by Susan Wiggs
Callie picked up the pace, and Kate hurried to match her strides. “I know my offer seems sudden to you, but not to me. This has been on my mind for quite a while.”
“I have no idea what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything right away. I hope you’ll think about it seriously.”
“I’m not going to be able to think of anything else.”
“Of course, you’re free to consider other options. I’m far from perfect, as you’ve probably noticed. I don’t have a husband—”
“And you’re doing just fine,” Callie said loyally.
“Thank you. But I’ll be honest with you. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about the fact that Aaron is growing up without a father.”
“Same as the majority of all kids,” Callie pointed out.
“I don’t have a regular job,” Kate said, playing devil’s advocate.
“What are you, trying to talk me out of it?”
“I’m telling it like it is so you can make a good decision. I’m single and jobless.”
“You work every day. You’re making it as a writer. Plus, you said you have real estate in Seattle.”
The rental property. To Callie, any home owned free and clear must seem like a gold mine. Kate was humbled. As a single mother, she’d always felt hard done by, as though life hadn’t given her enough. In Callie’s eyes, she had it all. “You can take time to think about your decision,” said Kate. “Just remember, you’ll be a member of the family for as long as you need us, and I hope that’s forever.”
Callie stared straight ahead at the paved trail. “You don’t need to do this.”
“I want to do it.” Kate battled the urge to give her a gentle shake. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t like getting attached, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. What’s wrong with getting attached?”
“It sucks when things don’t work out.”
“Then we’ll make sure it works out.”
“I don’t get you.” Callie’s pace stayed brisk, but there was a softness in her voice. “You’re so, like, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, all cheerful and wholesome and everything.”
“Would you rather live with a Goth?”
“What’s a Goth?” asked Aaron. He had circled around behind them and was bringing up the rear.
“Someone who wears black all the time and rarely speaks,” Kate said. She looked at Callie. “Is that right?”
Callie was fighting laughter. “Yeah, I guess.”
Twenty-Nine
“Nervous?” Kate’s chirpy voice grated on Callie the next day as they drove over the Hood Canal Bridge, heading to the Kitsap Peninsula and an appointment Callie definitely did not want to keep. Since Aaron was spending the day with Mrs. Newman, the ride was filled with long silences.
God. She could read Callie like a book. “Oh, no,” Callie said. “It’s always a barrel of laughs to go see my mother.” She stared out the window. Vine maples and evergreen forests swished past, and every once in a while she caught a glimpse of the water through the trees. For some reason, the breathtaking scenery made her want to cry, the normal state of affairs for her these days.
She had been drifting around in a dreamlike state, overwhelmed by the decision she had to make. She and Kate talked endlessly about what life would be like as a family in Seattle. Kate described her neighborhood as quiet, with big trees and older homes. What Kate didn’t know was that Callie had never lived in an actual neighborhood. Nor had she ever had a place of her own in a private house, except with Kate. In Seattle, Callie would have her own room and a shared bath with Aaron. The high school was less than a mile from Kate’s house. It had a thousand students and its own radio station. Kate had promised to enroll Callie in driver’s ed, and when the time came, help her apply to college.
College. It was the first time anyone had mentioned it to Callie with any sense of possibility at all. Yet to Kate, going to college seemed perfectly doable, a logical step after high school and a goal within reach. Maybe that was why Callie was so scared to go for it. She’d learned from experience that wanting something too badly was the kiss of death. As soon as she made up her mind that she had to have something, it was ripped away from her. Luke was the perfect example. He’d held out the hand of friendship, maybe even hinted that there could be more, and then he blew her off. Dumped her. Kicked her out to the curb like a load of garbage.
Kate and the life she wanted to give Callie were just as tenuous. Yet Callie, even having been knocked in the dirt so many times, desperately wanted to accept the offer. Ever since Kate had proposed her idea, Callie had walked around with a giant lump in her throat, ready to burst into stupid tears at any moment. She couldn’t keep herself from imagining having a permanent place with Kate and Aaron. A clean, orderly house to come home to after school every day, supper around a table, her own bed each night. It was all so freaking Norman Rockwell, the kind of thing kids in foster homes made fun of. Callie knew exactly why they ridiculed close families. It was to protect themselves from shriveling up from wanting it so badly.
Drawing a shell of sullenness around her, she sank deeper into silence. And Kate, ever understanding, didn’t push her to talk. She didn’t press for a decision, either. At some point she would, though. Callie knew that. Because later today, they had an appointment with CPS to discuss Kate’s proposed arrangement with a caseworker.
First, though, they had a stop to make. Callie tore her gaze away from the passing scenery and glanced down at the official-looking envelope that lay on the seat between them. The outside was stamped Washington State Correction Center for Women and the inside contained their clearance passes to visit Callie’s mother.
Callie shifted in her seat, wishing she could scoot away from the documents lying there.
“Sorry,” Kate said as if reading her mind. “I know it’s rough—”
“You don’t know,” Callie said. “How could you possibly? You have nice parents and this great family. I’ve seen the pictures, Kate. I’ve heard the stories. You had this perfect childhood, so you can’t possibly know what this is like.”
“You know what I think?” she said. “I think the old saying is true. It’s never too late to have a happy childhood.”
“Right.” Callie studied her fingernails. Frosted peony.
“You can still say no to visiting your mother. Since it was my idea in the first place, I can talk to her by myself.”
“I’ll do it,” Callie said. In spite of everything she had some kind of sick loyalty to her mother, a need to see her and hear her voice. “You probably think it’s totally weird that I’m willing to be in the same room with her.”
“With your mother?” Kate shook her head. “It’s not weird at all.”
“Even though she was devoted to that creep, Timothy Stone? And when that fell apart, she dragged me to Washington and ditched me?”
“You didn’t choose her, but you’ve got her.”
Callie didn’t say anything. She had learned to play her cards close to the chest and old habits died hard.
At the state women’s prison in Purdy, Kate acted as if it was no big deal, parking in a Visitor slot, showing their credentials at the gate office. She acted perfectly calm as they descended the granite stairway, going lower with every step. They had to be searched with wands that never touched them but felt like an intrusion anyway. They passed through gate after gate, each one closing before the next opened. She could tell Kate was nervous, going through the security routine of sliding doors, fluorescent hand stamps, sealed rooms.
Callie’s first foster home had been close by the prison, so close that she could see the reflection of its too-bright lights at night, blotting out the stars. She knew her way around this place. On the way to the visitors’ unit, they passed through a garden that always surprised people when they saw it. It was filled with riotously blooming sweet peas and dahlias, and there was even a pond with rose petals floating on the surface.
In the crook of an ornamental plum tree was a nest, and birdsong floated on the breeze. It resembled the perfect oasis if you ignored the miles of cyclone fence and coils of razor wire surrounding the compound.
The inmates they passed averted their eyes. Disengaging, a prison counselor had called it. If you made eye contact, it was a challenge. Yet somehow, the downcast gazes had intimidated the heck out of Callie when she’d first come here. Now she wasn’t just immune. She had learned to disengage, too.
She checked to see how Kate was taking it all in. At first glance, you wouldn’t think she was tough enough to deal with something like this. She looked like Alice in Wonderland, with her shampoo-ad hair and big eyes. But there was more to her than that. She had a core of steel, and that was evident when an inmate sized her up and she refused to flinch.
They waited in a room furnished with molded-plastic chairs and shiny laminate tables. The linoleum floors were scuffed and it was hot as an oven, with no breeze through the open transom windows. Kate sat down and placed her notepad and pencil on the table in front of her. She lined them up perfectly straight, then sent Callie an ironic smile. “Not that I’m nervous or anything.”
Callie smiled back. “Don’t worry about it. Everybody is.”
A few minutes later, her mom was brought in by a guard. Kate stood up fast, the feet of her chair scraping the floor. Callie stayed seated, her arm over the back of the chair. She felt a storm of emotion in her gut—anger and discomfort, and a terrible explosion of hope and yearning—but she kept it all in and acted nonchalant. “Hey,” she said, and finally, reluctantly, got up.
“Hey, yourself.” Mom’s eyes flickered over her. “You finally lost some weight.”
“I collapsed and almost died on my birthday,” Callie said, wondering even as she spoke why she bothered. “I’ve been diagnosed with insulin resistance. That’s a precursor of type 2 diabetes.”
Her mother’s face didn’t change. “Shouldn’t have let yourself get so heavy.”
After that, of course, they didn’t hug, didn’t smile. They were long past the stage of pretending there was any sort of bond between them. Everyone sat down, and her mom kept a poker face, like Callie knew she would. Callie was more interested in watching Kate’s reaction. People were always startled when they saw Callie’s mom. They were surprised by how petite she was, how beautiful. Renée Zellweger with a number stenciled on the back of her shirt.
Kate was surprised, all right, Callie could tell, even though she’d already seen Mom’s mug shot and sort of knew what to expect. But she covered up her reaction, smiling as she said, “Ms. Evans, I’m Kate Livingston. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Callie’s mom drummed her fingers on the table. “Why?”
“Curiosity, mostly.” Kate sat back down. Sure enough, she was not going to blow smoke up anyone’s ass and pretend she was here out of compassion. “And research for an article I’m writing. I was hoping you’d be willing to talk with me about your life with Callie.”
Mom’s dark eyes narrowed. “What kind of article?”
“For a magazine. It’s scheduled to run in Vanity Fair next year.”
“So you’re a reporter?”
“Freelance writer.”
“And if I don’t feel like telling you anything?”
Kate folded her hands, prim as a lady in church. “I’ll use the court records and Callie’s own impressions.”
“Oh, so you’re writing a work of fiction.”
“I beg your pardon?” Kate sounded polite, but the question was a clear challenge.
“This interview is over,” Mom said, getting up, her mouth a curl of disgust. “I’ve got nothing to say to either of you.”
It hit Callie then that this person had never been a mother to her. Kate was the closest thing she’d ever had to a real mother. All her life, she had been waiting and hoping for her mom to be something Kate had become in just one summer. She knew now that she’d been trying to hang on to nothing, to thin air, to her idea of what a mother should be, and that was so stupid. It was like trying to catch the rain between your fingers. Now, Kate—she was the real thing. But the scary part of that was that she might not last.
Kate was quiet for a moment. Callie was scared she might mention her idea about letting Callie live with her. They’d agreed not to bring it up until Callie made her decision. She hoped Kate would remember that.
Kate offered a tight, controlled smile. Then she carefully picked up the pad of paper and pencil and stood.
The guard stepped forward to escort Callie’s mother back to her unit. But Mom had one more thing to say. “She’ll screw you over, just you watch. The kid’s a born liar and a cheater. She’ll screw you like she screwed me, and then we’ll see who’s so self-righteous.”
“Care to explain that further?” Kate asked.
“You’ll find out for yourself.” The guard walked her to the door. The last thing Callie’s mother said was, “Ask her. Ask her how come she ran away from her last home. Ask why they never tried to find her.”
Thirty
Summer storms rarely struck at the lake, but occasionally, the mountains would produce a change in the weather. In late August, nature offered a hint of the coming season. The air turned misty as a brooding bank of clouds moved in, followed by gusts of wind howling through the corridor created by the mountains around the lake. Kate found her gaze drawn to the window as the weather intensified, driving curtains of rain across the water. She loved the drama of a good storm, with its dim, strange light, the dense pressure of the air, the sound of the wind tearing at the treetops and the rain beating on the roof. It was true that an idyllic summer day on the lake was a thing of beauty. Yet weather like this had its own peculiar majesty, feeding the melancholy side of her and somehow quieting the restlessness in her soul.
Chilled by the cold wind blowing down from the mountains, she made a fire in the woodstove and all day long worked by the dancing light visible through the amber glass in the stove door. Across the table from her, Aaron alternated between drawing intricate maps of some imaginary place and playing with his army action figures, who were rappelling off the backs of chairs, under enemy fire. From time to time, Kate paused in her work to watch her son thoughtfully, though she said nothing, loath to interrupt the fantasy. Aaron worked his heroes hard. He always had.
Callie had been productive all day. She had cleaned her room and changed the linens, swept the porch and mopped the kitchen floor without being asked. She claimed she was feeling cooped up by the rain, and the activity would keep her from going stir-crazy. In the days since their visit to the corrections center, she hadn’t spoken of the visit to her mother, not to deny the things Sonja Evans had said, nor to confirm them, either. But Kate sensed an air of penance or atonement in Callie’s actions and heard again the echo of Sonja’s words—Ask her….
She took a deep breath and caught the girl’s eye. “I’ve been wondering about something your mother said.”
Callie’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah?”
“About why you had problems at your foster homes.”
“That’s over,” Callie said. “I’m through running away.”
“So what’s changed?”
She studied the floor, then glanced over at Aaron. He seemed oblivious, lost in his make-believe world. “I never told this to anyone, not even my mother. She’s the reason I kept running away, so I could go see her. I missed her so much, it’s crazy.”
Kate’s heart ached for her. “It’s not crazy.”
“It is. She’s not worth it. She never wanted me around. And she was right,” Callie added softly. “I tend to ruin things.”
Finally, thought Kate. She’d been waiting for Callie to respond to Sonja’s comments. “That’s not what your mother said. She told me to ask you why you left your last family. I didn’t ask, though. I figured it’s up to you whether or not you want to tell me.”
“I did ruin it,” Callie said, her voice matter-of-fact. �
��The Youngs were a good family, and I ruined things with them. If I hadn’t left on my own, they would have sent me packing.”
Kate said nothing, hoping her silence would keep the invitation open.
Sure enough, a moment later, Callie said softly, “I screwed everything up. Me, all by myself. The Youngs wanted to help me. I didn’t let them, though. I pushed them away, and when they pushed back, I ran.”
Kate could easily picture it. Callie’s self-protective instincts were stronger than her trust in people’s basic goodness. She had acted out of self-preservation, pure and simple. Kate recognized that.
“You’re going to have to change the way you deal with people who love you and want to help you,” Kate told her.
“Yeah, right. Whatever you say.” She headed for the utility room. “I need to get some clothes out of the dryer.”
Kate turned her attention back to revising the lengthy article. Her editor had declared the topic important, the photos remarkable, and the last time Kate was in cell phone range, they had talked for an hour about how the piece would be published. It would have a strong position in features, a shoutline on the front cover and a thumbnail photograph on the contents page. Kate gave all the credit to Callie, whose input had a devastating honesty. Kate herself had merely been the scribe, taking down a story of danger and endurance. Reporting Callie’s unflinching narrative without judgment, Kate had known all along, was the only way the piece would be effective.
Kate hoped Callie would be happy with the published article. True, it was unsparing and not always flattering, but no reader would ever lose sympathy for her. Kate had even persuaded the magazine to include a sidebar with information about diabetes. In the past ten years, the number of teens with type 2 diabetes had doubled.
Sometimes when she was writing, Kate still thought about the things JD had said to her. He had wondered at the humanity of profiting from other people’s pain, from exposing someone’s private life to the world. As much as it bothered her to hear such things, the comments lingered in her mind and actually made her do a better job on the article. She weighed the merits of every word and phrase. If something smacked of exploitation or sensationalism, she struck it. She allowed nothing except the powerful truth, most of which came from the words Callie herself spoke. Kate would not obscure, soft-pedal or romanticize any of the events. Nor would she embellish or dramatize them.