by W. H. Vega
I only lived in that shoddy row house for about six months, but more occurred during that time than could easily be believed. The person I am today was forged during that half of a year, I’m certain. In that time, I became a young woman. I found out what it was like to be a friend, and a sister.
I discovered what it felt like to be loved and wanted, and how being desired was at once a beautiful and terrifying thing. My entire existence, my ideal future, was built up and destroyed during that time, and I had no other choice than to give in or to rise like a phoenix from the ashes. Luckily, I went with the latter.
There had been three other children living with the Daniels during my stay in their home. Garrick, the friendly giant with a heart of gold; Conway, my pixie-like soul sister; and Trace...the first boy I ever loved, the only person I could have imagined spending the rest of my life with.
For six months, those three people were closer to me than family, but tragedy ripped us away from each other forever. Just before Christmas during my sixteenth year, I was attacked by my foster father. I’m thoroughly certain that he would have raped me, had Trace not intervened. But though that intervention saved me from that horrible fate, it turned deadly all the same. Paul Daniels was killed in the altercation, and our little home of four was disbanded.
Even as Trace was loaded into a squad car that night, I knew that it was the last I’d ever see of him. Garrick was arrested too, after the police found the drugs and booze he’d tried to hide. Even Conway and I were separated, shipped off to homes across the state from each other. The strange thing was that as close as we’d all been, we never tried to get in touch again. Maybe we all knew that it would be too painful a reminder of the almost-decent life we’d managed to cobble together.
Trace and Garrick were put on trial for their crimes and each shipped off to juvie for a plethora of charges. Even through Trace had acted in my defense, I’d never even been called as a witness in his trial. Whoever was presiding over his case clearly didn’t see him as anything but a bad kid who’d finally gone too far. I wonder if he’d even stood up for himself, or simply accepted his time?
As much as it pains me to admit, I have no idea where any of them are today. I’ve never tried to reach out, never poured through Facebook or Google looking for signs of them. What would be the point? I’ve spent the last decade building a new life for myself out of the ruins of the old. I’d have nothing in common with any of them anymore. And feeling the chasm between my experience and theirs would be far too painful to even think about. No...it’s better to let them exist in the past, young and as pure as they ever were.
Though, to be honest, I probably owe them a collective “thank you” for jumpstarting my career. Once I was taken away from the Daniels’ home, I threw myself into school like never before. I’d always been a good student, but for the last two years of high school you couldn’t have pried my nose out of my books with a crow bar. After seeing how royally the justice system had screwed my innocent foster brothers, I was determined to devote my life to standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves.
Once upon a time, I thought that law and order were black and white, clearcut and absolute. But that was nothing more than a youthful delusion, one that’s been utterly dashed by years and years of law school.
Turns out that mock trial is a whole lot different than the real thing, I learned that well enough. After spending my last two high school years with a quiet, conservative family in the suburbs of Illinois, I was accepted into the University of Chicago. I slaved away all through undergrad so that I could achieve my long-held dream: getting my law degree from Northwestern University. My acceptance letters to U Chicago and Northwestern will forever be enshrined in a very special shoebox under my bed. Sentimentality is, after all, my fatal flaw.
My time at those schools changed my life, and not just because of the education I received. Arriving at college meant that I got to choose who I wanted to be all over again, how I wanted to seem. I didn’t have to be the demure bookworm anymore. I could be anything, do anything, make an entirely new life for myself at last.
I can actually feel my pace quicken as I recall that sensation of freedom. When I arrived at the University of Chicago, I was surrounded by people I had never met, people who knew nothing about me. I realized that I could be as vague about my life as I wanted. None of my new friends had to know about my traumatic past.
No one needed to know about the handful of foster homes I’d lived in, or the young love that had led so quickly to tragedy. No one needed to know that I had buried my parents or watched a man die right in front of my eyes. To my new classmates, I could just be Nadia: the smart girl with a travel bug and big dreams.
My entire undergraduate career was spent rebuilding a new identity for myself. I studied hard, and partied hard as well. I accepted the attentions of guys when they were interesting, but I never made the first move. I travelled abroad as much as I possibly could, and learned that seeing the world was all I hoped it would be.
I visited Spain, Argentina, Russia, and China—and that was just during undergrad! I finally parted with my virginity on my trip to Buenos Aires, to a local man I met at a nightclub. I learned, thanks to him, that sex wasn’t something I had to be afraid of. Sex was a wonderful thing that I was allowed to enjoy. It wasn’t something that anyone could expect or force from me. It was amazing to feel the years of shame and guilt I’d associated with sexuality fall away with each partner I took. Not that I’ve slept with a ton of guys—but each one has taught me something new about what it means to be a sexual being.
A wicked grin crosses my face as I wonder what I might learn from Gerard, should anything arise from our flirtation. As I turn back toward home, my mind is filled once more with daydreams of him. I only hope that his occupation as a kiddie shrink won’t dredge anything up inside of me. I’ve learned to repress my past emotions pretty well, thanks. And I’d like them to stay that way.
My long blonde ponytail snaps in the warm breeze as I dash back to my apartment. Days that begin with a nice long run always end better, I’ve found. Glistening with hard-earned sweat, I make my way back upstairs to shower before heading into the office. Even without a blockbuster case in hand, I still have plenty to do.
As I step out onto my floor, something bright on my apartment door catches my eye. There’s a sticky note message waiting for me there: a hastily scrawled phone number with the initial “G” beside it. My dashing neighbor must have snuck back up here and left me his digits. I pocket the note, not even bothering to put the number into my phone. I don’t call guys, after all. At least not to begin with.
Carly’s belting out some Top 40 hit in the shower as I make my way into the apartment. I roll my eyes, only half seriously. If someone had told me when I was sixteen that I’d be living with a girl like Carly when I grew up, I would have called them a dirty liar. Carly’s the exact sort of person that I envied like crazy, as a kid. She’s got the perfect red hair, the perfect button nose, the perfect Jessica Rabbit figure. But more importantly, Carly’s got the perfect big family—with the home on Martha’s Vineyard and the St. Bernards and the yearly Christmas card photos. In a word, everything I never had and always wanted.
Even though she’s my best friend in the world, Carly doesn’t know anything about my past. Not the foster homes, not the criminal activity, certainly not the deaths that seemed to happen all around me as a younger person. As much I hate to think it, I’m afraid that knowing all those things would change her opinion of me.
Carly may be a modern woman in many respects, but her privilege makes it hard for her to empathize with those less fortunate, on occasion. I’ve heard her say some pretty lousy things about the kids I try and protect through my work, even if the comments are passing and innocuous on the surface. If she really knew what my life had once been, before I managed to get free of it all...I’d worry that she might be through with me for good. It’s not a pretty thought, but it keeps me cautious about
sharing details of my life with her. It’s better that way, in the end.
“I need the shower, Katy Perry,” I shout over my roommates shower time rendition of “Firework”.
“I was just about to hit the key change,” Carly whines, turning off the water.
A wave of steam hits me as she scurries out of my way, her fiery locks wrapped up in plush towel. If I’m the more athletically toned type, Carly’s got the supple Marilyn Monroe curves down to a science. We’re neither of us skin, naturally or by practice. Carly and I love nothing more than sharing a good bottle of Pinot Noir and a feast of Thai takeout after a hard day at work—and hard days at work are what we do best.
“All yours,” she chirps.
“Thank you kindly,” I say, stepping past her.
“Seriously?” she says, placing a hand on her hip, “You’re just not going to say anything about Mr. Heartthrob and his oh-so-sexy sticky note?”
“I guess he wasn’t all that discreet, huh?” I grin.
“I just happened to be bringing down the recycling when he stopped by,” Carly says, “Caught him red-handed. Note-handed.”
“You think I should see where it goes?” I ask.
“Why the hell not?” she says, “I mean, did you see him? He looks like one of those princes from the Disney movies. And that ass? Good God, Nadia...”
“I know, I know,” I laugh, “That’s the way I was leaning, too.”
“If you don’t take him, I will,” Carly winks, “Be forewarned.”
I laugh as she makes her way into her bedroom, but something about her tone sets me on edge. Carly can be a little competitive when it comes to the men that wander across our paths. There were certainly a couple of incidents during law school when her jealousy would rear its ugly head and truncate some affair of mine before it took off. So far, her relationship with Jesse has kept most of those flare ups at bay. But I’m always on guard, when it comes to flaunting my flings in front of Carly’s face. It’s chicks before dicks anyway, right?
The hot water feels wonderful on my fresh, sweaty skin. Lathering up my long brunette mane, I wonder what case will land in my hands next. I’ve had a fairly successful run of taking down jerks who do unseemly things to kids, but that’s not the only thing that I ever do. I’ve handled murder cases, domestic violence, you name it. And so far in my career, I’ve never had the misfortune of having to go against my own values to prosecute the way I have to.
Never have I had to defend the dignity of guilty person, or condemn someone I knew to be innocent. I’m sure the day will come when I’ll have to make those tough decisions, but so far my professional life has been all about going after bad guys. I’ve been able to lock up assholes and keep good people free. Lucky me, I guess.
I scrub down and dry off as quickly as I can, letting my hair dry in its natural pattern of loose waves. My parents died before I ever got to quiz them about our heritage, but whatever the hell genes I inherited have at least given me hassle-free hair, clear skin, and chocolaty brown eyes. Of course, I would trade all that to be able to know my parents as an adult, but I suppose one can’t have everything.
Eyeing myself in the mirror, I wonder what my parents might think of their little girl, all grown up. They both came to America from some far off Eastern European country with hardly any money to their names and a shaky grasp on the English language. It’s impossible to imagine what my life might have become, if they hadn’t passed away so soon.
Would I have pushed myself as hard in school? Would I be a successful lawyer, or something less spectacular? I can imagine being happy with a less ambitious career if I had a family to invest in, but I guess I’m just not meant to have that in my life. Good thing I’ve become an expert at silencing my biological clock. By the age of 28, you either cultivate that skill or spend all your free time looking at cute baby pictures on Pinterest—and I don’t have any free time to spare.
As I’m heading out the door, my stomach flips unexpectedly. I stop short, steadying myself against the doorframe. As ever when I’m feeling scared or uncertain, my hand flies to my charm necklace. I can’t account for the sudden feeling of foreboding that’s taken hold of me, but I know how to deal with it. My fingers close first around the compass charm my parents gave me as a child, and then around the tiny golden map that Trace gave me just before we parted ways.
“You OK?” Carly asks from the kitchen.
“Yeah...” I say slowly, “A, uh...goose must have walked over my grave or something. I don’t know. Too much coffee, maybe?”
“Whatever,” she says lightly, “Let’s split a cab downtown, yeah? You should arrive on public transportation after your big victory.”
I let her persuade me, and we zip downtown in style. My office is the first stop, and as I’m stepping out onto the curb, I hear Carly giggle, “Knock ‘em dead, tiger!”
Her goofy encouragement keeps me smiling all the way up the elevator—all the way up to the twenty-third floor, where the law offices of Brewer, Roberts, and Santos await my arrival. I push open the frosted glass double doors of the office and find the receptionist, Kayleen, smiling up at me. She’s a perpetually wide-eyed girl in her early twenties, and reminds me a bit of my old foster sister Conway...well, maybe an innocent version of Conway, anyway.
“Good morning, Ms. Faber,” Kayleen says breathlessly.
“Kayleen, you’re allowed to call me Nadia,” I remind her.
“Yes Ms. Faber. Nadia,” she grins.
I walk past the reception desk, puzzled by Kayleen’s excited demeanor. But as I turn the corner into the main lobby, my curiosity is satisfied. The entire office has assembled, around an elaborate cake with the words Congratulations, Nadia! scrawled across the top. The three partners of the firm—Ed Brewer, Allen Roberts, and Martin Santos—preside over the offering like the three Wise Men themselves. As soon as I appear, the entire office begins to clap and cheer. I feel like some ancient hero, returning from a bloody crusade. Which, I suppose, is a decent way to sum up this last trial.
“We’re very proud of the work you’ve done,” says Mr. Brewer, a fit silver fox in his mid-fifties.
“Things are looking very good for you at this firm,” agrees the red-faced Mr. Roberts.
“I couldn’t agree more,” smiles Mr. Santos, the youngest and most handsome of the trio.
I smile through the accolades and attention, but for some reason I can’t shake the lingering feeling of impending change. Maybe I’m just nervous about what my latest victory means for me at the firm. I decide to go with that, even as my heart tells me otherwise. I look on as my congratulatory cake is cut, and try to tell myself that I’m perfectly content with my life as it is. Surrounded by so much excitement, it’s easy to convince myself that I’m happy too. Even if that fact is only mostly true.
A huge slab of red velvet cake is shoved my way, and I happily dig in. I suppose that some aspects of my life could be more complete...but at least there’s a gigantic cake here to fill in some of those missing pieces.
Chapter Two
Trace
Safe and Sound
I wake up gasping for breath, my body drenched in a cold, panicked sweat. My eyes dart wildly around the still-dark room, searching for something that will anchor me in the present. All around me, the sounds of sleeping men fill the air.
Relief surges through my body as I realize that I’m safe and sound in my bunk. Well, as safe and sound as someone can be in the middle of a war zone. The gore and horror I’ve just wrenched myself from were nothing but nightmares, nothing but the products of a mind rattled by too much time in combat.
But not for much longer, I think to myself, rolling onto my back with a sigh. Once the hot sun rises above the desert, my final day in Afghanistan will have finally begun. True, I’ve had two “final days” here before—this is my third and last tour. This time, it truly feels like something is ending.
Stateside, they’re talking about “bringing the boys home”. People across Ame
rica are waiting with bated breath for their sons and daughters, their husbands and wives, their mothers and fathers to return to them for good.
No one’s waiting for me. I’ve got no home to go back to. But I’m shipping off, all the same. After three tours fighting a war that just won’t quit, even the shambles of my old life have me feeling nostalgic. And when prison and squalor look good in comparison to the life you find yourself living, then something has truly got to give.
The faintest hint of daylight begins to creep across the wide, cloudless sky. I know that I’ll never be able to get back to sleep, now. The others will be up at the crack of dawn—I might as well get a head start.
Stifling a groan, I pull myself to sitting on my humble bed. I’ve never been one to accumulate personal belongings, and that’s no different over here. After all, no one’s sending me care packages from the states. I haven’t got a wife or kids whose pictures would look nice on the wall. It’s just me, my bed, my gear, and my gun. I’ve grown up to be a simple man of simple pleasures.
I glance at the nudie calendar someone thought it would be funny to pin up. Today’s little box is scribbled in with one simple word: “Home”. It’s funny. After almost thirty years on this godforsaken planet, I still have no idea what that word means. I got close to figuring it out, once, but that time in my life is long gone. Closed up tight. My buddies here wonder why I’m so damn good at being a soldier, why I’m never plagued with homesickness or doubt. Well, that’s the truth of it—home is a concept I’ve never been able to grasp. And try as you might, you just can’t miss something that you never had in the first place.
My boots slip onto my feet like a second skin, and I make my way out into the early morning. The sky arches its back over the endless sandy landscape. Unknowable mountains rise up all around us, towering above like watchmen.