by Dawn Mattox
“What’s with the box?” I asked in amazement, for Duncan held a cardboard box that mirrored my own—except he had a lot more wires and electronic thingies poking out of it.
“We’re out of here,” Duncan announced with finality. “We’re not staying here without you.”
“We? What . . . we who? What are you talking about?”
“Me and Bonita.” He did his little-boy squirm. “We’re starting a security firm.”
“You . . . and Bonita? As in you-and-Bonita?”
Duncan blushed Valentine-red that turned my smile into a grin. “Yeah, we’re in love,” he said.
“Whoa! Whoa! Timeout. What about her partner? Is this a ménage à trois?” I bounced my eyebrows suggestively.
Duncan laughed but looked genuinely confused. “I am her partner,” he said, his face still warm and pink.
“What about the dyke-on-the-bike?”
Duncan winced and drew back. “Rink? Her college roomie? ”
Pause. “I knew that.”
Duncan let loose with a long, heartwarming laugh.
“I just want to thank you, Sunny.” He pressed his lips into a tight smile and flushed. “I thought I knew what it meant to be in love. Now I know what it really means.”
“Who would’ve thought?” I heaved a big heart-shaped sigh and shrugged with both palms out. “The women in this place are always stealing the men I love,” I said with a wink. “But I’m dying to know—what does Bonita think about SUNNY being tattooed on your arm?”
“Check it out, babe.” Duncan rolled his arm toward me with a grin that reached to his eyes. “SUNNY” had morphed into “BUNNY.”
“Bunny?” I’m in stitches.
“Yeah, that’s what I call her.” Duncan blushed furiously. “My Funny Bunny.”
“Duke! What’s taking you so long?” a voice shouted from the hall. “Hey, it’s Miss Chica! How the heck are you?” Bonita gave me a warm hug. She had the outlaw look today: three earrings sparkling from each ear, tight black jeans, and a black tee that matched Duncan’s. “I heard you guys recovered la niña.”
“Yeah, Quincy. She’s with her dad . . . Travis.”
We hugged again, and I gripped her arm as we drew apart. “Is that a tattoo?” I turned her arm for a closer inspection. “Who the heck is Duke?”
Bunny and Duke turned the glow lights on in each other’s eyes.
Stranger things have happened.
“I’ll send you an invitation to the wedding in Playacar,” said Bonita.
Duncan’s eyes widened. “Wedding?”
Bonita rolled her eyes and gave Duncan a playful nudge. “As Speedy Gonzales would say: ¡Ándale!—let’s get the heck out of here.”
I kissed the future groom on his cheek and gave him a lingering look of genuine affection.
The door clicked behind me, but I didn’t look. Tears would have just blurred everything anyhow.
March flew by, ushering in a magnificent spring. The one thing I could still count on in life was change.
I peeled off my sweatshirt and hung it on the back of a patio chair. The orchard was blooming in shades of pink and white. Tender tips of pine and fir trees had sprouted in succulent shades of green, and even the stark oaks were budding with new life.
A doe crept between the apricot and the nectarine trees, glancing anxiously left and right as she led a pair of playful fawns into the orchard. I sighed, knowing that all too soon she would be leading them to the high country. The stillness was broken by the trumpeting of Canadian geese, like arrows shot from God’s quiver, winging their way home as a mountain monkey—my father’s affectionate term for squirrels—made a Kamikaze jump from one tree to another.
Life goes on.
Quincy was safe with her adoring father, Travis, who has claimed her as his own. I believed the man was in love, and it does my heart good to see ninja warrior Inspector Lee—Superman—man of steel—making baby kissy noises and talking baby talk to that sweet little bundle, whose favorite pastime is pulling his hair and sticking her fingers up his nose.
I sat in the chair and leaned back thinking, remembering the last time I sat on the porch with Travis sitting next to me.
“What does your girlfriend think of Quincy?” I had asked Travis.
“What girlfriend would that be?”
“Your answering machine. The one you take to funerals for date night. That one.”
Travis laughed—a long, easy belly laugh as he shook his head. “Are you serious? I told you before about Christy and her kids. She’s the wife of my friend, the one that died in Iraq. Remember now? I promised to take care of them.”
“Are they living with you?”
Travis grew serious; his green eyes flickered behind a suggestive smile. “Do you care?”
“Nope,” I said, pushing out my bottom lip.
Travis grinned. “I flew them out to see California. Christy drove them up to see the redwoods and visit Fisherman’s Wharf. And of course, I took them to see the Monterey Bay Aquarium and Alcatraz.”
“And Disneyland?” I smiled. “You can’t come to California and not visit Disneyland.” I hesitated before asking the big one. “Do you love her?”
“Absolutely. But not like that. She met a man in Georgia, and he sounds like a pretty decent guy. Christy went to the funerals with me because she’s my friend, and always will be.”
We were back on familiar ground. “So . . . what’s going to happen to Perry?”
“Probably not much. I filed a report with Internal Affairs, but powerful men like him usually put a lot of buffers between themselves and the ones who do their dirty work. However . . .” Travis let the word trail, as tantalizing and suggestive as an appetizer before a three-course dinner. A twinkle sparked in his gaze, and he cocked his head to one side.
“What we really need to get a conviction on Perry,” Travis said—the corners of his mouth turned up and his dimples deepened—“is one good advocate.” Long pause. “Do you know of anyone?”
He paused, stroking his finger thoughtfully along his jaw. “It would have to be someone with experience in working with survivors of ritual abuse. And it would help if the advocate had some experience as an expert witness.” Travis let go with a deep sigh and a shrug. “Of course, that would mean a lot of trips together, interviewing victims and going to court. It would require someone with a lot of time on their hands.”
The pulse of nature always quickens in April, and with, it came a stirring in my heart. The truck was packed. It was that time again. Well, actually it was past time. Winter had certainly skewed a budding tradition—the one in which I paid my respects with flowers and song to Lefty every winter and my mother in the fullness of spring. The tradition hadn’t been about their birthdays or even their death days, but rather the seasons that best reflected the lives they had led.
We headed to the ocean to visit my father first—the boy who had gone to war and returned a hero. A soldier who had found freedom and family in a custom Harley and an outlaw motorcycle gang, peace in a remote cabin in the Sierra Nevadas, and love for a season with a woman named Starla, and forever in their baby girl.
Kissme copiloted from my lap alongside Mercy, who sat smiling in the passenger seat as we wove our way in and out of the foothills en route to the coast. The land shimmered in shades of green after its long sleep—all the way to the majestic Coastal Range, still robed in royal purple beneath a snowy crown. Heading into the westering sun, it was a long but varied dive. We passed budding orchards that overshadowed swaths of wild mustard whose sunny blossoms danced beneath the pastel canopy. Miles of lime-green rice fields that swirled in the breeze like a glass of fine bouquet, and up into wine country that was as rich and full bodied as its residents—full of themselves and headier than a glass of all things French.
I didn’t drive to the veteran cemetery on the hill but down to the ocean below—the place where Lefty’s spirit roams like stars across a night sky above the restless waves of the dark Paci
fic Ocean. A fitting place for a reigning member of Hell’s Angels.
I pulled onto a turnout and parked on a shoulder that jutted out toward the Pacific Ocean and leaped from the car.
“Hi, Daddy! It’s me.” I called out, only to be answered by thundering waves and the screech of gulls fishing along the rugged shoreline.
I stumped to the water. “It’s been a long winter,” I told my dad as I dipped my amputated foot into the surf. “Look, Daddy, I am a ‘lefty’ too.”
I sang him “our song.”
“When you’re seven, you’re in Seventh Heaven
. . . goin’ campin’ in the wild outdoors.
. . . we turned off on that old dirt road,
I looked at him and swore . . .
Dad, this could be the best day of my life,
I've been dreamin’ day and night ’bout the fun we’ll have.
It’s just me and you, doin’ what I’ve always wanted to,
I’m the luckiest girl alive,
This is the best day of my life . . .”
Before leaving, I sprinkled a bag of dried rose petals on the hungry waves and watched as the current swept them out to sea.
Chance was waiting. A quick blink in the forest just a mile or two from home. Today Chance became the newest addition to my budding tradition. The Ram idled at the intersection of Highway 70; left was home. I smiled and turned right.
Yankee Hill Cemetery found me wandering past occupants in century-old graves. I wondered about their lives and if they had been so different from my own. I wondered about the dramas that had driven them and the heartaches that had broken them.
Chance. The flag in front of his headstone hung limp, and the flowers alongside the flag drooped in the warm afternoon sun.
“Hello, honey.” I bent to replace the tired bouquet with fresh flowers. “I miss you . . .” My voice trailed. “. . . I miss us.” Falling to my knees, my fingers lingered on the rough edges of his headstone. “Mercy is trying to get Kissme to play tag,” I said.
“Good luck with that one,” I told the big dog and then turned my attention back to Chance. “I went to see Daddy. Mama’s next.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to go forward. I just know that there’s no going back. I’m lonely sometimes, but I am not alone. Have you seen the twins? Oh yeah—you were probably there when they were born.”
Pause.
“I’m back in church.”
Pause.
“What’s that you say? About time?” Soft laughter escaped, and I imagined a hundred spirits smiling at the sound.
“You wouldn’t believe how fast Quincy is growing. She’s doing push-ups. She does them better than me. I get to see her all the time, what with the case and all. Keep an eye on her for me, okay?”
A slow smile grew. “You were always my guardian angel, Chance. I guess you are hers now, huh? I like that.”
I was the world’s worst singer, but since God tells us to “sing a new song,” I did.
“Did you ever know that you're my hero . . .
everything I would like to be?
I can fly higher than an eagle . . .
you are the wind beneath my wings.”
It was time to go. I blew a kiss that caught a ride on a freshening breeze that was bound for heaven.
Back at the crossroads. Right turn. Up the Feather River Canyon to visit Starla.
My mother rested in death as she lived in life—completely opposite of Lefty. I drove past Pulga, the ghost town that was once a thriving rail station, onto a familiar dirt road. Up and up, winding along snow-fed tributaries that fed the surging river below, to a sheltered cove and remote waterfall that gave life to rainbows in the mist, lacy ferns, and gentle wildlife.
I was at a loss for a song to sing to my mother. “You deserve a song, Mama, but I don’t know what to sing.” Songs come from the heart. I searched mine and found it empty. Then I remembered the song from my dream.
“You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone . . .”
I got another bag of rose petals from the truck and watched them drift and spin and fall into the pool below the falls. They seemed to smile back at me before they leaped, cascading to the river below, where they might just meet the ones I had tossed to Lefty.
My mother, Starla—flower child of the 60s, back-to-the-land birth mother and battered woman of the 70s, drug addict of the 80s, an inmate of the 90s, and ashes in the new millennium. At the ocean, I had told my dad all about the assassin, the bear, the mountain lion, and my amputation. But it was my mother I told about Chance, Travis, and baby Quincy. She listened attentively to my every word—a better mother in death than she had been in life.
I like to imagine that my mother and Lefty will find each other again one day, perhaps in a forgiving cloud brimming with the promise of a joyous spring shower—but more likely, I am delusional. If, against all odds, my parents should find one another, their mingling would more likely result in Hurricane Starla.
“It’s okay to love the good parts of your parents,” Mac had told me. “You’ve been set free from any generational curse. You are not doomed to repeat their mistakes.”
“No,” Dano had assured me. “Your parents’ bad examples are far more likely to influence your decisions than your DNA. You can choose to be whatever kind of person you want to be.”
The pilgrimage ended. It felt good to be home. Rose-petal pink and buttery yellow tufts painted the sky as the sun rose on a new day. The present was mine, and I worshiped a God of the eternal present. Sitting on my deck with my “view of eternity,” I had a clear vision for my future. The past was right where it needed to be, and the future looked bright.
“Explain it to me,” I said, wrinkling my brow and twisting my mouth as I complained to Mac. “How is it that I can educate the secular world about ritual abuse and people will stand along the walls for hours and listen? They thank me and even promise to pray for me.” I drummed my fingers on the laptop. “But when I create training specifically tailored for the church—the church—who should be on the front lines in the fight against Satanism, only five people show up? Why doesn’t the church give a damn? Except for you, of course.”
Mac winced and rubbed his forehead. Finally, he said, “Think of the emerging church like Moses. As an institution, it’s been wandering in the wilderness for the past forty years in a state of transition.
“A lot of churches focus on keeping their congregation entertained because the world demands entertainment. You know what I’m saying—smartphones, social media, on-demand movies. It’s not that they don’t care, it’s just bad for business. The last thing churches want to hear or talk about is Satanism, much less that cult members might be sitting in their pews.” Mac ran his fingers through graying hair.
“The church is as susceptible to trends as the people are who make it up. Truth gets buried beneath trends—like vampires and zombies, or the word terrorist. When you take a word and beat it to death, it loses its power and ability to influence.”
Mac leaned back in his chair and slowly rubbed his knuckles back and forth along his jaw. “I guess what I’m trying to say, is that the topic of ritual abuse is about as popular at a church as a cat at a dog show.”
Mac gave me a half shrug along with a half-smile. “Who knows where your message will go? Anything can happen. Jesus was born in Southside, yet the apostles took his words and changed the world.”
Mac sounded so much like Chance.
“I’m happy to be part of a church that cares, Mac, but I am also glad that I don’t need the church to affirm what God has put on my heart.”
Mac blinked; his laughing blue eyes lit the little schoolhouse. “Oh, Sunny. How you have grown.”
Evening arrived. I curled up on the sofa and opened the Bible to Ephesians. A yellow flower lay pressed between the pages, like a bridge connecting the physical to the spiritual. A sunny reminder of a victim whose life had changed—a person set free because an advocate took the t
ime to listen and believe.
I couldn’t save the world. I knew that. But tonight . . . tonight I have a choice.
Today I fed dogs, cleaned house, made dinner and took it up to Ashley and Shane and their adorable children. Came home and started a baby quilt for Travis’s—no, make that our—beautiful daughter, for Quincy belongs to all of us: to Paige, Cali, Chance, Travis, me, and even Logan.
The kettle sang on the stove. The hour was late, and I was tired, but now is the time that I choose to wage battle. I will fight evil in the dark hours of night.
I hit the power button, and my computer woke and hummed its song while I made a pot of herbal tea. Tonight the scent of lemon and ginger rise on fragrant fingers, and I am filled with a deep sense of peace and purpose. I am free.
Tonight, I will attempt to reach a disbelieving world that is mostly consumed with the quest for personal pleasure and the pursuit of their next acquisition.
I am up to the challenge.
And when I am done, before wedging myself between pillow and dogs, I will say my prayers, give thanks, and call Travis about that job.
A silvery slice of moon rose to peek through the window. Eyes heavy, heart light, I closed the computer and picked up the phone.
“Do you think there’s any hope?” I asked Travis with all seriousness. “Do you think Quincy can ever have a normal life? Girl Scouts, gymnastics, a pony named Black Beauty?”
Travis rocked the phone with his rich, easy laughter. “With you for a mother—not likely. Maybe karate class and monthly meetings with the NRA. And one day she’ll probably ride a motorcycle named Black Beauty.”