“Deni?”
I look up from the small pile of items on my desk to where my mother stands in the doorway of the office.
“You okay?”
I nod, then gesture to the photos and things. “I was just remembering. Maria Sanchez sent me some of Adelia’s things.” I look back at the photos, Adelia smiling up at me.
My mom comes into the office and around my desk. She stands behind me and looks over my shoulder, then reaches for one of the photos. “She was so beautiful. So young. I could never imagine what her parents went through. Still go through. Such a tragedy.” She gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. “If you’ll be here for a while, I thought I’d go into town to run some errands.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be back before dinner.”
“Take your time.”
After she goes, I gather up the items on my desk and slip them back into the envelope. I know the timing of their arrival is neither an accident nor a coincidence.
I needed to remember…
I cross the backyard, where spring is revealing itself in tinges of bright green. When I reach the gate, solid and nearly invisible in the wall, I turn and look back at the house and the natural drought-resistant landscape of the spacious grounds.
After the divorce, I could no longer fathom living in the house Keith and I had purchased together when our hope was high and our expectation was that we’d spend the rest of our lives together. If Keith couldn’t deal with the stalking and the issues it presented, he was in no way prepared to deal with my injuries, recovery, and an impending trial. He came to see me just once when I was hospitalized. He admitted his faults, his immaturity, and confessed that in the fray that was our marriage at that point, he’d also become, if not involved with someone else, at least involved with the idea of someone else. A young woman on his sales team.
The tears he shed were genuine, I had no doubt, and it was clear he cried for more than what had died between us. He also cried for what he was choosing to walk away from—the hope of, the birth of, something new.
The house was too painful a reminder of all we’d lost.
Nor did I want to live in the home of my childhood with my mother. I wanted, needed, a project—something away from the city where water sang and stars shone bright.
A place where new life would bloom.
My father had left me a large sum of money, placed in a trust, not available to me until I turned thirty years old. It was money I hadn’t touched. But after talking it over with my mother and asking her to consider selling her home and coming to live with us, I found exactly what I wanted and needed, and it seemed appropriate that my father would provide the means to fulfill my need.
The lot, just over an acre, sat above the north fork of the American River and included a set of steep, rickety stairs that traversed the bank down to the river’s edge. The house, a dilapidated mid-century modern, offered both the space, style, and possibilities I desired. Its boulder strewn, overgrown lot, and the repairs the house necessitated, made the price right.
We moved in as soon as escrow closed, and I spent the next two years working with a contractor and landscape architect to create what I’d envisioned. When I accepted the position at PCU, my mother took over the daily tasks at home, including keeping the remodel on track.
The landscape architect came up with the design for the wall that now surrounds the property—something both secure, contemporary in style, and constructed with materials that fit with the natural landscape.
I turn back to the gate, push it open, nod to the man who stands on the other side, a handgun visible in a holster at his hip. I hand him a bottle of cold water. “I’m going down to the river for a while.”
I descend the stairs, now reinforced and sturdy, the sound of the swollen river hastening to greet me. I stop and zip the light jacket I’m wearing, the temperature having dropped a full ten degrees since this time last week.
This time last week when I was jumping out of an airplane.
It seems so long ago now—so much has transpired in just seven days.
I need time alone, moments of silence—time to remember, to listen, and to discern what’s next.
As I reach the last step of the stairs, I sit down, careful not to bump my still tender tailbone, and then I look out at the swiftly moving water. The river will swell more as the snowpack melts, causing the river to run, churn, and froth.
“I’d love to see you in action, on a river…”
“The American River has some great white water. We just need to take the time…”
The one thing Keith and I didn’t have was time. We didn’t take it when we could, and then it was too late. We are still partners in a sense, but no longer husband and wife. A loss, I realize again, I may always grieve.
That grief stirs the still new bubbling cauldron of anger within.
So much loss…
“But you didn’t get me. You haven’t taken me!” My proclamation of life goes unheard, except to my own ears.
God has spared me, but… why?
Why? I look skyward, where the daylight canvas is neither blue nor gray but rather faded like dingy cotton, a hazy cover of clouds. I wait, but no answer comes. Instead, an onslaught of memories taunt and the soundtrack plays.
“Please, Denilyn, please. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Open your eyes, Denilyn. Open your pretty eyes.”
But this time, instead of turning away, instead of drowning his words, instead of doing anything but hear them again, I let the memories play.
“So pretty…”
“I won’t hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.”
But then the soundtrack is interrupted…
“Did you know she’d filed a restraining order against Bradley Mathison?”
“She’s presumed dead.” Anguish slashed Ryan’s features as he told Jay and me the news he’d received about Adelia.
The babble of the river is discordant now and annoys. I stand and step off the last step onto the rocky bank. The river runs just a stone’s throw away.
“But her body was never found?” What was Sonia after?
I close my eyes, and the jumble of words sound in my mind over and over, the dissonance of the river as their background. He’s hurt too many people, I want to scream. Too many. It wasn’t just me but Adelia before me. How had I not known? How? Rage boils within. He has to be stopped.
This has to stop! I cry out to God from somewhere within myself. It has to stop. Please, make it stop.
When I open my eyes, my cheeks are damp and I wipe the tears I’ve shed. As I stare out at the river, the seed of an idea begins to root itself.
An unfathomable idea, and again, one I know is not my own.
I turn and go back to the last step and sit again and allow the idea to bud. I consider it from every angle. I weigh the implications, the risks, and come up short. I sit on the step until the sun is low in the sky and the chill of late afternoon has seeped into not only my bones but also my soul, where the idea has bloomed into a plan.
Then I ask a ridiculous question. Are You sure? The only response I receive is the assurance that settles within.
“When?” I whisper.
Soon.
The river babbles over boulders, around bends—its song alluring once again. But it isn’t the American River that lures me.
It is another river.
Get ready…
I get to my feet and climb to the top of the stairs—I’m winded when I reach the top. I stand on the landing at the top, heart beating faster than I prefer. With all that’s gone on in the last few weeks, I’ve let my daily workouts go. I turn around and walk back down the stairs. At the bottom, I turn and climb again, faster this time. Then faster still until I reach the top again. I turn and run back down, my hand hovering just above the rail. I count the steps as I go—“seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine.” When my foot touches the last stair, I turn and run back up, tailbone ac
hing, the bruises on my legs throbbing, and my lungs burning. I run and I run, and when I reach the top step, I bend at the waist, hands on my knees, and gasp for air.
I have a lot to do to get ready.
A lot of work ahead of me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Denilyn
May 5, 2017
The hour is early, dawn still just a hope, the house quiet. I stand in front of the mirror in my bathroom, the door closed. I barely recognize the reflection staring back at me. My shoulders are broader than they were a month ago, and my biceps defined. I’ve always exercised, taken care of my body, built my strength, but now that strength is visible beneath the skin.
But it isn’t just the physical conditioning that’s changed my appearance, made me unrecognizable to myself. It’s the internal changes—the fire I see in my own eyes.
The pendulum has swung.
I rest my hands on the cool marble countertop and look down at the sink as I tick off a mental list. I’ve done everything I needed to do. I’ve taken care of everything and everyone. Jay, Gabe, and Ryan are aware of the trip ahead of me, though I’ve kept many of the details to myself. The last call I made was to Ryan.
“I’m taking some time away. I’m leaving in the morning.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Three Rivers.”
“Why now? You’ve never wanted to go back. What’s the point?”
“I need to work through some things—things I’ve left undone emotionally.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I have a place.”
“That’s it—that’s all you’re going to say? You’re going to work through things. You have a place.”
“Yes, that’s all I’m going to say.”
Ryan has stayed at my side through so much. It was Ryan who helped me through the stalking when Keith wasn’t able or willing. It was Ryan who was at the hospital daily after the attack. When Keith made it clear the marriage was over, Ryan offered his support, both emotionally and physically—he was there to help with anything I needed. And later it was Ryan who recommended me for the position at PCU.
Ryan has watched out for me and watched over me.
But what I’ve allowed, the closeness we’ve shared, hasn’t really been fair to him. I’ll never have more to offer him. I’ll never offer what I know he wants.
It’s time to loosen the bonds that have held us together, and I am the only one who can untie those knots, or at least begin to—and now, as I go away, it’s a good time to begin that process.
There is one last item to take care of, to check off that mental list I’ve added and subtracted from over the last month. Something I will do for myself, and myself alone. I do, however, have another motive beyond what will serve me well.
I open the top drawer in the bank of drawers beneath the counter and reach for the items I need. I place them on the countertop and then look into the mirror again. I stare at my reflection for a moment, then I pick up the pair of scissors. With my other hand, I pull a clump of my hair taut. I lift the scissors and cut the hair as near to my scalp as possible. The long strands fall to the floor. I grab another clump and cut. And another. When I’m finished, I clip the hair closer to my scalp yet.
The reflection in the mirror is changing, but the transformation isn’t complete.
I turn on the faucet and let the water run until it’s hot. I cup my hands under the water, then bend and splash the water onto what’s left of my hair. I add a dab of shampoo and lather it.
Then I reach for the razor and lift it to my head.
I am careful as I shave around the scar on the side of my head, gently maneuvering the razor over the ridge of it. As the last of the hair falls away, I turn my head so I can see the permanent image inked over the scar.
I trace the image of the sword, droplets of blood on its tip, a few landing on the open book beneath the sword. The Word of God—the Sword of the Spirit.
A permanent reminder of the power I hold within.
Not my own power.
But the Spirit’s power.
How did I wander so far from that truth? How did I forget that power? I was so certain, so filled with faith after Mathison’s arrest. God had protected me, fought for me. I’d wanted a permanent reminder of what He’d done. After the stitches were removed from the almost five-inch laceration on my scalp, and once it had fully healed, I’d had the design tattooed there. Jay had gone with me and occasionally held my hand through the painful process.
How did I wander so far from that truth? It doesn’t matter now. There is no condemnation.
I finish the job I began, bend again, and rinse the soap from my smooth head. I reach for a towel and pat my head and face dry. Then I stare again at my reflected image, no longer seeing myself but the One alive inside me, the Power I hold.
After I’ve swept my hair from the floor, I leave the bathroom. In the bedroom, Max is still curled on my bed. He lifts his head, looks at me, and then sits up. “C’mon,” I whisper. He jumps to the floor and follows me to the door, then across the hallway. I’ve already said my goodbyes, but I must see him one more time. Gently, I turn the knob of his bedroom door. As I open the door, his scent, all boy, wafts to meet me.
I listen for his breathing, as I have nearly every night since his birth just over seven years ago. The rhythm of his breaths are as familiar as my own. When I’m sure he’s still asleep, I go to his bed and look down at him, my son. I reach for the shock of hair that’s fallen across his forehead. I brush it aside, then bend and kiss the soft skin there.
“I love you, Nicky,” I whisper.
Nicky—Nicolo Giovanni Rossi—named after my father, rather than his own father.
He stirs but doesn’t wake. “I’m doing this for you…” I wish I could help him understand. But I barely understand myself. I only know it is time to set him free from the prison of protection I’ve created. It is time I allow him to come out of hiding, to grow into the person God intended. I meant only to keep him safe, but my fear has kept him a prisoner.
I do not speak of him to others beyond those closest to me—my mom, Jay and Gabe, and Ryan. I don’t brag of his accomplishments. I keep no pictures of him on my desk. I haven’t even spoken of him to Jon, someone who, I realize now, I could care for, deeply even. I haven’t allowed myself to trust him with my truth.
I am also imprisoned.
My mother has helped care for Nicky since his birth and has homeschooled him for the last two years. We have held him close, nurtured him, disciplined him, loved him. But beyond all, I have protected him.
If not for his father, he’d have almost no life outside the circle of my protection.
But it is time to let go. To entrust him to the care of his heavenly Father.
It is a choice I make for his sake.
It is the lesson of trust I learned from diving out of a plane. My life is in God’s hands. I acknowledge His sovereign control. And now, much more difficult than letting go of my own life, I let go of my son’s life. I acknowledge that he is in God’s hands. Hands so much more capable than my own.
Whether I live or die in the month ahead, Nicky is set free.
It is not my child he wants.
It is me he’s after.
If the plan succeeds, I live. If it fails, I most likely die. It’s all or nothing.
But either way, it will finally end.
It will all finally end.
I look down at Max who sits next to me. “Watch over him while I’m gone.” I bend and scratch behind Max’s ear, then I kiss Nicky again.
I turn to go.
But I do not go alone.
PART THREE
Under my window it hurls itself, with the force of myth, over river stones, down rapids, riddled with fish. All day the voice of water roars…. Downstream, a trace of my blood feeds the sound.
LUCI SHAW
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Adelia
May 11, 2017
/> After the call that pulled me from the stupor of sleep with the information I’ve waited for, I dragged myself out of bed. I went to the kitchen, where I scooped extra beans into the coffee grinder, then set a pot of coffee to brew.
Now I sit on the deck, the sun already punishing, and sip the strong, black coffee, hoping it will revive me. Sunlight glistens on the river like diamonds sparkling on its surface. But the beauty is deceptive. While the Kaweah may be my ally, it is also a murderer, or at least a stealer of life. I learned that after Adelia’s death, then again personally in the wee hours this morning as it reached for me and pulled me under. Only when I submitted to its pull did it let me go.
I set the mug down and pick up my wallet from the table next to me, the worn leather smooth in my hand. I dug the wallet out of my purse before I came outside. I open it now and stare at the photo of Adelia, as she was so long ago, on the expired driver’s license I tucked into the first flap of my wallet the day I received it from her mother.
Before submitting to the Kaweah’s pull, as I fought its power, one question surfaced: is this terror what Adelia felt—is this how she died? Even now the thought causes my lungs to ache and my head to spin as though denied oxygen.
I can only hope that as she fell, she hit her head and was knocked out. Please God, please have extended her that mercy.
The photo on her driver’s license is startling in the essence it conveys of her spirit. The joy of life that emanated from her. Jaylan asked me a question before I left for Three Rivers. “Had something extinguished the light that shone from Adelia near the end? Or am I imagining that?”
Hindsight offers fertile ground for imagination, but as I look back now, I do believe there were signs that perhaps answer Jay’s questions. Adelia was as steady as a plank emotionally. Her mood was constant: upbeat, positive, and fun. She rarely, if ever, showed signs of discouragement or even the moodiness induced by hormones that most of my female friends, and myself, exhibited from time to time.
But those last two weeks it seemed she’d grown quieter. And one afternoon, from a distance, I witnessed a conversation she had with Mick, its intensity evident in their body language. Although I couldn’t overhear what was said, I do remember thinking I’d never seen Adelia engaged in that manner. What was it Mick said that evoked that type of reaction? Or was it something Adelia said to him, a topic that produced an uncommon fervor in her?
Convergence Page 22