You Only Get So Much

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You Only Get So Much Page 14

by Dan Kolbet


  "I didn't think about that," she says. "But you're her father. That's who you are."

  "Is she even going to recognize me? Jesus. What did Jane tell her about me?"

  "How old was she when you lost her?"

  "She'd just turned 6. Just a little older than Gracie. She would have had a birthday in November, so she's 19 now."

  "Older than Kendall."

  "Yeah. They're just over a year apart. I can't believe it. They used to play together."

  "She'll recognize you no matter what," she says. "No question. That's not very long if you think about it. It doesn't matter anyway. We're going over there. You can't sit on this."

  Michelle gets out her laptop without a word and within five minutes finds a Libby Taylor arrested for residential burglary and being held in the King County Jail.

  "This could be anybody," I say.

  "And it could be Aspen. Are you willing to give up this chance?"

  "Of course not."

  "Then let's go," she says.

  "Thank you," I say. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

  "I know you don't. Kinda scary, huh?" she says, smiling. "If we leave tonight we can be there for visiting hours first thing in the morning. We've got 15 hours."

  "What am I supposed to say to her?" I ask. "Hi, remember me? Dad?"

  "It'll come to you."

  "I hope so," I say, stroking my beard. "I need to borrow a razor. If I want Aspen to recognize me, this thing has got to go."

  "Nice to see something positive is already happening on this adventure," she says. "No more whisker tickle."

  "Very funny," I say.

  "Are you going to tell your mom?"

  "About shaving my beard?"

  "Yeah, because that's the big news of the day."

  "Mom's been through enough," I say. "I can't tell her about a maybe. I need to know for sure."

  "That makes sense. Now let's shave that thing off."

  Chapter 33

  Seattle

  "You look good," Michelle says, as we walk from the car to the visitor entrance of the King County Jail.

  She touches my face, not for the first time today, feeling where my shaggy beard used to reside. It makes me cold and to be honest I can't keep my hands off my cheeks either. They are smooth and it's weird.

  "Thanks," I say. "This is exactly how I imagined I'd look if I was going into prison to re-introduce myself to my daughter."

  "Funny."

  I actually combed my hair with a part to the left, like I used to, which is a bit different than I have been wearing it lately. It's still longer than it once was, but I didn't trim it. My plan, as stupid as it sounds, is that she'll recognize me if my features are closer to what she knew from before. Hence the old hairstyle and no beard. Michelle noticed, but didn't say anything. I think she knew. I can tell she senses my nerves and will be there to support me no matter what happens.

  We'd called earlier and saw that Libby Taylor's availability for visitors was from 11 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. It was now 10 a.m., but the website advised us to arrive early and line up, just in case there were too many visitors for the available space.

  I filled out a sign-in sheet and produced my ID. I regret that this is the way Aspen would meet me again—being told my name by a random jailer. Would she decline to come out? Would she think this was the same joke that I thought Frank pulled on me only yesterday? Or would my name put together pieces of a puzzle that she didn't even know about beforehand.

  We wait in line with screaming children, lonely girlfriends and all sorts of characters who would best be described as rough around the edges. It smells of stale smoke and Play-Doh. I feel out of place, like I'm visiting a new planet for the day and don't know how to communicate with the locals. I suspect this is how inmates feel too—how Aspen feels. Or is it how she feels? Who am I to know anything about her or what she's experienced over the past 12 years. I can only hope it's true that the person you become is based on what happened to you when you're a young kid—the fundamental things. Be kind to others. Respect your elders. Work hard. Love your family. I think she got those things from Jane and me, but then what happened in the resulting 12 years? Did Jane change? Or maybe she tried to erase everything we did together and reshape our daughter into someone else. Someone who in no way resembles the little girl I knew so long ago.

  The big question, I still can't answer, is why. Was I perfect? No, not by a long shot. But what drove her away is lost on me. If this really is true, was I such a jerk that my wife thought it best to steal my daughter and raise her alone—or with some trucker named Frank? I can't believe that. My self-esteem isn't that low. Something happened and I need to know what.

  But as I sit here, waiting to be called back, I'm thinking about myself because that's all I know. Aspen or Libby—her life is a complete mystery to me. There's only one person who can solve the mystery and she's here somewhere in the building with me, locked down in an orange jumpsuit and worn down inmate slippers.

  * * *

  "Visitor for Libby Taylor," a large man barks from near an open steel door.

  A shiver runs down my spine. This is it.

  Michelle squeezes my hand.

  "Good luck," she says as I walk away. Only one of us can go see Aspen.

  Behind the door the guard asks me a series of questions, none of which I actually hear. His expression is one of detached disdain. He pats me down and lingers a bit longer on my backside than I'd have anticipated was actually needed.

  My heart is pounding. Thump. Thump. Thump. And I feel my breath shorten in my chest.

  "You under the influence of any drugs?" the guard asks.

  With this question, I know the feelings inside me are manifesting externally as well.

  "Um, no," I say.

  He leads me down a long corridor with bright overhead lighting. We stop at another steel door. He peers inside.

  "It's gonna be a minute," he says. "Who is this inmate to you?"

  "My um, daughter, I guess," I manage to spit out.

  "You guess, huh?"

  "I haven't seen her in a very long time."

  "How long is a long time?" he asks.

  "More than 12 years."

  "Fuck," he says. "It's guys like you that mess up these kids. You outta be ashamed—12 damn years. Some father you are, mister."

  I don't defend myself. What could I say anyway? I just stand next to him and wait. After a few moments, he speaks again.

  "You're going to be in the third station down. I'm going to sit you down there. Do not get up until I tell you to. They'll bring her in on the other side of the glass. Pick up the phone to talk. Got it?"

  "Yes," I say.

  "OK, Father of the Year, let's go."

  * * *

  The Formica counter in front of me is a faded brown with two spots worn black. Elbows. It's where people place their elbows when they sit talking to an inmate. I can see my own reflection in the scratched Plexiglas. The bags under my eyes from not sleeping at all last night are deep. The razor burn from the close shave is red and bumpy. The funny left-side part of my hair is a throwback I can't get used to.

  Long, tall walls divide me from the others on my side of the glass. I can hear the other conversations wafting over me. The tears and near-shouts of family members overcome with emotion, or those going about the routine task of visiting an incarcerated son or brother. Besides my broken reflection, I can only see an empty stool and a blank wall on the prison side of the room.

  I feel like I'm going to be sick, but that wasn't on the list of options given by the surly prison guard. There's no garbage can in sight, so I swallow hard and hope to keep my breakfast down.

  Aspen had the most beautiful auburn hair as a child. Frizzy and unmanageable, but nonetheless beautiful. She would cry every time Jane or I tried to comb it. Big crocodile tears would stream down her face just so her hair could be pulled out of her eyes and into a ponytail. That's who I think I'll see today. That girl. That memory.


  I can't see it, but when I hear the door on the other side of the glass click open, I instinctively look through the glass and down. Down and back in time. My heart tells me that the girl they are escorting to me is still as tall as my thighs and in elementary school. Not a 19 year-old girl arrested for a crime.

  Time stops as I hear another click. She's in and they lock the door behind her. There's no going back now. She's here.

  The woman escorted to my view is tall, or maybe it's my imagination telling me she's supposed to be a toddler and I can't process this new image.

  I stand on instinct without even realizing it.

  "Sit your ass down, Mr. Perfect Dad!" the guard shouts and I quickly spin to look at him, then return to the stool.

  On the other side of the glass the woman looks startled or confused. Maybe it's because I jumped up, maybe not. She's in an orange jumpsuit with black lettering on the left breast pocket. A white long-sleeve shirt covers her arms. She's pulling the sleeves down with her hands. The short orange sleeves of the jumpsuit are rolled up to her shoulders, giving the impression that she's wearing an oversized orange tank top.

  The thumb on her left hand has a blue tattoo encircling it.

  Her hair isn't frizzy or long. It's straight and short, or at least I think it is. It's pulled back tight on her head and bunched in the back. She sits on the stool and turns back, hearing some instruction from the guard on the other side of the glass. I see her ear is pierced a dozen times, with only the holes showing where the jewelry used to be. You must not be allowed to wear jewelry in jail.

  When she turns back, I see my Aspen for the first time. Her eyes. And the overwhelming vision of her mother. And that's enough. The package that wraps around my baby's eyes isn't what I would have expected. It's older, rough and different. But that's her. That's Aspen.

  She picks up the phone, curious and looking annoyed. She doesn't recognize me.

  I pick up my phone.

  "Aspen?" I say. It's only thing I can manage to croak out.

  Her hand slaps over her mouth—to contain what? I don't know. Her body pulls back and she sits up a little straighter. She looks me dead in the eye. Through time and space I never thought this day would come. My daughter. Alive.

  "I want to go home," she says.

  Chapter 34

  Two days later

  I stand and wait outside the chain link fence at the rear of the public safety building. It's pouring down rain and, of course, I don't have an umbrella. And even if I did I probably wouldn't be using it anyway. I don't want the first time Aspen sees me outside of the jail to be under the cover of some tacky corner-store umbrella. Her father should be strong—not afraid of a few raindrops.

  I'm alone. Michelle stayed in Seattle until last night, but had to return to her job at the school. We both agreed that it might be confusing for Aspen to meet her now anyway. Not that anything else could make this story any stranger for Aspen.

  She didn't belong behind bars. You'd think with overcrowding that simple cases like hers would be dismissed immediately, but I'm no lawyer. Turns out she was arrested after using her own key to unlock the back door of the house she used to rent near the University of Washington. She'd moved out a week earlier after a disagreement with her ex-boyfriend, who still lived in the house. She went back to get her TV and some clothes she'd left behind. He called the cops and one thing led to another and she got a four-night stay in jail. What a sweet ex-boyfriend she had.

  She told me all this from the other side of the Plexiglas window. I promised her that I would get her out as soon as I possibly could. And then we could talk—really talk—because that wasn't happening inside that place.

  She never asked me who I was—not during either of my two visits. She didn't call me Dad or Daddy, which hurt. As much as I know that it will hurt her, I want her to feel something for me, to reconnect our disconnected lives. But that wasn't going to happen while she was still in there. And it is selfish of me to even worry about that. When our visit was over, I went back to the hotel, while she was forced to bunk with criminals. She had it a bit harder than me.

  I had a conversation with the assistant district attorney, who assured me that once the facts were straightened out that her charges would be officially dropped. She was a first-time offender and her ex was a felon with one strike against him already. Why she was ever actually arrested wasn't entirely clear. The wonders of our modern justice system.

  I paid her bail and was told to wait by this chain link fence for her to come out. It's been over an hour, but it feels like days.

  When the door on the back of the building finally opens, Aspen steps out. The tight ponytail is gone. Her auburn hair is shoulder length with a little upward curl at the ends. She's in black sweatpants and a blue Seahawks shirt. She's carrying a gray hooded sweatshirt.

  "Hi," she says. No move to hug or touch me in any way. So I stay back, knowing that my desire to pick her up with both arms and never let her go might not be the best move right now. She doesn't know me.

  "You said you wanted to go home?" I ask.

  "Yes."

  "And where is that?"

  "Port Orchard."

  "Then let's get you home," I say.

  "Can we eat?" she asks. "I haven't had anything in . . . I'm just hungry."

  "Sure, honey," I say. "Whatever you'd like."

  * * *

  "Why did you come back now?" She asks me over a plate of pancakes at a diner overlooking Interstate 5. I only ordered coffee. No way I could eat right now.

  "What do you mean?" I ask.

  "I mean, why now? Where have you been?" she asks.

  "Aspen, honey—" I start to say.

  "That's another thing. Don't call me that. My name is Libby and it has been for a long time. Don't go calling me something else."

  "OK," I say, my heart sinking into my stomach. "I think we need to start from the beginning."

  I tell her about Frank visiting me. I tell her that until that moment I didn't have any idea that she was alive. Or, for that matter, that her mother was also alive.

  "There are two headstones in a cemetery in Spokane, one with your name on it and one with your mother's name on it. I buried you both 12 years ago. How in the world was I supposed to know that you and your mom didn't die in that fire? What reason would I have to think that it didn't happen?"

  "You died in a fire," she says. "That's what she told me."

  I assumed it was something like that. What else could it have been? But hearing the words come out of her mouth is almost too much. And that Jane picked the same manner to kill me off? Just wrong.

  "That's not what happened, Asp . . . Libby."

  "So what did happen?" she asks. Her eyes are wide with curiosity.

  "If I was asked that a few days ago, I would have told you exactly what happened. But now? I have no idea. I don't think we'll ever know."

  "Tell me what you thought happened."

  "I was in New York on business visiting with my editor and publisher," I begin.

  "You're a writer?" she asks. "I write sometimes, too."

  I forget that she knows nothing about me at all. Everything I tell her is a story, without any verified facts.

  "I'd like to read your work sometime," I say.

  "Go on with your story," she says, a bit insistent.

  "I went to New York alone, but you and your mom came a few days later. She didn't tell me she was coming, just called me from her hotel. You were only 6 years old at the time. We argued over the phone that night. She hung up on me."

  "Then what happened?" she asked.

  "She never told me what hotel she was in and she wouldn't answer her cell phone, so I called the credit card company to check where it was used last and found out she had a room at the Arms Hotel on 8th Avenue. I jumped in a cab and was there in 30 minutes, but there was this fire . . ."

  I start to cry, even though I know now that I wasn't crying over the deaths of the two closest to me.
It was a lie. I was crying over the memory that I'd tried to suppress for years. Something that was forced on me. Fake. It makes me angry but I try not to show that. She might interpret my anger toward Jane as anger at her as well. I can't have that. I force these feelings back down inside me.

  "The building was a raging inferno. A gas line ruptured on the second floor of the building and it just went up like a dry stack of hay. Your room was on the third floor, directly above the explosion. They said you never got out. The building was so old. Eleven people died that night."

  "Nine," she corrects.

  "Right, nine," I say.

  "They only identified the bodies of seven people, but since you two were directly above it, they never recovered your remains, obviously. The entire floor was completely destroyed. That's what I believed happened 12 years ago. Now? I have no idea."

  "I know what happened," she says. "Take me home. I'll tell you."

  Chapter 35

  Port Orchard, Washington

  The hour-and-half-long ride to Port Orchard was the most exciting and most painful drive of my life. I had so many questions to ask her. I kept listing them in my head over and over to make sure that I could get them out when given the opportunity. But almost immediately Libby—I guess that's what I'm calling her now—fell asleep against the truck window.

  Michelle said that I needed to take it slow anyway.

  "Don't overwhelm her with everything," she had said the day before. "Match her pace. She'll tell you when she's ready. This will be a lot for her to take in all at once."

  Following her guideline was excruciating, but was also the right thing to do.

  We had just made it into Port Orchard when she woke up.

  "Turn here," Libby says, startling me. We get to the bottom of a hill near the terminal for the ferry that crosses the Puget Sound. We take another right on a road that skirts the water.

  We pull up to a run-down apartment complex tucked away behind a strip mall.

  "I'm on the third floor. Just like 12 years ago," she says glibly. "Ironic, huh?"

 

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