Carry Me Home (Paradise, Idaho)

by Rosalind James

  “When,” Cal said, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. “When did it . . . come on?”

  Vanessa looked at Isabel. “When? A couple months ago, that was all. That’s why I think he’s faking. Too sudden.”

  “I remember,” Isabel said, “because it was right when the November reports were due. Right after Halloween.”

  ZOE SANTANGELO, PERSON

  Describe the characteristics that typify/differentiate continental and oceanic volcanoes, including lithology and behavior, and give examples of each.

  Zoe erased “differentiate,” began to type a sentence about sketches. They’d better be able to do those sketches.

  Just a couple more questions to go, and she’d finish up and go home—well, she’d go back to Cal’s parents’ place. She’d been delaying going out there every night, even as she welcomed the safety she felt as soon as she walked in the door. But it was so awkward. And it made her miss Cal so much.

  Not being there, though, felt even worse. She’d gone to her mother’s for Thanksgiving, and it had felt . . . alien. LA had seemed so noisy, so manmade, so full of strangers and cars, and strangers in cars. And so hot, too. It had been eighty degrees on Thanksgiving Day. How could she have changed so much in such a short time, that all those things felt wrong? It was as if the peace of North Idaho had settled into her bones, even when she had no peace at all.

  Telling her mother what had happened had been terrible, and not telling her about Cal had been worse. Her mother wouldn’t have understood her conflict, though, even now. Cal would have seemed like manna from heaven to her mom.

  Talking it over with her father, of course, had been out of the question. He’d always been her advisor, her confidant. She’d always made him proud. But he wouldn’t have come close to understanding this. So she’d ended up not telling either of them about Cal, and that had felt lonely, too, and so sad.

  Especially since she understood her mother a little better now, and felt sorrier for her than she ever had. All her mother had ever wanted to do was love her dad. The one thing, the only thing, and he hadn’t wanted it.

  Her mom’s life had been a lie, and if she’d coped by trying to deny it, by still insisting on loving her husband even when he wasn’t her husband anymore, when he loved somebody else—well, sometimes your heart didn’t get to choose. It wasn’t easy to stop loving somebody. In fact, sometimes it was just about impossible.

  The truth was, Zoe seemed to understand herself and her heart less every day, and she was so tired of trying to figure it out that, instead, she just worked until she was too tired to work anymore, slept, and tried not to feel scared and lonely. And in another week it was going to be winter break, and she was going to be finding a new apartment with Rochelle, and then the connection would be gone entirely. Then, as hard as it would be to stay with Cal’s parents, she’d find out how much harder it was not to. How much harder it would be to have him completely out of her life.

  “Dr. Santangelo? Can I talk to you a minute?”

  She shut her laptop on the final exam even before she turned, the action automatic. It was Amy.

  “Sure,” she told the girl. She wasn’t getting her work done anyway. She might as well pack it up.

  Neil, the grad student who’d been working in the corner of the room, looked up as well. “I’m going to take a break for dinner,” he said. “You okay if I leave for a while?”

  “Of course. You go on.” She had to smile a little. Ever since they’d heard about the attack, her students had gotten so protective of her. She suspected them of working out a rotation, because it seemed that she was never alone. Which was one of the reasons she’d taken to working in the rock lab instead of her office, because she wasn’t comfortable being alone, not someplace where she could be trapped so easily. She felt safer up here, especially with a male student parked in residence, clearly ready and willing to repel invaders.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked Amy. She indicated the chair beside her desk, swiveled to face the girl.

  “I just wanted to come up before the semester ended and say thanks,” Amy said. “For all your help. Even though you ended up in trouble, too. I’m so sorry about that.”

  “No,” Zoe said automatically. “We already discussed this. It isn’t your fault. I got involved because I needed to get involved. It was my choice. And you don’t have to apologize for being a victim any more than I do. That’s not how this deal works.” She began to gather her papers, stack them on the desk. She wasn’t in any position to give Amy advice. Not when she was still so fragile herself. Better that she get it at the counseling center. “So . . . you’re welcome. And it’s almost time for me to get out of here, and you, too. Somebody walking you home? It’s dark out there.”

  “I’m meeting a friend,” Amy said. “It’s been harder since Bill and I broke up. To get somebody to go everywhere with me, I mean.”

  Zoe knew she shouldn’t ask, but she did anyway. “Oh?”

  “Yeah,” Amy said. “He was getting antsy. Impatient. He thought I should get over it. I guess I’m not as much fun as I was. And I always wanted to be walked places. He said I was needy. I don’t think I’m needy. I think I’m scared, and that I have a right to be. But he didn’t want somebody who was scared.”

  “Huh,” Zoe said. She knew she shouldn’t say it, but she did. “I guess that means he’s the wrong guy. A guy who can’t understand how hard this is, who doesn’t want to listen, to hear how you feel, who doesn’t want to keep you safe—that’s not the right guy.”

  “You’re right,” Amy said. “I know you’re right. That’s why I broke up with him.”

  Zoe brought her mind back with an effort. From Cal, who understood how hard it was, who wanted to hear how she felt. Who cared more about her being safe than about her being with him. That guy. The right guy.

  “I had something else I had to tell you, too,” Amy said. “I wasn’t sure if I should. That’s why I waited so long. I thought . . .” She gave a quick shrug. “It was like sucking up, you know? Coming and talking to you before the final. But I have to leave right afterwards. My dad said I shouldn’t hang around, but I don’t want to anyway. I want to get out of here.”

  “I know,” Zoe said. “It can be awfully hard to stay.”

  “It can. I just can’t help it, you know? I just can’t . . . sleep. But I’m trying.”

  “You are trying,” Zoe said. “He hasn’t driven you away. He hasn’t beaten you. You should feel really proud of yourself for that.”

  “See,” Amy said, “that’s why I had to come talk to you, because you say those things. And anyway, you wouldn’t grade somebody higher just because they sucked up.”

  “Well, no,” Zoe said, startled into a laugh. “I wouldn’t. You’ll get the grade you earn.”

  “I know,” Amy said. “I know I will. And that’s what I wanted to say. I wanted to tell you . . . I feel stupid saying it, but you’re kind of my role model, you know? You’re kind of my idol.”

  She was blushing, and Zoe reached a hand out and set it briefly on hers, gave it a squeeze.

  Never touch a student. Sometimes, though, rules were meant to be broken. “Well, thank you,” she said quietly, releasing the girl’s hand. “That means a lot to me. You still have to study, though,” she added with a smile. “Because you’re right. That’s not going to help you on the test.”

  Amy laughed, but her face was still working with emotion. “I mean,” she said, “you’re a great teacher. I wanted to tell you, I want to do something that well someday. I don’t know what, but I want to be respected like that, the way you are.”

  “Does this mean you’re going to major in geology?” Zoe asked, teasing a little.

  A stronger laugh this time. “Um . . . no. I can pass the class. I hope. But still. I wanted to come in and tell you thanks. For everything.”

  “Well
,” Zoe said, the glow warming her, “you’re welcome. For everything. And now get out of here, please, so I can finish writing a test that will kick your butt and remind you how hard you’re supposed to be studying to earn this good degree you’re going to be getting.”

  “Okay.” Amy laughed again and stood to go, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. “I’ll do well,” she promised. “You’ll see.”

  “I know you will. Take care.”

  Zoe sat back, tapping a pencil on her desk, and watched her leave. Well, wasn’t that something? Sometimes, this job was worth every late night, every Saturday spent grading papers. Sometimes.

  A couple more years in the trenches, and hello Stanford. Got your cushy graduate seminars, got all those doctoral students doing your scut work for you, and bye-bye, gatekeeper classes. So long, hormonal eighteen-year-olds who haven’t figured out that you actually have to study in college. They’ll be somebody else’s problem.

  Except that she didn’t want them to be somebody else’s problem. Except that she didn’t want to teach less, because she loved teaching.

  A top-tier research institution. That had always been the goal. Always, ever since she’d set any goals at all. She’d aimed for the top, and she’d never understood why anybody would aim lower. There had never seemed like any real alternative.

  But a teacher was what she was. It was who she was. And what if . . .

  She sat, pencil still tapping, and stared into space. Brought the thought into focus, examined it from all sides as if it were a scientific problem to be solved.

  Assumptions. She’d been operating all along on assumptions. But what if the assumptions were flawed?

  What happens in science is what’s supposed to happen. One of the fundamental principles, drilled into her so many years ago that she couldn’t even remember where she’d first heard it. If the results of the experiment weren’t what you’d predicted, that didn’t make the results wrong. It made something else wrong. And that something was probably your hypothesis.

  How many of the goals she’d set for herself had been about achievement for achievement’s sake—or for her father’s sake—and how many had been about true satisfaction? How many had been about achieving the life she really wanted?

  It isn’t the life you have. It’s what you do with the life you have.

  Cal. It was Cal, but it wasn’t just Cal. It was her. It was what mattered at the end of the day.

  What do you want on your tombstone?

  What she wanted was for her former students to remember her, for them to think, There’s somebody who made a difference. Maybe even, There’s somebody who changed my life.

  What she wanted most of all, though, was for somebody to care enough to pick out her tombstone. For somebody to care that she was alive, to feel sorry when she had to leave him, because his life had been better with her in it. She wanted to matter more than anything else to him, and for him to matter like that to her. Not to Zoe Santangelo, PhD, hydrogeologist. To Zoe Santangelo, person.

  What she wanted was good work to do, work that mattered, and somebody to love her that she could love back. What she wanted was a real life, a full life. A life that didn’t just have work in it.

  She’d always thought that she couldn’t settle. But what if “settling” was the opposite of what she’d assumed? What if “settling,” for her, was settling for a career over everything else? Over a life that had love, and family, and a real home? That had real friends, not just colleagues? What if “settling” meant settling for a life without somebody like Cal?

  Somebody like Cal? her brain mocked. Because she was still trying to hedge her bets. Time to face it. What happens in science is what’s supposed to happen. She wanted Cal.

  How could she say that, though? She’d known him all of a couple months.

  But he wasn’t asking her to marry him. He was just asking her not to have one foot out the door of this place. This good place, this real place. He was asking her to want to stay here. To want a whole life. And she did.

  She needed to talk to him. She needed to tell him. She needed to get out of here.

  Except that she couldn’t. Because Greg Moore was walking into the room, an extra swagger in his step.

  “Officer Moore,” she said before he even made it across the room. She stood up herself, grabbed her laptop case, and began to stuff papers into it. “I was just going.”

  “Really,” he said, sitting down opposite her in the chair Amy had just vacated, his eyes sweeping her figure again the way they always did, making her wish she hadn’t worn the sweater dress, no matter what Cal had said. “So you aren’t interested in the investigation into Amy’s case? Or yours? Since you think they’re the same?”

  She sat down again with reluctance. “Of course I’m interested, if you have something to tell me, or ask me. And of course they’re the same.”

  “Which would explain,” he said, his gaze scanning the room now, “why you aren’t in law enforcement. Ever heard of a copycat?”

  “Oh, really?” She crossed her arms, aware of her body language and not caring a bit. “You’ve got two serial rapists in town?”

  “Hmm,” he said. “Maybe one serial guy. Maybe. And maybe one guy with a grudge.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What happened that day,” he asked, “when that guy showed up in your bedroom? Some other . . . major life event?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “You’re not going to make this about Cal.”

  “It’s not me,” he said. “I’m off the case, thanks to you. But as a cop . . . Know who it usually is, when bad things happen to women? The boyfriend. The husband. That’s who does it, every time. When did he show up that night?”

  “No,” she said, and she was trembling. “No. Nobody’s thinking that.”

  “You don’t think so?” He smiled, and it was an ugly thing. “Sweetheart. Everybody’s thinking that. Your boyfriend’s about to be in a world of hurt. Why do you think his wife left him?”

  She didn’t want to answer, but the urge to defend Cal was too strong. “Because she cheated on him.”

  “You think? Maybe so and maybe not. Just because a divorce is no-fault . . .” He sighed. “Some guys have a way of making themselves look good, but when you scratch the surface, what’s underneath can be some nasty stuff. Money’s a pretty good deodorant. He didn’t contest the settlement, gave her everything she asked for. What kind of man does that? I’ll tell you. A man who doesn’t want the publicity. A man who wants to make it all go away, because having it come out would ruin him. A guilty man.”

  She did stand up then. “If that’s all you’ve got to tell me,” she said, her voice shaking despite her efforts to control it, “I think you’d better leave. Because I don’t believe it, and I won’t. You can say anything you want, and I still won’t believe it. So if that’s it . . . please go away.”

  He didn’t move. “Oh, honey,” he said. “That’s not all I’ve got to tell you.”

  TO THE TOWER

  Cal got back in his truck. Junior sat up and looked at him, but Cal didn’t say anything. He was pressing the button to dial even as he was driving. Against the rules? Too bad. It was only five blocks across campus to Zoe’s building. He needed to tell her about this right away, to warn her. But first, Jim.

  “What?” he heard at the other end. “It’s been two hours. Even Miss Marple doesn’t solve the crime in two hours.”

  Cal ignored that. “Richard Winston,” he said. “Director of housing. He’s the guy. I’m sure. Tell me he’s on your list.”

  “I’m not going to tell you that,” Jim said, his alarm coming through loud and clear. “One way or the other. Tell me you haven’t been investigating. Please.”

  “Shut up,” Cal said, then filled Jim in as quickly as he could.

  “You went to the office,” Jim said, sounding
stunned. “You talked to his staff. Oh, my God. You’ve screwed with the investigation, not to mention you’ve screwed with my job. I’ve broken so many regs here it’s not even funny, and that’s not even the problem. The problem is, even if he is the guy, now you’ve alerted him. Brilliant. Just brilliant.”

  “No, I haven’t,” Cal said. “His staff hates him. They’re not going to be talking to him. Did you even hear what I said? About his hands?”

  “I heard it,” Jim said. “And if he’s on our list—if—maybe I just made a note. But I’m not sharing another damn thing with you. And I’ll remind you, a couple hours ago you were just as sure it was Greg. It can’t be both, Sherlock. So stay the hell out of my case. I’m telling you this once, and the next time, the sheriff’s going to tell you. Stay out.”

  “I don’t care who you tell,” Cal said, pulling into Zoe’s lot. “In fact, tell everybody. Tell the whole damn world. But check out his hands. I’m begging you, man. Check out his hands.”

  He hung up, climbed out of the truck, and Junior looked at him inquiringly. “Let’s go,” Cal told him, and the dog jumped out. It was after five. Nobody around to object to Junior.

  He was through the doors, up the first flight of stairs, around the corner, Junior right beside him. The nearly deserted building was heavy with winter silence, broken only by the sound of boot heels and dog claws on limestone.

  And then another sound. A warning growl from Junior, low and menacing. Cal looked down, saw the short hair standing up all the way down the ridge of the dog’s broad back. And that rumble again, coming from deep inside his heavy chest.

  Cal’s own adrenaline had kicked in even before the legs came into view on the stairs above. The blue-uniformed legs, and then the muscular body. And then the face. Greg.