Somewhere Out There Read online

  Praise for Safe with Me

  “Safe with Me is a stirring portrait of two moms, linked by tragedy, who rescue each other in more ways than one.”

  —Good Housekeeping

  “Hatvany does a marvelous job of not letting the plot get too maudlin or ‘ripped from the headlines,’ and her characters have warmth and depth. Readers will find themselves cheering for these women. A good pick for women’s-fiction fans, particularly those who enjoy the realistic stories of Emily Giffin and Kristina Riggle.”

  —Booklist

  “Amy Hatvany is a strong new voice in contemporary women’s fiction. Safe with Me is a compelling, thought-provoking novel about three women learning from each other as they navigate through a terrain filled with both tragedy and opportunity.”

  —Kristin Hannah, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “Equally heartbreaking and heart-pounding, Amy Hatvany’s Safe with Me puts her in the very fine company of Jodi Picoult as an author who takes tender real-life moments and compels the reader to care until the very last page. A book that will stick with you for days.”

  — Allison Winn Scotch, New York Times bestselling author of Time of My Life

  “In Amy Hatvany’s capable hands, richly drawn characters explore everything that is complex, difficult, powerful, and poignant about being a mother, a daughter, a friend. Safe with Me is an extraordinary look behind the curtain into the very private pains of women, and the hope that endures when you survive the unthinkable. It will remind you that the human spirit can triumph over all, and you will wish you could reach directly into these pages and hug the heroines.”

  —Stacey Ballis, author of Off the Menu

  Praise for Heart Like Mine

  “The voices are so down-to-earth and familiar and the events so much like real life that readers will feel like they know the characters . . . An uplifting and heartwarming experience.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Explores myriad themes sure to appeal to fans of women’s fiction: love and loss, parenthood, grief, friendship, and complex family dynamics. Hatvany’s compassion for each female character is evident throughout, and readers will find their hearts, at times, breaking in three.”

  —Booklist

  “Beautiful and deeply moving . . . Amy Hatvany writes about the tangled web of family in a way that makes you laugh, cry, cheer, and ache. This book has so much heart.”

  —Sarah Jio, New York Times bestselling author of Blackberry Winter

  “By turns gripping and revelatory, Heart Like Mine is a sympathetic exploration of blended family dynamics. Hatvany pulls no punches; her characters grapple with life’s big moments—marriage, parenthood, death—but she renders each of them with compassion and understanding. An honest, hopeful story that resonates in all the best ways.”

  —Jillian Medoff, bestselling author of I Couldn’t Love You More

  “A heartfelt, moving story about the lasting effects of grief amidst family bonds and breakups, and the healing powers of love, honesty, and acceptance.”

  —Seré Prince Halverson, author of The Underside of Joy

  “Hatvany brings sympathy and compassion to the page.”

  —Randy Susan Meyers, bestselling author of The Comfort of Lies

  Praise for Outside the Lines

  “Will delight readers . . . vivid and written with a depth of feeling.”

  —Library Journal

  “There are no storybook perfect endings here, but this compelling novel raises the possibility of a hopeful way forward.”

  —The Seattle Times

  “A palpable love story, emotional search for and acceptance of a lost parent, and a bittersweet ending make for an enveloping, heartfelt read.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Like a gorgeous dark jewel, Hatvany’s exquisitely rendered novel explores the tragedy of a mind gone awry, a tangled bond of father and daughter, and the way hope and love sustain us. It does what the best fiction does: it makes us see and experience the world differently.”

  —Caroline Leavitt, New York Times bestselling author of Pictures of You

  “Outside the Lines offers a fascinating look at the interior of a mental illness—the exuberance and self-loathing, creativity and destruction that then reverberate against the lives of family and loved ones. Hatvany’s storyline is compelling, weaving back and forth between father and daughter, patiently explaining as it asks all the important questions.”

  —Juliette Fay, author of Shelter Me

  Praise for Best Kept Secret

  “One of the most compelling books I’ve read in years. This heartfelt, heartbreaking, and ultimately uplifting novel will start an important dialogue about the secrets we keep . . . and it could even save lives.”

  —Sarah Pekkanen, author of Skipping a Beat

  “I was transfixed by Cadence and her heart-wrenching dilemma. The writing is visceral, the problems are real, and there are no clear solutions. You won’t want to put it down.”

  —Emily Giffin, New York Times bestselling author of Something Borrowed

  “I’m telling everyone about Best Kept Secret. It’s the realistic and ultimately hopeful story of Cadence, whose glass of wine at the end of the day becomes two . . . then . . . three . . . then a bottle. I love that Cadence feels so familiar, she could be my neighbor, my friend, or even my sister.”

  —Jennifer Weiner, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “This gripping novel probes the darker sides of motherhood and family secrets, and proves that redemption is never out of our reach. A captivatingly honest book that you won’t soon forget.”

  —Lisa Tucker, bestselling author of Once Upon a Day

  Thank you for downloading this Atria Books eBook.

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  For Shane, and for the children who have found a home in his heart

  For a seed to achieve its greatest expression, it must come completely undone.

  The shell cracks, its insides come out, and everything changes.

  To someone who doesn’t understand growth, it would look like complete destruction.

  —Cynthia Occelli

  Jennifer

  I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been desperate.

  I knew what the stakes were. I knew I might get caught. But it was well past midnight and both my babies were hungry and crying—Brooke, who had just turned four, and Natalie, only six months. A siren sound emanated from Natalie’s tiny lungs, and Brooke’s choppy, hiccuping sobs felt like sandpaper being rubbed against the tips of my nerves.

  We had no place left to go. I was out of friends and money and favors I could call in. I didn’t have enough gas to keep driving, so I turned in to a Safeway’s deserted parking lot, dreading what I was about to do. My insides felt jittery and loose, as though all my organs had somehow detached. Every cell in my body told me to get out of this car and run. Disappear. Pretend the last five years never happened. But I couldn’t. I had the girls. If it wasn’t for them, I’d be free.

  Shut up, I told myself. Just shut the fuck up. I parked the powder-blue, 1970 Toyota Crown station wagon that Brooke’s father had given me before he kicked us out. The car was ten years old and had served as our home for most of the last three-plus years. The air inside it was stale and dry. I inhaled the sharp, bitter scent of ammonia, remembering the plastic bag full of Natalie’s soiled diapers sitting near the rear hatch. I’d forgotten to throw it out.

  I gripped the steering wh
eel as tightly as I could to keep my body from shaking. With the engine still running, the radio played on, and in the midst of my children’s cries, Casey Kasem announced that Blondie’s new number one hit, “Call Me,” was coming up next on his weekly countdown. I yanked the keys from the ignition and shoved them into my purse, the same two sentences repeating over and over inside my head: I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to be here.

  The kinds of thoughts a good mother wouldn’t think.

  Natalie shrieked even louder. I closed my eyes, clenched my jaw, and tried not to scream right along with her.

  “Mama, what are we doing?” Brooke whimpered.

  Letting go of the wheel, I turned and saw her clutching her worn purple blanket, her fingers frantically rubbing its edging. Her “soft side,” she called the silky, lavender trim. Whenever she was upset, she’d say, “Where’s my soft side? I need my soft side!” and couldn’t be comforted until I delivered her blanket and she could feel the satiny fabric against her skin. Now, her black curls shot out from her head in thick, wild corkscrews, and her violet-blue eyes shone with tears. With her lush-fringe lashes, porcelain complexion, and red-bow lips, people were always saying how much she resembled a young Elizabeth Taylor. Which I took as a compliment, too, because Brooke looked almost exactly like me.

  “I just have to get us some food,” I said, trying to swallow the sharp lump in my throat. “And then we’re going to go camping.”

  At this point, Brooke had probably spent more nights of her life “camping” in our car than beneath an actual roof. I thought about the pale pink room where I’d slept my first fifteen years. It wasn’t fancy, or big, but I remembered the comfy twin bed, the white bookshelves, and a closet filled with clothes. I felt sick knowing if something didn’t change, I’d never be able to give my girls a room like that. I’d never be able to give them a home. I was only twenty. I didn’t graduate high school. I couldn’t work because I had no one to watch the girls. I did whatever I had to to survive. We bounced between staying at various friends’ houses or cheap motels and sleeping in the car. Standing with them on street corners at busy traffic lights, I scrounged just enough cash for us to get by. I held a cardboard sign that said, MY CHILDREN ARE HUNGRY. CAN’T WORK. PLEASE HELP. Every time someone rolled down their window and handed me money, shame oozed through me like black, sticky tar.

  “Nooo, Mama! I don’t want to camp!” Brooke said. “I don’t! I don’t! I don’t!” With each “don’t,” she kicked the back of the driver’s seat.

  “Please don’t do that,” I said, trying not to yell. I was already anxious; the last thing I needed was one of her tantrums to send me over the edge.

  “No!” Brooke screamed, and kicked my seat again.

  That was it. I lost it.

  “Goddamn it, Brooke!” I growled. “Knock it off!” My molars ground against each other, fury spiking in my blood. I’d never experienced anything like that feeling before I had my girls; I loved them fiercely, but in my darker, more hopeless moments, I hated what they demanded of me just as much.

  “Sorry,” Brooke said. Her tiny voice trembled. There was just enough light from the store windows to see the flash of fear on my little girl’s face before she buried her head in her blanket.

  An aching remorse flooded my chest. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have yelled.” She still wouldn’t look at me. “Sweetie, please.” I paused, waiting for her to peek up at me, which she did a moment later. “Want me to get you a treat?” I asked with what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Maybe some cookies?”

  Brooke nodded, still covering most of her face with her blanket.

  “Oreos?” I smiled, knowing they were her favorites. She nodded again. “Okay,” I said. “You stay right here with Natalie. I need you to be a good big sister and watch her for me.”

  Brooke dropped her blanket to her lap and shook her head. “I don’t want to.” She hated it when I left her alone. I tried not to do it very often, but sometimes, I didn’t have a choice. There were certain things a little girl shouldn’t see her mother do.

  “I’ll only be gone a few minutes,” I told her, and my stomach clenched. I pointed to the store. “I’m just going to head inside, grab a few things, and I’ll be right back.”

  “I wanna go with you.”

  I sighed. “Not this time. You need to stay here. Can you be my brave, big girl and watch your sister?”

  Brooke looked to her right, lifted her blanket from her lap, and brushed its edge against her baby sister’s cheek. Natalie, who had finally stopped crying, made a happy, gurgling sound; she loved her big sister so much. I’d hated being an only child; if I was grateful for anything, it was that they’d always have each other.

  “Okay,” Brooke squeaked, not looking at me.

  “Thanks, sweetie. I promise to be quick.” I slung my empty red backpack over my shoulder and got out of the car into the cold, dark night. At least it’s not the middle of summer, I reasoned. At least I’m not leaving them to swelter in the heat. As though that distinction made any of this okay.

  It was early October, and the air felt like it had teeth, nipping at my cheeks. Fat, cheerful-looking pumpkins rested in huge piles up against the building; scarlet leaves on the skinny maples lining the parking lot danced in each new gust of wind. I thought about what I might be doing if I was a normal twenty-year-old girl—I might be in college, planning what costume I would wear for Halloween. I might have a boyfriend who brought me flowers and took me to the movies; I might have a group of girlfriends I shopped with at the mall. I might be carefree and content instead of how I felt right now—how I almost always felt—tired, hungry, and scared.

  Despite my apprehension, I waved and smiled at Brooke through the window. She waved back, tentatively, but as soon as I locked the doors, her bottom lip quivered, and I knew she was barely holding it together. When Natalie began to cry again, Brooke leaned over and patted her sister’s small hand.

  She’ll be okay, I told myself as I spun around and walked away. They both will. I have to do this. I’ll be back as fast as I can.

  I jogged across the parking lot, trying to block out the sound of Natalie’s cries as I entered the building. As the automatic doors shut with a whoosh behind me, I quickly surveyed the immediate area—there was no one else around. At this time of night I hoped there would only be a few employees—a couple of stockers and a cashier at most, a few other shoppers, and maybe a night manager working somewhere in the back. I had to be quick. Casual, but quick.

  I strode past the enormous Halloween display, ignoring the bags of candy and decorative plastic skeletons. I grabbed a small cart, which I directed toward the produce section. I filled a clear plastic bag with six apples, carefully looking around before slipping four more into my backpack. I picked up two packages of baby carrots and put one in the cart, one in my bag.

  So far, so good. I turned the corner, only to run right into a tall, skinny man with shaggy, shoulder-length blond hair and acne-pocked cheeks. He wore a white, short-sleeve shirt covered by a green apron and brown corduroy pants. He didn’t look much older than me. A small, plastic tag pinned to his shirt said his name was Rick.

  “Whoa,” I said, giving him my best smile, even as my heart pounded against my rib cage. “Sorry. Wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  Rick smiled, too, revealing slightly crooked, yellow teeth. “No worries.” He surveyed the contents of my cart. “Finding everything all right?”

  “Yep. Just picking up a few things I forgot to grab earlier.”

  “Let me know if you need anything. I’m over on aisle four.”

  “Thanks,” I said again, then pushed my cart past him with as much confidence as I could muster, making sure to head in the opposite direction from where he was working.

  Just keep going and get the hell out of here, I thought. Luckily, the Oreos were on an end cap I passed, so I put one package in my basket and another in my backpack, then moved on toward
the baby aisle. I dumped a dozen jars of baby food for Natalie on top of the cookies, along with a box of teething biscuits. The last two things I needed were a loaf of bread and peanut butter, so I made my way to the bakery, keeping my eyes open for other employees as I snuck those into my bag, too.

  I told myself I was only taking enough to last us a few days—that I’d make better money at a different intersection tomorrow. I tried to believe that stealing food for my children wasn’t a crime. That it didn’t make me a bad person, but a good one. Don’t good mothers do anything necessary for their kids? If I’d had the cash, I would have paid for it all, but buying diapers and wipes and formula for Natalie had taken my last fifty bucks.

  I was only a few feet away from the cash registers when I heard Rick call out behind me. “Hey!” His voice was hard. “Wait!”

  Shit. I stopped and turned to face him. “Hey,” I said, giving him what I hoped was a charming smile. My stomach churned. “So, you won’t believe this, but I left my wallet at home.” I gestured toward the half-full cart. “I’ll have to come back.” I looked in the direction of the same doors I’d entered and was about to walk toward them when Rick spoke again.

  “No.” He frowned at me and held out his hand. “I need to look in your backpack.”

  “What?” I said. I tried to sound offended, but my shaking voice gave me away. “Why?”

  Rick kept his arm outstretched. “My manager has you on tape,” he said with a stern look. “He saw everything.”

  I thought about arguing, pretending I didn’t know what he was talking about, but realized if there was a tape, denial would be pointless. “Please, you don’t understand,” I said, tears flooding my eyes. “I never do this . . . I just . . . My kids are hungry and I ran out of money. We’re homeless. I didn’t know what else to do.” I glanced over his shoulder and saw a short, burly bald man striding toward us, his stubby arms swinging at his sides.

  “Sorry,” Rick said. His expression softened. “But you still need to give me the bag.”