Somewhere Out There

by Amy Hatvany

  Her mom stared at Natalie for a moment, then shook her head. “We really only wanted a baby, and were advised that older children tended to have behavioral problems. I didn’t think I could handle something like that. Your father and I thought it would be better for her if she was adopted by someone more experienced. Someone better equipped than us.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Natalie leaned against the kitchen wall, thinking about her mother’s distaste for anything messy, shocked to hear that this predilection had extended to the possible emotional issues of a four-year-old girl. She could have grown up with a sister. She had a sister. Her muscles buzzed; her skin felt too tight for her body. Her mom was silent, her fingers laced together in front of her, waiting for Natalie to continue. When she did, it was with tears in her eyes. “I don’t think I can be here right now.”

  “Sweetie, please,” her mother said, reaching out and touching Natalie’s hand.

  Natalie jerked away. “I need some time to think. I’ll call you.” She grabbed her purse and headed out the door. She knew what her mother had told her was the truth—her parents had only done what they always did—what seemed best for her at the time. In her mother’s mind, Natalie could see how the decision made sense. Chaos upset her, so choosing not to tell Natalie about Brooke likely seemed the right thing to do. Her father tended to go along with whatever kept the peace, whatever kept his wife happy, so he wouldn’t have argued the point.

  But then Natalie thought about Brooke, her sister, who was left alone, separated from the only family she had, and Natalie’s heart squeezed inside her chest. She remembered Hailey at that age, only a few years before, Henry just last year. How vulnerable her children were then, with their delicate feelings and fragile, birdlike bones—how they still needed Natalie so much. What had happened to Brooke? Was she adopted, too? Did she wish she could find Natalie? Did she wonder why Natalie never tried to find her?

  As she sat in her car in front of her parents’ house after having left her mother inside, Natalie’s stomach ached and her thoughts zipped through her brain so quickly she felt dizzy. She wanted to talk with Kyle, to process everything she’d just learned, but she knew he was still in court and a brief recess wouldn’t be enough time for the kind of detailed conversation she needed to have. This wasn’t the sort of news to break to her husband via text. Instead, she decided the best thing she could do was head home and sort out her next steps.

  Once there, Natalie did her best to steady the turmoil she felt and let the skills she’d learned as a lawyer take over. Having a breakdown wasn’t going to help her find her birth mother. She told herself that if Kyle could focus on the facts of a situation, she could, too. She’d just pretend she was researching a case.

  Feeling determined—hungry for more information—she sat down at the kitchen table and lifted the folder out of the box, flipping through it again. There really wasn’t much detail on the pages, mostly legal terminology and discussion of fees paid to the state for the adoption. Her birth mom was referred to as the “surrendering party.” Is that what she had done? Natalie wondered. Surrendered her daughters? Did she surrender her feelings, right along with her rights?

  A moment later, her eyes landed on the name of a social worker, Gina Ortiz. Natalie wondered if this woman could help—if she knew more about the situation than the file held. She got up and grabbed her laptop from the coffee table in the living room. Back at the kitchen table, she turned on the machine, and after it had booted up, she opened the browser, then typed, “Gina Ortiz Washington State social worker” into the search engine. She had no idea how old this woman might be, if she was working or if she’d retired long ago. For all Natalie knew, Gina Ortiz could be dead. But if her days as a lawyer had taught her anything, it was that almost every person left a paper trail. All she would have to do was find Gina’s.

  Natalie scanned the results on the screen. A link to the Washington State Department of Health’s website was the first to come up, so she clicked on it, wondering if there was a list of individual social workers on the site. She found none, so she navigated back to the results page, where she clicked on another link—an association for social workers who were accredited to provide supervision to those new in the profession. But Gina Ortiz was nowhere to be found on the alphabetized list.

  Discouraged, Natalie opened another page and brought up the Department of Health website again, deciding she would just pick up the phone and call them. She pulled her cell phone from her purse, punching in the appropriate numbers. An automated system answered, so Natalie pressed 0, knowing that would at least give her a real person with whom to speak. “I’m looking for a current, or possibly former, social worker,” she explained to the operator. “Her name is Gina Ortiz. I need her address and cell phone, if possible.”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I don’t have access to that information.”

  Natalie hung up, frustrated, and drummed her fingers on the table next to her computer, staring at the screen until another idea struck her. She hit redial on her phone, and waited for the operator to answer again. “Hello,” she said, in a much louder, more nasal voice than the one she’d used on her initial call. “Can you connect me with Shelly Philips, please?” Natalie used a name she had seen on the top of the association of social workers list, where Shelly Philips’s title included lead caseworker at the Department of Health. She would have asked to speak with Human Resources, but Natalie worried privacy laws might prevent them from giving out an employee’s personal information; Gina’s supervisor wouldn’t be held back by the same restrictions.

  “Of course,” the operator said. “I’ll transfer you.”

  “This is Shelly,” a woman’s voice answered.

  “I’m wondering if you can help me,” Natalie said, switching back to her normal voice. “I’m a family law attorney who worked with Gina Ortiz on a custody case, and I’ve lost her contact information. Do you know how I can reach her?”

  “I’m sorry, but Gina retired several years ago.”

  “Oh,” Natalie said. “I didn’t realize. Do you happen to have her forwarding information? I need to touch base with her on some specifics of the case. It’s being revisited by the court.”

  “Are you sure I can’t help you?”

  “I’m sure,” Natalie said. “She was well acquainted with the guardian ad litem, so I really need to speak directly with her.”

  “Let me see what I have on file,” Shelly said. Natalie heard the clacking of the other woman’s fingers on her keyboard, and before she knew it, Shelly was reciting Gina Ortiz’s phone number.

  “Thank you so much,” Natalie said as she read back the ten digits, to make sure she’d gotten it right. “I appreciate it. Have a great day.” She hung up, feeling more than a little pleased with herself. Then, after opening another page on her browser, Natalie punched Gina’s name and phone number into a reverse directory and came up with her current address, which she jotted down, as well.

  Staring at the numbers, she debated whether or not she should call Gina, or if she should just show up at the woman’s front door. What if she slammed the door in her face? Natalie wondered.

  But then again, what if she didn’t?

  • • •

  Natalie’s cell phone buzzed just as she pulled into the parking lot of the Shady Palms apartment complex in Des Moines, where Gina Ortiz lived. It was an older collection of buildings, likely built in the seventies, with cedar roofing and painted like a cake—chocolate siding with chocolate trim. “Hey, babe,” she said when she answered the call, after seeing Kyle’s name and picture pop up on her screen.

  “Hey,” her husband said. “I only have a few minutes, but I wanted to check in. Are you and your mom okay?”

  Even though Natalie would have preferred to have this conversation in person, she gave her husband an abbreviated account of the morning’s revelations along with her current whereabouts.

  “Holy shit,” he said when she’d finished
. “You have a sister.”

  “I know,” Natalie said, feeling like she might cry. “I can’t believe they kept it from me.”

  “I can.”

  “Kyle,” Natalie said, feeling another flash of irritation. His negative thoughts about her parents’ behavior were the last thing she needed right now; she was having enough difficulty dealing with her own.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It just doesn’t seem right that they waited so long to tell you.”

  “I know,” Natalie repeated. “But we can talk about that later? I want to find out what I can from the social worker.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Maybe you should take more than a minute to digest all of this.”

  “I’m not sure about anything,” Natalie said. “But I do know I’ll drive myself crazy if I wait. Hailey’s going to Ruby’s house for a playdate and Henry’s going to Logan’s. I’ve got until five o’clock.” Natalie’s plan to spend the afternoon working had evaporated; par-baking mini–chocolate lava cakes and making fresh lemon curd to fill bite-size tarts didn’t seem important. She’d stay up all night finishing the order if she had to.

  “The woman might not even be here,” Natalie told Kyle. She had thought of this possibility on the drive over, but banked on the likelihood that since the social worker was retired, she’d be home.

  “Okay,” Kyle said. “I have to get back to work. Text me and let me know what happens, okay? I love you.”

  “Love you, too,” Natalie said. They hung up, and Natalie’s belly twisted. She wondered what she would do if Gina didn’t remember anything about the situation. It had been thirty-five years, after all.

  “Only one way to find out,” Natalie muttered as she yanked the keys from the ignition and opened the driver’s side door. She locked the car, glancing at the letters on the buildings, eventually landing on the large letter D painted on a sign. She strode across the lot, entered the building, and even though there was an elevator, used the stairs to reach the third floor. Standing in front of the unit labeled D-302, Natalie hesitated, then raised her hand and knocked.

  “Coming!” a woman’s voice called out. A second later, the door swung open and Gina Ortiz stood before Natalie. She was a heavy woman, and had wavy, shoulder-length hair that looked as though it had once been black but was now a peppery shade of gray. Her caramel skin was etched with a map of deep-cut lines, and she wore a colorful, bold-print caftan that skimmed the round shape of her upper body. “Can I help you?” she asked, appraising Natalie with a skeptical look.

  “Are you Gina Ortiz?” Natalie said, in a rush.

  The older woman’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she said, in a manner that made it clear she was wary. “You’re not trying to sell me something, are you? There’s a ‘no soliciting’ sign downstairs.”

  “No, no,” Natalie said. “Not at all.” She gave the woman what she hoped was a friendly smile. “I’m so sorry to bother you at home, and I’m not even sure where to start, exactly, but I literally just discovered that you were the social worker on my adoption. I also found out I have a sister I didn’t know existed. I’m here to see if you can help me find some answers.”

  “I don’t know,” Ms. Ortiz said, drawing out the words.

  “Please,” Natalie said, and her eyes filled with tears. She hoped the woman wouldn’t turn her away—that it would be obvious how much Natalie needed her help.

  Ms. Ortiz’s expression relaxed. She stood to the side, pulled the door farther open, and gestured for Natalie to enter.

  “Thank you,” Natalie said, and then introduced herself. Stepping inside the apartment, she was instantly reminded of Christmas—the air was scented with cinnamon and the living room decorated in bold shades of red and green. The walls were covered with ornate gold picture frames, filled with images of laughing children and family gatherings. It made Natalie feel better, somehow, that Gina had had children of her own. That she might fully understand what it was Natalie’s birth mother had chosen to give away.

  “Have a seat,” Ms. Ortiz said. She settled her body into a large, worn-in leather recliner, and Natalie sat on the red velour couch on the other side of the coffee table, perching on its edge, keeping her posture ramrod straight.

  “I really appreciate this,” she said. “I’m still in shock over the whole thing, to tell you the truth.” Her hands shook, so she clutched her fingers together in her lap.

  “Please, call me Gina,” she said. “And you’re in shock over being adopted or finding out you have a sister?” Natalie quickly clarified. “I see. Why don’t you tell me a little about what you do know, and I’ll see if I can help.”

  Natalie nodded, wondering where, exactly, she should begin. “I know I was adopted when I was six months old, in November of 1980, after my birth mother surrendered her parental rights to the state. I know we lived in her car before she gave me—I mean, us—up. My sister was four.”

  A shadow passed over Gina’s face. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Natalie.” This was it. She was talking to the right person. Gina would tell her what she needed to know.

  “Do you know your sister’s name?”

  Natalie’s heart fluttered in her chest. “It’s Brooke. Or at least it was. I suppose her adoptive parents could have changed it.”

  “She was never adopted,” Gina said. Her voice was quiet. “Poor girl.”

  “You remember us?” Natalie’s pulse quickened and a few tears escaped her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. She felt as though she was teetering on the edge of a precipice, about to dive off.

  “I do,” Gina said. “Your sister ended up staying at Hillcrest more often than in foster homes.” She shook her head. “I just couldn’t find her the right fit.”

  “Hillcrest?” Natalie asked.

  “It’s a state-run facility in South Seattle,” Gina explained. “Temporary for some kids, a permanent home for others. You were there almost a month before your parents adopted you.” She folded her hands over the expanse of her belly. “But Brooke was there for the better part of fourteen years. I was her case manager.”

  “Oh my god.” Natalie’s jaw dropped as she tried to imagine what that kind of existence would be like—what damage it could have done to a child. “Was she . . . what happened?”

  “Well, she got into a bit of trouble when she was younger. She had a hard time accepting her circumstances. For a few years, she was certain her mother would come back to get her, and that, along with her behavioral issues, made it difficult to find her an adoptive family or even a foster home that would keep her very long.”

  “How awful,” Natalie said, feeling as though awful was too weak a word to describe what her sister had gone through. Again, her mind flew to Hailey and Henry, how they might have reacted if they lost the only family they knew—if Hailey had spent four years living in a car and then was sent to live with strangers, wondering where her mother had gone. The idea of her daughter being a victim of a situation like that—picturing her curled up in a narrow bed of a group home with no one there to comfort her—made Natalie feel as though she might be ill.

  All of those years Natalie thought she was an only child. All of those times she wished she had someone to talk to, someone to play with, and Brooke was somewhere out there, alone, like Natalie. Having read every child development book she could get her hands on when she was pregnant with Hailey, Natalie knew that infants under six months old can recognize their mother’s smell and their family members’ voices and faces. It was a significantly different kind of memory than recalling specific events or conversations—something that happened in the deep, primal part of a person’s brain—but Natalie couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps her psyche had been imprinted with her sister’s shadow. Maybe her subconscious knew the feeling of her sister well enough to miss her after she was gone.

  “She had a tough time of it for a while,” Gina said, interrupting the thoughts crowding Natalie’s mind. “But as she got a little older and lea
rned how the system worked, she did her best to follow the rules. I think she believed if she did everything right, she’d find a family, too. Unfortunately, most foster parents who are looking to adopt prefer babies or younger children.” She frowned. “It broke her heart when you two were separated, but she refused to talk about it with anyone. Even me. She internalized everything, and mostly tended to keep to herself.”

  Natalie thought about how shy she’d been as a child, wondering briefly if she and Brooke shared this trait because of their genes, or the way each of them was raised. “Do you know what happened to her?” Natalie asked. “After she left Hillcrest?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t,” Gina said. “But her last name was Walker.”

  “The same as my birth mother’s?” Natalie asked.

  “I can’t tell you that,” Gina said. “The records are sealed, so disclosing any part of your birth mother’s name would require a court order. The same restriction doesn’t apply in the case of siblings.”

  Natalie took a moment to digest this bit of information. She’d visited Gina in order to gather the kinds of details that might help her find her birth mother, but now it was clear that Brooke was the one Natalie should try to locate first. “What about our father?” she asked. “The paperwork listed him as unknown, but can you tell me anything about him?”

  Gina looked at her a moment before responding. “You and Brooke had different fathers,” she finally said.

  “Oh.” Natalie felt a little disappointed. We’re half sisters, then, she thought. But sisters, nonetheless. “Do you know anything about mine?”

  “Only that your mother didn’t know his name,” Gina said, not unkindly, but the words still stung. Natalie’s father was some random stranger, a person she’d never know anything about. She wasn’t planned, she wasn’t wanted. No wonder her birth mother gave her up. Natalie swallowed hard and tried to focus.

  “Do you have any suggestions of where I should look for my sister?” she asked, after she’d had a moment to compose her thoughts.