If I Had Two Lives

by A B Whelan

  *****

  As I approach my destination, the air begins to reek of manure. Soon, I find the origin of the stench: dairy farms and horse properties. These parts of southern California are strikingly different from the track homes and manicured life where I live. It’s good to get out of my bubble sometimes and broaden my perspective; it makes me a better investigator. I actually enjoy getting out of the office and doing fieldwork. If only the circumstances were different …

  Following the instructions of the GPS, I turn into a trailer park and move along the quiet streets. It’s too warm to be outside, and as the day moves on, it will be hot enough to test the endurance of even the most hardcore southern Californians.

  I pull over in front of a single-story manufactured home with a sea of rocks for a front yard. Two rectangular windows dominate the façade of the small house. The poison-green blinds are pulled down, but the gate hangs open. Uniform and clean, the house blends in with the rest of the homes in the neighborhood. There is nothing here that strikes me as unusual or suspicious.

  For I moment, I wonder whether this was the home my brother grew up in. Once I step inside, will I be faced with photographs of his childhood, trophies of his achievements, and clues about his failures? Studying his bedroom might give me a better understanding of his personality. I may even uncover the reason behind him becoming a criminal. Children act out where they feel the safest. In an ideal world, a family home should be the place where kids can blow off steam, so they have more patience to follow social norms in the outside world. My brother was imprisoned for the physical assault of a woman. Based on the science of psychology, we know that children mostly act on learned behavior. They mimic those around them—primarily parents or guardians. Oh, God, I hope Juan Soto isn’t a wife beater.

  I approach the front door and press the button on the Ring brand doorbell. In the absence of footsteps or any kind of noise from inside to indicate someone is coming to answer the door, I show my ID to the camera on the Ring panel.

  I stand uneasily, knowing that someone is watching me on their phone. I’m about to ring for a second time when a voice addresses me from behind. A short and lean Hispanic male with a shovel in his hand stands by the lone Mexican palm tree that ornaments the porch. “Can I help you?”

  Holding my ID out, I face him. “Yes, I’m Special Agent Vicky Collins from the FBI. I made an appointment with Mrs. Soto earlier today. I’m here to talk about Blake Sullivan.”

  The man lets out a long sigh and leans the garden tool against the house. “Come inside. It’s cooler there.”

  12

  The inside of the Sotos’ house is as clean and organized as the outside. Plain eggshell-colored walls, thin white baseboards, beige carpet, and a patch of light linoleum with tile motifs in the kitchen.

  The man who introduced himself as Juan Soto leads me to the sitting area. On my way to the sofa, I study the dozens of framed pictures hanging on the walls and perched on shelves. The photos are of baptisms, weddings, and birthday parties. By the time I reach the living room, I have a pretty clear picture of the Soto family. There’s Mom, Dad, and three girls. But no photos of Blake Sullivan.

  Juan yells over his shoulder toward the back room, and the Spanish chatter abruptly stops, as if someone turned off the television.

  A short woman in jean shorts and a t-shirt that stretches over her barrel upper body emerges from the hallway. She approaches me with an annoyed expression. Her warm, slimy fingers slip out of my hand as she meagerly introduces herself as Rosalita. She sits down on the farthest spot on the couch from me, tossing back her cascade of black hair.

  “It is my understanding that Blake Sullivan was living with you for several years?”

  Juan looks at his wife, then back at me. “Nearly eight years.”

  “When was the last time you heard from him?”

  They exchange another silent glance. It’s apparent that they would rather eat a dozen lemons than talk about Blake.

  “We haven’t. No contact. Nothing,” Juan insists, while Rosalita shakes her head vehemently.

  I feel overwhelmed by being in the same place my brother spent eight years of his life. I can barely form a coherent sentence.

  “Do you have a picture of him? I couldn’t help but notice that there are no photos of Blake in your home.”

  Rosalita does the sign of the cross, and Juan twists at his mustache with his fingers. “What did the boy do this time?” Juan asks, ignoring my observation.

  “He’s been missing for nearly nine years.”

  Rosalita crosses her chest again and whimpers. Juan shoots her a stern look.

  “My wife loved that boy very much. He was a good kid. My Breanna loved him too. He was good to her.”

  “What can you tell me about the assault he was doing time for in prison?”

  “Dunno. He was with the wrong people. He … I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

  Juan nervously fidgets with his fingers; my questioning must be opening up old wounds or have touched a nerve. His uneasiness rubs off on me, and my palms begin to sweat.

  “How did Blake end up living with you?” I look down at my notes to calculate the year he moved in with the Sotos. After considering the time he spent in prison, a startling discovery shocks me. “He was still a minor, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, sixteen,” says Rosalita in her thick Spanish accent. “His aunt was a nightmare. She used drugs, drink too much, she … she smoke.” Rosalita counts on her fingers for dramatic effect, and it works because I can picture the woman clearly. “She was no good. No kindness. No love. No care. No nothing.”

  Juan puts a hand on his wife’s knee to calm her. I watch their interaction with envy. If I get teary-eyed during a sad movie, Doug tells me I’m being ridiculous for crying over a Hollywood film. When my favorite grandmother died, Doug got drunk with my crazy uncles during the wake; he didn’t even consider that I might need a shoulder to cry on.

  “Blake’s aunt … Was she his guardian before you?”

  “Si. Si. His parents die a year or two apart.” She looks at her husband for confirmation.

  “James Sullivan drowned while the family was vacationing at the beach. I believe it was in Encinitas or Carlsbad, I’m not sure,” Juan elaborates. “Then his mother died a year later from brain, or some other type of, cancer.”

  I scribble the information down in my notepad, trying to hide my emotions. I’m here as a professional investigator, not a relative of the individual in question.

  I look up from my notes, opening my eyes wide to hold back the tears. “What’s the name of Blake’s aunt? Do you know where I can find her?” I don’t know Blake. I’ve never met him, yet I already feel connected to his life.

  Juan sends his wife to the kitchen to find the aunt’s contact information. Then, as if trying to avoid being alone with me in the room, he offers me a glass of water and leaves to get it before I initiate a conversation between the two of us.

  I hear him pouring water from the tap. I can’t drink it. My stomach is too sensitive. I only drink bottled beverages. I still smile and express my gratitude when he hands me the glass of water.

  Rosalita appears with a note in her hand.

  “This address is in Beaumont,” I point out as I read the handwriting on the piece of paper. Barbara Sullivan: the same name listed as an emergency contact on Blake’s penitentiary profile.

  “Yeah,” Juan points toward the east wall as if showing me the direction. “We used to live there. We moved to Hemet five years ago. I’m retired. I work part-time at a local indoor soccer arena.”

  “Makes sense. Thank you for the information.” I copy the name and address onto my notepad.

  “Can you tell me anything else about Blake? Who his friends were while living with you? How was his life? What kind of person he was?”

  “No friends, only my Breanna. They were very close.” Rosalita taps her hands together. “Like two eggs.”

  “He’s been missing for n
early nine years. Do you have any idea where he might be? Any connections in Mexico perhaps.”

  Once again, the couple looks at each other in silence. Juan addresses me. “We didn’t visit him in prison. He was having an affair with the woman he hit on the face. For years, Breanna was heartbroken. She didn’t want to see him again.”

  The chiming of a cellphone interrupts our conversation. Rosalita gets up from the couch and leaves to answer it.

  “The police were looking for him too. He might be dead, I don’t know. There are no signs of him anywhere. He left prison, and that was the last time he was seen.” I sense Juan is done talking to me.

  “Can I speak with your daughter Breanna?”

  He looks at his watch. “My daughter is at the soccer fields. Her kids have practice today.”

  He reaches for my notepad and writes the name of the park where she is at on it. “You must google the address. It’s not far from here. On the other side of the train tracks. I’ll tell her you are coming.”

  I nod and rise from the couch. “Thank you very much for seeing me, Mr. Soto.”

  He nods back.

  As I walk out of the small charming home, I hear Rosalita talking so fast in Spanish that I have no chance to make out what she’s saying.

  13

  The low-budget soccer arena is located behind an industrial park on a lot barely large enough for two enclosed fields with a strip of concrete for cars to park. If I had to come here after dark, I’d get the feeling that I could be kidnapped and sold for organs.

  Overenthusiastic and loud parents hang on the edge of the wall that rings the turf soccer fields. If I didn’t know better, I’d think these parents were cheering for a World Cup match.

  I walk to a small shack with an open door, where I find a short, overjoyed Hispanic male with a round face and slick black hair. His smile never fades as he points me to the bleachers on the opposite side of the field, singling out Breanna Soto as the woman with bleached hair who is wearing a white dress.

  I should have left my blazer in the car because I’m way overdressed for this crowd; I look too official. Soon my presence causes a mild panic. By the time I round the arena to the bleachers, a dozen or so cars empty the parking lot in a hurry.

  The heavy air is stuck between the structures, and it’s unbearably hot here. The chipped and uneven concrete emits a reeking, dry heat. My shoes aren’t the best insulators, and I’m painfully aware of the heat radiating underneath my feet.

  Short benches, four levels high, stretch out on the bleachers—a botched structure with aged and peeling blue paint. Faded banners hang on the back post tiredly advertising to the spectators in Spanish.

  “Breanna?” I call out to the large woman wrapped in a tight cotton dress and clutching a baby.

  She measures me up and down, then nods slightly.

  “Did your father call you to tell you about me coming here?”

  She nods again and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. Her makeup is astonishingly heavy and detailed. Her face is a marble statue with a colorful mask, one for a magazine cover. I try to picture her as a sixteen-year-old teen, lovestruck by my brother.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Blake?”

  She shrugs, lays the baby over her shoulder, and motions me to a spot next to her.

  I watch her small hand ending in long, bright fake nails holding the baby’s back.

  “How old is she?”

  “Eight months,” she says in an American accent. She chews her gum with gusto and yells at her kid on the field to run faster before she returns her attention to me. “I dunno whatcha wanna know about Blakey. I don’t care about that fool no more.”

  I decide to get to the point. My company seems to irritate her as she keeps checking if others are watching us or not. “I’m trying to uncover any details about Blake Sullivan’s childhood. I’m trying to get a better picture of his possible whereabouts.”

  “He’s likely dead. Buried in the desert somewhere,” Breanna says plainly, void of emotion.

  Her statement punches me in the chest. “What makes you say that?”

  “It’s been years. I’m no expert, but if someone has been missing that long, that usually means they’re dead.”

  “Well, let’s assume that he is alive for the time being. I understand that the two of you were very close.”

  She chuckles and shakes her head. “That was when I was young and stupid and still believed in love.”

  Judging by her posture and tone, I can tell her past is still haunting her.

  “Can you tell me anything about his life when he was living with his aunt?” I look at my notes to look more professional, although I’ve already memorized the woman’s name. “Barbara Sullivan.”

  Breanna snorts and switches the baby to her other shoulder. “She was a piece of work. She wasn’t worthy of shoveling horseshit in a stall.”

  “How long was Blake under her guardianship?”

  “I’m not sure.” She bounces her knees up and down. “After Blake’s mother died, on and off for ten years or so, until Blake finally emancipated himself.”

  “What do you mean by ‘on and off’?”

  She leans forward, screaming toward the arena. “Josh, start hustling!”

  There is a group of thirteen elementary-school-aged kids running around the field, chasing a battered soccer ball.

  A hard expression settles on Breanna’s face. “Child services took Blake away a few times. Like four times. Maybe five. He was placed with other families.”

  Her jawbone repeatedly juts out against her face as she aggressively chews her gum. I’m sure it’s me who is making her nervous.

  “Do you remember the name of any of those families?”

  She looks down at a few parents standing on the ground and leaning against the fence of the arena as if calculating the possibility of being overheard. “No, but some of them were bad, really bad,” she says in a low voice.

  I tap my notes with the tip of my pen “Can you be a little bit more specific.”

  She bobbles her head like a doll in the windshield. “Oh, it’s the details you want. He was molested, okay? Raped. This one family solicited him for money. By the time his CASA caseworker found out about it, he had taken it in the culo dozens of times!”

  My stomach flips. I don’t know Blake Sullivan, but if the things I’m learning about him are true, I’ll condemn my parents for abandoning him.

  I pretend to search my notes. “I didn’t find any record of that in my reports.”

  “Well, did you even look?” Breanna gives me an incredulous look. “Go down to Riverside County Social Services. They’ll tell you. Flash them your shiny badge.”

  We are starting to attract more attention. I remove my blazer and drape it over my arm. I feel as if I’m suffocating in this heat. My mouth is dry. I should have drunk the water Juan Soto offered me. I clear my throat to help me talk.

  “Did his aunt know about the sexual assaults committed against Blake?”

  “Of course, she knew! That bitch didn’t care … Only cared about where her next high would come from.”

  “There was no one else in the family to take care of Blake after his parents passed away?”

  “I don’t think so. Blake’s parents were old. I mean they were like over fifty when they had him. They adored him, though. Spoiled him rotten. I always had a feeling Blake blamed his mother for dying so early and leaving him without protection. After Mr. Sullivan drowned in the ocean, Blake’s mom started smoking, drinking, and popping pills. She completely lost touch with reality. Blake felt like she betrayed him … Then his aunt betrayed him over and over.”

  The baby starts getting fussy, and Breanna begins nursing her. Behind us, an adolescent boy has his face buried in the screen of a cell phone, smudging the screen with his fingers covered in Takis dust. By the sound of it, he is watching some goofy video.

  “Was anything done about the crimes against Blake by the au
thorities?”

  Breanna orders the boy behind us to turn the volume down on his phone, then stretches out her legs and repositions the nursing baby.

  “Not much. Social Services got Blake away from the families that hurt him, but the damage was done. Were they prosecuted? That I don’t know.”

  “Did any family take good care of Blake?”

  “There was one family Blake loved a lot. I don’t remember their names, but Blake often talked about them. They cared for him and treated him like one of their own. Although he only spent a few months with them, if I remember right. His aunt wanted him back.”

  I feel ashamed of our badly broken foster-care system, the kids yanked right and left in and out of homes like ragdolls. I can’t imagine how frightening it must have been for young Blake to sleep in a strange bed in a strange house, fearing if someone would enter his bedroom to hurt him. Always having to live with uncertainties, not knowing when you will get a decent meal or who to trust.

  For a moment, I contemplate how different my life would have turned out if my parents had given me up instead of Blake. The connection I’m developing with this troubled man is deepening. His life would have been mine if I’d been abandoned too. As if I had two lives. The life where I was loved and cherished and the life Blake lived, where he was abused and neglected.

  There is much more I want to ask Breanna, but I don’t think I can take any more of her stories and the heat for the moment. I thank her for her help and leave my card with her. I ask her to call me if she remembers anything else.

  I walk back to my car, crank up the air conditioning inside, and drive away. I pull over a few miles down the road, near a dairy farm where cows chew the cud, and I throw up on the side of the road.

  14

  I’m in the restroom of a small gas station only a few miles away from the backroad ditch where I emptied my stomach contents. The modern tile design and stainless-steel appliances suggest this place has been recently refurbished, but penned and carved graffiti already deface the walls and doors. One toilet is clogged with paper, and the other is leaking water a joint below, oozing over the dirty flooring. The air reeks of urine mixed with the fragrance of a cheap air-freshener set on top of the paper towel dispenser. It’s not a pleasant place to be, but at least I’m alone.