by Greta Boris
The lot was large. Big, old oak trees hid a low, yellow house. Their shade was so thick, no grass grew underneath them. A breeze came up, and the dust kicked up with it.
He should tell the owners to pull those trees. They must wreck the view from the front windows and the screened in porch. But he wasn't going to. Those trees were fifty years old if they were a day. Maybe it was stupid, but he felt taking them out would be a kind of murder.
He heard the crunch of tires on gravel and turned. Rosie's silver sedan pulled up behind his truck. Her face was all smiles when she saw him.
"Carlos," she said.
"Hey." He took her hand and squeezed it. "This is a great piece of property. The back used to be a big herb garden if I remember right."
"You remember right. The original owner, back in the early 1900s, was the town medicine woman. The garden was her pharmacy. The family kept it up until they vacated."
"The last family member, Sage something, she was a kind of medicine woman too, wasn't she"
"Yes. You'll see. The garden has been neglected since she moved, but the bones are there. How do you know so much about it?"
"I know the family next door." Carlos gestured to the Travers house. "I was surprised when you gave me the address. I didn't expect this place to sell so fast. It has some bad juju."
Rosie shrugged. "The Jacksons didn't ask a lot of questions. They were happy to get it. Homes like this don't exist in Orange County anymore. Not this close to the beach."
They walked toward the front porch. "Do you know what they have in mind for the yard?" Carlos said.
"They're looking for advice. Professional advice. They're getting plenty of the unprofessional kind."
Before they reached the steps, the screen door swung open. A little Asian woman stood in the doorway. "This must be your landscaper."
Carlos smiled. He'd expected the homeowners to be white, or black, but not Asian with a name like Jackson. "Carlos Rojo," he said and stuck out his hand.
She took it. Her strength surprised him. "Mimi Jackson."
"Carlos is a genius," Rosie said. "You should see what he's done with my front yard."
"I need a genius." Mimi opened the door so they could go inside. He saw rattan chairs with flowered cushions as he walked through the porch to enter the house.
"I'll be in the living room if you two need me." Rosie disappeared into a room to the right of the entryway. Carlos followed Mimi into a sunny kitchen at the end of a hall. Another screen door led from it into the garden.
When they stepped outside, Carlos caught his breath. This yard used to be something, and not that long ago. The flower beds, the herb beds, they were overgrown and weeds choked out some of the plantings, but it wouldn't be hard to make it beautiful again. And he wanted to.
As they walked the narrow paths between the planters and flower beds, he was amazed by the variety of flora. There was an entire area devoted just to culinary herbs and another to plants he was pretty sure were used to make medicine. There was even a big old gingko biloba tree in the one corner next to a huge angel's trumpet vine.
If Mimi Jackson wanted to turn all this under with a backhoe and plant a lawn, or put in a pool, he wouldn't have any part of it. Some things weren't worth any amount of money. "This is terrific," he said.
"It is, isn't it?" Mimi tipped her head to the side like a bird. "My husband's brother and his wife think we should dig it up. Put in one of those Hawaiian habitats with palm trees and waterfalls and a rock pool."
He hated that idea, and it must have shown on his face, because Mimi laughed. "Don't worry. My Chinese grandmother was an herbalist. She'd climb out of her grave and haunt my nights if I did. I'd never sleep again. What I want to know is can you help me bring this back to life? And, can you tell me what I've got here?"
"Yes, and yes." Carlos grinned. They made another pass through the weeds. He pointed out the plants he recognized, although there were a few he didn't. By the time they'd walked the whole yard for a second time the sun was setting.
"Are you two coming in?" Rosie stood in the kitchen doorway. "I have some fabric samples I need to run by you, Mimi."
Carlos promised to call with a project bid the next day and left. As he closed the screen door, he looked over at the Travers house. Paul's car was out front now, and a light was on in the kitchen window. Carlos jogged across the dead grass, nerves playing over his skin.
***
Paul peered through the screen when Carlos knocked. His eyes widened, but only for a moment. "Come in. I just made coffee. Want a cup?"
Carlos sat at the old pine table where he'd had more meals than he could count. Paul's house had become a second home to him since he and Abby had gotten together. Abby and her father were close, and Carlos missed his father, so they spent a lot of time here. He'd taken it for granted they'd all be family soon. If you'd have told him a month ago that a stupid disagreement would mess that up, he wouldn't have believed it.
"How've you been?" Paul brought two mugs over and sat across from him.
"Okay." Carlos cleared his throat. "How's Abby?"
Paul looked at the ceiling. "Okay. She's okay."
"Glad to hear it. I haven't talked to her for a while." Paul nodded and kept nodding. He looked like a bobble head figurine. "Have you heard from her?" Carlos asked.
Between nods, Paul said, "Yes."
Carlos wished he'd knock off the head bobs. The positive movement felt so negative. "Well? What did she say?"
Paul stopped. "About what?"
Carlos almost rolled his eyes. "What do you mean about what?"
"I mean, about what?"
"Come on, Paul. Don't you start playing games with me too."
"I'm not playing games. I need to know what you know."
Carlos set his mug down too hard. Coffee slopped onto the table. "I asked her to marry me. She said she needed more time. We fought, and she disappeared. That's what I know."
Paul got up and walked across the kitchen to a desk on the far wall and opened a drawer.
"She's not taking my calls, not answering texts. She's hiding. You know the way she does," Carlos said. Abby was an introvert who avoided confrontation and unpleasant circumstances whenever possible. Carlos had always struggled to relate. Introversion wasn’t a part of his character. He preferred to meet life head on, the good parts and the bad.
Paul took something out of the drawer, closed it, and came back. "I gave her a month. You'd think that was long enough."
Paul set something on the table in front of him. "If she doesn't want to get married. . ." Carlos's words dried up. It was Abby's phone.
"She's not taking anyone's calls," Paul said.
Carlos stared at the flat piece of metal and plastic. What did this mean? "Is she okay? She's not sick?" Not sick like her mother, please God.
"She's, ah, she. . ." Paul rubbed a hand across his face. "It's hard to explain." He dropped into his chair. "She's working on her book."
Carlos wanted to jump out of his chair, but he controlled himself. "She's been working on her book for a year. That's not news."
"She's. . . cloistered herself."
Cloister was a weird word. "What do you mean? Locked herself in her apartment or something?"
"At the Mission." Paul met his eyes. "I tried to talk her out of it, but she said it was only for six weeks, only for Lent." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I have a hard time saying no to her. She's all I have left."
"What are you telling me?" Carlos's throat was tight.
Another long silence, then Paul said, "It's the anchorite thing."
"Right." As if Carlos didn't know what Abby was writing about. She talked about it all the time.
"She got this crazy idea if she could experience what they experienced, if she could live like an anchorite for a time, she'd understand them better. Write a better book. Plus it's so wild, she thought it might get her an agent and a publisher, you know?"
Carlos nodded, but he didn't
know. Paul wasn't making sense, but he figured he'd get the answers to his questions faster if he just shut up.
"Remember the project I did at the Mission, shoring up the Swallows Nest exhibit?" He didn't wait for an answer. "We made it into an anchorhold. And she—"
"No." Carlos couldn't believe what he was hearing. "The foundation let you do that?"
"They don't know."
"Wait. Wait. Am I getting this right? Are you telling me Abby is hiding behind that exhibit at the Mission pretending she's a medieval hermit?"
Paul made a face, but he didn't deny it. Anger, somewhere deep inside Carlos, burned. "Why didn't she tell me about this?"
"I'm sure she was afraid you'd try to talk her out of it."
"Damn straight, I would."
Paul's lips lifted into a half-smile. "That's your answer then."
"So instead, she leaves me hanging?" Carlos did jump out of his chair this time and was at the back door in two steps.
"Where are you going?"
"To talk some sense into her."
"It's gotten more complicated."
"How could it be more complicated than this crazy stunt?"
"You'd better sit."
Carlos didn't, but he did stop.
"A girl was found dead, on the lawn in front of Abby’s hold," Paul said.
Confusion swirled through Carlos's mind. He rubbed his forehead. "I don't understand. Some girl walked into the Mission, lay down on the grass, and died? No one saw her? No one called 911?"
"Somebody took her there after dark, after the Mission closed."
"Did Abby see it happen?"
"Yes."
"Abby saw someone dump a dying person on the grass, and she didn't come out? She didn't go to the police? What the hell is going on with her?"
"She’s closed in. No exit. No phone. No way to reach me. After speaking with her, I went to the police. I told them I saw the men come over the wall. I described everything Abby saw as if I saw it. We were afraid if she came forward after the fact, she might be prosecuted for impeding an investigation, or aiding and abetting, or who knows what."
"She let you do that? Let you step up for her?" Carlos knew Paul doted on Abby, but this was too much.
"We were concerned—"
"She's obsessed." Carlos wished he could take back the word as soon as it came out of his mouth.
"I'm beginning to think you're right." Paul looked old and sad. "What are we going to do about it though?"
Carlos walked to the window, leaned on the counter and looked at his reflection in the dark glass. We. Paul thought of them as family, and he guessed they were. Whatever happened with him and Abby, he couldn't abandoned Paul or her. Not now. Family stuck together, especially in the hard times. He’d learned that growing up with immigrant parents. When things were tough, you circled the wagons.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TUESDAY, MARCH 13TH, 9:15 AM (THE DAY BEFORE THE GIRL DIED.)
The Wife
MY NOSE WRINKLED as I entered the garage the next morning. Hannah didn't smell good. First order of the day would be a shower, and then I'd show her how to use the washer and dryer. She could start with her own clothes. I opened the laundry room door and the stench slapped me in the face. Under the sour odor of unwashed body was something else—something worse.
She lay curled in a fetal position, the top of her head poking out above the sleeping bag. "Hannah." The child didn't move, didn't open her eyes. "Hannah." I used the same firm voice I used to wake my children for school when they overslept, but still no response. "Hannah." I pulled back the sleeping bag and shook her by the shoulder this time.
The girl groaned and rolled toward me. I caught my breath. She looked more ill than she had the night before, if that were possible. Her eyes were black holes. Her face flushed. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. I touched her skin with the back of my hand the way I did with the children when they complained. She was burning up.
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and called my husband. He answered on the third ring. "Did Seb tell you what to do if she gets sick?" I said.
"She's not sick. She's just tired and malnourished."
"She has a high fever."
"So give her a couple of Tylenol."
"She needs to go to the doctor."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line, then he said, "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why?" But I knew the answer.
"Seb didn't give me her papers. He said he'd have them for me at the end of the month. She misplaced them after she landed. His nephew is sending copies, but they'll take a few weeks."
It was my turn to remain quiet. "What have you gotten us into?" I finally said.
"Hold on, now." I could hear the trumped-up indignation in his tone. He was as nervous as I was. "Hannah spent one night at Seb's house. He doesn't have a wife. It's a bachelor pad, messy, you know? He thinks her papers may have gotten thrown out with the junk mail or something."
"Sure." I couldn't keep the sarcasm from my voice. I didn't know what Seb was up to, but I knew it wasn't good.
"I'll talk to him as soon as we hang up, okay? I'll find out what we should do. I don't think the hospitals can turn her away even if she doesn't have papers."
"And how do we explain who she is, and why she's with us?"
Another long pause. "I'll return her. Make Seb give me my money back. She's not well. She's defective."
"She's not a toaster!" It burst from me. Hannah moaned and rolled onto her side. "She's a human being. You don't buy them, sell them, or return them when you're through with them."
"I didn't mean it like that. I only meant Seb is the one who brought her here, she's his responsibility."
"But he brought her for you, because you asked him to."
I heard my husband inhale. "Yes, and no."
"What do you mean, yes and no?"
"It's not the first time Seb has done this."
"He's a slaver, a trafficker, that's what you're saying?"
"No. No. Nothing like that. People talk to his nephew, because of his position at the Embassy. They want to come to America. They're poor. They need help. His nephew tells him about these people, and Seb makes arrangements for them. It's very altruistic. A win-win. Good for everyone."
Everyone but the girls. He knew the truth as well as I did. But he wouldn't admit it. "Well, he must take her back. We don't need a refund. If we get it, we get it. If not, it's a good lesson for us. I don't want to be involved in this kind of thing."
"I'll call him." My husband sounded contrite. I hoped I'd convinced him to let go of the money. The child needed help, and we weren't in a position to help her. I had to believe Seb would do it, even if only for monetary reasons. Once she was healthy again, he could sell her to someone else.
I left her, and walked to the kitchen to make her a cup of broth. I returned a few minutes later with two Tylenol and a glass of water. She was so weak, I had to lift her head and bring the water to her lips. She gagged on the pills, but finally got them down. I wondered if she'd ever taken a pill before, if she'd ever had any medical help in her short life. She only managed a few spoons full of the broth before falling onto the sleeping bag, exhausted.
As I pulled the top bag over her, I saw a glint of metal in her hand. I reached for it, thinking she might stab herself with whatever it was while she slept. When she felt my tug, she gripped the object so tightly her fingertips turned white.
"It's okay. I won't take it," I said, but her grip didn't loosen. It wasn't until later in the day when I went in to check on her that I saw what the object was. Her hand had fallen open while she slept and revealed a Coptic cross.
My husband came home from work early. The jovial attitude of the night before gone. Before I could ask what had happened, he held up a hand and said, "I talked to Seb. After dark, I'll take her to him."
"He'll get her medical help?" I said.
My husband nodded. "He has a doctor who works
with him on these things."
"Then he'll keep her? You made sure he knows we don't want her back."
"I told him." My husband walked into the living room, his steps heavy, his shoulders slumped. He collapsed on the couch.
"She's worse," I said. "I've been giving her Tylenol every four hours but it doesn't seem to be doing much. She can only take small sips of water and broth. She's been asleep most of the day."
"Get me a lemonade, would you? I'm so thirsty."
As I poured the liquid into a glass, I had a terrible thought. When I returned to the living room, I pressed a hand to my husband's forehead. "Could she be contagious? Do you feel ill?"
He took my hand and pressed it to his lips. "I'm fine." He didn't look fine, but I suspected it was more a matter of his heart than his health. "I'll take her in a couple of hours. Let me rest."
"What about dinner?"
"I'm not hungry."
My husband is always hungry. The only time his appetite wanes is when he's stressed and upset. He was probably both, and that was good. Maybe next time he'd talk to me instead of making such a big decision alone.
He had to carry the girl to the car that night. She was too weak to stand. I didn't like it, but our son had to help him. My husband said he couldn't manage alone, not with his back.
As soon as they drove away, I went into the garage. I scooped up the sleeping bags and took them directly to the outside trash cans. When I returned, I saw her backpack in the corner of the shed. I lifted it by one dirty strap. It seemed heartless to throw it away. It was all she had.
I opened a cupboard and tucked it behind a bag of clothes I'd meant to take to Goodwill. Maybe I could return it to her somehow. I closed the cupboard, walked into the house, into the downstairs bathroom, and washed my hands for a long, long time.
CHAPTER NINE
FRIDAY, MARCH 16, 12:00 PM
There is an unhealthy desire in this generation for attention. The craving has grown so intense the dirtiest and most intimate pieces of laundry are willingly aired on social media daily.