A Different Blue

Chapter Twenty-Seven





We flew this time. No long, eight-hour road trip each way. I was no longer pregnant and under doctor's orders not to fly. Wilson said driving took too long, and there was no reason to torture ourselves. I think he was more anxious to get there than I was. I fluctuated between anxiousness and nausea.

We had contacted both the lab and Detective Moody and told them we were coming. Detective Moody had offered to meet us at the airport, which surprised me. I didn't think that was standard procedure and said as much. He was quiet for a moment and then replied, his voice laced with emotion, “In my line of work, there aren't very many happy endings. So many people suffer, so many people are lost . . . and we never find them. For me, this is a pretty big deal. The whole department is pretty pumped. The Chief said it's a great human interest story, and we have a liason at the Reno Review that is itching for an interview. We will let you decide if that's something you are interested in. I did call Detective Bowles out of professional courtesy, and let him know that we got a match. He was pretty excited, too.”

I said nothing, not wanting to deflate his genuine enthusiasm, but I knew I wouldn't be talking to any reporters. Like a child with a long-awaited gift, I wasn't ready to unwrap my story and immediately pass it along like it had little worth. There was a time to share and a time to savor. I needed to hold my story, examine it, understand it. Then maybe someday, when it wasn't so fresh and raw, when some of the shine and newness had worn off, when I understood not just what but why . . . maybe then I'd be willing to share. But not now.

Las Vegas had already embraced spring, but Reno was cold. Wilson and I huddled in our coats, unprepared for the blast of winter air that met us as we walked to our rental car. We had refused the police escort, deciding we would need our own wheels though we didn't expect to be in Reno long. The answers were there waiting for us. There would be no searching. My life, my history, would be laid out before me like a movie script . . . complete with crime scenes and character descriptions. And like a movie script, none of it seemed real. At least, not until we pulled into the police station. Suddenly action was required. The cameras were rolling, and I didn't know my lines. I was overcome with stage fright, of the strangers in the audience, of the scenes I hadn't studied and couldn't possibly prepare for. And above all, I didn't want Wilson to see me in the spotlight once more, the light unflattering, the story line tragic, violent, and depressing.

“Are you ready, Blue?”

No. No! “Yes,” I whispered, lying, but seeing no way around it. But I couldn't make myself move. Wilson stepped out of the car and came around to my door. He swung it open and offered his hand. When I didn't take it, he leaned in and looked at me intently.

“Blue?”

“I don't want you to come inside. You know too much, Wilson!”

He pressed a kiss to my forhead. “Yes. I know hundreds of things. I think we've discussed this . . . quite recently, actually.”

“What if they tell us something that changes the way you feel about me?”

“What could they possibly say that would change the way I feel about you? You were two years old when your mother left you. Do you think they are going to tell us you were a tiny drug dealer? The world's youngest ever? An assassin maybe? Or . . . oh no! A boy. Maybe you are actually a boy. That would be difficult to adjust to, I confess.”

Laughter bubbled out of me like a yellow balloon, and I clung to that glimmer of brightness Wilson always seemed to inspire in me. I buried my face in the crook between his neck and shoulder, breathing in the smell that was Wilson. Comfort, challenge, and hope all rolled into one clean scent.

“Blue. Whatever we learn will only make me love you more. You're right. I know too much. And because I do, there isn't anything anyone can say that will make me doubt you or the way I feel about you.”

“Okay,” I whispered, and I kissed his neck just above the collar of his coat. He shivered and wrapped his arms around me.

“Okay,” he repeated, a smile in his voice. “Let's go.”





I met Sergeant Martinez, who had been the lead Detective on the case eighteen years ago along with several others who faded into background almost as quickly as they were introduced. Heidi Morgan from the state crime lab was also present, and she, Sergeant Martinez, and Detective Moody proceeded to take us into a room where a large file sat waiting in the center of the table. We took a seat around the file, and Heidi Morgan added a file of her own. Without fanfare, the meeting began.

Heidi went through an explanation of DNA and DNA markers. She showed me a chart comparing my DNA to the DNA of the woman who was my mother. Some of the brief overview was the same information that had been shared with me when they had pulled my DNA months before, only this time they had the results to talk me through.

Heidi looked at me and smiled. “We are certain that you are indeed the biological daughter of a woman named Winona Hidalgo.”

“That was her name?” I repeated it, just to test its impact. “Winona Hidalgo.” I thought maybe it would strike a chord of remembrance, that I would feel something when I heard it. But it was foreign to me, as unremarkable as the name Heidi Morgan or Andy Martinez. It was as if I had never heard it before.

It was Sergeant Martinez's turn to take center stage. He flipped the big file open, and Wilson reached for my hand under the table. I clung to it, breathless.

“Winona Hidalgo was found murdered at the Stowaway Motel on August 5, 1993. At the time of her death she was nineteen years old. In fact, she had just turned nineteen on August the second, three days before.

“She was murdered?” I gasped. I don't know what I'd expected, but it hadn't been murder.

“We found paraphernalia at the scene, and blood work came back that supported drugs in her system, but her purse and her car were missing, and there were contusions to the back of her head. Apparently, Miss Hidalgo had won about five grand from the slots at a local truckstop a couple of days before, and at the time of her death, she had a nice little wad of cash on her. The money ended up getting her killed. From the tox screen, it looks like she was pretty strung out and going for round two. The dealer decided she was easy pickings and took her purse and pounded her head into the nightstand. There wasn't much evidence of a struggle, and we had no witnesses. But we were able to get a visual off a security camera on her car leaving the scene, with a decent look at the driver. The case was pretty cut and dried. Until we found out from extended family that there was a missing child. That's where the case hit a standstill. You had literally vanished into thin air.

“This is a picture of her, taken from her drivers license records, which puts her at about sixteen in this photo.” Detective Martinez slid an 8X10 photo of a smiling girl across the table, and when I let my eyes settle on her face, I saw myself there. Wilson sucked in his breath beside me, and his hand tightened around mine.

“She looks like you, Blue,” he whispered. “The eyes are different, and you have a lighter complexion . . . but the smile and the hair . . . that's you.”

“Yeah. We noticed it right off too, and as a result we were pretty confident when we met with you in October that we had found Winona's baby girl. Of course, we couldn't say anything at the time.” Detective Moody smiled broadly, and I tried to smile back.

Winona Hidalgo's driver's license description said her hair was black and her eyes brown. Her ethnicity was listed as Native American. She was five feet four inches tall and one hundred eighteen pounds. I was taller than she had been but just as slim. I couldn't take my eyes off her. She didn't look evil. She just looked young.

“Initially, we had the notification of death made by local law enforcement, but when the search for the child, uh..when the search for you stalled, Detective Moody and I went and visited with the family personally.”

“I have family?” The churning in my stomach resumed with a vengeance as I felt what little identity I had was being wrenched from my grasping hands.

“You have a grandmother, Stella Hidalgo, who is Winona's mother. You and your mother lived with her until Winona took off with you when you were just shy of two years old. Stella Hidalgo lives in Utah on the Paiute Indian Reservation. We have contacted her, and she is eager to see you.”

“Does my grandmother know who my father is?”

“Yes. Your biological father is a man by the name of Ethan Jacobsen.” Another picture was taken from the file and handed to me. A boy with spiky blonde hair and bright blue eyes stared out, unsmiling. His shoulders were wide and square under a red jersey with a white number 13 displayed proudly on his chest. It looked like a yearbook shot, the kind they take of each football player, where all the guys tried to looker bigger and badder than they really were.

“I've seen that expession before,” Wilson murmured, and when my eyes met his there was tenderness in his gaze. “I saw it the first day I met you. I interpreted it as the 'sod off' look.”

The room grew quiet as everyone seemed to sense I needed a minute to emotionally catch up. Eventually, Detective Martinez resumed speaking.

“According to Ethan Jacobsen, and according to Stella Hidalgo, Ethan wanted nothing to do with Winona when she told him of her pregnancy. His family is on record claiming they begged her to give the baby up for adoption. They did give Winona some money when you were about eighteen months old, which Stella Hidalgo confirmed, but Winona left the area shortly after and none of them ever saw her or you again.

“Ethan Jacobsen is married with kids now, but he did give us a DNA sample back when Winona was found dead and you were declared missing. His DNA was also uploaded into NCIS, and we had it compared to yours as well.”

Heidi Morgan interjected, “Ethan Jacobsen's DNA was also confirmed as being a match with yours, which was why it took us a little longer than I promised to get the results back.”

Detective Moody spoke up again, and his eyes were sober, his smile gone. “As a courtesy, Blue, Mr. Jacobsen has also been contacted, and he has been informed that you were located. He was pretty shaken up, understandably. He did give us his contact information and current address but said any further contact will be up to you.”

I nodded, my head reeling. I knew the names of both of my parents. I knew what they looked like. I had a grandmother. She wanted to see me. There was just one more thing.

“What's my name?”

Detective Martinez swallowed, and Detective Moody's eyes filled up with tears. They both seemed as overwhelmed in the moment as I was.

“The name on your birth certificate is Savana Hidalgo,” Detective Martinez said hoarsely.

“Savana,” Wilson and I breathed together, and it was my turn to be overcome with emotion.

“Savana? Only Jimmy would truly appreciate the irony.” The words trembled on my lips.

Wilson tipped his head in question. I explained, the words catching in my throat as the tears spilled onto my cheeks. “When I was younger, I would pretend my name was Sapana – so close to the name Savana. Sapana is a girl in a Native American story that climbs to the sky and is rescued by a hawk. I always said Jimmy, because of his name, was the hawk and I was Sapana. He always claimed he was more like the porcupine man. I never understood what he meant. I thought he was just being funny. Looking back, he probably felt guilt for not going to the police. I think it must have weighed on him. But I'm not sorry.” I looked from one person to the other, my eyes resting on Wilson at the end. “He was a good father. He didn't hurt my mother or kidnap me –”

“Were you worried he had?” Wilson interrupted gently.

“Sometimes. But then I would remember Jimmy and how he was. It's like you said, Wilson. I knew too much to doubt him. I won't be sorry he chose to keep me with him. Ever. I know it might be hard to understand, but that's the way I feel.”

I was not the only one who needed a minute to compose myself, and we took a brief break to wipe our eyes before Detective Martinez continued.

“You were born on October 28, 1990.”

“Only two days before Melody's birthday,” I remarked, touched once more.

“October 28 was also the day you submitted a DNA sample to find out who you were,” Heidi Morgan offered. “Interesting how things come full circle.”

“I'm twenty-one,” I marveled, and, like most young people, I was pleased that I was older than I had thought.

“But your drivers license still says twenty, so we won't be pub-hopping or hitting the casinoes tonight,” Wilson teased, making everyone chuckle and relieving some of the emotional pressure that had built in the room.

“You are welcome to look at everything in the file. There are crime scene pictures, though, and things you might prefer not to see. The pictures are in the envelopes. Everything we know is in the file. We'll leave you alone for a while if you'd like. Contact information for your grandmother is there, as well as for your father. Your grandmother is still living on the reservation, but your father is in Cedar City, Utah, which isn't all that far from there.”

Wilson and I spent another hour pouring over the contents of the file, trying to get a more complete picture of the girl who had been my mother. There wasn't much to learn. The only thing that struck me was that when my mother's car had been recovered there was a blue blanket in the back seat. It was described as having big blue elephants on a paler blue background, and it was clearly designed for a young child. A picture of it had been tagged as evidence from a possible secondary crime scene.

“Blue.” The word sprang out of me as a sliver of recognition wormed its way to the surface.

“I called that blanket 'blue.'”

“What?” Wilson looked at the picture I was staring at.

“That was my blanket.”

“You called it Blue?”

“Yes. How is it that I remember that blanket but I don't remember her, Wilson?” My voice was steady, but my heart felt swollen and battered, and I didn't know how much more I could take. I pushed the file away and stood, pacing around the room until Wilson stood too and pulled me into his arms. His hands stroked my hair as he talked.

“It's not that hard to understand, luv. I had a stuffed dog that my mother eventually had to pry from my hands because it was so filthy and worn out. He had been washed a hundred times, in spite of the severe warning label on his arse that promised he would disintegrate. Chester is literally in every picture of me as a child. I was extremely attached, to put it mildly. Maybe it was like that for you with your blanket.”

“Jimmy said I kept saying blue . . .” The puzzle piece clicked into place, and I halted midsentence.

“Jimmy said I kept saying 'blue,'” I repeated. “So that's what he called me.”

“That's how you got your name?” Wilson was incredulous, understanding dawning across his handsome face.

“Yes . . . and all the time, I must have just wanted my blanket. You would think she would have left it with me, wrapped it around me when she left me on that front seat. That she would have known how scared I would be, how much I would need that damn blanket.” I pushed away, fighting out of Wilson's arms, desperate to breathe. But my chest was so tight I couldn't inhale. I felt myself cracking, the fissures spreading at lightning speed across the thin ice that I had been walking on my whole life. And then I was submerged in grief, consumed by it. I fought for breath, fought to rise to the surface. But there was lead in my feet, and I was sinking fast.

“You've had enough for today, Blue.” Wilson gathered me against him and pulled the door open, signaling to someone beyond the door.

“She's had all she can take,” I heard him say, and someone else was suddenly there beside me. My vision blurred and darkness closed in. I felt myself being lowered to a chair, and my head was forced between my legs.

“Breathe, Blue. Come on, Baby. Deep breaths,” Wilson crooned in my ear. My head cleared slightly, and the ice in my veins began to thaw the slightest degree. One breath, then several more. When my vision cleared I had only one request.

“I want to go home, Wilson. I don't want to know any more.”





We left the police station with a copy of the file. Wilson insisted I take it, as well as the contact information for people who shared my blood but had never shared my life. I wanted to throw the file out the window as we drove and let the pages spill out across the road and into the Reno night, a hundred pages of a tragic life tossed into the wind so they could be forgotten and never gathered again.

We ate a drive-thru, too weary and subdued to leave the car or even converse. But home was eight hours away and our flight wasn't until 8 the next morning, so we found a hotel and paid for one room for one night. Wilson didn't ask me if I wanted my own. I didn't. But there were two double beds in the room, and as soon as we checked in, I brushed my teeth, pulled off my jeans, and crawled into one, promptly falling asleep.

I dreamed of strings of paper-doll cutouts with my mother's face and blankets in every color but blue. I dreamed I was still in high school, walking through endless hallways, looking for Wilson but instead finding dozens of children who didn't know their names. I came awake with tears on my cheeks and terror writhing in my belly, convinced that Wilson had left Reno while I slept. But he was still there in the bed next to mine, his long arms wrapped around the spare pillow, his tousled hair a dark contrast against the white sheets. Moonlight spilled onto him, and I watched him sleep for a long time, memorizing the line of his jaw, the sweep of long lashes against his lean cheeks, watching his lips as he sighed in his sleep.

Then, without giving myself time to consider my actions, I crept into his bed and curled myself around him, resting my head against his back, wrapping my arms around his chest. I wanted to seal him to me, to fuse him to my skin, to reassure myself that he was actually mine. I pressed my lips against his back and slid my hands up under his T-shirt, pressing my hands against his flat abdomen, stroking upward to his chest. I felt him come awake, and he turned toward me, his face falling into the shadows as he held himself above me. Moonlight limned him in white, and when I reached up and touched his face, he was perfectly still, letting me trace his features with my fingertips, letting me rise up and rain kisses across his jaw, across his closed lids, and finally against his lips. Then, without a word, he pressed me down against the pillows and captured my hands in his. My breath caught in anticipation as he pulled me firmly against his chest, trapping my hands between us.

But he didn't kiss my mouth or run his hands along my skin. He didn't whisper words of love or desire. Instead, he tucked my head beneath his chin and wrapped me in his arms so securely I could hardly move, and he didn't let me go. I lay in stunned surprise, waiting for him to loosen his grip, waiting for his hands to touch, for his body to move against mine. But his arms stayed locked around me, his breathing remained steady, and his body remained still. And there, in the circle of his arms, held so fiercely that there was no room to doubt him or fear his loss, I slept.