by Beth Aldrich
If Jessica were a real person, she could come here and help me piece together my unanswered questions. She’d see the big picture and have it solved before the second commercial break… but never mind Jessica! I pull my mind back to the present. I’ve got to think. I’ve got to be strong. I’ve got to stay focused on reality, not some TV character solving crimes in under an hour. I don’t know anyone who would stalk me, so I’ll continue to pay attention and look for clues.
If all else fails and someone chases me, I could always run next door to my friend Misty’s house. She would protect me. Even as a petite, single mother with a silky red ponytail, she doesn’t seem to freak out about anything at all. Maybe it has something to do with her having a black belt in karate and being a registered gun owner.
Courageous or not, I need to call the police again so they can add the most recent threat to the case file. I can take bravery lessons from Misty another day.
Barney whines and jumps around like a puppy as I start to dial Mom and Dad’s home phone number.
Hoowwwll, aroof, aroof!
“Oh, BAR-ney,” I say as he jumps on my legs and scratches on my pants. I stop dialing the phone. “What’s up? We just went out.” He runs to the side door and scratches it as if he’s trying to tell me something. On days like this, I wish I could speak dog.
“Okay, let’s go outside.” I try my best to believe Freddie isn’t perched, ready to pounce, but I also want to keep my voice calm for my pet while I shrug on my damp raincoat. Looking over my shoulder and around the area in front of me, Barney follows as we leave the security of our nest.
“Mom has to go meet the boys,” I remind him as we head out the side door, intending to get things done quick. The ridges of the keys in my hand give me a moment of trust that my home is secure. I lock the door and gate, checking each latch twice. My pepper spray is in my pocket.
Barney has been my sweet dog with a humanlike personality since he was eight weeks old. He came into my life right after my attack in the city—when I was having trouble getting pregnant again. Steven understood that the pain of losing a baby and then not being able to get pregnant again was a heavy burden on me. He knew I needed a different “baby” to care for while I waited for nature to take over. He agreed to my pleas, contacted the breeder I had been in touch with, and came home with the cutest puppy I had ever seen. “It’s great mom practice,” he said with tears in his eyes, “with your new best friend.” It’s easy to fall in love with your husband again when he makes such a thoughtful gesture. I smile at the memory.
“C’mon, Barn, Mommy has to go.” I pull the leash toward the side gate, hoping to signal him to move along, though we need to keep our walk close to the big oak tree in our side yard. A sudden chill, surrounds me, as I look down to see Barney’s mouth full of something that probably shouldn’t be there. “What is that?”
Reaching down, I pull a limp, wet, dead bird from his mouth with an envelope attached to it. “Did you get this… dead bird… and envelope next to our tree?” My bottom lip quivers. “Oh, my God, that poor little creature—and right next to our house!”
I drag Barney the few steps back to safety through the gate and towards the side door. Then I place the tiny, limp bird on a patch of earth next to the door before entering, and bring the envelop inside.
I wash my hands, unleash Barney, and give him a treat, then wipe the stream of tears from my cheek. I search the depths of my mind for an explanation. Could Freddie have left that dead bird? He was just here. Oh God, who would kill an innocent little animal and then attach an envelope to it? That sick bastard! And now I have four envelopes. I need to call the police again. I know they’ll think I’m crazy. The evidence is the same, just different words—horrible words, just no proof of who this person is.
“It’s a regular sob-fest for me today, Barney. I know you don’t understand why I’m crying so much, but this crazy person has me terrified. I don’t want him to hurt you or the boys.”
I blow my nose and bend down to hug my dog, extra long. “Big boy, I need to leave, but I promise I’ll be back soon. Keep an eye on the house for me, and stand up to any bad guys.” He stands still, at attention, and watches me leave, just like a little soldier. Scooping up the envelopes and slinging my purse over my shoulder, I race out the door to my parents’ house. I’ll read the fourth threat when I arrive.
The short drive to my parents’ home seems to take forever. The twists and turns in the road catch me off guard. While waiting for a red light, I figure out what to say to the police when I call them back. I glance down at the passenger seat to see that the fourth envelope has little bloodstains on it from the poor, helpless victim. My heart fights a cold rush, magnified even more by the chilling fall wind that’s swirling around today.
Just wait, Betsy, I urge my impatient self as the light changes, and I hit the gas a bit too hard. I’ll share the new envelope and one from school with my mom and dad; they’ll know what to do.
I’ve always considered their house as my home even though I love the suburban lifestyle and home Steven and I have created together, regardless of the bumps along the way. Nothing feels more secure and safe than the familiar family pictures, artwork, and household items, or aromas like Mom’s chili or peanut butter cookies. I wonder if Kyle and Morgan have that same connection to our home, which I’ve worked hard to make special during my time as a stay-at-home mom. Who knows when I’ll go back to work again.
It may be sooner than Steven thinks. I miss it. During stressful times in my life, I really miss my old colleagues. We talked about everything the world threw at us, just like group therapy. We were a strong trio. After I went on maternity leave, Mrs. Cranston said my job would be secure whenever I was ready to come back to work. As head chef in the kitchen, I was responsible for planning and execution of all social, philanthropic, and family events. Given their extensive outreach in the community, every day was filled with creative and delicious ways to expand my chef skills. The experience gained was invaluable. That was six years ago. I couldn’t even imagine putting that chef coat back on right now. Aside from the fact that my belly would prevent it from happening, I don’t think I could keep up with the long hours and heavy workload of the job… or Steven’s nagging me for not being home enough. I’m sure all working moms get the same guilt trip, but it was a tough weight to bear.
As I drive past the hole-in-the-wall delicatessen I worked at as a teenager, near my parents’ house, I continue to think back to my days as a chef—smiling at my accomplishments. A typical day started with early mornings at the fish and farmers’ markets, the Spice House, and the butcher. Then it was off to the kitchen to check the calendar and start our prep work. My job was to ensure that the kitchen ran smoothly for a variety of events and the Cranston family meals. My talents were appreciated by major figures in our community, and it was a great-paying job. Ironically, the night I was attacked in Chicago, I had worked with Candy on a fantastic fundraising dinner to benefit women suffering from domestic abuse. That’s crazy karma.
Our employers were the talk of the town, Chicago’s very own socialite celebrities. Carter and Candy Cranston had twin daughters in high school. Their philanthropic work ranged from cancer research and the arts to pet safety and school fundraising. They had a spot on all the most prestigious boards in the city—and the social calendar to prove it.
Working in the Cranston kitchen also made me and my two coworkers privy to a lot of information about how the world of giving operates. One rare incident always sticks out in my mind. There was a heated discussion going on during a lunch meeting for one of Mrs. Cranston’s charity boards, and one woman threw her blueberry tart at another member. Even from all the way in the kitchen, we heard a crash, a scream, and several women yelling over the sound of furniture being pushed around. We ran into the dining room and found a woman blotting blueberry stains from her mauve two-piece suit with her linen napkin. We grabbed some kitchen towels and club soda and offered to ass
ist her. She was angry.
“How dare you throw a blueberry tart at me,” she cried. “And my new Chanel suit! You’d better hope it comes clean! And by the way, I’ll be sending you a bill for the dry cleaning.” She stood up, pulled at the trim of her jacket, threw her shoulders back, and walked out—shrugging off the unseemly outburst. Then the food-throwing troublemaker ran out after her, and we could hear the yelling continue outside.
Nowadays, I’m head chef at 1632 Ash Street, our home. My bosses usually order chicken nuggets and kid cups, and come to think of it, they throw their food from time to time, too.
Turning my trusty maroon Lexus onto my parents’ lush tree-lined street, I see red flashing lights ahead. As I get closer to their driveway, I realize it’s an ambulance—parked right in front of their house. The heat rising in my body is more than I can stand. I need air. I fumble with the car door handle and run up the three stone steps to my parents’ front door, nearly bumping into the paramedic leaving.
“What happened?” I manage to ask.
“Little boy, about five…”
“Yes, yes, what? I’m his mother!”
“Ma’am, he’s okay,” he assures me. “Just a slight fracture in his arm. We put a little cast on it. Plan on visiting your pediatrician tomorrow for a follow-up exam.”
“A cast? Morgan, Kyle! Mommy’s here!”
With a red marker, I write M-O-M in the center of the cast on Morgan’s little arm. The letter O is a heart so he can remember how much I love him whenever he looks at it. I set the marker down and wrap my arms around his tiny body. With a quivering half smile, I add an extra pulse in my hug. He holds on longer, echoing my energy.
“Next time you boys decide to play tag in Grandma and Grandpa’s house, try not to slip down the stairs, okay?”
He stares at me with his innocent blue eyes and says, “I know, Mommy. I forgot to put my shoes on, and my socks were so slippy. Grandpa told me to, but I didn’t listen to him. Are you mad at me?”
“No, dear, but I want you to learn from this so the next time I remind you to be careful and not run in the house on the wood floors, you’ll understand what I mean,” I tell him, patting his shoulder like Mom used to do with me when I was young.
“Okay, I will, but can we watch now?”
While the boys sit on the couch in the living room, snuggled under a fleece blanket watching the movie Homeward Bound, I join Mom and Dad at the table in the kitchen. The movie’s animal characters, Shadow, Sassy, and Chance, are scheming in the background while we grown-ups assemble and read over the four disturbing notes. The baby is still, letting me get comfortable on the wobbly chair.
“All day, I’ve been a nervous wreck,” I admit after they’ve reviewed each one. “I look over my shoulder and jump at every single sound.”
“I can’t believe this, Betsy,” my father says, flipping the collection of messages onto the center of the table. “The last note is so vile! I will take your dog. Who would write such a thing? And a dead bird, of all things! I don’t always buy into your spiritual stories or explaining that things are just fate, but there’s no denying this one.” His otherwise good-natured demeanor is shadowed by outrage.
I glance at my dad then try to ignore his passive-aggressive criticism by looking down. The worn maple floors remind me of the years they’ve lived here and the memories we’ve shared in this kitchen: good and maybe not always so good.
Mom puts her hand on mine and draws in a breath. “Oh dear, I agree. We need to call the police again.”
I look past the envelopes and over at my boys in the next room and nod. The thumping musical score in the chase scene with Chance and Shadow pulls my attention briefly away from the intense stress caused by the onslaught of notes. “After the first envelope, I thought maybe it was a bad practical joke, but the rest have been just plain scary. I want to call the police again, given this dead bird business. They need to figure this out.”
“There must be fingerprints on them,” my dad offers. “Or some other clue they can use to track him down, right?”
“I hope so,” I answer, looking at the pile of threats that landed next to the full tissue box. “When they came to get my statement after those first two envelopes arrived, they didn’t take them, but simply took pictures of them, which surprised me, but at that point it seemed like a hoax. The new notes should give them more to work with.” I pause and rub my eyes. “You know, seeing them all together makes this threat so powerful. The words carry a lot of hatred and rage. Who did I offend in such a meaningful way to cause this type of response?”
“Honey, it could be anyone, from the city attacker to a person you met at school. We won’t let anything happen to you,” my dad says as he reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. “I have an idea. How about we follow you home and help get the boys to bed and spend the night? Then tomorrow while the kids are in school we can go and meet with the police and file another report.”
“That sounds great.” I sigh, shaking my shoulders to loosen them up, causing the chair to jiggle slightly on the bare floor.
My ringing cell phone interrupts us, the words UNKNOWN CALLER flashing on the screen.
“Hello?”
No response.
I widen my eyes and ask again, “Hello? Who is this? Who is this?”
“I’m watching you,” a deep voice breathes. “Don’t call the police—or you’ll be sorry.”
Click.
I stand, frozen, trying to register what I just heard. The voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. It doesn’t sound like Freddie, but it’s someone I’ve spoken to before. With every muscle and bone in my body, I try to maintain balance to avoid collapsing onto the floor. My parents are staring me down, waiting for an explanation. “That son of a—he’s watching us,” I say. “And if we call the police, he says I’ll be sorry!”
“Oh no!” Mom cries out as her confident posture dissolves underneath her oversized blue Oxford shirt. “What do you think we should do, Cary?” She sniffles, grabbing a tissue from the box on the center of the table.
“Let’s get these kids home and into bed,” Dad says as he pushes himself up from his chair, causing it to scrape on the floor. “I’ll call the police right now. Forget the nut job. I’ll do it so he won’t be able to pin this on you.”
I curl up in my soft bed and breathe out a sigh of relief, knowing everyone is sound asleep now that the police are gone. It was like playing musical chairs, keeping the boys distracted while the officers were outside interviewing me. They love getting ready for bed with their grandma because she asks them interesting questions about their day while they’re getting their pajamas on, joins in on the teeth brushing, and tucks their sheets in snuggly after they hop in bed. Her captivating stories based on her world travels always lull them into sleep mode without hesitation.
I hope the extra presence of police cars driving around in our neighborhood will thwart any future threatening attempts from this guy. It’s been helpful having parents who live close by. Dealing with the pregnancy, the stalker, and Morgan’s arm has been a lot for one day.
I wish Steven had a better relationship with my parents. They have always been genuine and nice to him, but there’s an undertone of edginess and attitude he puts forth in return. I know it’s got to be hard for him, since his own parents passed away years ago, but that doesn’t make it right. He has his sister, but she lives on the West Coast and doesn’t make time to come visit us. That must hurt him.
Last Thanksgiving, I was happy Mom and Dad came over to help with dinner preparations, as chasing around two young sons can get frustrating. After thirty minutes of peeling potatoes and stuffing the bird, I watched Steven walk into the kitchen and start with, “How many people does it take to make a holiday dinner? I never recall my mom having a crew in the kitchen with her on Thanksgiving. Betsy, it’s not your work kitchen!”
Heading toward the door, my dad swiftly stepped outside with Barney and Morgan to play catch, while
Mom ran upstairs to fold laundry that didn’t need folding. Since I had a horrible headache, I ignored his comments. I knew the stress of work caused him to overreact with me, but I refused to get caught up in a fight and feed into his tantrums.
Though I have seen them decrease lately. I guess when you turn a deaf ear to negativity, it diminishes, or you just don’t care anymore. I can easily blame the way he acts on his work stress, but I sense it goes a lot deeper. I can’t deny it any longer. Once he gets back, I’m going to suggest we get help and work through the things that cause us to fight. We love each other, but just don’t see eye to eye these days.
Bah-boom!
A noise, like the one I heard earlier today outside the window, shakes me from my thoughts as I swallow a big gulp of lukewarm herbal tea. On cue, the blood starts surging through my veins.
“What was that?” I ask Barney. His ears perk up as if to say, I don’t know, let’s check and see.
I scramble out of bed, pulling my Winnie the Pooh pajama top—bought to match Barney’s favorite toy—down over my growing belly. I tilt open the shutters and peek out. Only my dim bedside lamp is on, so if anyone is out there, they won’t be able to see me, I hope. I scan the front yard but see no one. I look across the street to the neighbor’s house and manicured yard, but it’s also empty. If it’s Kyle’s stranger, he’s nowhere in sight.
Maybe it’s the crazy man from the threatening phone call, maybe it’s Freddie, or maybe it’s just the wind blowing the dangling branch. Should I wake Mom and Dad? I need to call the tree guy this week and have them cut that branch down. It’s a constant source of stress. I reach in my purse on the floor next to the bed, grab my to-do list, and add, Call Tree Guy, ASAP.
I decide to wait a few minutes and let the butterflies in my stomach slow down. The baby kicks and turns because of stress or the fact that I just hurtled out of bed. I hope this doesn’t indicate future nighttime waking rituals.