by Jove Belle
Graciela was still a little too young for a full induction, and Trinity wouldn’t share her not-so-legal tricks with someone she barely knew. But some day, maybe, if she continued to show interest in coding, Trinity could groom her. A protégé, perhaps. The idea of perpetuating a legacy appealed to her.
“I know, but believe this—it really does get better. I promise.”
“Yeah, that’s what everybody says.” Graciela sighed.
The chatted for a while longer. Trinity told her about a few of the apps she’d launched the year before, including a keychain app that stored system passwords and required thumbprint identification to access. Graciela asked a few questions about the code, her eyes flashing with excitement and possibility. To encourage Graciela’s development, Trinity challenged her to develop a similar program that could be used to store cheat codes and other data for video games. She promised to help her over any bumps that might crop up.
When the conversation naturally ended, Graciela said, “Okay, I’m going back to the party. Thanks again.”
“You bet. Bye.” Trinity waved, as did Graciela, then she disconnected the call.
Distraction over, Trinity returned to her project. She fell easily into the rhythm of reading line after line of base-level code. When she looked up next, it was two hours later and she was almost finished.
A crash of breaking glass, followed by Ornella yelling and Carol crying out in pain, came from the kitchen, just loud enough to be heard over the tribal music playing in Trinity’s headset. She spun herself away from her desk, tore off her headphones, and sprinted toward the kitchen.
Carol leaned against one wall, clutching her left arm. Blood seeped around her fingers and ran in a steady stream down her arm. It dripped onto the ancient linoleum that Trinity refused to replace because her mom still recognized the kitchen as hers.
Trinity put one hand on Carol’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Of course she wasn’t okay. But it was the only thing Trinity could think to say in the moment.
Carol’s pupils were blown wide, and her face was ashen, a layer of dry white over her normally deep, robust brown. She nodded toward the other side of the kitchen. “Help your mom.”
“Who are you people? Why are you in my house?” Ornella screeched, her voice filled with the panicked edge of the truly terrified. In her hand, she clutched their longest, sharpest chef’s knife. The blade, along with Ornella’s hand, was splattered with blood. “Answer me.”
Carol’s cell phone sat on the island, next to a rolled out pie crust and the flour sifter. The glass pie pan, one of four that Ornella had used for as long as Trinity could remember, lay on the floor, broken into pieces. Trinity held her hands up in front of her and said, “I’m going to call for help.” She motioned toward the phone. “Will you let me do that?”
Ornella’s whole body shook, and her eyes were wild with fear. Her mom—her sweet, gentle, kind mom who baked pies and went to church and taught Sunday school—had attacked a woman who grew up in Jamaica with her.
“Who? Who are you going to call? You don’t belong in my house.” Ornella shrank back against the cabinets, but brandished the knife higher and waved it at Trinity. It was meant to be menacing, but all Trinity wanted was to cross the room and pull Ornella into a hug. Her heart broke to see her mom so confused, so desperately trying to make sense of the intruders in her kitchen.
“The police. Let me call the police. And an ambulance. Is that okay?” Trinity spoke softly, using the same soothing tone Ornella had used with her when she was a small child. As she did so, she reached again for the phone. This time Ornella allowed her to pick it up. She dialed 911 and set the device for speaker. That way, Ornella would be able to listen to the conversation as well.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“Hello, my name is Trinity Washington, and I need an ambulance to come to my home.”
“The police,” Ornella yelled. “You’re supposed to be calling the police.”
Adding someone with a gun to an already fraught situation was the last thing they needed. She glanced at her mom, who stared back, eyes wide with too many frantic emotions to identify. Trinity took a calming breath and then said, “Could you send the police as well?” She gave her address, never breaking eye contact with Ornella.
“Okay, Trinity, can you tell me the reason you’re calling?”
Trinity paused for a moment. How could she describe the scene without setting her mom off? Worse, what if the police came in with a shoot-first-ask-questions-later attitude? If Ornella were a young black man, that would surely be the case. Those statistics spoke for themselves. But Ornella wasn’t young or a man. Would black skin be enough justification for an adrenaline-filled cop?
She didn’t have a choice. Carol needed help. And so did her mom. “My mother has Alzheimer’s, and she cut her health care aid with a kitchen knife. She doesn’t recognize either of us at the moment.”
“I’ve dispatched emergency services, and they are on the way. Can you stay on the phone with me until they arrive?” The operator spoke with detached professionalism. It did very little to calm Trinity.
Trinity nodded slightly to Ornella, silently passing the question off to her. Ornella gave her a tight nod, and Trinity said, “I believe I can, yes.”
“That’s good. Can you tell me about the injury? The person is cut, you say? Can you tell how deep?”
She glanced at Carol. Blood still dripped from her arm, but not as rapidly.
“I don’t know. She sliced her arm.”
“Can you put pressure on the wound?”
Carol smiled weakly at her.
“She’s holding it with her other hand.”
“That’s good,” the dispatcher said, the faint sound of fingers tapping against a keyboard sounded in the background. “Is there anything nearby that you can use as a compress?”
“Yes.” Trinity grabbed a dishtowel from the drawer and passed it to Carol. When she lifted her hand away from the wound, the flow of blood increased dramatically before she pressed the cloth to her arm.
The dispatcher continued to ask questions, and Trinity answered as best she could. Was there anyone else in the house? No. Was the front door unlocked? No. Was someone available to let the first responders in when they arrived? She wasn’t sure.
After a point, it became clear that she was simply talking to keep Trinity calm and on the line with her. At no time did the veil of confusion lift from Ornella’s eyes, nor did she interfere with the phone conversation or prevent Trinity from helping Carol.
“Okay, Trinity, the police are almost there. You should be able to hear their sirens.”
Trinity focused. She forced herself to listen beyond the sound of blood rushing through her ears. There! Faint, and then growing louder, she heard the distinct wail of a police cruiser, followed by the squealing of brakes. The siren cut off abruptly, but another one sounded in the background, moving rapidly in her direction.
“Yes. They’re here.”
“Excellent. Can you let them in?”
“Yes.” Trinity moved toward the door.
“No,” Ornella said, her voice strained. “The other one.” She pointed at Carol with the knife.
Trinity disconnected the call. In a fugue state, she watched with a sense of detached disbelief.
Carol held the door open wide. Two police officers stood on her front porch, their guns holstered. That was a good sign.
“You called nine-one-one, ma’am?” The first officer, a young black woman, asked.
Carol looked at Trinity, clearly expecting her to answer. Her whole body seemed to sag against the thin side of the door. Trinity stood in limbo at the edge of the kitchen, the no-man’s land between the kitchen and the living room. She wanted to comfort Ornella and Carol but couldn’t.
“Yes. My mom has Alzheimer’s and forgot who we are.” Trinity gestured toward Ornella who had backed herself even tighter into the corner of the cabinets. It mad
e Trinity’s heart hurt to watch her. “And she cut Carol with a kitchen knife.” After saying it two times, she still couldn’t quite believe the words as they left her mouth. “She needs an ambulance.”
“She’s still armed?” The female officer bypassed Carol, hand hovering over her holster, as if preparing to remove her service weapon from her holster. The other officer, an older white man, did likewise.
“No, no! It’s not like that. She’s scared. She’s waiting for you to help her. Please, don’t hurt her.”
The officers entered the house as the ambulance pulled up. In moments, her house was full of emergency personnel. The officers, bless them, didn’t shoot Ornella for being black and holding a knife. The paramedics quickly assessed Carol and guided her out of the house to the ambulance.
“Ma’am, I’m Officer MacDonnal. Are you able to answer some questions for me?” He spoke with a gentle, caring lilt to his voice.
Trinity nodded. She looked past him to the kitchen. His partner, the woman, had coaxed the knife away from Ornella and guided her to the table.
“My partner is speaking with your mom now, but I need to hear from you about what happened here today.”
“I…” Trinity stopped and took a long, deep breath. “I was in my office, working, when I heard yelling. I came out and found my mom with the knife and Carol holding her arm, bleeding.”
Officer MacDonnal nodded and made notes in a small Moleskin journal. “Any idea what set your mom off?”
“No. She’s never done this before.” If Trinity had heard about this after the fact without the benefit of seeing the wild, frightened look in Ornella’s eyes, she never would have believed her mom capable of such an act of violence. Ornella loved beautiful things. She was gentle and encouraging. She had a lifetime’s worth of practice at turning the other cheek. Nothing about this made any sense.
“You said she has Alzheimer’s?”
“Yes. Early onset. But even when she forgets, she’s still calm. She becomes overly polite. The way she was when I found her, paranoid and on edge, that’s just not her. She’s been upset before, when she forgets, but this…”
He scribbled down a bit more and then touched her hand briefly. “I’m sorry this has happened to your family.”
“Thank you.” Trinity fought against the torrent of emotion flooding her system. She needed to think about this like an equation, like a broken sequence of code that she could fix. But every time she considered it, the only obvious conclusion—a dedicated care facility—made her heart break just a bit more. The thought of Ornella in one of those places was unconscionable. What kind of daughter would she be if she did that?
“I need to talk to the other woman. What is her name?”
“Carol?”
“Right. You said she cares for your mom?”
“Yes. She moved here from Jamaica last year to help my mom. She’s like family.”
“As soon as the EMTs finish with her, I’ll get her statement to determine if she wants to press charges.”
“What?” That jerked Trinity out of her haze. “Press charges? Why would…”
“She was assaulted,” he said mildly, his voice surprisingly free of judgment.
Trinity closed her eyes briefly as she nodded. “Of course.”
“Assuming that she doesn’t, do you have an alternate care plan for your mother?”
Trinity had done exhaustive research into the different facilities available locally, to the point that she knew the names of the directors and the fee schedules. She knew which places conducted routine outings, which places had gardens, and which places were only slightly better than the nightmarish state institutions that were dismantled as part of JFK’s deinstitutionalization program. She knew which places had the most reported cases of abuse, which places had the lowest turnover of staff, and which places smelled of antiseptic and desperation.
She knew every conceivable detail except which place could be a believable substitute home for Ornella. The moment she’d dreaded and put off was finally here. She had to make a decision. There was no good solution, just varying degrees of Trinity as a bad daughter.
“I’ve looked into a few places.”
“Have you checked availability? Started the paperwork?”
“Sort of.”
“Here’s the deal: in situations such as these, when there’s a potentially violent situation, we have to remove the aggressor. In this case, that’s your mom. I could call social services, or if you had arrangements in place, we could transport her to a facility.”
Before she could catch herself, a small sob escaped Trinity. Then she took another deep breath to bring herself back under control. She nodded. “Can you give me a few minutes?”
She had a list, prioritized by a complicated set of factors, printed out and stuck to her bulletin board with a cheerful yellow pushpin.
“We can do that.” Officer MacDonnal nodded and smiled sadly. He turned away and keyed the mic attached to his shoulder epaulette. In a hushed voice, he requested an additional ambulance.
Trinity glanced around her house. Her mom sat at the kitchen table, talking quietly with the female officer. She looked calmer but still not herself. Visible through the open front door, Carol sat on the inside ledge at the back of the ambulance. The EMT had dressed her wound and started an IV. Unlike Ornella, she looked a bit frantic and unsure of the situation. That was fair. It wasn’t every day she got attacked with a kitchen knife.
Trinity made her way to her office, where she pulled down the list and dialed the top number. It was a smaller, private facility that specialized in creating a home-like atmosphere while still ensuring quality medical care. They catered to individual needs and provided creative outlets to match the patients’ unique voices. For example, much of Ornella’s identity was wrapped up in baking, and this was the only place that would allow her to continue doing that.
After a five minute phone call and a sizeable bank transfer, Ornella was officially a resident. Trinity had filled out the preliminary paperwork months ago, with the hope that she’d never have to actually use it. With the arrangements made, she went to her mom’s room and attached ensuite and packed an overnight bag. She included Ornella’s favorite flannel nightgown, along with some basic toiletries. Tomorrow, she’d take more, but this would get her through until morning.
When she returned to the living room, Officer MacDonnal was the only other person left in the house. Ornella and the female officer were outside on the front porch.
“Here you go.” She gave him the address and contact information for the facility, along with the bag.
“Good. We’re waiting for another bus to transport your mom.”
“Bus?” Surely he wasn’t relying on Tri-Met to carry Ornella across town.
“Ambulance, sorry.”
“Oh.” She still didn’t understand. Why not simply drive her there in his car?
Before she could ask, he said, “The back of a police vehicle can be traumatizing, even for someone who is in full command of her faculties. The effects on someone in your mom’s shape would be…not good.”
“I see.” She didn’t. She didn’t see at all, but that seemed irrelevant. A second ambulance pulled up to the curb.
After saying a few words of sympathetic encouragement, Officer MacDonnal left. Trinity shut the door behind him, closed her eyes, and listened to the silence filling her house.
For the first time since hearing the glass break, Trinity allowed herself a moment to break down. She slumped into the sofa, dropped her face into her hands, and tried to come to terms with everything that had happened in the past thirty minutes. Just like that, her life had changed irrevocably.
CHAPTER 7
The phone rang, and Laila grabbed it from the table before it could sound again. For some reason known only to him, Uncle Samar had checked in with her the last three times it rang. He had remarkably good hearing.
“Hollister,” she answered with clipped professionalism witho
ut looking up from the report she was studying.
“When are you going to wrap this up? I miss you.” Max lasted about three seconds before she laughed. It was a well-established fact that she preferred to hold court over the office without Laila there to spoil her fun. Justin, the receptionist, didn’t share Max’s opinion.
“I’d finish faster if I had the report I requested.” She flipped to the next page of her printout. She’d spent the last two hours staring at shipping manifests from the local distribution center and was starting to go cross-eyed.
“The full workup is in your inbox,” the sound of fingers on a keyboard came through the line, “now.”
“Anything interesting?”
“No. Your future cousin-in-law is pretty boring on paper.”
“Perfect.” That was exactly the answer Laila wanted. Still, she’d take a look when—if—she finished with the reports currently on her desk. “Anything else?”
“I also sent you a supplementary dossier on your uncle.”
Laila sighed. What else could Max possibly have dug up? “Do I even want to know?”
Max snorted. “As if no is ever an option to that question for you.”
“Fair point.”
“Do you want the highlights?”
“No. Thanks.”
They stayed on the line for a while longer as Max briefed her on a couple of other open cases they were pursuing. They’d reached the point where Laila needed to seriously consider bringing on another investigator.
After they wrapped up their briefing, Max said, “Seriously. Finish at Archer already. Justin is too sensitive to be any fun.”
“Working on it,” Laila said. “Good job and stuff. Bye.”
“Whatever.” Max disconnected the call.
The report on Desmond was as boring as Max promised. Laila printed out a copy and added it to the growing pile of paperwork for her uncle. A few hours later, after even more manifests and bills of lading, plus a backache from hell, Laila was at an impasse.