Pink Slips

by Beth Aldrich

  “In the meantime, let’s just do life. Get the boys to school, and remember the cupcakes, you know…” I trail off, pointing to the phone and the corners of the room, as if he’s listening, “…not worry about the threat. I also have an errand to run tomorrow morning at the Village Hall, but that shouldn’t take long,” I add, giving Mom a nod and a wink, to make sure she knows what I’m referring to.

  Mom whispers in Dad’s ear; I suspect she’s telling him about my plan to look at the video surveillance tapes. He nods in acknowledgement, meets my gaze, and winks. I smile back and give a thumbs-up. It would be ironic if someone was videotaping us, when my system should be videotaping them. There I go, using my humor as a coping mechanism again. It’s not funny, but it’s all I’ve got to hang on to for now.

  Curling up with a good book in bed is always food for the soul. I do it every night to escape into someone else’s story. Tonight’s installment is again the chick lit from the other night, a diversion from my own personal drama that really is stranger than fiction. My eyes skim the page, taking in the author’s elaborate settings, descriptions, and required details of the lead male’s muscular physique. I float into the imaginary world, escaping my obvious predicament, as my eyelids flutter, fighting off sleep at 11:00 p.m.

  A few hours later, I awake, heart pounding. I push myself up to a seated position among the mounds in Pillow Land. The red glowing numbers on the clock read 3:04. The house is silent. The boys are sleeping. But now I’m wide awake. “That dream was so real. Was it a dream?” I’m talking to my dog, sound asleep on his back, upper limbs flopped open on the other side of the bed—Steven’s side.

  Trying to dissect the contents of the dream, I get quiet and attempt to recreate it in my mind. I close my eyes, assuming my memory will work better, and with calming, rhythmic breaths, I start to wind down into my quiet place deep inside.

  I’m walking into a building—the police department—I’m taken aback, since I was planning to go there tomorrow. Maybe it’s my mind setting things up? I follow the steps in my memory of the dream to see where it takes me. Now I’m looking at a poster of wanted suspects that could possibly fit the description of the stalker.

  My dream continues outside the station, where the wind is blowing especially hard and bits of grass, scrap paper, and leaves are flying wildly about in a circular whirl, like water going down the drain. I grasp the sides of my sweater and pull them together as I push on to reach my car. There’s no place like home, I sing quietly.

  As I look up, I see a man wearing a black mask standing by my driver’s side door. Our eyes meet as I dart across the street to get away from him. His eyes follow me, only turning his head to track my steps into the coffee shop across the street—a coffee shop I have visited dozens of times before when not dreaming. I disappear inside.

  If my heart could jump out of my chest, it would right now. The coffee shop is filled with customers, so no one really notices me come in. I bob my head to the left and right, then run into the bathroom and hide. Crazy, the things you can do in dreams.

  Sitting on a toilet in a locked stall becomes my hideout for the next several minutes. Oddly beautiful light-beige subway tiles make their way up the side of the wall to hip height, meeting a light brown-swirled wallpaper that covers the top half of the wall. The stall doors are a light pine, accented with chrome-locking mechanisms. They really put a lot of thought into this ladies’ room, I think. I’ll have to go back and check it out, for real, tomorrow.

  Finally, my dream self seems to regain confidence and I storm out of the artfully designed ladies’ room and back through the crowded coffee shop. I peek out the window and see that the wind has died down and the leaves and slips of paper are back to their original spots on the ground. Suddenly I see a street sweeper come by, picking up the wind-blown trash and throwing it back in the garbage cans. The man who is driving the sweeper hops out, and with his microfiber cloth, walks right up to the window where I’m standing to wipe it clean. He lingers for a second, studies my face, and then hops back into his vehicle. I stand, frozen.

  I snap back to consciousness.

  Baffled, I grab a pillow and hug it to my chest. I can feel the little ends of the goose feathers poking through the crisp, baby-blue Egyptian cotton sheet. My faithful protector is still asleep next to me, whimpering and pretending to run in his sleep. Maybe he’s having the doggie version of the nightmare I just had? He looks like he’s smiling, however, so it’s safe to say that rabbits are probably part of his dream.

  The Village Hall, where I plan on getting to the bottom of my videotape mystery, is situated on a tree-lined street in Westin Heights. If someone didn’t see the small white sign with black script identifying the building, they would think it was just an ordinary, historically preserved North Shore mansion, not a functional government building. It’s one of the many ways the village planners have gone out of their way to retain the small-town look and feel of the downtown area. They also limit the amount of nationally recognized stores, restaurants, and businesses, instead reserving space for small business owners to thrive.

  The local community has really embraced what this neighborhood offers, which is evident in the bustling foot traffic on any given Saturday afternoon. You need a reservation to eat at the trendy Double Day Grill, especially if you want a sought-after outdoor patio table on a balmy summer night. There’s no need to schlep into the city for dinner and drinks with other couples, given our own hip spots. I do take note, however, that our little downtown could certainly use a cute bakery or breakfast spot. Something to think about for the future.

  This morning is less busy, but I still sense the energy of the place as shopkeepers up and down the street start to open their doors—several of which lead to kids’ stores, a sure sign we’re not the only ones to move north for family-friendliness.

  The folks living in this area are educated and affluent and want a quiet community to raise their children—safe and sheltered from the dangers of the outside world. It’s the perfect place for us. Once this stalker is caught, it will still be a safe place to live. I think he’s specifically targeting me, not this neighborhood.

  Waiting in the entry area of the Village Hall makes me a little uncomfortable, as I have no desire to explain myself to anyone who may pop in, even though there are plenty of normal reasons why I would come here. I could be here to pay my utility bills or a parking ticket, or maybe I just needed to pick up a block party permit. To be on the safe side, I stealthily keep my sunglasses on and pretend to be deeply absorbed in the intricate pattern of the Oriental rug until I can talk with Sandy, the secretary working at the desk. Let’s hope the guy from last night’s nightmare doesn’t show up while I’m waiting.

  I continue to admire my surroundings while I wait my turn. The reception desk is made of a solid, dark-stained mahogany wood, adorned with beautiful carvings on the legs. It fits right into the small-town charm of the building. The adjacent chairs are upholstered with a paisley fabric, and a brass trashcan and magazine rack round out the scene—such elegance for a government building.

  Finally, she’s free. “Hi Sandy, I know it’s an odd request, but I was wondering if you would be able to grant me access to video footage from the surveillance cameras on my street?” Realizing that my request is pushing the legal limits, I shoot her a pleading look, hoping, because she knows me, she’ll do this one favor for me.

  “Hey, Betsy. I wish I could, but the police came by earlier to check them out and told me not to let anyone have access to the files.” Her sincere smile assures me that she means business. “Is everything okay? I mean, I know it’s none of my business, but given that we know each other and our kids go to school together… should I be worried?” Her perfectly cut blonde bob glides across her collarbones and frames her angular chin.

  Looking down at my shoes, I push around a small piece of lint, avoiding her gaze. “I know, Sandy, but I thought I’d ask,” I reply, as my eyes slowly rise to meet her stare. �
��I’m not sure if there’s anything to worry about or not. I’m not sure you know what’s on the footage, but there’s been some crazy notes, and… anyway, I just thought I’d look at what you guys had on film because my cameras at home didn’t show any clear images of the jerk’s face.”

  Sandy’s jaw is ajar as she blinks and whispers, “Oh, good heavens, Betsy. I am so sorry this is happening to you.” She glances over her shoulder and continues, “You know, since you already have a copy of your own footage, what harm would it do for you to have a copy of what we have?”

  My face slowly forms a sly grin. I lower my voice and slide her a slip of paper. “I promise I won’t show anyone. Our secret is safe with me. Here’s the date and approximate time.”

  “Let’s quickly look at this before my supervisor returns,” Sandy says, typing away on her computer. After a moment, she stops at a video featuring my very own side door from the perspective of the streetlight camera at the corner. “This is the only digital file I have from the night you’re concerned about.” Sandy turns the computer screen so I can get a closer look. Together we scan the footage, then suddenly she hits pause.

  “Oh, Betsy this is terrible. Were you robbed or something?”

  “Oh, no. He’s been snooping around my property and leaving rude notes,” I say, not wanting to tell her too much. “Trust me, you know I’ve already talked to the police and they’re on it.”

  Nodding, Sandy says, “I’m sure they are, but you know things around here can move at a snail’s pace sometimes.”

  “I know, so to be sure I wanted to see if I could recognize any of his features from your footage myself.” It’s confirmed: that’s the dude haunting both my dreams and my personal surveillance tapes.

  Sandy’s deep hazel eyes glance around the room to make sure we’re still alone. We are. She leans in. “Listen, ordinarily, I’m not supposed to email digital files to anyone, but … let’s just keep this between the two of us. I’ll email it to you from my personal address so there won’t be a trail.”

  “Thank you so much, Sandy,” I reply. “I know Kyle has really enjoyed getting to know Sasha in class this year.” I glance at her computer. “It’ll be our little secret. See you at carpool pickup!”

  I smile modestly, but, in my mind, I’m doing a fist pump, cheering for myself because I negotiated with her and saw those recordings. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn up much, but it proved to me that I still have a way of getting what I want from people. I don’t know if it’s because I hone right in and relate to them on some level or another, or if it’s just because I’m a nice person… or maybe it’s simply because I look sweet and innocent. I’m sure the baby bump doesn’t hurt, either. Frankly, I think it’s all those things, combined.

  Sandy doesn’t seem too nosy, but the fact that she wants to keep this between us is probably a good idea—I don’t want to see any terrified grade school moms running around Westin Heights. When I get home, I’m going to go through this footage again with a fine-toothed comb and see if I can make further headway about this guy, especially since he’s trailing me in my dreams, too.

  My cell phone rings as I’m leaving the building. I check the ID: Caller unknown. It could be the stalker.

  “Hello?”

  “I know you are looking for the videotape of my visit to your home… don’t even think about telling the cops about this call.” Hearing his voice sears my soul.

  Panic pours through my entire body, tightening my chest and throat. I’m barely able to breathe. “I can track your number, jerk, so don’t think you’re going to get away with this!” I scream into my cellphone and then angrily end the call as I quickly pick my way between the bushes outside the Village Hall’s back door. At this point I’m getting very agitated at this creep’s gall. Sure, I’m scared, but he’s starting to get gutsy. What is his end game?

  Hoping no one has heard me, I begin to walk-jog to my car, glancing frantically across the street and behind my vehicle. Kitty-corner to where I’m standing sits the coffee shop, much like my crazy dream; except in my dream, I was in the police station—where I need to go next.

  Our quaint neighborhood police station reminds me of the ‘60s television series The Andy Griffith Show, which took place in the small town of Mayberry, North Carolina. I used to watch the reruns with my little sister on TV Land, and would often wonder what it must have felt like for Andy to be a widower. The show really was about nostalgia and a small-town feel, much like the police department in my village. I wonder what the inept but well-meaning deputy, Barney Fife, would say about my current stalker crisis?

  I head into the station and approach the front desk to see if I can get any updates on my case. I’m determined to get answers.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ryan,” says the female officer at the front desk after glancing at my ID, then tapping something into the computer. “This is regarding the threats made against you?”

  I nod my head and reply, “Yes.”

  “Okay, I see here that Officer Flaggler visited you at your home a second time. The investigation is ongoing, and they’re working every possible lead. What brings you here now? Another threat?”

  My heart strikes inside my chest like a drum as I attempt to regain the confidence I found at lunchtime. “I’m inquiring as to whether there are any results from the fingerprints they took? And, I also wanted to report that I received another threatening call.”

  “Okay, just fill out this additional statement form and I’ll add this incident to the report. I’ll alert the detectives working on the case to be aware of the latest threat. They’ll call you for any other details they might need. According to this report, the fingerprints have been sent out to the lab, but the results have not been returned yet.”

  I nod. “And how long does that usually take?”

  As I start filling out the statement, she replies, “The results should be back in about a week.” I groan, more audibly than I had anticipated, as she continues, “Mrs. Ryan, I can tell this is upsetting you, but rest assured, we have a very good department here and we will do everything in our power to protect and serve you. Remember to give us a call if anything else happens.”

  Once they read that he just threatened my life if I tell the cops, they’ll probably put my case on the top of the pile. I can still hear his disgusting, vile voice over the phone: “I know you are looking for the videotape of my visit to your home… don’t even think about telling the cops about this call.” I couldn’t hang up on him quick enough!

  Walking out of the police department, glancing over my shoulder, I start nervously whistle-snapping the theme song to The Andy Griffith Show as I visualize little Opie walking down the street with a fishing pole. What would Andy do in this situation?

  I lean against a pillar outside of the police department building, one palm against the cool limestone, forcing myself to think about reality, not television. I shake my head in disbelief. It still doesn’t seem real that this is my life right now. Steven is not going to believe it when he hears about all of this. Thinking of Steven gives me pause. I miss his big, strong, and safe arms around me and my pregnant belly right now.

  As I focus my attention on my baby, I realize my stomach is growling. I need to feed this baby; we’re both starving. I find if I divert myself with delicious food, everything looks and feels better, even bad guys in masks making threatening calls. I’m glad the new threat will be added to my file, building a stronger case for fighting this madman. I take a quick look behind me, and throw back my shoulders defiantly and head out to lunch. I will stay strong.

  As a foodie, I’m very particular about where I purchase my food, and who prepares it, for that matter. I’m always looking at their presentation techniques, the way they incorporate the ingredients, and the overall taste. Being a discerning tuna critic, I always end up going over to Foodstuffs near Good Faith Hospital, where they have the best tuna salad in town. They’re located on a picturesque little street with a flower shop that has gorgeous a
rrangements in the window, a bakery, coffee shop, a fabulous ’60s diner, and a sweet little park that the boys love to visit when we’re over there.

  I love tuna at lunchtime, but the doctor says that the risk of mercury in the fish can be dangerous to the baby, so I’ve been avoiding it. The problem is that I’ve been craving it so much lately. The doctor says that if I’m craving it, I probably need more essential fatty acids or protein. So, as suggested, I opt for chicken salad, even though it’s just not the same.

  As I wait, I can’t help but appreciate the cozy gourmet look and feel of the place. The white subway tiles; chrome shelving filled with gourmet spices, seasonings, and hard-to-find delicacies; the bookshelves, overflowing with fabulous cookbooks; and the baskets on the floor, filled to the brim with freshly packed containers of chips, crackers, and cookies—all prepared on-location.

  The salad bar is stocked with the best add-ons for the perfect salad-on-the-go, and the deli bar creates incredible sandwiches and premade salads and entrées. This is where my passion for Courtney’s Tuna Salad was born. The folks working there make this unique version of tuna salad so special—keeping customers coming back for more.

  Sitting at one of the wooden community tables next to the soup bar, I place my little green shopping basket next to my feet and ravenously rip into my lunch, consisting of chicken salad and split pea soup, all so fresh and delicious. After a few minutes of focused eating, when I’m feeling supremely satisfied (minus the unsatisfied tuna craving), I wipe the corners of my mouth with my napkin, pick up my basket, and head to the cashier to pay for my other items. Thinking ahead, I grab a roasted chicken and a side pasta salad for dinner. I throw in two frosted sugar cookies for the boys’ dessert. I’ll settle for the leftover fruit in the fridge.

  While walking back to my car with a satisfied belly and tonight’s dinner in tow, my cell phone rings. It’s the hospital. I’m suddenly afraid to answer. I hope Steven is okay. “Hello?”