Not a whimper or whine. Not even a disinterested pant.
Okay, so she’d launch a full-court press: “I got Sweet Potato Maple Walnut ice cream too! You can have some after your chicken.”
Nothing. She felt censured, dismissed. Justice was telling her that she ranked lower than a rattlesnake scale. As she drove through the parking lot, he stared out the window as if his life depended on memorizing the license plates of cars they passed.
However, in his silence, an entire waterfall of words splashed onto the Honda’s dashboard: I am bored. I have no purpose. I want my job back. And if you want to get down to brass tacks here, I want you back. You’re not yourself. I want us to feel alive again.
CHAPTER 45
TOM
At first Miss Evelyn Granger, Lisa’s fourth-grade teacher, looked like her forty-one years in the classroom had carved a permanent scowl on her forehead. She looked like she delighted in whacking rulers on knuckles; and if she were reincarnated, she’d come back as something hard and prickly, like a thistle.
But then Miss Granger smiled, and her wrinkles became a road map to Pleasantville. Tom felt comfortable in her presence. He’d been right to send Lisa to this school and this warm teacher, who’d taped Valentine hearts of red construction paper to all the classroom’s windows.
Still in his khaki uniform, Tom hoisted himself onto the art table for his Back-to-School-Night conference with Miss Granger, her back ramrod straight, at her desk. The one-on-one portion of the evening had been set up like speed dating; a student’s parents got five minutes with her before a bell rang and the next student’s parents moved in. Mia had not been inclined to attend, so Tom had come alone. With so little time, he had to talk quickly, so he got right to the point.
“I’m worried about Lisa. Last week her mother announced she’s getting married again.” It was hard for the bitter admission to pass through his lips. He hated his daughter having a stepfather.
“Does Lisa like the fiancé?” Miss Granger asked.
“I don’t know. She never says much. Has she mentioned him to you?”
Miss Granger glanced down at a science textbook on her desk. A panda was on the cover. “Once in a while she says her mother’s boyfriend took her to a car wash or the grocery store—never anywhere exciting. I’d say she doesn’t have strong feelings one way or the other.”
“That’s pretty much what I’ve concluded.”
“Do you like him?” Miss Granger asked.
“I’ve only met him a few times. I feel sorry for him ending up with my ex, I can tell you.”
“I hear that from a lot of divorced parents,” Miss Granger said. “Why exactly are you worried about Lisa?”
“Maybe ‘worried’ is too strong. I’m uneasy. Fathers aren’t universally kind.” As Tom knew all too well from his own. “I’ve been working on a case about a teen who tried to hurt a cop. As far as I can tell, his stepfather was a . . .” Tom searched for a polite word to describe Franz. “His stepfather was mean to him. I’d hate for Lisa to get into a situation like that. I don’t want her to be a troubled kid.”
“Lisa’s nowhere near troubled. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Most days her mood ring ranges from a happy dark blue to an upbeat blue-green.” Miss Granger’s eyes twinkled. “She’s taught me how to read the colors. It’s amazing what I learn from kids.”
“She’s taught me names of clouds.” Tom swung his dangling size-twelve feet. “So you don’t think some soon-to-be stepfather is abusing her? I see way too much of that on my job.”
Miss Granger shook her head. “I think I’d sense abuse,” she said. “The main thing you need to do right now is keep communication lines open.”
“We talk by Skype every night.”
“Good,” Miss Granger said. “I wish all my students were as loving and sweet as Lisa is. She’s our weatherwoman. She’s adjusted quickly here.”
“I’m always trying to compensate for not being a full-time dad. I wish I saw her more than on holidays and weekends, but I have crazy, ever-changing hours.” Tom could have talked with Miss Granger all night, but the bell rang, shrill and coldhearted, and bumped him out of this reassuring conversation into the night.
As he got up to give his place to the smiling couple at the classroom door, Miss Granger said, “I’ve heard about the terrible schedules you officers have. If you decide to marry again, find someone who’s also in law enforcement.”
All the way home, Tom pondered that.
CHAPTER 46
ANDREA
In the weeks that Andie had been seeing Dr. Capoletti, Justice had begun to consider his office a second home. He bounded in like he owned the place and waited for his biscuit by Dr. Capoletti’s white ceramic jar. Then as peaceful as the bookcase’s Buddha, Justice sprawled out on the Oriental rug. Confident that no threats lurked here, he conked out for each fifty-minute hour.
For Andie too, the office had become a haven. Dr. Capoletti’s burning-cherry smoke that lingered in the air was familiar to her now, and the batting escaping from his chair’s arm seemed charming. This was the one place besides her home where she could leave behind all pretense of being tough, strong, or in command. She could just be.
What she was being today was gloomy. She sank into the sofa as if buzzards were roosting in her heart, and explained that she’d slid back into a psychological morass. “My anger is tearing up my insides. One minute I hate Christopher for ruining my life, but the next I blame myself for shooting him. Then I hate his parents for their lawsuit, but I know I killed their son,” she said. “I can’t decide who are the offenders and who are the victims in this mess.”
Dr. Capoletti pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and honked a loud and boisterous honk that rallied Justice enough to open an eye before he went back to his nap. “Tell me, how are you the offender?”
“Simple. I killed Christopher. He’s my victim.”
“What if you reverse that? How are you the victim?”
“Christopher hurt Justice and attacked me.”
Dr. Capoletti picked up his pipe and clamped it, unlit, between his teeth. “You didn’t ask for the attack.”
“Of course not.”
“He came at you and surprised you, didn’t he? You didn’t have time to ponder your response.”
“No, I didn’t. It was pure survival instinct.”
“Exactly! Survival!” Dr. Capoletti toasted the air with his pipe. “That night when you shot him, you survived physically. Now we’ve been working on how you survive emotionally.”
For Andie, who felt like sharks had been circling her leaky boat for four months, survival sounded like a good idea.
“Do you know the difference between a victim and survivor?” Dr. Capoletti asked.
“No.”
“After a trauma, a victim gets depressed or discouraged or, at worst, immobilized. She often feels responsible for what happened even if that makes no rational sense.”
“You said ‘she.’ You’re talking about me, right? Because I’m depressed and blaming myself, you’re saying I’m a victim?”
“Do you think you are?”
“Yes, because I was victimized. You can’t ignore it. It’s a fact.”
“It was a fact when it happened. But you don’t have to stay a victim forever. You can grow out of it and become a survivor.”
“What’s the difference?” Andie asked.
“If you’re a survivor, a trauma makes you stronger, and you take responsibility for recovering from it. You stop being passive and depressed, and you become a fighter. You rise like a phoenix from your ash heap of anger and guilt.”
“You can’t just will away those bad feelings,” Andie said.
“But you can cut off the bad feelings’ power over you,” Dr. Capoletti said.
“That sounds impossible.”
“Not if you work at it.”
“How?”
Dr. Capoletti struck a match and lit his pipe. Puff, puff. “You work at it by giv
ing up trying to forget what happened, because you never will. And you stop beating yourself up because that accomplishes nothing. Instead of feeling victimized, you celebrate your resilience and strength.”
“What if you have no resilience and strength?” Andie asked.
“You think you don’t?”
“Do you always answer a question with a question?”
“Most of the time.” Dr. Capoletti’s lips parted in a smile. “I’d say you’ve shown plenty of resilience and strength all your life. Think back on the hard things you’ve overcome. You’ve been a survivor.”
“I never looked at myself that way.”
“Maybe it’s time.”
When Andie stood up to leave half an hour later, she felt like in her chest doves were spreading their wings, about to take flight.
* * *
On the ferry ride back to San Julian, Andie thought so hard about being a “survivor” that the idea sprang to life in her mind, like an imaginary friend. She named her the Stalwart Cookie and because Andie had watched a safari video the night before, she pictured the Stalwart Cookie researching wildlife in Uganda. Her hair damp under a pith helmet, she always pushed forward, and she ignored Uzi-bearing poachers peering at her through binoculars. As silverback gorillas climbed trees above her head, she batted tsetse flies and hacked her machete through tangled underbrush.
The Stalwart Cookie forged her own path and met life on her own terms. No one would guess that two years before, a protective mother elephant had charged her open-sided Land Rover, flipped it over, and jabbed a tusk into her thigh. It had taken her months to regather courage to go back to the wild. But there she was, a survivor, moving on.
Ahem. The Stalwart Cookie elbowed Andie’s ribs. In case you’re not seeing what’s in front of you, you were a survivor supreme when your father died and that unworthy twit of a husband abandoned you.
Andie supposed that was true.
If you can do it twice, a third time won’t kill you. Get some spunk. Go live your life.
Andie stroked Justice’s shoulder as the ferry approached San Julian. In the darkness, the town’s lights twinkled, full of hope.
* * *
When the ferry pulled into the dock, for the first time in months Andie didn’t feel like going home. Though it was dinnertime, she drove down Main Street to Stephanie’s condo, which was two blocks from the police station. Andie had not seen her in weeks.
“Wonders never cease! The hermit emerges! Welcome back.” In a ruby fleece top and jeans, Stephanie was brandishing two knitting needles and holding a ball of crimson yarn. “I’d drop a stitch if I put these down,” she said. “Come on in. Want some tea?”
“I can only stay a minute. Justice needs his supper.” They followed Stephanie into her kitchen, where red enamel pots and pans hung from a ceiling rack and every hour a clock tweeted the song of a different bird—such as a cardinal at one and a blue jay at two.
At the smell of stew in Stephanie’s Crock-Pot, Justice’s nostrils emphatically announced, I want. I want. I am famished. Starve me at your peril. But when Andie sat at the table, he politely wriggled underneath and curled around her feet.
“I wanted to see how you are,” Andie said.
“No complaints.” As Stephanie resumed knitting, her needles clicked.
Andie picked a red-and-white-striped watch cap from a pile on the table. “Did you make these hats?”
“To sell at the Crafts Fair in two weeks. Thirty-five dollars a pop, and I can make the hats fast with these fat needles. Plus I’ve been knitting on the sly at work. Great Barrier Reef, here I come.”
“Good for you,” Andie said. It felt like she’d visited here just yesterday and she and Stephanie were picking up where they’d left off. “Promise you haven’t been an artist’s model.”
“At this time of year it’s too cold to parade around and show much flesh.”
“I’d have worried about you.” Andie wound, then rewound a red yarn scrap around her index finger. “Everything okay at the station?”
“Fine except everybody misses you.”
“I miss all of you,” Andie said.
“We think you’re nuts for leaving. Old crusty Malone is waiting for you to see the light.”
“Well . . . um . . .”
“Why don’t you come back? What’s the problem?”
“I haven’t wanted to be a cop again.”
Exasperation flickered across Stephanie’s face. She poked one needle under the other and looped yarn around it.
Andie was about to say that she was never coming back, but the Stalwart Cookie wielded her machete at another vine and growled, Never say “never. ”
“I’m taking it one day at a time,” Andie said.
“Sounds reasonable,” Stephanie said. “Meanwhile, how are things with you and Wolski?”
“What do you mean?”
“Every time I see him, he asks how you are. I was embarrassed to admit I hadn’t talked with you in weeks.”
“I’m sorry. Really. I’ve needed time to get myself together.”
“Are you together now?”
“More than the last time I saw you.” It seemed like she’d resigned from the force in the Jurassic Period.
“Good. Welcome back to the land of the living,” Stephanie said.
CHAPTER 47
ANDREA
Dr. Capoletti seemed to reside in Andie’s head.Whenever unsettling possibilities invaded her thoughts, he appeared in her mind and shooed them away, insisting, They’re not facts! Or when she pondered snippets of his other observations, such as “what you feel you can heal,” anger at Christopher seeped out of her. Or when a nightmare left her sweating in the dark, she told herself, as Dr. Capoletti would have done, “You are a survivor.” She understood that since age eight she’d forced herself to act strong; now she knew that her strength was real and it had always been inside her.
At a session in early March, Andie told Dr. Capoletti of this progress, and they began discussing the concept of justice, whose basic purpose, they agreed, was to set things right.
“You think you’ve gotten justice with Christopher?” Dr. Capoletti asked.
“I was exonerated for shooting him,” Andie said.
“That’s law-and-order justice. It set things right for you legally. How would you go about setting them right emotionally?”
“I don’t know.”
“It would probably involve an apology and forgiveness, wouldn’t it?” Dr. Capoletti asked.
“I guess.”
“They’re part of what’s called restorative justice. To repair the psychological harm of an offense, some judges actually help criminals say they’re sorry and their victims to forgive them. It’s a deeper kind of justice than a punishment or an eye for an eye. Everybody can heal.”
Pie in the sky, Andie thought. “Forget apologies. Christopher’s dead, and I can’t wait a hundred years for the Vanderwaals to get around to it. And anyway I can’t forgive. I’ve tried.” Whatever forgiveness she’d mustered had had the consistency of straw that would require years of chewing to digest. A grudge against Christopher and the Vanderwaals had lodged itself inside her.
Dr. Capoletti puffed his pipe. “Maybe you’re thinking about forgiveness as kissing and making up, but I’m talking about a different kind. It’s the forgiving Justice has done.” At hearing his name bandied about, Justice interrupted his possum playing and shifted positions.
“Justice isn’t brooding about being stabbed. He’s managed to let it all go and move on with his life,” Dr. Capoletti said. “Do you think you can do that? Forgive, let go, and move on?”
“I don’t know.”
“Here’s a good way to start,” he said. “Write Christopher and his parents a letter and pour out all your thoughts and feelings. Then destroy the damned thing. Bury it or drown it or send it up in smoke.”
* * *
Three days later, Andie sat on a driftwood log and watched Justice sniff tide
pools down the beach. He seemed rapt by the starfish and crabs’ smells. Not enthusiastic about wet paws, however, he sniffed only till a wave had the impertinence to come too close, and he jumped back. Justice may have been courageous, but he ran from foamy water.
The wind picked up, and the afternoon sun hid behind rolling hills of clouds. As they floated across the sky, Andie wrapped an arm around her knees and dug her heels into the pebbly beach. She rubbed her eyes, scratchy from lack of sleep. Until late into the night, she’d written the letter that she and Dr. Capoletti had discussed, and she’d wrung out her negativity and ambivalence.
Free at last to feel anger, Andie lashed Christopher with fury. “You practically ruined my life, but I’m sure you could care less. You’re a screwed-up brat, and you deserve a major thrashing. You put me in an impossible situation.What was I supposed to do? I didn’t want to kill you, but I didn’t want to die.”
She described her nightmares and flashbacks. “Do you have any idea how terrifying they are? All because of you, I wake up screaming in the middle of the night. Or I’m out somewhere, and I remember you, and I break out in a sweat and feel like I’m going to faint. You still haunt me sometimes, and I don’t understand why you attacked Justice and me. You had no reason to be so cruel. We’d done nothing to you.”
As Andie’s tears fell on the letter, she told Christopher, “You’ll never know how much guilt you’ve caused me. I hate you for it.” But then she begged him, “Please forgive me. I’d give anything if you were alive. I’m so sorry. Wherever you are, I wish you well.”
Next, Andie railed at the Vanderwaals. “You were lousy, irresponsible parents. How dare you appear on TV with Sid King and blame me for what happened? I’m not guilty of criminal behavior. You’re the ones who should rot in hell. You may have filed a lawsuit against me, but you can only get my money. You’ll never have my soul.”
Singling out Jane, Andie said, “Before Christmas, you verbally assaulted me. You refuse to see the truth about what Christopher did. You’re mean and blind, and you owe me an apology, big-time.” But by the end of the letter, Andie herself apologized to Jane and Franz and begged their forgiveness as fervently as she’d begged Christopher’s. “I can never express how sorry I am. There’s nothing in the world I wouldn’t do to bring back your son.”
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