by W. H. Vega
“Of course you will,” she says, “I’m the best housemate you’ll ever have.”
“It’s more than that,” I say, stepping toward her, “I’ve had a lot of foster sisters, Con. But you’re the only real sister I’ve ever had.”
“What the hell is the matter with you?” she asks, her eyes welling up with tears, “Are you trying to turn me into a stick of goddamn jerky? I don’t have any more tears to spare.”
“I just wanted you to know,” I smile, taking her hand in mine. “I’ll see you around, OK?”
“You probably won’t,” she tells me, “But I appreciate it, all the same.”
I turn from her and leave without looking back. Walking into this house felt like being condemned to prison, but leaving doesn’t feel like being released. I don’t know if I’ll ever be free of all the pain and guilt that I gathered up, here. Part of me suspects that I’ll drag the baggage of this place behind me for the rest of my life.
Miss McCoy puts her arm around my shoulder and leads me down to her car. I’d know that old Honda Civic anywhere. Time and again, this car has carried me to some foreign, unknowable place to survive among the hostile natives. I laugh humorlessly to myself—I’m sure that Columbus and Magellan never felt so bitterly toward their vessels. Maybe that’s been my problem this whole time...I’ve just needed a better ship.
“You OK spending the day with me?” Miss MacCoy asks, “I don’t want to leave you alone on Christmas Eve, but no one else is really around to—”
“It’s fine,” I tell her.
We drive along in silence, for a spell. The Daniels’ rundown house disappears around the corner for the last time. I think of all the homes I’ve left behind so far in my life. I’ve said goodbye to my parents’ home, the place where I spent the earliest and best years of my life.
I’ve left the rowdy Goldstein’s place behind, with all its memories of truncated childhood. I’ve been snatched from the jealous Cheryl’s apartment, and taken out of Mrs. Tyson’s would-be convent. But never before has a goodbye seemed so final as this one.
“I just don’t understand, Nadia,” Miss MacCoy begins. “If things were so terrible with the Daniels, why didn’t you just tell me? You’ve always been so honest with me about your foster families.”
“I guess things weren’t always so terrible,” I shrug, as Trace’s gorgeous green eyes float up to the forefront of my memory.
“The police told me everything you guys said. Is it true that Paul and Nancy were drinking? That they hit the boys?”
“Yes,” I admit softly, “Yes, that’s all true.”
“Well Christ, Nadia, don’t you think that’s information I might need to have?” Miss MacCoy asks, exasperated. “You could have gotten seriously hurt. If what you’re saying about last night is true, then—”
“What, you think I’m lying?” I ask, more hurt than angry.
“No, of course not,” Miss MacCoy says quickly. “I just...I don’t get it, Nadia. I could have gotten you out of there. Why did you just sit silently by while all of this was going on?”
“I...I didn’t want to leave,” I say, realizing that it’s the truth.
“How can that be?” Miss MacCoy asks.
“I had good company,” I tell her. “Conway, and Garrick, and...Trace.”
My social worker looks over at me, suddenly comprehending. “Trace,” she says, “I see.”
“Yeah.”
“Is that why he...? You two had a thing together?”
“It wasn’t a thing,” I tell her, “It was...We just cared about each other. He cared about me. He understood me.”
“So he was trying to save you, last night,” Miss MacCoy says.
“He did save me,” I say, “And now he’s going to end up in juvie, all because of me.”
“He will probably go to jail,” Miss MacCoy says, her voice pained, “But not because of you. He made his own choice, Nadia.”
“But Paul would have raped me,” I say, pleading with her to see the injustice, “Doesn’t that mean anything? Doesn’t Trace get a little credit for getting that fucking monster away from me?”
“With his past charges and the drugs they found in the house?” Miss MacCoy says, “No. Probably, it won’t count for much. He might be able to get a lesser sentence than murder, but it’s not like his record is clean, Nadia. Whatever happens to Trace has been in the works for far longer than you’ve known him.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” I say.
“You’ll see,” Miss MacCoy tells me, “When you get a little distance, you’ll see how much was already stacked against him. The best thing you could have done to him was be a friend, and you did. I’m sure that will always mean a lot to him.”
“Great,” I mutter, closing my fingers around my necklace. I slide Trace’s map along the chain, letting it fall against my compass. By the time we both come down from this, I might need a map if I’m ever going to find him again. But probably, that won’t be necessary.
Probably, the glimpse I caught of Trace as he was lowered into that cop car will be my last. Maybe they’ll call me in to testify at his trial, but I doubt they’ll even need me. The case against Trace is clear, to them. He’s a foster kid, a reject, a bad seed. They’ll put him away for however long they please and never think twice about it. No one but me will ever know that he was in the right, attacking Paul. No one else will care.
Just when I was starting to think that at least law and order were the slightest bit cut and dry, I’m proved wrong yet again. There’s nothing fair or easy about this world, this life, and I won’t forget that again. All we can do is stand up for what we think is right and support those who do. Even if I never see Trace again, I’ll never forget what he did for me. What he sacrificed in order to keep me safe. I can only hope that, somewhere down the line, he finds it in his heart to forgive me.
I turn my face toward the window to hide my fresh wave of tears from Miss MacCoy. Wordlessly, we make our way once more to the unknowable next best thing.
PART II
Chapter One
Nadia
All Grown Up
“Nadia, look!” my roommate Carly squeals, “You made the front page!”
I reach across the kitchen table and grab the morning paper. Sure enough, there’s my picture—splashed beneath the top headline of the morning: “Kiddie Porn Mogul Found Guilty of All Charges.”
“Well. Would you look at that?” I say, handing the paper back to Carly.
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” Carly asks, bewildered by my nonchalance.
I shrug my shoulders, holding a steaming mug of coffee in my hands. “What do you want me to say, Carly?” I ask.
“I don’t know. How about ‘Hell yeah!’ or ‘Take that!’ or ‘Who’s the best goddamn lawyer in the state of Illinois’?” she suggests. “You just took down one of the most abominable criminals in the country, Nadia. You’re allowed to be proud of yourself.”
“I’m very proud,” I say, “But it’s not like this changes anything.”
“How can you say that?” Carly asks, shoving her fingers through her short red curls, “This guy can never hurt another kid, and all because of you.”
“This guy’s locked up, sure,” I tell her, leaning my forearms on the kitchen table, “But more will pop up. Fighting organized crime in this country is like playing an endless game of Whack-A-Mole. You slam one criminal, four more spring up in his place.”
“Not exactly an optimistic view, is it?” Carly sighs.
“Well, I’m not an optimist,” I tell her, “I’m a realist. A pragmatist.”
“Even pragmatists can pat themselves on the back once in a while,” she says.
Grinning, I bend my arm backwards and gently tap my shoulder. “There,” I say, “Are you satisfied now? Can I finish my breakfast in peace?”
“Whatever,” Carly says, “I’m putting this article up on the fridge, and you can’t stop me.”
&nbs
p; I shake my head as my roommate fetches a pair of scissors. We’ve been living together since our first year at law school, and Carly has always been my number one cheerleader. Even though our specialties are completely different—she focuses on corporate law, I’m concerned with putting dangerous criminals away for good—Carly’s always had the utmost respect for my work.
Still, I wish she could understand why I don’t do cartwheels every time I win a case. Even when I manage to bring one of these assholes to justice, the people they’ve harmed are still left hurt and broken. I know full well that feeling justified and feeling happy are not the same thing.
“So what’s next for the great Nadia Faber?” Carly asks, snipping the front page article out of the paper.
“Not sure,” I tell her, “I have to wait to be assigned another case, I guess.”
“I’m sure that won’t take long,” she says, “You’re in demand right now.”
“I suppose,” I allow, “I’ve been lucky, lately.”
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” Carly says, “You’re amazing at what you do. You work harder than anyone I’ve ever met. You’re a rock star.”
“Good Lord, Carly,” I groan, pushing myself up from the breakfast table, “If you don’t stop it with the praise, my head’s not going to be able to fit through the front door!”
“Sorry,” she winks, bouncing back toward her bedroom. “But also...so not sorry.”
She disappears into her room as I make my way back toward mine. With our combined incomes, Carly and I are able to afford a pretty spacious two bedroom in one of Chicago’s nicer neighborhoods.
Pretty soon, we plan to split up and buy places of our very own, but we’re not in any major hurry. We’re good company for each other, and neither of us wants to live alone. Of course, that might change if things with Carly’s boyfriend, Jesse, keep looking up. They’re an odd couple—the corporate lawyer and the recording studio operator—but they’ve been going strong for over a year, now. They might be ready to move in together before too long.
For my part, I can’t even comprehend wanting to move in with someone at this stage in my life. In my nearly 28 years on this planet, I’ve never been able to find someone I’d like to share a life with. That is...not anyone with whom it would be possible.
I strip my pajama shorts and tank top off my body and cast them into the clothes hamper in the corner. As I rifle through my dresser in search of running clothes, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’ve never been a vain person, but even I have to admit that I’m looking good these days. My height’s peaked at around five foot eight, and after taking up running as an antidepressant during undergrad, my body’s become lean and athletic.
My chest and ass are still plenty curvy, but everything’s nice and toned just the same. I think I look even better now than I did when I was teenager—though I can’t very well hold any aspect of those years against myself. So much was out of my control that I’m just glad to have made it out alive.
Most of the time, I try and keep my mind from retracing its steps through my troubled past. But with my next birthday creeping up, it’s hard not to let some reflection creep into my day. As I pull a sports bra over my head, it hits me how much time has passed since I was freed of my “former life”; namely, the foster care system.
In a couple of weeks, it will have been a decade since I turned eighteen and said goodbye to that terrifying, unpredictable life forever. Time sure does fly when you’re trying to stitch a life together from leftover scraps.
I lace up my baby blue running shoes and head for the front door. Spring is just starting to assert itself in the Windy City again this year, and I’ve been loving running in the warmer weather.
“Be back in an hour or so,” I call to Carly.
“How the hell can you have fun running for an hour?” she calls back, “Are you sure you’re not some sort of cyborg?”
“Just a freak, I guess,” I laugh. But even in joking, the other “f” word makes my gut ache. I had the term leveled at me so often as a kid that I can’t even think of it now without feeling some residual heartache. As ever when I’m feeling alone or upset, I find myself clutching onto my charm necklace—the one piece of jewelry that I’ll never take off. The feel of my compass and map charms calm me at once as I step into our building’s elevator.
I sidle further into the car as it stops at the very next floor below us. As the doors slide open, I feel my heart kick excitedly against my chest. Our new neighbor, a handsome man in his early thirties, steps into the elevator beside me. He just moved into the building a couple of weeks ago—alone. And after double and triple checking, I’m certain that there’s no ring on that finger.
I venture a friendly smile his way, letting my gaze rest on his sculpted features, his dark hair and eyes, his clean, sharp jaw. He’s wearing the uniform of someone in finance, or maybe advertising? It’s tough to say. By the time I realize I’m staring, it’s too late—he’s noticed too.
“Where are your ear buds?” the man asks me.
“What?” I reply, feeling remarkably nervous.
“Your headphones,” he clarifies, “Don’t you listen to music while you run?”
“Oh, no...” I say, crossing my arms across my chest, “I prefer to have that time to myself. To think.”
He lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “Power to you,” he says, “I can’t be alone with my thoughts for more than fifteen minutes without going a little batty.”
“No mediation for you, huh?” I ask.
“No time,” he says, “Work pretty much eats up my life.”
“Let me guess...” I say, knowing full well that I’m flirting up a storm, “You’re a hedge fund guy?”
“Nope.”
“Marketing?”
“Nope.”
“Tech genius?”
“Getting colder,” he laughs, “I’m a therapist.”
“Ah...” I say, “That I would not have guessed.”
“And why’s that?” he asks.
“Well, because you must have patients falling in love with you all the goddamn time,” I say. My neighbor raises an eyebrow at me, and I feel a hot flush rise to my cheeks at once. “Smooth,” I mutter, wanting to dissolve into a puddle on the floor.
“No worries,” he grins, “I’ll just go ahead and take that as a compliment. But, actually, most of my patients are children. So, you know, not too much to worry about.”
“You work with kids?” I ask.
“Yep,” he says, “A lot of lower income families, kids who’ve been abused, others who have been through the foster care system. I get around. As a therapist, I mean. Not—”
“Now who’s got his foot in his mouth?” I smile.
“That’d be this guy,” he says, pointing his thumbs straight at that balanced body of his. “This guy’s name is Gerard, by the way.”
“I’m Nadia,” I tell him, “Nadia Faber.”
“Nadia Faber...” he muses, “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Uh, this is going to sound douchey,” I say, “But I was in the paper this morning. Maybe you glanced at the article?”
“Of course!” he says excitedly, “You prosecuted that monster, Bud McNally. Man, am I glad that guy is gone for good. Would it be weird to say that I’m a fan of your work?”
“Not at all,” I laugh, “Just doing my job.”
“It’s about as meaningful a job there is,” he says.
“I think your profession takes that particular cake,” I tell him.
“Well...let’s just say we’re both fighting the good fight, then,” Gerard smiles. I’m about to reply when the elevator doors open with a ding. “After you,” he says.
I step out in front of Gerard and make my way to the front door. All the way across the lobby, I can practically feel his gaze on the shapely swell of my ass. Usually, that sort of behavior pisses me off. But usually, the ogler isn’t a wildly attractive, single, and gainfully employed
man who lives in my building, either.
I step out into the May sunlight, breathing in a deep gulp of fresh air. My eyes flick back toward Gerard just as he’s turning away from me. The smile that he flashes me is all charm, with just a dash of fuck-me eyes. I savor the little shiver of delight that passes through me at the prospect of letting those eyes wander all over me and finally giving them their wish.
“Easy girl,” I murmur to myself, taking off along my jogging route, “You’ve gotta let him come to you.”
I fall into my familiar running rhythm, drawing in deep breaths until my lungs grow accustomed to it. The first mile to the park flies by as my body settles into the task of my morning run. Shamelessly, I let my imagination linger on Gerard. I wonder what kinds of tricks he has locked up behind those dark, brooding eyes. It isn’t often that someone as seemingly intelligent and kindhearted as him wanders into my path, and I have to say that I’m intrigued.
My rules when it comes to men are simple: Always let them do the chasing, know how to get out while the getting’s good, and never ever go for the bad boys. For the last ten years, these three simple rules have saved me a lot of heartache. They’ve also kept me from getting entrenched in any real, long-lasting relationships...but hey, I’m not complaining.
I’ve always had better things to do than stay cooped up in the house watching Netflix with some dude I only kind of like. With the childhood I had, making the most out of the rest of my life has become something of a calling in and of itself.
As I fly through the park, I can’t help but let my mind wander further down memory lane than I usually allow. Without a case to obsess over, my thoughts are free to do as they like. My mind rewinds through my early professional years, back through law school and college, all the way back to the last years of my childhood—to a time when it seemed that there would be no end to the unhappiness that had engulfed me.
It’s strange when the best and worst time of your life is the exact same stretch, but that’s precisely the case for me. After my parents were killed by a drunk driver when I was twelve, I spent four solid years of my life in foster care hell. I bounced from house to house, never feeling loved or comfortable for a moment. That is, not until I landed at the home of Nancy and Paul Daniels, on the cusp of my sixteenth year.