’d be an emotional amputee.

The silver-haired woman stepped inside and set Natalie’s car seat on the floor next to me. “I’ll be back in an hour,” she said, and Gina thanked her, moving a chair to the corner. She had already told me she couldn’t leave me alone with the girls, that this final visit needed to be supervised. Another reminder of just how unfit a mother I was.

“Where have you been?” Brooke asked, her voice muffled against me. Her small fingers dug into my back. “I missed you so much!”

“I missed you, too,” I said, choking on the words. I looked down at Natalie, who had her big sister’s lavender blanket tucked around her. She’d already changed so much, just in a month. She was bigger, and had more wisps of light blond hair. Her cheeks were rounder and more pink than I’d ever seen, and she had even sprouted two teeth along her lower gums. As soon as she saw me, she began to cry, wriggling under the constraints of the harness. I leaned over, still holding Brooke, and with one hand managed to unhook her and lift her up to my lap with her sister. My girls, I thought. My sweet, innocent girls.

“I want to leave,” Brooke said when she finally looked up and around the room. She sniffled. “I don’t want to stay here.”

“It won’t be for very long,” I told her. “We just get to visit for a little while.”

“And then we get to leave,” Brooke said, her dark eyebrows scrunched together with determination.

“Yes,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask if we would go to the same place. I kissed the top of her head again, as well as Natalie’s. “How are you, sweetheart? Are you okay? Is the house you’re staying at nice?” Brooke shrugged, but didn’t answer, so I tried again. “Why does Natalie have your blanket?”

“So she won’t cry,” Brooke whispered.

“Wow,” I said, and my jaw trembled. “What a good big sister you are.”

“I have my own bed at Rose and Walter’s house,” she said. “And Nat-ly has a real crib. With a mattress and everything.” She had reverted to using her baby voice, transforming her little sister’s name into two syllables instead of three, something she only did when she was truly upset.

“Oh,” I said, hating that my daughter saw having a mattress as a luxury. “That must be so nice.” I paused. “Do you like Rose and Walter?”

Brooke nodded, slowly, looking a bit unsure.

“It’s okay, baby,” I said, sensing she was worried she might be hurting my feelings. “I’m happy you like them. I want you to have good things.”

Brooke visibly relaxed. “They have lots of toys. And food, too.” She babbled on for a while about all the different things Rose cooked for them, and which ones she liked the most. I listened as best I could, jiggling Natalie with one arm while encircling Brooke with the other, but there was a siren blasting in my head, causing my thoughts to blur. Someone else is feeding them. Someone else is picking out their clothes and kissing them good night. I will never get to do that again. I’ve lost them. My eyes glossed with tears.

“Where have you been?” Brooke asked me, jerking me out of my thoughts. “Why haven’t you come get us?”

I stole a glance at Gina, who gave me an encouraging nod. “Well,” I began, then cleared my throat. “I’ve been here, sweetie. I can’t come get you. Mama made some big mistakes.”

“But I want you to. I don’t even care if we have to go camping. I want to be with you.”

“I want that, too,” I said, wishing I knew the right thing to say. Wishing I could soothe her. “A judge said that Mama has to be in here while you stay with Rose and Walter.”

“Like when I have to be in time-out?” Brooke asked, and I nodded. Gina had told me earlier that Brooke was too young to understand if I tried to explain what was really happening, that she’d do better if I just hugged her and kissed her and told her I loved her so much. “She’ll adjust,” Gina said. “She’ll figure it out.”

“Hey,” I said, thinking distraction would be the best way to change the subject. “Want to read a story?” I nodded in the direction of the corner with the basket of toys, where a small stack of tattered books rested on the floor.

A few moments later, I had both girls in my lap as I read to them, cherishing the feeling of their small, warm bodies pressed against me. Brooke covered both herself and Natalie with her blanket, her fingers working the satin trim for comfort, as I knew they would. I read them all the silly, meaningless stories, and then we read them again. I asked Brooke to point out different colors and letters as we went and let Natalie pat the pages with her chubby starfish hands. Will they remember this? I wondered. Will this moment be something that lives inside them the way I know it will live inside me?

As the hour passed, I stared at my daughters, determined to etch every detail of them into my brain. I memorized where Brooke’s hair parted—on the right, her shiny dark curls sprouting out of her scalp like springs. The exact shade of her eyes, the way her nose turned up, just at the end. The cinnamon freckles sprinkled across her cheeks. I kissed all of Natalie’s fingers and toes, blowing raspberries into her belly to hear her giggle one last time. I looked into her brown eyes, seeing my own gaunt reflection there. Don’t forget me, I thought. Please. Don’t forget how much I love you.

All too soon, the door opened, and the silver-haired woman reappeared. “Hour’s up,” she said, and Gina and I both stood. Shaking, I held Natalie against the left side of my chest, feeling the rapid, sweet beat of her heart against mine. Brooke clung to my right leg, pressing her face into my thigh, away from the woman. Every cell inside my body screamed the word no.

“Time to say good-bye,” Gina said, quietly.

I felt a thousand pinpricks inside my lungs. Do it quick, I thought. Rip off the Band-Aid. I squatted down to Brooke’s level, which forced her to let go of my leg. “Hey, pumpkin,” I said. “I’m so happy I got to see you.”

“I don’t wanna go,” Brooke said, her eyes shiny with tears. “Please, Mama. I wanna stay with you.”

My bottom lip quivered, and I bit it. “I know you do. But it’s against the rules.” I paused. “I love you more than anything. You know that, right?” She nodded, pushing her face into my neck. I could feel her tears.

“Here,” the silver-haired woman said. “Let me take the baby.” She took a step over toward us, and that’s when Brooke screamed, lashing out her arm to hit the woman on the knee.

“Brooke!” I said, unable to keep back my own tears. “You know better than that. It’s not okay to hit!” Natalie began to cry, too, and I held her tighter.

“It’s fine,” the woman said, holding out her arms for Natalie.

I stood up, and I couldn’t help it—I took a step back, twisting at the waist so Natalie was out of the woman’s reach. Even though I knew I’d agreed to all of this, I felt a fierce need to protect my baby. I wanted to grab both my daughters and run.

Gina appeared at my side. “Jennifer,” she said. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

I looked at her, the pain I felt dripping down my cheeks, until I finally relented, first peppering Natalie’s face with kisses before I handed her over. “It’s time for you to go, honey,” I said to Brooke, again dropping down to her level. I hugged her tightly, cupping the back of her head with my palm. “I’m so happy you came to see me. Be a good girl and take care of your sister.” My heart felt ragged and torn—sawed in two.

“Come on, sweetie,” Gina said, carefully extricating Brooke from my embrace. “Say good-bye to your mom.”

“Noooo!” Brooke cried, squirming as violently as she could, the way I’d taught her to get away from a stranger.

“It’s okay, baby,” I said through my tears. “You’re going to be fine, I promise. You’re going to be okay.” I tried to reassure her—and myself.

Brooke struggled against Gina as the other woman lifted the car seat, where she’d harnessed Natalie once again, even as my younger baby shrieked.

“I’ll be right back,” Gina said. “I’m just going to help them out to the car.”

A male guard stood at the door, holding it open as they began to leave. A jagged sob ripped through me. “I love you both so much,” I said. “Don’t forget your mommy loves you!”

“Mama, please!” Brooke screamed as Gina took her into the hallway. Her voice echoed and bounced, shooting through me like arrows as I stood alone in the room. “I want my mama!” she cried, over and over again. Her tears were razors, slicing open my skin.

“Wait!” I said, rushing toward the door, only to have the guard grab me.

“Back up, inmate,” he said, as I pushed against his strong arm, straining so I could see my girls one last time.

“Mama loves you!” I cried out again, but Brooke had stopped talking by then, dissolved into an indecipherable auditory tangle of screams and tears. I leaned hard against the guard’s arm, staring at the backs of the silver-haired woman and Gina as they walked down the hall. The last thing I saw was the flash of Brooke’s lavender blanket, and then my daughters turned a dark corner and were gone.

•  •  •

The next few days passed by in a blur.

I remembered Gina hugging me when she returned to the room, murmuring words too dull and meaningless to help. I remembered stumbling back to my bunk, the other inmates calling out names like “pussy” and “fucking crybaby,” none of them knowing the magnitude of what I’d just lost.

I remembered feeling like I wanted to die.

I spent my days curled fetal on top of the scratchy gray blanket on my bed, fists tucked up under my chin, my face shoved into the pillow. Sobs racked my body, and I wept what felt like an endless stream of tears. Every time it seemed like I might stop, that I could control my grief, my sharp, hiccupping breaths, it would rise back up, washing over me in a wave with a violent undertow, pulling me down, down, and down. My babies’ faces haunted me. Their cries echoed through my bones.

The only relief I found was in the blissful, dark comfort of sleep. I fought waking as best I could, closing my eyes and attempting to force myself back into an unconscious world. A world where I wasn’t in jail, where I hadn’t just given up my children. Hours went by, then days. I didn’t shower, I didn’t eat. I used the bathroom only when I absolutely had to. The correctional officers on each shift tried to talk to me, tried to make me rise from my bed, but I swatted them away. “Please,” I croaked. “Just leave me alone.”

I wasn’t sure how, but word of what I’d gone through made its way around to the other inmates, and I started to feel the occasional pat on my back, to hear a soft voice saying, “It’s okay, girl. You did the right thing.” The compassion in their voices only brought up a fresh round of tears, the desire to spiral deeper into despair.

“You need to get up,” one of them said. She sat on the edge of my bunk, the weight of her causing me to roll over. “You need to eat.”

“No,” I said, opening my eyes just enough to see the woman trying to rouse me. She was tall and thin, with braided blond hair and ice-blue eyes. Her long, bony fingers squeezed my arm.

“You think you’re the only one in here with a sad situation?” she said. “Please, mama. I know you feel like shit, but you need to get up.”

“I can’t,” I whispered. The marrow in my bones felt as though it had hardened into lead, pinning me to my thin mattress. I tried to move away from her, but she pulled me over onto my back, forcing me to meet her steely gaze. Her skin was almost translucent; I could see the thin blue rivers of veins in her long neck.

“Yeah,” she said, “you can.” She sighed. “You want your girls finding out you let yourself die? That the story you want to give them to carry around the rest of their lives?”

Her words tore through me like a knife. I hadn’t thought past the moment I was in, the sharply barbed agony I felt. I hadn’t considered the possibility that someday, wherever they might end up, my girls might want to find out what happened to me.

“Come on,” she said. “You can do this.”

And so I let her put an arm around my shoulders, helping me to sit up. My head spun, and I had to close my eyes again so I wouldn’t pass out. My tongue was dry as sand; it stuck like Velcro to the roof of my mouth. She handed me a Dixie cup full of water and told me to drink. After I complied, I looked at her again. “Thanks,” I said.

“No problem.” She smiled, revealing horribly crooked, crowded teeth. “I’m Peters.”

“Walker,” I said. I’d made the mistake of introducing myself as Jennifer the first night I was here, only to learn that inmates all called each other by their last names. Now, I swallowed the rest of the water in the cup and felt the shrunken, dried-out cells of my body beg for more.

“What they get you for?”

“Petty theft,” I said, and then had to steady my voice before going on. “Child endangerment and neglect.” I dropped my eyes to the cement floor. “What about you?”

“Armed robbery.” She paused. “How long did you get?”

“Fifteen months,” I said.

“Headed to Skagit after this?”

I nodded. My public defender had explained that I’d stay in county lockup until a bunk opened up at the minimum-security women’s correctional facility in Mt. Vernon. With good behavior, he told me, I could be out in less than a year. Out to do what? I wondered. Beg for enough money to survive?

“Me, too,” she said. “Seven years.”

“Sorry,” I said, fiddling with the hem of my bright orange shirt.

“Don’t be,” Peters said. “Ain’t nobody’s fault but my own. And the worthless asshole boyfriend who talked me into it.” She stood, and then helped me get to my feet, too. “Here,” she said, handing me a granola bar. “Eat this, then hit the shower. No offense, but you don’t smell too good.”

“Sorry,” I said again.

“Stop apologizing. Jesus.”

“Okay.” Still feeling numb, I unwrapped the granola bar and forced myself to take a bite. It felt like dirt in my mouth, but I managed to swallow it, then finished the entire thing. My stomach rumbled in appreciation. Peters reached under my bunk and handed me a thin, white terry-cloth towel and a flimsy plastic comb.

“Good luck getting through that black rat’s nest with this,” she said. I lifted my hand to touch my hair, only to discover she was right—after days on my pillow, my curls had matted into a dreadlocked mess. Brooke’s hair had often ended up like this when we slept in the car; it took half a bottle of detangler and over an hour with a wide-toothed comb to smooth it again. I’d tell her stories and sing her songs to distract her from the yanking at her scalp, and now, the thought of holding her so close made me want to climb right back into bed.

Peters spoke again. “I’ll see if I can find you some conditioner.”

“Thanks,” I said, pushing down the urge I felt to collapse.

“You’re welcome. Now do us all a favor and go wash off that stink.”

As weak as I was, I managed to shuffle to the bathroom, unsure if once I was there, I’d have the energy or inclination to get myself clean. I supposed that I could. I could do it like I’d have to do everything from now on—forcing each movement, each breath into my lungs. Putting one foot in front of the other until someday, I’d find a way to be far, far away from this pain.