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.
“Come on, girl,” I said, after Trixie had eaten her breakfast and I’d poured myself a travel mug full of hot coffee. I pulled on my winter jacket and we headed out the door. Trixie followed voice commands well enough that she didn’t need a leash, but since the law required it, I linked it to her collar and looped the other end loosely around my wrist.
Outside, it was still dark, but clear enough to see the sparkle of stars against the black sky. My right cheekbone and my ribs ached, as they always did when winter came. It was a painful reminder of the beating I’d taken. I had a car—a used, 1983 Nissan Stanza I was finally able to buy last year—but unless it was pouring down rain, I enjoyed walking the ten blocks to work, basking in the utter peace and silence of the early day before the rest of the world woke up.
Once inside the clinic, I locked the door behind me and made my rounds, turning on lights and greeting our patients who had stayed overnight. I issued their meds, loving them up as I did, inquiring as to their well-being. As usual, Trixie went straight to her spot on the dog bed in Randy’s office, where she curled up and settled in for a nap. An hour later, at seven o’clock, Randy arrived. We’d grown to be even better friends since I left prison, and I’d gotten to know his wife, Lisa, too. They had me over to their house for holiday dinners, and celebrated my birthday by taking me out to my favorite Italian restaurant.
I’d asked Randy once, about a year after he spoke to the parole board and helped me get released, what it was that made him do this. Why he was so patient and generous to a woman who had clearly screwed up her life.
I’ll never forget how he looked at me in that moment; I’ll never forget what he said. “Why do you spend time working with rescue dogs? Why are you so patient and generous and kind to these mistreated animals, animals who made mistakes and were written off as worthless and broken?” He paused then, and smiled. “Sometimes, all we need is for someone to believe in us.”
I’d hugged him then, for the first time since the day we met, and with as much gratitude as I could convey. After that, we never spoke of it again. I became just another one of his employees. A member of his family. It was more than I ever thought I’d have.
“We’ve got an emergency coming in,” Randy told me now, as he shrugged off his thick parka and hung it on the hook by the front door. “Got the call about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Anyone we know?” I asked. We had a host of frequent flier clients, owners who panicked the minute their pets showed any sign of unusual behavior. They’d call, freaking out that their dog or cat might have swallowed some kind of poison or sharp object, insisting they needed an emergency appointment. Most of the time, the animals were fine, and it was the owners whom we treated with soothing words and reassurances that their pets would be okay.
“No,” Randy said. “Apparently, this guy just moved here and he saw our after-hours number in the yellow pages, so he called. His dog is lethargic and hot. Sounds like an infection.”
I nodded. “I’ll get the exam room ready.”