“She’s not coming back, is she?”
“That’s not true. Why would you think such a thing?”
“She’s never been gone this long without calling. Dad, too. They always called to make sure we were behaving.”
“You’re with me. I’m an adult psychotherapist with a big dog and a driver’s license. Makes a difference, you know.”
“I suppose. Can I have an egg with my pancake?”
“Yes, you may. Get dressed. I’ll have breakfast ready in a flash.”
Grace ruffled the boy’s hair and bounced up from the bed. Being a mother of a troubled boy wasn’t easy. She sensed she had only managed a Band-Aid on the boy’s aching heart. Her own heart hurt as well. Paul had been gone more than a week. He said he’d be back in a few days. Their phone calls always seem to end in device failure, and she never received answers to her questions. Was he really with some old lady’s cow? Or was he in a foreign land making deals with the devil? She thought about his house on the beach. Was it really his grandmother’s? Maybe he was a drug lord or in some kind of money laundering business. How well did he know Jess? Looking back to when they met at her house, she realized the two seemed familiar with each other. Had Jess seen him in court or something? All she knew was that the comfort zone she had been living in lately no longer existed. Everyone was acting crazy: Sal, Paul, Jess, even little Buns.
In the kitchen, Grace produced the necessary items for breakfast: milk, eggs, and pancake flour. Soon she got caught up in the ceremony of cooking and left her cares behind. Ten minutes later Buns appeared by her side, wanting to flip his own pancake.
“I can do it. Mom taught me how.” Grace moved aside, relinquishing the spatula to the confident boy.
“Your mom’s the best. I think she’s instilled a lot of great things in you. Today, when you’re in school, rely on those gifts. Your day just might go a little smoother.”
“I’m used to the bullies.”
“Don’t get used to them; Figure out a way to disarm them. Let me fill you in on a little secret I learned in school. Bullies don’t like themselves very much. They pick on others and act tough because that’s their only way to feel powerful. They’re hurting inside. Being the intuitive young man that you are, you can pick out a trait that would make them feel good about themselves. Look for their goodness. Find out what they do well and compliment them. They’re not used to praise. Got it?”
“Yeah, I think Steve Macomb’s dad calls him stupid all the time. He likes to call everyone else stupid. He’s bigger than me, too. His dad’s a big guy. Maybe it’s like my brother says: shit runs downhill.”
“I think your brother is very wise.” Grace pretended to walk in goo stuck on the floor. Buns chuckled, and their morning began to brighten.
* * *
Sal and John pulled up to the hotel in Big Bear. Sal checked the newspaper ad she held in her hand to confirm. “This must be it,” she said, eying the large, plastic banner that read, “Psychic Fair.”
John placed his hand over Sal’s. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“This stuff is bullshit, Sal. I think your doctors would know more about your illness than some charlatan.”
“You can wait in the car.”
“No, I’m coming with you,” he said, changing his tone. “Maybe I’ll even get my palm read!”
“This isn’t like the spa we just left. The toxins these people work on are stored in the soul. Are you ready for that?”
“You mean they peek into your dysfunctional childhood?”
“Don’t know, John. This is all new to me too. All I know is that I have to believe that the good Lord gave us more options than being cut, poisoned or burned!”
John slipped his arm around Sal and led her through large, glass doors. They stopped to register at the front desk and then wound their way into the ballroom where odd-looking people in colorful booths beckoned. Sal gravitated toward a man dressed in black. The medallion he wore around his neck resembled an eye. Blue sapphires and diamonds sparkled each time he moved under the canned lights shining down from the ceiling. The silk curtains surrounding his area gave Sal a feeling of a Gypsy camp or carnival tent. She approached him slowly as if she were in a trance.
“I am Joseph Martin, madam. Would you like a reading?” His rich voice matched his thick hair and golden brown eyes. Honey dripped from his words while explaining his psychic gifts to the couple. Sal reached in her purse, extracted a fifty-dollar bill, and sat down. John kept silent.
The fair-haired man shuffled a deck of tarot cards while he stared into Sal’s eyes. He laid out a Celtic cross and flipped over a card. “I see the shadow on your soul,” he said, casting his eyes toward John. “Ten lifetimes’ ago, you excited before your cycle was complete. A lover’s tryst; you took your life. Remnants of this experience are stored in your memory. You attach yourself to others deeply. You hang on as if you may be snatched from this world at any moment. You have many sons who love you and a daughter who is not from your limbs but your soul group. Your bond with this woman exists through many lifetimes, as does your mate.” The psychic’s intensity appealed to John’s curiosity. He took a seat beside Sal and began to listen closely.
“Disease eats at your body. Your bosom, where you nursed your sons, is deformed from the woes you carry in your heart. You must let go. You have no control, only destiny. Charted territory. Your friend, your daughter, is not your responsibility. Your sons have their own path to explore. You cannot change what is written, only how you perceive it. Fear is a breeding ground for affliction.”
Tears streamed down Sal’s face. The man’s words cut deep. Yes, she was a worry-wart, a control-freak, a cling-on as her eldest son would say. She loved her children so deeply. She feared losing them.
“May I?” The man stood and came around to face Sal’s back. He placed his hands above her head and moved them along the perimeter of her body. When he finished scanning her from head to toe, he placed two fingers on her forehead and began to chant.
John looked around. He felt silly, watching his wife succumb to this man’s hoodoo. The man caught his vibe and bore holes into his brain with his piercing eyes. At that moment, John felt hope.
Sal never saw anything so beautiful as the images presented behind her closed eyes. It was as if a screen unfolded before her revealing the wonders in nature. Colors so intense and new, defying anything she’d ever experienced, danced like flames in the wind. Suddenly, she felt her body change into another. She was nineteen; her hair flowed to her waist. The gown she wore barely covered her breasts. When she looked down, she could see where her tears had stained her skin, the object in her hand sharp and dangerous. She heard a voice inside her head say, “He loves you no longer. Go away.” Behind the color and the voice, another spoke. “You are loved by many. Stay.” She felt her heart shatter in her chest— diamonds against the sky. Peace followed the bright light. A voice whispered to her soul, “Go back. Try again.” This time, she saw the razor against her skin. Deep grooves oozed red. Tears had dried. Pain turned to numbness. Resigned to death, she let go. She waited for the light. None came. No stars. Hysterical voices and sobbing brought her to her senses. She was surrounded by sisters and cousins. They wrapped her in love. She joyfully felt her heart lift as she ascended to another plane.
As Sal floated through space and time, she felt lighter. Brown tendrils fell behind her. Vibrant colors embraced her. Angels sang. Her body, enveloped by clouds of comfort, tingled.
When Sal opened her eyes, she realized she had drawn a crowd. John followed her gaze. Their eyes met and held. In her mind, she heard his question. “Well? Did it work? Are you cured?” She couldn’t say. She felt more work was needed to be done. She had built up many lifetimes of cancer. “I have only scratched the surface.”
CHAPTER 5
BLAME GAME
T he following morning, Grace dropped Buns off at school and headed to the office. With S
al gone, she needed to prepare for her day. Another new client was coming in. A file would be essential.
Each time she turned the key in the lock to her office, foreboding followed. Months of therapy with Dr. Meltz helped diffuse her anxiety, but with Sal gone, fear twitched beneath the surface of her sanity, waiting to develop into a full-blown panic attack. She reached for the light switch before she entered. Once the room was lit, she exhaled.
She clicked her computer into life and started a pot of coffee. Sal’s mug looked lonely next to hers. Fear rose from her gut and settled in her tear ducts. Her emotions escaped and trickled down her cheek. “Stop it,” she scolded. “She’s coming back. All is well.” Grace rechecked her messages. Sal hadn’t called in three days.
* * *
Paul and his men arrived in Mendoza late afternoon. A flat tire and an overturned truckload of grapes slowed them. Paul’s high spirits were beginning to suffer due to lack of sleep. He wanted to be back at home, living his hum-drum life with the girl of his dreams. Too bad, bucko; you have to slay the dragon before you can marry the princess. His shoulders felt heavy. A few winks would do him good.
When they pulled into the bus depot parking lot, Raphael jumped out of the car. Paul watched as he held the cell phone to his ear, his free hand gesturing passionately. Raphael stopped to look in both directions, and then, seeing his friend emerge from a dock door, he waved and headed toward him. The two men exchanged a boisterous hug before entering the building. By the time Raphael returned to the car, his demeanor had changed considerably.
“No sign of him.”
Paul’s stomach began to churn. “What’s next?”
Skip patted Paul on the shoulder. “We check the private airports. I doubt if he was able to get out without being spotted, but who knows?” He scrubbed the stubble on his face, “This dude’s like Houdini.”
Skip put the car in gear. Raphael sat in the back seat, staring out the window deep in thought. Paul hungered for the serenity the lush mountains projected before him. All three sat quiet, contemplating what lay ahead.
The sudden ring-tone of a mariachi band startled the men to attention. “Hola,” Raphael said, in a chipper tone. “Sí.” He flipped his phone shut. “Turn left up here. I think we got ’im.”
Paul’s heart leaped in his chest. Skip floored the gas pedal.
Twenty minutes later, the men arrived at a small airport outside Mendoza. A cloud of dust announced their arrival. The car barely came to a complete stop before Raphael was out the door. Skip and Paul stayed behind waiting for Raphael’s signal to join him.
“Damn, buddy. Hope this dude’s got something.” Skip raised his arm and sniffed his pit, breaking the seal on the pressure building in their small space. “I need a shower. I can’t stand myself anymore. Whew!”
“Whaddaya mean?” Paul joked. “You always smell that way!”
“You think that’s bad,” Skip retaliated, breaking wind.
Paul lowered his window until it was level with the door’s frame. “I forgot just how rank you can get, my friend.” Paul exaggerated a deep, choking cough.
Raphael returned with a short, stocky man. The man’s nose was redder than the rest of his face. From his expression, Paul gathered his blood pressure was sky high. Raphael and the man exchanged heated words in foreign tongues. Finally, the man crumpled the piece of paper in his hand and threw it to the ground. Raphael smacked the man on the back of the head and ordered him to retrieve his trash.
Raphael leaned into the open window on Paul’s side of the car. He was about to speak when he made a face. “What died in here?”
Skip leaned forward and waved a hand. “Hey, who ya got there?”
“Commander Oho Du Cu!”
The man objected to the insult in a rapid barrage of Portuguese slang. Raphael threatened to slit his throat if he didn’t shut up. “He’s gone.”
“Gone? Just like that?” Paul inquired calm and deadly, “Gone where?”
Raphael pushed the man toward the open window. “Go on, tell him!”
“He came looking for a flight to Chili. Bonita took him in her car.”
“Who the fuck is Bonita?” Skip yelled, stretching his large frame across Paul’s shoulder.
“She’s a flight attendant. She was getting off work. The man was waiting. I got a close look at him. He looked like your guy. I went into the office to call Raphael. When I returned, I saw him getting in Bonita’s car. I’ve been trying to call her. She doesn’t answer.”
“How long ago?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Fuck,” Skip groaned.
“What kind of car does this Bonita drive?”
“2012 Peugeot 207 GT, descapotable. Azul bebé.” Raphael whistled.
The man nodded. “Bonita accepts gifts from wealthy men.”
Paul turned to Skip. “Let’s go. Raphael. Pay the man. I want her license plate number and address by the time we hit the highway.”
* * *
Jess laughed when the redheaded, flight attendant increased her speed, shifting gears like she was driving in the Indy 500. The top down and her hair whipping in the wind triggered a memory. An apartment he lived in with his mother at age thirteen. Oh yeah. The sun ignited the flight attendant’s long tresses like the flames that licked at the doorway of the apartment while you watched the place burn. He reached out to touch Bonita’s hair. She turned and smiled. He saw his mother’s face.
His words competed with road noise and the 1.6-liter engine. “Know any good plastic surgeons?” He ran his finger along her jawline and toyed with strands of her hair. So close to the fire.
* * *
Sylvia Mendoza arrived soon after Grace’s nerves had a chance to settle. The woman had burst into tears before she finished writing her name on the form provided. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said. “I can’t seem to collect myself these days.”
Grace handed the woman a tissue and patted her shoulder. “Come into my office. We can talk there.”
Once the two women were seated and Sylvia’s composure returned, she explained she recently lost her mother. The grief proved more than she could bare. Her doctor had given her Xanax to calm her nerves and Ambien to induce sleep, but she still felt as though she were about to jump out of her skin.
“I cry all the time,” Sylvia said, dabbing smeared mascara from the corners of her deep-set eyes. Her haunted appearance seemed all too familiar to Grace.
“It’s not unusual to cry after losing a loved one,” she said, her heart still aching for those she’d lost. “I know this sounds cliché, but time does heal all wounds. Not to say the hurt goes away completely, but one day you’ll realize that you made it through an hour without tears. Next it’ll be a whole day, then a week, and so on. Don’t be hard on yourself.”
“I could’ve done more.”
“How so?
“I should’ve had her move in with me. That’s what a good daughter would’ve done.” The woman’s head dropped in her hands. She began to weep.
Grace’s thoughts drifted momentarily. Her mind backtracked to the first time she moved into Sal’s house to help out during her bout with cancer. She was younger then and unseasoned. She hadn’t experienced the losses she now touted in her bevy of woes. “Did your mother ask to move in with you?”
“No. She was very independent.”
“What makes you think she would have agreed to move in with you then?”
“I should’ve insisted. She was ill.”
“Did you make all of her decisions for her?”
“No.”
“Being ill doesn’t always mean relinquishing your right to make decisions for yourself. Did your mother call when she needed you?”
“Yes. Most of the time.”
“Most of the time?”
“Sometimes she would fall, but wouldn’t tell me until after she managed to get herself up.”
“Sounds to me like your mother was a proud woman.”
“Yes.”
“And perhaps a little controlling at times?”
“How did you know that?”
“Oh, probably because my mother wouldn’t call me if the house burned down, but she would call if she wanted me to drive thirty miles to pick up a newspaper.”
“I see. Yes. She did those kinds of things.”
“Then I guess beating yourself up over not having her move in when she hadn’t expressed a wish to do so is futile.” Grace’s smile was warm. She truly felt the woman’s angst.
* * *
Jess suggested Bonita find a secluded spot to extinguish the fire he had been stoking since the speedometer reached one hundred. His hand explored the nature of her being, arousing her to a heated frenzy. She practically hovered in her seat, giving him free reign. When she almost hit a tree, she decided it was time to pull onto a grassy knoll.
Bonita’s nostrils flared with every thrust. Jess burst into laughter before burying himself inside of her during the finale. When she screamed his name—“Oh, Rrricky! Oh!”—he went into hysterics. Bonita tittered, attempting to relate to his sense of humor, making the situation even more hilarious to him.
“Bonita, Bonita,” he said drying his tears. He squeezed one voluptuous butt cheek, then the other. He restrained himself from pushing her down on the seat and biting chunks of firm flesh. No.
He needed her for the time being. I have a plan.
The couple spent the entire day indulging in hot sex. Bonita proved insatiable. Jess had to remind her he needed food to replenish his sperm supply. They found a deli to pack a picnic supper and rented a cheap motel.
In the morning, Bonita spread herself against the wall, inviting him to take part in her delicacies. “Damn, don’t you ever quit?” Her pouty face rendered his penis hard and ready. Her lips wrapped around his flesh, extracting a moan from him with every pull. He flipped her onto the bed and rode her like a prize bull.
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