Finding Tranquility

by Laura Heffernan

  Shit. Jess’s mother was the last person I wanted to face from behind bars, especially when I’d been the one to put her daughter here. And considering that the last words she’d spoken to me were, “I never want to see you again.” Maybe I should just stay here, let Jess talk to her alone.

  “Mom came?” Beside me, Jess sounded hopeful. “I thought she was pissed at us.”

  Teddy shrugged. “Well, she’s here. Maybe she’s here to gloat. Or maybe she’s not mad anymore. Anyway, I’m running out of time. Christa, I tried to bail you out, too, but… there are some issues.”

  “What kind of issues?” I asked.

  “You mean because she doesn’t have ID?”

  “No, it’s actually good she didn’t have ID,” Teddy said. “The problem is, according to your fingerprints, you’re dead. I asked if they’re in the habit of jailing dead people… and they suggested that if I didn’t shut up and come get Jess, I might be joining both of you in there.”

  My heart sank. One stupid moment of losing my temper, and everything was going to come out. We should’ve just moved seats.

  “Hey,” Jess said, “stop beating yourself up. That other jackass swung first, remember?”

  Before I could answer, a police officer entered the hallway. “Jess Cooper?”

  “That’s me!” Jess waved one hand over her head to be seen through the mass of other parents. “Right here.”

  “You’re all set to go. You’ll get a court date in the mail.” The metal door swung open. The officer put one hand on his nightstick, daring anyone who wasn’t Jess to step forward. Teddy was right: with that scowl, he really did resemble an older Gilbert Gottfried.

  She hesitated and bit her lip, studying my face.

  Officer Gottfried glanced between us. “It’s no skin off my nose if you’d rather spend the night in here, sweetheart. But you’ve got three seconds to decide before I lock this door again. It’s going to be a long night, and I don’t get paid enough to deal with your personal issues.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “Go. I’ve slept in worse places.”

  The sadness that slashed across her features told me that was the wrong thing to say, but she took a step toward the open door. Teddy reached forward and grasped her hand. “It’ll be fine, Jess.”

  She didn’t take her eyes off me. “I’ll start calling lawyers first thing tomorrow morning. We’ll get you out of there as soon as we can.”

  That might take a while, especially if police figured out I was wanted in Canada. But I forced my lips to stretch into something that resembled a smile. “I know. I’ll be fine.”

  The door clanged shut behind her, and the lock clacked back into place, reinforcing that we were all stuck in here. Jess and Teddy walked down the hall behind the officer, arm-in-arm to the main door.

  A chill went down my spine. If the police sent me back to Canada, I might never see Jess—or my son—again. And I’d have no one to blame but myself.

  ∞ ♡ ∞

  Jess

  Of all the places to run into Ma again after the biggest fight we’d ever had, jail was by far the least desirable. For a moment, I thought about putting my jacket over my head, racing out to Teddy’s car before she saw me, and asking him to floor it.

  Unfortunately, that plan would have required running her over. When we stepped out into the sunlight and headed for the silver bimmer, she was leaning against the hood, reading a book. I stopped dead, looking for another way home, but Teddy pulled me forward.

  “You’ll have to face her eventually,” he said. “At least here, if she tries to strangle you, police will intervene.”

  Always the optimist. Half walking, half being dragged, I approached the car, keeping my eyes down. Teddy unlocked the car and dove inside, but the locks clicked again before I could make it to the passenger door. Not knowing what else to do, I stopped in front of my mother.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey yourself.”

  Ours wasn’t the most expressive family. “So… read any good books lately?”

  She snapped it shut and dropped the book into her cavernous beige purse. “I miss my grandson.”

  Right. She wanted to see Ethan. Of course. “That’s why you came to the jail? Because you could’ve called if that was it. Or you could’ve gone to the coach’s house and picked him up.”

  “No, that’s not it.” She sighed. “You’re not making this easy on me.”

  I nodded and waited. Yes, I’d given her one hell of a shock. Three, really, between Brett turning up as Christa and me being arrested. But knowing she might react badly and emotionally preparing for it were two different things.

  When I didn’t respond, Ma said, “I shouldn’t have said the things I did. You know that I love you, and that I loved Brett like a son. I’m delighted that he’s not dead. Everything else… is strange for an old lady like me.”

  “I know. It was strange for me at first, too. Sometimes it still is.”

  “Are you happy?”

  Was I happy with the looks and the whispers and the snide comments? The side eyes, people moving out of our path on the street? Or was I happy to have my spouse back?

  “It’s a bit of an adjustment,” I finally said. “We’re still working a few things out.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “Her,” I said automatically. “I really do. I never stopped.”

  “Then I’ll figure out a way to accept her,” Ma said. “I’m sorry for the way I acted.”

  “I’m sorry we told you the way we did. I wanted more time to ease you into the idea, and everything got messed up somehow. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around me. At first, I stood woodenly, but then I remembered the wide range of emotions I felt when I first saw Christa. Ma’s words may have been hurtful, but we’d blindsided her.

  Through the windshield, I saw Teddy wipe a tear from his eye.

  ∞ ♡ ∞

  Christa

  Spending a weekend in a holding cell wasn’t so bad. Sure, the piss pot in the corner stunk to high heaven, and using it in front of a bunch of people felt extremely awkward. But at least they moved me into a cell full of women. Once most of the other parents cleared out, I had a lot of time to think. Time to wonder what my next step should be, time to make a plan for getting my name changed.

  On Saturday, the guard informed me that I had a visitor. A short, pudgy man in an expensive suit stood at the front of the now-nearly-empty holding cell, carrying a brown leather briefcase. The officer escorted us to a tiny, windowless room so we could talk.

  “Hi, Christa,” he said. “I’m Robert Bradford, Esq. You may have heard of me?”

  “I’m sorry, no. But I have been out of the country.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “I meant, your wife may have mentioned that I’d be coming to visit. She called me to come in and discuss your little problem.”

  “Thank you. It’s good to see you.” I hesitated. “Not to sound rude, but why am I still here?”

  “They ran your prints through the system and it came back with a death certificate. Now, being dead isn’t a crime, but identity theft is, so they’re keeping you until they can verify who you are. Jess gave me all the paperwork. I have your birth certificate, your marriage certificate, an old photocopy of Brett Cooper’s driver’s license, and the court paperwork she filed on your behalf. They’re doing some processing now, but you should be out of here soon. Just sit tight.”

  Moments later, I was once again a free woman. I didn’t know where to go or what to do, and I was a little nervous about leaving the one place I was reasonably likely not to get attacked again, but I was free. If being paralyzed by fear and indecision qualified as freedom. Really, I’d just traded a literal jail cell for one constructed in my mind.

  In the parking lot, a couple of TV cameras waited. Must be a slow news day in Boston. I lowered my head and covered my face with one hand, but a familia
r sense of dread filled me. What if the incident wound up on the news? What if Tina found us again? We locked up the house, hadn’t left her a key, no money when we took off. I was sure she’d broken in, but she must be pissed. If there was any chance she’d reappear, I’d be so tempted to run again, but I couldn’t leave Jess.

  Seeing my response to the reporters, my lawyer said, “No comment” repeatedly until we reached his car.

  “Get in. I’ll call your wife to meet us down the street.”

  “Thanks,” I said, sliding in and buckling my seat belt. “What do I owe you?”

  “Jess already paid me. You’ll get something in the mail confirming all the charges have been dropped. It’s ridiculous for police to think they could hold you for not having any identification on you while attending a football game.”

  “What about disturbing the peace?”

  “Twenty witnesses saw the two of you get attacked. Those charges will be dropped, too. You never should’ve been taken into custody in the first place.”

  That was a relief, at least. But there were still other things I needed to take care of, and maybe Mr. Bradford would be able to help with some of it. I considered him carefully for a minute before speaking. Any lawyer who dressed like that, carried that briefcase, and carried himself like a rock star had to be pretty good at what he did.

  “If my wife hired you, does that mean you have to tell her everything we talk about?”

  “Legally, you’re my client. I’m prohibited by the rules of ethics from telling your wife about our conversations without your consent. Attorney-client privilege transcends death—real or faked.”

  I cracked a sardonic smile at the words. “Good to know.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, this matter is closed. Is there something else you wanted to discuss?”

  “Yeah.” The word somehow extended to about three syllables. I’d been thinking a lot over the past couple of days, and this was no way to live. I couldn’t be constantly in fear of what might happen. Something needed to change.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a familiar crossover vehicle turning into the parking lot. “Can I make an appointment for later this week?”

  “Sure thing. From what Mrs. Cooper told me about your situation, I may be able to help.” Mr. Bradford handed me a card. “Feel free to contact my secretary. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I shook his hand, palming the card. The car stopped beside me, and I climbed in.

  Jess threw her arms around me. “Are you okay? Was it awful?”

  “It wasn’t the worst night’s sleep I’ve ever had. Thanks for coming to get me.”

  “How sad. We need to get you a current ID. We need to file for your name change with the courts. And we need—”

  “Jess. I just spent almost twenty-four hours peeing in front of other women. I slept on a cement floor with a piece of stale bread from dinner as a pillow. Can we please talk about this later?”

  She fell silent, chewing her lip. Her stiff posture told me she was upset, but I couldn’t worry about her right then. I needed to figure out my next steps, and as much as I loved Jess and Ethan, what was best for me might not be what was best for them.

  Chapter 24

  Jess

  Christa hated being home with us. She didn’t complain, but her discomfort showed in the way she avoided people’s gazes when we left the house, in the set of her jaw and the square of her shoulders every time she introduced herself as Ethan’s other mother. Introducing herself as his father only made things more awkward. Neither of us was ashamed of our relationship, but explaining your life over and over to people who had no business asking got exhausting fast. Refusing to answer questions always somehow made Christa feel like the asshole.

  She came to bed later each night, tossing and turning until I wished I could ask her to sleep in the guest room so I’d be awake for surgery the next day. During the days, she delayed looking for a job, delayed returning the paperwork needed to reinstate her social security number, delayed doing anything useful.

  I could tell that she was miserable, but I didn’t know how to help. In Canada, she had a job, she had friends, she had a life. Here, she had only me and Ethan. Increasingly, I worried that we weren’t enough for her. She needed something to do, a reason to leave the house every day. Sure, she could do the grocery shopping, but after the brawl, I knew she was scared even to do that.

  “Hey, Christa?” I asked one day, flipping through the online statement for the credit card I’d given her.

  “Yeah?” She and Ethan sat on the floor, playing some game that involved stealing cars and dealing drugs. Christa and I were apparently tied for Mother of the Year.

  “What’s PeaPod?”

  She didn’t answer, just leaned forward and squinted, focusing intently on the game. “Christa?”

  “Just a second.”

  “Can’t you pause it?”

  Beside her, my son hit a button on his remote and looked at me. “It’s where you order groceries online and they deliver them for you. So people don’t have to leave the house if they’re busy or something.” Ethan turned to Christa. “I told you she’d figure it out.”

  “What are you talking about? Are you not leaving the house at all?” How had I missed this? I knew she wasn’t happy, but I’d never dreamed she’d turned into a hermit.

  “You know, I have to work on my college applications.” In the blink of an eye, Ethan set down his controller and vanished into his room.

  Christa watched him go, her lips twitching into a smile. “Maybe we should argue in front of him more often.”

  “Is that what we’re doing? What’s going on?”

  Finally, she turned off the television and faced me. “You remember what happened to my friend Bo, right?”

  I nodded, realization dawning.

  “After we got attacked again,” she said, “I guess… I’ve not been feeling like going out. Much. At all.”

  My heart broke for her. “So you’ve been sitting in the house, hiding from the world?”

  She nodded, looking miserable. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s happened to me. It’s just… too much. I worry about Tina finding us. I worry about bigots. I worry about everything.”

  “Of course you’re worried,” I said. “All you do is sit inside all day and think about everything that could go wrong. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want you to think I regretted coming home with you.”

  It killed me that she was so upset and that I’d not only missed it, but I had no idea how to make things better. With a sigh, I kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. “I didn’t make a mistake. We just need to figure out how to get you back into the swing of things. Hiding in the house, playing video games, and cooking for me isn’t living.”

  She sighed. “You’re right. So, what do we do?”

  “Well, first, we’re going to bundle up and go for a walk. You need some fresh air. Then, we’re getting you a job.”

  Finding gainful employment in the United States after being dead for eighteen years presented several logistical problems. First, all of Christa’s recent work history was in a foreign country, and although my spouse actually worked those hours, a certain very pissed-off Canadian might have something to say about it if Christa tried to work under that social insurance number in the United States. Even if she changed her name legally. We didn’t need any more problems. After we snuck out in the middle of the night, we couldn’t be sure what kind of reference Christa would be able to get from the hotel, anyway.

  Second, I didn’t want to be involved in fraud. Using Christa’s name on legal documents without legally changing it was out of the question. Third, Brett Cooper couldn’t explain the gap in his employment history. Nor did dead people keep up on technological advances, so even if Christa were willing and able to apply for jobs as Brett Cooper using his college degree, she lacked any of the knowledge required in 2019 for th
e types of jobs Brett was qualified for in 2001.

  Not to mention that it wouldn’t be legal for Christa to work in the United States until Brett Cooper was legally declared alive. Any employer that did a background check would promptly show her the door. We were working on ironing out all these issues, but things took time. All things considered, I might be supporting her for at least the next few months. Not that I minded, but having something to occupy her time would probably make Christa feel much better than sitting around at loose ends, playing Grand Theft Auto or Fallout 4.

  I’d known it would be hard, but after a few weeks, I worried the adjustment was too much. That I’d wake up one morning and find she’d taken off again. The only thing more difficult than faking your death, it seemed, was coming back to life.

  Christmas approached, but no one thought about decorating our home. In college, Brett and I would go into the mountains and chop down our own tiny tree, finding the perfect spot to place it in my dorm room. We’d never had a Christmas together as a married couple. After Ethan was born, I bought a fake tree, which was much easier. Still, getting it out of storage required too much effort.

  Ethan didn’t say anything, either, but stopped talking about school. His friends didn’t come over after school anymore. Poor kid. I scheduled another appointment with the therapist, but his moms and a doctor weren’t substitutes for friends his own age.

  In our liberal community, people were accepting of many things, but they didn’t know what to make of us. A week after we returned, a For Sale sign went up on the house next door. Sure, they were a pretty conservative couple, but their oldest baby-sat Ethan when we first moved in.

  Not long after that house sold, an identical sign appeared in the Christian family’s yard across the street and to the right. Since they’d proudly boasted several Trump/Pence signs, we weren’t that surprised. But still, Ethan played with their kids every day when they were in grade school.

  If you ever want to know who your friends really are, enter a sexual relationship with your dead husband turned queer lover. That’ll send the fakers away pretty quick.