Every Time I Think of You

by Tracey Garvis Graves

  “No,” she said. “But I love you as if I had.”

  By the time I was in second grade, I learned not to say the word Grammy in front of my classmates. Sometimes I would even refer to my grandmother as my mother so as not to attract unwanted attention. Every once in a while one of the girls or boys would make fun of my grandmother when she came to pick me up, asking me why her hair was gray or why she had wrinkles on her face. I would see her walking slowly up the sidewalk toward me, wearing a big smile, and I’d feel like crying although I really didn’t understand why. She was only sixty-two then, which doesn’t seem so old to me now. But when you’re eight, it seems ancient.

  My grandmother finally told me what had happened to my parents and sister when I was ten. She said they had died on a hot and windy September day. The Santa Ana winds had been blowing and a Red Flag warning was issued late that afternoon. After dinner, my parents dropped me off at my grandmother’s apartment and took my two-and-a-half-year-old sister Danielle out for ice cream. I was six months old at the time and my parents wanted to take Danielle on an outing alone so they could shower her with some of the attention that had recently been diverted my way.

  A man who had been gambling and drinking all day in Las Vegas had been on his way home. He’d taken the exit ramp off the interstate and had executed a U-turn and tried to reenter using the same ramp. He hit my family’s car head-on. There were no survivors at the scene.

  When I tell people this story, they look at me in shock while they wait for me to tear up or break down. There’s an awkward silence when I do neither, and I’ve learned that the best way to handle it is to change the subject quickly and move on. It’s not that I don’t possess the capacity to exhibit strong emotions, because I do. It’s just that I was so young when it happened. It’s horrible, I know that, but the tragedy exists in a vacuum in which I have no frame of reference. When I grieve, it’s not because I miss my parents and sister. It’s because I never got the chance to know them at all. The only time I ever really lost it was in college. For some reason, seeing all those couples on Parents’ Weekend while my grandmother stood off to the side alone brought me to tears. I started sobbing when she hugged me, not caring by that time who witnessed it or what they thought.

  When I married Scott and we had Elliott, I swore I would give him the family I never had, but when that hadn’t worked out, Elliott and I had gone straight back to square one. My son would be the one without two parents on Parents’ Day. The child who has no dad to make a card for on Father’s Day.

  I held out hope that someday I could break the cycle.

  *

  At ten o’clock on Saturday morning, I stood in line and greeted guests as they filed by my grandmother’s casket. I had spent every penny of the life-insurance policy on the funeral and burial plot, and for a private luncheon in one of the reception rooms at the funeral home after we returned from the cemetery. There were daffodils on the altar and a large spray of them covering the casket.

  They had dressed my grandmother in her blue suit. Applied a dusting of peach to her cheeks and styled her hair. Before they closed the casket, I slipped Elliott’s drawing inside.

  “You did a wonderful job raising me, and I’m going to miss you terribly,” I whispered. “Elliott and I love you so much.”

  In the future, when I tell people my family history, this is the part where I’ll break down and cry.

  The turnout was small, which was to be expected when you’d outlived almost everyone. A few of my friends and fellow nurses attended, and so did several of my grandmother’s friends, including Margaret Parker, who had ridden to the funeral home with Elliott and me, and two other ladies who lived in our building. They sniffled their way through the service and the scent of their perfume clung to me after numerous hugs, cloying yet comforting.

  When most of the guests had gone and it was just Pam, Shane, and me, I had one last good cry. I wanted to get it all out of my system before I picked up Elliott at Kayla’s. Afterward, I dried my eyes and took a deep breath, feeling bone-tired and weary. Onward, I told myself.

  Right before the funeral, Pam had given me the greatest news I’d received in a long time.

  “Elliott’s got a spot at the same daycare our baby’s going to be attending,” she said.

  “How did you pull that off?” I asked. In the few spare moments I’d had between packing and finalizing the funeral arrangements, I’d called a list of daycares. Any center with a decent reputation was not only full but also had a waiting list. Thanks to a tip from a friend about an opening, Pam had secured a spot at an in-home daycare months ago, which is what I really wanted for Elliott because I worried that a large center would overwhelm him. The woman who ran it was a former teacher who had decided to open a daycare in her home when she had her first child. There would only be four children total.

  “Don’t get too excited,” she said. “I’m giving you my spot, but only until the baby comes. With a little over three months until my due date and another twelve weeks for maternity leave, you’ve got about six months to find a place for him somewhere else.” Pam looked worried. “She can’t do weekends, Daisy. She can keep Elliott until you get off work—she’ll feed him dinner and give him a bath and his medicine so that he’s ready for bed when you pick him up—but weekends are for her family.”

  I wouldn’t be able to pick up any extra weekend shifts like I often did, but I didn’t mind. Knowing I had someone trustworthy to watch Elliott was the only thing that mattered.

  “I completely understand,” I said, throwing my arms around Pam as the relief at having one more of my problems solved washed over me. “I don’t know what I would do without you and Shane.”

  There were times when I felt like the drama that seemed to follow in my wake was a drain on the friendship. Pam and Shane had helped me move almost everything I owned the night I left Scott—under cover of darkness and with little advance notice, no less—and Pam had provided a literal shoulder to cry on while I was going through the divorce. I had tried to find ways over the past year to give back to them, whether it was a homemade meal delivered at the end of the day so they wouldn’t have to cook or looking in on Shane’s mom every day for a week after she had back surgery. If I spotted something at the mall I thought Pam would like, I bought it, and every time I made cookies for Elliott, I doubled the batch so I could bring some to Shane. But in the past week I couldn’t help but feel I’d depleted every bit of the goodwill I’d tried to replenish. I hated that I was once again taking more than I was giving.

  Pam hugged me tight. “Shane and I have a lot more family than you do. We have people to call on when we need help. You don’t have anyone, Daisy. We know that. Besides, when this baby comes, we’re going to need someone to watch it so Shane and I can have a date night every once in a while. I’m going to need your expert advice the first time the baby gets sick and I’m freaking out. And don’t be surprised if Shane calls you someday because I’m not home and the baby has had one of those giant shitty-diaper blowouts. You know how delicate his gag reflex is,” she said, laughing. “So you’ll pay us back eventually.”

  I wiped my tears and smiled. “I love you, Pam. You and Shane are my family.”

  She hugged me again and said, “I love you too, Daisy.”

  CHAPTER 17

  BROOKS

  I knocked on the door of Daisy’s new apartment. There were footsteps followed by a delay, which I assumed was her looking through the peephole. The metallic scrape of a chain sliding back soon followed and she opened the door.

  “Hi,” she said. Her smile seemed genuine, as if she was happy to see me.

  “Hi. I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by.” I didn’t tell her that when I was on the job I almost always dropped by without calling. I had a better chance of a witness talking to me if I showed up at their doorstep; calling first made it easier for them to find a reason to say no. Not that Daisy had any reason not to talk to me, but after so many years it
had become a habit.

  “Sure. Come on in.” She closed the door behind me, clicked the deadbolt, and slid the chain into place.

  “I’m glad to see the safety chain on the door,” I said.

  “I installed it yesterday.”

  “Really? I’m impressed.”

  She waved off my compliment. “Don’t be. It wasn’t that hard.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “It’s okay. We just finished eating lunch, so this is a good time.”

  Elliott walked into the room then.

  “Hey, sweetie,” Daisy said. “This is Brooks. He came by to talk to Mama.”

  He was a cute kid. Blond like his parents. Little bluish-gray plastic-rimmed glasses.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi,” he whispered in that shy way kids have around someone they don’t know well.

  My experience with kids was somewhat limited, and I had no idea what to say to him. He appeared to be clutching something. “What’s in your hand?” I asked.

  “My army guy.” He opened his palm but then closed it right away, as if he was worried I might take it from him.

  “Is that your favorite toy?”

  Elliott nodded. “He keeped me safe.”

  “Would you like to color in your coloring book while I talk to Brooks?” Daisy asked.

  “Okay.”

  “Which one?”

  “Wion King.”

  Daisy set down Elliott’s coloring book and a box of crayons on the coffee table in the living room. He began pulling them out of the box and lining them up next to the coloring book.

  Daisy opened the book and pointed to a picture of a lion with two cubs. “I would love it if you could color this one for me.”

  He pushed his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose. “Okay, Mama. I will do it.”

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  When Daisy returned, she said in a low voice, “He was clutching that toy the night my grandmother died. The paramedics could hardly pry it out of his hands.”

  “He must have formed quite an attachment to it,” I said.

  “Yes. I don’t dare take it away. It’s obviously a comfort to him.”

  “It certainly looks that way. When do you go back to work?”

  “Tomorrow. It’s also Elliott’s first day with his new babysitter. I’m nervous,” she said. “He’s never been in daycare before. He has asthma, so if he catches a cold, it could trigger a full-blown attack. He’s probably going to get sick a lot at first, but hopefully his immune system will catch up eventually…” Her voice trailed off as if she was imagining all the potential illnesses he might come down with. “I’m sorry, you didn’t come here to talk about that.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind,” I said, hoping she could hear the sincerity in my voice. “I can understand why you’d be apprehensive.”

  She glanced at Elliott, who was engrossed in his coloring book in the living room. “We can sit at the kitchen table.

  I pulled out a chair and sat down across from her. “I was able to have a brief conversation with your ex-husband.”

  “Really?” She looked surprised, which made me wonder if she’d doubted me when I told her I’d speak to Scott. Suddenly I wanted her to know I was the kind of man who kept his word, who followed through on things.

  “He was at the address you gave me. The house is owned by someone named Dale Reber. Does that name ring any bells?”

  “No. But I don’t know the names of any of the men Scott associates with these days, and I don’t want to.” She looked puzzled. “I tried to have Scott served with papers at that address a few months ago. The person who answered the door said he didn’t live there anymore.”

  “What kind of papers?”

  “I was attempting to terminate his parental rights.”

  “Sounds like he might not have wanted to sign them.”

  “He didn’t want to sign the divorce papers either. God knows he can probably spot a process server from a mile away by now.”

  “Has Scott ever harmed Elliott? Neglected him?”

  She looked absolutely horrified at the thought. “No, but I never left Elliott alone with Scott after I discovered he was using. We have joint custody, but according to the custody agreement, all visits are to take place at my residence when either I or my grandmother would be here. I told Scott he had to come alone, and if he showed up high he’d have to leave.”

  “Did he comply?”

  “He never came. Not even once. Thankfully Elliott was too young to really understand what was going on. I don’t think he would even recognize Scott at this point. It’s been a little over six months since our divorce became final and longer than that since Elliott has had any contact with his dad.”

  “Why do you want to terminate his rights?”

  “If he can’t be bothered to be a part of Elliott’s life, then I want to be the only one who can make decisions on behalf of our son. And if something were to happen to me, I don’t ever want Scott to have Elliott.”

  “Does Elliott have a guardian?”

  “My best friend Pam and her husband Shane are Elliott’s godparents. I’ve also appointed them his legal guardians. But I doubt the courts will let them have Elliott if Scott still has parental rights. I’ll call my attorney and tell him to try to serve Scott with the papers again. But even if they’re successful this time, it’s no guarantee Scott will sign them.”

  “Does he pay child support?”

  She shook her head. “No, he never has. Scott loves Elliott, I do believe that. And in some strange, twisted way, he still thinks he can be a good parent. But he never shows me that he can.” She paused and looked away. “How did he look?”

  “Not good. He’s underweight. His teeth are starting to rot.”

  She was quiet for a moment, like she was processing what I’d said. “Has anyone close to you ever had a drug addiction?”

  “No.”

  “When Scott’s abuse turned into full-fledged addiction, Elliott and I became the second and third most important things to him. Addicts don’t care about anything but their next fix. Meth is particularly insidious. I picture it as this malevolent mist that surrounds a person until it seeps inside them, replacing everything they love. Their moral code ceases to exist because all they care about is feeding their addiction.”

  I looked at Daisy, thinking of everything her ex-husband had given up. I couldn’t wrap my mind around a drug being more important than a man’s wife and child, especially this woman and this child. It seemed unfathomable to me, yet I knew what she said was true.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “It happens,” she said. “But it’s heartbreaking to me that Elliott won’t grow up knowing his father.”

  “Do you have any contact with Scott’s family? I would think they’d want to see Elliott.”

  “His parents moved to Florida when they retired. His mom died about a year ago, but his dad is still alive. When I first discovered Scott was using drugs, I called them to ask for their help in getting Scott clean. I thought maybe Scott would listen to his parents.”

  “Were they able to help?”

  “They didn’t believe me. They said I must be mistaken. Their son would never do drugs. And they were right: the son they knew wouldn’t. But they didn’t watch it happen like I did. By the time they finally figured out that what I’d told them was true, it was too late. Then Scott’s mom died and I think his dad just wiped his hands of everything, including Elliott and me.”

  “Have you thought about what you’re going to do next?”

  “I don’t want to raise Elliott here. I wouldn’t have left my grandmother, but I knew that someday, when she was gone, I’d take Elliott and we would go. Unfortunately, Scott left a financial mess in his wake. I found out that he’d opened a couple of credit cards in both of our names, forged my signature, and run the balances up until he hit the credit limit. He drained our accounts—we’d been saving for a d
own payment on a house—and I was humiliated one day when I tried to buy groceries on my way home from work and my debit card was declined. I opened new accounts in my own name and didn’t tell Scott.”

  She sighed and looked away, and as much as I wanted her to keep talking, I knew I might make more headway if I kept quiet.

  A moment later, she continued. “Anyway, I’m paying off the balances of those credit cards. I track the payments on a spreadsheet, and I know exactly how long it will take me to pay it off. I have excellent credit, and I can’t allow anything to jeopardize that because I’ll need a good credit rating someday when I go to buy a house. My grandmother wouldn’t allow me to pay rent or give her any money for watching Elliott, no matter how much I protested. She knew what Scott had done, and that was her way of helping. I used to pick up all the extra weekend shifts I could, but I won’t be able to continue doing that because I have no one to watch Elliott. I have rent and daycare to pay now, too. In light of what’s happened, it might be smarter to leave as soon as I can, but I have a good job and I don’t want the uncertainty of trying to find another one, plus the expense of relocating and starting over. Not until I have Scott’s debt paid off. But once I do, we’ll go. I’ll be happy to leave this town behind.” She looked at me as if she was embarrassed. “Once again, I’m telling you way more than you probably wanted to know.”

  I admired her resolve. Installing a safety chain was probably a walk in the park compared to what she’d been dealing with. “I don’t mind,” I said. “You seem to have a really solid plan.”

  “Detective Quick told me they questioned Scott but don’t consider him a suspect at this point.”

  “He claims he was in a bar at the time of your grandmother’s murder. His alibi seems to have checked out.”

  “So what happens next?”

  That was a hard question to answer. Unless someone made progress with the case, not much would be happening at all. “Hopefully the police will have a lead that pans out. Maybe a witness will come forward or someone will call the hotline. Has Elliott shared anything else with you? Something he might have heard while he was hiding under the bed?”