“I can’t imagine what,” I say with way more bravado than I feel because I realize the shit is about to hit the fan.
“It may be nothing, but being given away when you were two years old might just make you pretty angry toward birth mothers.”
Barker looks dumbfounded. “Adopted? You’re adopted? Why on earth didn’t you ever tell me?”
“What was I going to say? That my birth mom tried me out for a couple of years and then decided to dump me?”
People who aren’t adopted have no idea what it does to you, knowing that you weren’t good enough to keep. When I was young, I used to tell the truth: that my mother had two small children already and that after she had me, she got so overwhelmed that she decided to keep the other two and give me away. “But didn’t she ever ask for you back?” they’d ask. Or sometimes even, “Were you colicky?” I knew what they were doing—blaming me. They knew I wasn’t good enough to be kept. That’s when I realized I didn’t need to tell anyone anything, and I just let everyone assume my mom was my birth mom.
“I’m sorry Barker,” Detective Gordon says. “It was one of the reasons I thought it might be better to meet with Wynn alone. People always seem to have skeletons in their closets, and I didn’t know if this might be one of Wynn’s.” I keep my head down.
“Is there anything else you need to know? Wynn and I can deal with our personal issues later,” Barker says through gritted teeth. But I see her shaking her head from side to side. I know what she’s thinking. This woman really does have a grudge against birth mothers. This woman has a secret that she never told me about. What other secrets does she have?
Chapter Twenty-five
Wynn, June 25
I have been checking out Ava Clark on every possible website I can find. There are plenty of articles about the death of her husband—dying from rabies is unusual enough that not only does it make headlines in local newspapers, but it also finds its way into newsletters on health and wellness, animal welfare, and all kinds of articles about hiking, nature, and the outdoors. All the websites stress the importance of early intervention; rabies is completely curable if treated before symptoms appear. None of the sites find anything suspicious in the fact that Mrs. Clark only told the doctors about the bats after it was too late.
I discover that when people with rabies go to the hospital, the symptoms often look like something else, such as the flu. Mr. Clark went to the hospital with shortness of breath and excessive sweating and chills, which are similar to symptoms of heart disease. Since he’d had some heart problems in the past, he was transferred to another hospital where his cardiologist had admitting privileges. A few hours after his arrival at the new hospital, he stopped breathing and was transferred to the intensive care unit, where he was put on a ventilator for several days. His condition worsened, and his organs started to fail. At this point, they started doing additional interviews with Mrs. Clark, and in the course of those interviews, she mentioned that the previous year, while she and her husband were staying in a rustic cabin on a kayaking weekend they had seen bats fly through the bedroom. She was sure neither of them had been bitten by the bats, but apparently, you can be bitten when you’re asleep and never know it happened. Mr. Clark’s doctors sent samples of his skin and saliva to the CDC to be tested for rabies. The tests came back positive, but it was too late to administer the vaccine to Mr. Clark, who died several days later.
On the one hand, it all sounds completely above board. And on the other hand, you’d think someone would have said something that could have triggered her thinking about the cabin a whole lot sooner. What makes it suspicious to me is the death of her daughters. It’s too much for one family. So I start to research that part of her history. But that’s where my Internet search draws a blank. Death from meningitis is also pretty rare, yet I can’t find any website that mentions anything about two sisters dying from it. I google every possible combination of words to find a headline or article that would match Ava’s description, and there’s nothing. I decide that maybe they were children from a previous marriage and have a different last name, but still nothing. Is it possible that their deaths were kept under wraps? That they never made it into any newspaper or public news outlet? I don’t know enough about epidemiology, but I’m pretty sure that death from bacterial meningitis would have to be reported to the CDC and would have to make it to the public eye. So why can’t I find anything?
I decide to try a different tack, and just look up everything I can find about Ava Clark. The first place I look is Facebook, but I can see immediately she doesn’t keep that updated because it still lists her as married. She also only has twenty friends, which even I know is way below average. So I decide to focus on the twins and start to look things up the way Dot suggested. Almost immediately, I hit the jackpot: a blog by a certain April Clark entitled, “Why I don’t talk to my Mom anymore.” I click on the link, my heart thumping hard. It’s a short entry, explaining that sometimes the healthiest thing to do when you’re in a dysfunctional family, is to cut ties. She doesn’t say what the dysfunction is and keeps the focus on herself and her personal growth. That in itself wouldn’t prove anything, but in the article, April mentions her twin sister, Astrid, who agrees with her decision. Their names, the fact that they’re twin sisters, the fact that they won’t speak to their mom all seem to me pretty damning proof. They have to be Ava’s daughters! And if they are, then the story she made up about them dying from meningitis is a complete fabrication.
Later that evening, after we’ve had dinner and I’ve cleaned up, Barker and I snuggle on the couch together, watching yet another edition of a home improvement show. Barker loves those shows, and I don’t mind them, although sometimes people act like such spoiled children it annoys me. During the commercials, I ask Barker if she remembers what I told her about Mrs. Clark and her daughters.
“Yes, of course. You said she told you she had twin daughters who died. That was really shocking to me, so the first thing I did when I got to work was check her file. She checked a box saying that she had no children living at home, and another box stating that she had two children living out of state.”
“And you didn’t interview those children?”
Barker laughs. “Do you know how many social workers we have in the county who do foster care home evaluations? Me and Cindy, and if we’re lucky our interns once they’ve been trained. That’s it. We interview everyone who lives in the home where the kids might be placed, but there’s no way we’d have time to interview other family members. We get a pretty good sense of the foster parents when they go through our classes, and we get three letters of recommendation from non-family members like friends and clergy.”
“But that’s crazy! If they can pick and choose who recommends them, they’ll only give you the names of people who will give them glowing reports. Surely grown kids would be the best indication of whether someone’s going to be a good foster parent?”
“Not necessarily. Sometimes people parent other kids much better than their own. Remember when Dot and Evie told us how much better they are as grandparents than they were as parents? It’s the same thing with foster families. They don’t have the same emotional investment that messes up the relationships in their family of origin. Anyway, no one’s disputing that Mrs. Clark was a perfectly good foster parent.”
I wonder whether to tell her what I found out, but right then she yawns and says, “Do you mind if I have an early night? I had a really hard day today and I’m exhausted.”
****
The next day after Barker’s gone to work, I call Detective Gordon.
“You said I could call if I thought of anything that might help the investigation, right?” I ask.
“Absolutely. What’s going on?”
“Mrs. Clark told you about a conversation we had in which I said birth mothers ought to be punished. And she also said I was really interested in whether her foster daughters were attractive, right?”
“Uh-huh.�
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“But you have only her word for that. I mean, obviously no one else could tell you about a conversation that was just between the two of us, but hopefully you can see that she could just be making the whole thing up.”
“What makes you think she would do that?”
“Because the reason we even had that conversation is completely invalid. You see, we had that conversation because she was concerned she’d been inappropriate in class. A class member mentioned that she was dealing with carcinoma meningitis, a form of brain cancer and Ava blurted out that her twin daughters died of meningitis.” I wait for him to say something—does he know she has twin daughters? Does he think they died, or does he know they won’t have contact with her? But he stays silent so I assume he wants me to carry on.
“But the point is, although she has twin daughters, they never died of meningitis. I found out they’re alive and well and they just don’t talk to her.”
“You found out…? Why are you investigating Mrs. Clark?”
“Because I think she may have set me up! Don’t you see? She makes up a story to gain my sympathy, so that afterwards she can have an excuse to talk to me, so that if she ever gets asked about our conversation, she can make up stories about what I said to her.”
“But why would she do that?”
“I don’t know! Maybe she has something against Barker, or me, or lesbians! I only know there’s definitely something suspicious about her, and I hope you’ll look into it.”
There’s a silence on the other end of the line. Eventually, Gordon says, “I don’t know how to say this tactfully, so I’m just going to say it. What you’re saying, well, it sounds paranoid. I’m guessing she doesn’t like to tell people her daughters don’t talk to her.”
“But why bring them up at all? We weren’t even talking about people’s kids!”
“I don’t know. Lots of people don’t tell the whole truth about their situations. You did the same thing—never told Barker you were adopted.”
“That’s different!”
“Look, I know you’re struggling with some mental health problems—”
“No! I don’t have mental health problems. I have a few issues around my memory, that’s all. I’m not crazy and I’m not paranoid.” I take a deep breath. I have to get him to see that someone framed me. “The other person who may have set me up is Parminder Chatterjee. She’s the one who picked up the kids from Mrs. Clark and then asked me to take them to the condo. Why is no one trying to track her down? How hard can it be?”
“We’re working on it, but to be honest, we don’t see how she would be involved in all of this.”
“Then that’s even more reason to look into Mrs. Clark!” I’m trying really hard to keep my cool. What I want to do is scream and yell. It’s all very well for him to treat this like it’s just another investigation, which to him it is, but this is about me. The rest of my life depends on them finding out the truth, and they don’t seem interested in doing it. In fact, based on this conversation, I’m horribly afraid that they’re pegging it on me because they think I’m a crazy person.
I’m even more afraid that I may just turn into one.
Chapter Twenty-six
Barker, June 25
“Fifteen-years-old! You told me to have sex with a fifteen-year-old?”
I knew it wouldn’t be too long before I heard from Danny Farnham. Once the news about the girls made it into the media, not only would he know who he’d partied with, he’d also know how old they were. He’s been calling me for a couple of days and I’ve ignored his calls. But the last message he left said that if I didn’t answer the phone, he would come to the office in person. Since I didn’t want that, I decided to answer this call. Not surprisingly, he’s livid.
“I never told you to have sex with anyone. That was something you did all on your own.”
“You told me these two girls were wanting to have a good time, and that I should make sure they did. You told me to make it seem like it was a modeling shoot, which I did. There was alcohol in the fridge and dope in the kitchen cabinet. What did you think was going to happen?”
“I thought you’d have a party. I left you some beer in the refrigerator and a small amount of weed. Wasn’t the idea that you were just going to relax and let the girls enjoy their first night of freedom? From the photographs, it looks like you supplemented that with hard liquor and god knows what else.”
I’m not stupid. Of course I knew he’d try to have sex with the girls. I didn’t know whether or not he’d succeed, but I know he’s not a violent person so that if they refused, he would make do with whatever sexual gratification he could get. I also knew he’d want to take pictures that made it look like he got a lot, whether or not he really did.
“I’m going to tell the police. You’re sick. I don’t know why you set this whole thing up, but someone has to stop you.”
It’s all bravado of course. “You’re going to go to the police and tell them that you raped a fifteen-year-old? Or maybe two fifteen-year-olds?”
“I didn’t rape that girl. I didn’t even go all the way with her. She was more than happy to do what we did. I don’t think it was her first party, either. And I didn’t do anything with the dyke.”
“You know as well as I do that it’s statutory rape, whether or not you forced her into it.” There’s silence on the other end of the line. “And you also know that with a record like yours, if you admit to that, there is no way you’ll even get to see your son again, let alone be reunited with him.”
I can see that warped brain of his thinking it through, and I know I have him trapped.
“Yeah, about that. You said if I did you a favor, you’d work it so I’d get my son back. So what’s the plan?”
“You know it’s not up to me. It’s up to the judge.”
“But you said you have a lot of clout with all the judges. That they all know you and take your recommendations seriously.” I need to get him off the phone. I have a lot of work piling up, especially with Cindy being out.
“Have you completed the parenting classes? I can’t make any recommendation until you do that.” I know he hasn’t, because if he had, I’d have been notified automatically.
“They always have them when I’m working. It’s all very well for the welfare moms, or the night-shift workers, they can go to the daytime ones, but I can’t. When people want their windows put in, they don’t want someone who has to leave halfway through.”
“I told you there are evening ones, too.” I pick up the stack of client files on my desk and wonder which one I should attack first. My schedule’s been screwed up now for days and I need to get back on track.
“But I have to work evenings as well. Plenty of customers ask us to work after five so they don’t need to pull a permit from the city.”
“Well you can’t have it both ways. Either you work days, or you work evenings.”
“Says the fucking white-collar worker. I’m blue collar. We work whatever hours people want their new windows put in. You know how long it took me to get a regular gig? There’s a lot of construction workers looking for work I had to compete with, not even counting the illegal ones. This is the first time in years I’ve had a steady job where I’ve even learned new skills. Now I can do the carpentry in order to fit the windows properly. But if I’m not available, the boss will put someone else on the job, and once he does that, I’m as good as done for. I have to work whenever he wants me to.”
“What about your AA meetings? Have you attended them regularly?”
“Yeah. Those I can get to. I go three times a week, like you told me to.”
“I also told you to stop drinking, but apparently you haven’t done that.” It doesn’t seem to occur to him that taking a picture of yourself with beer and vodka doesn’t exactly prove sobriety.
“I never drank anything. Even when I was with those girls. They did all the drinking.”
“Really,” I state drily, and it’s not a question
because I don’t believe him for a minute.
“Sure I held a bottle in my hand. I didn’t want them to think they were drinking by themselves. But I never had any of mine. I’ve got one year this weekend, and nothing’s going to jeopardize that.”
If Danny weren’t such an idiot, I could almost feel sorry for him. I know he’s working hard to turn his life around. But he’s just like any other man—can’t keep his pants zipped up when it matters. And then needs to brag about it. He could have denied having any sexual contact and said all the pictures were just for show, but that didn’t even occur to him.
“Give me a call when you complete the parenting classes.”
“That’s not fair! I did what you asked. You have to do what you said you would. And you said you’d get my kid back for me.”
“I don’t have to do anything. I will advocate for you, but no judge is going to waive the Parenting Class requirement. It just won’t happen.”
“But if I lose my job doing the class, I won’t get Kenny back because then I won’t be able to show I have regular income.”
“I guess you should have thought of that before you pulled down your pants.” It was a risk I took, asking him to hang with the girls that first day. I was pretty sure they’d want to make out they were older than they were, especially when they saw the beer in the fridge, but you never know. In any event, everything about the plan worked like clockwork. “Give them a party,” I said. “They’re aging out of the foster care system and deserve a treat before real life hits them.” I told him I wanted to surprise the girls with blow-up photos of them modeling and that I’d give them their phones back the next day. He was so excited about this unusual way of completing the requirements needed to get his son back that he didn’t ask too many questions and just did what he was told.
Along Came the Rain Page 14