The Devil Made Me

by Lorena May

  Chloe rushes in, swooping down at her table. “I’m sorry I’m late. I forgot what it’s like in this city. It’s either winter or construction season!” She eyes her sister with amusement. “You’re looking like the cat that ate the canary. What’s up?”

  Grace is bursting. She can’t wait to tell. She slides Chloe’s coffee – now cold– across the table. “I’ve got a job!”

  Chloe sits back, arms folded, nodding and smiling as Grace tells her about Sue and dinner and the job offer. Finally, when Chloe can get a word in she says, “And this son. Mike. You like him?”

  “He’s funny and sweet.” Grace presses her hands to her cheeks, feeling the heat. Her shoulders sag. “But I know . . .”

  Chloe lets out a harsh breath. “What do you know?”

  Grace stares at the table. “You know what I am. There’s no way . . .”

  “Bull-shit. I know what you’re going to say. Stop all that ‘I’m not good enough’. Do you want a life?”

  Grace sighs, fixing her sister with glossy eyes. “You have no idea.”

  Chloe sets her mouth grimly, eyeing her sister with disdain, arms folded. “Cut the crap, Grace. Sure, you had a shitty childhood. Yes, you were abused. Yes, you’re an addict. And a prostitute. The job you need to pay for your stupid, fucking habit.”

  “I don’t think I . . .”

  Chloe glares, her breath ragged and fierce. “You don’t’ think you can quit? Okay. Just keep shooting that poison into yourself and putting your life on the line out there every night.” She gestures toward the street, hissing, “Just keep on getting sicker and skinnier every day. No worries. You probably won’t make it past thirty. It’s your fucking decision.”

  Grace stares, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

  “Sit here and feel sorry for yourself.” Chloe shoves the cold coffee across the table. “Sit here and throw away every opportunity life sends your way.” She rises, with one last parting shot. “But don’t say you never had a chance.”

  “I do,” Grace calls out to her sister’s retreating back. Then, louder, “Chloe, I do want a life.” She watches Chloe stop short. Stand with her back to her a moment, then slowly turn around, pinning her with steely eyes. She walks back to the table and sits, retrieving her coffee cup, taking a sip, ignoring the looks of curious patrons sitting at tables nearby.

  “Then, we need a plan.”

  Grace nods, gazing into her sister’s face. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since the Banff conference.”

  Chloe grins. “Tell me about that.”

  They become lost in an amusing discussion about people Grace met and Chloe remembers, stories about the weekend, restaurateur tips and funny anecdotes.

  “You saw the pictures on Facebook?” Grace pulls Chloe’s phone from her purse, sliding it across the table.

  Chloe picks it up, scrolls to her page and smiles broadly, looking at it, slipping it into her pocket. “I did. Loved seeing your posts.”

  “I kind of fit in,” Grace says. “I realized I could . . .”

  “Of course you could.” Affection glows in Chloe’s eyes. “You are a survivor, Grace. Like me. You’ve always been full of piss and vinegar. I know you.”

  Grace inspects her fingernails, still gelled and foreign looking. “I went on methadone once before, and it worked. Kept me from getting sick. Then I fucked up . . .” Her eyes hold a far-away look. “But this time . . . with this job I could do it.”

  Chloe grabs both her hands. “You can. You’re only twenty-four. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I’ll be around to support you whenever you need me. And Sue. And maybe Mike?” She winks.

  Grace inhales deeply, exhales. “I’ll go to the clinic this afternoon.” She reaches out and touches her sister’s hand. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 29

  ~ Darby

  She sets candles on the table, and stands back to admire her handiwork. This is all new to Darby. It looks like something out of Chatelain! The barbecued chicken from Costco, and a prepared Caesar salad sit on the counter, while pasta and tomato sauce simmer on the stove. She feels the thrill of anticipation as she waits. Jim’s been away a month, and she’s missed him.

  The door-bell rings. Darby fluffs her hair, and assumes an air of nonchalance as she ambles toward the door, opening it to see him standing there with his familiar dimpled smile. In one hand he holds a bottle of wine. In the other, tulips with the stems wrapped in a white cloth. Vibrant red, yellow, purple and white.

  “They’re gorgeous!”

  “Much like . . .” He winks. She is not a woman who wants to be compared to a flower. “Cleaned out my garden, but you’re worth it.”

  Darby rinses out the pasta sauce jar, puts the flowers in it and sets them on her fancy table. “Ta-da! You didn’t know I was such a Martha Stewart kind of gal, did you?” she says, noting a surprised look as he scans her little town-house, all soft lighting and romantic music.

  “Takes my breath away.” He chuckles. “Truly!”

  They enjoy a companionable dinner with generous glasses of wine. Darby sits back in her chair feeling warm and relaxed. She hadn’t realized how much she’d longed to see him again. She’s missed riding their horses in the country-side on her days off, casual meals at each other’s houses or local restaurants, visits with their friend, Rose, in the auxiliary home. Does he want more? He’s been so understanding that way. Maybe he doesn’t.

  Since Skye left Rockydale last fall Darby hasn’t felt this kind of familiarity with anyone. She and Skye met through Big Brothers Big Sisters of Canada when Skye needed a mentor. Now that she is finished school and going to University in Edmonton their visits are mostly over the phone.

  Darby and Jim talk about Skye -she’s doing well - and about Darby’s horse, Bojangles, and Jim’s horse, Duke. Darby rode him while Jim was away to keep him exercized.

  “Now do you see what a man I am?” Jim asks with a twinkle in his eye. “Handling that big, restless charger?”

  “Ha! Darby pokes him with her foot. “Piece of cake!”

  “He is kind of a suck,” Jim laughs.

  Watching him gather the dishes from the table she studies his easy movements. The crinkle around his eyes, his casual air, his smile. And the way he looks in his jeans and t-shirt! She suppresses a giggle. Bad girl!

  “Leave the dishes. Pour some more wine and let’s go sit in the living room,” she says.

  Glasses full, they move to the couch.

  Darby rests her feet on the coffee table and takes a sip of cabernet. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess that depends . . .”

  Her look says, ‘depends on what?’ but she doesn’t ask.

  He changes tack. “I’d like to work in town more. They’ve offered me a job as Superintendent here in Rockydale. I’m considering it.”

  “Wouldn’t you miss the travel?” Darby asks.

  “I’d rather travel for pleasure. With a friend.” He looks at her with laughing eyes.

  “I – I feel like I haven’t been fair to you,” she says. I can’t believe I’m starting this conversation! Must be the wine.

  He cocks an eye-brow. “How have you been unfair?”

  “I – I know that when we’ve seemed to be getting – I don’t know – more intimate? I know I shy away from that.” Her heart is hammering now. The happy, relaxed atmosphere in the room has vanished. It’s been replaced with a kind of spastic electricity.

  He becomes serious – gentle, but serious. “Can you tell me why?”

  She lets out a shaky breath. Is silent. Then, “When I was in the army – fighting in Afghanistan I fell in love with another soldier.”

  He nods. His eyes stay on her face.

  “He lived in the States, and when he went home I never saw him again.”

  “Did you have any contact?”

  “I went back to Ottawa, thinking I’d join him. I was pregnant.”

  Jim gasps. “Oh, Darby.”


  She continues. “I lost the baby. His fiancé wrote to me. For him it was just a fling, apparently.” Tears spring to her eyes. “I’ve never told anyone before this.”

  Jim sits staring a moment, trying to read her. Slowly, he moves to wrap his arms around her shoulders.

  She shakes her head. “I’m okay. I thought it was only fair to tell you.”

  He releases her. “The guy must be crazy.”

  She laughs, a choked chortle.

  When Jim leaves with a tentative stroke of his fingers on her cheek, Darby brushes his lips with hers, places her hands on his shoulders, sliding him a guarded look. “You are very special to me, Jim.”

  He smiles a crinkle-eyed smile. “I’ll hang onto that.”

  DARBY LEANS BACK ON the sofa sipping yet another glass of wine. I’ll pay for this tomorrow!

  Romance has never been a priority for her. Her childhood was spent playing street hockey and soccer with her brothers and their friends. She’d hardly even had a crush until Sam. Certainly, she’d never been in love. How could she have been so wrong about him? They shared everything during their stint in Afghanistan; befriending street urchins, suffering the loss of fellow-soldiers and civilians, witnesses to unspeakable tragedy. Soul-mates. When she returned home and discovered that she was pregnant she felt sure that he would share her excitement. And then the letter came. A letter written to her from his fiancé. He had been engaged for two years, and had never told her. Darby clenches her jaw. Fucking coward! Lisa was the fiancé’s name. Lisa ‘understood’ how he could have misinterpreted what he and Darby had, but now he had ‘come to his senses’, she wrote. Remembering hurts. Even after all this time. And then Darby miscarried. A good thing, in retrospect.

  After the surging pain, blood and regret, Darby picked herself up, applied to the RCMP and, within a year, kissed her family good-bye and moved to Rockydale, Alberta. She bought herself a little townhouse and focused on work. She’s seldom looked back.

  But, even after six years, she’s scarred. Has she been fair to Jim? He’s kind and good. They both love riding and the outdoors. Jim loves to cook. Bonus! He’s a well paid oil-field engineer, with his own house. He respects her independence and encourages her growth. He’d make a perfect partner. And she feels a fondness and excitement when she sees him. He’s easy and comfortable and fun. Yet tonight was the closest she’s come to showing him affection. Could this be the beginning of her healing? A romance?

  Darby picks up her phone, idly scrolling through Facebook, Twitter, and into her email. A sudden coldness hits her core. A new email. The sender is Sam Rodriguez. With shaking hands, she opens it.

  Darby, I’ve been trying to find you. I’m so sorry things happened as they did. I can explain. Can I come see you?

  Love, Always,

  Sam

  There’s a pounding in her ears. She can barely sit. Darby hits ‘delete’ and lies back on the sofa, numb.

  Chapter 30

  ~ Grace

  Grace lets the gentle juddering of the Edmonton city bus, bumping along as it hits pot-holes, lull her. Her head rests against the window. Amidst the hum of the motor and gentle chatter around her, she’s lost in her thoughts. Scattered and vivid and invigorating.

  She thinks of the flash of confusion in Sue’s eyes when Grace told them she was neither married nor a restaurateur nor named Chloe. She relives the laughter and Mike’s friendly banter when he drove her home.

  What is it about him that is so intriguing? Mostly she views men with a kind of wide-ranging disinterest; a numbness. Maybe it’s because Mike treats her like an equal. To be fair, most men see a hooker. He has no idea. A flush of shame and mortification flickers throughout her neck and chest, and she wonders how can I ever fit?

  The sprightly woman who interviewed her so rigorously at the methadone clinic yesterday afternoon assured her she could. “With methadone treatment you will not experience withdrawal, but it’s important that we get the right dose and that you come for counselling as well. Can you do that?”

  I can. This time for good. She’s glimpsed a better life. Grace nods to herself, her head banging lightly on the window of the bus.

  And she’ll have a real job! Sue has assured her it’s not a pity-hire. They need someone they can trust. They trust me! Sue wants to travel, putter in her garden, sleep in. Mike often has jobs lined up now that it’s spring-time; fixing lawn mowers, roto-tilling gardens, building fences . . . They have a cook, a waitress and a prep cook, but need someone to manage the place and fill in. Both Sue and Mike love their volunteer positions with Boyle Street Community Services, but they’re short of time. She’d be doing them a favor, Sue told her.

  Grace smiles, hugging herself. Giant steps! She’s on her way to serve her first shift at the Boyle Street Drop-in Centre serving lunch to – well, her people, really.

  “They’ve become like a family,” Sue said the other night. “Our mission,” she looked heavenward, reciting, “Is to serve, support and empower people to take control of their lives and escape the cycle of poverty and homelessness.” She laughed, low and mellow. “Sound corny? But it’s true.”

  The luster in Grace’s eyes must have shown Sue how charmed she was, and Sue continued, “Why don’t you join us Thursday? Help serve lunch. I think you’d like it.”

  Now Grace is jolted from her reverie to reach and pull the cord above her as Boyle Street Community Services comes into view. In the seat next to her a teen-age boy is slumped over his phone. He doesn’t glance away from the screen, rising to let her by. Must have eyes in the side of his head!

  “Thanks.”

  “No worries.” A mumble. His attention never wavers from his phone.

  Stepping from the bus, Grace takes a deep breath, runs her fingers through her hair, looks down at her clothing. She’s never been to a drop-in-center as a volunteer before, but when she opens the door the familiar chatter, laughter, clattering of dishes and plates, all feels familiar.

  Sue is bent toward an elderly aboriginal woman with no teeth and a big smile that radiates through her eyes as she listens to Sue. The woman has long graying braids, a pleasant wrinkled face and hands that are folded around a cup of something steaming hot.

  A group of men and women stand in a circle, laughing heartily. Others sit alone or in pairs, chatting or simply staring into space. The dregs of society. Outcasts mostly. The dusty film of poverty.

  Mike is setting out trays of buns, butter and what smells like a chicken stir-fry. He smiles broadly as Grace approaches.

  “Hi.” She finds herself feeling a little breathless and awkward.

  “You’re just in time. We’ll start dishing any minute.” He hands her a ladle. “Just jump right in.”

  As she fills the plates of the needy she’s awarded with nods, thanks, smiles . . . And she feels a bursting of something like happiness.

  “Got yourself a girl-friend?” a stringy red-headed woman gives Mike a big, embellished wink, wagging her head at Grace.

  “Hey! I thought I was your girl-friend!” a big, black woman chortles.

  “We all love ya, Chelsey!” Mike says. Grace glimpses, with delight, the blush creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks.

  Chapter 31

  ~ Darby

  “It happened in Vancouver.” Darby pokes her head into Brandon’s office, watches him throwing a pen in the air, neatly catching it.

  He grins sheepishly. “It helps me think.”

  She raises her eyebrows, nods. “Whatever works.”

  “What happened in Vancouver?”

  “Ana’s assault. I read her file. She lived with a boyfriend there just last year. He was abusive, according to witnesses, and finally, during a domestic she grabbed a paring knife and stuck it in his ribs. His injuries were minor, and she got probation.”

  Brandon frowns. “Still. Shows she’s capable of violence.”

  Darby’s eyes flash. “Well deserved, I’m betting. But yes. It does.”

  Brandon clucks.
“Sure is a sexy little bitch, though.”

  Darby glares, filled with contempt. “That’s offensive.”

  He holds out both palms. “Sorry!”

  Darby continues reading. “She was born in Vancouver, fourth daughter of Mexican immigrants. The family struggled, and Ana went to live with her boyfriend when she was seventeen. It looks like after the assault she moved to Rockydale, hoping for a fresh start.”

  “Ha!” he sneers. “Fresh victim.”

  Darby huffs, turns heel and marches toward the interview room, wishing for the hundredth time that her old partner, Mel, were here. She won’t tell Brandon about the scheduled interview with Chloe. Not exactly kosher, but I’m not asking that asshole to join me.

  CHLOE LOOKS LIKE SHE’S stepped out of a fashion magazine. She wears ripped skinny-jeans, platform sandals and a silky green V-neck shirt that brings out her eyes. Her hair is pulled back in a loose pony-tail. She sits looking poised and completely relaxed in the cheap plastic chair provided.

  Darby sets her notes on the table, glancing at the attractive red-head. “Thanks for coming in. Can I call you Chloe?”

  Chloe’s smile is big and bright. “Please do.”

  “I know how busy you must be . . .”

  “That’s okay. We want to get to the bottom of all this.”

  Darby nods. “Any ideas as to what happened?”

  Chloe shrugs, shaking her head. “None! Who’d ever think . . .”

  “I’m sorry things ended so badly when we were at your house the other day.”

  “No worries.” Chloe waves her hand dismissively.

  “You said you were with your husband, Steve, all weekend?”

  “Yes. We went to our cabin Friday evening and came back Sunday when we heard the sad news.” Chloe looks directly at Darby.

  “How far from Rockydale is your cabin?”

  “It’s in the mountains. About seventy-five kilometers.”