Gail
Gail stood at the counter for a moment, almost tapped the bell, but thought better of it. Instead, she pushed through the door to the garage. The front tires of a black Trans Am perched on yellow ramps. “Proud Mary” wailed from a transistor radio hanging on the wall. A pair of scuffed black boots poked from beneath the car, the toes gently tapping to the music. In the second bay, the boy Jon bribed earlier leaned into the engine of a Corolla with a flashlight in one hand. Gail carried Maya around the Trans Am and the boots. This was nothing but a sales call.
When she first started selling, just out of college, she always talked too much. She’d launch into her spiel about Tomassi Grinding, eyes would glaze, and a few minutes later she’d find herself on the sidewalk with nothing to show for it. She finally learned to ask more questions, to listen, so that when she spoke, her words might prove relevant.
As she approached, the boy saw her and straightened. He pulled a rag from the pocket of his coveralls and wiped his hands. He looked at Gail, at Maya. Gail glimpsed a wedding band. She looked him in the eye, and alongside his irritation she saw an intelligence that told her that lies would get her nowhere.
“Hey,” Gail said. “I’m Kim. Allen’s wife.”
The boy didn’t say anything, just nodded. The stitching on his coveralls said his name was Will.
“But you know that my name isn’t really Kim, and you know that my husband’s name isn’t really Allen.”
He said nothing, but he stopped rubbing his hands with the rag. His irritation faded toward curiosity.
“I want to apologize for the way my husband acted earlier.”
Will nodded. “He was a real prick.”
Gail shifted Maya to her other shoulder. “He can be. He’s under a lot of stress.”
“Ain’t we all.”
“Yes,” Gail said quietly. She kissed Maya on the top of the head. “We all are.”
Will glanced at the Corolla and back. “That all?”
“You married, Will?”
He nodded. “Three years.”
“Kids?”
“No.” Will’s eyes flicked to Maya. Gail felt his hesitation. She recognized his need. “Not yet.”
“She’s our first, after trying for a really long time.”
Will’s eyes lingered on Maya.
“You ever do anything that you weren’t supposed to do?” Gail asked.
Will became very still, but he said nothing.
“Did you ever do something that everyone else thinks is wrong, but you know in your heart it’s the rightest thing you’ve ever done?”
The radio blared its tinny beat, and a wrench clanked to the concrete floor under the Trans Am, but a silence had settled between them. Gail waited for him to respond, to admit what her gut told her was true. Finally, his head dipped in the slightest of nods.
“Me, too,” Gail said.
Will took a deep breath, glanced at the boots poking from the Trans Am, and then back at Maya. When he spoke, the suspicion and defensiveness had dropped away. His words came softly. “What’s her name?”
Gail didn’t have to fake the tears that welled in her eyes, and when she spoke, the hitch in her voice came naturally. “We lied to you about our names, but her name is really Maya. It means love in Nepalese. It means generous in Old Persian.”
Maya squirmed and gurgled.
“She’s my baby.”
* * *
When Gail pushed through the door of the Viking, Jon’s head snapped up from his laptop at the sound of the bell. His face held a question as she made her way down the aisle. She settled Maya into the car seat and then slid into the booth herself.
“What happened?”
Gail allowed herself a smile. “He said to call around five. He’ll get to it by then.”
Jon’s eyes narrowed. “What’d you say? How’d you get him to change his mind?”
“I didn’t.” Gail kissed Maya’s head. She inhaled her scent. “Maya did.”
Carli
Carli lay on her bed, on top of the covers, with her clothes on. She lay on her side, her fingers curled around the smooth wooden slat of the empty crib. She tried to imagine where Gail was, what she was thinking, what she was feeling. She got to know Gail pretty well during the pregnancy, during the doctor visits. It took no effort from Carli. Gail didn’t like silence, couldn’t let the silence sit like Carli could, and she’d talk about anything to fill it. Mostly she talked about things she was buying for the baby, the theme for the nursery, the children’s books she liked the most. At first, all the talk about the baby annoyed the crap out of Carli, but then she let it sand some of the edges off her guilt.
After the twelve-week ultrasound, they went to lunch. When they sat down, though, Carli was forced to settle into the silence, because Gail didn’t fill it. Carli tried to figure out if she had done something, said something, but she had said little that day while they put jelly on her belly and waved the wand. Mostly she had tried to keep her eyes fixed on a point on the wall that wasn’t near the monitor.
And when Carli asked what was wrong, Gail had talked about her miscarriages. She talked about her emptiness. She talked about her expectations. Carli gripped the wooden slat and felt a tear trickle onto the pillow. That was the problem, really, wasn’t it? Carli tried to think about what she would do, if she was standing at the Canadian border carrying a lifetime of expectations and someone else’s baby. Expectations. That was the problem for both of them.
“Carli!” Marla shouted from the front room. “The FBI’s here!”
Carli forced herself up and wiped her face dry. She made her way to the front room, where a bald man with a lean face sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. He stood and tightened his tie.
“Ms. Brennan. I’m Agent Bradford.” He offered his hand and she shook it. His voice was clipped, formal. The handshake was sweaty, but firm.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Carli sat in a folding chair, and Bradford perched again on the edge of the couch. His crisp suit made Carli self-conscious about her sweatpants, the folding chairs, the half-full ashtrays. Marla leaned back, arms folded across her chest, legs crossed at the ankles in front of her.
“It’s nice to finally talk to a real cop,” Marla said.
At that, Bradford allowed a tiny smile. “You’ll have to forgive the Morris police. You’re in a bit of a legal gray area.”
“Nothing gray ’bout it,” Marla blurted. “They stole my grandbaby.”
“I understand how you feel, but it’s not quite that simple. Most of the time when the birth mother reclaims, adoptive parents return the baby without issue. It doesn’t happen often, but when the adoptive parents don’t cooperate, a court order is required. The agency’s lawyer is working on that right now. They should be able to get in front of a judge later today.”
“So, you ain’t gonna do anything till then?”
“I didn’t say that. Certain—” He looked down at his hands, back up at Marla. “We don’t want to be seen as dragging our heels.”
Marla leaned back further, coughed a laugh. “I love Fox News.”
Bradford shifted his weight. “Anyway—I’m mainly here to provide status on the investigation. We reached out to the Durbins by phone and email, but they’ve gone dark. We searched their house and found evidence of a hurried departure. We interviewed Mrs. Durbin’s parents, and they haven’t heard from her. That, or they’re really good liars. Same with Mr. Durbin’s aunt and uncle. We haven’t been able to reach his mother. We’ve issued an all-points bulletin with their picture and a description of their car, and we’ve been in direct contact with the Wisconsin, Minnesota, and North Dakota state police. Our liaison at Homeland Security has put a hold on their passports and notified Canadian Immigration.”
“It’s about fucking time,” Marla said.
Carli slouched lower on the chair, tried to pretend that Marla wasn’t in the room. “Thank you,” she said. She forced herself t
o look Bradford directly in the eye. “I just want my baby back.”
“I know,” he said. The formality softened. “We’re doing our best, ma’am. Do either of you have any questions?”
“Yeah,” Marla said. “What about that thing that makes your cell phone chirp?”
Bradford looked puzzled for a moment. “You mean the Amber Alert?”
“Yeah. That’s it. Why don’t you do one of those?”
“I’m not sure that it’s really appropriate in this situation.”
“Why’s that? Only appropriate for rich people’s babies?”
He paused, swallowed. “I’m not the one who makes that decision.”
“Who does? Maybe they need a call from Fox News.”
The room went still, and Carli resisted the urge to apologize, to make excuses for Marla. Bradford opened his mouth several times before he finally spoke. “I have a question for you.” He paused and eyed Marla. “I’ve been trying to sort out the Canada angle. How did you find out about that?”
Marla tucked her feet under her chair, met Bradford’s eye, and thrust her chin forward. “I already told the Morris cop.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Marla leaned forward now, elbows on her knees. “I called them. I talked to them on the phone.”
Bradford watched her intently. He didn’t blink. “Thing is, we checked their cell phone records. After Tuesday morning, nothing. No calls made. None received. So. I’m wondering how that can be.”
Marla leaned back again, crossed her arms, squinted.
“When we searched their house, a window in the sunroom was broken. Looked like a forced entry.”
“What’re you sayin’?” Marla demanded.
Bradford shifted his gaze to Carli. “I’m saying that if you want us to find your baby, you need to tell us everything.”
Carli looked at Marla, and Marla scowled back. Carli thought about that empty crib crammed between her bed and the wall, and she forced herself to stand. She walked into the kitchen and found the notebook in the drawer under the Yellow Pages where she knew it would be. She opened it to the last page that Gail had written on and carried it back to Bradford. She felt the heat from Marla’s glare on the side of her face.
“This was Gail’s notebook,” she said.
Bradford studied the last few pages slowly. “Do they have family in Grand Forks?”
Carli shrugged. “I don’t think so. There was nothing in their home study about that. And Gail never talked about anybody from there.”
“Thank you. This will help.” He stood, and he turned to Marla, waved the notebook at her. “I won’t ask how you got this, because I really don’t think I want to know. I bet Fox News would, though.”
* * *
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Carli knew the shouting would start as soon as she closed the door behind Bradford. And she knew better than to argue with Marla, so she walked back to the kitchen. She might as well make herself something to eat while Marla screamed.
“You think you’re smart?” Marla filled the kitchen doorway. “You’re a dumbass is what you are.”
Carli put a pan on the stovetop, turned on the burner. She pulled the butter and cheese from the fridge, the bread from the pantry.
“I told you to keep your fucking mouth shut! I thought you were starting to grow up a little bit. I thought I could trust you.”
Carli buttered the bread. This was how it would go. Marla would spend the next twenty minutes telling her she was a worthless piece of shit, and Carli didn’t care anymore. She just wanted her baby back.
“You think Bradford gives a shit about us? He thinks we’re trash. He’s rooting for the Durbins to make it to Canada. He’d probably give them a ride if it was up to him.”
Carli put the cheese on the bread and set the sandwich, sizzling, into the pan. She felt Marla move closer.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Marla rumbled from behind her.
Carli plucked a spatula from the sink and nudged the sandwich to keep it from sticking to the pan.
“I asked you a question,” Marla growled. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
She knew there was no answer to the question that would satisfy Marla, so she said nothing. And then Marla’s meaty hand landed on the side of her head just below the ear. Carli reached out to keep herself from falling, but her own hand found the edge of the frying pan, and it clattered to the floor with her.
Carli slumped against the cabinet, stunned, holding her burnt hand with the other. She looked up at Marla, who glared at her, and then down at her hand, which was blooming a scarlet smile from the rim of the pan. She squeezed it tightly and held back the tears. She wouldn’t let Marla see her cry anymore.
“I asked you a fucking question.”
“I just want Maya back,” Carli said.
Marla’s three chins quivered, and her faint mustache beaded with sweat. Her fists opened and closed as if she couldn’t decide whether to lash out again. “You think laying in your bed is gonna get you your baby back? Do you think the Durbins are just gonna turn around and bring your fucking baby back? Your friends, Kelly and what’s-her-name—are they fucking helping you?” Marla poked herself hard in the chest. “I’m the one that’s doin’ everything while you whine and sniffle about getting your baby back. If you really want your baby back, you gotta do something about it.”
Carli stood, picked up the pan by the handle and set it in the sink. She ran cool water over her hand and managed to not make a sound. She turned to her mom, stood straight, and looked her square in the eyes. “You’re right,” she said.
Marla opened her mouth but then closed it. She expected an argument, not agreement. She wanted a fight. Carli stepped around her and grabbed her keys, her wallet, and her phone from the table. She was halfway through the front room when Marla yelled, “Where the hell you goin’?”
“Out,” Carli shouted back.
Marla said something else, screamed it really, but Carli didn’t hear it, because she slammed the door on the noise.
Gail
In a lot of ways, the room reminded Gail of the one in Tomah, but it boasted cheap prints of Monet’s Water Lilies instead of geese, bleach battled the mouse shit instead of Febreze, and a patch of carpet the size of a body had been cut out and replaced with a slightly darker shade of brown.
Gail called the shop right at five. Fuel pump, they told her. It would be fixed by eleven in the morning. She and Jon were both exhausted. They lay on the sagging bed and stared at the ceiling as the sunlight faded. Maya must have been tired, too, because she lay between them and didn’t stir. They would need dinner, but Gail’s stomach wasn’t ready yet. Jon’s breathing drifted toward sleep, but her own mind refused to give in to her body’s exhaustion. Dealing with the car, finding a motel with bulletproof glass, and trying not to gloat had distracted her from those words her dad had forced upon her. Staring at the ceiling, though, they flooded back.
Feel the balance of it. That was exactly what Gail had spent the last two days avoiding. Yes, she had thought about Carli and her pain and her loss, but that was to protect herself, to build those calluses. She had pointedly refused to weigh Carli’s need against her own, Carli’s broken promise against their crime. She had refused the urge to find the fulcrum of it all, the tipping point between right and wrong, and she refused again. It was impossible, and she’d only hurt herself trying. The weight of Maya on the bed next to her was enormous. And there was only one baby. There was no way to balance that.
“What’re you thinking about?” Jon murmured.
Gail hesitated. She knew she shouldn’t say anything—Jon didn’t really want to know what she was thinking, and she didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. She wasn’t having second thoughts, but the word fell from her mouth before she could close it. “Carli.”
Jon groaned. “What did he say?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Your dad
. You talk to your dad, and now all of a sudden you’re worried about Carli.”
When would she learn to keep her mouth shut? “He didn’t say anything.”
“Really? Then what changed?”
“Nothing,” Gail said. “Nothing changed.”
“It’s a little late for second thoughts, Gail.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
Jon propped himself up on his elbow. “Forget about us and forget about Carli. Think of Maya. Think about the life she’d have in that house.”
She knew that she should just agree. She should just roll over and try to nap for a while, but the contempt in Jon’s voice demanded an argument.
“What makes you so sure it would be bad?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jon said, his voice rising. “You saw Marla. You spent enough time with Carli. They’re white trash. I grew up in that shitshow, Gail. I know how that movie ends.”
“That’s not the same, and you know it.”
“Bullshit! It’s exactly—”
Jon’s backpack trilled. It lay on the floor on Gail’s side of the bed, so she jumped up and scrabbled through it until she found which phone was making the awful noise.
“Don’t answer it,” Jon said.
No shit. Gail looked at the number. A 612 area code. The phone finally stopped ringing. They waited, tense, until it chirped again, signaling a voice mail. Gail pressed the button and listened to the familiar voice.
Mr. Reynolds, this is Officer Lathan Jennings. Call me as soon as you get this. We need to clear a few things up.
Gail turned the phone off and stared at it.
“Who was it?” Jon asked.
“The cop from earlier. He wants you to call him.”
Jon pushed up from the bed and yanked the computer from his bag. He sat and opened it on his lap. He rubbed his face with both hands as he waited for it to boot. Gail watched over his shoulder as he logged on and opened his email. The subject line of Paige’s latest message blared FBI.
Other People's Children Page 19
