Left Behind

by Vi Keeland

  I walk toward the reception desk, thinking about how much my life has changed in the last nine months. I feel guilty realizing life has changed for the better. If only it had changed like this when Mom was still here.

  The receptionist is busy talking on the phone and not at all interested in looking up to greet me as I reach the desk. She knows I’m here. I saw her eyes look up just enough to spot me and ignore me just as quickly. She continues on her personal call for several more minutes leaving me standing here contemplating turning around and walking out.

  Nerves keep me glued in place, I’m unable to turn and leave, yet I’m also terrified to stay. Finally, the cranky receptionist hangs up the phone and turns her eyes upon me. “Can I help you?” she says in a tone that tells me she doesn’t exactly love her job.

  “I have an appointment,” I respond in a voice that is barely audible. Fear has set in.

  “You and everybody else, honey. Look around. You ain’t the only one. What department?” she barks.

  “Social Work. I’m here to look at some records,” I explain as if she might be listening.

  She’s not. “Social Work. Sign the book and sit in the area with the orange chairs,” She points to the far right corner of the atrium.

  Turning to follow her finger, I find that, while there are a dozen people sitting in the green chair area, the orange seats are bodiless. Lucky me, I guess. I head to the putrid seats and sit down. At least I’m sitting in a new color these days.

  Looking around the room, the green chairs are mostly full of women with small children. The bored toddlers hang on their mothers or roll around on the floor at their sides. It must be the area to wait for public assistance, an area I know well. My heart aches for the children sitting there, their moms probably have it rough. I instantly feel six years old again.

  Before my mind can drift too deeply back to sadder times, a woman calls out, “Nicole. Nicole Fallon.” I almost miss my name because nobody calls me Nicole. I didn’t even sign in as Nicole.

  My legs are weak with fear as I stand to approach the young woman calling my name. I raise my hand to motion I’m here, because at the moment words fail me. She greets me halfway.

  “Hi Nicole. I’m Valerie Hawkins. We spoke on the phone this morning.” I spot a file in her hand labeled Nicole Fallon. My heart races wondering if that folder contains the name of my sister.

  “Yes, I remember. Thank you for seeing me Ms. Hawkins. I’m a little nervous,” I confide in her. Something I’m sure she spots without being told.

  “I understand. People usually are. It’s normal. Let’s go to my office.” Ms. Hawkins leads the way down a narrow hall. The walls are not the cold sterile gray of the atrium but an ugly, depressing hospital pale blue. No pictures attempt to dress up the walls, which are stained and chipped from many people who have leaned against them. The décor matches the mood of the occupants— both the visitors and most of the employees.

  Ms. Hawkins opens a wood door at the end of the hall with an old gold doorplate that reads, Long Beach Department of Social Work. The office is crammed with cubicles full of workers. I hope Ms. Hawkins has a private office somewhere, but quickly find out otherwise as she ushers me into a cubicle not far from the entrance door.

  “Have a seat, Nicole.” She pulls out a chair holding a pile of files and looks around for a place to put them, but every surface is already stacked high with bulging files. Setting the heap down on the floor, she positions the empty chair next to her desk so I can sit facing her.

  “It’s Nikki. Nobody has ever called me Nicole. My mom liked Nikki better.” I tuck my hands under my thighs to hide the trembling. My head is light, the room spins a bit and it’s entirely possible I could actually be sick. I do my best to steady myself as Ms. Hawkins opens her desk drawer and takes out a second folder, which she opens.

  “I just need to see your identification, Nikki.” She looks up and smiles to make sure I hear her say Nikki, rather than Nicole. She’s already more attentive than Ms. Evans.

  She inspects my identification, smiles and looks up at me warmly. “Happy Birthday. Eighteen is a big one. Hard to imagine it was ten years ago for me. Enjoy it. Time goes fast.” She thumbs through the file and then folds her hands on top of it. “So what kind of information did you hope to find out today?” she cuts to the chase, politely but directly.

  “I really don’t know anything about my childhood in California. I grew up in Texas. I’ve only been back in California since my mother died. I came to live with my Aunt who I hadn’t even known existed before that.” I’ve told nearly my whole life story to a stranger in five seconds.

  “Okay, well your file has your hospital birth records. And it also has some records of Court hearings on visitation,” Ms. Hawkins explains.

  Visitation? Visitation with who? “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Let’s start with your birth records. Would that be okay?” she asks, trying to take things slower.

  “Yes, I think that would be good. Thank you.”

  She slides the thicker of the two folders toward me on the desk. “Do you want me to go through it with you or would you rather have a few minutes alone to go through it?” I’m grateful for the choice and tell her I’d like to have a few minutes alone.

  “I’ll be just across the room using another phone to catch up on some messages. Let me know if you need me,” she says as she walks away, leaving me still sitting on my hands.

  I reach for the folder, my unsteady hand shaking. My anxiety level surges as I open it. The page fastened to the inside left is a hospital admission form. Baby Girl B

  I turn slowly through my birth records, learning Baby Girl B— me— was a healthy baby. Three days in the hospital and discharged to “Mother”.

  The records are scant. I’m not sure what I expected but somehow I thought I would learn more.

  I remember Ms. Hawkins saying there were also records of Court orders. I slide the second folder across the desk hoping that something about Baby Girl A is to be found. The large stack of papers are secured with a rubber band. The first page is a faded seventeen year old Court order dated three days after my first birthday. A narrative appears below the date:

  After a hearing and evidence presented by both parties, this Court orders that Respondent is permitted visitation with his infant daughter, Nicole Fallon, on alternate Sundays from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. within the county of Long Beach.

  It is further ordered that Respondent pay child support in the amount of $880.00 per month to the infant’s mother, Carla Fallon, through the Office of Child Support Collections.

  It is acknowledged that based on Respondent’s current salary of $116,000.00, the presumptive child support amount under the Federal Child Support Standards Act would be $1355.00 per month. However, a downward departure in support is warranted due to the fact that Respondent and his spouse are the parents of two additional minor children. The Court takes into further consideration the fact that Respondent’s custodial daughter, Emily Bennett, born February 14th, 1996, has considerable current medical expenses due to medical complications after birth last year.

  The Court suggests to the parties that they work towards developing a relationship between these currently estranged siblings.

  So Ordered:

  February 17, 1997.

  Justice Robert Brown

  Emily Bennett? Emily Bennett born February 14, 1996? It has to be a cruel coincidence. There must be other Emily Bennetts in Long Beach. And who is Respondent? I thought my father was dead? The court directs the parties to work at developing a relationship between the two estranged siblings?

  Suddenly I find it hard to breathe. The air is thick and my lungs can’t inhale enough oxygen. If I sit here another minute, I’m certain I’ll pass out. I spot Ms. Hawkins on the phone but know I can’t afford to wait another moment. Tearing the page from the file, I take off running, heading desperately for the main entrance.

  Air. I need air.

  Whe
n my feet finally reach the concrete out front, I gasp, swallowing down as much oxygen as I can take in. Bent over, hands on my knees, I inhale deeply and exhale loudly, my lungs burn, starving after being deprived. I look up towards the street. There’s a bus pulling up I could hop on. But I know I can’t possibly enter another confined space. So, I run.

  And run.

  And run.

  Eventually I collapse. Out of breath and panting on the ground, I look up and realize where my feet have lead me. Roselawn Memorial Cemetery. Allie had once told me Zack had been found here lying at Emily’s grave several times in the weeks after her death. My heart tightened in my chest each time Aunt Claire and I drove past it, reminding me of what he must have been through.

  Sitting trying to catch my breath I tell myself that it won’t be what I think. It can’t be. My sister is alive. My sister is not Zack’s Emily.

  When I finally have enough breath to walk, I compose myself and walk to the small brick office building just beyond the gate. A kind looking old man sitting at the desk reading the newspaper looks up as I enter. “Can I help you, Miss?”

  “I’m trying to find someone. A grave site, I mean. I’m here to visit a friend who has passed. Can you tell me how to find the spot?” I ask, my voice breaking more with each word.

  “I can help you. Give me the name and year of death and I can search our system,” he offers.

  “Emily Bennett. She died last year.” Just saying the words aloud, tears well up in my eyes.

  He punches some keys on his computer. “Got it. J-117. Here’s a grounds map. It’s not far. You can walk it if you want.” He gets up to point the direction from the door and trace the map with his finger for me.

  ***

  Five minutes later, I’m standing at a row of headstones with a marker “J”. I walk past J-1 and look down the long row realizing I’m only a few hundred feet away from the answer. Tiny drops of rain begin to fall as I take the first step down row J. The drops increase both in size and number as I make my way passed J-51, 52…. The rain washes away the tears that have been streaming down my face since I saw the first headstone. Emily can’t have been born on Valentine’s Day. Please, God, let her birthday be any other day.

  In the distance I see a figure placing flowers on a grave as the rain pummels his silhouette. I stop in my tracks. “Long Beach High Football” is emblazed in red letters on the back of his gray sweatshirt— the sweatshirt I have worn so many times.

  I quietly slide down behind a large headstone and bow my head to my lap. I can’t see Zack now. I don’t want to see anyone. I just want to see that grave.

  Minutes feel like hours, but eventually he walks away, head down. The walk of grief. I feel sick.

  I make my way down to the place where he stood, rain showering my body and blurring my vision as I read the headstones I pass. Then I see the lilies. Fresh, beautiful lilies. Two bundles— each placed in the standing vases on stakes in the wet ground on opposite ends of the headstone. Two visitors were here today.

  I kneel in the fresh muddy ground in front of the stone so the rain doesn’t impair my vision.

  Emily Lynne Bennett

  2/14/1996— 3/27/2013

  Beloved daughter of Michael and Lynne Bennett

  Beloved Sister of Brent Jon Bennett

  Our Angel has been called to Heaven

  My body collapses on the grass in front of her grave. I’ve lost everything at once. Again.

  Chapter 37

  Nikki

  “Why are you here?” A woman’s voice startles me. I lift my head, wiping the dripping hair plastered to my face from my eyes.

  It’s her.

  “Why are you here?” she repeats more insistently when I don’t respond.

  Who is she?

  “Why did you come here?” Her stern voice rises.

  “Who are you?” Ignoring her question, I finally find my voice.

  “I’m Lynne Bennett.”

  Eyes wide, my head whips to read the headstone again. I turn back to face her, she’s staring at me blankly. I have so many questions, yet I don’t know what to say.

  “I’ll ask you again. Why are you here?”

  “Emily was my sister.”

  “Emily didn’t have a sister. You and your delusional mother are nothing to Emily.”

  “But…”

  The woman speaks over me. “My husband never loved your mother. She was nothing more than a manipulative young girl.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t belong here. You can’t take her place. He will never love you.”

  “Who? Who won’t love me?”

  “You can’t replace her. Not to my husband. Not to Zack. You should have just kept running that day.”

  “Zack? Zack doesn’t even know I’m Emily’s sister.”

  The woman laughs maniacally. “You’re as crazy as your mother was. Do you really believe he doesn’t know who you are? He’s using you. He misses my daughter. I see him running with you, just like he used to do with my Emily. He was so in love with her, so desperate to keep her with him, he turned to a cheap copy. He doesn’t give a damn about you.”

  “I…”

  “You should go back to your trailer park. There is nothing here for you.”

  I stare at her; she doesn’t so much as blink. My clothes are muddied and dripping wet. Yet, this woman, standing holding her umbrella, doesn’t have a hair out of place or a drop of water on her. I look like the trash she thinks I am.

  “Leave!” I jump when she screams. Her blank, perfectly made-up face twists with contempt.

  “Leave!” She throws a large bouquet of lilies tied with a white ribbon at me. They hit my face and fall, scattering all around Emily’s grave.

  I turn, taking one last look at my sister’s headstone, then run, never looking back.

  ***

  I ring the doorbell for the third time, but no one answers. Zack’s car isn’t here. The driveway is empty. I feel sick. Confused. Angry. Scared. Lost. I need to hear Zack tell me she was lying. He couldn’t possibly have known Emily was my sister.

  I bang on the door. Maybe the bell isn’t working. But no one answers. I turn, stopping in my tracks at the sight of Emily’s house. My sister’s house.

  Then suddenly I’m ringing the Bennett’s doorbell, yet I don’t even remember crossing the street.

  I wait, but no one answers.

  I try the door handle. It’s locked.

  I need to go inside, although I’m not even sure why.

  I try the side door, but it’s locked too.

  I keep walking; the gate to the backyard is open.

  The back door is locked, so I move to the sliding glass patio door.

  It opens.

  I step just inside the door. I’m not even sure why I’m here.

  The house is quiet. I take a few steps. Photos on the fireplace mantel catch my eye. There’s one of a girl in a cheerleading outfit, her legs in a wide split mid-air. Long, thick, blonde wavy hair— perfectly tanned skin. Emily. My sister. We don’t look anything alike. She doesn’t have our mother’s eyes.

  I wander through the house, uncertain of what I’m looking for, what I’m even doing here, until I find it upstairs. Emily’s room.

  It looks like it hasn’t been touched since…

  There are clothes strewn haphazardly on the bed. I pick up one of the dresses and hold it against me. We’re the same size.

  Scanning the room, I find the wall behind me littered with photos. There are hundreds of them. All tilted in different directions, random words cut out from magazines and added to the collage. Cheer. Love. LOL. Prada. Family. PLL. My eyes seize on the biggest word. Thick pink block letters, in all caps. ZACK.

  I study the pictures.

  Emily and her friends.

  Emily and her parents.

  Emily and Zack.

  Dozens and dozens of Emily and Zack.

  There must be a hundred of them.

  At
school.

  At dances.

  Zack in his football uniform.

  Emily in her cheerleading outfit.

  I feel sick.

  One particular photo catches my eye. It’s of Zack and Emily as kids, they couldn’t be more than eight or nine. Dirty faces, both smiling wildly, Zack is peddling a bright yellow bike, Emily is on the handlebars.

  My head is spinning.

  I study their faces. They look so happy.

  The wall of pictures begins to blur, photos morph into each other. The room begins to spin.

  I need air.

  An oversized mirror leans against a wall. I see my reflection. Silent tears roll down my cheeks, but I don’t feel them.

  I need to leave. My feet start to move, but a photo tucked into the corner of the frame catches my eye and I freeze. Zack and Emily, arms wrapped around each other, smile broadly for the camera. But that’s not what has stopped my heart from beating. It’s the lighthouse they are standing in front of.

  No.

  Ripping the photo from the frame, I look at their faces one more time.

  They’re happy.

  In love.

  The woman’s words haunt my ears.

  “He was so in love with her, so desperate to keep her with him, he turned to a cheap copy. He doesn’t give a damn about you.”

  I shred the picture to pieces.

  It’s not enough.

  I look around for something. Anything. I grab a shoe and throw it at the mirror, but it doesn’t break. So I find something else— a perfume bottle. And this time I wind up before I heave the heavy bottle from my trembling hand. A loud shatter rings through the still room. A hundred tiny pieces of glass fall to the ground. I turn, water still dripping from everywhere on my body, and slowly walk out of the house.

  Chapter 38

  Nikki

  I wake to the sound of the engine humming. The vibration coming from below leaves a constant shake that’s not quite enough to rock me back to sleep, but the perfect amount to make me queasy. My neck aches from sleeping scrunched up in the cramped seat¸ but I guess I shouldn’t complain since the bus is nearly full and I had two seats to stretch out onto.