On the way to the kids’ camp, I thanked God for the umpteenth time for a place where they were happy and safe. Sure, I’d never stop worrying about them, but that was the deal I unknowingly accepted when I got pregnant. From then on, I loved so much it hurt. Good thing the realities of parenting aren’t evident at conception or birth. If a screaming baby popped out right after sex, or women delivered two year olds having tantrums, the population would shrink. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss.
I dropped the kids off uneventfully and checked the sky for signs of rain. I didn’t want a stray thunderstorm to force them indoors, meaning poor Jack would have suffered through sunscreen application for nothing, and Sophie’s energy level could hit the danger zone.
The horizon was clear and my mind drifted to my dad, for whom a day like this was the ultimate, not because of how he could enjoy it down here with the rest of us, but because he could enjoy it alone, in a plane, with a distant perspective on the world. I smiled, thinking of the view he must have now. I hope it’s awesome, Dad. I miss you.
I headed home to a quiet house where I could make calls in peace. The first was to Marcus’s mom, who finally answered with a warm greeting.
“What do you want?” she slurred. I was stunned into silence. “Hell-o-o?” She had to be under the influence.
“Umm, hi?” I was rethinking whether it was a good idea to be in a car with this woman. “My name is Nicki, and I’m an acquaintance of your son’s. Actually, I saw his accident and visited him yesterday. He said you might need a ride to the hospital, so I’m offering to take you if you’d like.”
“To the hospital? Why the hell would I want to go there?”
“Well I just thought you might like to visit him.”
“He’s in the hospital? I thought he was hiding out ’cuz he wrecked my car.”
“No one from the hospital or police station called and explained things to you?”
“Not that I know of,” she said. “But I got a bad memory.”
“Well Marcus is fine, but he got hurt Monday night. I have free time now, if you’d like me to pick you up. I can take you to see him.”
“Sure. Whatever. I’ll be here.” She hung up.
I stared at the disconnected phone slack jawed. She was either drunk or on drugs, or both, and I was going to transport her in my car. And I’d been worried about April throwing up last night. I might need to buy air freshener on the way home.
I put down the phone and picked it up again. I wanted to check in with Kenna.
“Can you come over real quick?” she asked.
“Sure. But I’m on my way out, and you won’t believe where I’m going.”
“I’m not sure I want to know,” she said.
“We’ll talk when I get there.” I grabbed my purse and headed out.
The air was unseasonably light, and my cotton shorts and sleeveless shirt flapped in the breeze. I hoped I wouldn’t be chilly at the hospital. Oh well. I’d be so nervous I probably wouldn’t notice.
I watched my sandals rush up Kenna’s clean driveway. In summer, I almost forgot what it was like to have asphalt free of chalk drawings, hopscotch, and kids’ scribbles.
She opened the door and smiled mischievously. “I did something,” she said.
I cocked my head. “You did? What is it?”
“Come in.” She led me into her sparsely decorated, meticulously clean main level. I slipped off my shoes, and we walked to the future nursery, where a shiny white crib stood next to a white bassinet, smack in the middle of the floor.
“Kenna,” I said. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I decided to be hopeful,” she said. “And prepared.”
“You’ve always been hopeful,” I said. “But not prepared. Did you get sheets or anything?”
“Ta da!” She opened a closet door, and there, neatly folded on the plush, cream carpet, was a tiny pile of sheets and receiving blankets. Tiny, yet monumental.
“Ooh,” I said, picking up a white blanket and cuddling it to my cheek. “So soft.”
“I even washed it. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
“I do. You’re thinking positively, like always.” I gave her a hug. “That’s what I love about you. Any more surprises?” I folded the blanket and checked the closet corners in case a mobile, bouncy seat, or other adorable item was hidden away. I was happy, but in truth, I was also panicky. Why had she chosen now, of all times, to prepare? I wanted so badly to share her confident outlook, but Beth felt so far away.
“No more surprises,” she said. “But do you have any? Tell me where you’re going. Are you picking up Dean?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. It’s Marcus’s mom. She needs a ride to the hospital to see him. I’m driving.”
“Marcus’s mother,” she repeated. “The baby’s birth grandmother.” She looked stunned, although she knew this was a possibility from my voicemails.
“Yes. Are you okay?”
“I just didn’t think it would happen so soon,” she said. “You’re meeting all these people.”
“Do you want to come with me?” I asked. She didn’t answer right away, so I continued. “I don’t have to tell you this stuff if it’s too stressful. Maybe I shouldn’t even be doing all this.”
“No. It’s okay. I need to know. And you have to do it. What else?”
“Well, I’m a little concerned, because she sounded under the influence. I’m glad she’s not driving.”
“I shouldn’t go.” She rested a hand on the crib. “I just want everything to be okay. I don’t want any more bad news. I’m going to stay here and...” She looked around the room and threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know.”
“Make the bed,” I said. “I mean the crib. And find the right spot for it. Maybe you can keep the bassinet in your room. That’s what we did.”
“Okay.”
“It’s a start. Next thing you know, you’ll be buying diapers and formula.”
She shook her head in disbelief. I didn’t argue.
I made it to Marcus’s house without getting lost, and this time, I walked right through the chain link fence and rapped on the loose screen door—the only thing between me and Ms. Gomez, who lay motionless on a sunken brown couch in front of a blaring TV. It was hard to tell through the warped screen, but her eyes looked closed.
“Ms. Gomez?” I called out. “Ms. Gomez?” No response. I took a deep breath and opened the door, which squeaked and slammed behind me, just like a cabin door. The noise didn’t stir her a bit. I tiptoed over matted, gray carpet (not its original color) as a little plot formed in my head. First, make sure she’s okay. Her breathing was steady—although a little snorty—and her plump body looked comfortable, as if its impression was left on the couch many naps ago. She was dressed for the hospital in shorts and a flowered T-shirt. She wore flip flops, which were askew and looked uncomfortable, suggesting she’d passed out more than fallen asleep. Her thinning, blond hair was pulled into a messy knot high on her scalp, begging to be fixed, but I resisted the urge to smooth and refasten it, instead focusing on essentials, namely snooping.
After watching her breathe for a minute, I crept away and left the TV on, dying to close and bolt the front door in this neighborhood, but not willing to make additional noise. I stayed on my tiptoes and moved further into the house. My shoulders were raised slightly, palms pressing down with each step, a technique I’d mastered over years of getting kids to sleep and sneaking out of their rooms so they wouldn’t wake up.
My heart pounded as I made my way from room to room, looking for anything informative or suspicious. I didn’t expect to find Beth, but I wasn’t going to rule it out either. Could I be arrested for this? I wondered. I wasn’t exactly “snooping.” But I was really breaking and entering. What if I startled Marcus’s mom
and she had a gun? Was she even capable of aiming? Worry dissipated as I focused on hurrying.
The first floor, which consisted of a kitchen, den, and bathroom, was unremarkable. Nothing was cluttered and nothing was clean. It was exactly the kind of place you’d imagine a troubled mom and teenage son living. Dishes filled the sink (nothing wrong with that), but some of them were moldy, and the refrigerator was almost empty except for beer, bread, milk, jelly, and a shriveled orange. It would be hard to survive on this, so I peeked into the freezer and a few cabinets, which revealed an affinity for frozen meals and preservative-filled baked goods. No baby formula in sight.
I was afraid and eager to see the basement, where a dim yellow light shone last time I was here. It seemed like the logical place to hide someone. At least that’s where it always happened on TV.
I opened a random door in the kitchen a few inches, just enough to see whether it was a pantry, closet, or steps. Steps...good—and scary. I flipped a switch that lit a bare bulb. Before beginning my descent, I double checked the door for locks. No one could hold me down here, could they?
I shivered and gripped the railing before gingerly moving from wood step to wood step, gradually seeing more of the unfinished basement with exposed pipes and white insulation. To my right was a rusty bike. Directly in front of me was a door I didn’t want to open.
No matter how lightly I stepped, grit scratched beneath my feet, so I took big steps and stopped before the door. First I tapped lightly with a fingernail in case anyone was inside. Then I opened it very, very slowly, mostly because I was scared, not because I thought I’d scare anyone else. That’s when I smelled something. Something I knew all too well. Something I’d rather not smell again. Laundry supplies and lint. I was in a laundry room—one used less often than my own, I guessed, because there were no clothes in sight. Maybe there was a load in the dryer, but I didn’t stay to find out. The basement was obviously empty, and I wanted to leave.
Before I could go anywhere, there was a creak from above. I whipped my eyes toward the ceiling, as if I’d be able to see the source with x-ray vision. I froze in place, waiting for another creak. Then I slid my right hand into my pocket and gripped my cell phone. It always made me feel like help was on the way if needed. On the other hand, I realized in terror, I’d forgotten to turn off the ringer, so hopefully no one would call and alert Ms. Gomez to my presence with a personalized ring tone.
After a few sweaty minutes of playing statue and hearing nothing else, including my cell phone, I chose to evacuate and scout upstairs if possible. I made it up the first flight with minimal noise and peeked out the kitchen door, which, thank goodness, was still open a crack. Seeing nothing heart-stopping from my limited point of view, I pushed the door inch by inch until I was confident no one was reacting to my entrance.
In the living room, Marcus’s mom was still on the couch, but she’d rolled over. That must have been the creak I’d heard. Now her back was to me, which meant I couldn’t tell if she was still asleep. But her body rose and fell with such rhythm that she had to be dozing. I whizzed through the open space between her and the next staircase, taking the steps gently but two at a time, pulling myself up with the railing, just wanting to get to the top and stand still, listening. Nothing but the TV. I’d made it.
There were four doorways to check out. Two at the beginning of the hall were bedrooms, one of them obviously Marcus’s, the one I wanted to see most. First I glanced into the others—a bare “guest room,” a bathroom with peeling paint and hastily hung towels, and Ms. Gomez’s room, peppered with knickknacks, including a photo of Marcus in elementary school, a silver brush, a jewelry stand, and a portrait of an elderly female. Although Marcus looked Hispanic, and Beth referred to him that way in paperwork, his mother and the older woman were white. I wondered what happened to his dad. Beer cans were in random spots, some on the dresser and one crushed next to a trash can.
I made my way back to Marcus’s room and slowly moved around his rumpled twin bed. I approached his dresser, careful not to trip over piles of wrinkled jeans, T-shirts, shorts, tighty whities, bandanas, and sweat socks. Basketball sneakers were lined up in a doorless closet, where most of the hangers were bare. A highboy was covered with rap CDs surrounding a hefty boom box.
I opened each drawer slightly, just enough to see inside and lift whatever clothes were there. Finding nothing of interest (more clothes were on the floor than in the dresser), I checked under each side of his mattress, and bingo, there were fifteen little baggies of greenish brown leaves. Pot, I assumed. I wanted to use the camera on my phone, but it was set to say, “Say cheese!” when I took a photo, and I didn’t have time to fiddle with its options. I’d have to rely on my crappy memory. I closed my eyes and tried to lock in the bags’ image.
I took two steps toward the closet and, standing on my tippy, tippy toes, peered onto the top shelf, but I couldn’t see much, thanks to my short stature. The only thing I could make out in its shadowy recesses were sports trophies with golden dudes holding footballs.
I reached back as far as I could, and my index finger caught something. I pulled it toward me, and it tumbled out at my feet, sending me hopping backward and stifling a scream. It was a gun. I’d never been so close to one, except maybe on a cop’s belt or at a museum display with the kids. My eyes were fixed on its trigger. It repelled and attracted me at the same time, reminding me of evil, which made me wonder if that’s what it represented—a temptation that ensnared kids like Marcus, offering a taste of power, something that may have eluded them all their lives. I had to put it back, but I was afraid of it—more afraid than I was of waking Ms. Gomez. I looked around the room for anything I could use to pick it up. I settled on a white sock under my foot, which I wrapped around the gun—one hand under, one hand over. Then, keeping the gun pointed away from me, I gently slid it back onto the shelf and backed away, dropping the sock where I’d found it.
I breathed a sigh of relief and immediately knew it was not only premature, but totally inappropriate. I was in someone else’s home, illegally looking through their things, which included a weapon. A gun. For the first time, the comedic phrase “You better check yourself before you wreck yourself” made serious sense. I was a stay-at-home mom, for heaven’s sake. What was I doing? An image of Jack and Sophie visiting me in jail slammed me back to reality. It was definitely time to rouse Ms. Gomez. Too late, I realized with a jolt. Apparently I’d already done that.
There were noises in the hall and then more in the bathroom. Noises I won’t—and probably can’t—describe in words. Suffice it to say that Ms. Gomez’s lunch, which may have been beer, apparently didn’t agree with her. While she was busy, I was too, rushing downstairs and out the screen door, closing it softly and then rapping as if I’d just arrived. I looked around to see if anyone was witnessing my crazy behavior, but there wasn’t a soul in sight, although anyone could be watching from a window.
I heard Ms. Gomez’s unmistakable yell. “What the hell do you want?”
“It’s Nicki,” I called in a singsong voice, as if I was innocent and used to that kind of greeting. “I called earlier about going to the hospital to see Marcus.” I opened the door and stuck my head in. “May I come in?” So polite. As if I wasn’t just all over her house. I didn’t know what to think of myself, and thankfully, I was too jittery and breathless to focus on it.
“Who?” There was some muttering. “Hold on!”
I stayed outside and tapped my foot, hoping she’d wash her hands before we officially met. I really should have given her more time.
As she stomped down in her flip flops, I smiled brightly, oozing friendliness I hoped was contagious. “Hi!” I said.
“Whadaya want?” She pulled at the door impatiently.
“I’m here to take you to the hospital to see Marcus,” I restated. “Remember?”
She didn’t. I could practically s
ee her mental gears shifting, rewinding, not finding anything, fast forwarding, and finally giving up.
“Well how long have I been waiting for you?” She reminded me of an old lady trying to hide confusion with indignation, but I put her real age at about forty.
“A little while. I’m sorry I’m late. Why don’t we go? Do you have everything?” Her hands were empty. “I mean do you need anything for Marcus?”
She looked down at herself and shrugged. “Huh uh. Marcus don’t need nothing from me.”
I wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but to me, it was sad.
I wish I could say conversation in the car was easy and enlightening, but it wasn’t. Ms. Gomez—Tracy Gomez, I learned—wasn’t as outgoing when she started to sober up, which I assumed was the cause of her relative silence. Or maybe she wasn’t feeling well. For whatever reason, she was frustratingly reserved.
“So Tracy,” I said casually. “Tell me about Marcus. What’s he like?”
She surveyed me, probably wondering why she should trust this straight-laced-looking stranger. Maybe if I’d asked what the h-e-double hockey sticks he was like, she’d have been more comfortable.
“He’s a good boy,” she responded. She looked out the window away from me. “An only child.”
“No trouble?”
Her shoulders rose and fell. “Boys. You know.”
“I know, but Marcus got hurt,” I reminded her. “Doesn’t that worry you?”
“Marcus takes care of himself,” she said. “He’s fine.”
No, he’s not, I wanted to say. That’s why kids join gangs. They need family, and if they don’t have it, they’ll create it, for better or worse.
“It must be so hard to have a teenager in this world,” I said instead. “I can’t imagine.”
Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) Page 9