If I Had Two Lives

by A B Whelan

  She shakes her head. “I know what we did was wrong, Victoria. There are no excuses, but I was young, twenty-five years old when it happened. I wanted to report it, but James told me that if we went to the police, his business would lose all credibility. He told me that if his business went bankrupt, then everyone would lose their jobs. I worked with married couples, and families relying on the paycheck from the care facility. We thought that handling the situation in-house was the best option for everyone.” As if a sweet memory came to her, Mom’s face lights up with a shade of pink. “We painted Emma’s room with colorful flowers and cute animals. It was beautiful. She loved it. She was never left alone again. There was music in her room, and someone was always with her, reading her books and showing her magazines. She was happy. We made her happy. That much, I do know.”

  The ball in my throat was growing larger, and tears pushed against my eyes. My chest rose and fell rapidly with my ragged breathing. That poor girl was my mother, my real mother. I’d never get to hug or kiss her, and she never had a chance to hug or kiss me.

  “Why is the rapist behind bars now?”

  “When we found out that he was the one who had been assaulting Emma, I wanted justice. We didn’t report the crime, so my boss’s brother was never charged for what he did, but I couldn't live with that. So, James cut a deal with his brother. He’d go to prison for grand theft auto, and in exchange, he would give up his children. Angus agreed. He spent almost two years in prison for stealing a significant amount of money from the nursing home, which, of course, never happened. When he got out, he wanted money and James paid him to disappear. After that, we didn’t hear from him for years.”

  Mom blows her nose and continues. “When you and Blake were ten, James died in a terrible beach accident. Angus came back to town for the funeral and sought me out during the service. He said he wanted more money. I told him no. I tried to stay away from him, but he cornered me at the reception. He told me how cute you looked and how much you resembled Emma. He was a disgusting human being. He said the statute of limitation for rape is ten years in California, and he could no longer be prosecuted for the crime. He wanted his children back.”

  I feel my whole world collapsing around me. “Please don’t tell me you paid that criminal.”

  Mom bobs her head. “We did. We had no choice. He was going to tell you who he was and threatened us that he’d go public.”

  “And you believed him?”

  Mom wipes her nose. “We didn’t want to let him hurt you. We loved you so much.”

  I lean forward and embrace the woman who raised me, who is my mother in nearly every sense of the word. As I hold her, she soaks my shoulder with warm tears and tightens her arms around me with all her might.

  I kiss her head. “I love you too.” I weep with her.

  Heather opens the door on us. “Is everything okay?” She finds us cuddling on the ground and envelops us in her arms. “I’m sorry, Vicky. I’m so, so sorry!” she cries. “Dad told us everything. I love you so much. I even forgive you for spilling spaghetti sauce on that stupid shirt I loved.” It was the longest grudge Heather ever held against me when we were kids. “You are my sister, you’ll always be my sister.”

  I push away from the group hug and wipe my face with my hands, then smooth back my hair and clamp it with a clip.

  “Do you know where Blake is?” I ask my mother.

  She shakes her head. “We tried to keep the two of you separated. We feared you to would develop a special twin-like relationship if you spent time together. In the long run, that would have made it harder on both of you. Then after James’ death, I completely lost touch with the family.”

  “He was abused,” I say, straight-faced. “After his dad, this James Sullivan died, his wife passed away too, and Blake was bounced from foster home to foster home. He was neglected. Pimped out. Used. How could you stand by and let that happen?”

  Mom covers her face with her hand as if this is new to her. “I didn’t know,” she admits breathlessly. “I swear.”

  “How could you not know? You worked for Sullivan!”

  “I did. But James sold his business a year after Emma was taken off life support. He couldn’t face that place any longer. I left a year after James, when I was pregnant with you, Heather.” She smiles at my sister. “We didn’t keep in touch. It was too difficult to face each other.”

  “You should have looked out for Blake. Or at least checked on him after his parents died—I mean adopted parents.” My chest tightens at the vivid images my imagination conjures up about Blake’s suffering in childhood. I feel the darkness coming for me, and I want to hurt someone or something. Someone needs to pay for what they did to my brother. I feel a deep and intense hatred against the world. I want justice for him. I want him to know that I wasn’t there for him before, but I’m here for him now. “You should have protected him.”

  “I understand how you feel, Victoria—”

  “Do you? I don’t think you do.”

  “I was young and naive. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

  “And where was Dad in all this?”

  “He supported me fully.”

  I scoff. “Of course, he did. Deception comes easy for him.”

  Mom’s eyes shrink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You guys want me to order a pizza or something?” Dad appears in the hallway, holding his phone.

  “How can you think about food right now?” Heather reprimands him.

  “No, Heather, he’s right.” I stand up and take a deep, cleansing breath. “I need to eat something before I pass out from low blood sugar. I haven’t eaten anything today.”

  “I’ll go and make that tea now, all right, sweetheart?”

  “Sounds good, Mom. But before you go, you need to tell me where my … my … that man is incarcerated and why.” I refuse to call that evil man “my father” and I never will.

  “After he was released from prison … around 1988, he … he kidnapped and raped young girls. The police eventually caught him and prosecuted him.”

  “Fuck!” I blurt out, my last shred of faith in my mother dispersing into the air. “I hope you know that you and Sullivan are responsible for this.”

  My mom’s lips quiver. “You think I don’t know that?! Don’t you think I blame myself and live with that every freaking day?!”

  “Who’ll tell that to the victims and their families?” I check the time on my phone. Three text messages from Anaya. I ignore them. “Where is he now?”

  “Last time I heard, he was in a correctional facility in Banning, off the I-10 east of Riverside.”

  “I know the place,” I say, astonished. “It’s the same prison Blake did time.”

  28

  My headache subsides after eating some of the pizza my dad ordered, and my motivation to find Blake switches into a higher gear. Since I’ve learned about my brother’s existence from my chief at the FBI, it’s been a roller-coaster of emotions for me, from denial to shame to anger. At first, I wanted to find Blake to clear my name and restore my integrity at work. But now my sole focus is on bringing him into our family. He needs to know he is not alone and has a family that cares. I can’t turn back time or right the wrongs he’s suffered, but I sure as hell can prevent history from repeating.

  As I drive along the I-15 to the prison in Banning to meet my biological father, my hands clench the steering wheel hard. All I can think about is my brother being alone in this world, having lost hope in humanity. His father is a rapist. His mother was a helpless young woman who passed away before her time. His adopted parents were liars and cheaters. His aunt a trailer-trash crackhead who neglected him. His foster parents pimped him out. The system failed him. How can someone remain emotionally stable and push forward in life with that kind of bleak past? He might be living on the streets, doping to stay high because that’s the only thing that can help him to keep the dreadful thoughts and memories out of his head. Without a stable home
environment that could have helped him to earn a higher level of education and without financial support from his family, I doubt he’s crawled far out of the hole he’s been pushed into his entire life.

  My breathing becomes shallow as I consider Blake’s life options. It could have easily been me in his shoes. Why wasn’t it me? Who chose the two lives for us? Fate? God? Coincidence?

  The ringing of my phone brings me back to the present. Anaya’s calling. I answer the call knowing that I’m not in any condition to make excuses this time.

  “Hey there, stranger, where are you?”

  “I’m driving.”

  “Are you coming back?”

  “Not yet.” I keep my answers short to avoid lying.

  “Do you need me to cover for you?” she sounds disappointed.

  “If you don’t mind. Just a little while longer.”

  “I hope everything’s grand. You shouldn’t be alone after last night. We all need help releasing pressure sometimes, or we’ll implode.”

  “I’m not alone, but thanks for your concern.” I sound way too formal, but I didn’t expect her to bring up Doug. To be honest, I wasn’t thinking about him or last night at all. The brain works in mysterious ways.

  Anaya doesn’t get the hint and keeps beating the dead horse. “I don’t understand why Doug would risk losing you? For what, a one-night stand? Do you know the bird?”

  It’s not easy holding in several secrets. You can try to bury them or pretend they don’t matter, but the dark secrets remain and spread like poison, rotting you from the inside. They are like cancer, growing and eating away the healthy parts of you. And like the chemotherapy that kills the healthy cells along with the cancerous ones, when you try to eradicate your toxic secrets, it will destroy another part of you as well.

  “It wasn’t some random bird. Doug cheated on me with a guy,” I blurt out, feeling instantaneously relieved. The anonymity of a phone call has its advantages. A face-to-face confession would have been harder, even impossible for me.

  A long silence ensues, then my partner’s voice comes through weak and unsure. “Bloody hell! I don’t know what to say. He cheated on you with a bloke?”

  I don’t know what I expect Anaya to say. What do you tell a friend who finds out her husband or boyfriend is playing for the other team? We live in a world where we are encouraged to do what we feel, be selfish, enjoy our lives as we see it fit, even if we hurt others, especially loved ones. Sacrifice and delayed gratification seem like ancient philosophies. So, even if I consider myself the victim here, I don’t have the social acceptance to ask for sympathy.

  I clear my throat. “You don’t need to say anything.”

  “This is mental. Where are you going?”

  “Don’t worry I’m not going to do anything stupid to Doug.”

  “That’s not why I was asking. But now that you brought it up. Are you going to do something stupid?”

  I chuckle in desperation. “You don’t need to worry about me. Doug is the least of my concerns right now.”

  “Okay. Tell me where you are? I’ll meet you.” I can hear the panic in Anaya’s voice, and her concern for me is weakening me. It makes me soft. And now, when the truth is clawing its way out of my throat, I don’t have the energy to push it back.

  “I’m on my way to Banning to see my father at the Larry Smith Penitentiary.”

  Once again, my statement leaves my friend at a loss for words, so I continue. “My real father. The one who raped my mother thirty-five years ago.”

  “Fuck me! And here I thought that my relationships were a cock-up.”

  “Funny how a few weeks ago I thought my life was on the right track. Look at me now. My whole life went to shit.”

  Sirens echo through the dry, hot air stretching over the Interstate. I can’t see the emergency lights, but I pull over to the side of the road.

  “What’s happening?!” Anaya screams into the phone. “Are you in danger?”

  I spot the flashing red lights of a fire truck in my rearview mirror.

  “Don’t worry, they aren’t coming for me. I’m not doing anything stupid. Right now, I’m on a mission to dig up the truth about my past. This morning I found out my mother is not my real mother and the man I’ve called ‘Dad’ my entire life is not my real dad. My birth mother was a young woman in a vegetative state, and my father was a fat-piece-of-shit loser who raped her at the long-term care facility she resided.” My voice buckles at the end. I will never be comfortable talking about this.

  “Oh, God, Vicky!” Anaya moans over the phone. “You found out about this all today?”

  I suck my nose because I don’t have a tissue. “I did. Great week I’m having, right?” I say, trying to joke my pain away.

  Once the fire engine passes me, I pull back onto the road.

  “You’re going to see this man right now?”

  “That’s the plan. I want to look that disgusting pig in the eye and ask him how he could have done something so horrendous.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Maybe you shouldn’t go alone. How far are you from San Marcos? I could take Brestler’s car and meet you there.”

  “I appreciate your offering, Anaya, but you have a serial killer to hunt. I promise I’ll join you as soon as I can. But I need to find my brother first, my twin brother. It’s how this whole thing began. A DNA analysis made the connection during my routine background check at the office. The chief suspended me because he thought I was purposely lying about having a brother with a criminal record.”

  “Bloody fucking hell! I need to sit down because I’m about to lose my shite. Jesus, Vicky.”

  “Oh, yeah, did I forget to mention that this co-called brother of mine is a criminal? He did some time for physically assaulting a woman, then he fell off the face of the earth about a decade ago, after he was released from prison.” It feels awkwardly empowering and refreshing to talk to someone about my family’s history. Somehow, I know everything will be okay because I’m no longer alone in this mess.

  “The prints you gave me. Are they your brother’s prints? That’s why I’m calling. We ran them through in three different databases but didn’t get a match.”

  “Geez, I nearly forgot. No, they aren’t my brother's prints. Those prints were a possible lead I was following for our case.” I don’t know why I lie again. 'I guess I don’t want to start another chapter of Victoria Collins’s A Series of Unfortunate Events (In this story, not only is there no happy ending, there are very few happy things in the middle.)

  “Maybe if we find a suspect, we’ll be able to match the print to him, but until then, it won’t be of any help.”

  The news hits me harder than I expected. I would have bet that Tyler had a criminal record. Aggressive and overpowering men like him usually don’t stay off the police radar for long. I should have arrested him when I had the chance. My mother and Sullivan allowed my father to get away with a felony, and he used his second chance to rape more innocent women. If Tyler assaults someone, I’ll be responsible.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  From my immature actions, shame descends on me. I rinse out the bitter taste in my mouth with some lukewarm water. I’ve never been so disappointed with myself.

  I need to refocus my energy if I hope to untangle this mess. I need to let my friend go. “I gotta go, Anaya. I’ll call you later, I promise.”

  “Call me if you need anything, love, all right?”

  “Will do. And hey, if the chief calls about my absence, tell him I’m following up on a lead for our investigation. Would you do that for me?”

  “I got you back, love. Don’t you worry. Just don’t do anything mental, alright.”

  “What do you consider mental?”

  “Not funny, Vicky. I’ll check in with you later. Make sure you answer your mobile! If not, I’ll hunt you down. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I smile. Anaya is getting really good at picking up my American English and mixing it
with her native way of speaking. Though her accent will always give away her country of origin. And her love for tea and ‘biscuits’.

  I disconnect the call as I drive up to the security gate at the prison. It’s a different guard this time, but the same protocol.

  The deputy warden I met last time, who left the message about Gooden on my phone, is on duty today, but he’s stepped out for a meeting with a supplier. His absence is to my advantage. I won’t have to fabricate a story about needing to interview Angus Sullivan.

  A guard escorts me to the same visiting room I met Paul Gooden a few days ago. I take a seat at a table in the farthest corner, facing the door. I want to take my time watching Sullivan shuffle through the room between tables and chairs, his hands and legs bound.

  I spend my time waiting for him by skimming through his file. The man is eighty-six-years old. The fact that life allowed him to reach a ripe old age fills me with rage and what I read in his file just deepens my hatred for him.

  According to the warden’s notes, Sullivan is thriving in prison. The number of inmates under his command is estimated to be between fifty and sixty. He was suspected of being involved in dozens of attacks on prisoners and guards but was never convicted. A true hero I can be proud to call father.

  An alarm blares and the door opens. My throat goes dry with fear, and my palms begin to sweat. It will take all my willpower not to drag this pig across the table and bash his head in for what he did to my birth mother.

  A pale old man walks into the room. A limp in his left leg suggests an old injury. He looks well-fed and healthy but older than what I expected. Translucent, spotted skin stretches across his fat face. His thinning white hair is neatly combed back, like a freshly plowed field.

  At the sight of the withered pathetic man, my anger slowly dissolves, and pity replaces my hate. I understand that him living this long isn’t a blessing; it’s a curse.