Full Circle

By Kristina Christensen

Alanna live a beautiful life with her husband and daughter in Seattle. She was renowned for her work as a forensic nurse collecting evidence and testifying against the perpetrators of horrific crimes. When an attempt on her life ended with the death of her husband, she lost everything that had given her life meaning and purpose.
Alanna fled to Montana to live the second half of her life with her mother on the Blackfeet Nation Reservation. A place of stark contrasts, ancient culture, and extraordinary beauty. 
When a serial rapist calling himself “the Hunter” found prey on the Reservation, Alanna was drawn back into forensic nursing to help Blackfeet Law Enforcement bring him to justice.
Alanna had a lot to learn about her new home. She would find that love and tragedy transcended location and culture.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645311195

Book preview

Chapter 1

You can’t go back and make a new start, but you can start right now and make a brand-new ending.

—James R. Sherman

Alanna

February, Montana

My life started over on an ordinary, unseasonably warm Montana winter day. Everything I’d known that gave my life purpose and identity had been left behind in Seattle—everything except a boatload of emotional baggage.

I was thirty minutes from my destination, but neither the bright sunny day nor the beautiful scenery could relieve the ball of uncertainty interfering with my calm. So I eased my white 1955 Thunderbird convertible, and the small trailer being pulled behind, over to a wide patch on the side of the highway. Before getting any closer to the small town of Browning on the Blackfeet Reservation, I had to settle my mind and stomach by putting the top down, taking in some fresh, calming air, and using the opportunity to let my dog empty his bladder.

My name is Alanna O’Connell Rodriguez.

I was a newly widowed Advanced Registered Nurse Practitioner. I’d spent the first half of my life in Seattle, Washington—a city named for an Indian—where I’d been working for white men. I was standing at the crossroads to the second half of my life near Browning, Montana—a town named after a white man—where I’d be working for Indians. Or at least I would be if I decided to take the next step forward.

Stepping forward would mean living with my mother, Leah O’Connell, whose people were the Blackfeet Indians. Their reservation was just over the Rocky Mountains in Montana. She told me they called the Rockies the Backbone of the World, and she’d spent months using all her best powers of persuasion and guilt to convince me to drop my married name and move in with her on the safe eastern side of the backbone, just outside the town of Browning where she’d been born.

She’d moved from Montana to Seattle when she was very young, but she somehow imagined some kind of mythical safe haven existed within the confines of the reservation. She also thought that since we’d both become widows in the past year, we needed each other’s support to sort through our grief.

But I thought, Who in their right mind moves in with their mother at age thirty-six?

We’d never gotten along, and living in separate states had been really working for me.

My job in Seattle had been drastically different from the one I was fortunate to find at such short notice with the Indian Health Service. I’d be leaving an adrenaline-charged career as a forensic nurse, where I collected evidence from people who’d been sexually assaulted, both living and dead. I’d practiced out of a large trauma hospital where I had both job satisfaction and respect. My new job at the tribal health clinic might provide neither, but in theory, I’d be safe from deadly assassins.

This brought me back to considering choice number two and taking a step backward by returning to Seattle. The reason I’d left was because my forensic nursing job required testifying against some of the most depraved people in society. As a consequence, I’d gotten into some trouble back home when a crime boss hired an assassin to kill me as payback for my testimony against him. My life was torn apart when he ended up killing my husband instead. Could I really go back and endanger my life for such selfish reasons as my forensic nursing career and the prestige that went along with it? The rational choice would be the safe one.

Remembering why I’d left made me a little nervous, so I checked my perimeter to see if I’d been followed. All I saw was an empty stretch of highway behind me and rolling hills stretched before me with no vehicles in site. It was possible that while I was driving and concentrating on the awesomeness of the natural beauty surrounding me, I might have missed a car full of villains tracking me west. However, even though I wasn’t a 110-pound kick-ass special agent who could take down a 220-pound hired killer with my ninja skills like in the movies, I still believed it would have defied logic for a normal, alert female like me not to notice being followed down this particular route east.

The crunching of gravel behind me gave me a start, but when I turned, in alarm, it wasn’t an assassin back there; it was just my dog. My traveling companion was a massive brindled bloodhound/mastiff named Brute. The only injury I was in danger of receiving from him was from his whip of a tail.

Brute’s whole body shivered while he focused all his attention waiting for my signal to jump into the car and settle himself onto the turquoise back seat. At least one of us was ready to get moving. My stomach and my mind were in agony. Would I look back from the future and feel contentment about what had become of my life, or wish to God I’d made a different decision? What would it be a step forward onto the Blackfeet Reservation and a very different life, or a quick retreat back to the devil I knew in Seattle?

My devious mind briefly considered that since I hadn’t yet made contact with my mother, or my new employer, it wasn’t too late to flip the bird at my mother’s safe plan for my future, turn around, and head back the other way. But after hesitating for a few minutes, I decided not to go back. My decision was made. Montana would be my new home.

I should have also decided to put the top back up on the T-Bird. I was used to mild winters and didn’t realize the fifty-degree temperature was unseasonably warm for the area. Instead I whistled and inclined my head toward the car, which was my signal to the dog to load up. Brute easily cleared the door as he leaped into the back seat. I zipped my coat up until my collar covered my ears and reached for the door handle.

At the same moment, the wind blew a cloud formation in front of the sun. Between the clouds, rays of sunlight were cast down upon the brown landscape below, causing frozen grasslands to be transformed into crystalized islands of white-tipped gold and ponds to sparkle like diamonds. Such beauty, right after I’d decided to move forward, felt like a sign from God that I’d made the right choice.

For a long time, my life hadn’t given me any memories I wanted to hold on to. So before leaving the scenic turnout, I paused beside my car and inhaled deeply to capture the scents around me, looked at my surroundings as if I’d never see the view again, closed my eyes to concentrate on listening, and felt the cool door handle my hand was wrapped around. All my senses sealed the moment into my memory forever. It had officially become the first day of the rest of my…week, next few months, or maybe years.

When I drove down the last stretch of highway and spied the water tower with Browning painted across the tank, my thoughts drifted into the past. The last time I traveled down this road was twenty-two years ago. Back then I’d looked at my surroundings with the eyes of a child. As a fourteen-year-old I could care less about the scenery. My nose made an oily imprint on the window while I focused my energy on spying the historical marker near my uncle’s ranch. As soon as the car stopped moving, I’d jump out and run to the barn to find my cousins. Not a single minute of adventure would be wasted. Summer on the plains of Montana seemed like paradise to a lonely only-child from Seattle.

Both of my parents had summers off because they were teachers. They’d stay in Montana and visit relatives for a couple of days and then leave me in the hands of my daughterless uncle for three weeks so they could spend some precious time alone. Uncle Two Strikes was a softy and helpless against the wiles of his niece. I could convince him of anything, so I had free rein to go everywhere the boys decided to go and do things my parents would have been furious about if they’d known. I learned to ride horses, smoke cigarettes, and fly-fish during those idyllic days. The only skill I kept up in Seattle after returning home was Western-style horseback riding.

The four Two Strikes brothers had formed a gang with a couple of their friends. The Striker gang was all male except when I visited. Every member had a compulsory nickname. My cousin Joe’s full name was Joseph Two Strikes III, so his nickname was Two-Three. Mine was Little Red Indian, which was shortened to just Red. Presumably the nickname was based on my appearance, because after spending most of my summer days outside, my hair took on auburn highlights and my skin darkened to match their darker shade of brown.

They’d graced me with the moniker after I’d bloodied the nose of a punk who’d made fun of my freckles. The big bully had run away crying in humiliation because of being bested by a girl, and because my four cousins were laughing so hard they couldn’t speak for a full five minutes. I probably should find out what became of the punk just in case I needed to watch my back now that I’d returned.

The guys considered me one of the boys through the years of our carefree childhood until we passed into our teens. On my last visit I’d returned to Montana in full PMS, budding-curves puberty. Those goofy blood brothers of mine stopped including me in their spitting contests and started behaving strangely. I was no longer allowed to saddle my own horse or to strip down to my underwear and go swimming with them. I hated the bulges under my T-shirt for taking away all my fun and returning me to being an outsider. The gang was minus one; I’d become a girl.

Years before, my youthful heart had viewed Highway Two as the yellow brick road leading to endless possibilities. My experienced adult eyes saw reality. Browning was the largest town on the huge Blackfeet Indian Reservation. With a population of just over a thousand, it would become the smallest place I’d ever lived. As I drove through, people stared at the massive dog sitting and drooling behind me, and I was staring at a sobering landscape barely distinguishable from a third world country. There were abandoned and dilapidated cars, trash, and boarded-up buildings all along the wide dusty route through town. The place made Skid Row in Seattle look posh in comparison.

My first impression was that Hope had shaken the dust off her shoes and moved on. There were some interesting metal sculptures adorning the roadside, a nice-looking community college, and some well-maintained businesses scattered around. Maybe a renaissance was budding and I just needed to explore the streets parallel to the highway to get a better impression.

Or not! I was surprised to see more dogs than people as I drove my now frantically barking beast on a tour of the residential areas. The neighborhoods had an assortment of dwelling styles, ranging from stick built houses to single and double wide mobile homes. Each was of varying age and disrepair. The landscaping was bereft of plants to soften sharp angles or fill in between sparse tufts of grass that clung to life in pet-ravaged yards. I was hoping another ray of sunlight would shine down and make the town beautiful.

People continued to stare with disbelief as I drove through town. I thought Brute was the reason, but I soon found out there was another. His size might have been a curiosity, but I later learned they were astonished because he was sitting in the back seat of convertible, with its top down, in Montana, in the winter.

Whew, my goose bumps had goose bumps. I was already rethinking having the top down when I turned the wheel and eased onto a stretch of road out of the shelter of the buildings. The dog and I were blasted with a gust from the element that would be my nemesis in the winter and welcome friend during the summer.

The wind blew a swirling cloud of dirt and refuse through the T-Bird. I expected the populace might have questioned whether I was a crazy woman before Brute and I were adorned with filth, but anyone within vocal range would have been certain of the fact once I voiced my displeasure. In some lovely part of the country they might call the wind Mariah, but I began using very different language to describe it.

Through gritty tears I searched for the nearest sheltered area to pull into, because if I didn’t get the top up soon, I’d be totally blinded. Brute slid across the seat when I made a speedy wide-arching U-turn into the community college parking lot across the street. When his torso collided with the arm rest the impact caused white strings of drool to be flung from his muzzle onto the other lovely debris already in my hair. I took a deep calming breath, turned off the engine, and opened my door.

Achieving the simple task of putting the top up should have taken a couple of minutes max. Brute was anxious because I was stressed, and his mucous production factory went into overdrive. While he was pacing, whining, and drooling in the small space that had once been my nicely upholstered back seat, I was trying to get the top up. After taking multiple deep, calming breaths, I was getting a bit light-headed.

I yelled, Get…your…head…down, Brute. The top can’t go over that skull of yours while you’re standing up. I pushed him and pulled on the rag top to help the hydraulics. Seriously, a dog your size shouldn’t be turned into a mound of putty by a gust of wind.

A small crowd of students had gathered next to a building to watch the entertainment. They’d wisely chosen a vantage point out of the wind. I was hoping they were all of college age, because they were getting a vocabulary lesson jam-packed with foul language I’d woven into phrases they might not have heard before.

Brute finally jumped onto the front seat, put his head under the dash, and sat his posterior down on the passenger seat. If I wasn’t so irritated with him, I’d have taken a moment to see the humor in the situation. But it had taken five minutes to successfully wrestle the dog down and clamp the top in place; I was not amused.

Before I made a hasty retreat, I bowed and waved to the crowd. Those that weren’t doubled over laughing clapped in appreciation of the show’s grand finale. Thank you, God, the car started with one turn of the key, and I was able to creep back onto the highway to continue my wonderful adventure.

Browning was as unlike Seattle as two places could be. A mocha latte was the elixir I needed for an emotional boost, but I didn’t see a single latte stand on my drive through town! My dwindling coping skills and lack of caffeine were about to put me into the same position as my dog.

Like all normal Seattleites, caffeine was my drug of choice. I needed a fix multiple times a day. I really hoped the IGA I saw ahead carried my favorite brand of coffee, so I could make a pot as soon as possible.

I pulled into the parking lot but then realized I’d better wait for a cup of Mom’s coffee. Brute would have the leather shredded on the seats by the time I came back. No cup of coffee was worth three thousand dollars. I almost cried with disappointment.

My caffeine crisis had distracted me from one of my main reasons for exploring Browning in the first place, so I backtracked to find the tribal health clinic. My plan was to get an idea of how long my commute from home to work would actually take. Mom had told me it would be a ten-minute drive, but she’d always had trouble being realistic when it came to distances and times. In two days I’d start my part-time job, and I wanted to make a positive first impression by arriving on time, whether my commute took ten minutes or thirty.

The T-111-clad health clinic appeared to have once been white before the wind had ground layers of dirt into the paint’s surface. I had a brief glimpse of an older Native man sitting in view of the only front facing window. A toddler appeared and pressed his nose to the glass entrance door. His eyes got real big when he saw the dog, but he still waved before running out of view. So I’d successfully located my new place of employment, and I had a glimpse of my patient demographic.

As I passed the clinic, I noted the time and mileage on the speedometer, and then I drove south out of town onto Heart Butte road. About ten minutes later, I left the paved road for one of gravel heading west toward the edge of the foothills. The road meandered around ponds, stream beds, and cultivated farmland. If I were an eagle, I might have been able to cover the distance between Browning and my new home in ten minutes. As a mere human driving a car, it took twenty.

Chapter 2

We don’t see things as they are—we see them as we are.

—Anaïs Nin

Throughout my career as a nurse, I had many opportunities to work in high-stress situations. Unlike today, those situations were always about someone else’s personal tragedy. Somehow every coping mechanism I should be using had gone out of my mind, and my stomach felt queasy again. I couldn’t think of any way to get through the next hour or two without physical or emotional distress.

When I’d turned sixteen, I’d fractured my middle-class family by becoming emancipated and choosing the freedom of the streets to escape my mother’s smothering control. Twenty years later I found myself on the verge of living with her again. I’m sure she had to swallow some bile before calling me two months ago with her offer of cohabitation. We’d never resolved the pain of the past, and I was pretty sure Mother planned on opening the wound again, so she could probe every festering memory with the sharp scalpel of her tongue.

Leah O’Connell was a devout twice-a-week Catholic. She was as prim, couth, and proper as I was not. I took after my Irish father, except I didn’t hide my nature from her like he’d tried to. If she ever loved me, she was too proud to let me know, and I was too stubborn to ask.

Dusk was approaching as I crested the last rise on the turnoff, and there was just enough light to get a good glimpse of my new home. I was stunned. Never in my life had I expected we’d share similar tastes. Mom had chosen an inviting two-story design with brown wooden siding and forest-green trim. The home’s charm was enhanced by a covered front porch, river rock chimney, and two dormer windows on the second floor. I loved it!

She’d hired a local named Thomas to build her dream home. Part of our cohabitation deal was my paying for half of the building, furnishing, and living expenses. I couldn’t help feeling a brief flash of melancholy, because the money from my papa’s and my own dead spouse Jesse’s sizable life insurance policies had made this beautiful home possible.

I wasn’t sure where to park, so for ease of unpacking, I backed the trailer up to the porch next to an orange pickup Mom had purchased from her cousin. Leah O’Connell rushed out of the house while I was getting out of the car. She was a trim five-foot-five with shoulder-length black hair, high cheekbones, and a line-free face at nearly sixty. My father had married a plains beauty his Irish family had never quite gotten used to. I looked just like her in stature and bone structure, only with lighter brown coloring, a sprinkling of freckles across my nose, green eyes, and dark hair with tones of mahogany. She hurried over and gave me a stiff hug that belied the enthusiasm of her haste to greet me.

Mom, the house looks great on the outside. I never realized we had such similar taste!

Do we? Mom turned and looked at our home, then back at me. Then maybe you’ll stay awhile this time.

Here we go again. I’d made my decision, and I’d make the best of my new living situation even if I had to bite my tongue bloody.

Thankfully, Mom didn’t dwell on our troubled relationship long. She said, The house is about ninety percent finished. When it’s done, the barn will be built. Mom’s eyes welled up with tears; she briskly wiped them away. I’d still rather be poor and have your papa here.

Yeah, I feel the same way about Jesse, but this is our life now, and we might as well be comfortable.

Mom nodded. Let’s go inside and relax by the fireplace, I can’t feel my toes.

The living room was just inside the front door. I hung my jacket on a coat tree and sat down on a brown leather chair next to the taupe paisley upholstered couch. Mom sat perched on the edge of a couch cushion looking ready to take flight. I felt the same way, but I willed myself to ease back into the softly padded seat to give the impression of relaxed calm.

You’ve decorated in a Western theme. I took my time looking at every wall and piece of furniture. It fits the house well.

Mom smiled. I hope that’s not the last thing we agree on today.

My calm facade gave way to frown lines and tense muscles. I hadn’t actually started my job yet, so I could still make my escape. I scooted to the edge of my seat ready to give a sarcastic remark to whatever she said next or bolt out the front door.

Instead, Mom chose a subject that was less controversial: my figure.

She studied me from bottom to top, pursed her lips, and said, Daughter, you look thin. Losing your appetite for a while after Jesse died was understandable. But you have to start taking care of yourself now that you’re single and starting a new life. A little soft fullness would be more likely to attract men. She paused. Well, you have enough up top. You’ve clearly got your generous bosom from your dad’s side of the family, not mine. In my opinion, you should gain about twenty pounds to look just right. Men like soft curves, not hard muscles.

I know I’ve lost some weight, but my body is still a healthy size for a fit five-foot-seven female. Please stop commenting on my curves, or lack thereof, Mother. I’m starting to squirm over here. Anyway, there’s no point in fussing about my appearance or attractiveness to men. I have no intention of ever marrying again, because I couldn’t take the heartache.

You say that now, but men are bound to start sniffing around eventually. You need to be ready, when you’re ready.

She pointed at my left hand. I noticed you still wear your wedding set on your left ring finger. As far as I’m concerned, it’s about time you came to terms with the fact you’re a widow and remove them. Life goes on.

I bit my tongue again, then said, Sounds like you’re not having a problem moving on. Your fingers are bare, and Papa hasn’t even been dead a year.

She said, If you haven’t realized it yet, single life’s lonely. If the right man came along, I’d marry him tomorrow. Having a husband was something I took for granted when Ian was alive. I long for a compatible man to talk with about life, love, and cooking. There was a security that came from two being one nothing else can fill. Mom actually had a twinkle in her eye. There are other benefits too.

Wow, did my proper Catholic mother really acknowledge people have sex?

Mom nodded. God created sex, you know.

I felt the heat rise to my face. "Never mind, just because we live together doesn’t mean I want to talk about sex with my mother. Her pursed lips reappeared, so I switched gears. I agree with what you said about the benefits of being married, but I can’t imagine anyone else besides Jesse being my husband. I hope you find someone, if that’s what you want."

Me too. Mom graciously moved on to a different topic. So what are your plans now that you’re here? I can’t imagine you’ll be satisfied working three days a week and then sitting around the house with me on your days off.

I need to figure out who I am as a single person and as a nurse first. Everything that gave me an identity in Seattle is dead or gone. I’m not Jesse’s wife, I’m not a successful forensic nurse, and I’m really not needed as a parent for Adriana anymore. I had such purpose before, and now…I have nothing.

Mom picked up a pillow and smoothed out imaginary creases. Nonsense, a daughter always needs her mother. So how is my granddaughter doing over at the U-Dub?

Oh thank God we were focusing on someone besides me. Adriana is doing well in college. She’s still studying environmental engineering. I’ve arranged for her to live with a physician friend and his family near the Seattle campus. I don’t have to worry about her as much as I would if she were in a college dorm.

She said, If she’s anything like you when you were her age, you should worry a lot for a few more years.

Neither of us expressed what we really feared, because at this stage of our journey through life we didn’t trust each other enough to open up emotionally. The truth was, I could care less if Adriana made all the stupid mistakes I had at her age, so long as she lived to be my age.

One of the reasons my daughter and I were both still alive was due to the efforts of an FBI special agent named John Hawke who’d been involved in the Seattle situation. Among other things, he’d recommended I left Washington as soon as we’d made arrangements for Adriana’s safety. Jesse had died because he’d caught the bullet intended for me. I was still alive, so technically my life was still in jeopardy. So before I left, we made sure Adriana had a safe place to live and someone to watch over her. Even though I knew it was for the best, leaving her behind added constant worry to the bundle of emotional pain already pressing against my heart.

Brute sensed my anxiety and stood up. He lovingly nudged my hand with his nose. I guess he wants some attention. Mom, meet my new male companion, Brute. He joined the household after Jesse died, and he is the only male I need in my life right now.

He may be the largest dog I’ve ever seen. What kind is he?

He’s a Brazilian crossbreed of bloodhound and mastiff called Fila Brasileiro. He can be fierce, but he’s an oversized lap dog toward his family. He was trained to search and protect, but I don’t think he’ll ever need to use those skills here. I’ll show you how to manage him later. Just one warning, don’t feed him off of the table no matter how pitifully he looks at you. People food results in nearly fatal fumes from his posterior. Trust me, you don’t want to experience that smell, ever.

Mom grabbed Brute’s head in both hands and scratched behind his ears. You’re such a handsome boy. You wouldn’t do any such thing, would you?

Brute wagged his tail and panted. He looked like he was smiling from all the praise. Mom was soon baptized with thick drool that hung from her fingers like tinsel. She stood and went to the kitchen to wash up without looking the least bit annoyed.

In a couple of minutes, she returned and started right in ordering her adult daughter around.

Unpack your suitcase, and then come down for dinner. Your bedroom is upstairs, the second door on the left. She paused then added. I notice your hair is a bit dirty and tangled. You surely didn’t have the top down on your car? She squinted and shook her head. I remained silent. I would have thought you had a little more common sense. Well, anyway, the bathroom down the hallway upstairs is yours to use, my room has an en suite. You’ll find the towels in the built-in cupboard at the end of the hall.

Brute was insecure in the new surroundings, so he followed closely behind me everywhere I went. I loved the big guy, but he made unpacking quite difficult. I kept bumping into his solid immovable frame; it was like having a pony underfoot. When I’d completed the task of filling the dresser drawers with folded clothes, I turned my attention to the room’s decor and furniture.

Exploring my bedroom for the first time felt like Christmas. I’d stored my furniture and rented out my home on Queen Ann hill with the understanding I’d be relying on Mom to furnish the entire house in Montana. Her decorating style wasn’t as repulsive as I’d expected. A different color of paint and matching bedding was all the room needed—except the O’Keefe print had to go; her subject matter reminded me too much of my previous job.

When I’d made myself presentable, I went down to dinner and more grilling—I mean, conversation. Before she started giving me her superior viewpoints on life, love, and cooking, I knew I had to jump in and set the agenda. Before I’d be comfortable living in the same house with her, we needed to discuss some unresolved issues we’d been avoiding for twenty years. I’d been dreading this conversation for months, but it had to be done.

After dinner, we ended up in the same seats in the living room we’d occupied earlier, and off I went.

Mom, we’ve never talked about what I put you and Papa through in my teens. I’d have a hard time living here, wondering if this would be the day our past would destroy our future together. I’m very sorry I hurt you.

I’m glad you had the courage to say so. For my part, as I’ve aged, I look back and my failures rise above anything positive I remember doing as a parent. Living with regret seems to be what we do. She smiled and leaned forward as if ready to stand and end the conversation. But there’s no sense in our rehashing all that misery. My hope is for you and I not to just tolerate living with each other but to learn to love and respect each other too.

You know, we may have a long, painful road to walk down before your hope becomes reality. We have to rehash some of it, or I’ll never be comfortable living here with you.

All right then, let’s talk about the past. She eased back in her seat. You may be surprised, but I’ve come to realize that even though you rejected me all those years ago, God was still watching over you. So it all worked out for the good. I have a beautiful granddaughter, and you and Jesse were curiously blessed—for a season.

My hackles went up, whatever they are. She’d summed our past relationship up, dismissed years of anger with a few trite words, and of course, ended with a little jab to the heart. I couldn’t keep from focusing on the negative.

Why do you say curiously blessed? What Jesse and I had was rare. I know I was unworthy of the beautiful life I’d been given. Living on the streets should have ended in disaster, like it had for so many other vulnerable teens. Instead, Jesse and I found each other, got married, and lived the dream. Happily ever after, until death parted us.

Mom said, Let me clarify. You were a headstrong, opinionated, out-of-control teen whom I never figured out how to handle. You should have had a miserable life. Yet along the way you figured out how to be an excellent wife and mother. At least that’s the way it seemed from what little of your life you let me be involved in. So I say your marriage was curiously blessed. It was meant to be a compliment, not a criticism.

Mom reached over to pat my hand and said, You were always drawn to the darkness around you, even later in life when you chose to add dealing with rape and murder to your résumé. I wished you’d taken a different career path. There’s an unpleasant hard edge to you now. It doesn’t take much imagination to envision what the man who killed Jesse saw on your face just before you shot him dead.

Whoa, how can you say that? You don’t have the slightest idea of what went down on that terrible day. My face was smeared with soot from the fire the bastard had set, so my expression was… I stood up. Oh, why am I bothering to defend myself. Focusing on my nursing career and what happened after Jesse died is irrelevant.

I looked down at her and contradicted what I’d just said by staying on subject. You sound like you think I’m a cold-blooded killer. I took that subhuman piece of shit’s gun and shot him dead in reaction to his murdering my husband. I sat back down and took a deep breath. "Mother, what I did after Jesse was killed, and my expression while I did it, had nothing to do with how I made my living.

Without pausing to consider what I’d said, Mom replied, Maybe, but you wouldn’t have been at the mercy of a killer if you’d taken a normal kind of nursing job. I’ll never understand why you chose sexual assault nursing. You had to deal with the rape and then sit in court looking into the eyes of the creepy rapists while you were testifying against them.

I said, I’m proud to belong to a small specialty of nurses willing to expose their souls to the worst depravities of humankind. As I’m sure you’re aware, I had to learn to deal with the emotional toll of the job through various stress relieving activities, so I don’t think any hardness reflected on my face is because of forensic nursing. It’s more likely because of losing Jesse and everything that happened afterward.

Don’t worry, you’re still beautiful, daughter. But it’s not just the way you look, it’s also the impression you give when you speak. Foul language just isn’t proper. She shook her head. I’ve always wondered if I’d been a better mother, whether your path might have led in a more wholesome direction. I wished you were softer inside, and outside.

This was the first honest conversation we’d ever had. She really seemed to want to heal our relationship. We looked so similar on the outside but were so different. I hoped, as she did, that we’d find a way to do more than just tolerate each other. So I might have to learn to be humble, because biting my tongue was getting painful.

She broke into my thoughts. Are you still with me? You look far away.

Sorry, I got distracted. I was going to say you were right. Of course, I could have taken a smoother path. But being a homeless teen was what motivated me to become a forensic nurse. I wanted to care for the forgotten, unloved, and abused with the compassion every injured person should receive. The brief span of time I lived on the street molded me into who I’d become, so I don’t regret most of it. Though I do regret allowing a barrier of bitterness to stand between us for all these years.

"Me too. I love you, daughter, despite everything, and always have.