“Auntie Kenna! Auntie Kenna!” Jack and Sophie shrieked as we entered the family room. Sophie hopped from couch to coffee table, brown curls bouncing, right into Kenna’s outstretched arms.
“Nice catch,” I said. There should be awards for such childcare skills—best retrieval of an airborne child, least traumatic hair rinsing method, fastest removal of a bandage, most creative use of furniture as an indoor playground.
“You guys aren’t going to believe it,” I said. Their eyes doubled in size.
“What?” Sophie asked.
“You get to watch another show.” That broke my hour-a-day rule, but it was unavoidable.
“Hooray!” Sophie shouted.
“Which one?” Jack was skeptical. No baby shows for him. I was lucky to get away with Dora.
“Let me see.” I grabbed the remote and searched for something that wouldn’t cause nightmares or expand their bad-language vocabulary (currently limited to stupid, idiot, and butt). A Zoboomafoo rerun elicited cheers, so I stopped there.
“Your mom loves Zoboomafoo,” Kenna teased. I was so glad to see her perky side that I didn’t mind the teasing. So what if I have a tiny crush on certain TV hosts? I’m a thirty-six-year-old stay-at-home mom. My options are limited. And those Kratt brothers are cute.
“Zoboomafoo is great,” I agreed. “Sophie, sit on the couch, sweetie.” Kenna lowered her next to Jack, and their matching brown eyes glazed over in seconds. I trusted their brains would survive the extra assault.
Kenna followed me down the hall to the only fully organized area of my life. French doors with childproof locks led to a study, complete with a bay window, banana-yellow paint and white, built-in bookcases lined with textbooks and mementos. A model airplane crafted by my late father, a retired pilot, hung from the ceiling.
Kenna sprawled on a creamy velvet chaise. I sat at an antique desk incongruously topped with a high-end computer, a graduation gift to myself when I finished an M.A. in forensic psychology. Sometimes the Internet felt like my only connection to the outside world. I logged on.
“Why are you doing that?” Kenna asked. She hated computers and refused to get comfortable with them. I understood, since the idea of gyrating my spandex-covered ass in front of a class of hardbodies didn’t agree with me. We each had our comfort zones.
“I’m looking up Beth’s school.” I typed and clicked away.
“We don’t know where she goes.”
“We will in a second.” I found First Steps’ address and a list of nearby high schools. One was in the same city as the agency, and according to a mapping site, they were just a mile apart. “I bet she goes to Woodridge High School.”
I explained why, and Kenna agreed. “Now what?” she asked.
I ran my hands through my shoulder-length hair, stalling while I figured out how to respond. Despite how much I’d studied criminals, I had no practical experience. Even if I figured out Beth’s last name, where she lived, who her friends were, and what her life was like, what could I do with that? Did I really expect to track down a teen while my kids were at day camp?
“I want so badly to help. But you and Andy should hire a private investigator. I could put you in touch with one of my teachers.”
“As much as I’d like to give you an excuse to talk to Dean, no.”
Dean, a muscular blond instructor at the PI Academy, was the only man who tempted me to abandon my anti-relationship stance. He set off an involuntary chemical reaction that made me blush if I so much as raised my hand in class.
“We can barely afford this adoption as it is,” Kenna said. “Andy isn’t convinced that Beth is in danger. And I trust you.”
It was hard to argue those points, except for the misplaced trust part. What if I ruined the investigation, our friendship, or, at worst, the adoption? I glanced at Kenna for reassurance. Our eyes didn’t connect because hers were becoming puddles. I scooted out from behind the desk, crossed the room, and gave her a tight hug. A sob escaped her, the kind that only surfaces when someone’s there to respond.
“It’s okay,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure.
“Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m wrong. But I just feel so responsible. Who’s really going to look for her?”
If I hadn’t already been convinced, she would have swayed me. It was rare for Kenna to feel weighed down by anything. Unlike me, she didn’t worry obsessively or battle with her conscience over every little decision. I loved how she enjoyed life, went with the flow. If she felt we had to do this, we did.
“You talked with Beth, and I trust your judgment,” I said. After all, there’s nothing like a woman’s intuition. Mine was setting off alarm bells left and right.
I spent the rest of the evening making the kids a gourmet meal (meaning I used the stove instead of the microwave), praying intermittently that Beth would be okay, and—shock of all shocks—emailing Dean after the kids were tucked in. It’s amazing what a best friend in trouble can do for your motivation. Plus, he couldn’t see my flushed cheeks through the computer. Here’s what I wrote:
Hi Dean,
It’s Nicki Valentine from your PI training class. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’m helping a friend look for a missing person. She can’t afford a PI, and she doesn’t know where else to turn. I hope you’ll have a few ideas for me. Would you mind hearing about the situation whenever it’s convenient for you? Thank you so much.
Nicki
I spell-checked the email, added my phone number, and read it a billion times. Confident it didn’t include glaring errors or evidence of lustful fantasies, I clicked send. I wasn’t sure what to do next. This late, I’d usually eat a meal in peace, study, bounce around to hip-hop music, or watch reality TV—basically anything I couldn’t do around the kids.
Tonight was different. Just yards away, Kenna was probably collecting every scrap of paperwork she had about Beth, afraid of what was happening—and what might not happen. It reminded me of her pregnancies. Hopeful elation followed by crushing disappointment. But this time it was tinged with conflict with Andy. I wanted to go to sleep and pretend it wasn’t real, or, alternatively, burst through her door and comfort her.
I rolled my desk chair to the window and pulled back the sheer curtains a touch. I could see the side of Kenna’s house and yard, lights ablaze in the kitchen and living room. Even the stone patio, where we’d had so many conversations about marriage and motherhood, was lit.
Our houses were like fraternal twins—same builder, different outcome. Hers was an elongated rambler while mine was a three-story colonial. Both had crimson bricks and white shutters. We’d bought them when the neighborhood and our marriages were new. If you’d asked me then, I’d have put money on my home, not my marriage, falling apart first.
Thank God Jack and Sophie had been too young, just two and two months, to sense the enormity of Jason’s death and my pain. If anything, they’d been more aware of the loss of my dad, “Grampy,” who lived with us after the accident, caring for them while I took night classes. He and my mom had divorced after he retired, finally accepting that his busy career hadn’t created an unhappy marriage—it was respite from one. So much travelling had only prolonged the inevitable.
When he died of a heart attack two years later, I was all too familiar with shock, grief, and the awkward acceptance of money from tragedy. I wanted to keep our home forever because of its memories, but I wanted to escape it for the same reason. Kenna kept me here.
I slid back to the desk and distracted myself with research. The Internet had endless information about area gangs. One story described a pregnant gang member who was killed for becoming an informant. Beth didn’t sound like someone who would join a gang, never mind snitch on one. Several articles referred to a regional gang task force, which was impressive yet worrisome, because if the problem got this much attention, it had to
be big.
My next stop was the First Steps Adoption site. Images of adoptive parents and children beamed from page after page, reflecting experiences that seemed miraculous. I wanted so much for Kenna and Andy to be this fulfilled. The section devoted to birth parents was tiny in comparison. I couldn’t imagine what adoption was like for them. For Beth.
A mental break was in order. I propelled myself across toy-littered carpets and sticky hardwood to the kitchen, reciting the mother’s creed: “I’ll clean it up tomorrow.”
The refrigerator was filled with kid-size, vegetarian options: squeezable yogurt, baby carrots and mini bagels. I needed something big, warm and comforting. Yeesh. That sounded like a man. Maybe I was having some sort of psychological revelation. Instant soup would have to do for now. I put water on the stove and tiptoed upstairs to check on the kids.
Entering Sophie’s room was unnecessary. Her curls were unmistakable against a white pillowcase, her breaths loud enough to hear. When awake, she’s always in motion. Her nighttime stillness awes me.
A nightlight illuminated Jack’s slender figure under a jumbled blanket. All but the top of his silky head was covered. Maybe he’d convened a secret meeting with his caped bear, Super Teddy, before falling asleep. I lowered the blanket slightly, willing him to rest despite the cool air he must have felt around his cheeks. He squeezed Super Teddy to his chest and sighed deeply.
Minutes later I had steaming, tofu-broccoli soup beside me and my fingertips on the keyboard. I needed to think about something less emotional, like the legal aspects of adoption.
I clicked on First Steps’ “FAQ” link and alternated between slurping and scrolling. It felt like an invasion of Kenna and Andy’s privacy, but I needed to understand how things worked. I already knew they’d provided proof (including a reference letter from me) that they were responsible, healthy adults, committed to each other and raising a child. A social worker had inspected everything from their home to their bank accounts. They’d also made a “profile” for birth parents to review, complete with pictures of their house, hobbies, relatives, and neighborhood playgrounds and pools. But what if the birth father didn’t want to relinquish? What were his rights? What if the birth mother changed her mind, even after the baby was born? These questions must have been asked often, but they weren’t addressed online, probably because their answers were too complicated. The site did say the wait for a child, from application to placement, was typically about a year—exactly how long Kenna and Andy had been working with the agency. I couldn’t imagine them starting over.
The warm soup made me drowsy. I moved the cursor to sign off just as the computer emitted a familiar sound. I had new mail. Please let it be Dean, I thought. Maybe help was in sight.
Two
I don’t know what I expected Dean to say, but it wasn’t this:
Nicki,
I have a busy day tomorrow, but you’re welcome to meet me at the Academy for lunch. Bring whatever information you have. How does one o’clock sound?
Dean
It sounded perfect in one way. The kids would be at camp from twelve to four, but otherwise, I wasn’t sure. Could I maintain an hour’s worth of one-on-one conversation without visibly overheating? What would I wear? Should I offer to bring lunch? I shook my head to dispel anxiety. Concentrate on Beth, I told myself.
I forced my fingers across the keys, accepting his offer and insisting on providing lunch. This was both polite and practical, since I didn’t want my picky vegetarian diet to be a concern. Going veggie had been an act of teenage rebellion that sufficiently annoyed my parents, but now my heart was in it—hopefully to its benefit. I left Kenna a voicemail with a few adoption questions, hoping my call didn’t wake her or Andy.
The fatigue I’d felt moments before was replaced with buzzing nervous energy. I turned off everything downstairs and headed for my closet. I pushed through one item after another. Mommy outfit. Mommy outfit. Mommy outfit. Stained mommy outfit. Wrinkled mommy outfit. Good grief! Did I own anything except jeans, T-shirts, and sweats? How about a freaking iron? I shoved aside some lingerie-like shirts I’d bought years ago in a fit of anti-frumpiness. A lot of good they’d done.
I was about to give up when I ran across a stretchy, black, v-neck tank top. Hmm. It was really designed for exercise, but if I paired it with my casual black rayon pants, it might be okay. I hung the items over the closet doorknob and went in search of a black thong and bra. I found them abandoned in the back of my underwear drawer under an unopened pack of pantyhose. A true reflection of my life. Full outfit assembled, I crawled into bed.
It was one of those terrible times when you blink and it’s over. I’m not talking about sex, of course. Just one of those rock-hard sleeps that completely robs you of any sense of lengthy rest. The fact that Sophie was next to me babbling about her plans for the day meant it was somewhere between six and seven. Jack would sleep for another hour if I read Sophie stories and reenacted them as various characters. By breakfast, I’d been an ant, a baby, and a dump truck—and also added “actress” to my résumé.
We survived the morning unscathed despite roughhousing, imaginary sword fights, and a battle over who would get the first turn playing UNO. I was so busy refereeing that I didn’t have brain space for worrying. At 11:30, I started the pre-camp routine with sunblock slathering. Jack was mid-scream (“I hate this!”) when the doorbell rang. Sophie ran to get it.
“Don’t open it until I say it’s okay,” I warned.
“It’s Auntie Kenna,” Sophie announced. “But the door is locked.”
I grabbed my keys from the kitchen counter and hurried to the deadbolt. Jack was stuck holding his arms away from his sides, hoping the white gunk would dry quickly. I turned the lock and let Sophie turn the knob.
“Hi, Auntie Kenna. What’s that?” she asked. Kenna was holding a manila envelope.
“Hi sweetie. Some papers for your mommy.” Her smile was strained.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the package and giving her a hug, careful not to smear sunscreen on her back. “I’m sorry. I’m getting them ready for camp.”
“It’s okay. I put a note inside. Thanks for your message last night. Call me later.”
“I will,” I said. “I’m meeting with Dean about this at one.” I held up the envelope.
“What?” She was incredulous.
“I know. I hope it helps.”
“What are the papers about?” Sophie asked.
“A very nice girl,” I said while giving her a squeeze. “Just like you!”
My stomach did its usual flip as the kids climbed out of the van at camp. It was a relief to get a break, but my worry level always raised a notch when we were apart, at least for the first few minutes. A camp counselor walked them into the community center while I waved goodbye and called “I love you!” They blew me off, but at least it was the last thing they heard in case any of us died that day. Sad to admit, but that’s how my anxious mind works.
After stopping at home to freshen up, it took about fifteen minutes to get to the PI Academy, including a pickup at my favorite pizza joint. I wasn’t sure whether to be offended or relieved that none of the staff recognized me. Makeup, blown-out hair, decent clothes, and lack of dependents apparently transformed me into a new person. Go figure.
I parked with a few minutes to spare, which I used to rip open the packet from Kenna. She’d copied a ten-page intake form Beth had filled out at First Steps. Last names were blacked out, but everything else—from Beth’s birthday to her pre-pregnancy weight to her parents’ first names—was there. Bubbly writing listed her hobbies as dancing and soccer and her personality as “friendly but shy.” A sticky note from Kenna read, “Thanks, Nicki.”
I balanced pizza, bottled waters, and salads as I walked toward the Academy—an optimistic way of describing a strip-mall office shared by Dean a
nd several other investigators. Each was some kind of expert, which meant they could collaborate on cases and teach various subjects. Dean’s specialty (other than looking like Brad Pitt on steroids) was technical surveillance countermeasures, or TSCM, a fancy term for debugging. His part of the sixty-hour PI training, in all honesty, would have been mind-numbing if it hadn’t been for his fascinating appearance. But he was president of the school and had tons of experience. I knew because I’d read the company brochure several times. Okay, I’d mostly stared at his photo and read his bio twice.
I used my butt to push open the glass door, hoping Dean wouldn’t spot me from the little reception area. I was blessed with the sight of the twenty-something receptionist, Amber, alone and smiling at the front desk. Her hot pink lipstick went perfectly with her unnatural tan, bleached hair and acrylic nails. She was gorgeous in a kinda trashy way.
“Hey Amber,” I said. We’d met a few times on my way into class. “I’m here to see Dean.”
“He told me you’d be here. Give ya a hand?” She chomped on a piece of gum.
“Oh no. I’m fine.” Hopefully my food-container pyramid wouldn’t topple.
“Okay. Well, he’s in the back.” She swung her feathery layers toward the area where classes were held. “Go right ahead.”
Gray industrial carpet led past closed office doors to the darkened conference room. Dean sat at the end of a U-shaped table configuration, flashing slides onto a wall-size screen. They were changing so quickly I could only make out a blur of words.
“There,” he said, stopping on one that said Infrared Bugs. Sounded like a sci-fi flick. He turned to me, and his smile pierced the dark. I made a mental note to buy teeth whitening supplies. “I’m trying to get organized for a presentation tonight.”
“Oh. I’m sorry if it’s not a good time,” I said. “I really appreciate this.”
Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) Page 2