by Jack Kinsley
"Okay." The doctor gave them both a double take. "Our first test gave us a false positive of amphetamine, and sometimes an antipsychotic can mimic an opioid overdose, but this last test revealed traces of a Dibenzothiazepine derivative which is normally used to treat bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. Have either of you been treated for anything associated with these disorders? Or have you been recently prescribed medication for any sleep disorders?"
"None," Ana said flatly. She couldn't even look at Travis anymore. He remained quiet, tail between his legs.
"Your daughter will be fine," the doctor continued. "She will most likely experience symptoms of extreme drowsiness and some disorientation, possibly an upset stomach which I will write you a prescription for, but she should fully recover in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours. And don't be alarmed if she doesn't become fully conscious for another twelve to twenty-four hours."
"Will she experience any long-term side effects?" Travis asked.
"No, she'll likely be fine after this. But I would strongly advise you to determine where this medication came from and ensure this doesn't happen again. You should consider yourselves very lucky. It could have been much worse." The doctor flipped through a few more sheets on his clipboard and then held it at his side. He took a deep breath. "There's a representative here from Child Protective Services that you will need to speak with. You're not under any kind of investigation, but they will need to make a report. It's standard practice in these cases. They'll be in shortly to ask you a few questions."
He paused, possibly looking for some kind of guilty reaction from either of them, and then said, "If you don't have any further questions, I'll let them know you're waiting for them."
They both thanked the doctor, but from Ana's demeanor, Travis knew she was going to rip him to shreds as soon as they were alone. He couldn't even look in her direction.
After the doctor left, Ana went back over to Bella and kissed her cheek. She stood with the dominion of a protective mother, one hand on Bella's head while she glared at Travis, who remained standing at a safe distance.
"And all the while I thought it was me," she told him. "Blaming myself — and I am partly to blame. She should have never had access to my wine, never. But it was you. You and your goddamn pills." Her tone was cold, accurate, and severe. "It's endless; your complete disregard for everything but yourself. I thought I had managed to find all the dirty trails of pills you leave in your wake."
"I never meant to hurt her, Ana. And I never meant to hurt you." It was all he could say in his desperate defense, knowing damn well that it didn't matter what he said — there weren't any words that could help him.
"What we intend to do and what we actually do are rarely the same," she continued. "Say goodbye, Travis. This is the last time you will ever see me or Bella again. And you can forget about your business. You're in no position to help us or anyone else. You can't even help yourself. I see it in your face now. You're a disaster for anyone who comes into contact with you. Say goodbye. And I suggest you make it quick, before Child Services comes in."
He was cooked. Her words carried the weight of a final verdict without the possibility of parole. Although it was expected, it did little to soften the blow. His bones had felt like invincible steel earlier; now, they turned to glass and shattered into a million pieces. And he couldn't blame her. She had already lost a child to her own substance abuse, and she wore the scar on her neck as a reminder that would never allow her to endanger her child again.
Travis approached the side of the bed, drank in the last sight of his daughter, and kissed her goodbye.
Chapter 12 / After Her Light Went Out
Nearly a week had already passed since Bella was released from the hospital. The only dialogue Travis had had with either of them came from Ana in the form of a text telling him Bella was okay. That was it — no details and no other threats. But he knew her mind was made and there was no chance in reversing any of her ill-fated plans.
He'd been sleeping in later and going into work later every day, much to the chagrin of Sarah. This Monday morning, he felt like his Ferragamo shoes were made of concrete. Before leaving for work, he spotted Chili and Willy on the greenbelt and sat in the cool grass with them. School was certainly already in session, he knew. When Travis asked Willy why he wasn't in school, the boy gave him a mischievous wink and said he was staying home sick.
While tossing the ball back and forth, Chili darting between them, Travis couldn't help but think he had traded lives with his four-legged friend. Chili's coat was clean and vibrant, reflecting a healthy spirit, and Travis wore a shirt with a ring around the collar.
"My mom wanted me to ask you over for dinner," Willy told him, and chucked the rubber ball into a high rainbow arch. It hit a brown spot of dead grass at a distance, bounced, and rolled dangerously close to the edge of the curb. Willy stood and screamed out to Chili to stop; the dog cowered at his command without question. Willy picked the pup up and they retrieved the ball together.
When he returned, he sat next to Travis and kept the pup in the safety between his thighs. Chili happily obliged and rolled onto his back for a belly rub.
"Do you think you can make it? She said any night would work." Willy laughed at the pup when he kicked his legs every time there was a pause in his massage.
"I really appreciate the invite, but I never know with work. Things change by the hour over there, and I'd hate to put her out and not be able to make it. Tell her thanks, but I'll take a rain check until things settle down a bit."
"Okay, no problem." Willy lay on his back and held the pup above him like a child playing airplane in a parent's arms.
Travis stood, brushed the loose, dry blades of grass off his trousers, and told Willy he'd catch him later. On his way to his car, Chili broke loose and ran up behind him, barking at his heels. Travis gave him a last pet on the head and then sent him back to Willy.
— — —
When Travis arrived at Crystal Heights, he had an unexpected greeting from Dani at the front door. She held the door open for him and said, "Good morning, Travis. How are you today?"
"I'm fine, thank you," he answered, though he couldn't have been further from fine. "How are you today?"
"Good, thanks. I was hoping I could have a quick word with you."
"Right now?" He looked down at the briefcase still in his hand.
"Yes, but it'll be less than a minute. And right here's fine."
"Okay, shoot," he replied, curious.
"I wanted to offer Betsy my suite," Dani told him. "I heard through the grapevine that it's her favorite room, and it really doesn't make a difference to me what room I'm in."
Travis was genuinely surprised at her generosity. "That's very sweet of you, Dani. A very kind gesture and I think Betsy would be very grateful. But are you sure that's something you want to do?"
"I'm sure. I've already started collecting my things — she could move in tonight if she wanted. You just let me know when she's ready."
Travis observed her for a moment. Something had changed within Dani, and he was certain it had everything to do with her new life coach and the continued therapy sessions with Helen.
"Don't worry about your things," he told her. "I'll have Lucy or Diane move them when the time comes. You just keep working on the great progress you're making here."
"Okay, Travis," she said, and headed for the living room.
"Dani," he stopped her. She turned back to him. "Thank you," he told her. He turned and headed for the office. Dani's offer had secretly made his day — a smidgen of hope restored.
When he walked through the door, he found Helen waiting for him inside the office. There was no sign of Sarah.
"Ms. Ross."
"Mr. Martin." She briefly regarded him with her clinical eyes.
"Guess what?" he said. "I was looking in the mirror today and realized I'm getting old, fat, and ugly."
"Well, thank God your eyesight hasn't failed you,"
she spun it. She had a curious smirk on her face that didn't appear game-related.
"What is it?" he asked her.
"Did someone greet you at the door this morning?"
"Oh, you put her up to that?" He was a little disappointed.
"Oh no, that was her idea one hundred percent. I had absolutely nothing to do with it. She only told me about it."
Travis read her face for any deceit.
"Honest," she told him.
"Well, it's very thoughtful of her. And to be quite honest, I'd like to move Betsy in there tonight. I'm not sure how much time she has left."
"The sooner the better for Dani, too. Complete her whole process."
Travis shook his head. "You never stop theraputing do you? By the way..." He sat across from her. "I wanted to ask you how things are going with Dallas in your sessions."
"Well, if I had to give him a label, it would definitely be that of a psychopath. But it's never cut and dry. Not like the stereotype widely portrayed in popular movies and such. They're not all violent sadists and murderers," she told him.
But Travis knew better from the conversations he'd had with his not-so-friendly giant that Dallas didn't lean too far from the stereotype.
"I don't find him to be that emotionally intelligent," she continued, "but he does exhibit some of the deeper personality traits: deficient of real emotions, lack of remorse or shame, inability to control outbursts of anger, disassociation with friends and family, threats of suicide that are rarely carried out, and — of course — the superficial charm. That last one's a dead giveaway." She laughed.
"He is amusing, I'll give him that," he said.
"There's a great quote by Hervey Cleckley, the pioneer of psychopathy..." She searched her memory and then recited it, "'The psychopath talks entertainingly and is brilliant and charming, but nonetheless carries disaster lightly in each hand.'"
The quote struck a chord — it seemed to describe Dallas to a T. "How does someone become emotionally detached?" Travis asked. "I mean, how is it even possible to be void of feeling?"
"Well, well...aren't we very inquisitive today, Mr. Martin. Planning a career change?"
"No way," he chuckled, but he did want to know how his mysterious giant operated.
"It's all about jumping the corpus callosum," she told him.
"The what?"
"You know, the bridge of neural fibers connecting your left and right cerebral hemispheres." She drew an imaginary line with her finger down the middle of her head from front to back. "It facilitates the communication between the hemispheres. The scientific explanation is attributed to the speed at which the two hundred and some million axons communicate. A psychopath's transfer of information happens at a much greater speed than that of a normal human, resulting in a 'jump' that removes any sensation of guilt or emotion one would generally experience."
"No shit," was Travis's scientific response.
"Corpus callosum means 'tough body' in Latin," Helen said with a sly smile. "Which is oddly appropriate for Dallas, wouldn't you say?"
They shared a laugh, and for the briefest of moments, Travis forgot about losing everything he held dear in his life. He stood, twisted the blinds open, and looked out the office window. Outside, he watched Dallas drag and position a lounger into an early slice of sunlight by the pool.
"Speaking of the pro-tanner, he's already hard at work on getting darker."
Dallas stretched out on the chair, off-balance thanks to three of the chair's legs on the cement and one staked in the lawn. It rocked slightly as he slathered tanning oil on his massive chest.
Helen joined Travis at the window for a look. "Do you think any woman finds skin like that attractive?"
"Maybe not, but he talks entertainingly and is brilliant and charming."
"But carries disaster lightly in each hand," she whispered almost to herself. She looked at Travis abruptly. "I'm going to leave you to it. I have to drive clear out to Irvine for my next appointment." She pulled her purse over her shoulder and went for the exit.
"Hey, where's Sarah?"
"With Betsy, I believe. I think you're wise to get her into the new suite ASAP. Poor thing seems to be getting weaker by the minute."
— — —
Outside, Travis approached Dallas. "We're still a month away from Thanksgiving — a bit early to start basting the turkey, don't you think?"
"The early birds don't only get the worm," he said and picked up a USA Today at his side. "I was just readin' this mornin', despite all them bad presses, there just ain't no evidence to support the linkin' of skin cancer and sun exposure. They sayin' now, them melanomas actually decrease in the sun. Shit you not. Right here in black and white." He waved the newspaper at Travis to have a look.
"And tomorrow, breaking news: broccoli is actually bad for you."
"Maybe." The giant huffed and a dirty grin lifted the meaty slabs of his cheeks.
Travis pulled a chair next to him, careful to keep himself in the shade. "How are you feeling today?"
Dallas spied him up and down, reading Travis's desperate aura with his two bright beads. "Better than you, from the looks of it."
"I'd say you'd be right on the money."
The giant regarded him with skepticism, probably thinking the conversation was going to turn to money since the funds he'd promised hadn't come in yet. In a way, he was right.
Dallas sat up and went sideways so he could face Travis. "You ain't worried about my cash coming, are ya? I know we're a few days shy of my due date, but—"
"Nope." It was true. Financially, Crystal Heights was in the black since Betsy had checked in. No, money was the last thing on Travis's mind right now. He was much more concerned with the harsh reality that, unless he did something drastic, he may never see his daughter grow another inch taller.
Dallas studied Travis a moment longer, paused on the two mostly healed scabs on his jawline, and then stretched back out onto the recliner. He closed his eyes from the intensifying sun. "You got somethin' you want to ask me, Mr. Martin?" He shot one eye open at him and closed it again. "Let's not forget, you still got more on me than I got on you. More room on your end of the scale. That's for darn tootin'."
Travis thought about what he would say — how he could broach the subject — but he came up short. He'd been reduced to basic survival instincts and he lacked the necessary finesse. A collection of thoughts had just begun to solidify in his mind when there was a click at the front gate and Chef Tom came through with the morning groceries. He lugged five or six canvas bags in each hand; their handles turned the tips of his fingers white, his shoulders drawn down tight into a bottle-neck outline.
"Need help?" Travis and Dallas asked in unison.
"Just the front door," Tom said and quickened his pace. Travis met him at the door and held it open for him. When he passed through, Travis slapped his defenseless ass.
"Don't forget who's handling your food." Chef Tom's voice faded inside the house.
Travis shut the door only to turn and see the masseuse headed toward him. He opened it again and asked, "A massage at this hour?"
"I'm doing a Reiki session with Dani," she said, beaming with enthusiasm.
The woman had recently been certified in the Japanese technique, a healing process during which she only hovered and swept her hands above the recipient, never actually touching them. It was holistic therapy supposedly benefiting self-healing and equilibrium, but was all a bit too exploratory for Travis. He was more of a scientific kind of guy than a believer in hocus pocus.
"I hope she enjoys it," he told her. She hurried inside excitedly.
He nearly had the door closed when Sarah came in the opposite direction. He opened it again.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. "I thought you were coming in late."
"I heard the doorman was out sick."
Sarah gave him a puzzled look and continued out to Dallas, carrying his printed and amended schedule. She looked younger this morning and w
as made up differently. Her hair was parted to the side and swept back into a clean, slick ponytail, and her makeup seemed lighter — he thought maybe it was a new eye shadow. A dainty coral dress hung loose off her milk-white collarbones. It fell just above her knees, revealing her slender but shapely legs for perhaps the first time at Crystal Heights. She wore a duo of white heels that could have gone casual or sexy, but today, the switch in her walk definitely made them sultry. She seemed to float between steps and her unexpected look drew a sexy whistle from Dallas's thick lips.
Even Travis gawked a little. Following her out to the pool, he had to make a conscious effort to keep his gaze from running up and down the curves that showed through her chiffon dress.
"Hello, Dallas. I revised your schedule for you, and just need your John Hancock on it for approval." She handed him the paper.
Dallas took the sheet without looking at it. "Oh, how you do tease, Ms. Daley. I must say you are the vision of a modern-day, southern belle this fine mornin'." He sat upright at full attention, drinking in the view.
Travis wasn't certain, thinking his eyes may have deceived him, but thought Sarah performed a little curtsy in response to Dallas's comments. What the hell was going on here? Where did his real house manager go? It was like she'd jumped from the page of a makeover magazine and gone from a Plain Jane to a What's Your Name? overnight.
"I've been meanin' to ask you," Dallas continued with his olive oil voice and boyish charm. "What would you say if a guy that looked a lot like me were to ask you out?"
The giant had a unique way with women that surprisingly made them forget what Travis considered his physically unattractive qualities. He'd seen Dallas soften hearts and bring color to the cheeks of nearly all the women at Crystal Heights — including astute professionals he could never have imagined succumbing to his flattery. The giant had a velvet tongue, and it was seemingly working on Sarah right now, penetrating her usual armor.
"I'd first ask if he had gainful employment," Sarah teased Dallas.