You Only Get So Much (16 page)

Chapter 33

Seattle

"You look
good," Michelle says, as we walk from the car to the visitor entrance of
the King County Jail.

She touches my face, not
for the first time today, feeling where my shaggy beard used to reside. It
makes me cold and to be honest I can't keep my hands off my cheeks either. They
are smooth and it's weird.

"Thanks," I
say. "This is exactly how I imagined I'd look if I was going into prison
to re-introduce myself to my daughter."

"Funny."

I actually combed my
hair with a part to the left, like I used to, which is a bit different than I
have been wearing it lately.
 
It's
still longer than it once was, but I didn't trim it. My plan, as stupid as it
sounds, is that she'll recognize me if my features are closer to what she knew
from before. Hence the old hairstyle and no beard. Michelle noticed, but didn't
say anything. I think she knew. I can tell she senses my nerves and will be
there to support me no matter what happens.

We'd called earlier and
saw that Libby Taylor's availability for visitors was from 11 a.m. to 12:30
p.m. It was now 10 a.m., but the website advised us to arrive early and line
up, just in case there were too many visitors for the available space.

I filled out a sign-in
sheet and produced my ID. I regret that this is the way Aspen would meet me
again—being told my name by a random jailer. Would she decline to come
out? Would she think this was the same joke that I thought Frank pulled on me
only yesterday? Or would my name put together pieces of a puzzle that she
didn't even know about beforehand.

We wait in line with
screaming children, lonely girlfriends and all sorts of characters who would
best be described as rough around the edges. It smells of stale smoke and
Play-Doh. I feel out of place, like I'm visiting a new planet for the day and
don't know how to communicate with the locals. I suspect this is how inmates
feel too—how Aspen feels. Or is it how she feels? Who am I to know
anything about her or what she's experienced over the past 12 years. I can only
hope it's true that the person you become is based on what happened to you when
you're a young kid—the fundamental things. Be kind to others. Respect
your elders. Work hard. Love your family. I think she got those things from
Jane and me, but then what happened in the resulting 12 years? Did Jane change?
Or maybe she tried to erase everything we did together and reshape our daughter
into someone else. Someone who in no way resembles the little girl I knew so
long ago.

The big question, I
still can't answer, is why. Was I perfect? No, not by a long shot. But what
drove her away is lost on me. If this really is true, was I such a jerk that my
wife thought it best to steal my daughter and raise her alone—or with
some trucker named Frank? I can't believe that. My self-esteem isn't that low.
Something happened and I need to know what.

But as I sit here,
waiting to be called back, I'm thinking about myself because that's all I know.
Aspen or Libby—her life is a complete mystery to me. There's only one
person who can solve the mystery and she's here somewhere in the building with
me, locked down in an orange jumpsuit and worn down inmate slippers.

*
* *

"Visitor for Libby
Taylor," a large man barks from near an open steel door.

A shiver runs down my
spine. This is it.

Michelle squeezes my
hand.

"Good luck,"
she says as I walk away. Only one of us can go see Aspen.

Behind the door the
guard asks me a series of questions, none of which I actually hear. His
expression is one of detached disdain. He pats me down and lingers a bit longer
on my backside than I'd have anticipated was actually needed.

My heart is pounding.
Thump. Thump. Thump. And I feel my breath shorten in my chest.

"You under the
influence of any drugs?" the guard asks.

With this question, I
know the feelings inside me are manifesting externally as well.

"Um, no," I
say.

He leads me down a long
corridor with bright overhead lighting. We stop at another steel door. He peers
inside.

"It's gonna be a
minute," he says. "Who is this inmate to you?"

"My um, daughter, I
guess," I manage to spit out.

"You guess,
huh?"

"I haven't seen her
in a very long time."

"How long is a long
time?" he asks.

"More than 12
years."

"Fuck," he
says. "It's guys like you that mess up these kids. You outta be
ashamed—12 damn years. Some father you are, mister."

I don't defend myself.
What could I say anyway? I just stand next to him and wait. After a few
moments, he speaks again.

"You're going to be
in the third station down. I'm going to sit you down there. Do not get up until
I tell you to. They'll bring her in on the other side of the glass. Pick up the
phone to talk. Got it?"

"Yes," I say.

"OK, Father of the
Year, let's go."

*
* *

The Formica counter in
front of me is a faded brown with two spots worn black. Elbows. It's where
people place their elbows when they sit talking to an inmate. I can see my own
reflection in the scratched Plexiglas. The bags under my eyes from not sleeping
at all last night are deep. The razor burn from the close shave is red and
bumpy. The funny left-side part of my hair is a throwback I can't get used to.

Long, tall walls divide
me from the others on my side of the glass. I can hear the other conversations
wafting over me. The tears and near-shouts of family members overcome with
emotion, or those going about the routine task of visiting an incarcerated son
or brother. Besides my broken reflection, I can only see an empty stool and a
blank wall on the prison side of the room.

I feel like I'm going to
be sick, but that wasn't on the list of options given by the surly prison
guard. There's no garbage can in sight, so I swallow hard and hope to keep my
breakfast down.

Aspen had the most
beautiful auburn hair as a child. Frizzy and unmanageable, but nonetheless
beautiful. She would cry every time Jane or I tried to comb it. Big crocodile
tears would stream down her face just so her hair could be pulled out of her
eyes and into a ponytail. That's who I think I'll see today. That girl. That
memory.

I can't see it, but when
I hear the door on the other side of the glass click open, I instinctively look
through the glass and down. Down and back in time. My heart tells me that the
girl they are escorting to me is still as tall as my thighs and in elementary
school. Not a 19 year-old girl arrested for a crime.

Time stops as I hear
another click. She's in and they lock the door behind her. There's no going
back now. She's here.

The woman escorted to my
view is tall, or maybe it's my imagination telling me she's supposed to be a
toddler and I can't process this new image.

I stand on instinct
without even realizing it.

"Sit your ass down,
Mr. Perfect Dad!" the guard shouts and I quickly spin to look at him, then
return to the stool.

On the other side of the
glass the woman looks startled or confused. Maybe it's because I jumped up,
maybe not. She's in an orange jumpsuit with black lettering on the left breast
pocket. A white long-sleeve shirt covers her arms. She's pulling the sleeves
down with her hands. The short orange sleeves of the jumpsuit are rolled up to
her shoulders, giving the impression that she's wearing an oversized orange
tank top.
 

The thumb on her left
hand has a blue tattoo encircling it.

Her hair isn't frizzy or
long. It's straight and short, or at least I think it is. It's pulled back
tight on her head and bunched in the back.
 
She sits on the stool and turns back, hearing some
instruction from the guard on the other side of the glass. I see her ear is
pierced a dozen times, with only the holes showing where the jewelry used to
be. You must not be allowed to wear jewelry in jail.

When she turns back, I
see my Aspen for the first time. Her eyes. And the overwhelming vision of her
mother. And that's enough. The package that wraps around my baby's eyes isn't
what I would have expected. It's older, rough and different. But that's her.
That's Aspen.

She picks up the phone,
curious and looking annoyed. She doesn't recognize me.

I pick up my phone.

"Aspen?" I
say. It's only thing I can manage to croak out.

Her hand slaps over her
mouth—to contain what? I don't know. Her body pulls back and she sits up
a little straighter. She looks me dead in the eye. Through time and space I
never thought this day would come. My daughter. Alive.

"I want to go
home," she says.

Chapter 34

Two days later

I stand and wait outside
the chain link fence at the rear of the public safety building. It's pouring down
rain and, of course, I don't have an umbrella. And even if I did I probably
wouldn't be using it anyway. I don't want the first time Aspen sees me outside
of the jail to be under the cover of some tacky corner-store umbrella. Her
father should be strong—not afraid of a few raindrops.

I'm alone. Michelle
stayed in Seattle until last night, but had to return to her job at the school.
We both agreed that it might be confusing for Aspen to meet her now anyway. Not
that anything else could make this story any stranger for Aspen.

She didn't belong behind
bars. You'd think with overcrowding that simple cases like hers would be
dismissed immediately, but I'm no lawyer. Turns out she was arrested after
using her own key to unlock the back door of the house she used to rent near
the University of Washington. She'd moved out a week earlier after a
disagreement with her ex-boyfriend, who still lived in the house. She went back
to get her TV and some clothes she'd left behind. He called the cops and one
thing led to another and she got a four-night stay in jail. What a sweet
ex-boyfriend she had.

She told me all this
from the other side of the Plexiglas window. I promised her that I would get
her out as soon as I possibly could. And then we could talk—really
talk—because that wasn't happening inside that place.

She never asked me who I
was—not during either of my two visits. She didn't call me Dad or Daddy,
which hurt. As much as I know that it will hurt her, I want her to feel
something for me, to reconnect our disconnected lives. But that wasn't going to
happen while she was still in there. And it is selfish of me to even worry
about that. When our visit was over, I went back to the hotel, while she was
forced to bunk with criminals. She had it a bit harder than me.

I had a conversation
with the assistant district attorney, who assured me that once the facts were
straightened out that her charges would be officially dropped. She was a
first-time offender and her ex was a felon with one strike against him already.
Why she was ever actually arrested wasn't entirely clear. The wonders of our
modern justice system.

I paid her bail and was
told to wait by this chain link fence for her to come out. It's been over an
hour, but it feels like days.

When the door on the back
of the building finally opens, Aspen steps out. The tight ponytail is gone. Her
auburn hair is shoulder length with a little upward curl at the ends. She's in
black sweatpants and a blue Seahawks shirt. She's carrying a gray hooded
sweatshirt.
 

"Hi," she
says. No move to hug or touch me in any way. So I stay back, knowing that my
desire to pick her up with both arms and never let her go might not be the best
move right now. She doesn't know me.

"You said you
wanted to go home?" I ask.

"Yes."

"And where is
that?"

"Port
Orchard."

"Then let's get you
home," I say.

"Can we eat?"
she asks. "I haven't had anything in . . . I'm just hungry."

"Sure, honey,"
I say. "Whatever you'd like."

*
* *

"Why did you come
back now?" She asks me over a plate of pancakes at a diner overlooking
Interstate 5. I only ordered coffee. No way I could eat right now.

"What do you
mean?" I ask.

"I mean, why now?
Where have you been?" she asks.

"Aspen,
honey—" I start to say.

"That's another
thing. Don't call me that. My name is Libby and it has been for a long time.
Don't go calling me something else."

"OK," I say,
my heart sinking into my stomach. "I think we need to start from the
beginning."

I tell her about Frank
visiting me. I tell her that until that moment I didn't have any idea that she
was alive. Or, for that matter, that her mother was also alive.

"There are two
headstones in a cemetery in Spokane, one with your name on it and one with your
mother's name on it. I buried you both 12 years ago.
 
How in the world was I supposed to know that you and your
mom didn't die in that fire? What reason would I have to think that it didn't
happen?"
 

"
You
died in a
fire," she says. "That's what
she
told me."

I assumed it was
something like that. What else could it have been? But hearing the words come
out of her mouth is almost too much. And that Jane picked the same manner to
kill me off? Just wrong.

"That's not what
happened, Asp . . . Libby."

"So what did
happen?" she asks. Her eyes are wide with curiosity.

"If I was asked
that a few days ago, I would have told you exactly what happened. But now? I
have no idea. I don't think we'll ever know."

"Tell me what you
thought happened."

"I was in New York
on business visiting with my editor and publisher," I begin.

"You're a
writer?" she asks. "I write sometimes, too."

I forget that she knows
nothing about me at all. Everything I tell her is a story, without any verified
facts.

"I'd like to read
your work sometime," I say.

"Go on with your
story," she says, a bit insistent.

"I went to New York
alone, but you and your mom came a few days later. She didn't tell me she was
coming, just called me from her hotel. You were only 6 years old at the time.
We argued over the phone that night. She hung up on me."

"Then what
happened?" she asked.

"She never told me
what hotel she was in and she wouldn't answer her cell phone, so I called the
credit card company to check where it was used last and found out she had a
room at the Arms Hotel on 8th Avenue. I jumped in a cab and was there in 30
minutes, but there was this fire . . ."

I start to cry, even
though I know now that I wasn't crying over the deaths of the two closest to
me. It was a lie. I was crying over the memory that I'd tried to suppress for
years. Something that was forced on me. Fake. It makes me angry but I try not
to show that. She might interpret my anger toward Jane as anger at her as well.
I can't have that. I force these feelings back down inside me.

"The building was a
raging inferno. A gas line ruptured on the second floor of the building and it
just went up like a dry stack of hay. Your room was on the third floor,
directly above the explosion. They said you never got out. The building was so
old. Eleven people died that night."

"Nine," she
corrects.

"Right, nine,"
I say.

"They only
identified the bodies of seven people, but since you two were directly above
it, they never recovered your remains, obviously. The entire floor was
completely destroyed. That's what I believed happened 12 years ago. Now? I have
no idea."

"I know what
happened," she says. "Take me home. I'll tell you."