“Let’s hope so.”
Gianna leaned forward. “I’m gonna ask something and I need y’all to be honest with me. Do you think I’m in danger?”
Williams raised his eyebrows. “Danger?”
“Yeah. Whoever you’re looking for tried to kill me too. What if he comes back to finish what he started? I have a daughter and we’re all by ourselves in this house. Do I have reason to worry? Because I’m worried.”
Detective Williams looked concerned. “I’m sorry but I don’t have an answer for you. What I will say is that right now, the more you can remember, the better. Once we can get an idea of why this happened, the closer we’ll get to a suspect and an arrest.”
“Well, what can I do to help in the meantime?”
“Here, I’m gonna give you this,” Williams said as he pulled a small 3x5 notepad out of his jacket pocket. The Woodridge Police Department logo graced the front of it. “I need you to write down anything that comes to you. As it relates to either you or your husband, think about this: are there any enemies? People you’ve had conflicts or disagreements or run-ins with? Anyone who might have any reason at all to hurt one or both of you? I don’t care how farfetched it seems on the surface. Understand?”
Gianna nodded. “Okay. I’ll do that. Definitely.”
“I wanna add something,” Debreaux said. “I think you’re handling everything with bravery and strength. I don’t know what you’re going through but I can imagine that this is hard for you. If you ever need to talk, please feel free to call me.” She smiled as she handed Gianna her business card, and Gianna accepted it with caution. She didn’t quite know what to make of her, yet.
DEBREAUX WAITED UNTIL they were out of the neighborhood. “So what do you think?”
Williams rolled his window down halfway and adjusted his rearview mirror downward to check his reflection. He pulled his wallet and phone from his suit pocket, slowly and deliberately, and placed them in the center console. He cleared his throat a few times before taking a long pull from the water bottle he had stashed in the glove box. It was all very theatrical, a clever set of actions which, in Debreaux’s mind, were designed to make other people wait for and then pay special attention to whatever profound statement he was about to make. He thought it added weight to his words but in reality, it made him look foolish. Debreaux could only surmise that he didn’t get much attention at home.
At long last, he answered. “The doctor says she’s legit with the amnesia thing. All we can do is wait for it to come back to her. You? I mean you gave her your number so you must like her.”
Debreaux rolled her eyes at her smirking partner. “Just because I like women doesn’t mean I like every woman.” She paused and stared at the trees racing past her window. “I just wanted to build a rapport. Make it seem like I’m on her side.”
“Yeah, but how did she strike you?”
“Well, she displayed the proper emotions. And she did seem helpful.”
“So she’s innocent?”
She glanced at the center console where the rose gold cell phone sat in a plastic evidence bag. “I don’t know, yet.”
CHAPTER TEN
GIANNA AND KAYA SAT down at the kitchen table to eat dinner—lasagna, which had been dropped off by someone and frozen by Beverly. Gianna was usually real funny about eating other people’s food. So funny, in fact, that she was notorious at work for skipping the potlucks. But she didn’t feel like cooking and there was an entire buffet of food in her freezer so she pushed her paranoia and disgust to the side to enjoy dinner with Kaya. They had just sat down when Kaya burst into tears.
Alarmed, Gianna put her hand on Kaya’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
Kaya shook her head and continued to cry and hiccup. Gianna put her fork down and waited. Finally, Kaya spoke. “This is the first time I’ve had dinner at the table since...” she trailed off and stared at Justin’s empty chair.
Of course, Gianna thought.
For thirteen years, food was off limits in the living room, at least for Kaya. But there were no rules now, and no discipline. Just healing and nurturing. Gianna promptly gathered their plates and moved dinner to the living room couch.
They ate in silence while Kaya watched SpongeBob reruns and Gianna, still getting used to her meds, dozed off just after dinner. She was jarred awake by Kaya’s voice. “Mommy! Somebody got killed near our house.”
Bleary-eyed, Gianna frowned and tried to focus. “What?”
“The news said somebody got carjacked and murdered on Windchase Drive. That’s by us. What if it’s him?”
Everything was still fuzzy. “Why are you watching the news?”
“I wasn’t. I was flipping through channels and it said the top story coming up is a carjacking and murder on Windchase.”
Gianna was still groggy and confused. “Baby, Windchase is like twenty minutes from here, I think. That’s not near us.”
That fact did nothing to calm the anxious girl. “I’m scared. What if he comes to our house?” She had tears in her eyes and her hands were trembling violently. Gianna pried the remote from Kaya’s fingers and turned the TV off. She grabbed Kaya’s hands in hers and held them firmly.
“That won’t happen,” she said, as confidently as she could. Kaya had always been the nervous type and Gianna had experience talking her through her episodes. But this was something different. The fears this time weren’t irrational. They were very real.
“How do you know? Did they catch him?” Kaya asked, panic in her eyes.
“Not yet, sweetie, but they will.”
“So he’s still out there. What if he knows where we live?”
“How would he know that?”
“Didn’t he take Daddy’s wallet? His license has our address on it.” Kaya’s whole body began to shake.
“Kaya, you’re worrying over nothing,” she said, a lie Kaya was sure to see right through. She had pegged the situation exactly as it was, and Gianna’s inability to soothe her daughter was beginning to make her panic, too. “Do you wanna sleep in my room with me?”
“No. I can’t sleep on Daddy’s bed. It would freak me out. I can’t deal with this, I can’t stay here,” she said, before bursting into tears again. Gianna grabbed her and held her close, gently rubbed her back, and tried not to scream at the unfairness of it all. Just a month ago they were a happy little family. The modern-day Huxtables, let their friends tell it. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Ding dong!
Both Gianna and Kaya jumped at the loud din of the doorbell. Gianna’s heart raced as she ran over to the door and peered out of the peephole. It was Tremaine.
She opened the door and he walked in, right into a tableau of grief. He glanced at Kaya and back at Gianna. “Are y’all okay?”
Gianna shook her head. “She’s scared.” And so am I. He hovered in the foyer, seemingly afraid to follow Gianna into the family room. She took her place next to Kaya and hugged her again.
Tremaine finally entered the family room and sat on the other side of the couch. “Kaya, it’s okay.”
Kaya just wailed louder, her sobs shaking her tiny body. Tremaine shook his head and studied the floor. “Jesus. I wish I could make this better.”
“Me too,” Gianna said, rocking Kaya back and forth like a baby. That had always been Justin’s thing, calming and soothing Kaya when she was worked up. Gianna never had the patience for it and was happy to relinquish that task to Daddy.
Tremaine tapped Gianna’s arm softly. “How about this? I’ll stay here, on the couch, and make sure y’all are safe. Would that make you feel better, K?”
Kaya pulled away from her mother and sniffed. “I think so.”
“Okay. That’s what I’ll do then. If it’s okay with your mom.”
“Please?” Kaya asked, a desperate look in her eyes.
Her plea was completely unnecessary. Gianna didn’t have to think about it at all. “It’s fine with me.”
She was relieved to have a man i
n the house again, even if only for one night. The perpetrator on the news may not have been her attacker, but he was a reminder of how much danger Gianna was in. What if he came back to finish what he started?
GIANNA SIFTED THROUGH the linen closet looking for her best sheets. She had never been much of a housekeeper, much to Justin’s chagrin, but the one area of her home that stayed impeccable was her linen closet.
When she was younger, she used to stand in front of Emmy’s linen closet and marvel at the organization and the sheer classiness of it, if that word could be applied to a storage area.
First of all, it had double doors, and when you opened them, a slight breeze blew into your face and through your hair like Beyoncé. The first things you saw were the towels and their crisp, neat folds, all symmetrical and beautifully organized by color and size, then pattern and thickness. And they all had matching washcloths.
It was a far cry from her Beverly’s system of buying whatever random, janky towels and washcloths were on clearance at a big box store, their threads hanging and edges frayed. Emmy’s linens were beautiful and luxurious, and they always smelled like Fresh Mountain Meadow or Mid-Morning Dew or whatever other sensory-engaging name some advertising agency created that doesn’t actually exist. Her sheets, both flat and folded, were just as lovely, but the piece de resistance was the top shelf. The toiletry shelf.
A child who’s raised in lack is mesmerized by abundance. Living at Beverly’s house meant passing the same roll of toilet paper between two bathrooms until payday when they each got their own roll again, and rolling up a tube of toothpaste until it was a compact as a cigarette. Emmy’s house had a whole shelf of extra toilet paper, toothpaste, lotions, soaps, baby powder, feminine products—including douche kits, which women of Emmy’s generation thought were necessary—and Vaseline. It was paradise for a young girl, and she vowed to herself to duplicate it in her own home. She stood and marveled at her own closet one more time before closing the door and heading back downstairs. It wasn’t Emmy status yet, but it was close.
“Here you go.” She handed Tremaine a pillow. “Do you want me to make it up for you?”
Tremaine tossed the pillow onto the couch and grabbed the stack of linens from Gianna. “Nah, I’m straight.” He put his face in the sheet and inhaled deeply. “These smell good.” That was another thing she’d picked up from Emmy: sachets to keep things smelling nice and fresh.
“I can’t thank you enough for this. I know you’re staying for Kaya but I feel better with you here, too.”
His face lit up. “It’s no problem. Y’all are family.”
“Okay well in that same familial vein, I’m gonna need to talk to you soon.”
“What about?”
“Just...things. Justin, me, us.”
“Us?” he asked, his eyes widening.
“Yeah. Our marriage.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, whatever you need.”
Gianna nodded before reaching up to hug him. “If you get hungry, feel free to grab whatever you want from the kitchen. There are a bunch of meals in there we won’t be able to finish by ourselves. I recommend the blackened salmon. My coworker brought that over.”
He looked toward the kitchen and nodded. “Listen, don’t worry about me. Try to get some rest.”
She flashed him a smile. “Okay. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, G.”
She smiled and went upstairs to her bedroom, feeling perfectly safe.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE HALLWAYS AT BAKER Junior High School, named after the illustrious Ella Baker, were narrow and busy, with walls full of motivational sayings and A papers and mediocre artwork. It was science fair time so the seventh and eighth graders displayed their wares on tables everyone had to squeeze past on their way to class. Gianna carefully made her way to the front office, relieved that none of the students recognized her.
Dr. Ansley had suggested that she go walk around and try to get re-acclimated before jumping back in with both feet. Gianna thought it was a good idea. After all, she didn’t want to do something embarrassing like forget where her own classroom was. The kids would never let her live that down, head wound or not. You could be near death and bleeding from your eyeballs and those kids would still find a way to roast you. She could hear them now: “look at Mrs. Harris, ol’ I-almost-got-murdered-face-ass.”
Gianna was reluctant, only because she had received so much love from the BJHS family. So many of them had called, sent flowers, sent food, and even sent money. Given the information she had just recently learned about herself, Gianna wasn’t feeling very deserving of any of it.
Still, she wasn’t unhappy to be there. She adored most of her coworkers. She was coming up on her six-year anniversary there and was quite content.
Her road to becoming the 8th grade Social Studies Teacher from Hell was pretty straightforward. She got her bachelor’s degree, as expected, in Sociology, which was unexpected and according to Emmy, very stupid. Emmy would ask, over and over, “what the hell are you gonna do with that?” Gianna’s inadequate answers to that question should have been a giant red flag but on she pressed.
She got her teaching certificate and shadowed Mr. Creighton at King Middle. BJHS was always her preference given its proximity to her house, and as luck would have it, a spot opened up only a few months after she graduated.
What Gianna didn’t realize at the time was the capacity of teenagers to be complete and total assholes. It was only partially their fault, though. Nine times out of ten, the parents are assholes, too, and those asshole families are entitled and have no qualms about demanding that she go easier on their kids. Little snowflake bastards.
Gianna never wavered and she didn’t understand why her fellow teachers wanted so badly to be liked. Who really gives a shit if 14-year-olds think you’re funny, or nice, or cool? She expected and demanded their best work and that earned her a bad reputation but as far as she was concerned, she was just doing her job.
Gianna slowly made her way to the front office and was immediately greeted by Ms. Jackson, the receptionist. Ms. Jackson had five sons, all of whom were displayed in pictures all over her desk, and all of whom were ugly as fuck. And Ms. Jackson had systematically worked her way through every female teacher in the school. Even the married ones. And the reason Ms. Jackson did this is that she was desperate to get her five ugly sons out of her house. The ratio of black men to black women in the metro Atlanta area is supposedly abysmal and still, nobody took that rotten ass bait. But other than her Ponzi-scheme style matchmaking skills, Ms. Jackson was a sweetheart.
“Oh, we’ve missed you so much!” she said as she held Gianna in a bear hug, her giant breasts pressing against Gianna’s sternum.
“I missed y’all, too. And thank you for the beautiful flowers. Hydrangeas are my favorite.” Gianna backed away to get some air.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart! Come on in here. Everybody’s waiting.”
Everybody? Gianna suddenly felt self-conscious. Her hair, or at least the part that had allowed itself to be molded into a bun, was dry and frizzy. The rest were like runaways, scattered this way and that, taking on lives of their own. She wore a black sweatsuit that wasn’t completely hideous but it was a far cry from her usual attire. She cursed herself for failing to make an effort.
A large sheet cake sat in the middle of the large table in the teacher’s lounge. Balloons filled every corner. Gianna made out at least a dozen smiling, yet pity-covered faces as she walked through the door. Already overwhelmed, she focused on the first face she saw. It was Dr. Grant, their beloved principal. He rushed forward and shook her hand. Peter J. Grant was a lovable little butterball of a man. He looked like someone who could be walked all over but folks learned quick not to mess with him.
“Welcome back, Mrs. Harris. We’re all so happy to see you,” he said. Several people clapped but Gianna didn’t see who they were. It was all a blur. She hadn’t gotten her bearings, yet.
“Thank you, Dr. Gr
ant. It’s nice to be back.” A dizzy spell overcame her. “If you don’t mind, I’m gonna sit for a second.”
Dr. Grant nodded profusely. “Yes, please, of course. Here, let’s put you right over here by the cake. We can do a receiving line and it’ll be like you’re the bride,” he said with a chuckle. Gianna let him guide her to her seat at the table.
“Let me know if you get overwhelmed. I can send them all back to class,” Dr. Grant said with a wink. She smiled and nodded and looked over at the line that was forming. She decided to be grateful.
“Come on up guys, let’s keep the line moving,” Dr. Grant announced. Gianna plastered on her biggest smile and set about receiving everyone in the room.
First up was Shanelle, known by students as Ms. Jeffries, the best junior high school music teacher this side of the Mason-Dixon. She was also one of those teachers who wore form-fitting clothes that were just professional enough that she couldn’t be reprimanded. Shanelles will deny it if confronted, and probably can’t even admit it to themselves, but they crave attention and will get it by any means necessary, even if it takes wearing skintight Fashion Nova dresses under Forever 21 blazers that just barely cover their asses and sashaying past hormone-laden fourteen-year-old boys. With that said, Gianna had always liked Shanelle and was genuinely happy to see her. The two shared a hug and Shanelle offered encouragement and a bible verse. Typical.
And then there was Stephen, or Mr. Hanson, one of three white teachers left at the school. His class was next to Gianna’s so they were neighbors. Stephen was one of those morning people who attack you with affirmations at 7 am. Every day, without fail, Gianna responded to his chipperness with an eye-roll and a mumbled “good morning Stephen,” but he never let that deter him. “Let’s make it a great one!” he would say. Or “Let’s teach with no limits!” He had a million of them. It was annoying, but also endearing.
Her favorite memory of Stephen was seeing him at a pep rally a few years back, in the middle of the gym dancing while the students chanted “go, white boy! Go, white boy!” Ever since that day, the students considered him “down.” They were easily impressed.
I Will Remember You Page 6