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“She thinks I conspired to have her arrested so she’d have to agree to rehab to avoid jail.”
The pads of her fingers trace my knuckles and run along the veins on the back of my hand. The sensation soothes.
“Did you?” she asks gently.
“No. Although I can’t deny it would’ve been a solid plan. But I can’t control her. Our mother says I’m her crutch, that by keeping her off the streets I’m enabling her. She might be right. If she relapses again, my next plan is to let her end up on the streets. I don’t know what else to do.”
“That must be incredibly difficult for you.” I give her a questioning glance, uncertain where she’s coming from. “You possess complete control over every aspect of your life. Except her.”
She hit the nail on the head on that one.
“Were you guys close?”
“No.” I shake my head and flick the turn signal. “I left for college, knowing I wasn’t leaving her in a great place. Our house, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. But it wasn’t a great environment. When I left, I went years without seeing her. Military life.”
“You feel guilty.” She says it as a statement, not a question.
I am self-aware enough to know she’s absolutely correct. When my mother called and said she was kicking Indigo out of the house, a sense of responsibility overcame me. Indie and I might not be close, but she’s my blood.
After showing identification at the gate, we drive through. Indigo might refuse to meet with us. They won’t force her to visit with anyone.
“And her name is Indigo?”
“My mom was in a hippy phase.”
“Ryan is a nice name,” she says. There’s a small smile on her face, but I think she’s sincere.
“My personal theory is that my mom adapts to the man in her life. My father was conservative. Second-generation American. From what I can tell, he never intended to stay with my mother, but she did love him. Over the years, she dated different men. Indigo’s father was the opposite of mine. Bass player for a band. Polar opposite to my dad. He did stick around for quite a while. Until he died of an overdose.”
“You know, addiction can be hereditary.” She’s not the first person to mention this to me. But bipolar personality disorder can also be hereditary. And carries a tendency to gravitate to alcohol.
We pull into a parking spot. On the sidewalk, I take her hand. Reaching for it is as natural as walking, and there are no officers or agents around. But I second guess the move when she glances at me. But the green in her eyes is warm, and her fingers intertwine with mine. I relax as our strides sync. Her long legs easily match my stride.
At the reception desk, a woman I recognize with curled yellow-blonde hair, a pearl necklace, and a name tag that reads Priscilla greets us. She smiles, and I tell her I’m here to see Indigo Wolfgang.
“You have the same last name?” Alex asks quietly while the receptionist places a call.
“Our mom never changed her name after she and my dad split.”
“Mr. Wolfgang?” the receptionist says.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, but your sister isn’t available to meet at the moment. Do you have a schedule of our visiting times?”
“Yes. Of course. I’m from out of town.” I let the phrase hang there, on the off chance being an out-of-town visitor bears weight. In truth, most of my visits occur at the request of my sister’s therapist. But, of course, she’s not simply sitting in a prison cell. She has an active, full schedule here. “I’ll come back.”
“The weekends are a good time,” Priscilla offers. Of course, I know this.
Once we’re outside, I tell Alex, “Sorry. Shouldn’t have driven you out here. But I wanted you to see that she’s real.” There’s no better way to build trust than to provide evidence.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see Liam Ryland’s name.
“Agent Ryland,” I say as greeting.
“Are you back home?”
“Still in San Diego. Planning to head back later today. Do you need something?”
