Somewhere Out There

by Amy Hatvany

  “I did,” Myer said. “We did, actually.” He nodded toward Randy, who sat there with a close-lipped, smug smile on his face.

  “Okay . . .” I said, drawing out the word. “Is everything all right? Am I losing my work-release privileges?”

  “Not exactly,” Randy said, and again, I looked at him, confused.

  “We brought your case in front of the parole board last week,” Myer said. “And Randy testified on your behalf. As did a few of his employees.”

  “What?” I said. “But . . . my hearing isn’t supposed to be until the end of August. Right?”

  “Yes,” Myer said, “but with what happened, and how well you’ve been doing overall since you started working with Randy, I decided to move it up.”

  “They approved your release,” Randy said with a huge grin. He reached over and squeezed the top of my leg. “You’re getting out today.”

  “What?” I said again. I dropped back against my chair, feeling like all the air had been pushed from my body. My mind immediately flashed back to the last time I’d been released, the bus ride into Seattle, my mother slamming the door in my face, blood running down that little girl’s face. I felt my face flame red, the room began to spin, and I had to close my eyes. “No,” I said, unsure if I’d spoken the word out loud or only in my head, until Randy replied.

  “What do you mean, no?” he asked. “This is great news. You get to leave. You can come work for me full-time. My wife even found a tiny house for rent. We had to sign the lease for you, so we’ll actually be your landlords. But it’s already furnished. You can sleep there tonight. With Trixie. She’s all yours.”

  I shook my head, unable to process what he was telling me. When I finally opened my eyes, both men were staring at me, waiting for me to issue some kind of appropriate response. “The parole board just . . . let me go?” I asked. “Without even talking to me?”

  “With your clean track record in here, plus the testimony of Randy and his employees, you were a shoo-in,” Myer told me. And then he did a rare thing—he smiled, too. “You’ve done great work since you came back, Walker. Hopefully you learned your lesson. I don’t want you here again.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” I whispered. “I can’t believe it.” My head spun with a muddled mix of excitement and dread. Could I do this? Would I be okay on the outside this time around? I’d have a job. I’d have a place to live and people I worked with who knew and respected me. There’d be no reason to screw things up.

  Still, a tiny sliver of doubt niggled beneath my skin. If I’d lost it the last time I encountered children, what was to keep me from losing it again? What if the only way for me to keep the past from destroying me was to stay locked up? What would I do the next time I encountered a child who reminded me of my girls?

  “Well, believe it,” Randy said. “I’m here to take you home.”

  And that’s when the tears came, hearing that last word. I sniffed them back as best I could. “Thank you,” I whispered. “You’ve done so much for me.” I looked at Myer. “Both of you.”

  “I don’t get too many success stories in here,” Myer said. “Don’t screw this up.”

  • • •

  After my release, for the next five years, I led a quiet life, but a good one. It was 1992 and I was thirty-two years old, spending most of my days at the clinic working as a vet tech, assisting Randy with exams or treatment protocols. I was also a trainer for shelter dogs, as well as clients’ animals who were boarded with us. Sometimes, I even brought home foster animals, but with my limited space and the long hours I worked, it was difficult to keep them long-term. I did manage to go back to school and get my bachelor’s of science in animal biology; it took me three years, but fortunately, my time working for Randy counted toward the supervised clinical hours requirement. I had to take out a student loan, but with Randy and Myer’s recommendation, I also received a decent scholarship reserved for former prison inmates.

  I still lived in the small, one-bedroom house Randy and his wife had found. The house had a square living room with a fireplace and large, arched windows looking out into the yard. The kitchen was tiny but functional, and the bathroom was just down the hall from my bedroom. After a few years of building a little of my own credit, I had taken over the lease from Randy and Lisa, and with my landlord’s permission, I’d painted all the rooms a creamy ivory and decorated with pieces of furniture I found at a local thrift store. It was perfect for me and Trixie, who had gradually lost her puppy energy and grown into a mellow, extremely well-behaved, sweet girl that slept in my bed and barely lifted her head when my alarm went off at four a.m. to start our day. But by the time I was finished getting ready, she had gone outside through the dog door and sat patiently by her bowl in the kitchen, waiting to be fed.

  After work, Trixie and I spent our evenings curled up together on the couch, watching television or reading. Sometimes, if I came across a particularly funny passage in a book or magazine, I’d read it aloud to her, and she’d stare at me with her dark, interested eyes, as though she could understand exactly what I was saying.

  When I told Randy about this, he laughed and shook his head. “You need to get out more. To the movies or on a date.”

  I’d smiled, too, but waved him off. I liked things as they were. Simple. Uncomplicated. I had a routine and I kept to it. I avoided elementary schools and parks. When I did come in contact with children, with little girls, especially, I felt a little like I was watching my interactions with them from above, policing my every word, ready to jump in and remove myself from the situation if I showed even a twinge of doing or saying something wrong.

  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.”

  “Thanks” he said. “Chandi should be in any minute, right?”

  I glanced at the clock. Chandi was still our office manager and the person who opened the clinic each weekday at seven thirty. “If she’s not here to let him in, I’ll watch the door.”

  Randy nodded and headed into his office, where I knew he would try to catch up on a few emails or patient notes before meeting with this new client. I prepped the exam room, making sure there was a blood sample kit for Randy to use. Once I was finished, I returned to the front office, where through the glass door, I saw a tall man in a red ski jacket standing with one arm raised, about to knock.

  I smiled and rushed to unlock the door, ushering him inside with his dog, a medium-size, black-haired mutt with white paws and a white patch on his chest. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Jennifer. Come on back.”

  “Thank you,” the man said, and I could hear the worried tension in his voice.

  When we got to the room, I took the leash he held and shut the door behind us so the animal couldn’t escape. The man shook off his coat, dropping it onto the orange, vinyl-covered bench next to the exam table, and looked at me with hazel eyes. His hair was dark blond and his skin was tan; I wondered if he’d come to Washington from some sunny locale, because Mt. Vernon hadn’t seen blue skies or a temperature over fifty degrees since October.

  “The doctor will be right in,” I said, poising my fingers over the keyboard to the computer in the room. “Can I get your name and this little guy’s so I can get a file started?”

  “Evan Richmond,” he said. “And this is Scout. He’s never been sick like this before.”

  “You’ve brought him to the right place.” I typed in their names, then got his address and phone number. “Dr. Stewart said you’ve just moved here. Where from?” I grabbed my thermometer and crouched down behind Scout, who had tucked his tail between his legs, making it difficult for me to take his temperature.

  “Phoenix,” he said. “My dad passed away last year. He was a mechanic, and left me his business. I came up here to sell it, but I grew up here, so I decided to move back and take it over instead. I’m a mechanic, too.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your dad.” I shifted on my tiptoes and looked up at him. “Can you help me, please? I need to get his temp.” I nodded in the general direction of Scout’s rump, and Evan dropped down on his knees, holding his dog’s head while he lifted Scout’s tail.

  “It’s okay, boy,” he said. “She isn’t going to hurt you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, quickly taking care of one of my least glamorous responsibilities. One hundred five, I thought, cringing a bit. Evan was right. His dog was definitely ill.

  Just then, Randy pushed open the door and entered the exam room. “Evan?” he said, holding out his hand. Evan shook it. “I’m Dr. Stewart.” He looked down at the dog, who had curled up on the floor, lying on top of his master’s black work boots. “And this must be Scout.”

  “Temp’s one-oh-five,” I murmured, and I felt Evan’s eyes land back on me.

  “That’s high, right?” he asked.

  Randy squatted on the floor and put his stethoscope against Scout’s chest. The dog was panting, quietly but rapidly, clearly in distress. “We normally like to see it between one-oh-one and one-oh-three.”

  “Shit,” Evan said, and I did something I never had with a client before. I reached out and put one of my hands on his arm. His tendons were pulled as tight as guitar strings.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said. “You brought him in right away. We’ll take good care of him.” I thought back to Winston, the dog who had presented with the same symptoms all those years before. He hadn’t responded to multiple rounds of antibiotics. If Scout indeed had an infection, I could only hope that what I’d just said to Evan would be true.

  Evan bobbed his head, once, and then crossed his arms over his chest while Randy took a quick blood sample from Scout’s back, right between his shoulder blades. He handed it to me, and I left the room and walked to the small lab down the hall, where I ran a few tests, waiting for Randy to join me and interpret the results. When he arrived a few minutes later, he checked the sample under the microscope and frowned. “High white blood cell count,” he said. “Might be a systemic infection.”

  “I’ll get a boarding kennel ready for him,” I said, knowing Randy’s next order without him having to ask. He would want Scout to stay at least for a few days on an IV so we could monitor the fever and figure out what was going on with him.

  “Thanks,” Randy said. “I’ll go talk with Evan and then head back to my office.”

  A few minutes later, I returned to the exam room. Randy wasn’t there, but Evan was sitting on the small orange bench. His head was in his hands, and the heels of his palms were pressed into his eyes. Scout was still curled up on his feet, panting.

  I coughed, and Evan looked up. His cheeks were wet. “
Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. He sniffed, seemingly unashamed of the fact that he was crying. He had to be at least in his early forties, ten years or so older than me. He was graying at the temples and had open fans of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

  “Dr. Stewart told you Scout will need to stay with us a few days?”

  “He did, thanks.” Evan leaned down to scratch his dog’s head. “Everything’s going to be good, buddy. Jennifer’s going to take care of you now.”

  At the sound of my name in his mouth, there was a small, rolling sensation in my belly. I hadn’t felt anything like it since I’d met Michael our sophomore year of high school. I tried to shake the feeling off as I stepped across the room to pick up Scout’s leash. Once I had, I straightened and looked at Evan, who stood up as well. “Chandi should be at the front desk by now,” I said. “Or one of our receptionists. They’ll go over the treatment protocol and let you know when you can visit.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Is there a number I can call, just to check on him? See how he’s doing?”

  I hesitated only a moment before speaking again. “Sure. In fact, let me give you my home number,” I told him, feeling my face flush. “Just in case you want to call after hours.”

  He stared at me for a couple of seconds, and then he smiled, revealing a deep, single dimple in his right cheek. “I appreciate that,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “Of course,” I replied. I wrote down my number, and Evan stuck it back in his pocket. He squatted down next to his dog and scratched the animal’s chest, whispering something I couldn’t hear into Scout’s furry ear.

  “Come on, Scout,” I said, giving the dog’s leash a light tug. I felt Evan’s eyes on my back, and I turned around to smile at him, too. “Try not to worry too much. It’ll be okay,” I said, and then I headed out the door.

  Brooke

  On the Tuesday morning following the brunch she’d had with her sister, Brooke waited at a table inside Crumble & Flake, the bakery at which she and Natalie had decided to meet. A large, golden-brown croissant sat on a plate before her, but she had a knot in her stomach, and even though she’d been hungry when she ordered it, she felt too nervous to eat. It was a little before ten o’clock, and the air was redolent with the scent of brewing coffee and warm, sugary treats.