Every Time I Think of You

by Tracey Garvis Graves

  “No, and I haven’t pushed him.”

  “That’s probably a good idea. I imagine he’ll talk if he feels like it.” I glanced at my watch. “I need to get going.” I stood and Daisy followed me toward the door. “Don’t hesitate to call the police for any reason. Pay close attention to your surroundings. Keep your door locked. Don’t ever open it without the chain on.” I paused, once again struck by how alone she seemed. Was anyone watching out for her? “Listen, I don’t mean for this to sound as sexist as it’s going to, but is there a guy around?”

  Rarely did I ask such a personal question, especially when the answer was absolutely none of my business.

  And I’ll admit to being more than just professionally curious as I waited for her answer.

  “There was, but not anymore,” she said. “It’s just Elliott and me. We’ll be okay. When someone knocks, I look through the peephole. If I don’t recognize the person, I leave the chain on when I open the door. I also bought a gun.”

  She said that last part with such nonchalance that it took me a second to process it.

  “You what?” I probably said it with a little more force than I should have.

  She looked taken aback. “Shane helped me pick it out.”

  I was speechless. “I’m sorry, but you don’t—”

  “Look like the type of person who would own a gun?”

  It was hard to argue with that statement when it was exactly what I was going to say. “Yes.”

  “I didn’t buy the gun because I wanted to. Frankly, I would rather not own one. They scare me,” she said. “But I bought one anyway because the thought of looking something evil right in the eye and knowing that I’m more than likely going to come out on the losing end of it terrifies me. The fear that I’ll be assaulted, or raped and left for dead, or worse yet, that someone will try to harm my child, is the reason I have this gun. That’s the type I am.”

  I saw her then, really saw her. Five foot seven, maybe, but small-boned. She was wearing a fitted V-neck T-shirt that emphasized her slight build. I could see the prominent ridge of her collarbone and the deep hollow at the base of her throat that I suddenly couldn’t stop looking at. She’d be no match for anyone. If she wanted a gun, I was hardly in a position to tell her she couldn’t have one.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was out of line. It’s really none of my business what you do.”

  “It’s okay. Pam reacted the same way you did. But I’m doing everything I can to be a responsible gun owner. I’ve signed up for the safety class so I can learn how to handle the gun. How to shoot it. I’ll apply for the permit as soon as I have my certificate. I’ll go to the shooting range, and I’ll practice.”

  Taking her to the shooting range was something I could do to help her. It would also give me a chance to spend time with her, which was something that was becoming more appealing by the minute. I could feel the boundary between witness and reporter starting to blur, but I really didn’t care. It had been a while since a woman had sparked my interest the way Daisy had. “You don’t have to justify anything to me. It sounds like you’re doing everything right,” I said. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything on the case.”

  “I would really appreciate that.”

  Elliott put down his coloring book and ambled across the room.

  Daisy lifted him into her arms. “You look tired, buddy. Are you ready for your nap?”

  “I’m not tired,” Elliott said, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

  “Oh, my mistake,” Daisy said, smiling at him. “I think we’ll try a nap anyway, just in case.” She looked at me. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “It was no problem. I’ll see you soon.”

  As I stepped into the hallway she said, “Brooks?”

  I turned around. “Yes?”

  “Maybe I’m reading this wrong, but you seem to genuinely care about my safety, and I want you to know that I appreciate it. I need all the help I can get.”

  I met her gaze and held it for a moment. “You aren’t reading it wrong at all. Take care, Daisy.”

  She smiled and it illuminated her face, making every feature even prettier. She closed the door, and I made my way down the hall.

  It was true that I cared about Daisy’s safety. Maybe Scott DiStefano had never abused or neglected Elliott, but Daisy’s decision to arm herself made me wonder what he’d done to her.

  CHAPTER 18

  DAISY

  The California handgun-safety course was held in a small room at the community center. There were seventeen of us all together, twelve men and five women. There was a girl who barely looked old enough to attend the class, although I knew that wasn’t the case because you had to be twenty-one to apply for a permit to carry a gun. Her black yoga pants said Pink! across the butt and her T-shirt had Hello Kitty on the front. Another woman was at the other end of the spectrum; I’d have guessed her age as late sixties. Her hair was gray and she was wearing a housecoat and a pair of Nikes. The remaining two women obviously knew each other because they took seats close together and began conversing. Both wore wedding rings.

  The male representation seemed especially disparate, which surprised me because I’d expected them to all look the same: young and brash, full of false bravado and itchy trigger fingers. I couldn’t have been more wrong. There was a man in the corner wearing a three-piece suit who would have fit in perfectly down at the bank. The man beside him wore wire-rimmed glasses and a heavily starched button-down shirt and jeans. He lined up his pencils and a notebook, then folded his hands in his lap and waited patiently for the class to start. The man two rows back wore pressed khakis and a polo shirt; he looked a lot like the accountant who does my taxes. There were a few younger men, and the room probably boasted more than the average amount of ink per the number of people who had showed up for class, but the tattoos seemed to be of the trendy variety more than anything. I couldn’t help but wonder what they all thought when they looked at me. Maybe they assumed I’d entered the room by mistake and was really looking for the cake-decorating class down the hall.

  I pulled a notebook out of my purse and stifled a yawn with the back of my hand. I’d only been back to work for two shifts, and while I was grateful for the support of my coworkers, the sheer volume of questions I’d fielded had been exhausting. Maybe I still hadn’t caught up on my sleep, because my shifts felt longer, more grueling. I wanted to be at home, cuddling on the couch with Elliott, not spending the evening of my day off trying to cram more information into my already overtaxed brain. And there would be additional hours of classroom and shooting instruction to complete before I would be able to apply for my permit to carry a concealed weapon. But I knew how important this was, so I took a drink of the iced tea I’d brought and hoped the caffeine would help me power through.

  At least the transition to daycare had gone more smoothly than I’d expected. There had been a few tears (mine), but Elliott had handled the drop-off with an ease that surprised me. Celine, the woman who operated the daycare, encouraged me to call on my breaks to check in, which I would have done anyway. She gave me a full report when I picked up Elliott at the end of my shift. There was another little boy who was close to Elliott’s age, and Celine said he and Elliott had bonded instantly. They must have played hard because Elliott fell asleep in the car on the way home and slept straight through until morning. “Did you like going to the babysitter?” I’d asked him at breakfast the next day.

  “Yes,” he said. “Want to play again.”

  Everything seemed to be looking up, and I felt empowered because I was taking steps to protect myself and Elliott. In addition to gun safety, the course description promised to cover basic self-defense. The time I spent here would be well worth it.

  Tonight’s session was classroom instruction only. I would also take a hands-on class at a range where I would learn how to safely handle and fire a gun.

  My gun.

  The one which now resided in the fingerprint safe next to my b
ed. The only way it would open was if I placed my fingers on the sensor.

  “What is that, Mama?” Elliott had asked when he spotted it.

  “Just a place for me to store important things,” I’d told him.

  The instructor asked everyone to take their seats and introduced himself. “My name is Steve.”

  He looked to be in his early forties, and as he gave us his bio, his relaxed demeanor put me at ease right away. He gave us a handout which listed the topics we would cover during the four-hour class, everything from the storage of firearms to the laws pertaining to carrying one.

  “It is up to you to know the laws of the state you’re in,” he said. “Saying you aren’t aware of them is not a valid excuse. But because we’re in California, those are the gun laws we’ll learn about today.”

  Steve clicked on the first slide of the PowerPoint presentation and proceeded to go over the general rules of firearm safety. “The two major causes of gun accidents are ignorance and carelessness,” he said. “Always treat all guns as if they are loaded. Keep your finger off the trigger until you are ready to use the gun. Don’t point a gun at anything you aren’t willing to destroy. Know what you are shooting at and what is behind it.”

  Next Steve talked about the storage of firearms and how both safety and accessibility needed to be considered. Of course I wanted to store the gun in the safest way possible so that there was no way Elliott would ever see it, let alone pick it up. But what Steve said about accessibility really hit home with me. If I wasn’t willing to store the gun where I could get to it quickly, there was really no reason to have it in the first place.

  When Steve talked about choosing a gun, he stressed that it needed to be reliable and no more powerful than we felt we could handle. He told us we would perform better under stress if we were comfortable with the gun we chose. Shane had helped me select a gun that fit my grip, with a recoil he thought I could handle. I wasn’t comfortable yet, but I would be.

  After a short break, Steve showed us several options for holsters. Although I understood their importance, I wasn’t sure I wanted to wear one. I worried that it would feel odd, unnatural. My gun would always be locked in the gun safe when I was at home. I had my own locker at work, with a padlock, and my gun would remain there during my shift. However, I wanted it with me when I walked into, or out of, work. I raised my hand.

  “What about carrying the gun in your purse?” I asked. That’s where I’d planned on putting mine when I wasn’t at home or work.

  “I really don’t recommend that you do that,” Steve said, “and I urge you to consider a holster. But if keeping the gun in your purse means you’ll carry it, then I’d rather you do it your way. Just keep an open mind. You may find that you actually prefer to wear a holster.”

  “I’m going to carry my 9mm in this,” a female voice said, and I turned around. It was Hello Kitty girl. She held up her purse. “See the side pocket? It’s got a compartment designed specifically for a gun. I bought it online. But I have a holster, too. It’s tucked beneath the underwire of my bra. I keep my Glock in it.”

  Who is this girl?

  Maybe I wasn’t the only one wondering, because every head had turned toward her.

  “I was assaulted a month ago. It won’t happen again.”

  She said it with such conviction that the room remained silent for a moment as the meaning of her words sank in. I’m fairly certain everyone could guess the type of assault she had probably endured. Then the clapping started, and it was the gray-haired older lady in the housecoat who put her hands together first. I joined in.

  When the noise died down Steve said, “Okay, okay. I understand how keeping the gun in your purse might appeal to some of you. But let me go on record as saying I’d prefer you wear a holster.”

  Despite what Steve said, I knew right then I’d buy the purse. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him, or that I was trying to go against his advice. But knowing the gun was safely stored in my purse seemed like the right choice for me. And Steve had said if we were comfortable we’d be more confident.

  We took another short break, and after I used the restroom and returned to my seat, Steve began explaining our rights when it came to defending ourselves by using force.

  “There are four things you need to think about,” he said. “First of all, is the person a threat to you? If they’re unarmed, there is considerably less danger than if they have a weapon of some sort. Two, are they close enough to you to do harm? If there’s a guy who looks threatening but he’s standing way down at the end of the street, don’t go down there.” Steve looked around the room, making eye contact with each of us. “Take a different route. Three, are you in immediate danger? It doesn’t count if there is potential danger. You need to have reasonable fear that your life is in danger or that you will suffer great bodily harm. And lastly”—he leaned forward—“there has to be no other safe option. If all four of these elements are present, you are justified in using your weapon in self-defense.”

  It was a lot to consider. Could I make the decision to defend myself quickly and under great stress?

  We spent the last part of the class period talking about general self-defense and awareness, and I picked up several things that seemed helpful. I learned how important it was to recognize, as early as I could, the presence of danger. I needed to be aware of my surroundings at all times.

  “As a gun owner, you are not carrying a firearm so that you can be careless in other aspects of your safety,” Steve said. “A gun is your last resort, not your first. There’s one more thing I want to mention. If an assailant wants to move you to another location, do not go with him. Do not get in his vehicle. Do not go with him to an abandoned area. Do not go to his house. He may promise that if you come quietly, he won’t hurt you. But if he wants to move you, it’s because he wants to do something to you that he can’t in your current location, and I guarantee you it will be worse than what he’s already doing. Run if you can.”

  By the end of the class, I’d gained new respect and understanding for the concept of self-defense. Even so, as I waited in line for Steve to sign the form verifying that I’d completed the first four hours of classroom instruction, it was my resolute hope that I’d never find myself in a situation where I’d have to employ any of the knowledge I’d gained.

  But I thought about the girl in the Hello Kitty T-shirt and told myself that if my life, or Elliott’s life, was ever in danger, I would.

  CHAPTER 19

  BROOKS

  I’d been eating breakfast with my mom every day since I’d been home, but when I went in a few mornings later to see if she was ready to go downstairs, she told me she didn’t want to eat.

  “You have to eat, Mom. You know how important it is.”

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  She didn’t answer me.

  My dad was in the kitchen, leaning up against the counter and staring out the window while he drank a cup of coffee.

  “What’s going on with Mom? She said she can’t eat breakfast.”

  He turned around. His expression was grim, and I braced myself. “She’s having a lot of trouble swallowing. She’s afraid she’ll choke. I am, too. She could aspirate food into her lungs, which would put her at risk for developing pneumonia. I called the doctor. They want to move forward with a feeding tube while she still has the ability to withstand the procedure.”

  Relieved that the news wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be, I said, “So the feeding tube is a good thing. It’ll help her get enough to eat, safely.”

  “Yes. She’ll be more comfortable, and there’s nothing I want more for her.”

  “Then why do you seem upset?”

  My dad set down his coffee cup. “She may ask at some point that we stop feeding her altogether. When her condition started to deteriorate, I made a promise to her that I would honor her wishes, even if what she wanted meant that she’d die. I agreed. How could I
not?” He looked away. “The hospital bed will be here tomorrow. I hired a nurse to start coming every day, too. She can administer medicine, painkillers… whatever it takes to keep your mom comfortable.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Whatever she needs.”

  “The feeding tube will be placed sometime this week. It’s a surgical procedure, so she’ll be in the hospital for a day or two.” He blew out a breath. “I feel so powerless. There’s absolutely nothing I can do to help her.”

  “You are helping her. You’re doing everything you can. Take a break. Please. I’ll go sit with her for a while before I head in to work.

  He nodded, looking utterly defeated.

  My mom’s eyes were closed when I walked back into the bedroom. “Mom?”

  “I’m not sleeping, Brooks. I’m just resting my eyes. Tell me how things are going. How is your job?” Her speech seemed like it was deteriorating a little more every day; it was hard to understand some of her words.

  “It’s going fine. I’m not as busy as I was in San Francisco.” What I told her was true. I’d noticed a significant decrease in my professional stress level. Paul had stopped by my desk to let me know how happy he was with my work, and my coworkers couldn’t have been easier to work with. It had taken moving from the Chronicle to the Desert News to see just how crazy my daily life had become in the past eleven years. The long hours I’d spent chasing stories. My complete and total submersion in work.

  “Can you turn on the TV?” she asked.

  “Sure.” I picked up the remote from the nightstand and clicked it on. A little boy, two or three years of age, was chasing a dog. A woman off-screen was laughing and cheering him on, and I recognized my mother’s voice at about the same time I realized the little boy chasing the dog was me. My dad had taken all our old home movies somewhere so that they could be transferred onto DVDs. My mom must have been slowly making her way through them because there was a stack of DVD cases on the nightstand and another small stack on the floor next to the bed. Suddenly, my mom’s image filled the screen, and she beckoned me to come closer. I stopped chasing the dog and ran into her arms. She’d been in her late twenties then, and absolutely beautiful.