Brainstorm

by Margaret Belle

  “They give me medication,” I said. “That’s as good as restraints.”

  “I’ve come to ask if you’d allow me to work with you while you’re here. Dr. Steele is not going to be able to help you if you’re holding onto that anger, so what do you say? We can do some hard work and get you out of here.”

  “And into a jail cell?”

  “Well, what exactly is it you’re supposed to have done?”

  I explained about the robbery and the culprits involved. “They apparently think I had something to do with the money; it’s ridiculous. I thought the whole thing had been solved. Danny Stearns and Carl are in jail – I don’t know yet what happened to Ferdy. I heard Harley received immunity for testifying against the others, and was let go.”

  “Dr. Steele told me about Jack. Do you see him regularly?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “He comes by most days. I expect him sometime today. I think he’s bringing my friend Lisa with him.”

  “Well, I have to tell you, Audrey, both Dr. Steele and I feel that we haven’t made the progress we’d hoped to with you, and we want you to understand that neither of us would sit in judgment, no matter what you revealed.” I nodded, wondering how many of her other patients were not giving her the straight skinny. Did anyone ever tell their therapist everything? “So should I come back tomorrow?” she asked. “I can arrange for my patients to see one of the other psychologists in my practice, temporarily.”

  I had to get out of here somehow, and if that was what it would take, then I’d do it. “I guess.”

  “Wonderful. See you bright and early.” She put the chair back in the corner and left with a little wave. I stared at the chair; it was like the one I’d been sitting in the day my mother died. I remembered how my grandmother and aunt had stood by her hospital bed, blocking my view of her. But I’d been able to see her hand. It was all black, and her fingernails were gone. Most of the skin had peeled away, but even so, a needle attached to a tube was stuck right into the back of it. I remember hearing someone say that it was the only spot left to put the needle in.

  That morning my mother and I had been home, just the two of us, as always, because my father was already dead. I thought, as a child, that my mother didn’t love me. She yelled and screamed, and accused me of doing things I had not done. “Who else could have broken this?” she would yell into my face, not remembering that she had bumped the expensive piece of crystal off the table herself. “Who else could have misplaced my cigarettes?” she’d scream, when I knew perfectly well that she had moved them herself. Nothing ever happened in the house that couldn’t somehow be twisted into being my fault. A juvenile delinquent, she’d called me; a bad seed. My father would still be alive, she’d say, if he hadn’t had to work so hard to provide for me.

  What about you? I wanted to shout back. Didn’t he provide for you too? How come he had a heart attack over just me?

  I didn’t understand at age six what a drunk was. Now I knew my mother was one, and that she probably never remembered what she said to me from one day to the next, and had no control over how she said it. But I was little, and helpless to do anything about my situation. Anger built up and built up and built up, until I couldn’t “be there” any more.

  From then on, when my mother screamed and yelled, when she struck me, when she threw my dinner plate on the floor then made me clean it up, when she would pound her fists on the walls and scream my father’s name, I would check out. My mind would shut down. And since I couldn’t even hear during those check-outs, it was like watching her act in a silent movie, and often I would find her gyrations funny. One day I laughed, out loud I guess, at her flailing fists, at her contorted face, and she’d turned on me with such hatred in her eyes that I’d run upstairs to her bedroom and hidden in her closet. She’d searched through the house for me, yelling my name louder and louder, getting madder and madder, until she’d ended up back in her room, exhausted, and collapsed on the bed.

  While I waited to be sure she was really asleep, and not just pretending, listening for sounds that would lead her to me, I’d noticed some of my father’s jackets hanging on a rack in the back. In the pocket of one of them was a lighter. I’d flicked it three times before a flame finally appeared, and I remember being startled that I had actually made it work; so much so that I’d dropped it. My mother’s nightgowns were the first to catch fire. Then the other clothes began to smolder. Her skirts, her slacks, and the beautiful long sparkly dresses that I’d never seen her wear, all suddenly burst into flame. I’d run from the closet and tried to wake my mother, but I couldn’t rouse her.

  I’d stood frozen at the bedroom door, watching the flames slide across the carpet, climb up the drapes, and peel the wallpaper. When the sheets on the bed caught, I watched, mesmerized, until the hems of my mother’s slacks were rimmed with fire. Her hair was next; it collapsed around her head like wet cotton candy, and I gagged at the smell. Smoke found me in the hallway and I’d pulled my shirt up over my mouth and nose as the skin on my mother’s face began to darken and peel like the wallpaper.

  Why doesn’t she get up? I wondered. I’d tried to call to her again, but I had no voice. I turned and ran down the curved staircase, away from the screeching smoke detectors, through the foyer with the impossibly high ceilings, and outside. The driveway was long, with two jogs, and I ran as fast as I could down it and then across the yard to the house next door. Still unable to speak, I pulled the lady who lived there outside and pointed to the house. Smoke was pouring out of the upstairs by then and the neighbor picked me up and ran back into her house and called for the fire department. An ambulance took my mother away and my grandmother arrived at the neighbor’s house shortly after to collect me.

  So while I was sitting in the hospital that day, looking at my mother’s burned hand, I was glad that I couldn’t see the rest of her. And when she died, I knew it wasn’t because I couldn’t find a nurse – she was dead because I had set fire to the house that morning. Anyway, I prefer the nurse story. Sometimes, in my head, I can almost make myself forget about the fire part of it altogether.

  And that’s why there’s no picture of my mother in my gold locket. My grandmother had put one in, along with the one of my father, but I’d secretly taken it out and flushed it down the toilet. I couldn’t carry a picture of my mother around with me; it would always remind me of what she looked like at the end. And I knew that with her picture inside, the chain would always feel hot around my neck. Hot with the heat of the fire. I understood that when I was six.

  My father’s picture I would keep forever. He was the only man in my life I had not disappointed. Had he lived, I’m sure I would have dashed his hopes and dreams for me, broken his heart in some awful way. But now I would be daddy’s little girl forever, even if in reality it had only been true for a very brief time.

  Later, my second surprise visitor appeared. A real surprise; Harley. “Hi Audrey,” she said with a little smile, “can I come in?” Her many layers of love beads rattled against each other as she swooshed to my bedside in her tie-dyed maxi skirt and billowy peasant blouse.

  “What’s with you and all this 60s crap, anyway?” I asked. “You weren’t even alive then.”

  “Oh, come on, Aud,” she said, “don’t be mad.”

  “No, really,” I said. “You’re one bead away from swapping a hippie compound for a gypsy camp.”

  “And you’re one pill away from wearing a tinfoil hat. There. Now we’re even. Come on,” she said, “I came to see you, didn’t I? Be nice. I brought you this,” and she pulled a box of Frankincense sticks from her huge cloth tote, and put it on the table.

  “I heard you were back on the street,” I said. “What happened to Ferdy?”

  “He was found guilty for his part in the robbery. Now he has another trial – attempted murder of Tony. I’m sure he’ll be found guilty there too.”

  “Good. I hope he rots in jail.” I noticed her face change when I said that. “I can’t he
lp that you were a couple,” I said. “That’s how I feel.”

  “Did you want me to rot in jail too?” she asked.

  “I don’t even think about you.”

  “Oh, right,” she smiled. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am that all this happened to you; and for my part it in. I was crazy, sorry – I didn’t mean – well, it was not a good decision on my part to get involved with Carl and those guys. It all just seemed to happen a little at a time, until I was stuck, you know? I wish I could make it up to you, that’s all.”

  “You wished me a life in a place like this,” I said.

  “I know. I didn’t mean it. We hurt each other. But I was hoping we could get passed it.”

  I looked at her and thought maybe there was something she could do to help me, but did I dare take a chance? I didn’t think I had a choice. She was the only one who could possibly do what I needed.

  “Harley,” I said, “I’m in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  I motioned for her to come closer. “I have the money.”

  “What money?”

  “You know what money.”

  Her eyes grew as big as saucers. “The bank’s money? The part that’s missing? You have it?”

  I nodded and put a finger in front of my lips, warning her to keep her voice down. “I took it out of your suitcase when you went to the pharmacy for me that night, remember?”

  “You little shit! And where is it now?”

  “Can I trust you? I mean really trust you?”

  “How much do you have?”

  “Nine hundred thousand. And you gave a hundred grand to that asshole Simon Barr, so that’s how two million ended up being left in the suitcases.”

  Harley broke out laughing. “Are you kidding me? I can’t believe you did that! How did you get it back here?”

  “I packed it in two boxes and UPS’d them to myself before I flew out of LAX. They’re in a storage unit with the stuff from my apartment.”

  “Oh, my God.” She looked at me in amazement. “What if they’d X-rayed the boxes – or opened them?”

  “I sent them by ground, not air, so no X-Ray, and used my business account ID number, which indicated I was a known shipper. UPS doesn’t open boxes on their trucks unless they’re leaking, or smell funny, or can’t be delivered because of an incorrect address. I wasn’t worried.”

  “So what do you need me to do?”

  “If the FBI finds out I have it, I’m afraid they’ll put my ass in jail. Listen, when you rented the post office box in Warners, they gave you two keys, right?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I mailed the storage unit key to myself – to the same box. So go get it and take the two boxes out of storage for me. The place is on the corners of Milton and Bennett; you know where that is, right?”

  “I can find it.”

  “The boxes are marked ‘kitchen’ with an underline. Drive them an hour or two in any direction – except not near Rochester – and put them in another storage unit. There’s four hundred and fifty thousand in each box. We’ll have to let the money sit there for a while, but we’ll just keep paying the rent on the unit. I’ll split it with you. Will you do it?”

  Just then Jack and Lisa walked in. Jack immediately turned on Harley. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Harley took two steps backward. “I just wanted to see how Audrey was doing, that’s all.”

  A vein in Jack’s forehead swelled until I thought it would pop. “Leave right now,” he ordered. “You’re about the last person she needs to see. Get your ass out of here before I help you out.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m going,” she said. She waved and winked at me behind Jack’s back as she walked out of the room, and I hoped I wasn’t going to get screwed over by her again.

  “Did she upset you?” he asked. Lisa stood next to Jack and asked the same question with her eyes.

  “No, I’m fine. It’s so good to see you two. Jack what’s going on with the FBI? What do they think I did?”

  “They have surveillance video of you leaving the airport during your layover at LAX on your return trip, and of you carrying two boxes into a UPS store. They know you sent them to yourself, and how much they weighed, and they want to ask you what was in them. Obviously, they think it was the missing money, since you were the only other person in the house with Harley and Ferdy. They think they’re right and they won’t give up – not if they think those boxes are out there somewhere.”

  “I did mail boxes to myself,” I said, “but I threw them away. I unpacked them when they arrived and tossed them. All they had in them was crap I didn’t want to carry on the plane, stuff I would have had to throw away when I went through security. And stuff that just weighed down my duffle bag. Shampoo, my blow dryer, shoes, just personal stuff! I was exhausted and didn’t want to lug it around. What’s the big deal?”

  “Two boxes?” he asked. “Almost twenty pounds worth?”

  I tried to look sad, and disappointed in him. “You believe me, right?”

  He hesitated, but then said, “Of course I do.”

  Lisa said, “We both do,” and she put her hand on Jack’s arm, so easily, so familiar, that I knew in an instant it wasn’t the first time. Lisa had fallen for Jack.

  Chapter 45

  I worked with Dr. Collins two days a week, and with a psychiatrist who had wormed his way into our sessions, three days a week. I finally told Dr. Collins all about the fire. She in turn tried her best to convince me that it was a terrible accident and that was all.

  “You may have been suffering from a form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder all of these years, Audrey, and not knowing the details about the fire has kept me from delving into that with you.” I almost felt sorry for her, knowing that although she considered my big revelation to be a major breakthrough, she would never get at all of the deep, dark secrets that comprised my past.

  I had worked my way down to low doses of my meds by lying to Dr. Collins, and struggling with my demons on my own as best I could. Then came the day that I was to be released from the loony bin into the wild. Dr. Collins brought in an outfit she’d purchased for me to wear home, so I didn’t have to put my wedding dress back on. I collected my personal effects, including my engagement ring and locket that they’d held for me in a safe. I agreed to a therapy schedule, said my goodbyes, and called for a taxi, even though I didn’t know where I would have it take me. I hadn’t called Jack or Lisa to tell them I’d been released – that was over now. The two of them could maybe have a normal life together, free of me; they both deserved that.

  Now that I was “out,” and finally free to be me, as they say, excitement rushed through me; I dabbled in hope that a bright new future was possible. I greedily filled my lungs with the afternoon’s fresh air, delicious after the stinging antiseptic smell of the hospital, and reveled in the warm sunlight, a luxury after having lived under the harsh glare of fluorescents.

  I gave the cabbie directions to Krabby Kirk’s, thinking that maybe the plans for the billiards room had been scuttled and I could have my old place back. I didn’t really believe that, but needed to at least start out on familiar turf. Maybe it wasn’t too late to get into the new efficiency apartment.

  I had to live as simply as I had in the past, not like I had a fortune stashed away. Harley and I would need to be careful and resist the temptation to start spending. I wondered how long it would take for her to get in touch with me, to let me know where she’d put our money. We’d decided that it was best for her to stay away from the hospital, so no one would get the idea we were becoming friends again and raise suspicions; no calls or texts that could be traced.

  Soon I was in front of Krabby Kirk’s, relishing the sights and sounds and aromas I knew were waiting for me, and I was looking forward to sinking my teeth into a bison burger and sipping a cold beer. I paid the fare, climbed out of the cab, and was walking up the sidewalk when I heard a car pull up behind me. I turned to
see a police car, and an officer I didn’t recognize, got out. “Audrey Dory?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re under arrest for possession of stolen property and for shipping a large sum of money across state lines.” He handcuffed me and proceeded to read me my rights.

  I knew immediately what had happened. Harley had moved the money all right. And my guess was that she had taken one of the boxes and left the other one in the storage unit for the police to find. Goddamn her. She’d probably called in one of her anonymous tips to lead the police right to it and left the key for them. She’d been the last person I’d wanted to put any amount of trust in, but she was the only one I had left to turn to. And now she was gone who-knew-where, with $450,000.00, and I was going to jail for having the rest. I’d bet my life on it.

  My court-appointed attorney, who gave me the news that no charges would be filed against me in Miller Crawford’s death, managed to have the current charges against me dropped. In a nutshell (no pun intended), I didn’t steal the money from the bank. There were no witnesses to my taking it from Harley and I couldn’t be made to testify against myself to say that I did. Yes, one box of bills turned up in my storage unit, but on balance, I’d worked with the police to find Harley in California, and in the process, turned up Ferdy for them. And because I am being treated for a mental disorder, and because the bank robbery was so old, and the bank got its money back (save for the $100,000.00 that Simon Barr lost in Vegas and the $450,000.00 Harley made off with), they didn’t want to bother pressing charges against me. I’m glad – I heard the toilets in jail were right out in the open.

  The judge, who’d made it clear he could give me jail time, said he felt that incarceration would not help the deeper problems he thought I had. He was concerned that I’d been ejected from the psych ward too soon, mostly because my involvement in criminal activity had not been known at the time of my release. He said he hoped I could be helped.