by Ali D Jensen
* * *
It’s been days. Sixteen long ass days to be exact. It’s been sixteen days since I sat in the police station and listened to the police tell me that ma died. It’s been sixteen days since they confirmed it was the body of good ol’ Mommie Dearest. Sixteen days since I met my social worker, Mrs. Doris Ward. A lackluster middle-aged woman that doesn’t enjoy smiling, smells like cheap perfume and menthols and low-key reminds me of the shape of an eggplant. Sixteen shitty days since I’ve been placed in an all-girls group home while I wait on information from her about what's going to happen next or when I can go back to school. The only good thing to happen to me, is that I was allowed to go home to collect a few personal items, such as a baby blanket I can’t seem to let go of and an old picture of me as a baby held by my now deceased Aunt. She was beautiful, elegant even, and I was wearing possibly the nicest dress I’ve ever owned. I couldn’t have been more than two or three in the picture but she had an air of sophistication about her that always made me wonder where her and ma came from and why we ended up the way we did. She passed away when I was still little and whenever I asked about her, ma shut down and seemed to dive further into her addiction. She would sometimes be so out of her mind, angry that she would go on rambling tangents about how I got my looks from my Aunt, she’d say no man would ever want such an ugly thing. Eventually I just stopped asking. I always kind of thought that they’d had a massive fight or falling out before my aunt passed away and ma never could get past it, I imagined that her grief is what drove her to drugs and her residual anger combined with my resemblance to my aunt festered into what became the hatred of her own daughter. When I was still young, it was the only justification I could give her that allowed me to forgive the woman that I desperately wanted to love me. I can’t even remember when I finally gave up hope for that to ever actually happen. Probably around the time puberty kicked in and she saw dollar signs for her pills and powder.
My temporary guardian, the lovely Ms. Sunshine- who actually knows what the fuck her real name might be, found me in my bunk around noon. I hate calling her that but that was what the other girls facetiously called her during the brief introductions, on account of her “sunny disposition”, when really, she’s proven herself to be a raging bitch monster. I forgot her real name exactly four seconds after she told it to me though, so I’ve just rolled with it.
“Mrs. Ward’s here. Grab all your shit, it’s time to go.” She sneers.
Wait, what?
“Go where? I thought I was just gonna stay here until I age out. Why would I need to go anywhere?” She glares at me,
“Just pack your shit. Apparently, you’re too good for this place Princess”.
* * *
“Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been very communicative, but I had to wait for a few things to run through the system before I could confirm that I had any news. This isn’t the easiest thing to tell someone but it’s surprisingly good news. At least, I think so. As it turns out, Lauren Davis was not, in fact, your mother. Photographic and DNA evidence proves that you are actually a missing person from thirteen years ago. Your name is Alessandra Evelyn Quinn Salvatore. You were abducted when you were three years old and we found your real family. Your real mother, Cecelia Salvatore, has been looking for you for several long years and is eagerly anticipating your arrival back home. I’m sure you have several questions and I’ll answer all of them, but I need you to prepare yourself for a whole new lifestyle and a plane ride across the country. You’re soon going to be released to your mother’s care and then fly to your new home in California.” Mrs. Ward states, calm as ever, like she’s not dropping bombs on me right now.
“Is this some kind of sick joke?! Look lady, I’ve heard a lot of shit spewed my way lately and I’m damn near my breaking point. You can’t honestly be sitting here, trying to tell me that I was stolen as a baby only to be neglected and abused for almost fourteen years? You’re wrong. You’ve got the wrong girl. Why would anyone do that? What’s the freaking point in that?”
Shooting out of my chair, I square up like this bitch is actually trying to fight me. I’m starting to feel the heat shooting through my body, adrenaline hitting hard. I need to fight. I need to burn off this energy. None of this makes any sense. “Alessandra-” she starts as she holds her hands up like she’s trying to calm a wild animal.
“Quinn, my name is Quinn.” I growl, throwing as much venom as I can into my words, my face expressing that this is not something I’m caving on.
She looks at me and her eyes soften with the first genuine emotion I’ve seen from the woman. Compassion. Huh, maybe this job hasn’t entirely killed her soul, then.
“Ok, fine. Quinn. I need you to hear me. You’ll never know how sorry I truly am that those things happened to you. I’m so, so sorry you’ve had to endure the life you’ve lived. I hate it. Kids like you are everything I set out to help in this world. I can only imagine the kind of things you’ve been through, but I don’t have a logical explanation for why crazy people do the things that they do. There isn’t ever going to be a good enough reason for any person doing such a horrible thing. You though? You’re a survivor. You’ve made it to the other side and now you get to go live. I’ve been in this job long enough that I can say, sometimes bad things just happen to good people. It’s not often that I can say I get to see the outcome of a situation like this be a good one. Trust me when I say that this is an exceptionally good outcome. You get a chance to escape it. A chance to live and be anything other than the hand you’ve been dealt. From the few brief conversations, I’ve had with Cecelia I can sense that you’ve been terribly missed all these years and this will give you a truly amazing opportunity, A new chance at life. Embrace the good.”
* * *
Click. Open. Click. Shut.
Click. Open. Click. Shut.
“One day at a time. Embrace the good. One day at a time. Embrace the good.” I whisper to myself as I sit in the same room Mrs. Ward gave me the craziest news of my life, waiting for my real mom.
I smooth my fingers over the cold steel of my pocketknife as I flick it open and closed, keeping my new mantra running through my head. I learned the hard way, growing up the way I had meant that I needed to always have my eyes and ears open. No room for error and no time to question my judgement. The streets are dangerous at the best of times and my house was never going to be a safe place to rest my head. I’ve always had to understand that anything could happen. Whether it be watching out for an errant needle or pill found around the house or staying on my toes ready for fight or flight from the constant stream of men defiling whatever they could in ma’s house. Sometimes it meant risking staying out all night and evading getting picked up by the cops... Or worse. You don’t come out of a life like that without a little grit.
I stopped being scared forever ago. Or maybe I didn’t exactly stop being afraid but instead used that fear to fuel the fire that not only kept me alive but made me push harder to escape. For the first time in a long time, though, I don’t have a plan and I don’t know what to look for to keep me safe. I’ll have to rely on pure intuition and instinct. Luckily, I usually catch on quickly. For the first time in years, I feel like the lost little girl who’s all alone from so many years ago. I feel like running and never looking back and yet something is holding me back. I mean, don’t I deserve the chance to meet the mother I was supposed to have all this time? Pushing all of the helplessness and fear out of my mind, helps. I don’t have to be ignorant to it, but I also refuse to let it take control. For now, it’s time to toughen up and keep the emotions threatening to swallow me whole out of it. I’ve never had anyone before, and I don’t need anyone now. Hell, this woman couldn’t even keep me safe as a baby. Fat chance I’ll be able to trust or respect anyone like that, let alone like her.
Chapter Two.
“Quinn.”
“Where is she? Take me to her! Please just let me see my baby girl.”
I hear a woman’s cries and p
leas and they hit me right in the heart, a hollowness from within starts to burn, the sound of her voice is so familiar. It has to be my imagination, right? It’s not like I could remember a voice from thirteen years ago. There’s something about it though, I just can’t seem to place it... Lifting my head up off of the table, I try to gain some clarity while I start coming out of the fog I’ve drifted into when I passed out.
“Damn it, how could I let myself fall asleep?” I mutter to myself.
Typically, I can’t sleep and if I do, I damn sure don’t sleep that hard. I could never afford to, it was basically a risk I wasn’t willing to take. This shit is really starting to wear on me.
I realize that I probably look like a hot mess from my impromptu nap and I’m still holding my knife, so I tuck that back into my boot and try to finger comb some of my long dark hair out of my face. My clothes are a lost cause and it’s not like I could ever afford makeup, so I wipe the sleep from my eyes and hope it’s good enough because I hear footsteps as they approach the door.
Anxiety fills my chest as the door opens and-
What. The. Fuck?
“Oh. My. God. I know you. I... I… I mean it’s you.” I pause, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath to collect myself. Forcing a calm bravado, I open my hardened eyes and continue.
“You’re the woman holding me in the only picture I have from my childhood.”
The woman gasps as she tries to hold back a sob and stares back at me with watery, deep cerulean blue eyes that match my own.
“Ma told me you were my aunt that died when I was a little girl. I don’t understand what any of this means.” The anger and frustration at my confusion must be shining through my gaze because time seems to slow as everyone attempts to take extra care with their movement and words.
The beautiful woman standing slightly behind my social worker slowly moves toward me, she lifts her hand as though she wants to reach out and touch me but drops it quickly, as if she’s afraid I’m an illusion that’ll disappear if she touches me. Tears are now streaming down her face as she openly studies me. She makes no move to hide any of her emotional turmoil. This must be just as hard for her, I realize. My brain is working overtime to connect all of the dots, but my mind feels like the harder I try. This woman looks more like me than even the picture shows, she looks as though she could be my twin instead of my own mother. The difference is in the air surrounding her. She radiates an air of maturity and beauty that I’ll never have. Where I’m hardened, outwardly defensive and dirty, she’s soft and elegant. It’s only when you look into her eyes do you sense her powerful energy. She’s a sight to behold, especially with her every feeling bleeding out in front of me. There’s a vehemence to her vulnerability. No words need to be spoken for me to see her truth. She’s loved me for a lifetime and every moment since we’ve separated has been torture for her, maybe even worse than it was for me. It makes me think that she’s stronger than one would expect from just looking at her. Her allure is her mask.
“Okay, how about we all slow down and just reacquaint ourselves, shall we?” Mrs. Ward says. Her own attempt to calm the overwhelming energy in the room. She appears to be trying to make this easier so I figure I should probably take a deep breath and let go of some of the anger and resentment at the forefront of my emotional state. My natural defense mechanism is to shut down any inclination to show my inner state of mind. So, I get mean. Now is most definitely not the time. I need to process everything first.
“Ahem.” I look up to the woman from the photo, her only signs of aging come from the despair and worry now pouring from her eyes yet she’s still stunning as she unleashes the most radiant smile I’ve ever seen. She’s staring at me with so much hope, like she needs to see into my soul to see that I’m actually alright. Her tears somehow add to her beauty as the weight of this moment falls on us all.
She lets out a deep, shaky breath before she finds her voice and says, “Hello, my sweet girl. I’ve searched damn near your whole life for you. I’ve prayed, wished, hoped and given every ounce of my faith to trusting you were still out there somewhere waiting for me to find you. I knew down in the deepest part of my soul that you were still out there somewhere shining your light on the world and I’d have died before I gave up on finding you. My name is Cecelia Salvatore and I am your mom. You used to call me mommy, but you can call me whatever you want, I’ll take what I can get. I know I have so much explaining to do. I just hope you give me the chance. Everything will all make sense one day soon.” She stares intently into my eyes as she talks.
I know she can sense my hesitation. Even with a blank mask on my face, she still seems in tune with me and the uproar of outrage at this whole circumstance is causing within me.
I nod my head in acceptance but can’t find the words I need to express how I actually feel. The how. The why. The reasoning for it all. For the life I’ve lived. Everything feels so heavy and I’m so fucking angry. What in the hell did I ever do to deserve any of this?
* * *
Leaving Chicago feels a little weird. I thought the day I left; I’d be ecstatic. In a way, it feels cleansing, like I can move beyond all of the toxicity that was my life and start fresh with something that’s honest. But also, it’s the only life I know, and it will always own a piece of my soul, it’ll be something I carry with me everywhere I go.
I chose the window seat so I could see the world a little bit more than I ever had before. The flight would have been the perfect time to talk to Cecelia. Not only is it five uninterrupted hours but she bought us first class seats, so it’s not like we don’t have plenty of privacy. Instead I plug into my MP3 player and try to lose myself in my Highly Suspect playlist. Determined to avoid this conversation for a while longer. I can feel her stare from time to time, her concern is apparent but I’m just not ready to feel all of those feelings just yet. I do much better with them locked up in a safe place until I know I can control them. Crying is for the weak and I. Am. Not. Weak. And if I’m throwing it out there straight, I’m pissed. I’m fucking angry and I need to work through a lot of this shit before I talk to anyone.
Thank god she hasn’t asked much of me so far; I know we’ll have to talk it out sooner or later. I’m just hoping for way, way later. This whole mess just feels a little off. Like, there’s way too many holes in the small amount of information I’ve gotten fed. I know that I need the whole story before I’ll be able to make sense of it but that doesn’t stop my brain from entertaining a multitude of scenarios. Why would a drug addled whore steal a baby if she didn’t want to take care of it? And how? Ma wasn’t exactly winning the Olympics with her physical prowess. She was lazy and slow and uncoordinated. It seems to be a physical impossibility that she’d have the capability to pull it off. Cecelia obviously isn’t hurting for cash based off of these fancy ass flight seats. But also, she low-key looks like she could kick some ass and decided to play dress up instead. I know a fighter when I see one and this newfound mom of mine... Yeah, she’s definitely hiding some shit. It doesn’t add up. As for ma, or Lauren, I guess, why feed me the story about my “aunt”. Wouldn’t it have been easier to trash my baby stuff than make up some fake shit?
As for this new life I’m heading towards, what happens next? Can I go to regular school or is it going to be one of those prestigious campuses that cost an arm and a leg to get into? It’s hard enough being a transfer student but if I have to go from having bars on our windows and regular cop patrols through the school to some fancy pants bullshit, I might actually run. It sucks not knowing anything, but I can’t bring myself to ask yet either. I just need something to be on my terms. My anxiety has my guard all the way up and it’s exhausting. Ugh, my head hurts. Here’s to hoping I can take another nap. My brain needs to shut down for a while so I can turn this around. Things are about to change. California ain’t ready for me, that’s for damn sure.
* * *
I wake with a start when Cecelia gently lays her hand on my shoulder,
; “we’re home sweet girl.” She says, softly.
I look up and realize Mrs. Ward used the term house loosely when telling me I’d be moving in with my real mom, as this is a full blown estate. How could a child get kidnapped from this place? There’s a literal guard at a gated entry. Is my mom famous or something? What am I missing? We drive through the gate and down a long driveway and as we get closer, I notice the house is unlike anything I’ve ever seen outside of maybe a picture in a magazine.
It’s a plantation style white chateau, like some a modified variation of a manor you might find somewhere in the French quarter. It has a dark wooden porch on the lower level and the most intricately designed black balconies surrounding the upper level of the house, with deep crimson window accents. What looks to be two converted garages are on either side of the main house. The surrounding grounds are well maintained. The driveway ends in a large round-about that allows you to reach either garage and has a small walking path to the front door. There are two enormous palm trees, that from afar look to frame the main entrance, at the start of the path. Planters of big beautiful flowers ranging from a delicate ruby to a sophisticated wine coloring, hang strategically placed along the porch. There are two cozy mahogany porch swings swaying in the breeze on both sides of the massive crimson front door. I can’t believe I’m supposed to live here. This can’t be real.
“It’s... Wow. Definitely a few steps up from the dilapidated joke of a place I grew up. One time, a classmate tried to make fun of me for living in the ‘Jason shack’ and even though she wasn’t really wrong, I still knocked her out.” I say as I choke out a small humorless laugh.