Every Time I Think of You

by Tracey Garvis Graves

  With a little coaxing from me, Elliott unclenched his fist. He’d been holding a small green army man so tightly it had left indentations in his palm.

  “He keeped me safe from the bad man,” Elliott whispered. “Don’t no one take him away, pwease.”

  My eyes filled with fresh tears. “Of course not.” Gently, I wrapped Elliott’s hand around the toy. “But you’re safe now, and I don’t want you to worry about anything. Okay?”

  “Okay, Mama.”

  When the medic proclaimed that Elliott was fine, I lifted him back onto my lap and held him tight. “What will happen at the station?” I asked the officer who was standing nearby.

  “They’ll need some information from you and they’ll take a statement. Ask you if you have any idea who might have done this.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know anyone who would want to harm my grandmother.”

  I rocked Elliott in my arms and when Officer Ochoa returned with the medicine and pajamas, I handed her my car keys so she could retrieve Elliott’s car seat. Once we were settled in the back of the squad car, she and another officer drove us to the police station.

  CHAPTER 3

  BROOKS

  I tried to avoid looking in the rearview mirror on my way out of town so I wouldn’t have to watch the San Francisco skyline as it slowly disappeared with each mile I put behind me. It wasn’t for fear that I’d change my mind and turn around, because it was way too late for that, but I preferred to catch my next glimpse of the city I called home as I was driving toward it, not away.

  Besides, it wasn’t like this was good-bye in the traditional sense. I might have been reluctant to leave, but there was no need to mourn a city in which I still had a permanent address. San Francisco would be waiting for me when I returned. So would my apartment, my favorite corner bar, and the coffee shop I stopped at every morning on my way to work.

  Even my job, if I was lucky.

  I let my thoughts wander, listening to my iPod and switching over to the police-scanner app on my phone when I got tired of music. Two hundred and eighty miles later, I exited the 5 and stopped at a gas station in Bakersfield to fuel up and stretch my legs. The desert heat shimmered up from the asphalt and seeped into my skin as I filled the tank, making me wish I was wearing a T-shirt and shorts instead of a long-sleeve dress shirt, pants, and tie. I hadn’t even reached my final destination and already I missed the fog and chill of San Francisco. I pushed those thoughts aside, feeling guilty for having them, and bought a cold drink when I went inside to use the restroom.

  I merged onto the 15 and stayed on it until the Fenton exit came into view. Once I reached the surface streets, I drove for another two miles into town, past fast-food restaurants, gas stations, and strip malls with several vacancies. A restaurant called DiStefano’s still had the same sun-faded Sorry We’re Closed sign hanging on its front door that I remembered from my last visit home.

  I pulled into the parking lot of the Desert News and parked my Jeep in the visitor spot. The squat, one-story building was a far cry from the San Francisco Chronicle, which had been my employer for the past eleven years. I retrieved my suit coat from its hanger on the hook in the backseat, slipped my arms inside, and tightened my tie. Overkill maybe, considering most of my fellow reporters had long since ditched their suits in favor of khakis and button-down shirts, but the way I dressed told witnesses I was legit, and that had opened more than one door for me when it came to making people feel comfortable. Plus, I believe what they say about first impressions. This position might have been a step backward career-wise, but I had every intention of making the best of the situation while I was here.

  The lobby looked as tired and dusty as the town, and the receptionist barely mustered enough energy to hand me a visitor badge and buzz me back to the newsroom. At least Paul, my new publisher, was happy to see me, if the smile on his face as he walked toward me was any indication.

  “Brooks McClain,” I said, smiling and reaching out my hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Brooks,” he said, pumping my hand up and down. “Welcome to the Desert News.”

  Paul had been so desperate for a reporter that he’d hired me over the phone, and his sigh of relief upon meeting me in person was probably louder than he intended. Hiring someone without the benefit of a face-to-face interview was a real gamble, and Paul had dodged a potentially unpleasant bullet.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I said.

  “Let me show you around.”

  As an investigative reporter, I would be covering crime and breaking news. The Desert News also employed a couple of editors and one other reporter who would be covering everything I wasn’t. Paul attempted to introduce me to my counterpart, a young woman—blonde, midtwenties, attractive—but she was on the phone and could only mouth hello and wave in our general direction.

  “That’s Maggie,” Paul said. “She’s smart, enthusiastic, and has a ton of energy. She’s very happy to see you because she’s been carrying a double load since Tom retired. It’s getting harder and harder to find good help. I was just about at the end of my rope when your résumé came in.”

  That wasn’t totally true. Thanks to newsroom cutbacks, there were plenty of talented reporters who needed jobs, but few would be interested in reporting the news in a town that appeared to lack anything that was remotely newsworthy. I would probably spend most of my time trying to spin breaking-news stories out of nothing and reporting on petty theft and DUIs.

  “If you’ve got a moment, I’ll issue you your laptop and phone,” Paul said.

  “Sure.”

  Paul returned and handed me a cell phone, which I pocketed. He gave the laptop a cursory check and zipped it back into its case; I slung the strap over my arm. “Your e-mail address is already set up—it’s your first and last name at DesertNews.com. Let me show you your desk.”

  The newsroom had apparently engaged in a potluck recently and must have decided that Tom’s empty desk would make a great place to set all the food. Crumbs littered the entire surface along with a sticky smear of something that looked like barbecue sauce. The layer of dust on the computer monitor made me wonder just how long Tom had been gone.

  Paul picked up an empty Crock-Pot, which appeared to have held meatballs sometime in the past twenty-four to forty-eight hours, and swept the crumpled chip and cookie bags into the overflowing garbage can. “Don’t worry. We’ll get someone to clean this up. It’ll look much better tomorrow.”

  “Great,” I said, smiling with a level of enthusiasm I didn’t quite feel.

  Paul reached out and shook my hand. “See you in the morning.”

  *

  The house I was raised in sat on a corner lot at the entrance of a quiet street. The homes—well-maintained two-stories built in the 1970s—were the type couples stayed in long after the kids had grown up and moved out, despite how the stairs hurt their knees and the fact that they no longer needed so much room. They stayed because they’d been there so long it was hard to imagine leaving, and besides, the next step seemed so daunting, so final. First it was a condo or townhome and then maybe an assisted-living facility. If they were really lucky, one of their kids would insist they move in with them even though that came with its own set of challenges.

  There were certainly more desirable places to spend one’s golden years than Fenton: Florida, Arizona, maybe the Carolinas. It didn’t matter, though, because my parents had waited too long and now they couldn’t do anything about it even if they wanted to.

  They had stayed and so I had returned.

  I pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. I waited a few minutes, delaying the moment when all of this would become real. Feeling ashamed for sitting in my car like a coward, I finally got out and walked along the sidewalk to the front door. It was unlocked. Silence greeted me when I stepped across the threshold and into the entryway.

  “Mom, Dad?” I called. “I’m home.”

  My dad came around the corner, wiping his hands o
n a dish towel. He looked older than he should, as if he’d aged a year in the three months since I’d last been home. He smiled, but I could see the relief on his face. Reinforcements have a tendency to buoy anyone’s spirits almost immediately.

  We hugged and my dad clapped me on the back. “How was the drive?” he asked.

  “Fine. No problems. Traffic wasn’t too bad.”

  “Do you need some help bringing in your things?”

  “Sure. That would be great.”

  I didn’t know exactly how long I’d be staying with my parents so I packed my Jeep to capacity with clothes and the personal items I didn’t want to be without for too long. The one time my dad and I had tried to talk about it, he’d broken down and cried.

  It took us two trips to the car to bring everything in. Once we had it all inside, we began climbing the stairs to my bedroom, which was the first room on the left. My dad flicked on the light switch and it was like being plunged into a time capsule that contained all the greatest hits from my youth: the dresser, desk, and full-size bed, all made out of dark pine. A few football and baseball trophies sat on the bookshelf in the corner, along with my old yearbooks and the stack of paperbacks I’d left behind. A leaning tower of CDs. My old plaid comforter, faded from years of washing, covered the bed and matched the curtains that would let in way too much light. The blackout shades in the bedroom of my apartment in San Francisco would be sorely missed.

  “We have a gal who comes every other week now,” my dad said. “She vacuumed and dusted in here yesterday. Changed the sheets. Everything’s clean.”

  “It’s fine, Dad. Thanks.”

  It wasn’t fine, not really. My entire being rebelled against being there, which I told myself was normal. No one wants to move from their adult apartment back into their childhood bedroom. It defied the natural order of things.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “She’s in the bedroom, watching TV. I was about to make her dinner.”

  Mom had always done the cooking in our house, and I wasn’t sure while I was growing up if my dad even knew how to make a sandwich. “Do you need some help?”

  He waved me off. “I can handle it.”

  “I’ll get these work clothes hung up,” I said. “I can unpack the suitcases later. I want to see Mom.”

  After I hung my suits and dress shirts in a closet that formerly held nothing more substantial than jeans and T-shirts, I walked down the hall to the master bedroom. The door was ajar. “Mom?” I said, as I pushed it open a little wider and stuck my head in.

  “Brooks.” The look on her face—a combination of adoration, relief, and pride—hit me harder than I was expecting. To deny my mother anything at that moment would have been unfathomable.

  It was the reason I came.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  I crossed the room and my mom gathered me into her outstretched arms, as if I were still a child. Her grip was so weak that she couldn’t hold me for more than a few seconds before her arms flopped down onto the bed. I remained seated next to her.

  “How was the drive?” she asked, her words so slurred that it took some effort to decipher them. Our most common method of communication during the past year had been e-mail, and it wasn’t unusual for her to send a message to me at the newsroom every day. She hadn’t sounded that bad the last time I spoke to her on the phone, which had been about a month ago. She’d deteriorated so rapidly since my last visit. Observing her now, I wondered if I should have been called sooner.

  My dad entered the room carrying a tray, and he smiled when he looked at my mom and me. I could only imagine what he must be feeling: happiness at seeing his family together mixed with the acute sadness of what had brought us here.

  The tray had a bowl of soup on it and I left my mom’s side so my dad could set it down on the nightstand. He took the spot I vacated and started spooning the soup into my mom’s mouth, which surprised me. I knew her motor skills were failing at an alarming rate, but I had no idea she was no longer able to feed herself. No wonder my dad had seemed so upset.

  She didn’t swallow more than five or six spoonfuls of soup, but my dad seemed pleased with it. The act of eating must have tired her out, because she closed her eyes and seemed on the brink of falling asleep.

  “Do you want to go to the bathroom first?” my dad asked.

  She opened her eyes. “Yes.”

  We weren’t an overly formal kind of family, and I’d never felt the need to hide things that were uncomfortable or embarrassing from either of my parents. But knowing that my dad had essentially become my mom’s nurse, attending to her most personal of needs, made me feel like I’d violated their privacy in some way.

  I stood quickly. “I’ll go unpack the rest of my things.” Before my dad could help her out of bed, I crossed the room and gave my mom a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll come back after you wake up.”

  “I love you,” she said softly.

  Her smile had been replaced by such a pathetic expression that I felt like crying for the first time in years.

  “I love you, too.”

  I unpacked my suitcases, placing items in the dresser and hanging up the rest. Seeing the condition my mom was in had helped me gain a bit of perspective, and my living arrangements no longer seemed like such a hardship.

  I decided to wait for my dad in the living room. Maybe we could find a baseball game on TV. The empty dining room caught my eye when I walked by, and I did a double take. My mom’s antique dining table and matching sideboard—two of her most treasured possessions—were missing. She had always chosen a special tablecloth for each holiday and would spend hours at Christmastime setting out platters of food on the sideboard for a buffet dinner. Now there was nothing but window coverings and a polished wood floor. The room wasn’t that big, but it suddenly seemed cavernous.

  I turned around when my dad entered the room. “Where’d everything go?”

  He cleared his throat. “It’s been moved into the garage. I ordered a hospital bed. It should be here soon.”

  “Why can’t Mom stay in the master bedroom?” I asked. “Wouldn’t she be more comfortable there?”

  “Yes, but she’s having trouble walking down the stairs and won’t let me carry her. She’s afraid I’ll drop her,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s ridiculous. She weighs nothing.”

  I pictured my dad carrying my mom down the stairs and both of them falling. He was in good shape for sixty-eight, but carrying another adult down a flight of stairs, no matter how little they weighed, was too risky. What if he tripped?

  “Have you thought about hiring a nurse, Dad?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But I think I can take care of her a little longer. It’s the least I can do.”

  I nodded and looked away. “I understand.” I walked into the kitchen with him following me. “Are you hungry? I thought I’d run out and pick up a pizza.”

  “Sure. That sounds good,” he said.

  Before I left the room, my dad reached out and gave my shoulder a squeeze. He couldn’t quite look me in the eye when he said, “Thank you for coming.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. Of course I would come.”

  “It means a lot just the same. Especially to your mother.”

  I swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in my throat as I walked out the front door and got into my car.

  A grown man of thirty-six would not willingly give up a job he loved in a city he never wanted to leave. A grown man would have zero desire to move back into his childhood home with his parents, and he’d definitely chafe at sleeping in the same bed he’d slept in since he’d outgrown his crib.

  But as the only child of a mother who was dying of Lou Gehrig’s disease and living on borrowed time, I had just proven that I would most certainly do all those things.

  My phone rang shortly after we finished our pizza and one glance at the display told me I’d grabbed the wrong one. Fumbling, I pulled the phone Paul had given me out of my other pocket. “Hello.” />
  “Homicide at the Sunset Vista apartment complex,” Paul said without preamble. “Maggie heard it on the scanner and a source has confirmed it. Try to get enough to file something for tomorrow’s edition. I need it no later than midnight.”

  “I’m on my way,” I said and disconnected the call. I stood and brushed the crumbs off my pants. “That was my boss. I have to go.”

  “Already?” my dad said.

  I nodded. “I might be out late. Tell Mom I’m sorry and that I’ll see her first thing in the morning.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Go do what you have to do.”

  There was nothing quite like a homicide to get all my cylinders firing, and I felt the same spark of excitement I always did when there was breaking news. The desire to get the story that everyone wanted. To convince the witnesses, the bystanders, and the victim’s family that they should talk to me first. I’d left my suit jacket hanging on the back of a chair in the kitchen, and after I slipped my arms into it, I grabbed the laptop Paul had given me. The glove compartment and console of my Jeep were stuffed with pens and notebooks.

  I turned to my dad and said, “Don’t wait up.”

  CHAPTER 4

  DAISY

  At the police station, Officer Ochoa led us past the reception desk to a hard bench outside a small office. The door to the office was closed.

  “A detective will be with you soon,” she said. “Can I get you anything while you wait?”

  “Where’s the nearest restroom?” I asked. I needed to get Elliott out of his wet pajamas, and his fussing told me he was already overtired. I hoped that after he was dry and comfortable I could soothe him to sleep on my lap.

  “It’s just down the hall, on the right.”

  I hoisted Elliott onto my hip. Once we reached the restroom, I cleaned him up using damp paper towels and then dried him off and dressed him quickly. He was so tired he didn’t push me away and insist on dressing himself, the way he would have at home. His tears had smudged the lenses of his glasses, so I took them off and polished them with my shirt. After he was squared away, I took a moment to splash cold water on my face. My eyes burned and my head throbbed. I wanted nothing more than to be alone so I could let the tears fall and grieve in peace. Later, I told myself. Then I remembered that we wouldn’t be permitted back into our apartment tonight. I would need to call Pam. She and Shane would have to come pick us up.