Every Time I Think of You

by Tracey Garvis Graves

  “A neighbor confirmed it was a man’s voice she heard, which isn’t surprising. A man would fit the profile for this type of crime more than a woman. What we’ve found with children is that they block things out. Often they’ll give you bits and pieces either as they remember or as they become more comfortable recounting the trauma. It usually takes time, so don’t push too hard. But continue listening to what he says.”

  “I will. Do you have any new information?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “But it’s still early in the investigation. We’re following up on every lead. If I have anything to pass along I’ll be sure to call you.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome, Ms. DiStefano. Take care.”

  *

  After I took a shower and bathed Elliott, Shane and I went to the new apartment complex to meet the manager. The location would make my drive to work a few minutes longer, but that didn’t really matter. The grounds were well maintained and Elliott pointed excitedly when he noticed the wrought-iron gates surrounding a small pool.

  “Wook, Mom!”

  “Yes, I see it.” Our old complex didn’t have a swimming pool. Elliott loved playing in the water, and I crossed my fingers that the apartment would work out.

  The apartment manager was a kind-looking, older gentleman. He produced a lollipop for Elliott and grabbed a ring of keys from a desk drawer. We followed him to a stairwell that smelled slightly of lemons and walked up one flight. Then he led us to an apartment three doors down.

  “This is one of our nicest two-bedroom units.” He unlocked the door and swung it open.

  There was a small entryway which opened directly into the living room. Short hallways on both sides each led to a bedroom. The larger bedroom had its own bathroom, and the smaller one had a bathroom directly across the hall. The kitchen wasn’t overly large, but the appliances looked new and everything was very clean.

  Though it was an older building, in many ways it was a nicer apartment than the one we’d been living in. Elliott and I had shared a room for the past year, which wasn’t ideal but actually bothered me less than I’d thought it would when we moved in with my grandmother. I could have rented my own apartment and dropped off Elliott on my way to work, but my grandmother had assumed we would live with her, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise. Now Elliott would have his own space with more room for his toys.

  But the thing that sold me on the apartment was the peephole. We didn’t have one in our old apartment, which meant my grandmother had probably opened the door without knowing who was on the other side. She wasn’t a gullible woman, and she’d always had good common sense, but as she got older she seemed less aware of the problem of rising crime, as if she was somehow exempt from it. Maybe it was simply a byproduct of her generation, when the likelihood of danger appearing on your doorstep was less prevalent than it was today. Whatever the reason, I vowed to make it much more difficult for someone to cross my threshold.

  “How soon can we move in?” I asked.

  “If you fill out the application before you leave, I’ll get the ball rolling today. I’ll need the first and last month’s rent and a deposit, but I’ll prorate since it’s the middle of the month. How’s your credit rating?”

  “It’s excellent.”

  “Good. Once you’re approved, I’ll give you a call and you can move in any time after that. I should be able to get back to you first thing in the morning.”

  “That would be great.” I crouched down until I was eye level with Elliott. “Would you like to live here? Go swimming in the pool?”

  He looked hopeful. “With Nana?”

  His question was like a knife to my heart. “Just you and me, honey.”

  “Okay,” he whispered.

  We stopped in the rental office, and after I filled out the paperwork, I mentally crossed ‘find safe housing’ off my list.

  “Ready?” Shane asked.

  I was about to answer him when I glanced over at the manager’s desk and came face-to-face with a picture of my grandmother on the front page of the Desert News. I’d forgotten all about the reporter and the story he was writing. We subscribed to the newspaper, but I hadn’t thought to grab my copy when Shane and I were at the apartment.

  “Would you mind if I looked at your newspaper for a moment?” I asked the manager.

  “Take it,” he said. “I’ve already read it.”

  I quickly folded it so Elliott wouldn’t see the picture and shoved it into my purse. When we got back to Pam and Shane’s, I made Elliott’s lunch, and while he was eating I smoothed the newspaper out on the kitchen counter.

  San Bernardino County, CA

  Local Woman Slain

  By Brooks McClain

  Police in San Bernardino County are investigating the homicide of an elderly woman. Authorities were called to the Sunset Vista apartment complex Tuesday evening after a neighbor heard shouting and called 911. When they arrived, they discovered the body of Pauline Thorpe, 84. Officers secured the apartment complex and transported several residents to the police station for questioning. Police have not released any information about the cause of death and have not revealed whether there are any suspects in the case. Sources at the crime scene confirmed that the deceased’s three-year-old great-grandson was home during the attack but appeared to be unharmed.

  “Pauline was one of the nicest ladies you could ever hope to meet,” said Dixie Buchanan, a resident of Sunset Vista. Karen Rose, who also lives at the apartment complex, said that Pauline “wouldn’t turn her back on anyone, even if they didn’t deserve her help.” According to sources, Thorpe enjoyed playing bridge and spending time with her family. Police are urging anyone who might have information regarding this case to call the station. Thorpe is survived by a granddaughter and great-grandson. Funeral arrangements are pending.

  I read it twice. After taking one last look at my grandmother’s smiling face, I folded the newspaper and tucked it back into my purse.

  CHAPTER 9

  BROOKS

  My mom’s first indication that something wasn’t quite right came when she had to ask my dad to open a container of orange juice for her. The muscle weakness seemed to affect one hand more than the other, so for a while she coped by switching to the opposite hand, admitting later that she hadn’t mentioned it because she didn’t want to worry us over nothing.

  My dad had worked for the railroad for forty years and had made a list of all the places he wanted to travel to someday with my mom. “It will be one long vacation,” he promised her. He was only two months into his retirement when my mom had trouble opening that juice. An illness would put a damper on their travel plans, so she continued to hide it, hoping the weakness would go away on its own. Other parts of her body weakened over the next several months, and one day my dad placed a worried call to me after my mom fell down at home.

  “They’ve referred us to a neurologist,” he said. “I have no idea what that means. I’m afraid it might be something serious.”

  One month later, they received the official diagnosis of ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, which carried with it an average life expectancy of two to five years. There is no cure.

  It’s been three years since my mom’s symptoms first appeared, and my dad and I have known from the beginning that her condition would continue to deteriorate until she died. But we’d always talked about her disease in the abstract, both of us carefully sidestepping the reality. Her symptoms were manageable for a long time, and she remained in good spirits. It was possible to fool ourselves into thinking that things were going okay. Some ALS patients lived with the disease for many years, far outliving their projected life expectancies. Maybe Mom would be one of the lucky ones.

  Then my dad called on a rainy day three weeks ago. “Your mom isn’t doing well,” he said.

  Before his call had come in, I’d been sitting on the couch in my living room, watching ESPN and eating pizza. Not a care in the world
. When he started crying, I grabbed the remote control and hit Mute, my heart pounding. My dad, who had never shed a tear or gotten choked up in my presence—ever—could hardly talk. I barely understood him when he said, “I don’t think she has much time left.” I pictured the days my mom had left like grains of sand suddenly pouring from one side of an hourglass into the other at breakneck speed.

  That’s when I blurted out, “I’ll come home. I’ll take a leave of absence. I want to be there for her.”

  He didn’t even try to talk me out of it, and that’s when it finally sank in that my mom was going to die.

  *

  I had breakfast with my mom the morning after Pauline Thorpe’s murder. My dad had still been up when I returned home from the police department, but my mom had slept straight through until morning. I wasn’t expected in the newsroom until nine, so I told my dad I wanted to be responsible for breakfast duty.

  “You don’t have to do that,” he said. “That’s not why you’re here, Brooks.”

  “I know that,” I said. “But I don’t mind.”

  My mother had been devoted to my upbringing in a way that I only appreciated in hindsight, the way most people do when they grow into adulthood and realize the sacrifices that had been made on their behalf. There’d never been a time when she wasn’t there for me. She’d been a homemaker until I went to college, and then she took a job working part-time at the library.

  “I’ll be bored out of my mind sitting at home all day,” she’d said. She’d volunteered at the community center two days a week and become involved in several projects. She’d always stayed busy and she seemed happy. Though she’d never said anything to me, the only thing she might have wanted that she didn’t have was a grandchild.

  When I knocked on the bedroom door, my mom’s voice sounded weak when she said, “Brooks? Come in.” She was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed. She would be sixty-two on her next birthday, and she’d stopped coloring her hair sometime in the past year. It was shorter now, completely silver and reaching only to her chin. It suited her. She wore pants and a loose cotton T-shirt. My dad had already laced up her tennis shoes, so I helped her stand, grabbing the sweater that was laid out on the bed and throwing it over my arm.

  “I thought I’d join you for breakfast,” I said.

  “That would be wonderful.” The slurring of her words didn’t seem as pronounced, and I wondered if it was worse at the end of the day, when she was tired.

  She gripped my arm tightly as we made our way down the hall. She hesitated at the top of the staircase, waiting for me to put my arm around her waist before she took a tentative step.

  “It’s okay, Mom. I’ve got you.”

  She clung to me as I half-carried her down the stairs, and I made a mental note to ask my dad how long it would be before the hospital bed arrived. The stairs were an unnecessary risk none of us needed.

  My dad was in the kitchen making scrambled eggs and fried potatoes.

  “Morning, Dad.”

  “Brooks.” My dad smiled. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “I’ll get it,” I said, grabbing a mug from the cupboard.

  “I want you to try to eat all this, Mary,” Dad said as he carried the plate toward the table. He sat down beside her and began spooning the eggs and potatoes into her mouth, much like he had the night before with the soup. No matter how many times my dad insisted he didn’t mind taking care of my mom, this had to be hard on him.

  It would be hard on anyone.

  “I can feed Mom if you want to eat.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll eat later.” He continued urging my mom to eat, giving her enough time to swallow—which seemed to take her longer than usual—but not enough to lose the momentum. He’d confessed last night when I returned from the police station that making sure she got enough to eat was one of his biggest worries. If he couldn’t get enough calories into her, the next step was the insertion of a feeding tube. “I add butter and mayonnaise and cheese to everything I can,” he said, “but I still feel like I’m losing the battle.”

  I decided that if my dad was going to focus on making sure my mom had everything she needed, then I would make sure he had everything he needed, including as many breaks as I could give him.

  When he was satisfied that she’d eaten enough, I poured him a fresh cup of coffee and told him to eat his own breakfast. “We’ll be outside,” I said.

  He’d probably never admit it, but the grateful look I saw on his face as he cracked fresh eggs into the bowl told me how he really felt and how draining Mom’s illness had been on him.

  I settled Mom into her chair on the front porch and sat down next to her. I worried that she might want to talk about my decision to come home. I didn’t want her to thank me or tell me how sorry she was that I’d had to disrupt my life and return to the town she knew I had no desire to ever live in again. Preparing my rebuttal, I decided I would tell her that none of that mattered, even though we both knew it did. I would tell her what a wonderful mother she was and how much I appreciated the way she’d always been there for me. I would insist that I wanted to come home. She didn’t say anything, though, and I felt relieved. She knew I wouldn’t want to talk about it and spared me the uncomfortable conversation. She’d always been one of the most giving people I knew, and dying hadn’t changed my mother one bit.

  “I haven’t read the newspaper yet, but your dad told me someone was killed.”

  I was already becoming used to her speech because I understood everything she said.

  “Yes, it happened sometime in the early evening. A woman named Pauline Thorpe. Did you know her?”

  “No, the name doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “She lived in an apartment with her granddaughter and great-grandson. The child was there when it happened.”

  “Oh, my,” she said. “How old is he?”

  “Only three.”

  “Was he hurt?”

  I thought about the little blond boy wrapped in Daisy’s arms. “Thankfully, no.”

  She turned to me and smiled. “Good.” She took a deep breath. “The fresh air feels so nice.”

  To me, the September air felt heavy and oppressive and would only grow warmer as the day went on. The sky was overcast and daily temperatures would start falling as October approached, but highs were still in the nineties, which seemed stifling to me. But maybe I would view the weather in a more positive light if I had fewer days remaining to experience it.

  “Do you see my sunflowers?” she asked. They grew in clusters in front of the house, their stalks standing tall, the petals unblemished.

  “They look great,” I said.

  “Your dad has been taking care of them for me. He knows how much I like to sit out here and look at them. That whole area used to be a big patch of dirt. When you were two years old, you had a dump truck and you spent hours moving the dirt around. You were so mad when I put in those flowerbeds. I had to watch you to make sure you didn’t dig everything up.”

  I laughed. “I don’t remember that.”

  “It was a long time ago.” She paused and then said, “You’ll have to make sure your dad takes care of the daisies when they bloom next spring.” Her unspoken words hung in the air. Because I won’t be alive to tell him myself.

  “I will. I promise.”

  One of the worst things I’d read when I researched Lou Gehrig’s disease was how hard it was for people stricken with it to remain positive. No one should have to bear the heavy load of losing all physical control while their minds remained as sharp as ever. Patients often became depressed, and who could blame them? My mom knew exactly what was heading her way.

  “Can you take me back inside, Brooks? I’m getting tired.”

  “Of course.”

  When I helped her up from her chair, we both pretended not to notice the tear that rolled down her cheek and the fact that she was no longer able to wipe it away on her own.

  *

  Before heading in
to the newsroom, I decided to pay a visit to Margaret Parker, Pauline Thorpe’s across-the-hall neighbor. According to Dixie Buchanan, Margaret had placed the 911 call. When I arrived at the Sunset Vista apartment complex, I took the stairs to the second floor. Pauline had lived in apartment number twelve; I knocked on the door of number eleven, directly across the hall.

  “Who is it?” a voice shouted from behind the door.

  “Brooks McClain. I’m a reporter with the Desert News.”

  “Slide your business card under the door,” she said.

  “I don’t have a business card with me.” I wondered if anyone had even ordered my business cards yet. “I’ll give you my driver’s license.” I dug it out of my wallet and slid it underneath the door.

  “This says you live in San Francisco!”

  Yes, I know.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and exhaled slowly. “I do, but I’m living here for now. I just want to ask you a couple of questions about Pauline. I was told you’re her best friend.”

  The door cracked open an inch. I could make out about half of Margaret’s eyeball as she squinted at me.

  “I am her best friend,” she said. “Or at least I was.”

  She opened the door the rest of the way, and I could see that her eyes were filling with tears. Though it came with the territory when interviewing the families or friends of victims, I still felt uncomfortable anytime a woman cried, feeling as though it was my fault for showing up and asking questions.

  “I’m very sorry,” I said. “May I come in?”

  “Yes.”

  Margaret handed me my driver’s license and I followed her into the living room. “Please sit down,” she said. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  “That would be nice.” I hated tea, and nothing sounded worse on a hot day. But I always drank whatever was offered, within reason, because accepting hospitality put people at ease.

  “I’ll turn up the heat on the kettle,” she said.

  When she came back into the room, she was dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex.