The detective had listened to Erica's tirade, a slight frown on his face. His eyes had snaked over to Dora, skepticism emanating from him. He'd finally acquiesced, a tight smile passing briefly over his lips, and stood up.
"Alright, thank you." He'd stood, hesitating. "Mrs. Jones," he said to Erica. "A woman is missing. A mother. A wife. It's my job to investigate, to try and find out what's become of her."
Erica's face had softened. "We love Mara. Dora doesn't remember her, but when she does, she'll know, too, how much Mara meant to her, the friendship they have. We want Mara found. We want her safe, and if there is any way we can help, we will, only Dora can't answer your questions right now."
Dora closed her eyes. She'd left one era of her life as a suspect for a crime, only to be propelled twenty-four years into the future, possibly guilty of a different one. What did it all mean? She knew how the last investigation for Taylor's murder turned out. Darpan was in prison, the guilty party.
That dinner.
Kanani drunk, accusing Taylor of being a slut.
Enzo, lunging at Taylor.
Taylor, walking out the back door.
She'd left, too, needing air.
That night, she’d seen something she wasn't supposed to see. Darpan comforting Taylor, the intimate way he’d held her in his arms. But what had happened after that? In one instant, she remembered watching them, the next, she was at Enzo's, Taylor curled up on Enzo's sofa, a slick of drool sliding out of the corner of her mouth. Dora shuddered. She remembered looking at Steve, sharing the horror of that moment. His eyes had locked with hers, lips pulling in tight, mouth drooping as he bowed his head.
19
Serene - May 1996
* * *
"Stay for dinner." Carrie grabbed an extra plate out of the cabinet and thrust it into Serene's hand.
It smelled delicious. Spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread and an iceberg lettuce salad. Serene snaked her eyes in the direction of Maggie, Steve and Carrie's mom. She was pulling the garlic bread out of the oven and her back seemed to stiffen as she placed the baking sheet on the stovetop and then she smiled. Serene wondered if she'd only imagined their mother's discomfort over Carrie's impromptu invitation to have dinner with their family.
"Of course you're welcome to stay," Maggie said, then added, "unless your mother wants you home."
Serene's mouth watered. "She's not fussy about that sort of thing."
Steve grabbed several cups out of a different cabinet. "Ramani doesn't do scheduled stuff like dinner," he grinned at Serene, setting the cups at each placemat.
"Oh?' Maggie's gaze wandered toward the living room and the blare of commentary from a sportscaster on the TV. "Ron," she called. "Dinner."
Serene lingered, unsure, the plate that Carrie had thrust at her still in her hand.
"Serene, have a seat. As long as your mother doesn't mind, we're happy to have you." Maggie poured some wine into a glass for herself.
Serene pulled one of the chairs out slowly, just as Steve leaned around her to fill her cup with water from a pitcher. He was so close she could smell the fresh scent of soap coming off his skin from a recent shower. When he straightened, their eyes locked for a moment and Serene slipped into the chair. Maggie placed a sea-blue dish full of pasta and meatballs and the platter of garlic bread on the table. Carrie opened the fridge, chewing at her lip. "Where's the milk?"
"There's no more," Steve said, taking a seat.
Carrie turned around to scowl at him. "You and your friends always drink it all."
Steve flashed her a teasing grin before gesturing to the pasta. "Help yourself," he said to Serene.
"Yes, honey, help yourself," Maggie added, a hint of fatigue in her voice. She joined them at the table with her glass of red wine and a mug of beer in her other hand, which she set down where Ron presumably would be sitting. At that moment, Ron lumbered into the kitchen, the TV still going. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Serene at the table. He took a seat.
"Lord, bless this meal," Maggie said.
Ron grunted and downed half his beer while Serene carefully lifted a tong full of pasta out of the bowl, aware of all eyes on her.
"So," Maggie said, shifting in her seat and taking a sip of her wine. "How has the adjustment been, moving from the islands?"
"Good." Serene almost added “Aunty,” a knee-jerk deference of respect, but it died out on her lips. For some reason, calling Maggie Aunty or Ron Uncle, for that matter, didn't feel natural.
"A bit faster paced in LA," Ron said, taking the salad bowl his daughter handed him and drowning the leaves in Italian dressing.
"Yeah," Serene agreed.
"Is your biological dad Hawaiian?" Maggie asked, head tilted. Ron glanced at her, curious as well.
“Mom,” Carrie pursed her lips and shook her head at Serene, rolling her eyes, as if to say, yes, we have idiot parents too. "Her dad's African American, obviously."
"Oh. Well." Maggie's cheeks reddened. "It wasn't obvious. You have a kind of Polynesian look to you. She could be Hawaiian."
Steve gave his mom a look.
"Right?" She said to Ron, who now had the pasta. He was putting one tong full after another of the noodles and meatballs onto his plate.
"Exotic," he grunted. "The bone structure is different, though, not Polynesian, maybe East African."
Serene twirled her spaghetti around on her fork, hoping the conversation would move on.
"Your parents were in a commune, right?" Carrie's eyes were bright with interest, and Ron and Maggie looked up sharply from their dinner. "Isn't that where your dad is? Ow!" She jumped from the kick Steve gave her under the table.
"My dad's not there anymore," Serene mumbled.
"A commune, huh?" Ron raised his brows and then shook his head, shoveling a bite of noodles into his mouth.
"What was the commune called?" Maggie asked.
"Mom, come on, what's with the third degree? Let her eat her dinner," Steve spoke up. His face was flushed with embarrassment at Carrie's indiscreet choice of a topic that was obviously told to him in confidence.
“Shangri-La,” Serene said.
Ron's brows pulled in tight. "I've heard of them."
"You have?" Maggie made stabs at her salad with her fork.
"Weren't they up north? Oakland, I think."
Serene nodded.
"They shut down," Ron said. "The leader committed suicide with some of the followers."
Now Ron had Serene's attention. She held her fork suspended on its way to her lips.
"That never happened."
"It was all over the news." He turned to his wife. "Don't you remember? You made some comments about what kind of people join places like that."
A strained silence followed Ron's remark and then he cleared his throat. "Anyway," he talked down at his plate of food. "It was back in the early eighties."
"Serene was, like, three back then. Can we drop the subject now?" Steve said, his voice tight with anger.
Ron finished off his beer and lowered his glass, studying Serene before attacking his spaghetti.
"You seem to have had quite an adventurous life," Maggie said lamely.
It was hard for Serene to regain the appetite she came to the table with. Was Ron right? The rest of the dinner conversation continued, unbearably awkward. When Steve walked her to the door, his hand fiddled with the knob.
"Fuck," he finally said under his breath. "Look, I'm sorry. My folks…”
Serene cut him off. "They didn't mean anything by any of it. I have to go now."
"I hope you're not going to stop coming by." He lifted his eyes to meet hers and Serene felt her stomach twist.
"You don't need to apologize," she said in a low voice. "You've met my parents, so…”
He grinned. "Yeah. That's true." When he opened the door, he remained standing in the doorway, watching her make her way across the street. Once Serene got to her door, she turned to wave, and Steve held up his hand to return th
e gesture.
* * *
Ramani was sewing in the living room. She glanced up when Serene came through the door.
"You're home late." Ramani had that probing look she got when she was trying to decide something.
Serene sighed. Why did she sometimes feel so disconnected from her mother?
"Do I need to make an appointment for you at Planned Parenthood?"
"What?"
"Birth control." Ramani resumed sewing.
"I stayed for dinner. That's all."
"Hm. Okay."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Should it mean something?"
"Whateva, Ramani."
Her mother's curly head was bent over the fabric in her lap as she made quick little stitches. Probably another rag doll to send to a friend's small child. Serene watched her for a bit, that strange feeling coming over her that she sometimes had about Ramani. It wasn't a feeling she could define or verbalize in any way. If she visualized the sensation, a deep dark black hole came to mind. A black hole that Serene didn't want to get too close to.
Serene moved further into the living room. "Ramani?"
"Hm?"
"Did people commit suicide at Shangri-La?"
"Ouch." Ramani had pricked herself and a drop of blood sprang to her finger. Her mother popped her finger into her mouth, setting her sewing aside.
Serene sat opposite her on one of the beanbags. "Did that happen?"
Ramani pulled her finger from her mouth and blew on it. "Yes."
"How come you never told me?"
"It had nothing to do with you, Serene."
"But I lived there."
"We left when you were so small. What went on later was nothing that needed to become a part of your life's narrative."
"Were they friends, the people who died?"
Something cracked in her mother's expression, and her features tightened, revealing a raw pain that Serene hadn't seen since Cedar's death. Her mouth struggled to find a smile and then gave up, the bottom lip trembling like the arms of a weightlifter who just can't manage that last rep.
"Some things are best not talked about." Ramani's eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. "You know, I don't need to explain everything to you. I don't."
Serene leaned forward, alarmed. "I'm sorry."
"Me too." Ramani took a breath. Blood was now dripping down her finger. "Me too."
"Do you want a Band-aid?"
"What?" Ramani looked at her finger as if she didn't really see it. "No. I'll get one." She slowly stood, shoulders caving in, and made her way to the bathroom.
20
Steve - May 1996
* * *
Enzo Moreno oozed confidence. It showed in his walk, which was more of a strut. He had a slight turn out, each step a step of casual coolness. Enzo smoked cigarettes at a time when cigarettes were losing their appeal, when most people saw cigarettes as cancer on a stick. But Enzo smoked like he was laughing in the face of all those public announcements. He smoked like a proper European. No one thought of ill health or cancer when they looked at Enzo. He turned the heads of girls and women alike. Enzo didn't go for the big baggy pants that all the guys were wearing either. He wore clothes that fit his tight athletic body. Usually he was in a jersey and Adidas shorts, on his way to or from soccer practice, or football, as he called the sport. His legs were muscular, conditioned from years of football, his quads bulging with so much definition that you could count each of the four muscles. Enzo's dark hair was sleek and combed back model style, his jaw square, cheekbones in the right place, eyes slits of seduction and focused as a shark. Enzo expressed himself with Italian slang, the words rolling lazily off his tongue. He said things like, ma figurati for no worries, basta basta for enough, che fico for how cool and ciao for see you. When he spoke, girls paid attention and his jokes often elicited flirtatious giggles. When he winked or looked a girl up and down with a slight smile, her cheeks would spot with color. But he didn't get ahead of himself with the guys.
Enzo was a chameleon. He could be the machismo jock or rock the hip hop tracksuits, dropping all the right dance moves to all the right music. For all that, Enzo was well read and liked to cook. He did things like bring ziplock bags of homemade cookies and focaccia to school. Kids came over to Enzo's for pizza making parties while KRS-One, Eminem, Public Enemy or Lil’ Kim blasted through the house along with Italian rap that no one had ever heard before, like Neffa, or Fritz Da Cat. The passion for cooking came from his dad, who owned a thriving Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills. Enzo endearingly called his dad Babbo. His mama worked as an editor at a small press in Santa Monica, translating books. He was their only child and very much a latchkey, like Steve and Carrie. Enzo's babbo was rarely home, the thriving business of the restaurant swallowing up all his time. His mama was in and out, and, when home, often sequestered in her office, working. Steve had glimpsed the stacks of manuscripts on her desk. Unlike the cliche of the doting Italian mother pushing food at her kids, Enzo made the meals and brought dishes to his mother. Their conversations in Italian would spill out into the kitchen or living room where a group of his friends would be hanging out. The foreignness of Enzo and his family only added an exotic mystique to his appeal. He'd close the door to his mother's office and rejoin his guests, putting the music back on. With a grin, he'd do a couple of moves to the beat and then serve up something like arancini, a grilled antipasto dish, or pasta carbonara with fresh herbs from their garden.
Enzo and his parents moved next door to Serene two weeks after Steve ended it with Taylor. It didn't take but a few days for Taylor to spot Enzo and begin moving in to stake her territory. She flirted obnoxiously, flamboyantly. While a lot of girls lusted over Enzo, the fact that Taylor had laid claim to him was widely understood, even if unspoken. Much to Steve's consternation, however, Enzo's sharp gaze had landed on Serene, although she appeared oblivious to his charm and blatant attention. Steve tried not to think about Enzo's pursuit of Serene, or the churning feeling in his gut that he'd missed out on something special. Whatever may have been between them was over before it ever really had a chance to get started. Last year he'd been the hot new guy at Culver City High, and Taylor had zeroed in on him the same way. One of the many differences between Enzo and him was that he'd been stupid enough to fall for her.
Next to Enzo, he felt plain and ordinary, unable to compete with the star moves on the soccer field or the precise hip hop dance steps that Enzo could perform with ease. He couldn't compete with how Enzo used food to make friends. Made it a thing. The thing everyone knew him for. When Steve thought of his own mediocre skateboarding skills, his grommet status when out surfing, his averageness, all of it made him grimace internally.
Although he and Serene were almost inseparable, he'd somehow managed to fall into a friend zone that he didn't know how to climb out of. Lately, she wore her hair in braids. Lots of tiny braids that some girl, Lanesha or Lakesha put in for her, turning Serene's understated beauty into jaw-dropping good looks. The girl who braided Serene's hair lived in Crenshaw on Santo Tomas Drive. The Jungles, they called it. It made his blood run cold to even think of stepping foot in that neighborhood. Yet Serene had no problem. She hopped on the bus with her skateboard and spent the day, sometimes the night––it took that long to put in all the braids.
She'd been scouted one afternoon at the park, jumping a rail and landing bolts, catching everyone's attention with the daredevil move. Her lankiness and lack of curves meant that her center of gravity on a board was not too different from a boy’s. Her physical proportions gave her an edge when it came to the physics of what she could pull off. Steve had stood by her side when the scout gave her his card, Serene tucking it in her back pocket, wiping the back of her hand under her nose.
"Come by La Brea Skate Shop," the scout had said, taking off his knit cap and stuffing it in his front pocket. He had thinning scruffy blond hair and wore baggy jeans, the cuffs puddling over his Converse. His eyes had fl
icked over Steve dismissively before he sauntered off, leaving Steve trying to grapple with jealousy that he knew Serene didn't deserve.
"Want to head home?" She'd asked with a lift of her chin. He'd nodded silently. They'd skated back to the house only to run into Enzo, who'd beckoned them over with the promise of a seafood pasta dish he'd whipped up.
When Serene went into the bathroom, Enzo cornered Steve, asking for pointers on how to get Serene to take notice of him.
"You're cozy, no?" He said, eyes squinting into narrower slits. He looked Steve up and down. "Just tell her I like her." He grinned and heaped pasta on Steve's plate, ladling clam sauce over it and topping it off with a sprinkle of parsley.
"She's hard to read sometimes," Steve said. Thinking of Enzo's hands roaming over Serene dampened his appetite.
Enzo laughed and slapped his back. He gestured toward the plate. "Mangia."
* * *
Maybe it was out of morbid curiosity that he wanted to know how Serene felt about Enzo. They'd gone back to his place after the pasta and stilted conversation. His dad was out playing golf and his mom and sister were at the mall, shopping. After some negotiating over a selection of three rented videos, they'd settled on watching Congo. Serene had wanted to watch Dolores Claiborne, a movie Carrie picked out and abandoned midway through, saying it was too slow.
"Enzo's a pretty good cook," Steve said.
Serene opened the plastic box and pulled the cassette out, sinking to her knees to slip it into the VCR. "Yeah. I like his cooking," she agreed.
"What do you think about him?"
She glanced over her shoulder at Steve, her beauty stopping his thoughts. He took in the angles of her, straight broad shoulders, a slim toned arm. Her dark eyes assessed him.
"He's alright."
"He likes you."
Her Last Memory Page 10