Along Came the Rain

by Alison R Solomon

  I’ve never felt so relieved as I did when Gordon showed me the pictures. I never meant for it to take that long for him to get them. I didn’t bank on Mikki’s mom being homeless yet again, or that stupid prison guard not giving the photos to her supervisor right away. I didn’t want the girls to suffer longer than necessary, and I was just beginning to get concerned that the food would run out. I was so relieved when Gordon showed me the pictures I could have screamed.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Wynn, June 26

  There has to be a way to contact Parminder Chatterjee. She’s the one who sent me to the condo. I definitely thought she was under orders from Barker, though whether she specifically mentioned Barker, I have no idea. Because she’s her student, I just assumed we were doing the transport on her behalf. Since Barker didn’t order the transport, that puts Parminder front and center on the list of suspects. It’s not clear to me why the police aren’t focusing on Parminder, but I suspect it’s laziness. Therefore, it’s up to me to find her. Barker said Parminder went to Central or South America, so I decide I’ll just contact every single program that offers internships to social work students. There can’t be that many. I’ll work from north to south, which means I’ll start with Mexico even though it’s actually in North, not Central America.

  The first program I find is in Chiapas. I could imagine Barker might have encouraged Parminder to go there, because it’s a place we wanted to go ourselves. It always sounded so romantic, full of revolutionaries and quaint villages. I open the laptop, confident, thanks to Dot, in my ability to do the necessary research. When I met with her, Dot explained how to download and use Skype, and, talking of revolutions, I discover that there has been a telecommunications one while my back was turned. I knew everyone was into cell phones, but what I didn’t know is that you can now call anyone, anywhere in the world for free. How crazy is that? I remember the MCI calling cards we always made sure to take with us when we traveled, how we had to find a phone booth and then dial a long string of numbers to be connected to the international operator, and then another long string of numbers to actually talk to the person we were calling. Now, all I have to do is get their Skype address, and bingo, I can call them. I’m not too nervous about the language barrier since I’m the one who’s always kept my Spanish skills up for when we travel.

  I am counting on the fact that the people I call in these Latino countries will not have the same kind of confidentiality hang-ups Americans have. I’m hoping that they won’t tell me they can’t give out any information, but that instead we’ll chat and they’ll be more than happy to impart everything they know. The first place I call is the Chiapas Project in Ocotopec.

  “Bueno.” The lady facing me on the screen is tiny and dark-skinned, clearly one of the indigenous population. I have written down what I want to say so I can ask my questions without stumbling over tenses or pronouns. I explain that I’m looking for a social work student to whom I need to give a very important message.

  “No,” she replies, after I give her the name. “No es un voluntario con nosotros.” Her swift reply and willingness to give me information raises my hopes and I successfully contact several more charities and organizations in Mexico, although unfortunately all with the same result. I spend the next two hours calling organizations in Belize, which yields me nothing. I’m aware that I’m not hitting every organization because they don’t all have Skype and they don’t all answer, but this is the best I can do, and I’m checking off a lot of names on my list nonetheless.

  I realize that if I’m going to have any hope of putting together my booth for the art show, I should not be spending hours on end researching Parminder Chatterjee, but I don’t feel as if I have a choice. If I’m not in jail by the time of the show, I may not have enough pieces, but if I do end up in jail, then it’s really not going to matter how many pieces I’ve completed. When Barker arrives home, I’ve worked my way through half of Guatemala. I know it’s a needle in a haystack, but I have to keep trying.

  “Not doing your jewelry?” she asks after flinging the heavy briefcase she schleps around with her into the hallway closet.

  “It’s hard to be creative, when I’m still fixated on not going back to jail,” I tell her, which is true. Barker has brought home my favorite cranberry and almond cake, so I make steaming mugs of tea and we go to sit on the back porch. When Barker first met me, she couldn’t understand how I could drink hot tea in the middle of a humid, sultry summer’s day. But now she’s as addicted to it as I am.

  “Talking of not going back to jail…I was thinking that we ought to prepare for the worst.” She puts her mug down and reaches across the white wicker arm of my chair to touch my hand. “You know how even though we hope a hurricane will never hit this part of Florida, we always prepare for those tropical storms, just in case? Well, I think we should have all our legal ducks in a row, in case they come back and march you off to jail again, and this time you don’t get out so quickly.”

  I’m shocked. How can she be so practical? How can she talk so calmly about this? She knows the whole thing is nonsense. Doesn’t she?

  “Is there something you know about this case that you’re not telling me? Did those girls say something to implicate me even more than I’m already implicated?”

  “I don’t know anything.” She shakes her head vigorously. “Gordon interviewed them after they were found.”

  “How did they get out? Gordon must have told you.”

  Barker tells me that somebody hand-delivered a note to the building manager suggesting something was going on in condo 1118 and that he better check it out. When he did, he found Kallie and Michaela. I ask why they hadn’t been able to get away and she tells me they were locked in and had no means of communication, that someone took away their cell phones. When I press for more details, she says she doesn’t have them because she hasn’t actually seen them since the abduction.

  “I only know what Gordon told me when he first informed me they’d been found. I thought I’d be able to talk with them as soon as the cops were done, once they were released from the hospital after they were checked out.”

  “And didn’t you?”

  “No. Once they’d been interviewed, that led to you, and after that I was out of the picture.” She sounds put out, as if this is my fault.

  “But they’re your clients. They must want to see you.”

  “I’m sure they do. I’ve been the one looking out for them for the past ten years. I’m their connection to each other and to everything they’ve done in their lives. But Gordon’s adamant, at least for now.”

  “I still don’t understand how they knew I was the one who drove them there. Parminder told me to be vague so I don’t think I even gave them my name.”

  “They weren’t blindfolded. They saw the car you picked them up in, and they saw you.”

  “But there are a gazillion white Kia Souls on the road. Out of all the drivers, how would they have come up with me so quickly? It makes no sense.”

  “Honey, I don’t know. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to talk about being prepared for whatever may happen next.” I’d forgotten that this is how the conversation started. I take the last sip of tea in my mug and eat the last bite of cake. I start to blot the crumbs on the plate, so as not to miss a single one. “I think you should sign over a power of attorney to me. It’ll serve two purposes. Firstly, if you do end up in jail, I can make financial decisions for you, manage your business and do anything else that needs doing. Secondly, if at any point in the future, your mental health deteriorates and you’re not able to make decisions—and I know we’re miles away from that—everything will be in place already.”

  My stomach plummets, like an elevator in a New York skyscraper that just lost its cables. Getting my mom to sign a power of attorney over to us was the biggest struggle I had with her. She’d become pretty paranoid and was convinced that Barker and I were out to steal her money and lock her away in a
state hospital. Mom didn’t have that much money to begin with, and I’d already seen how her unsuspecting nature had led to unscrupulous people taking advantage of her. I didn’t want to see her lose any more of it so I begged her to give me the authority to manage her affairs. Eventually she agreed, but only after bitter arguments and tantrums. I felt as if our relationship was never the same after that. We’d be sitting in her room at the nursing home, reading a book together and suddenly she’d turn to me and say, “I know why you wanted my money. You want to spend it all on that woman you live with.” Even when she’d forgotten all kinds of things from the past, she remembered that. And now it’s coming back to haunt me. If I refuse this request, I will become just like my mother: paranoid and untrusting. And yet…I don’t want to give Barker power of attorney. It’s not a case of trust—I trust Barker implicitly. It’s about giving up my independence. It’s about admitting that there’s a chance I may end up losing my freedom, whether in jail or in my head. And I can’t do that. Not now, not yet.

  I say nothing. I don’t need to explain it to Barker. I’m sure she can see it written all over my face. She leans forward and takes my hand. “Honey, you know I wouldn’t use it unless I had to. It’s a precaution. Like writing a will, which we always say we’re going to do, but still haven’t. It’s like taking out insurance. Just something responsible people do, to stay responsible.”

  I know she’s right. I know it. But I can’t do it. I feel the tears starting to trickle down my face. And I know, more than ever, that I have got to find Parminder Chatterjee. If I want to keep my freedom, she is the key to it.

  ****

  When Barker tells me she needs to go back out, for a late meeting, I feel relieved. The moment she pulls out of the driveway, I jump back on the computer. Guatemala is two hours behind us, so I still have a couple of hours I can make calls. I pull out my list and find the next number to call. I bring up the organization on the screen so that I know who I’m going to be talking to in case I need to make polite conversation. I’m so immersed in what I’m doing, I don’t even hear Barker until she’s practically standing on top of me.

  “Forgot my office key,” she says, holding it up to show me. “What are you up to?” she asks, leaning in to look closer at the screen.

  “Nothing.” I feel my face redden as I click to minimize the screen and bring up the wallpaper instead.

  She laughs. “Whatever it is, glad to see you’re not pining away for me.” This time she leaves for good, and I begin making my calls. I’m on the fourth one, when amazingly, I hit the jackpot.

  “Sí, está en nuestro programa.” Yes, the faceless voice tells me, she is indeed in his program. Yes? I’ve found her? Thankfully, he has chosen not to make this a video call otherwise he might see my face turning every shade of every color as I move from excitement to fear to relief. “Podría decirle, quién llama?” He wants to know who’s calling. I am so shocked, my heart is racing faster than Usain Bolt winning the 100-meter sprint. Now that it’s happened, I’m not sure how to respond. If I say my name is Wynn, will she come to the phone? Should I say Barker instead?

  “Someone from the university.” I decide to hedge my bets.

  “Estará aquí mañana por la tarde.” Tomorrow afternoon? She won’t be there until tomorrow afternoon? How can I wait until then? I ask if he can be sure to have her by the phone and tell him I’ll call back the next day. He confirms the time with me and I hang up.

  When Barker returns, I am just putting the clasp on a necklace made up of dangling, red, glass chili peppers.

  “Those are cute,” she says. “Glad the creative muse returned.”

  I smile. I can’t wait to have the conversation tomorrow, and then share with her everything I learn from Parminder.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Barker, June 13

  I have to call Parminder and most importantly, I have to be sure she does exactly as she’s told. I know that she’s leaving for Guatemala this morning and, having helped her connect with the group that’s going out, I also know what time she’s leaving. I just have to hope like hell that she is the organized person I take her for, and that she therefore has a spare hour for me. I know plenty of people who’d be packing up until the last minute, or cleaning their apartment, or doing a million other last-minute errands. But luckily, I don’t think Parminder is one of them. I suspect that her suitcase is already sitting by her front door, that she’s having a leisurely breakfast, and is probably texting friends or family or playing a video game. Just please let her answer her phone. I dial the number and wait. She picks up on the second ring. Yes!

  “It’s Barker. I am so sorry I’m calling you like this, so last minute. I know you officially ended your placement yesterday, and that you’re leaving today, but I need you to do me a really big favor.”

  I can picture her raising her eyebrows and shaking her head as she answers me. “I don’t know how I can help, Ms. Barker. I have to leave for the airport in less than two hours. What do you need?”

  “We got a child abuse report on the hotline about one of my foster parents, Mrs. Clark.”

  “Oh dear, that’s all you need while you’re on your retreat. What’s she done?”

  “I’m sure she’s done nothing, and I can’t tell you what the report was because you don’t officially work for the county any more. Which is awkward, but maybe it’s just as well. I don’t want you flying off to Guatemala with visions of what may or may not have happened to the two foster kids who are placed with her.”

  “Small kids?”

  “No, actually, they’re eighteen-years-old. They love this foster home, so removing them is going to be really hard. If we have to remove them permanently, they’ll age out of the system altogether. But while we’re investigating the allegation we can’t have them in the home.”

  “When will that happen?”

  “It has to be done this morning.”

  “And you want me to take them?”

  I’m hoping she remembers the supervision session we had where I asked her if she thought she’d be up for removing kids from a home they love. I’m hoping she’ll want to rise to the challenge. “Yes,” I answer.

  “Where do I need to take them? The receiving home?”

  “No. Because we only need a place for a few weeks, we have use of this amazing condo for them at Pelican Beach.”

  “Pelican Beach? That’s great but…” I can hear the disappointment in her voice. It’s way too far for her to go and still make it to the airport. “I really don’t have time to drive all the way over there. I’m sorry…” Of course she wants to be helpful up until the last minute.

  “It’s okay. I’m sure Wynn can help us out. She has a standing commitment on Wednesday mornings, so I couldn’t call her this morning to tell her about it. But when she’s done, I’m sure she’ll be able to take them. The thing is, I can’t have her picking up the kids—Mrs. Clark won’t hand them over to someone who’s not from the county. All I need you to do is to drive them to that little park that’s right across from the bus station. Once you pick them up, if you could call Wynn, explain the situation, and ask her to pick them up from there, that would be perfect.”

  I hear an audible sigh of relief and I know I have her. “What if Wynn’s not there when I drop them off? I won’t be able to wait. I can’t miss my flight. The shuttle is picking me up at ten from my house so I can’t leave there later than nine fifty.”

  “She’ll be there. And if by any chance she’s not, you can leave them on that little bench where we picked up Johanna that first day you shadowed me. They’re old enough, I trust them to wait.” I explain to her which details I want her to pass on to Wynn, reminding her that because of confidentiality, we can’t tell her very much.

  “What about the girls. What will I tell them?”

  “Just tell them they’re going somewhere good. But don’t tell them why they’re being moved. We can’t let them know about the investigation until we’re ready to o
pen it properly.”

  I have a checklist in front of me and as I hear her tapping notes into her phone to make sure she doesn’t forget anything, I check off two of the items.

  “I better head out there right now. How will I identify myself?”

  “Just tell Mrs. Clark your name and tell her I sent you. Make sure you show her your badge. It’s a good thing I suggested you keep it as a souvenir!”

  I’m about to hang up when she suddenly exclaims, “Oh!” and I know exactly what she’s about to say. “What about the documentation?” I have trained her so well, I have to smile. So many students—even some social workers—wouldn’t think about that until much later.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “I’ll document it for you when I get back. It’s the least I can do with you going out of your way to help me. You can call it my parting gift to you,” I tell her and we both laugh. The fact is, her account is already closed in the system, so she couldn’t write up a note, even if she wanted to.

  “I’m going to head out there right now.”

  “Thanks Parminder. Have a great time in Guatemala. I hear the internet access is pretty sporadic where you’re going. How will you manage without your Twitter and Facebook and texting?” Surprisingly, she tells me she’s looking forward to it. These young people. You just never know what’s going to come out of their mouths. Still I’m grateful for her helping me out now. I don’t know what I’d have done if she’d said no. “I hope you enjoy your summer, and next year’s placement. I certainly enjoyed having you as my student, and hopefully you enjoyed your experience with me.” I decide to be magnanimous. “I know sometimes I can be a bit brusque. There’s always so much to do and so little time to do it.”

  “I never took anything personally, Barker. You’re a lot older than me and I figured you’re jaded, burned out. It’s natural. You’ve been in the business for so long.”