by Dawn Mattox
I took another sip. “Seriously—how many more charges do they need? Murder, forgery, human trafficking—isn’t that enough? I can’t be an advocate without witnesses, and powerful men like Perry don’t have witnesses. Besides . . .” The word hung in suspended animation.
“You were saying?”
“I’m miserable. I hate living in the city. I am a fish flopping on a concrete sidewalk.”
Neither Kissme nor I had adjusted. The city gave us both panic attacks, squeezing the life out of me as surely as a blade of spring grass creeping through a crack in the tired asphalt. Perhaps it had squeezed the life out of Kissme too.
I could feel Travis’s eyes boring through the top of my head. “If you had moved in with me instead of living in that dingy apartment, you might have been a lot happier.”
Perhaps. I can’t deny that Travis and Quincy, who had been in his care at the time, had been the main attraction for my decision to move. Helping Travis to garner witness support to testify against Perry had been secondary.
A wistful sigh rose on fragile wings as I closed my eyes to produce a black screen that spooled an instant replay of my last trip into the heart of the city: the blasting horn from the car that sped around me with middle fingers jutting from not one but both front windows, repeatedly gesturing skyward. My fault. I could never adjust to ten lanes of shoulder-to-shoulder traffic aggressively swarming across the Bay Bridge on the morning commute, as hordes of people invade the city like an advancing army.
“I understand you better than you understand yourself,” Travis mused.
“Oh really?” The warm embrace cooled under my arching brows.
“Yes, I do,” he stated as a matter of fact. “You hate change. In fact . . . I’ll bet you’re incapable of change.”
“I am not!”
“Yes, you are. And, I am going to prove it.”
“Oh?. And how do you intend to do that?” My tone grew insolent. “No matter what you do, I’m not going to shack up with you while my husband is still . . . still . . . you know.”
Travis’s eyes softened from hunter green to meadow green. “Returning to the Earth?” he suggested.
My back stiffened and bottom lip crept forward like the queen on a chessboard moving out to meet her opposition. “This is my home, and I am very sorry I hurt you, but I am applying for a job with Mental Health.” My head rose a playful inch or two. “And I happen to be quite capable of change . . . whether I like it or not.”
“Oh really?” Travis smiled, sinking deeper into the recliner even as he threw the proverbial gauntlet. “We’ll see,” he said. His voice dropped to a slow whisper in my ear. “We shall see.”
CHAPTER 2
I didn’t know a lot about Mental Health, but I had an extensive knowledge of crisis, and I had grown up among crazies. I figured Psychiatric Emergency Services—PES—should feel like home.
The buildings lay long and low, rust-colored, reminding me of a train wreck that might have plowed its way through the iron-rich face of Table Mountain in the background. The complex snaked along the backside of the county buildings, a good deal below the reigning courthouse and my old office up on the hill. Its saving grace was the towering hedgerow of Italian cedars that hid the hospital like a secret stuffed in the bottom of a laundry basket.
The drive to my interview had been comforting and solitary. Travis had spent the morning with his nose buried in a newspaper and searching online for heaven knows what before jumping up excitedly and wishing me “good luck” as he headed out on some mysterious venture.
The parking lot was quiet, and I was early. I ran my tongue across the edge of a fingernail because I was fresh out of pens that I usually gnaw on. Trying to break the habit, I removed my thumb and chewed on my lip instead. I wished I’d called Danielle, my old friend and associate from Mental Health. Close friends call her Dano, and she had often helped me with my work at the district attorney’s office. I could have used some interview pointers, but guilt held me tighter than the seat belt across my shoulders. Dano had been my counselor after Chance died and before I had lost my job with the DA. Then I had left for Oakland without any explanation, just dropped off the radar. In the process, I had left behind a treasure. Too late now. I glanced at my watch and headed indoors.
“Sunny McLane? Right this way.”
It had been a long time since I last applied for a job, but not all that long since I had interviewed others. Head high. Deep breath. Squared shoulders. I wondered if I looked as nervous as I felt.
We passed through the waiting room with its stale air and shabby, worn furniture, frayed at the edges and low-budget, mirroring most of the people who would occupy them. I pondered whether the people shaped the design or the design had shaped the people. Would our clients be deterred by white carpet, plush high-back chairs, and large windows that streamed sunlight, like a high-end private insurance doctor’s office?
The soles of my shoes squeaked like an old chair rocking across the tail of a rat as we trekked down the polished tile hallway to the meeting room.
The wooden door opened to one long table with people seated behind it in three chairs: one fake smile, one professional smile, and one genuine glow. The panel rose to greet me with Genuine Glow hastening to speak first.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. McLane.” She extended her hand. “My name is Danielle Kitch. I am a therapist.”
Professional Smile retained her Middle Eastern mask while arching a manicured, disapproving eyebrow toward Danielle, who had apparently spoken out of turn. She turned to me.
“My name is Doctor Shireen Neshat, and I am the Director of Mental Health. And this”— she gestured without making eye contact at the large, portly man with a fake smile beneath his white mustache as though brushing away an annoying object—“is Doctor Alfred Cox, our staff psychiatrist.” She paused long enough to slip him a sly cat smirk. “Who is sitting in today for our psychologist, Doctor Garrett West.”
Dr. Alfred Cox’s stature was similar to that of my old XXXL friend, Duncan; large, but not tough, more like a Hostess delivery truck than a tank. And while the doctor may have resembled Duncan on the surface, something about him felt very different.
The doctor’s handshake was as warm and genuine as the living dead. Apparently, he felt that sitting on a panel of interviewers for a crisis worker was beneath his status. Returning my attention to Ms. Neshat, I notice that the professional smile plastered across her face had twitched up at the corners. Perhaps in response to Lord Alfred’s discomfort at sitting on the panel. Or maybe something else.
“Please sit down.” She gestured to the empty chair, commonly known as the hot seat that faced the table.
The director maintained her supercilious air as she fired the first volley. “Ms. McLane—”
“Mrs.”
“Excuse me?” She raised her voice as if the correction were inexcusable.
“Mrs. McLane.” I doubled down.
The director pulled in her chin and did a slow blink. “Mrs. McLane.” Her voice dropped about twenty degrees as she fiddled with the copy of my resume on the table before her. She looked like a Persian cat with cream on her jowls. “Can you give me the definition of Code §5150 in lay terms?”
“Yes ma’am. Section 5150 of the California Welfare and Institutions Code allows a law enforcement officer or a mental health clinician to detain a person against their will for up to seventy-two hours for observation and evaluation to determine if that person is a danger to themselves or others or is unable to meet their basic needs. They may or may not be under arrest with criminal charges, but they can be detained regardless.”
Dano’s smile reached her ears as she took a turn. “Mrs. McLane, would you please tell us about the nature of your previous job with the district attorney’s office?” To which I responded with lengthy information regarding direct and indirect services for victims of domestic violence and rape, having served as expert witness in court on abuse and sexual assault cases, and tha
t I had provided public outreach, participated in council and committee work, etc.
“That’s wonderful,” said Dano. “Thank you, Mrs. McLane.”
The psychiatrist, who was so full of himself that I doubted he could touch his toes, was next. He cleared his throat with a “harumph,” and adjusted his glasses just enough to peer down his nose. “Mrs. McLane,” he said with an imperious tone, “did you enjoy your job as a victim advocate while working for the district attorney’s office?”
“I loved my job,” I answered without hesitating. “My job gave purpose and meaning to my life.” I sat tall in the chair and met his gaze. “There is nothing more rewarding than having the opportunity to help motivate and inspire victims of abuse to make positive life choices.”
Dr. Cox looked indulgent. “But you do realize that this job does not include providing either inspiration or motivation . . . correct?”
What a jerk. I blinked back my thoughts and said what the doctor wanted to hear. “Yes sir. Absolutely.”
Round two opened with the director, Nurse Ratchet, smirking as she chambered her kill shot. “Mrs. McLane,” she said, putting heavy emphasis on the word Mrs. and then pausing to catch her breath as if the extra letter in my title had sapped her strength. “You say that you enjoyed your job with the district attorney’s office, but isn’t it true that you were fired for having killed four people?”
Okay, it wasn’t as if I didn’t know this was coming. “Yes and no,” I said. “Yes, I did kill four people while protecting children who had been abducted for the purposes of sex trafficking, and no, I was not fired from my job. I resigned.”
“Did you enjoy killing those people?”
Silence all around.
Not nearly as satisfying as firing a few rounds in your direction would be. “No, ma’am. I get more pleasure from helping people than killing them.”
A hard chuckle escaped Doctor Highbrow.
Dano came to the rescue. “I’m sure Ms. Neshat was not literally suggesting that killing someone would make you happy. Perhaps you could give us a little more information about that unfortunate event.”
And I did. I told the panel how Travis and I had trailed a kidnapper to a mansion in the desert that held eight children captive for the purposes of pornography and sex trafficking. When members of a motorcycle gang arrived to transport the children, a shootout ensued, and I shot and killed four people to protect the children. An investigation followed, and no charges were filed against me.
Dr. Cox’s expression transformed as I shared my story, from snooty and bored to attentive wide-eyed respect. He asked a few questions about the name of the motorcycle club and the caliber of gun that I had used. He appeared to be impressed.
Dano spoke as if to remind the panel. “You come highly recommended by District Attorney Jack Savage.”
Dano’s remark left me speculating. Did Jack feel guilty for forcing me to resign? Had he put political pressure on the director, a woman who seems to resent a simple correction, to hire me? Or is Dr. Neshat anxious about the fact that I had taken lives? I forced a smile beneath pinched brows but didn’t respond.
Queen of her universe, Director of Mental Health, closed with the traditional final question: “I think we’d all like to hear your vision for this job. Where do you see yourself five years from now?”
Behind your desk, with your job, making your salary. I rolled my eyes thoughtfully with my finger pressed against my lip. The nail slipped briefly between my teeth before I caught myself and yanked it out to make way for the flow of B.S. “I would like to fully embrace this season of my life and enjoy and excel in all things required of this position.”
The director raised her brows dismissively. “Do you have any more questions for Mrs. McLane?” she asked the other panel members, even as her body language dared them to reply.
And with that, the interview . . . er . . . interrogation was over. I left, puzzling over what I might have done to piss off Ms. Neshat. You’d think that I had shot one of her relatives.
“For me?” My face lit up and quickly dimmed with suspicion.
On the kitchen table sat a plain brown box the size of a plastic crate, topped with a large yellow bow. Travis stood behind the package, his green eyes twinkling, looking like a mischievous schoolboy.
“Not that I don’t trust you, but what is it?”
“Go ahead—it’s for you. Open it.” His dimples deepened, and then he frowned. “No—don’t! Don’t shake the box!”
I smiled, tipping the box and shaking it harder. Something heavy bounced around inside.
“I wouldn’t do—” Travis began as I lifted the lid.
PFFFFFFFFT!
The box detonated like an explosion in a fireworks factory, hissing and shrieking as something that resembled a Brillo pad sent me flying backward, raking and shredding my flesh as I hit the floor with a cry that split the air.
“What the . . . ?” I cried out, flushing with anger as I picked myself up from the floor.
“God, Sunny.” Travis had rushed to offer me a hand up. “I’m sorry.” He scowled as he helped pull me to my feet. “I told you not to shake the box.”
“What the hell was that?” I demanded, furious as I assessed my wounds.
“A kitten . . . for you.”
The scouring pad flew past, bouncing off the wall and over an end table, knocking over a lamp before disappearing down the hall.
“A cat? I hate cats!” Never more than now! “Jeez, what were you thinking?”
“It’s just a kitten. Here, let me look at your scratches. They don’t look too bad.”
“I can take care of myself.” He was right, I didn’t see trails of blood running down my body, only a needlepoint pattern of scratches on the back of my arms and some burning on my chin. Humiliation stung worse than the scratches.
“I thought you liked animals,” said Travis. “You were so upset about losing your dog.” His mouth twisted to one side. “I was just trying to help.”
Travis didn’t get it.
“I hate cats,” I growled between clenched teeth.
“But this cat is different. It’s a feral cat. All natural and woodsy, just the sort of thing you like.”
“You brought home a feral cat?” I rolled my eyes. “That explains everything,” I said from the bathroom as I dabbed antiseptic on my scratches. “Next time just bring home a werewolf or one of those face-eating monkeys.”
Something yowled from behind the shower curtain, and I turned in horror to see a shadow clawing its way up the plastic liner, leaving more rents than Norman Bates.
“Travissssssss . . . do something! Shoot it!”
“Here, kitty. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty . . .” Travis coaxed the little hellion from the tub and lifted it into his arms. “Easy there, little monster. Try to behave.”
“Get rid of it. I don’t want a pet.”
“I wasn’t giving you a pet. I’m giving you a challenge,” Travis said as the creature quieted beneath his touch.
I took the bait—hook, line, et al. “What kind of challenge?”
Travis looked more satisfied than the evil beast in his arms. “It’s a test. I’m challenging your inability to change.”
“My inability . . .” My jaw fell to the stupid position.
“Absolutely. This cat will prove that you can’t handle change. You have it in your head that you hate cats and you can’t change, just like you have it in your head that you must live in the wilderness and are unable to adapt to city life.”
My own eyes must have glittered in response to the twinkle that had reignited in his.
We squared off, me with my hands on my hips. “I can change if I want to,” I said.
I think.
Travis shrugged and set the cat on the floor, where it immediately shifted into high gear, blazing down the hall and into my room. “But you’re paying for damages,” I added. “And you darn well better have bought a litter box!”
Travis was gone, and B
rillo remained. He had headed back to Oakland after giving me a kiss on my forehead and a firm hug. “Let me know how it works out with Brillo-the-cat. I’m betting you won’t last a week.”
I grinned, but in fact, I didn’t last five minutes. Travis had no more hit the bottom of the driveway than I began opening doors and windows in hopes of shooing the little beast back to its natural habitat.
I wasn’t sure what the word domestic meant. If it means a creature that is all snuggly and purry and allows someone to pet it, then the cat didn’t qualify. But if it meant eating store-bought cat food or the frozen chicken left on the cupboard to thaw, or crapping in the middle of my bed, then Brillo was domestic within days.
CHAPTER 3
Such a pretty girl to be hiding behind that blank face and barbed-wire fence, I thought as I stared, transfixed by her numerous facial piercings. She slouched in a chair across from my desk, having arrived at PES—according to the intake form—neither “willingly nor unwillingly.” Meaning, the client was less than happy but not entirely hostile.
Blair, my coworker and official babysitter, was older, heavier, and a lot less friendly than me. She sat to the side of the desk drumming her fingers, rapping out a clear get on with it message in Morris code. I didn’t know what Blair’s problem was during those first few weeks, except we that we were like vinegar and oil—or maybe vinegar and baking soda—from day one.
Blair had some kind of groupie relationship going on with the admin rock stars. Maybe that was the problem—her catlike relationship to Director Neshat, always rubbing against her leg and purring. Not that she was gay. Or perhaps she was. Either way, Blair seemed to love her job and resent the clients.
“Suicide runs in my family,” said Genifer, her pouting babyface making a stark contrast to the womanly breasts blossoming beneath a stretchy red top. She snapped her gum. “But, then, you wouldn’t understand,” she added as though talking to someone half her age instead of twice her years.