The ignition key slipped from her shaking fingers when she tried to insert it. She groped on the floorboard until she found it and tried again. “Why am I such a wimp?” she yelled through clenched teeth. Her cesarean scarred innards gnarled in unrelenting outrage. She savored the feeling, delved into it as a dam to contain her overwhelming emotions.
Just stay mad.
Erica squared her shoulders. This time, she jammed the key in and fired the engine. She surveyed for prying eyes. Pedestrians walked by the parking lot, but none looked her way.
Somehow, she managed to drive away and enter the flow of morning traffic on 15th Street. She hugged the slow lane oblivious to the vehicles zipping by. Ballard High School’s new terra cotta buildings sat on the right; the school where Derek would’ve gone. Refusing to look at the windows of the classrooms, she focused on the pavement ahead. She bypassed Salmon Bay Park, knowing mothers would be pushing baby strollers on the sidewalks.
Finally, she entered 23rd Avenue.
Erica carefully carried Derek’s urn inside and placed it on the oak mantel. She stepped back to see how it looked. What if she built a fire? The ashes might get warm. They should be cold. Carrying the urn to a hall table, she put it in the middle. What if she bumped it off? Cold sweat chilled her neck. He needed a quiet place, a spot of his own.
The nursery is his.
Erica set the urn in the crib beside the teddy bear. The happy bear and the pewter handle joined hands. She couldn’t stand to see it. Red hot anger surged, breaking a clammy sweat along her hairline and above her upper lip. She licked it away, tasting herself.
In the garage, two eight foot boards leaned against the back wall. Finding nails long enough proved harder. Erica yanked some from bare studs with the claw of a hammer and lugged the lumber into the nursery, ignoring the burning pain around her incision and the post OP orders of, “No lifting.” Her guts could spill out for all she cared.
To effectively nail the nursery door shut, it needed to be done from inside of the room. Each hammer blow hit her heart, but she continued pounding until it looked solid. She jerked on the boards. They held. She opened the window, climbed through, eased to the ground and forced herself to stand erect. The flesh along the stitches in her lower gut seared, but the pain was deserved. Her womb neglected to produce a living son. It needed punishment.
The stepladder still stood under an apple tree in the back yard. She carried it to the house and worked the window shut. The ladder tipped when she stepped off, but didn’t fall. She righted it and left it under the window.
Back inside the living room, Father’s photo stared from the mantel. Erik Thorburn’s eyes reproached her every move. She tipped the picture face down. A whipping against the window pane drew her attention and she glanced outside. Strong gusts blew from the west, and tendrils of the weeping willow lashed at the glass like switches spanking with sharpness. Rubbing her thighs, she backed away and hurried to her bedroom. She slipped between the Egyptian cotton sheets and pulled the cotton quilt beneath her chin. Chills hunched her shoulders and she coiled into a tight shivering mess, trying to warm up. The cold ran deep in her. If only one of the little fuzzy kittens had survived. It would warm her. Its purring might even bring on sleep. When was the last time she slept?
Erica listened for the mewing she remembered, waited for their sweet sound to relax her panic. No sound in the universe. There would never be the sounds of a baby or child in her home.
As raindrops beat on the roof and the wind rattled the window, she pleaded, “I can’t be alone. Not anymore.”
No matter how hard she tried, she could not lie still. She threw back the covers. Rising, she gyrated in flowing moves, her mind void, ignoring the angry pulls from her incision. Her feet tightened and she pushed up onto her toes. Unable to control the urge, she slipped into deliberate pirouettes and danced the hated ballet of her youth – the dance of her mother. The tempo of Orpheus crashed in her ears. With half leaps and shaky turnouts, she danced against the music. Only lazy dancers moved with the rhythms.
Her clothing restricted what mobility her severed body allowed. She tore at the fabric until the shredded shirt flapped with her motion and then forced a graceful dip against her constricting abdomen. She spun, arms extended in arabesque. The sore breasts stretched; nipples taut and unfulfilled. For minutes and minutes, the ballet dominated. Sweat poured from her hairline and stung her eyes. She couldn’t stop, not until after a final ballonné leap and she collapsed, gasping on the floor.
Derek dead. Kittens dead. Mother dead. Everyone dead.
Her eyes flew open.
Jimmy living. Levi living. Charlie living.
Erica curled into a fetal ball, staring at the bed. Finally, the sweat dried and her muscles eased. And the music in her head died. She pushed upright; her body better work the way it did before the vile doctor sliced her open and killed Derek.
She flung open her closet doors. One of her navy blue uniforms hung ready. Her body armor slipped comfortably into position; Velcro straps held it snug. She checked in the mirror. No sign of her slack milk-less breasts. The pill at the hospital took care of that, dried her up like Derek was just imagined. Donning the shirt, she buttoned it. A City of Seattle patch on the upper left arm signaled her supremacy. After chiding herself, she sucked in her stitches and bloat. The pants zipped. Black boots felt comfortable.
She tucked a loaded 9mm Glock into its holster and strapped the duty belt around her waist. OC spray, billy club, extra magazine, and handcuffs were already in their holders.
Her hat fit looser than before the haircut. A tall, square-jawed, formidable woman reflected in the dresser mirror, not a line of softness anywhere. Under the brim, she saw her father’s face. She removed a switchblade from a hidden drawer in her desk and stuck it in her right boot. She pulled on black calfskin gloves.
Derek needs Jimmy in the Peaceful Place.
And it wouldn’t hurt to check on Teagan, make sure she can’t help Pai.
You might be seen.
No reason to think that. Using the Mercedes at the clinic had been one of her wisest choices. So far, Teagan, Doretta or Pai hadn’t recognized her in the Blazer. No reason they would now.
On her way out the door, Erica noticed the blinking light on the answering machine. She listened to Doretta’s words of condolence.
“Whore.” Erica pushed the delete button.
Chapter 10
Disgusted, Teagan folded the Seattle Times in half and pitched it onto the stone coffee table. How could anyone kill a woman over her driving? People are nuts. She pulled the cord to the sea green drapes and they slid open. Gray clouds fogged with promised rain; however, a break in the overcast widened and gave way to a patch of brilliant blue sky; one bright enough to lift soggy spirits and give a reason to clean house, rake yards, and sweep boulevards. As the sunshine streamed down, Teagan felt the first real spurt of energy since Charlie’s birth. Her contented limbo faded under a sudden need to rejoin the life she had set aside as easily as locking her door the day she arrived home from the hospital. The break in the clouds connected with her mood and she nodded at the sky. She was okay.
I hope Pai is looking out her window, she thought. If anyone needed a patch of blue, it was her.
Charlie’s faint mewling carried from the nursery. Teagan hustled down the hall and lifted him from the bassinet. His eyelids opened and his dark blue eyes looked at her, then closed again, perfectly satisfied. She, too, had been content to stay at home, letting sore muscles heal, and getting used to leaky breasts. But four days were enough.
Teagan carried Charlie to the phone. As soon as she heard Pai’s voice, she announced, “I need to go check things at my market and thought I’d drop by afterwards.”
“What time?” Pai sounded unsure.
Puzzled by the lack of enthusiasm, Teagan asked tentatively, “Ten o’clock okay?”
“Jimmy has a doctor’s appointment at 10:15. I want to make sure his navel is healing properly, and he’s
been cranky, wanting to nurse all the time. We can stop by your place afterwards.”
Teagan heard desperation. “Are you alright?”
Pai sighed. “When I was kid, the New Year’s festival always had many colorful paper dragons with smiling jaws and shiny black eyes. They were happy gods, snaking through the merry makers, chasing away Evil.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Evil is a god who curses you in the next life. I feel him watching, waiting. Twice, I’ve seen him.”
An unexpected shiver chilled Teagan; even Pai couldn’t really believe she’d seen an evil god. “You’ve seen someone? Who was it?”
“I don’t know. I gotta go, Jimmy still needs a bath and I have to do my face.” Pai hung up.
Teagan felt cutoff. She should be offended. Instead, she stewed about Pai’s continuing depression and was disgusted for doing so. She snuggled Charlie. “Why can’t I just let Pai worry about Pai?”
He burped.
She laughed and tapped his button nose lightly. “You’re right. She just needs to know someone will cover her back.”
As Teagan dressed Charlie in a fresh terry sleeper, she couldn’t release Pai from her mind. Worrying about a dragon sounded more than crazy. It was scary. Her mother should be with her. Teagan’s rambling thoughts stopped short. She cuddled Charlie. “My mother should be with me too, but if she were, I’d run her off.” The admission slipped out unbidden.
A strong impulse to be active urged Teagan to hurry. She pulled off her football jersey and sweats. Her belly was still pudgy but she managed to button her baggy Chinos. She slipped into clogs and yanked a cotton sweater over her head. Two-handed, she finger combed her hair, twisted it and anchored it to the back of her head with a mother-of-pearl hair stick. After fast packing a diaper bag with everything Charlie might need, a quick scan of the nursery reminded her to feed the goldfish. She sprinkled food over the gurgling water and left, packing Charlie and his infant carrier, diaper bag, and purse.
Outside, the fresh air smelled wonderful. Teagan straightened, lugged her burdens to the passenger side of her Ford pickup, glad she had bought a crew cab so Charlie’s car seat would be in the safest place. She leaned inside and fiddled with the damned seatbelt, trying to get it through the proper slots in the carrier. Finally, the seatbelt clicked into place. She jerked at the sound. “Dang that Pai. I’m as jumpy as she is.”
Teagan backed out of the carport and entered the street. At the end of the block, a jet black Chevy Blazer with smoked windows and over-sized tires sat at the curb. It pulled in behind her. Was it the one from the wharf? She peered closer in the rearview mirror and couldn’t decide. “This is silly. I don’t care who it is.” She turned right, and at the end of the block, stopped for a red light.
Charlie had worked his blanket up by his mouth.
Teagan tucked it under his chin. “You’re just way too cute wrapped up in that blanket with little green frogs all over it.” She started singing, “Froggy went acourtin’, he did ride, sword and pistol by his side.” She rocked to the beat and Charlie seemed to follow her with his eyes even though he was too young.
Traffic light changed, and Teagan glanced in the mirror again. The Blazer hugged her rear bumper. “Charlie, some idiot is crowding us.” She punched the brake pedal to flash the rear lights, but the Blazer kept close as she merged into the thick traffic on 15th Avenue.
Teagan wove through several openings. The Blazer snaked behind. She cursed aloud, and then glanced over the seat at Charlie. “Excuse the French, but I don’t need a fight with some road rage psycho.” Quickly, she pushed the lock button on the door and checked to see if the passenger side was already locked. It was. She eased up on the gas. “We’ll just let the idiot pass.”
Several delivery trucks rumbled by. She couldn’t see the Blazer in the rearview mirror, or in the side mirrors.
Palms wet, she rubbed her right hand on her pants leg, then the left. She exhaled slowly, glad her turn off was the next one. She quick checked the mirror. UPS truck in her lane. Her grip lightened on the steering wheel. “Hallelujah Charlie, we got rid of the nut.”
Up ahead, she saw the “Y” for Holman Road. She eased through traffic to the right and followed the curve. Her nerves quieted by the time she saw It’s a Boy on the reader board. And for once, Pete remembered to turn on the sign above the market. She accused him of forgetting on purpose, but he denied it loudly. He didn’t like the large white and gray fish with a solitary blinking eye and mechanical gasping lower jaw. It was an eyesore. But one she liked and it stayed as a symbol of her dream, the one she paid dearly for. Also, her Crown Hill customers claimed it as a land mark for their upscale visitors. “Just hang a left at the yapping fish and we’re at the top of the hill.”
She entered the alley and parked. The black Blazer appeared at the opening of the alley. It paused, Teagan gasped, and it sped away.
Every muscle in her knotted. She clawed the seat belt free of the infant seat, grabbed Charlie, ran to the door and slammed it behind her.
Pete glanced up. “What?”
“Some flippin’ creep kept following us.” Teagan locked the bolt.
“Should I call 911?” Pete reached for the wall phone by the coolers.
“I didn’t get the license plate so what good would it do? But it did frighten me. I read in the paper just this morning about a woman shot because of road rage. With Charlie in the pickup, I probably over-reacted.”
“It happens again, I’ll call the cops.” Pete turned to the sink and rinsed his salt-stung hands. He stood average height, wry strong, and weathered by salt air, wind and bright sun glaring off the decking of a fishing vessel. He offered Charlie a knotted finger.
Charlie wrapped his tiny fingers around Pete’s and held fast.
“He isn’t big enough to peel shrimp yet, but he has the fingers for it.” Pete lifted the baby from his infant seat, carried him to the window and looked out – both up the street and down.
Teagan noticed the easy way Pete handled a tiny baby. “You’ve held babies before.”
Pete glanced at her. “Quit worrying. You and Charlie will be fine.”
Teagan’s anxiety softened under a silent gratitude for Pete and his common sense. After working together on the tuna boat, she hired him to help start the shop. They got along because she ignored his occasional bender and he ignored her bossiness – and questions about his age. He enjoyed keeping the secret, and she pestered him just to feed his vanity.
She leaned against the stainless steel counter. “Did Mac dock yesterday?”
“Ya and with choice salmon this time. Wong’s had plenty in time for the reception. We could use some more orders like that.”
“A woman from DC contacted me. She’s a convention planner. Should be a good customer. Was Mac okay?”
“Claims he ain’t selling fish to anyone without red hair, meaning you of course.”
“I’ll bring you a bottle of henna for your sun-bleached mop.”
Pete rubbed his handlebar mustache. “Might use it on the whiskers. Tickle my gal with red bristles.”
“Did you find a gal behind my back?” She hoped so.
Pete acted like he hadn’t heard and lifted a mackerel from a tub of salt brine. He held it up for Charlie to see with unfocused eyes. “See this, Little Fella?”
Teagan raised her brows. “Not telling, huh? This gal must be special.” Chuckling, she checked the ice maker and walked into the customer area. Salmon, tuna, and cod fillets filled the meat case. Black tiger shrimp and lobster stuck up through chipped ice at one end. Good job, Pete, she thought. Then guilt nudged for checking on his work. She wasn’t the only one who knew how to fill a meat case. Just enjoy your familiar things, she scolded silently. Lately she dealt with self correction a lot. She still felt helpless when Charlie cried and she didn’t know why. His fussing at feeding time was easy to figure out. Other times were harder. Would she ever grow used to it like she had with the
problems of her shop?
She glanced at her Timex, almost feeding time and she still hadn’t gone through the daily receipts, but she lingered by the spice shelf, savoring the pungent aromas of sage, tarragon and oregano, enjoying the time alone.
Charlie’s first little demands carried to her.
A brief moment passed before Pete called, “Crying babies ain’t my thing.”
“Mine either.” Teagan bit her tongue and hurried to relieve Pete of the squirming baby. She whisked him away to the little room she fixed up as a nursery and pulled the maple rocker to a spot near the small window.
Gaily painted stars, balloons, and squares covered the walls. Her computer and file cabinet sat below the window. She’d moved them in to tally receipts and to watch Charlie at the same time. With the door open, she could see customers enter. Her pride in the room hadn’t dampened; not even when Teagan proudly gave her mother the tour.
“This is awful,” her mother had said. “Whoever heard of a baby in a fish market? Oh, don’t look at me like that. You could have done better. With your brains and good looks, you settle for this? You can’t raise my grandchild here.”
“My son will be with me, never isolated at home like I was.”
“You were not alone. You loved your nanny. Lolita shared all of our lives.”
“I told you what she did, but you never listened, like you’re not listening now.”
Her mother’s face paled.
“Mom, it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Her mother walked away, leaving a chill between them that had not yet warmed.
Charlie squirmed, drawing Teagan back from painful memories. “Never will you be alone,” she whispered. “And I promise, I’ll learn how to be a good mother.”
She relaxed and closed her eyes, soaking up the feel of him, waiting for him to finish nursing. He was so dependent. And she also needed him, needed to be a mother. Had her mother felt the same? Her father? Teagan couldn’t answer for them, but Charlie would never need to wonder. He’d never wait by a window. Yes, the room was small, but with the door left open, he wouldn’t feel closed in. Would he?
Maternal Harbor Page 8