Her Last Memory

by C. A. Wittman

  "Have a seat," the Gilda lady said, patting the chair next to her, and smiled, cocking her head to the side. "I hope we're not interrupting anything too important."

  The casualness of her manner made Carrie relax a little, and she set her bag down, taking a seat. The policeman said nothing; he leaned against the desk in the manner of someone waiting for something.

  "I'm Detective Greiner," the woman said, "and this is officer Hernandez."

  "Am I in trouble?" Carrie gripped both the armrests of the chair, staring up at the officer.

  "We just want to ask you a few questions," Detective Greiner said.

  Carrie's mind scrambled at what to do. Their dad warned them not to talk to the police about Monday night without an attorney present. But the police had come to her school, pulled her out of class.

  "Is this about the other night?" She asked lamely.

  "It's just a few quick questions," Detective Greiner said, eyes bright, another reassuring smile. Carrie glanced at the principal. She'd taken a seat, hands folded on her desk. Her long acrylic nails painted red.

  "When Taylor knocked on your door Monday night, I can imagine your brother was especially angry, given the incident with your dad. And your family not wanting Taylor to come by." Detective Greiner said.

  Carrie's blood ran cold. How did the detective know this? Did Steve tell her? And then she remembered the conversation with Bets, their shared hatred of Taylor, confiding in Bets about the incident with her dad, telling her to swear to keep it to herself. “I told you my humiliating Taylor story,” Bets had said. An implied, you keep my secret, I'll keep yours. Bets was chubby not that long ago, when she was Carrie's age, in fact. Taylor had taken a picture of Bets’ back and dimpled butt while she was showering after gym class and taped the photo to the outside of her locker. Dozens of kids had seen the picture before Bets had a chance to take it down. She’d known it was Taylor’s doing, but couldn’t prove it. “I believe your dad. Taylor landing on his lap like that is just the sort of bullshit she likes to pull.” Bets’ summation of Carrie's humiliating family secret had been like a healing balm.

  Yet, how did the detective know about Taylor coming to their house Monday night? Steve must have told her, but why?

  "What time do you think Taylor stopped by?"

  Carrie's throat felt dry. Should she answer the question? The detective already knew.

  "Carrie?" Detective Greiner gently prodded. "We're just trying to put together a timeline. It helps if we talk to everyone who saw Taylor Monday night."

  Carrie nodded and let go of the armrests of the chair, putting her hands in her lap.

  "I don't know exactly."

  "Was it after ten?"

  "Um…"

  Detective Greiner waited, her expression encouraging.

  "Yeah. But I don't know exactly when after ten."

  "That's okay," Detective Greiner says. "Can you tell me what happened after Taylor stopped by?"

  "She only came over for like a minute. We didn't want her at our house."

  Carrie blanched inwardly, recalling how pale Taylor looked when she showed up at their front door. She'd been swaying like she was drunk, and Carrie had felt a red hot rage seeing her there.

  "I don't know why she came by after what happened with our dad."

  "The incident where you found her on your dad's lap?" Detective Greiner affirmed.

  Carrie nodded. "But it was all Taylor. She was that kind of girl." Carrie launched into the story Bets told her. Detective Greiner nodded sympathetically.

  "So why did Taylor stop by?"

  "Didn't Steve tell you?"

  "I'd like to get your version of that night."

  "She wanted to come in and lie down, and I told her no. I told her to go away. She looked drunk."

  "And where was Steve?"

  "He was the one who answered the door." Carrie felt the muscles in her face jump as she recalled what she did. Taylor must have already been hurt when she knocked on their door.

  "Did Steve hit her?" The detective asked.

  "No! Is that what he told you?" Was her brother trying to protect her? Take the blame for her pushing Taylor?

  The detective didn't respond and instead waited patiently for Carrie to tell her part.

  "No. He would never do that. I nudged her toward the door, and she sort of fell on her butt. Steve helped her up and told her to leave. He opened the door and told her to go to Enzo's if she wanted to lie down. So she left."

  "And was it Enzo who called to say something was wrong with Taylor?"

  "It was Bets." Carrie squeezed her entwined fingers together and then burst into tears.

  "Did Taylor hit her head against anything when you nudged her, and she fell?"

  Carrie's breath caught. "No. I barely touched her. I thought she was drunk."

  "Carrie," Detective Greiner's voice became softer. "Taylor's injury is to her right temple. A hard, blunt force, like a fist. Steve is left-handed."

  Carrie opened her mouth to say something, but no words came. The detective's bare facts had winded her. "My brother never touched her," she was finally able to say.

  "Carrie, I'd like you to come down to the station to give a formal statement of that night," the detective said.

  "What? I want to call my dad."

  "Of course. He can come in with you."

  * * *

  Carrie realized she'd made a mistake when her dad blasted her over the phone. Within fifteen minutes, he stormed into the office, demanding to know why his daughter was being harassed at school. Face filled with blood, Ron lit into principal Morgan. The principal tried to reason with him, but he would have none of it and threatened to sue. Officer Hernandez, who stood in the office, quiet and superfluous up until that point, told Ron to calm down.

  "We just need Carrie to come down to the station and give a formal statement about Taylor coming to your house Monday night," Detective Greiner explained in her calm, casual way. The shock on Carrie’s father's face rendered the detective silent.

  "What are you talking about?" He managed.

  Carrie couldn't look at her dad anymore. She couldn't look at any of them. All she could focus on was Officer Hernandez's shiny black boots. Their parents had been asleep. Her dad knew nothing about Taylor's short visit before she was found dead. Steve and Carrie had decided to keep that part secret. When Bets called and said something was wrong with Taylor, that she wasn't waking up, Carrie had broken down in tears, hardly able to breathe from the news.

  “I barely touched her,” she'd gasped. Her brother had grabbed her shoulders. “She was drunk, Carrie, that's why she fell. It's probably alcohol poisoning.”

  Later, much later, when the prosecutor questioned her in court, Carrie found out that Taylor hadn't been drunk. She did have alcohol in her system, but not an amount that would cause alcohol poisoning.

  33

  Serene - June 1996

  * * *

  The wolf whistle had Serene whipping around. It was Bets, pulling up in her old, faded electric blue Ford Mustang convertible.

  "What are you up to?" Bets called out, grinning.

  Serene shrugged.

  Bets looked her up and down. "Where's your board?"

  "Thought I'd walk it today."

  "Where you off to?"

  "Nowhere. Just whatevas." Ramani and Aarav's arguing had driven her out of the house. Lately, it seemed all they did was argue.

  Bets laughed. She liked it when Serene lapsed into Hawaiian pidgin. "Where's Steve? You guys are usually glued at the hip."

  "He had something going on with his family."

  "Wanna hang?"

  "What are you up to?"

  "I'm off to the mall."

  Serene chewed at the side of her lip. "Shoots." She climbed in the car and reached over her shoulder for the seatbelt, grabbing at nothing.

  Bets laughed. "This thing is ancient. The belt only goes over the lap. I wanted something that at least came out in this decade. Even t
he eighties would have been okay, and I've got a major crush on VW Bugs, but beggars can't be choosers." Bets pulled out into the light traffic.

  "But this car's pretty cool," Serene said, stroking the black padded dashboard.

  "My brother, Robert, inherited it for a while."

  "Where is he now?"

  "Cornell."

  Serene lifted her face to the wind. It whipped at her braids and Bets’ glossy dark hair, a shiny curtain of tresses, buoyed in the strong current of air, like a flag advertising her youth. She turned on the radio and the blaring voice of an obnoxious car salesman assaulted them from the speakers. Bets wrinkled her nose and turned the channel to a snatch of reggae.

  "Here," Serene called out. "Leave it here." The bouncy sound washed over them.

  "Who's this?" Bets asked.

  “Sister Nancy. ‘Bam Bam.’” Serene sang along and did a little shimmy with her shoulders, throwing a smile Bets’ way. She moved her body with the beat, thinking about Lanesha, the woman who braided her hair, and how she swiveled her hips. She was always dancing, it seemed, even when braiding.

  * * *

  At the mall, Serene appraised Bets as they crossed the parking lot. Ray-Bans, piercings, flawless white skin, red lipstick, a black babydoll dress with a floral pattern, and black nails. Her feet were clad in combat boots. Bets’ style was grunge. Sexy grunge. Serene stared down at her boring shorts, tank top and flip flops. There was something in her struggling to come out. The other day, Steve had asked her about the scout. She hadn't been to see him.

  “Why not?” He'd eyed her quizzically. She couldn't explain it. Skateboarding was fun, but… she found herself flipping through fashion magazines at the store, taking in the styles of different girls at school. How did they know how to put it all together, to look good like that? She wanted to look like how she felt when she was making love to Steve. She found herself posing in front of the mirror, making her lips pouty, digging through her clothes for something feminine.

  "Do you ever wear a dress?" Bets asked as if reading her mind. They'd wound up in front of Forever 21. Serene shook her head no as they went in. Bets stopped to admire a white t-shirt dress.

  "This would look good on you," she said.

  Serene fingered the material.

  "Try it on." Bets took one of the dresses off the rack. A small. They wandered by several more racks, Bets grabbing tops, a pair of jeans, her eyes sharp as she zeroed in on just the right garments. As they headed to the dressing room, they passed a display of earrings. Bets plucked a pair of large copper hoops off the jewelry turnstile and held them up to Serene. "These."

  Serene took the earrings from her, a frisson of excitement taking hold in her chest. The pop music playing in the store matched her mood, her blossoming sensation of feeling pretty. In the dressing room, Serene tried on each item, marveling at how her look changed with each garment, how Bets knew exactly what color, size and cut would go with her body and skin tone. Serene stared at herself in the mirror. Maybe she could put the clothes on hold and come back later with Ramani. They modeled for each other, and each time Bets made a big deal about how good Serene looked. Even the salesgirl had some words of encouragement.

  "What are you going to get?" Bets asked after they finally emerged out of the changing rooms. Serene looked through her wallet. She had ten dollars.

  "I can get the earrings."

  "You have to get that white T dress. You look hot in that thing."

  "I've only got ten bucks."

  "I'll get it for you."

  Serene shook her head no.

  "Relax. You can pay me back. You've gotta buy the dress. Wait till Steve sees you wearing it. He's going to flip." Her last remark was the selling point. The dress only cost $24.99 anyway. Ramani could afford that. It's not like Serene went shopping for clothes all the time. They bought the dress and the earrings. Bets tried to talk her into shoes, but Serene had reached her limit.

  * * *

  When Serene returned home, Ramani and Aarav were still arguing and Darpan was doing his tai chi in the living room. The only thing that had changed in their bickering was the subject matter. Suddenly Ramani came storming out of the bedroom. She was in one of her halter tops that showed off her midriff. Her waist had widened, her belly slightly distended. It was the first time Serene noticed the weight gain. Since they'd moved, Ramani had stopped running and doing yoga. She spent a lot of time reading law books, drinking beer and watching TV with Darpan. Ramani's eyes lit on Serene's bag.

  "Went shopping?"

  "Yeah." Serene slipped into her room. She ripped the tags off the dress and put it on, slipping the hoops into her earlobes, and admired the effect, the white next to her dark skin. It clung invitingly to her curves. Serene took in every aspect of the transformation, turning around, admiring herself.

  When Steve came over, she was still in the dress. His eyes widened like a child suddenly taken for a surprise visit to a candy shop.

  "You look gorgeous, Serene." He said, voice husky. She stepped into his arms and then he was removing his pants. They made love quickly up against her wall, tongues sword fighting. He came in three thrusts before they collapsed onto the futon bed, laughing at the whole thing, this heat between them, the new dress.

  "So fucking porno," he said, and she stuck her finger up his nose. "Careful, you might find some gold up there," he joked.

  Serene rubbed her belly. "I'm starving."

  "Let's go out for pizza." Steve traced her bellybutton with his finger, sending a flash of goose bumps over her skin.

  "I'm broke."

  "You're always broke." He grinned at her, but Serene felt a rush of heat prickling her face. Why couldn't he say, I'll take you out? Why did they always have to be like two brahs? She frowned at the sour thought and turned away.

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  "What?" He sat up.

  "I said it's nothing." She pulled the dress all the way off from where it was bunched around her chest. Tossing it to the end of the bed, she got up to put on her shorts and t-shirt. "Let's go. I'll see if Ramani has any money."

  "No, it's cool. I can get the pizza."

  She didn't answer.

  Steve put his pants on, and they grabbed their boards.

  The familiar clatter of wheels on the pavement was like a reset. That other Serene in the white dress was just an apparition. She didn't belong in that life.

  They flew down the road, weaving along, jumping on and off the sidewalks, crouching, standing, bending their bodies this way and that to accommodate every nuance of change it took to keep balance.

  34

  Dora - February 2020

  * * *

  Erica and Cuppa had left the house to go on a walk. They'd invited Dora to come with them, but she'd begged off, pretending a headache. Instead, she slipped into the bedroom she shared with Erica. Although it was her bedroom, too, she felt like an intruder, somewhere she didn't belong. But she had to know. Know more about this Dora person––Dora, who had stolen her life. Her eyes swept over the room. The walls were painted a lime-green wash, giving a relaxed Mediterranean feel to the space. Like the living room, everything was in shades of grey and beige, the bedding, sheets and duvet, soft, worn linen. The red area rug on the dark wood floor was the one vibrant color in the room. It automatically drew the eye, like red lipstick on a fresh clean face. Dora let her hand sink down into the marshmallow softness of the down pillows. The custom shades on the windows were a summer grass brown, and light, airy gauze curtains hung before the glass on the sliding door. Pictures of her and Erica hung on the wall over the bed. One was a wedding photo. Dora wore a sheer white gown with a lace bodice, and Erica a white suit. she looked so masculine that Dora mistook her for a man and did a double take. In the wedding photo, they gazed affectionately into each other's eyes next to a lake somewhere. Erica's arms encircled her waist. Dora cupped Erica's face. The other picture was of them at a tropical beach, the water a translucent turquoise. T
hey were both laughing and wet from a recent swim, the sunlight streaming through Dora's hair.

  She opened a drawer to one of the end tables by the bed. It held a book titled, The Only Beauty Regimen You'll Ever Need, a pair of earrings and some lip balm. Dora picked up the book and opened it to the dog-eared page, a chapter on creams and potions. She closed the book and put it back, instinctively knowing that this was her side of the bed. Curious, she opened the other end table's drawer. It contained a tube of lubricant and several different sex toys. Heart in her throat, she glanced over her shoulder before picking up the first toy, a black dildo with some pubic hair clinging to it. Setting it back down, she picked up the next gadget, a wand-like apparatus, then, a cup thing with a lid. Quickly, she put it back, arranging the toys in the same way she found them.

  From the end table she walked to one of the dressers. The top drawer held a mess of lacy bras and panties. Dora opened the next drawer, rummaging through the winter tops, and the next, finding leggings, some capris and stylish blue jeans. In the closet, it was easy to see which side belonged to her and which to Erica. All of Erica's clothes were masculine and Dora's feminine. Her hand swept over the dresses for warm weather, some businessy type clothing and a few sweaters. Lined on racks were shoes––so many different kinds, it made her head spin. There were boxes on the shelves and what looked like summer clothes, folded and put away.

  Dora left the closet, an anxious feeling pulsing through her. She wanted to find something. Something important. Back to the dresser. She opened the drawers she hadn't looked in yet, pulled out the clothes, examined them, put them back. And there it was in the very bottom drawer, crammed against the back: a white T dress. She still had it. Is this what she was looking for? It seemed only weeks ago she'd bought the dress. Dora ran her hand over the fabric and then lifted the dress out of the dresser. It was folded tightly. She unfurled it, and something hard and black came flying out from between the folds. It clattered against the edge of the drawer and fell to the floor. A phone. Dora picked it up. “Nokia,” she read under her breath. Did she get a phone soon after she bought the dress and it had somehow become sentimental? Dora thought hard. She'd worn the dress several times but couldn't remember owning a phone. Well, it was obviously old—nothing like what people were using today. Probably didn't even work anymore. She pressed the green icon button––nothing––and then tried the red. Menu flickered onto the screen. After experimenting a bit, she was able to open up the phone book, but there were no saved numbers. Closing the drawer, she placed the dress under her arm and left the bedroom, going back to her old room-turned-office and took a seat on the rolling chair at her desk. Scrolling through the different options on the phone, she found a call log of unknown incoming calls. Frowning, she clicked through the menu options until she found Messages. There were two saved messages.