Whittaker 02 The One We Love

by Donna White Glaser

  Googling Karissa’s number didn’t net me anything, but the grandmother—Bernadette Stanhope, I learned—was listed in the Chippewa Falls White Pages along with an address.

  It was too early in the season for Daylight Savings Time change, but the light-filled days of summer were long past. I only had about an hour of daylight left and I hadn’t eaten supper yet. A drive-thru meal was a necessary evil. I tried to feel guilty about all the transfats my body was ingesting, but Big Mac sauce is as addicting to me as liquor and, if my ever-tightening jeans were an indication, just as dangerous.

  Karissa’s grandmother lived in a trailer park a few miles south of Chippewa Falls. I debated attempting a private eye-type stake out, but the close proximity of the neighboring trailers made me change my mind. They didn’t need an official neighborhood watch committee in this community. They all watched. All the time.

  A decade-old green Wrangler occupied the patch of dirt that doubled as a driveway for Lot 7. Despite the rust pitting the wheel wells and the thick coating of dust, it looked a lot snazzier than the trailer. Decrepit wooden steps leaned against the side of the home looking as if they’d gotten tired of the job and wanted a rest. I wasn’t sure they would hold my weight, and I found myself regretting the sugar-carb diet that had so recently replaced my drinking habit.

  Thinking light, airy thoughts as a gravity-defying defense mechanism, I knocked at the door and almost fell backward when it was snatched open by a young boy. It would have been hard to guess his age by looking at him—his body size and ancient eyes told different stories—but the file had stated the eldest boy was nearly six years old. Michael was his name, I knew, although I’d forgotten the baby’s.

  “Is your mom here?” I asked. Michael turned and yelled a long, drawn-out “Mom” over his shoulder. My heart thumped despite my legitimacy. A sharp gust of wind rattled through the oak trees, causing me to glance up at the branches in case Clotilde and Lachlyn, hovering like harpies, were waiting to snatch me away from my goal.

  Footsteps brought my attention back just as a twenty-something woman reached the screen door. She was almost my height, 5‘6”, but had the aid of two-inch wedge sandals to reach that. A strange choice for the end of September. She also wore a caution-yellow tank top and loose-fitting jeans. The dripping blood, barbed wire tattoo circling her upper arm didn’t scream “mom,” but maybe I was old-fashioned. She held a bright red Elmo in her hand that looked too new to have been toted around by a kid yet. She thrust it at her son.

  “Here, Mikey. Take Elmo to Grammy.” The voice, sweet and girlish, did not match her exterior, but her eyes, like her son’s, had seen the rough side of life.

  Mikey scowled, refusing the toy. “No. That’s not Mo-mo. And ‘sides, I’m too old for Elmo anymore.”

  “Yes, it is Mo-mo. It’s a better one. Take it to Grammy and go check on Myka. Now.”

  He grabbed it by a leg and took off into the darkening interior, carrying it along without any enthusiasm. She may have won the battle, but he wasn’t giving up the war. Mo-mo hadn’t won his heart.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Karissa Dillard? My name is Letty Whittaker. I’m, um, a friend of Regina’s.” I tried not to turn the last sentence into a question. I confess I was a little distracted by the cigarette smell she carried. I rubbed my patch. It itched. “I’m a therapist, too, and we worked together at the clinic in town. She appointed me as the executor of her patient files. That means she wanted me to check in with her clients and make sure they’re all okay.”

  As I spoke, Karissa’s face shifted from guarded to scared, briefly, and settled on pissed. The knuckles on the hand clutching the screen door whitened, veins popping in her arms with the pressure she exerted. I half-expected the metal to buckle.

  I took a step back, almost solving Karissa’s problem by falling off the decrepit stairs and breaking my neck. I teetered a little but kept my balance. Trying to defuse the situation, I lifted my hands, palm out in the ancient I-carry-no-weapons pose. “It’s okay, Karissa. Nobody knows I’m here. You’re safe.” Although I wasn’t so sure I was. Now that I thought about it, perhaps telling her that no one knew I was here wasn’t such a good idea. Despite her diminutiveness, this woman looked capable of stuffing my dead body under the trailer and letting some lime and a couple of pine tree air fresheners hide the deed. Mikey would probably let the new Mo-mo keep me company.

  She stayed tense, her muscles bunched, but she didn’t slam the door in my face. Yet. Behind her, I saw another person moving swiftly through the dark interior of the trailer. I braced myself.

  A tiny wisp of a woman slid under Karissa’s arm, standing in front of her like a shield. Not a particularly effective shield, since the top of her grey head only came to Karissa’s chin, but I had no doubt whom I needed to fear most. She wore a blue flannel shirt, probably intended for a twelve-year-old boy, and a pair of psychedelic, tie-dyed pajama bottoms. Funky Grammy. A gnarled finger thrust up to the tip of my nose, making my eyes cross as I tried to follow it.

  “Who the hell are you? What do you want with my Rissa?”

  “Um…”

  “Gosh darn it! I’m tired of people thinking they can just walk all over her!”

  Behind her, Karissa laughed, enjoying the show.

  “No, no. I’m not,” I said.

  “You gosh darn better not be!” She whipped around, tilting her head back to glare at her granddaughter. “Get in the house, missy. Don’t just stand here in the doorway letting her push you around. Get inside.”

  The puff of wind from the slam of the door blew several strands of my hair around my face. Stunned, I meekly returned to my car and sat, trying to figure out what had just happened. Attack-by-grandma had been remarkably successful. Between the two, I hadn’t stood a chance.

  As I looked back at the trailer, I saw a grey head pop up in a window, every wrinkle in her grizzled face shaped into a mighty frown. I saw her mouth move silently, behind the glass pane. I didn’t need to be a lip reader to know what she was saying. The very un-grandma-like middle finger salute clarified, in case I had any doubts.

  I left. But just before I drove away another head appeared in a window farther down the side of the trailer. Mikey. At least he waved with all of his fingers.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I hated getting up early on a Saturday, especially when I hadn’t been sleeping well lately, but I couldn’t miss the board meeting. I almost didn’t bother with business clothes, but forced myself into a pair of decent slacks and an autumn-colored sweater when I remembered I was trying to impress people with my professionalism.

  While I’d been out prowling, Sue had left a voice mail telling me she’d tracked down the board member, Beth Collier, and filled her in on my situation. She said Beth had been receptive, but couldn’t promise anything until after she’d met me and heard the shelter’s concerns.

  Great. An ethical alcoholic. Why did I have to keep tripping over all these ethical people these days? I wished I’d had a chance to talk to her myself. Living an honest, sober life sure made navigating problems a lot trickier. Took more energy, too.

  On the flip side, I wasn’t waking up with sweaty jitters and puking my way across town to the meeting. Pros and cons to everything, I guessed.

  The board met in the group therapy room. Based on the varied appearance of the members I could have worn whatever I pleased. There were six of them—an even split of three men, three women. Two of the men, crisply suited, looked as though they were hustling back to the office as soon as they could wrap things up here. The third, however, wore baggy shorts, an eye-jarring Hawaiian shirt, and leather thong sandals. His thinning hair was pulled back in a grey braid as thin as my pinky.

  The women had taken the middle road, casual, although there were wide differences in the amount of money each seemed willing to spend on achieving that effect.

  I recognized Beth from the newsletter photo. Stylish, auburn-haired, and decked out in a trendy, boucle ja
cket, she winked at me as I came in. I smiled back.

  Clotilde and Lachlyn were already seated. Just for giggles, I tried picturing Lachlyn as a nun, mentally cloaking her in the habit she’d been wearing in the newspaper photo. The effort made my head spin.

  Astrid trotted in, balancing a tray of fresh baked cookies, a fistful of yellow pencils, and a stack of papers clamped under her armpit. The papers started an ominous slide, forcing Astrid into a strange contortion as she tried to clamp harder while not losing any cookies. I hurried over and rescued the papers just as they slithered free. Beth saved the cookie tray, and between the three of us, we managed to get the supplies over to a side table where a large coffee urn bubbled darkly.

  “Let’s get started,” Clotilde announced over the top of Astrid’s expressions of gratitude. I took my seat as Clotilde ran through quick introductions. Since I’d perused the shelter newsletter, I was familiar with the names and only had to match them to the faces. Sean Benson, the lawyer, caught my attention first of all, because I assumed he’d have the most say in my situation. He was, of course, one of the besuited gents. He was also really hot in an I’m-a-power-hungry-stud kind of way. The other suit, Steve Riccio, was the shelter treasurer and a professional accountant. He handed me his card. The aging hippy was Dr. Brian Feldman. “Retired,” he clarified as he shook my hand. Soft, limp grip, but a friendly smile. I’d already pegged Beth. She was the wealthiest looking alcoholic I’d ever seen. Despite that, she appeared down-to-earth, and just as friendly as Dr. Brian. The second woman, Amy Myers, looked crisp and professional and slightly irritated at the delay. Her bright smile surprised me, though and I decided I was projecting. Last of all was Joyce Trent, a former shelter resident turned employee, who sat on the board as a resident representative. Months ago, when Regina had first brought me, I’d heard whispers about Joyce’s past. She towered over me by a good four inches and embraced the no-makeup look of the shelter women. She also looked like she could bench press a small cow.

  “I need to bring up one item before we go over Regina’s case load,” Joyce said. “I need the board’s approval for a Buddy tracker on one of our kids. There is—”

  “What’s a Buddy tracker?” I asked. Okay, it had nothing to do with me, but hey, I was curious.

  Joyce went mute, letting Clotilde answer. “It’s a GPS tracking device. We use them in extreme situations when we fear a parent might abscond with a child. It needs board approval.”

  “There is a restraining order in place between the father and mother,” Clotilde continued, “but the court has allowed supervised visitation. Dad has already tried picking the boy up at daycare, so we can see how well he respects court orders. The boy is only three and a half years old and can’t be expected to refuse a surprise visit from Daddy, even if he’s seen the man beating his mother once a week for the last two years. He has a teddy bear that we can plant the Buddy in.”

  Lachlyn sighed. “I wish we could home school every one of them. It’s ridiculous that their lives are in such danger and we blithely send them out to school or daycare while we sit back and pretend their fathers can’t get to them.”

  Beth spoke up. “Well, we can’t isolate them forever, Lachlyn.”

  “Why not?” Lachlyn smiled ruefully.

  “If it’s okay with the board, I’ll get you the Buddy tracker this afternoon, Joyce,” Astrid said.

  After the board approved the motion, Clotilde broached my role as Regina’s professional executor. Astrid passed around copies of Regina’s arrangements, although I noted that Sean Benson, the lawyer, already had one. Feldman and Beth both asked him a few questions clarifying what a professional executor’s role was. His answers meshed with what I’d learned, so I didn’t interrupt.

  “So, what do you need from us?” Beth finally turned to Clotilde. Her forthrightness verged on abruptness, but she softened it with a smile. Riccio nodded at her question, glancing at his watch. Time was money and apparently he needed to go count it.

  “We need to know just how far this document reaches,” Clotilde answered. “Are we talking about Regina’s case load at the time of the accident? Or is this more far-reaching? I’m particularly concerned that Regina’s unusual choice … ” she turned to me with an aside. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” I lied.

  “Regina’s choice is an outsider. Someone completely unfamiliar with shelter policies and practices, which, of course, could be dangerous to our clients.”

  “Regina must have felt a high level of confidence in Ms. Whittaker,” Beth countered. “Are there problems with her qualifications?”

  “No,” Clotilde answered almost reluctantly. I could tell that she had researched that end carefully.

  Feldman entered the fray. “Maybe not, but Clo has a valid point. Our clients are in a precarious position. We can’t allow anything to jeopardize that or even increase their sense of vulnerability. They have enough against them. I’m against anything that risks that. Why can’t one of you follow up with Regina’s clients?”

  Time for me to jump in. “Because that goes against Regina’s expressed wishes. My understanding is that this document is legal and binding. Assigning a professional executor is a practice that the American Psychological Association strongly favors, and its practice is specifically addressed in the Code of Ethics.” Damn, I sounded good. And pulling the APA’s Code of Ethics was an especially nice touch, I thought. It had the added sweetness of being the truth, too.

  After a brief pause, Benson asked, “What is the current arrangement?”

  “We’ve allowed Ms. Whittaker access to the files of Regina’s open client roster. Lachlyn has been supervising her during the file review. As far as actual therapy, Lachlyn and I have divided the case load in the interim and are providing group therapy.”

  Joyce asked her second question of the meeting. “Isn’t that a strain? You’re both so busy already.” Although she’d obviously meant well and had displayed a reasonable concern for the director and Lachlyn, they both frowned at her, not wanting to admit to the burden.

  Joyce dropped her eyes to the floor.

  “That’s a valid point,” Beth jumped in. Her eyes had narrowed slightly and, legs crossed, the topmost foot jiggled in midair with irritation. “I really don’t understand what the problem is. We’ve granted that Whittaker’s credentials are legitimate, we’ve acknowledged Regina’s professional discretion in choosing her executor, and we’ve also acknowledged the legal and ethical realities of the situation. My feeling is that we need to allow Letty to get on with her obligations. I’m sure she has plenty of other things going on in her life that she could be attending to.”

  A long, stiff pause ensued as the others grappled with Beth’s blunt summary. I liked her. As long as she was on my side, that is.

  “It looks like much of this has already been worked out,” Amy Myers spoke up for the first time. “May I suggest that as Ms. Whittaker finishes reviewing the files, she’ll let our people know if she has any immediate concerns for any particular resident’s well-being. It doesn’t make sense to transfer the women back to yet another therapist, though, does it?”

  She was right and I told them so. “However, I’m not comfortable with limiting the review to the few clients Regina was working with when she died. Given the frequency of women returning to the shelter in the first three years, it would make sense for my review to extend that far back.”

  I knew that newsletter would come in handy. They would find it very difficult to argue with the results of a national study that their own newsletter had cited.

  Another pause. Then, Clotilde rallied. “Three years is entirely unnecessary. For one thing, we don’t have the staff to supervise for as long it would take you to get through that many clients.”

  “I’m not clear on why you think I need to be supervised anyway,” I interrupted. “I don’t want to take Lachlyn away from her duties any more than she does. In fact, it makes it difficult for both of us to have to coordi
nate our schedules. It also makes for a very scattered approach on a task that I could already have finished by now. For instance, my duties at our clinic are very nearly wrapped up.”

  “Maybe so, but the shelter has vastly different concerns than does a clinic,” Benson said. “We will certainly comply with Regina’s wishes, but it will be done in keeping with the shelter’s policies and with our residents’ best interests uppermost.”

  That sounded very lawyerly to me. Very cover-my-butt and you’re not-getting-what-you-want, as well.

  “So, how far back are we willing to let her go?” Beth chimed back in. “And what safety measures will Letty need to follow?”

  “Three months,” Benson said. “Lachlyn supervises a file review of Regina’s clients going back three months. No contact with any of those residents unless you have a specific, defined reason for approaching her, and you’ll be required to have written approval from Clotilde beforehand.”

  Clotilde kept up the facade of reasonableness that she’d erected. Her lips thinned slightly when Benson announced the time period, but no other emotion snuck through. Apparently, even a measly three months galled her. Lachlyn, on the other hand, shook her head, refusing to look at me. I bet if I mentioned that I’d already tracked down Karissa and her kids, I’d get her attention. And not the positive kind, either.

  “The board will expect a report on your progress at the next board meeting,” Benson concluded. “When is that?” He looked at Astrid, who had been taking notes.

  “October 3rd,” she answered briskly. “At 9:00 a.m.”

  “There you go,” Benson said. “Any questions?”

  “I second it,” from Riccio.

  The meeting wrapped up quickly, Beth tossing me a discreet wink as she left. Nobody else said a word to me, although I heard the buzz of conversation as soon as they cleared the doorway.

  The room emptied, leaving Astrid and me. She had gathered all her papers and was moving efficiently around the room tidying up. I debated helping, but realized I’d just have time to make the Saturday morning meeting at the club if I hurried.