It didn’t take long before she heard the chain slide and the dead bolt shoot. Like always, Leah waited while Sylvie opened the door a few inches and made sure Leah was who she said she was. Leah didn’t really mind this behavior. She would rather see somebody overly protective than the other way around, although Sylvie’s protectiveness crossed the line well into paranoia.
“Hi,” Sylvie said. Her dirty blond hair hung straight down over her eyes. For a brief moment, those eyes caught the moon, and Leah saw its reflection in their speckled blue pools.
Sylvie Carson looked and dressed like a homeless person. She’d gotten worse since Orwin took off. It was funny, because Leah could tell if the girl dressed in nice clothes and wore proper makeup she could be really pretty. Maybe she looked this way intentionally. Like a victim.
Yet the baby seemed clean enough. That had been a huge worry of Leah’s when Sylvie first brought her home from the hospital. Leah really hadn’t wanted to involve the state with the child’s care, but part of her suspected she would eventually have to step in given the way Sylvie was.
So Leah had kept a close eye on the baby for the past three months. Sylvie had given her many opportunities to do so with all her calls. Every time Sylvie called into the station, Leah just chalked it up as another chance to check on the welfare of the baby.
Leah heard Sylvie slide the chain again. Then the door opened completely. “Thanks for comin’ out,” Sylvie said.
“Not a problem,” Leah said stepping inside. “Glad to see you’re okay.”
Sylvie immediately locked the door again behind Leah. “Yeah,” she mumbled. She was always very quiet when she talked. Quiet, pensive, and uncertain. It was very much like dealing with a child.
Which, Leah assumed, Sylvie probably still was. Chronologically, she wasn’t much older than a teenager. What had she turned on her last birthday? Twenty-two? And hadn’t Leah read somewhere that when something traumatic happens in childhood the person emotionally stays at whatever age they were at when the event took place?
Leah was pretty sure wherever she had read that fact they’d gotten it right because Sylvie had been five when she lost her brother and, in many ways, Sylvie still seemed like a five-year-old trapped in a twenty-two-year-old girl’s body.
Surprisingly, given her appearance, Sylvie’s home always had that just-tidied-up-in-a-rush look when Leah showed up. That might be because she just had tidied it after calling the station—Leah had no way of knowing. But at least she kept it fairly neat. Each of these little things—the clean house, the clean baby, and other little changes—gave Leah some hope that Sylvie might have it together enough to actually be a proper mother. God knew she appeared to love the child enough. If love was all you needed (like that Beatles song said) then Sylvie was like a billionaire.
Unfortunately, Leah didn’t think John Lennon had taken everything into account when he wrote that song. He’d probably never met anyone like Sylvie Carson.
“So what’s the problem?” Leah asked.
“Someone’s been in the yard,” Sylvie said.
Leah sighed. This wasn’t a surprise. The girl always thought someone was in her yard, or spying on her, or something.
“Place looks nice,” Leah said, for now tabling the “someone’s been in the yard” discussion.
“Thanks.”
“Baby okay?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. A bit colicky, I reckon.”
“That’ll go away,” Leah said.
“I think so,” Sylvie said.
“You okay? You look pale,” Leah said.
“I’m fine.”
“So,” Leah asked, “what exactly makes you think someone’s been trespassing on your property? Who’s been where?”
“The yard,” Sylvie said. “Someone’s been in the backyard.” She was wearing an old oversized LSU Tigers T-shirt that hung untucked over gray sweatpants. Her hands trembled as she wrung them together while speaking. Leah could tell she was scared. She was hoping her little conversation diversion might settle Sylvie down.
Leah knew enough about Sylvie and her calls to know this would undoubtedly turn out to be another false alarm.
The living room had a dark hardwood floor that creaked when you walked across it. The drapes in the window were missing some hooks, and that made them hang awkwardly from the inside. They were once white, but now they looked a more pale washed-out yellow than anything else. Dark stains covered one.
Tattered magazines were stacked on the oval glass coffee table in the room’s center. An old TV with wood panel trim sat on some plastic crates on one side of the table. Two paintings of clowns hung crookedly on the chestnut-paneled wall behind the TV.
“Been cleanin’, I see,” Leah said.
“I like it clean for The Baby.”
“That’s good. Babies need things clean. You should clean yourself up, too.”
“What do you mean?”
Leah pointed to the oversized LSU shirt with the ripped holes in it. “Don’t you have any clothes of your own? Orwin’s stuff’s gettin’ a mite old.”
“These are comfortable. Besides, my money goes to The Baby.”
The Baby. It made Leah cringe every time Sylvie said it.
A small white cat came in and brushed up against Leah’s leg, purring.
“Snowflake,” Sylvie said. “Get outta here. Leave Officer Teal alone.”
“Oh, she’s all right,” Leah said, bending down and lifting up the cat. She’d come here enough times that she knew the animal well. It was an indoor/outdoor cat that had surprised Leah by lasting as long as it had. Sylvie had gotten the cat as a kitten after Orwin left her. Normally, cats allowed to go outdoors in these parts became prey to other animals pretty quickly.
There were two small unmatched sofas in the room: one was green and threadbare, the other was taupe, with silver duct tape covering up tears in the upholstery. The only light in the room—a black metal floor lamp—stood beside the sofa. Its bulb shined a circular pattern on the white textured ceiling.
“You know, this place would look a lot better if you had more light,” Leah said.
“I only have one lamp.”
“I’ll see if I can dig up somethin’ for you.”
“That would be nice.”
“This one makes the room too dark.”
“I don’t mind it,” Sylvie said.
The baby was asleep on a small blanket on the green sofa. She was wearing pink pajamas that appeared to be as clean as she was. So clean, they didn’t even look like they’d ever been washed. The baby’s brown skin shone in contrast to those pajamas. She’d inherited that skin color from her daddy.
Leah walked over with Snowflake in her arms and looked down on her. She appeared healthy. Leah hoped to God she was doing the right thing leaving this baby with this girl. “New PJs?” she asked Sylvie.
“Salvation Army,” Sylvie said.
The living room looked into the kitchen. The kitchen lights were off, making it appear creepy by the light of this single lamp with the yellowish bulb. An old kitchen table with a brown Formica top stood in the darkness with three chairs around it in various states of disrepair. Behind it, the kitchen window allowed a view into the backyard, but from where she stood, Leah could only make out shadows. Living here alone with just a baby and this creepy lamp, it was no wonder Sylvie was seeing things in the backyard. Even if it was clean, this house was old and ghostly. It felt off, somehow.
Leah rubbed the cat under its neck, listening to it purr louder. She wondered how Sylvie ever managed to give it a name. She just hoped her daughter didn’t end up with a name like Snowflake. But then, she figured even Snowflake would be better than growing up with no name at all. “What makes you think someone’s been in your backyard?”
“Things have been moved,” Sylvie said. “An’ there’s footprints.”
Leah sighed. This was obviously turning out to be another false alarm. She wanted to take Sylvie’s mind off the immediate problem. D
eciding to try to put it somewhere else, she asked a different question: “Found a name for your daughter yet?”
A pause followed. Then, “Not yet.”
“You gotta name her soon, Sylvie. It’s not good for a baby not to have a name.”
Another pause. “I know. I will.”
They stood there in silence a minute or two, then Leah said, “Why don’t you show me what’s been moved?”
She followed Sylvie through the kitchen to the back door, noticing the dishes in the sink had been recently washed but not dried. Sylvie didn’t turn on any lights, but Leah could tell the house was cleaner than ever. Every time she came to Sylvie’s there appeared to be some improvement in some way. The only thing that didn’t seem to improve were the number of calls into the station.
A shotgun stood beside the back door, propped up against the wall. Leah knew the answer to the question she was about to ask before even asking it.
“That thing loaded?”
“You betcha. No point in keepin’ an unloaded shotgun around now, is there?” Sylvie said.
“You do realize how dangerous it is, right?”
“You guys tell me that every time you come in here and every time I tell you the same thing. You won’t take me seriously, so that shotgun’s the only recourse I have. I ain’t livin’ with my baby and bein’ unable to defend myself. Not when someone’s after me.”
Leah let out a big breath. There was no point in arguing with her. Not while she was like this.
Sylvie fumbled with the dead bolt on the back door until she finally opened it.
“You got a light out here?” Leah asked.
“Burned out a few weeks ago.”
“Should replace it.”
“I will,” Sylvie said. “Haven’t had time.”
Leah pulled out her pocket flashlight. She wasn’t in uniform because she didn’t wear one, but she had a pack snapped around her waist containing small items she commonly used. Her major gear was in her car, packed in her “go bag.”
“You see that you do. Not safe having no light back here,” Leah said, coming down the steps that led to the backyard. Sylvie followed behind her in shoes that had holes bigger than golf balls. “Those the only shoes you have, girl?” Leah asked.
“Yeah.”
“Get some new shoes, too.”
“Can’t afford new shoes. The Baby takes all my money.”
Once again, Leah felt something pull inside her. She liked this girl. Deep inside, she was rooting for her to win a war she never should have been involved in to begin with. A war that enlisted her without any permission.
What Sylvie had improved upon inside the house was more than compensated for by the state of the backyard. It looked like it hadn’t seen any attention for a long time. Car engine parts littered the long grass and wildflowers that fought to choke each other back from existence. It had rained the past few days. That morning there were spotty showers, but the sky had started to completely clear just as the sun began to set. Still, everything had that wet smell to it. Even though it was a bright night (now that Leah’s eyes had adjusted to being outside and seeing by the stars and moon), it still felt wet. Rainwater pooled in everything around her. There were jars, stacks of old newspapers, tires, even an old, broken kitchen sink. The yard was maybe a quarter acre before the surrounding forest choked it in, yet somehow it held a treasure trove of junk so well hidden that, until now, Leah hadn’t even realized Sylvie had so much crap out here.
She followed as Sylvie walked slowly over to some small flowerpots that stood on top of a wooden box laid on its side against the back of the house. “Here,” she said, gesturing to the pots. “These.”
“The flowerpots?” Leah asked. She had pulled out a notepad and had her pen poised over it, ready to start a report.
“Yeah.”
“What about them?” Leah asked.
“They was moved,” Sylvie said. “They used to be inside the box. Now they’re on top.”
“When were they inside?”
“Yesterday.”
“How do you know?” Leah wondered what kind of person notices something like clay flowerpots. She never would. She doubted many other people would, either.
“I saw ’em,” Sylvie said.
“How can you remember somethin’ like that?”
“I just do. I noticed ’em.”
“I’m sure they were where they are now and you just reckon you saw ’em inside,” Leah said, trying to placate the girl.
“No,” Sylvie said. Leah heard the frustration in her voice. She’d heard it many times before. “They were inside. I’m sure. Somebody moved ’em last night. Or during the day today.”
“Why would somebody move your flowerpots?” This was the rational question that Sylvie Carson’s mind seemed incapable of asking itself.
“I don’t know.”
“What else was moved?” Leah asked.
Sylvie hesitated. “Nothin’. Just the pots.”
Now it was Leah’s turn to pause. “That’s it?” She realized she hadn’t written anything down and was probably making the girl feel bad. She quickly wrote on her pad: Flowerpots moved. From inside to top of wooden box. “You say you have footprints?” Leah asked, glancing up.
“In the vegetable garden.”
“Show me.”
Sylvie led her to a patch of dirt that could only be a vegetable garden by mere designation. If it ever had been such a thing, many years had passed since then. Now it was a patch of ground with spotty grass and weeds that had grown in not quite as dense as the rest of the yard. Some of it was bare of any growth. Those areas were a gray color, and Leah suspected the ground was clay there. The clay looked moist and soft on account of all the rain.
Sylvie brought Leah’s attention to one of these patches of clay. “Here. There’s one here,” she said. She moved over about two feet, straining to see in the night’s light. “And here.”
Leah shined her flashlight on the spots. Sure enough, the imprints in the clay could’ve very well been footprints. They might also just have been natural indentations made by the weather. They were pretty formless. Any detail they had—if they ever had any—had been washed away by the rain. “They don’t necessarily look like footprints to me,” Leah said. “I can’t make out any details.”
“They were detailed earlier,” Sylvie said. “I saw them. They were footprints.”
“Maybe you made them?” Leah asked.
Sylvie looked at her. “They’re this big,” she said, holding her hands almost a foot apart. “I’m a seven. They ain’t mine.”
“They don’t look like anythin’ to me,” Leah said.
“Not anymore. But they did.”
“I believe you.”
“No you don’t.”
No I don’t, Leah thought. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s say they are footprints. So somebody came into your backyard and moved your pots up to the top of your box and left footprints. So what?”
“I don’t like strangers near my home. I have a baby.”
Good girl. Too bad her worries were so misplaced. “I understand that,” Leah said. “But I don’t reckon this would be the kind of person you’d have to worry much ’bout, do you?”
“I would be worried ’bout anyone comin’ into my yard,” Sylvie said.
Leah thought about this. She didn’t know what to say to the girl. All she could really do was tell her the truth. “I’m sorry, Sylvie. There ain’t nothin’ I can do with what you showed me. I’m afraid I need more to go on than some pots that may or may not have been moved and some spots in the clay that might possibly be footprints.”
“They was footprints,” Sylvie said. Leah could tell she was almost angry now, she was getting so frustrated.
“Okay, they was footprints. Listen, Sylvie. Think about this: Say they still was perfect footprints. And say the pots were obviously moved. Even then, what would you expect me to do?”
“Figure out who moved ’em?” Sylvie
replied, forming it more like a question than an answer.
“And do what then?” Leah asked. “Nobody’s really broken any laws now, have they? Maybe trespassin’. But it ain’t like I’m ’bout to arrest someone for movin’ a few pots.”
Sylvie took a deep breath. Leah could tell the girl was shaky. “So what’re you sayin’?” Sylvie asked, her voice quivering. “I’m supposed to just stay here with my baby while people come into my backyard just as merrily as they please?”
Leah held up her hand. “I can tell you’re upset and worried. How about this?” Everything in Leah’s head was telling her not to do what she was about to do, but she didn’t listen. She already knew she was going to do it. It was the only way she could come up with of getting out of here and still making Sylvie happy in the process. “I’ll give you my home number. You have any problems, you can call me. Any time, day or night.” The quarter moon rose in the night sky like a tipped grin. “Try the station first, of course. If I’m not there, try me at home. How does that sound?”
Sylvie thought this over. “Okay, I suppose. I guess it might help if somethin’ else happens. You’re the only one whoever comes right away anymore.”
Ouch. That last one stung. Leah immediately tried to cover with an excuse. “Things get really busy sometimes, Sylvie,” she said. But as soon as it came out, she realized both of them knew it was a lie.
They went back inside and Leah wrote her home phone number on a blank page of her report pad. Ripping out the page, she handed it to Sylvie, regretting the action the moment she felt the paper leave her fingertips. “Remember,” she said. “This is only for emergencies, and only after tryin’ the station first. Deal?”
“Deal,” Sylvie said. She seemed a lot better. Being inside probably took the edge off. Leah couldn’t imagine what it was like to be as paranoid as Sylvie, but being paranoid like that and being outside at night had to be even worse.
“Thanks for comin’ out,” Sylvie mumbled.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Leah said. “It’s my duty to come out. It’s my job. Just like your job’s to look after your daughter. You just do me a big ol’ favor, okay? Find her a name nice and quick?”
Close to the Broken Hearted Page 3