“Almost.” I beckon her. “Come on and sit down.”
Gran snorts and makes her way to the table, shoving Cordell into a corner in the entryway.
“Gran.” I leap up to grab her elbow as she awkwardly limps toward a chair. “Your walker will fit.”
“I’m not dragging Cordell in this tiny room.” She bats me away. “He takes up too much space. I always told your mother she needed to put a smaller table in here.”
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes and help Gran into her customary chair.
“You can’t just leave your walker behind when you need to get into tight spaces, Gran.”
“I certainly can.” Gran snaps her napkin out and folds it across her lap with unsteady fingers. “And I often do.”
“If we could talk to your walker about how often you leave him sitting around—”
“Don’t you dare tell me his eyes are upon me.”
“Hey, you’re the one who named him Cordell.”
Gran snarls at me and gestures toward her plate in silent command to fill it in advance of the dinner rush. With a sigh, I obey her wordless demand, being sure to give her an extra helping of green bean casserole.
“Where is that hunky Guinness boy?”
I cast a sidelong glance at her. “He’s out helping Dad grill.”
“When are you going to marry him?”
I take a steadying breath and put a scoop of fruit salad on Gran’s plate. “When he asks me.”
“If he hasn’t asked you yet, he won’t.” Gran tuts. “What did you do to scare him off?”
“He’s outside, Gran.”
“He should be inside.” She pats the chair next to her. “He can sit next to me. Maybe he’ll marry me instead of you.”
Gran says this frequently, so it’s not something I need to respond to.
“He’s a hunk.”
“Yes, he is, Gran.” I set her plate down in front of her and begin to cut up the chicken tender for her.
“Where is Benji?” Gran twists in her chair. “Did Dan and Lizzie leave?”
“No, Gran. They’ll be in soon.”
As if on cue, Lizzie appears with Benji in her arms. The squishy toddler hangs off her neck with his mouth gaping open.
“Trisha, did you teach him to do this?” Lizzie glares at me as she fastens the boy in his highchair.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Liz.”
“There’s a handsome boy.” Gran waves at him. “Elizabeth, where is his walker? Is he using it?”
“It’s in the entryway, Gran.” Lizzie snaps Benji’s belt shut. “And, yes, he uses it all the time. Thank you for helping us get it.”
“Why isn’t he using it now? Why is everyone carrying him? He won’t get stronger if he doesn’t walk.”
Lizzie and I make eye contact over Gran’s head.
Gran is an equal-opportunity offender when it comes to my sisters and me. I can take some comfort in that, although I question if taking comfort in it is a very Christian thing to do.
“Hi-ho, hi-ho! Cheese!” Gwen screams as she gallops into the dining room. The wild-haired toddler in her diaper and cowboy hat dashes past us.
“Gwen, come sit down.” Clara calls after her calmly.
“I’m onna mission, Mommy!” Gwen gallops into the hallway.
“That’s nice dear, but you should eat something.”
“I’mma cowgirl.”
She trots past me again, and I snatch her up. She shrieks and giggles as I tickle her belly.
“Even cowgirls need to eat.” I blow a sloppy kiss on her neck and toss her to Bill as he comes up next to me.
Bill settles Gwen into her highchair.
Mom and Ruth bustle in with the remaining bowls and sides and plates. Roger follows them with bags of potato chips.
“Patricia.” Mom waves at me and points over her shoulder. “Would you get the lemonade?” She turns her attention to Benji and tickles under his chin.
I make sure Gran has her food cut and her fork handy, and I squeeze out of the dining room to the kitchen island where the pitcher of lemonade is sitting.
The doll is gone.
I frown and scan the room for it. Not that I particularly care about what happens to it, but I’d like to know where it went. I poke my head into the family room and smirk. The ugly doll is sitting on the coffee table now, its dull eyes and sparkling teeth a threatening sight in the otherwise cozy den.
With a huff, I turn back to the kitchen and grab the lemonade pitcher. As I lift it, I glance out the kitchen window to the grill where Aaron is holding a platter where Dad is setting grilled chicken wings.
Both of them look—somber.
Usually when Aaron and my dad are talking, there’s laughter. There’s always smiling. Aaron and my dad get along great. So, what’s with the long faces?
My heart skips a beat.
What if—they’re talking about me?
My stomach tightens. It could be. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen either of them serious, when they are having a conversation about something I’ve done. What if—what if Aaron is breaking up with me?
The thought hits me out of nowhere.
Where did that even come from?
It’s not like he’s given me any indication that we’re having trouble. But isn’t that what happens sometimes? You’re going along secure in a relationship and then they spring something on you? That’s how I’ve heard it happens. Are there any signs or symptoms to watch out for?
Aaron had said he wanted to talk about my conversation with Mom.
What if—he agreed with her?
What if he’s already talked to my parents? What if he’s leaving? What if I had a chance to communicate to him how I feel, and I missed it?
My heart is racing now. My fingers feel numb. I catch the lemonade pitcher before it falls out of my hands, and I swallow loud enough that I can hear it over the din and chaos in the dining room.
You’re overreacting. You’re just being silly. You don’t have enough information.
I walk stiffly into the dining room and set the pitcher of lemonade on the table.
“Oh, Trisha, we need glasses too.” Clara waves me off.
“Glasses. Right.”
I shake myself and go back into the kitchen, gathering the red plastic cups we use for family gatherings. As I’m shutting the cabinet, the sliding doors open, and Dad and Aaron come in. They’re smiling now, laughing about something. They both grin hugely at me.
Aaron holds up the platter. “Wings, anyone?”
I force a smile at him.
Had I imagined it?
Weren’t they just having a serious conversation? Now they’re all grins and laughter? Am I missing something?
“Gwen, get back in your chair!”
Aaron barks a laugh and dodges as Cowgirl Gwen gallops out of the dining room with a loud “Yeehaw!”
Clara is sputtering at the table, and I can hear her from where I’m standing.
“I’ll get her.” Dad laughs and sets his tongs down on the kitchen island.
Aaron ducks into the dining room, and I go back to gathering cups.
“Come here, you rascal!” Dad rumbles from the den, followed by Gwen’s piercing giggles.
My dad is a big guy, but his grandchildren only recognize him as an over-sized teddy bear. Dad is laughing about something now. Knowing Gwen, she’ll convince him to pretend to be a sheep so she can hogtie him, and Dad won’t argue. There are few things he loves more than playing with his grandkids.
I set the cups on the counter and move into the family room where Dad and Gwen are racing around the room in circles.
“Auntie Lee-Lee, I’mma cowgirl!” Gwen gallops past me.
Dad is gasping for breath in the corner.
I start to tease him, but it’s at that moment that Gwen trips. She teeters sideways, and her left shoulder cracks against the coffee table.
I catch my breath as she goes down, and Dad bolts toward
her as the wail of fear and pain swells out of her little lungs. I hear Clara panic in the dining room, and in a second she’s there scooping the weeping girl out of Dad’s arms.
Clara sits on the couch and cuddles Gwen close, checking her over quickly and shaking her head with a sigh.
“Child, you’ll be the death of me.”
Dad lets out a pent-up breath. “She okay?”
“She’s fine.” Clara kisses the girl’s forehead. “But she shouldn’t be running in the house.”
I blow out a breath of relief.
Well, hopefully that was our excitement for the day.
I start to go back to the kitchen.
“Patrica.”
I stop and turn back to Dad. He’s standing in the middle of the den, next to the coffee table, scowling deeply at something on the floor.
“Yeah?”
“Come here.”
I match his frown and walk toward him. Once I clear the couch, I can see what he’s looking at.
The doll.
Gwen’s impact with the coffee table must have knocked the doll off the edge, and its head cracked open on the tile floor.
The doll’s yarn hair spills across the white tile, its glass eyes empty, and its teeth shining, half of its head shattered. I kneel down for a closer look because there’s something not right.
Granted, the doll has never been right. But— “What is that?”
I reach for the doll’s head and the flash of reflected light shining inside it, and I grasp the corner of a plastic baggie full of white powder. I hold up the baggie so my dad can see it.
Dad’s mouth drops open.
“Trisha,” Clara whispers, “is that—”
I shake the baggie, and the white powder inside shifts and sparkles.
“I don’t think it’s salt,” I mutter.
Dad sinks onto the couch and drops his face into his hands. “Patricia, how do you manage this every time?” He sounds like he’s aged ten years.
I feel like he sounds.
So much for the excitement being over.
Now There’s the Police
Seeing the police in my living room is becoming far too common. I think I’m even beginning to recognize the generic patrolmen, and—what’s worse—I have a sneaking suspicion that they recognize me too.
At least it’s only one or two officers, although from how they’re acting I suspect that more will be stopping in soon. Because, no, it’s not sugar or salt in that baggie that fell out of the ugly doll’s cracked-open head. It’s cocaine.
Cocaine.
Stuffed inside the creepiest, ugliest doll known to man.
And I thought it was horrifying before.
“Oh, no, officer. Of course, not.” Dad shuffles awkwardly. “My daughter found it at a house she and her friends are cleaning.”
The officer—Raymond, his tag says—glances at me. He’s not the one I have seen before. He must be new. But that’s okay. He’ll learn my name soon enough.
Officer Baker, the other policeman hovering nearby, used to be new too. But I first met him during the ordeal with Jordin. Then I saw him again during the conflagration with the South Grove Crips last year. He knows me now, or at least he knows how much trouble I inadvertently cause.
I shift on the couch uncomfortably, the press of Aaron’s fingers in my shoulder barely registering through the tension.
“There’s a room in the basement,” I say. “It’s full of dolls just like this.”
I point to the mangled mess of porcelain on the coffee table.
The police had broken open the arms and legs too, and—lo and behold!—more cocaine. The doll was literally packed head to toe with the stuff.
Officer Raymond scowls. “What house is this?”
“It’s 1919 West Maple,” I say, my voice shaking slightly. “It’s—well, it’s orange.”
The officer makes a note and glances at Officer Baker, nodding at him. Baker starts gathering up the doll pieces in an evidence bag.
“And you said this house was—donated?” Raymond curls his upper lip.
“To the Union Rescue Mission,” Dad says. “Our singles were using it as an opportunity for a summer ministry project. Cleaning it out. Fixing it up.”
Raymond pins me with a glare. “And you didn’t think a whole room full of dolls was suspicious?”
“There’s also a whole roomful of puppets, sheet music, and toilet rolls.” I shrug. “Creepy dolls just seemed par for the course.”
He lifted his pen off the notepad. “And why did you bring it home?”
A burning flush sets my face on fire. “To prove a point.”
“And that point was?”
I slumped my face into my hands. “That it wasn’t haunted.”
“Haunted?” Dad chokes.
Aaron sighs behind me.
I lean back against the couch. “A ghost hunter came in and told us the dolls were possessed. And I wanted to prove that they weren’t. So I brought it home.”
“A ghost hunter?” Raymond’s tone makes him sound like I just told him the sky is orange.
I shake my head. “Yes.”
“Well, that’s a new one,” Baker laughs.
Raymond chuckles. “We’ll report this and send someone by to check it out.” He tucks his notebook back into his belt and offers a smile. “You know, I’ve heard your name around the department.”
Baker snickers as he finishes packing up the doll and seals the bag shut.
“You kind of attract trouble like this, don’t you?” Raymond raised his dark eyebrows.
Aaron snorts behind me. “She’s the only church secretary in the world who doubles as a danger magnet.”
I look up at him with a sad smile.
Raymond shakes my dad’s hand. “I expect the detective in charge will need to question all of you.” He smiles apologetically. “Not that any of us believe that you or your family is involved in the drug trade. But we will need to eliminate all of you officially.”
“Of course.” My dad sags slightly. “We’ll cooperate.”
Raymond nods at me. Baker flashes a smile. Then both officers are out the door walking toward their squad car.
Dad sinks into his armchair and lets his head crash against the back. “Patricia, I’m getting too old for this.”
I roll my eyes. “Why does everyone assume this is my fault?”
Aaron sets his other hand on my shoulder.
Vague shouting upstairs tells me that Gwen hasn’t gone to sleep yet. After the officers had arrived, Mom herded the grandkids upstairs, and my sisters and brothers-in-law followed. Not that they didn’t want to be helpful. But by now, all of them have recognized that the best person to help me out of my scrapes is my dad or Aaron. And, if it’s serious enough, both my dad and Aaron.
Notice, they’re both here right now.
Legitimately. How do I get into these things?
“They don’t actually think I brought it home because we’re getting into drug dealing,” I say. “Do they?”
Dad shrugs.
“Surely not.” I sit forward. “Dad, they can’t think—”
“I don’t know what they think, Trisha.” Dad sounds tired. “But I know what it looks like. It looks like intent to sell.”
“That’s absurd.” I rest my elbows on my thighs and hang my head.
The couch cushions sink lower as Aaron sits next to me and places a warm hand against the small of my back.
“You know, Trisha.” Dad’s chair creaks as he stands up. “If you needed a raise, you just needed to ask.”
I freeze.
If I needed a—what?
I jerk my head up to see my dad’s sparkling eyes and a gentle smirk twisting his lips.
“Oh, you.” I snarl at him and swat his stomach.
He cackles and bends down to kiss my brow. “Only you, Trisha Lee. Only you.” He pats the side of my face affectionately. “I’ll go inform the troops what’s happening.”
Dad turns
to go but before he steps out of the den, he casts a weird look at Aaron. I don’t quite know how to translate it. The expression actually reminds me a little of Keith—the way Keith looks at Cecily. Like he wants to say something but doesn’t think it’s the right time yet. But why would Dad be looking at Aaron like that?
Gosh, guys are weird.
My heart stutters.
Keith.
I turn to Aaron as Dad steps away. “Aaron, Keith was going back to the house tonight.”
Aaron frowns. “Why?”
“He needed to get some of the household goods out of the basement, so I left it open.” I scowl. “Aaron, what if the police show up and find him there. What if he freaks out? What if they freak out?”
Aaron sighs. “Trisha.”
I stand up. “Come on. We need to go to the house.”
“Do we need to?”
“Okay, I want to.” I take his hand. “And if nothing else, we can lock the basement just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“Aaron.” I pull his arm. “The basement is full of weird creepy cocaine-filled dolls, and I just told the police where they could find them. If the police show up and someone has broken into the house and taken them, it’ll look really bad.”
Aaron shakes his head as he stands up. “Trisha, why would anyone take them?”
“Aaron! Someone put them there.”
He runs his hands through his hair.
“Someone put them there, and someone is going to want them back.”
“Then why haven’t they gotten them yet?” Aaron grabs my shoulders. “Trish, there’s no need to go rushing back to the house tonight. I’ll bet the police aren’t even going tonight.”
“Please, Aaron?” I fist my fingers in his shirt. “I just—I feel like we need to be there. For Keith if for nothing else.”
“Can’t we just call him?”
“We can call him on the way.”
Aaron brushes his thumb along my jaw. “Okay, Trish.” His eyes look sad for a moment. “Let’s go.”
“Can you drive?”
“I’ll drive.”
~
Aaron’s old truck rattles up to the curb in front of 1919 West Maple, the orange monstrosity glaring at us like we owe it something. I tuck my cell phone back into my purse and shove it under the passenger seat of the truck.
Flipping Fates Page 13