Storm Lines

by Jessica L. Webb

  A perfect explanation, Devon thought. She had a moment then, an odd break from reality where she could see, so clearly see her and Marley with their own kids, talking to them about secrets, laughing with them and loving them, trying to protect them from the hurts of the world. Devon blinked and the vision receded, as if it was tucking itself away for now.

  “Three people you trust,” Carla was saying to Aimee. “If you’re feeling safe in your heart and your body, this might be a good time to share the bad secrets.”

  Aimee kept her eyes closed, hands still in her lap. She felt far away and Devon wondered if she was lost in tangled, painful memories. Out of reach and alone. A gentle wind came up, a summer breeze that moved across Devon’s skin in a way that always made her thankful for days like this. She waited for Aimee to turn her face to the breeze, tilting her face up to accept the caress of wind. But Aimee didn’t move. She was unswayed by breezes, disconnected from the world.

  Devon watched Marley and Carla exchange a worried glance. But then Aimee opened her eyes, looked right at Marley, and shook her head. Then she stood, handed back the pen and paper, and walked away.

  “Shit,” Marley said after Aimee was out of earshot. “That didn’t go well.”

  “We’ve always known she has secrets,” Carla said, venom in her voice. Devon figured it was directed at her son. “I guess this means we’re getting closer.”

  Devon said nothing, a stirring of helplessness that surfaced as anger surging through her system. Aimee needed professional help instead of interrogations that doubled as shitty therapy sessions. Yes, Aimee trusted them, but not one of them, including Devon, knew the best way to support a child through what was evidently some kind of trauma. Devon felt sick, felt complicit, felt powerless.

  They watched as Aimee picked up the stick again, creeping through the long grass. A moment later, the white moth flitted into the air, and Aimee held the stick so carefully above it. But the moth flapped its delicate wings, evading Aimee’s offer, and disappeared up into the sky. Aimee threw the stick at the fence, a strangled sound escaping her, then she collapsed onto the ground and started to cry.

  Carla jumped from her chair and sat down next to Aimee, drawing her into her arms and rocking her. Devon’s heart ached to see the brokenness of this wild child. Knowing this was part of her journey, knowing this had to happen, didn’t make witnessing it any easier. Devon saw Marley crying quietly, her lips pressed together as tears tracked down her face.

  “It’s okay,” Devon said, contrary to every piece of current evidence.

  “I did that,” Marley whispered. “I knew I shouldn’t. I knew it wasn’t right and I did it anyway.”

  They were all complicit; they could all do better. But Devon kept those thoughts locked down for now because they were too hurtful to share. Instead, she took Marley’s hand and squeezed tightly as they sat, bearing witness and staying present, giving the only love they could to the crying child in that moment.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You’re not listening. It came back negative.”

  “That doesn’t make sense, test it again.”

  “Three tests, all negative. We need to look at another avenue.”

  “And waste time and resources? No, it’s a wild goose chase.”

  Marley sat back and listened to Simms and Salik as they became angrier and angrier with each other and listened less and less. They’d already wasted a half hour. Marley half listened to the argument, the rest of her mind spinning about Aimee, torturing herself with regret and shame, even though Devon had told her not to.

  “Anything to add, Marlowe?”

  “No,” Marley said. Then, “Yes. What problem are we trying to solve?”

  They looked at her blankly, like they were trying to work out what she was doing here. Marley was getting used to that look.

  “Street drugs,” Salik said. “Making people sick.”

  “Is that the problem? The main problem, the one that’s keeping you up at night.”

  Salik looked surprised then thoughtful. “A new street drug making people sick enough to seek medical treatment during withdrawal is absolutely problematic. But it’s this question of withdrawal symptoms being potentially contagious that’s keeping me up at night.”

  “Two cases,” Simms said. “Two cases of a rash. Call me crazy, but I think that’s a coincidence, not a crisis.”

  Salik shook his head, unconvinced. Marley thought it odd Simms was talking stats to the guy whose whole job consisted of tracking Public Heath numbers but kept her mouth shut.

  When nobody spoke, Simms tried again. He seemed desperate for someone to agree with him. “It makes way more sense from a logical perspective that the two people with rashes also ingested the drug somehow. That’s why they’re showing similar symptoms.”

  “The Ferrick boy is two years old. And we did a hair follicle test. No drugs in his system.”

  “Those tests aren’t reliable, we all know that.”

  “A history of inconclusive or false positives, yes. Not false negatives.”

  Marley remembered reading about the fallout from decades before with hair follicle samples from kids that were used to remove them from their mothers. So many kids were dumped into the social services system from a faulty drug test. She was pretty sure the court cases were still ongoing.

  “It sounds like a dead end to me,” Marley said. Maybe taking Salik’s side wasn’t the best career move. “What other theories are on the table?”

  Marley’s question was met with silence. Simms looked satisfied, as if the silence justified his theory of coincidence. Salik stared at the table, and Marley thought this was a man whose mind never stopped. Neither did hers. She knew little about the world of rashes and contagions, just that her niece had broken out in a viral rash often when she was sick. Grace called it waving the red flag of sick as the poor kid’s stomach and back were covered in red splotches.

  “Is it possible we’ve got it backward?” Marley said.

  “What do you mean?” Salik said.

  “What if the drug overdose lowers the person’s immunity or whatever. And they’re around someone who is sick, with a virus or something. So they’re more likely to catch it?” Her tentative theory seemed to impress Simms, maybe because it meant it wasn’t something he had to worry about.

  But Salik suddenly stood up. “I need to take this back to my office. I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

  Once he’d left, Marley and Simms stared at each other.

  “I’ve got a meeting with the director of the safe consumption sites in an hour if you want to tag along.”

  Marley considered the offer. “I’m going to take a pass, I think. I need to get to the bottom of those evidence boxes.”

  “Okay,” Simms said, slapping the file in front of him as if they’d come to some sort of conclusion or resolution. Neither of those things were true. “Keep me in the loop.”

  Marley checked her phone on her way back to the office. There were two texts, one from her mom and one from her sister, checking in to see how she was doing. Marley smiled to herself. They’d been talking. Marley tucked the phone back in her pocket and opened the door to the office. Everything was as she’d left it four days ago. No one else on the drug team wanted to take on this job. As Marley adjusted the mask on her face and pulled on gloves, she steeled herself for what other evidence of Aimee’s neglect she might find.

  Marley had logged more receipts when she came across a manila envelope with Aimee’s name written across the top in black marker: Aimee Madeleine Parker West. Marley had never seen her full name, though she knew Alicia Parker was Aimee’s mother. She’d always wondered why Aimee’s mother had given her baby the father’s last name since he wasn’t in her life until Alicia became sick. And Randolph used that to his advantage.

  Marley slid the contents of the envelope on the table. Aimee’s birth certificate, printed on stiff paper. Born in Sudbury, Ontario on April 29, 2011. A small hospital ca
rd listing her height and weight with the words It’s a girl! across the top. A tiny hospital bracelet. Her health card. A form letter saying she passed her infant screening test. A pre-school assessment. Aimee’s handprint in purple paint. Kindergarten report cards. Results from an allergist. Her first grade school photo, Aimee with a blistering smile that outshone the fake fireworks in the background.

  Marley sat back in her chair. She’d come in ready to steel herself against evidence of Aimee’s neglect. But here was documentation of love and care, concern for her well-being, a celebration of her daily existence. It hurt to see Aimee’s loving childhood collected in an envelope and shoved into an evidence box. She couldn’t feel it all right now, needed to contain the ache, so she pulled the evidence sheet toward her and meticulously catalogued the contents.

  Before sliding everything back in, Marley checked the envelope. One piece of folded paper slid out when she tapped it, a one-page printed letter from Alicia Parker to Randolph West. It was short, formal, and sad, Alicia saying she was giving custody of Aimee to her father, who had proven he had turned his life around, had a job and a home in Windsor, and promised to raise their child right. Marley counted from the date of the letter to the date of the Fleming Street drug bust. Aimee had endured almost nine months of hell with her mother’s hope and her dad’s empty promises.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Marley put aside the envelope and finished cataloguing the last handful of paper evidence. Nothing stood out as interesting—offers from an internet provider, instructions from a coffee percolator, receipts from 7-Eleven for gas and energy drinks. Marley packaged it all up and put the evidence log on top with a scribbled note and signature in the margin saying she had taken possession of the envelope. She then sent out a text to Simms regarding the envelope, locked the door to the small office, and headed out the door, intent on bringing these small pieces of Aimee’s life back where they belonged.

  * * *

  Devon walked up her driveway, adjusting the bag across her shoulder and wishing it would sit more comfortably. She wished everything about her work clothes and this day felt more comfortable. She turned back at the sound of insistent knocking on glass and waved at Aimee, who was wedged in the dining room window as usual. Devon laughed as Aimee made a face, waved enthusiastically, then jumped down and disappeared.

  Feeling a little lighter, Devon got into her car and backed out. She was heading to an all-day work training event. Her supervisor and HR thought this might be a good, slow introduction back into work. The session was being held off-site, so there was no pressure to walk back into her routines and responsibilities. She could show her face and start to reconnect to colleagues and her team. Devon kept reminding herself it was okay this didn’t feel normal.

  Devon pulled into the parking lot behind the hotel and convention centre on the outskirts of downtown and parked her car away from other vehicles. She was early, but she wanted a few moments before the barrage of greetings and questions and sensory noise of three hundred people. She pulled out her phone and reread the text thread with Marley from last night.

  They’d talked about Aimee and Carla, about their jobs, their families, places they wanted to travel. Marley made her laugh. Being with Marley felt so much like she’d been starving and Marley was the nourishment she had been craving. Devon was grateful for Marley in her life. And more than a little terrified.

  She checked the time on her phone. It was time to get in there. She thumbed out a quick email to her therapist to book an appointment. Thrilling-terrifying feelings were Ash’s specialty. After a brief hesitation, she sent Marley a good morning text, then grabbed her bag and went into the conference centre. When her phone signaled a text, Devon anchored to Marley’s message: It’s okay if today is weird, it’s also okay if it’s wonderful.

  It was both. Devon slipped into work mode as she registered at the makeshift desk, received a name tag, and headed straight for the coffee. She greeted people and exchanged a few hugs, letting her scared heart feel the genuineness of the moments, even amidst the chaos. She answered questions, raising her voice to be heard above the din and energy of several hundred regional health care workers set free from their hospitals and offices for the day.

  Gloria, the nurse who had taken such good care of Aimee, took Devon by the elbow and guided her to a seat at her table.

  “Pace yourself, Tiger,” Gloria said in her ear. “There are sixty of us here from the hospital. I want you to get out of here alive.”

  Devon laughed and Gloria winked. The rescue felt good, she decided, as she sat at the table and prepared for her day. She could let her team look out for her, like she had tried so hard to look out for them. Ash, she thought, would be proud.

  The day was good but overwhelming. Nothing about the day felt settled or familiar, but by the time the last speaker was wrapping up, Devon felt connected again. She was exhausted, but she welcomed the feeling of excitement in her belly, the reminder that she loved working in health care and the challenge of working within this complex, under-resourced, best-intentioned system. As she packed up and headed back to her car, Devon felt more excitement than dread for the first time in a very, very long while.

  Devon checked her phone on the way back to the car, disappointed she hadn’t had any texts from Marley all day. But then her phone signaled message after message, and Devon realized she was getting a day’s worth of texts and notifications all at once. Confused and concerned, she scrolled through. Texts and a call from Marley. And, even more alarmingly, a missed call from her home phone.

  Hands shaking, Devon unlocked her car and made herself breathe. She jammed her phone in the hands-free contraption on her console and called Marley. The ringing seemed to take forever, and the car was already stifling from having sat in the sun all day. Sweat gathered under Devon’s collar and she had turned on her car and opened her windows by the time Marley answered.

  “Devon, hey. Everyone is okay.”

  Relief flooded into Devon’s system.

  “I was at training, I guess I wasn’t getting a signal but I didn’t know it.” Devon could hear herself babbling.

  “It’s okay. I’m at your place with Carla and Aimee. They got a letter from Randolph, and it freaked Carla out a bit.”

  “He delivered it? To the house?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” The phone was muffled briefly, and Devon could hear Marley speaking to someone else. “Come home and we’ll talk. It will make more sense when you see it.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Devon said, heart rate dropping to normal. “I’ll be about ten minutes.”

  “It’s rush hour, sweetheart,” Marley said. “Turn up your A/C and maybe listen to…classic rock? A true crime podcast? I don’t know, what do you usually listen to in the car?”

  Devon laughed as she pulled into traffic. “CBC Radio, but the drive home show drives me crazy.”

  “Totally. So Toronto-centric.”

  Marley talked and Devon listened as she navigated the clogged streets. The half-hour drive was easier with Marley’s voice filling the car.

  “I’m here,” Devon said, pulling into the driveway.

  “Oh yes. The Aimee alert has gone off.”

  Devon peered up through the windshield to see her waving furiously.

  The house felt Aimee-level chaotic when Devon stepped inside. Homemade paper lanterns and streamers hung from the ceilings and walls. And it looked like when she’d run out of construction paper, she’d turned a blank section of wall into art using green painter’s tape.

  Thundering footsteps announced Aimee’s arrival as she ran across the living room and launched herself off the chair into Devon’s arms. Laughing, Devon caught the girl and swung her around.

  “I missed you, too, Squirt.”

  Marley was leaning in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, smiling. She was still in her uniform, hands shoved into her pockets. The combination of Aimee’s energy and Marley’s smile eased some more of the tightness in h
er chest.

  “Let the woman breathe, Aimee,” Carla called from the kitchen. “She just walked in the door.”

  Aimee grinned but let go and ran into the kitchen. Devon put down her bag and toed off her shoes as Marley walked toward her. She stopped in front of Devon, a smile somehow sweet and mischievous on her face. Devon felt her breath go shallow as thoughts of her day, the panic, the worry entirely fled. Then Marley leaned in a little closer, tilted her face up to meet Devon’s, and kissed her.

  It was all sweetness, that kiss. It was gentleness and welcome, it was safety and softness until the very end, when Marley pressed herself closer, kissed her a little harder, then released her and stepped back. That was heat and promise, and Marley’s smile was all mischief.

  “Welcome home.”

  “Thanks,” Devon breathed.

  Marley laughed and took Devon by the hand, pulling her into the kitchen.

  Carla was at the island, chopping cucumber like her life depended on it. Devon read stress in the lines around her mouth and the curve of her shoulders as she hunched over the cutting board.

  “Hope you don’t mind a little redecorating,” Carla said sharply, waving her knife in the general direction of the living room, now full of Aimee’s art.

  “Not at all,” Devon said, hoping Carla would look up. She didn’t.

  “And I hope you don’t need to paint anytime soon because the little one went through all the tape.”

  Devon glanced at Aimee, who had stopped spinning on the barstool across the island. She held still and glanced between Carla and Devon.

  “I can’t stand painting, so that’s not a problem.”

  Carla kept chopping vegetables, her anger clear in every slice and scrape.