As a recovering overprotector, I wasn’t sure how to answer, and I was starting to fear a relapse in Jack and Sophie’s teen years.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe a three? It sounds like she was protective, not necessarily overprotective, of a girl who was losing her way.”
“Eleven’s kinda early for a senior though, don’t you think? Our curfew was midnight.”
“Maybe, but we haven’t walked a mile in her shoes. Remember that saying of my mom’s, ‘Nothing good happens after midnight’?”
“She’s right when it comes to teens,” Kenna said. “But at our age?” She raised an eyebrow at me.
Kenna was open about the after-hours happiness of her marriage, and I tried to let it inspire rather than intimidate me.
“Not at my house,” I said. “Unless you count laundry.”
“Nothing more satisfying than a big, hot load, huh?” she teased.
Actually, having all the laundry done was pretty awesome. I just hoped Dean didn’t mind a girlfriend with such diverse pleasures.
When Kenna left to pick up Sky, I dashed to the post office to check my P.O. Box, back to where this whole thing started. I only checked it when I got a handy email alert from the post office, and I’d received one that morning.
I turned the key to find junk mail, a check from a client, and a familiar white envelope. I closed the box quickly, pulled out the key, and opened Corey’s letter.
Dear Ms. Valentine,
Thank you so much for coming to see me with Kenna. I wanted to tell you a few things we didn’t have time for the other night.
Like we talked about, you can’t email or call me here, but I can make collect calls. I wish we’d set up a time for me to call. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m so worried about Kat that I’m going to call you Thursday afternoon. If you can’t take the call, it’s okay. I understand. Please write to me anytime, and hopefully I’ll see you guys on my next visit day.
Also, I’ve been trying to remember anything I can about Kat. Like she has a birthmark on her right shoulder I almost forgot about. And she secretly loved Justin Bieber. She had his poster on her wall. And her favorite color was blue. It’s so long ago she probably forgot most of that too.
Thank you.
Corey Burke
Corey would be calling my business line, which went to my cell phone, so I could take her call anytime. I’d have a DVD ready for the kids so I wouldn’t be distracted. Correction: I’d be less distracted than usual. Unless someone spilled something, got into an argument, got bored, got hungry, got scared, tossed something (including their “cookies”), pressed the wrong remote button, or came up with another amazingly creative way to interrupt. Unfortunately, the possibilities were endless.
Okay, so maybe I’d prepare an emergency “Mom’s on the phone” bag with a DVD, snacks, water, and other “please leave me alone” necessities. In fact, I could wrap the items with festive paper and ribbons to prolong the entertainment.
A customer’s “Excuse me” brought me back to the present, and I stepped back from the wall of boxes with an apology.
It was time to go home, meet the kids, and pack that emergency couch potato bag.
Eleven
Despite all my planning, Corey’s call never came, and I had no way to reach her. We’d see her the next day, Friday, but until then, I’d worry. Meanwhile, that day was overscheduled. We’d also be seeing Joey’s show, and hopefully meeting Kat at one a.m. There was plenty of work to do, and yet I felt like I was forgetting something. Then it hit me. Working out.
Slowly and reluctantly, I pulled out the calendar Kenna had brought me, and I saw there was a Disco Fit class that evening. I looked at the free one-week membership coupon Kenna had stapled to the schedule and carried everything to Dean, who had come by after work.
“What’s that?” he asked when I handed it over.
“I’m supposed to go to this class,” I said, pointing to the torture Kenna had highlighted. “I basically promised Kenna.”
“Great. Do you want me to watch the kids?”
“Um, no thanks. Kenna says the childcare is good. They’ll probably get some exercise too.”
“Awesome. You better go get changed. I’ve got some stuff I can do tonight, anyway.”
Okay. His nonchalance rattled me. Why not, “I was looking forward to dinner together” or “Gee, if you really have to go…”? Since he was a fitness buff, maybe he’d been hoping for this all along.
“I’ll go throw on some workout stuff,” I said, meaning the leggings I usually wore, but with additional panty line prevention.
“Great. And if you like the club, maybe we can work out together sometimes.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, although watching you work out might be nice.”
He pulled me into a hug and made up for whatever issue I was mentally blowing out of proportion. It was hard to feel secure around someone so handsome. Mostly I was okay, but occasionally it worried me. What if he aged perfectly, and I went downhill? What if the lovey-dovey, rose-colored glasses he wore eventually needed a new prescription, and he saw me the way I saw myself? And what if…
I stopped and focused on his arms around me. That was reality, and I shouldn’t mess with it.
“I love you,” I said without thinking.
“I love you too,” he said, squeezing me tighter. He slid his arms under my shoulders, lifted me up, and gave me a little spin. Then he kissed me long enough that I pulled away and checked to make sure the kids were still in the basement playroom.
“If you don’t stop distracting me, that workout’s gonna bite the dust,” I said.
“You better go then. By the way, do you want me to help with the kids tomorrow while you go on my date?”
“I don’t know. I might need your help in other ways. Your ‘spy expert’ ways.”
“You got it. Whatever you need.”
I kissed him again and smacked his butt.
Working out had done him a lot of good. Hopefully it would do the same for me.
“You’re taking a class at Kenna’s work?” Jack questioned me on the way. “You’ve never done that before.”
No need to rub it in, buddy. “I know. It’s fun to try something new.” Like chocolate-covered Oreos. “And she said you guys will like the childcare center. It’s a gym, so you’ll get to play lots of fun games like you do in P.E.”
“Can we get a smoothie?” Sophie asked. We’d visited Kenna’s work a few times, and the smoothie bar was more memorable to them (and me) than anything else.
“Sure, when we leave,” I said, vowing to resist one myself. “Just this time.”
I had to park far enough away that walking to the club and back should have qualified as a workout. Apparently six o’clock was not the best time to show up. That meant the class would be full, I guessed, and so would the childcare center. At least Jack and Sophie could make some friends.
I walked them to the mini-gym, signed them in, got a hand stamp that matched theirs, and blew them kisses.
“Have fun,” I said, knowing I should take my own advice. At what age, I thought, does exercise go from fun to frightening?
The disco classroom, I had to admit, was enticing. A huge glowing ball hung from the ceiling, and colored lights beamed from the walls. I smiled nervously at the classmates around me and watched the instructor step onstage and adjust her headset. My stomach actually did a flip when Michael Jackson’s “Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough” blasted from wall-mounted speakers, lights flashed, and the teacher belted out, “Let’s party!” Holy wow. This was cool. In my mind, I actually yelped happily right along with MJ.
In passing, I wondered if Kat was athletic. Anything that involved a routine, especially one she might try to maintain, could help.
Fifty minutes later, I was sweaty, exhilarated, a
nd wishing we could play one more song, while also knowing I’d be crazy to do anything else. I tried to remember when the next class was, shocked that I wanted to come back. I felt like I hardly knew myself.
Before I picked up the kids, I texted Kenna. That class was awesome. Thanks. J
The kids bee-bopped out of the gym, looking almost as happy as I felt, but much less drained.
“How was your time?” I asked them.
“Fun!” Sophie said. “When can we come back?”
“Are you okay, Mom?” Jack asked. “You’re all red and sweaty. What happened to you?”
“I worked out,” I said, feeling ridiculous. I hadn’t even looked in a mirror. “I just have to get used to it.” That brought me to Sophie’s question, so I checked a schedule posted on the wall. “We’ll try to come back on Sunday,” I said, unwilling to commit. I was coming down off a high, and reality was seeping into my Disco-distracted brain. So much could happen by Sunday, and I had no idea what it would be.
Dean was out running errands when we got home, so everyone cleaned up for a festive dinner of teriyaki tofu, steamed broccoli, brown rice, and coconut milk pudding for dessert. I saved many of our vegan meals for nights he was gone, sparing him Sophie’s beloved lentil loaf and Jack’s pirate-themed “cannon balls” (“meatballs” made with black beans).
“How hungry are you?” I asked Jack as I added broccoli florets to his plate.
“Really hungry,” he said.
“Me too,” Sophie said.
“We worked up an appetite with all that exercise.” It felt good to be deep-down hungry, rather than just eating because it was “time.” It made me think of Arthur, the homeless man we’d met, and wonder how often his hunger went unfed. And I worried about Kat. What were her meals like if she was under someone else’s control? “We’re lucky to have such a nice dinner. Let’s all say something we’re thankful for before we eat. I’ll start. I’m thankful for friends. How about you, Jack?”
“I’m thankful for Legos.”
“Cool. How about you, Sophie?”
“I’m thankful for my ant collection.”
“Your ant collection?”
“Uh-huh. I made it after school when I played outside. I scooped up an anthill with my shovel. I forgot to tell you.”
“Sophie, where is it now?”
“In my room. Under my bed. But don’t worry, Mom, they can’t get out of my lunchbox. Do you want to know what I named my ants?”
Many questions came to mind, and none of them involved ant names.
“I’ll be right back, guys,” I said.
“Don’t take my ants,” Sophie begged, sensing what was next.
“She’s not going to take them,” Jack said. “She’s going to kill them. Sorry.”
I didn’t know what I’d do, but I was afraid it wouldn’t be very “vegan” of me.
“Stay at the table or no dessert,” I warned.
I raced up the steps, picturing Sophie’s bed covered in tiny brown specks. Instead, I found her lunchbox securely zipped and tucked between two shoeboxes under her bed.
Were the ants dead already? Or were they feasting on lunch remains? I decided not to find out. I pinched the handle between my fingers, carried the lunchbox outside, unzipped a corner, and stuffed it under a bush near the road. This was the ants’ opportunity to escape. I’d toss the lunchbox in the trash another day, and Sophie would paper-bag it for a while. Her sophisticated tastebuds wouldn’t like all that non-refrigerated food, which might be a helpful natural consequence.
When I got back inside, Sophie was crying.
“You killed my ants.”
“No, I didn’t. But you can’t bring ants in the house, sweetheart. You know that. They belong outside. Now your lunchbox is ruined. I put it outside so the ants can go free.”
“Even Antibiotics?” She sniffed.
“You named an ant Antibiotics?”
“Yes.”
I couldn’t help giggling, and neither could she. Apparently, a recent case of strep throat had inspired her.
“That’s really clever, and Antibiotics will be happiest outside,” I said. “Speaking of that, I’m going to wash my hands. Now please eat your dinner, you two.”
As I lathered up at the kitchen sink, I thought about Kat and the health risks she could be facing. If she needed medical help, where would she go? I pulled out my phone and searched for affordable medical clinics near Crescent Heights. They wouldn’t be able to discuss Kat or any other patient, of course, but we could distribute Kat’s photos and Sky Investigations’ business cards. If Kat came in, perhaps they’d share our information, along with some extra support.
The jail had morning visiting hours Friday, so Kenna and I left as soon as the kids were off to school and Andy was up. We arrived in plenty of time for the check-in procedure, and while we waited for Corey, I quietly asked an officer about Jared Funk.
“How do you know about that?” she asked.
“It’s been in the news,” I said, glancing at Kenna. I’d say more if I thought it would help, but I wanted to get a feel for things first. “I’m really sorry about it.”
“Thanks. I didn’t know him well.” She kept an eye on her surroundings, scanning the room.
“Do you know what part of the jail he worked in?”
“Sometimes here. Sometimes level eight. But Ma’am, I’m here to supervise visits, not join them.”
I nodded and let her focus on priorities. It was almost time to see Corey anyway.
We updated Corey without giving her any information about Kat’s possible whereabouts. We were closer to finding her, we explained, but not there yet. Corey said she hadn’t called me because she’d gotten in trouble. Cash had been found in her bunk, which was against detention center rules, and she claimed someone else must have hidden it there. A different currency was used in jail, and cash was considered a sign that inmates were engaged in other banned behaviors.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You never know what’s going to happen in here.” Her eyes watered, and she blinked back tears. “Of all the days for that to happen. I wanted to call you so badly. Please tell me anything you can about Kat. Do you have any idea how she’s doing?”
“There’s no sign that she’s been harmed,” I said. “And we’ll keep looking. We’re working on it every day.”
“Do you happen to know Jared Funk, a corrections officer?” Kenna asked, breaking the tension.
“I know of him. Sometimes he worked my floor. I heard he was shot. Why? What have you heard?”
“It’s been in the news,” I said. “It’s sad. You’d think his work life would have been more dangerous than his personal life.”
“I know. I try to stay out of trouble here, but you can’t avoid it completely. Like yesterday. That’s a perfect example. I can’t wait to get out.”
“What are your plans for when you leave?” I asked. “Do they help you with finding a job and a place to live?”
“That’s what they say,” she said. “We’ll see. I really want to see Kat and apologize for everything I’ve done. After yesterday, keep an eye out for letters from me, okay? They’re easier than phone calls.”
“I’ll be on the lookout,” I said.
For that and a whole lot more.
It was Friday night, and for the first time since high school, Kenna and I were going to a concert together. Unless you counted The Wiggles, Dora the Explorer on tour, or our neighborhood’s “Family Summer Concert Series.” I didn’t.
Seeing Joey’s concert might not count either, but he was serious about his craft, and I was looking forward to it—and desperately hoping Kat would show up, even though Dean had been told she was “booked.”
Earlier in the day, Kenna and I had printed out concert flyers from the internet and posted them around Kat’s possible n
eighborhoods, hoping she’d see one. We’d also visited two urgent care centers and an overcrowded “Free Friday Clinic” for low-income residents. There was no sign of Kat (from what we could see in employees’ expressions), but everyone was concerned and kind.
Roscoe’s was equally packed, yet much more comfortable, for Crush’s show. The audience was cheering with hands and drinks held high, and enthusiastic shouts carried over the group’s performance. They weren’t playing my kind of music, but I loved their vibe, which was reminiscent of Van Halen and Def Leopard. To my untrained ears, Joey had an incredible voice, and I was glad Kat had encouraged him.
“He’s great,” Kenna enthused over the music, and I gave her a thumbs up. We’d been walking and scanning the room for an hour with no sign of Kat.
Back at home, Andy and Dean were having a “boys’ night in” with the kids asleep and boxing on TV. They were on alert for any backup we might need.
When Joey’s time onstage was about to end, Kenna and I took our virgin daiquiri glasses to the bar and separated one last time to survey the place, with an agreement to meet in the bathroom in ten minutes or text if something came up.
I was momentarily distracted by someone hitting on Kenna, which was nothing new, but this guy put his arm around her and pulled her close, trying to sway to the music together despite being unsteady on his feet. She lifted his arm off her shoulder politely, but he resisted, so she ducked away and used some choice language. The man laughed and tried to pull her in again.
“Hey,” a nearby man said. He looked like he’d come straight from work: khakis, a button-down, and a tie. “She said to back off.”
“Mind your own business, Dilbert.”
Kenna stepped back, and I moved forward just as the slob threw a punch.
The crowd parted, and I looked past Hero Guy toward the front door, where a woman in a revealing shirt with cutout shoulders had just entered, but seeing the trouble, turned to leave. I only got a glimpse of her face, but she resembled Kat. Wishful thinking, I told myself, but just in case, I couldn’t let her get away.
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