Somewhere Out There (43 page)

I stared at my husband through teary eyes, blinking fast, trying to digest all he had said. “You don’t think I’m weak?”

“No,” he said, dropping his hands from my face. “I don’t.” He leaned forward and kissed both of my cheeks, then my lips, and I tasted the salt of my own tears. “I think you’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever known,” he continued. “Other people who’ve been through just one of the struggles you’ve faced might have been crushed. But not you. You kept going. You didn’t give up. No matter what, no matter how much pain you were in, you pushed ahead and kept trying to do the right things, make better choices, and live a good life.” He paused. “You wouldn’t be who you are or where you are without your faults, Jenny. And who you are is amazing.”

“Thank you,” I whispered. His words felt like balloons, lifting a leaden weight off my chest.
I am more than my mistakes,
I thought.
I am stronger than I know.
Evan was right—everything good in my life had only happened because of the things I’d done wrong. Everything was connected, linked to the moment I got pregnant with Brooke, and then that night when I left the girls alone in the car. Getting caught led me to prison, which ultimately led me to Randy and working with dogs. Working with dogs led me to Evan, a successful career, and eventually, being able to give back to others like me. Yes, I was a woman who couldn’t raise her own children, but as a result, I had become so much more than that. The kind of hurt my daughters had suffered—and were surely suffering through right now—was part of their lesson, just as my pain was a part of mine.

Still, I wished I could do something to make up for the damage I’d done. I remembered how easy it used to be to comfort Brooke with just the touch of her “soft side” blanket, and then later, how she gave it to her baby sister so Natalie could be comforted, too. Even if I couldn’t be in their lives, I wished for a way I could offer both of my daughters that kind of comfort now.

A thought struck me then, and I knew what I had to do. Without a word, I threw back the covers and scrambled out of bed.

Evan stood up, startled. “Where are you going?”

“The garage.” The air outside of the warm bed nipped at my skin; for three days, I’d only worn one of Evan’s white T-shirts, so I quickly dug through one of my drawers for a pair of sweats to replace it.

“Now?” he said, squinting at me.

“Yep,” I said as I changed my clothes. “Now.” I shoved my feet into a pair of his slippers.

“Jenny . . .” he began, but before he could finish, I opened the bedroom door and rushed down the hallway, through the living room, and into the garage. Glancing around at the shelves that lined two of the walls, I searched for the clear plastic box I opened only twice a year, finally spotting it on the highest shelf, next to the red and green Rubbermaid boxes that held our holiday decorations.

“What are you looking for?” Evan said as he walked up behind me.

“That,” I said, pointing toward the box.

His eyes followed the direction of my finger. “Our Christmas stuff?”

“No,” I said. I took the two steps down to the cement floor and pointed again. “The other box, next to those. The clear one.”

This time, he saw what I meant. “Your letters to the girls,” he said slowly, and I nodded.

“Are you sure reading them is a good idea right now?” he asked. “You’ve already had a rough couple of days.”

“I don’t want to read them,” I said, and my voice quavered. “I want to send them to my daughters.”

A look of understanding passed over Evan’s face, and he came down the steps to join me. He put one long, strong arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “I’ll get them down.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, shifting my weight from one foot to the other as I watched him take a six-foot ladder and set it up next to the appropriate shelf, retrieving what I needed. A moment later, Evan carried the box through the house and put it on the kitchen table. I followed him inside, then stood next to the table and removed the snapped-on lid.

“I can stay and help,” he offered. “If you want.”

“Thank you,” I said, giving him a grateful smile. “For doing this”—here, I motioned toward the box—“and everything you said to me in the bedroom. You’re so good to me. But I think this is something I need to do on my own. You should get back to work anyway.”

He looked at me a moment longer, then nodded. “The card Natalie left with her contact information is on the fridge, under the blue magnet. In case you end up going to the post office. There are some smaller boxes in the hall closet that might work.”

“Okay.” I took a couple of steps over so I could hug him. “I love you so much.”

“Love you more,” he said, and then he left through the back door. The dogs made a ruckus when he joined them outside, and he called them to follow him, which I appreciated. They’d distract me if he’d let them stay home.

After he was gone, I stood in the silence, unmoving, contemplating what I was about to do. I stared at the stack of notebooks inside the box, the earlier pages filled with one or two sentences, couplets of my thoughts about the girls when they were young; the later containing the letters I’d written to each of them on her birthday each year. I wondered if they would sit down and read everything together. Or if each of them would take a turn, poring over every one of my words on their own before coming back together and talking about the things they’d learned about me—the things they’d learned about their past.

It was daunting to imagine them peeling open these pages and seeing into the depths of me, into the record of the things I’d wished for them, their dreams I hoped had come true. I hoped that in my passing all of this on, both of my girls would better understand what I’d been through, why I made the decisions that affected them both so much. I hoped they would laugh a little when they came across the stories of the funny things they did when they were babies; I hoped their hearts would be warmed by my words. I hoped these notebooks would help them to forgive the woman who’d brought them into the world—the woman who ended up leaving them to the find their way through it without her.

Just like my mom did to me,
I thought, and I felt an ache in the pit of my stomach, recalling the day I stood on her front porch and she turned me away.
Am I like her?
At the time, and over the many years since, I couldn’t fathom how she could just cut off a relationship with her only child. How she could see me needing her, asking for help, and still she closed the door. Yet here I was, under different circumstances, basically having done the same thing to Natalie and Brooke.

I sat down at the table and, with shaking hands, began removing the notebooks from the box. A voice in my head warned me that I’d probably be better off forgetting the whole idea—that I should just put the box back up high on the shelf. What if getting this package from me only made things worse? What if now, after I’d rejected them, my daughters couldn’t care less about my thoughts, or what memories I had of the time together we’d shared? What if the package came back, marked
RETURN TO SENDER
?

But then another thought struck me. This decision wasn’t about me, or how I felt. It was about Natalie and Brooke, about giving them something they needed. I wanted to give them answers, which was more than my mother had given to me. I’d never know why my mom made the decisions she did, but if I went through with mailing the package, Natalie and Brooke wouldn’t suffer the same fate. Sending them my notes and letters was about giving them an explanation—giving them the truth, as imperfect and ugly and unfair as it could sometimes be. It was giving them everything I could.

Half an hour later, I had filled a brown cardboard shipping box with the stack of notebooks. Then came the hardest part—writing one final note to my girls. I grabbed a blank sheet of paper from the printer in the den, then returned to the kitchen, where I sat back down at the table and began to write.

Dear Brooke and Natalie,

I know I hurt you both, and for that, I can never say “I’m sorry” enough. I spent so many years trying to convince myself that you were better off without me that I don’t know how to believe anything else is true. If I were a different person, I might be able to handle the weight of your pain, but as it turns out, I’ve had a hard enough time managing my own. I don’t offer this as an excuse, only as explanation for my inability to become the addition to your lives that you might have hoped.

What I hope now is that the contents of this box give you at least some of what you came looking for from me. I hope they give you some answers, some important pieces in the puzzle of your history. I hope you get a sense of the scared, messed-up girl I was when I had you and just how much I missed and loved you over the years. No matter the distance between us, the two of you will always be the biggest part of my heart.

I signed my name, and then sealed up the box, resting my palms flat upon it as though I were granting it a blessing. I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall, noting that I still had plenty of time to get to the post office. All I needed was Natalie’s address from the card on the fridge, along with my wallet and my car keys, and I’d be on my way. I’d take the short drive downtown and send the package off. I’d say a little prayer to wish it well—to wish my daughters happiness and peace—and I’d then come home to my husband, to the life I’d built in spite of my many messy but necessary mistakes. Mistakes, as Evan had said, that helped shape me. And while there was no guarantee I wouldn’t make more as time went on, one thing was clear—one thing I knew somewhere down deep in the cells of my body. Whether or not my daughters forgave me, sending them this package might be the only way for me to forgive myself. It was time for me to move on.

I’d finally found a way to let go of the past.

As so often happens in my writing life, the idea for this story began in the smallest of ways, after my cousin told me how one of the young boys he was fostering reacted upon seeing a fully stocked pantry in their home. This profound image stuck with me, and without my knowing, a seed was planted and this book began to grow. So first and foremost, I must thank Shane Minden, a man with more patience and heart than anyone I’ve ever known, for the act of sharing a raw, and too often unheard, truth.

Thanks also to the fabulous and formidable Victoria Sanders, my agent and dear friend, for knowing when to comfort me and when to kick me in the ass. Her loyal support and fierce savvy is unwavering, as is her team’s—Diane Dickensheid, Bernadette Baker-Baughman, Chris Kepner, and Tony Gabriel. (I know that the toffee-crack I make and send your way isn’t the only reason you work so hard on my behalf, but I tell myself that it helps.)

There are few words I can find to express the depth of my gratitude for the relationship I have with my developmental editor, Greer Hendricks. As always, her wisdom and understanding of what my heart was trying to say gave me perfect insight on how to whip this story into shape. She is—to use an idiom she surely would make me strike from the page—one in a million.

Thanks to Sarah Cantin, another gifted editor with whom I have the privilege to work, for her unstoppable enthusiasm and advocacy for my books. Her thoughtful expertise helped put a finished polish on these pages, and I am so very lucky to have her on my side.

Thanks to the amazing professionals at Atria Books—Judith Curr, Suzanne Donahue, Paul Olsewski, Lisa Sciambra, Andrea Smith, Arielle Kane, Jin Yu, Haley Weaver, and Isolde Sauer. This list could go on and on. To every member of the sales team, the art department (especially Janet Perr for designing this beautiful cover!), and marketing—to anyone who touches my books—I cannot tell you how deeply I appreciate you all.

How different my life as a writer became with the dawn of social media! The wonderful people I have met there, the fun we have, the lovely notes you have written me . . . what an amazing sense of community, all founded on the love of the books. I wish I could hug every single one of you for your enthusiasm and support.

Thanks to my best friend, Tina Skilton, for always listening, and with a shrewd eye, helping me to brainstorm my way out of the rough spots. Thanks to my tribe: Kristie Miller, Jenifer Groh, Sally Cote, Sherrie Stockland, Loretta Bellman, Rachael Brownell, and, honestly, too many others to name. You know who you are, and you know how much I need and love you all.

Thanks to my family: my mother, Claudia Weisz, for always listening, my goofy and brilliant children, Scarlett, Miles, and my bonus daughter, Anna, for making me laugh. And finally, thanks to Stephan, not for being perfect, but for being the perfect one for me.

somewhere out there

AMY HATVANY

A Readers Club Guide

1. When Jennifer gives up custody of her children, she is told she is giving them their best chance, and she later comforts herself that she did the right thing for both her girls and herself. In what ways does the book support or refute this idea? Does it ultimately seem that this decision was the best choice for all three women? Why or why not?