Page 45 of Everything We Give

“I know, darling.” She cupped Ian’s cheek. “What did I do to deserve you? You’re too good for me.”

“I love you.” He tugged his shirt some more, stretching the fabric. “I wish Dad was home more often.” He always knew what to do when Jackie came out. What he didn’t know was how often Jackie made an appearance, and lately those appearances had become more frequent.

Ian once heard his dad suggest to his mom that they check her in to a hospital, should her transitions become more violent. But Ian didn’t want to lose her, and he believed his mom didn’t want to leave either because she didn’t like his dad’s idea about the hospital. Besides, Ian would be alone since Stu couldn’t stop working. So Ian took it upon himself to care for his mom. It wasn’t as though his dad was doing a great job at it, anyhow.

His mom returned the photos to him. “Put those with the others in your special place.” A place he’d sworn never to show her or Jackie. Because one day those pictures might come in handy.

CHAPTER 13

IAN

I was twenty-two and had just graduated with a BA in photojournalism when my mom was released from the Florence McClure Women’s Correctional Center in Las Vegas, Nevada. She’d served her term without incident. She was a free woman. She immediately went off the grid.

Hoping to see my mom for the first time in nine years before my parents drove back to Idaho, and before I knew she’d disappeared, I met up with my dad at his hotel room at the Mirage in Vegas, where he told me she was gone.

“I waited for over an hour for her to show up. I’d been hoping to see her in the floral print dress and blue leather flats I’d picked out and shipped to her,” he explained in a rough and raw voice. “They told me to pick her up at two. Two p.m., I swear to God that’s what they told me. But no.” He dragged out the word, his face hardening. “She’d left at one. She was gone when I got there.”

Panicked, he peppered the security officer with questions. Had she taken a cab? Did she walk? Did she leave with someone else, another man? Please don’t tell him she’d fallen for someone else.

She hadn’t, but the officer suggested that my dad go to the bus terminal. It wasn’t uncommon for an officer to drop off a newly released inmate if the inmate requested a means of transportation. He might get lucky and find her there if she hadn’t yet left for wherever she intended to go.

My dad hadn’t been lucky. And, in my opinion, he hadn’t looked thoroughly enough. Call the cab companies. Check the airports. Buzz every hotel reservation line in the city. “Do something!” I had yelled at him. She could have gone anywhere. She could be anywhere.

“Your mother’s message is crystal clear. She doesn’t want to be with us,” my dad said into his glass of watered-down whiskey, the single ice cube long melted. He tipped back his head and swallowed a mouthful.

“That’s it, then?” I argued in utter disbelief. “You’re giving up?” Not just on looking for her. He was giving up onher.

I wasn’t ready to do that.

“I’m giving her what she wants!” My dad slammed his hand down on the tabletop. The glass rattled. Cigarette butts jumped in the dirty ashtray. A ghostly line of smoke rose from the end of his burning cigarette, hovering between us like a wraith in the night. He reached for the cigarette and took a long, deep draw.

“I have done nothing but give her what she wants,” he said on the exhale. Smoke circled his head. It filled the room. “And what she wants is not us.”

“Bullshit.” I swatted his whiskey glass. It bounced off the wall, leaving a dent. Whiskey sprayed the TV and bureau, soiled the carpet. The alcohol’s peaty smell of disinfectant and sharp ink expanded around us.

“If you’re not going to look for her, then I will. I’ll find her.”

My dad held my gaze for several ticks of my watch. He dipped his chin and stared unfocused at the table where he sat. He tapped off the ash. “She doesn’t love you. I wouldn’t waste my time on her.”

I would for the single reason she was my mother. I needed to know she was all right. That she was healthy and mentally stable. Was that even possible?

My dad raked a hand through his hair, greasy from the natural oils on his skin. He tilted up his face to look at me with eyes red-rimmed from weariness and I would imagine his own failure as a husband. Gray stubble peppered his jaw. “You’re setting yourself up to get hurt, Ian.”

“That’s my problem.” I left the room. Other than when I called to let him know I was getting married, it was the last time I spoke with him.

Six months after Vegas, I’d worked enough freelance jobs to hire Harry Sykes, a private investigator I found in the Las Vegas yellow pages. I was moving to France in a month and wanted to find my mom before I left. I hadn’t had any luck on my own. Harry volleyed questions about Sarah’s personal information and background, her known acquaintances, and places of residence. I returned each with a definitive answer. I’d once known her best. We then discussed the events leading up to her arrest and sentencing.

“Court transcripts are public record. Have you read hers?” Harry asked.

“No,” I admitted. I’d only been fourteen at the time of her trial. Other than when I testified, my dad hadn’t allowed me to attend.

“I’ll request to look at them. There might be something in there that pinpoints where she could have gone. You should read them, too.” He pointed his dull no. 2 pencil at me across his 1970s-era metal office desk. “She’s your mother. Something in there might ring a bell.” He tapped the pencil on his head. “It might help me find her for you.”

I followed up on his suggestion, read the transcript, and discovered a whole lot of something. I’d contributed to the cause of her illness. I’d exacerbated her condition. No wonder she didn’t love me.

Harry Sykes left a message several weeks later. He’d located Sarah Collins. I never returned his call, or the others that followed. I figured one day I’d make the effort to go to her. I owe her the apology of my life. I only needed to find the courage to do so and that time is now. I made a promise to my wife. I’d confront my issues about my past so that we could move forward together. I would fix my relationship with my mom.

I land in New York at dawn and scope out a relatively quiet corner away from the morning rush. It has a lounge chair, an outlet, and a USB port. These and a Venti-size coffee are all I need as I settle in for the three-hour layover.

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