Coming for You

by Deborah Rogers

  But when I think of not being a prosecutor anymore my stomach clenches. Turning my back on the job I love is not what I want, and I have so much more to give. No, I need to fight for this. Throw everything I have at putting things right. I take out my notepad and pen and begin writing my submission.

  When Ethan knocks on the front door precisely at six, I’m caught off guard. I’ve been so absorbed on working on my submission I’ve lost track of time. I glance around my messy apartment. I had wanted to tidy it before he arrived. Too late now. My stomach flutters. I quickly check my appearance in the mirror and tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I can’t believe I feel this silly, worse than a teenage girl. I open the door.

  “Hey,” he says, giving me a peck on the cheek.

  He’s as nervous as I am and we both laugh.

  “Let’s not be awkward,” I say.

  “Ditto, that,” he says, stepping inside the apartment. “Smells good.”

  I laugh. “I haven’t even started cooking yet.”

  “I was talking about you.”

  “Oh, the detective knows how to flatter a lady.”

  “That’s not the only thing in my bag of tricks.”

  I turn and head for the kitchen. “There’s fresh juice in the fridge. I was going to get wine but after last time…” I feel myself color.

  “Juice sounds good to me,” he says.

  I kick myself for not getting him some beer. A six-pack of whatever. I make a mental note to find out what he likes so I can get it for next time.

  “Hope you like salmon,” I say, digging into the back of the cupboard for a frying pan.

  “You bet. I could eat that stuff all day.”

  Ethan pours us each a juice and takes a seat at the counter. He glances at my notepad next to the empty fruit bowl.

  “Looks official,” he says, eyes running over my chicken scratches.

  I place the salmon fillets in the sizzling pan.

  “My disciplinary hearing at the Bar Association is scheduled for next Tuesday. I need to write a submission.”

  “Oh boy.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Yeah. I could be looking for a new career by the end of next week. Do you think I’d make a good detective?” I try for cheerful but he isn’t buying it.

  “Would you like me to come with you?”

  I’m about to say no but pause. “Why don’t you let me think about it?”

  He nods.

  “You worried about it?” he says.

  “The salmon?”

  “The Bar hearing. Losing your license.”

  I toss the salad in a bowl and add some baby beets, get out a couple of serving forks.

  “I don’t want to stop being a lawyer if that’s what you mean, but I misled the court and that’s pretty bad.”

  “I’ve heard of lawyers who’ve embezzled clients’ funds who got off with some nominal fine.”

  Frowning, I press the salmon with a fork, wondering if I’ve cooked it long enough. “Those types of mercenary sharks have friends in high places. That’s not me.”

  “Who’s going to represent you?”

  I place the salmon on two dinner plates and take a seat next to him.

  “Myself.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  “I want to. I think it will be good for the Committee to see that I’m genuinely remorseful.” I smile at him. “Now, that’s enough about me and the state of my sorry life, let’s eat.”

  He gets the message, takes a mouthful of salmon, and looks thoughtful. “Want to meet my pop this weekend?”

  “Your father?”

  He nods. “I’ve got to go to the care home to do some gardening. Pop’s got a balcony connected to his room and likes to sit out there when the sun is shining.”

  I’m touched he wants me to meet his father. “I’d like that very much, Ethan. Thank you for asking.”

  He smiles, goes back to the salmon.

  “Good,” he says between mouthfuls, grunting. “Really good.”

  I wonder whether he will stay overnight or play the gentleman. I think of telling him about my session with Lorna and how I didn’t perform the checking process as much today.

  “I think from now on everything’s going to be all right,” I say, suddenly. “Me, I mean. I feel different.”

  He puts down his fork and kisses me. “I think so, too.”

  “Salmon breath,” I say, laughing.

  “Best kind of breath going.”

  *

  He stays overnight. I lie in his arms listening to his gentle breath, feeling the warmth of his skin. I wonder how this is even possible. With so many bad things occupying my mind for so long, it’s the strangest feeling to have such loving and happy thoughts, to believe in something steady and certain and trustworthy. Tonight, I feel like the luckiest girl alive.

  His phone rings in the middle of the night. He murmurs into the phone, hangs up, then gets out of bed.

  “What is it?”

  “Sorry to wake you,” he says, buttoning his shirt. “They found a body.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Welcome to my life.”

  I think yes, this is what it would be like, life as a cop’s wife, to be roused in the middle of the night only for them to disappear for days on end while they get sucked into a vortex of an investigation.

  “Homicide?”

  He laughs. “Already planning the prosecution?” He sits on the end of the bed and puts on his shoes. “Short on details at the moment. Body found in Central Park, in the ravine, the stream valley section of the North Woods.” He bends down and gives me a kiss. “Now you know about as much as I do, Counselor.” He pauses at the door. “I’ll call you later if I get a chance.”

  “Take care,” I say.

  After he’s gone, I roll over and go back to sleep.

  33

  When I wake up, there’s a text message from Ethan. Wanted you to hear it from me first. Alistair Kennedy is dead. I touch my throat, shocked. Alistair Kennedy? Ethan’s text includes a news link so I click on that and read the article:

  Teacher’s body found mutilated. The body of Alistair Kennedy, 53, former Head of English at Ashbury Preparatory and Grammar School, was discovered in Central Park overnight. Police confirm witness accounts that the body was naked and the penis had been dismembered. No cause of death has been released so far. Kennedy had recently faced criminal charges of sexual assault against minors in his care but the case was dismissed due to a mistrial. Parents of the children involved in the allegations are currently being contacted and questioned by police.

  Rattled, I put down my phone. Although Kennedy was no great loss to society, his murder is still unnerving. Who could be responsible? One of the victims’ parents? Claire? She was certainly angry enough about what had happened. But murder? What about Claire’s husband, Susie’s father, a man I had never met? According to Claire, he wasn’t exactly afraid to resort to violence.

  I consider phoning Claire. But what would I say? And the police would no doubt soon be in the process of questioning her, if they weren’t already doing so, and contacting her might be seen to be interfering in a homicide investigation. I decide to wait until I’ve had a chance to speak to Ethan. Get more information. Sometimes arrests are made early and all this could soon be resolved.

  I need to get up and finish my hearing submission, so that’s what I do, pushing all thoughts of Kennedy’s death aside as best I can. I manage to focus for a good two hours, drafting and tweaking, until the chirp of my cell takes me out of the flow. I assume it’s Ethan, but then I see my mother’s number. I answer.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hello, hon…” She fades out. I hear a thumping motorbike. The blast of a car horn. Heavy traffic.

  “Where are you, Mom? I can barely hear you.”

  “That better?” she says, raising her voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry, I’d forgotten how noisy the city can be.”

&nbs
p; “You’re here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  “I wanted to surprise you. Can you take some time out of your busy workday to have lunch with your mom?”

  I swallow down guilt. I still haven’t told her about my suspension. Lunch would probably be a good opportunity to come clean.

  “I’d love to, Mom.”

  “You would? Oh good. What about that little deli near Brooklyn Bridge Park?”

  “Sure, I remember that place. Miro Deli. Great salads.” I look at my watch. A quarter after eleven. “I can be there at noon. That okay for you?”

  “Perfect, hon. See you soon.”

  We end the call and I stand looking at my phone. Something’s off. Something in my mother’s voice I haven’t heard before and I don’t like it one little bit. I pull on my jacket, pick up my purse, and grab my keys. I pause there and look over my shoulder at the living room blinds, the windows, all the things waiting to be checked. Not this time, I tell myself. It’s safe here. No one is getting in. The monster is dead. I open the door and leave.

  34

  It has been a while since I’ve been to Brooklyn Bridge Park, a beautiful spot with glorious views across the East River. I remember when the park was being constructed. As an associate for Winters, Coles and Partners, I had worked on planning permission for the development. It had been an ambitious project involving revitalizing 1.3 miles of Brooklyn’s post-industrial waterfront, encompassing Atlantic Avenue, the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, and Jay Street north of the Manhattan Bridge. The site included piers, covered basketball courts, large grassy areas, a spectacular paved promenade, a marina, a grand carousel with beautifully crafted wooden horses, even a strip of golden sand along the shoreline for volleyball players.

  Today the park is relatively free of people as I cut across a finely clipped grassy area, narrowly avoiding a galloping Labrador running for a Frisbee. I head along the promenade feeling more positive than I have in ages. The air smells salty. Fresh. It’s good. I’d forgotten. Even the chill of the breeze is pleasant. I look out at the East River and watch the hydrofoil boats skip across the water.

  When I arrive at Miro Deli, Mom is waiting for me at a window seat with views across to Manhattan. She looks tired. It’s been at least six months since I last saw her. I feel an ache in my ribcage. I have been too wrapped up in myself and not much of a daughter lately.

  When she sees me, a big smile breaks out across her face. She stands and pulls me into an embrace, nearly knocking the cane out of my hand. I smell patchouli and paint thinner.

  “Oh, hon. It’s so good to see you,” she murmurs, hugging me tight.

  She lets go and holds me at arm’s length.

  “You’re skin and bones! You promised me you would take care of yourself.”

  “You should talk, Mom. There’s not much to you either at the moment.”

  She waves me off.

  “Shall we order?” she says, taking a seat to look at the menu. “The barley grain risotto with mushroom sounds good. I’m going to go with that. What are you going to have, hon?” She sounds cheery, artificially so, and I’m wondering, with ever-increasing dread, what she has in store for me.

  “Haloumi salad, I think,” I say, snapping the menu shut.

  A waitress with dreadlocks looped in a topknot places a water jug on our table and takes our order. After she leaves, I fill our glasses.

  “So what brings you to the city?”

  Mom averts her gaze, shifts the paper napkin in front of her.

  “I had an appointment.”

  “An appointment?”

  She nods. “A medical one.”

  I frown. “Is there anything I should know?”

  She shifts the paper napkin back to its original spot. “Actually, there is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  My mouth goes dry. “You’re worrying me here, Mom.”

  “Oh, honey.” Her eyes well with tears.

  “Mom, what is it? Please tell me.”

  Big fat tears drip down her face. She dabs them with her napkin.

  “I’ve got ovarian cancer.”

  I think I might throw up. “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t know how to tell you. I’ve been having treatment for six weeks. You should get a check-up, hon. It’s the type of cancer that took Nana May. It may run in the family.” She pauses. “There are tumors.”

  “Oh God, Mom. No.”

  “They say with treatment, I might stand a chance.”

  “A chance?”

  “Thirty percent.”

  I’m stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to worry you. Not after everything you’ve been through.”

  I start crying. “Oh, Mom.”

  “It’s not over yet, hon. I’m fighting this with everything I have.”

  We stare at each other. Thirty percent. I want to punch a wall.

  I reach for her hand. “Promise me you’ll tell me everything from now on,” I say. “I want to be there for you.”

  She squeezes back. “I will.”

  She laughs, wiping her eyes. “Look at us, would you? Crying like two little girls.”

  The waitress with the dreadlock topknot arrives with our meals. She sees what a mess we’re in. “You folks all right here? Want me to come back?”

  “We’re fine,” says Mom. “We’re ready to eat now. Aren’t we, hon?”

  35

  My return trip home occurs in a daze. Cancer. Thirty percent chance of survival. Jesus. I glance around the half-empty train. I wish I was them. The young couple with a travel-worn backpack absorbed in a Lonely Planet guide. The two old ladies in knee-high pantyhose and sneakers conversing loudly in Polish. The Chinese man circling things in a folded copy of the Sing Tao Daily.

  I want to tell all of them what just happened. But I don’t. Instead I stare and say nothing.

  One of the Polish ladies reminds me of Nana May. The happiest woman that ever lived. An elfin woman with a seemingly endless supply of positive energy who brought joy to everyone who knew her.

  Then Nana May got sick and we all watched that good and happy woman be bought to her knees. She fought hard, tried to smile her way through the pain, but it was too much, even for Nana May. Her final weeks were lived in a cloud of morphine. She became a stranger, and bit by bit, the cancer swallowed her up until she was nothing more than a withered rubber suit.

  I did not want that for my mother.

  I think back to our conversation. I was the last person Mom had told about the cancer, that was obvious now, and that fact hurt a lot. My brother and sister, Becca and Danny, had known all along and supported her. But not me. I was too wrapped up in myself, too lost in my own wretched and futile neurosis.

  Well, all that was going to change. I would do everything I could to help her. The first thing would be to make sure she was getting the best possible treatment. John Liber’s wife was an oncologist. I would go talk to her, find out all the available options.

  I stand as my train pulls into my stop. Thirty percent isn’t nothing. Thirty percent is a fighting chance. And I would do my utmost to put my mother on the right side of the ledger.

  I disembark and make my way up the subway steps and carry on to the park across the road from my apartment. Without thinking, I pause by the hedge line and start counting the floors. One. Two. Three. Four. It takes a minute to register what I’m doing. I clench my fists, frustrated. I want so badly not to do this anymore, but the compulsion to look is just too strong. For now, I give in and return my gaze to the apartment. Something’s not right. The blinds are closed all the way. Surely I opened them this morning?

  I rack my brain. After Ethan’s text, I got out of bed and went straight to work on my submission on my laptop at the kitchen table. I guess it was possible I didn’t bother opening the blinds, especially since I was also distracted with the news about Kennedy.

  I wait awhile longer at the hedge line, just watching. The cat
tiptoes across the roof, then leaps to the floor below. There doesn’t seem to be any movement inside my apartment. Nothing to suggest anyone is there. Anyway, who precisely do I think is inside? Haven’t I accepted the fact that Rex Hawkins is dead? Am I now inventing other phantom monsters to take his place?

  I decide I’m being ridiculous. I will not let this disorder rule my life. Using my annoyance to propel me, I cross the road and go inside.

  When I open the door to my apartment, I see that everything is fine. Yes, the blinds are down but everything else looks in order. I cross the floor and pull up the blinds and light floods the apartment. I pause by the window and look over at the park where I have just been standing.

  My heart aches a little. How many hundreds of times have I stood there shaking with uncertainty and fear? How long is it going to take me before I can get on top of this miserable thing? I need to remember what Lorna said. There’s no way to outrun it. It’s going to be a long process and I need to be patient with myself. Getting worked up and frustrated is not going to help.

  I turn from the window and shift my focus back to my mother. Before I contact John Liber’s wife, it would be sensible to do some preliminary research on the latest ovarian cancer treatments.

  As I reach for my laptop on the kitchen table, something catches my eye. A lone mug on the kitchen countertop. Not one of my usual ones but the “Happy it’s Friday” mug that normally sits at the back of the cupboard. It wasn’t on the counter this morning. I know this for sure.

  I begin sweating. Maybe Ethan came around when I was out? But Ethan doesn’t have a key. I inch forward and pick up the mug. When I see what’s inside, I scream.

  36

  Inside the mug is a dismembered penis. I stare transfixed by the fat slug of a thing, not quite believing what I’m seeing.

  “Hello, Amelia.”

  The hairs on my neck stand up on end. I turn. Rex Hawkins is standing there. Smaller than I remember. Diminished somehow. Late forties has given way to early fifties. Dark hair grayer at the temples. Lines chiseled deep around those deceptively friendly blue eyes. He’s dressed much the same as the day he abducted me. Jeans, plaid shirt, meticulously clean and ironed to hard creases. But his once sun-burnished skin is now pale and dull. This is a man who now lives in the shadows. I start to shake. All I can think of is, I was right. I was right all along.