“Is that really how little you think of me?” He sounds tired. Of me. Of this. “Never mind. I already know the answer. Just remember I’m not the one who gave up.”
“Gave up?” The words are on fire, and my throat burns. This is why I still need Cole, why he still needs me. He makes me angry enough to feel alive. And my anger deems him worthy of martyrdom. “You’ve got some nerve saying that after what you did. Besides, I badger Detective Sharpe at least once a week. I pay for the billboard. I’m here. And what the hell do you do? You try to save other people’s kids.”
“Yeah, I get it. Saint Mollie. But if you really want to play this game, don’t forget it’s my alimony check that pays for the billboard. Along with the mortgage for that mansion you live in.”
I say exactly nothing. Because the sound of it is better than you’re right. Cole must really feel sorry for me because he doesn’t even rub it in. When he speaks again, his voice is soft like a lover’s.
“I meant you gave up on us. On your job. On life. On everything. You’re stuck. You’re stuck back there. And Dakota wouldn’t like it any more than I do.”
I catch my own eyes in the rearview. There’s a rare flash of brightness there, even if it is a lit fuse. “Fuck you. You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to claim her anymore.”
“Neither of us do. She’s dead, Mol. But you won’t let her go. You’re obsessed. She’s all that’s left of you. And that’s sad.”
I hang up fast, feeling outed. Publicly flogged. A stoning in the middle of the town square. I think of smug Cole, throwing his rocks at me from behind the safety of his desk at Seattle Children’s. So far away her ghost can’t reach him anymore. He doesn’t drive to Napa Prep forgetting Dakota won’t be there. Or pass the billboard on I-80, the one with the Crime Stoppers phone number and the garish headline: Do you know who killed me? He doesn’t see her loser ex-boyfriend’s mother duck out of the post office to avoid an awkward conversation. Or pause at her room every night, certain he hears her giggling behind the door.
The famed Karl Menninger, a shrink himself, had said it best. A free fish can’t hope to understand a hooked one. And while I’m flapping around with a nasty barb in my gullet, Cole is swimming the blue waters of Lake Washington.
“Give up, my ass.” I tell it to the radio, in the middle of my new theme song—“The Unforgiven”—because surely Metallica would understand. “If anybody catches the bastard, it’s gonna be me.”
****
I jolt awake, eyes flying to the window. Luciana’s there knocking, her blood-red lips smiling down through the curtain of her shiny black hair. She laughs at me. For an agonizing moment I’m convinced I dozed right through group. The Lead Basket Case caught sleeping on the job. That happens to me now. I sleep everywhere but in my bed. Everywhere I’m not supposed to. I’d stopped taking the trazodone a year ago, stockpiling the white bottles under the sink. Because when my head hits the pillow, body exhausted, my demented little brain punches its timeclock on the workday that always starts the same: Who killed my daughter? I need to be sharp for that.
Luciana raps again on the window. “Wake up, chica sueño. Five minutes till roll call.”
I groan at her and shake my head, still buzzing with the sting of Cole’s judgment and the ominous chords of Kirk Hammett’s guitar solo. There is no roll call, of course. Only a pathetic round-robin game of tell us your name and the sob story of why you’re here.
She leans forward to peer at me, sticking out her tongue, and her oversized bag slips from her shoulder and spills onto the pavement. “¡Mierda!”
Serves her right. As she chases down a rogue tarot card that’s caught the wind, I crack the door and reach down to gather her hair brush and grocery list that fell on the pavement near my feet. Apparently, Luciana has the same low-budget, high-carb taste in food as I do now. She stuffs it all back into her bag, haphazardly, and tugs at the zipper until she gives up. Curses again. Shrugs. And we both laugh.
“Did anyone else see me sleeping?”
I step out into the warm night, shedding my thin sweater as we walk. It’s as warm today as the day they found Dakota. Heat does unspeakable things to dead bodies. And in Napa, September has a way of clinging to summer, of digging its claws in.
“If by anybody, you mean Sawyer, then no. He’s not here yet.” She gestures over her shoulder to the parking lot, empty, save for my Jeep and Boludo, her beat-up Honda Civic with its duct-taped side mirror and Trust Me, I’m a Psychic bumper sticker. Its nickname inspired by the ex she’d stolen it from. “But he will be. And it’s a good thing, too. You’ve had a rough day.”
“Are you reading group members again, Madame Luci?”
She wiggles her fingers at me like she’s casting a spell with those long black nails, that skeleton bride tattoo on her ring finger. “No need, mi querida. The circles under your eyes speak to me as clearly as tea leaves. I passed Sawyer and his pickup truck at the gas station around the corner looking muy guapo as usual. Besides, I don’t serve the dark side, so I’d never read you without your permission. You know that.”
The steady twack of heels on concrete builds to a crescendo behind us, and we both turn our heads.
“Her on the other hand . . . sangrón.” Luciana grinds out the word—her typical insult—from between her clenched teeth as Jane Wiederman strides past, clad in her standard snob’s uniform. Pencil skirt by Theory. Heels by Manolo. Bag by Louis Vuitton. I wait for her artsy husband to follow in her wake, nervously tugging on his goatee, but tonight she’s alone.
Watch this, Luciana mouths to me. A phrase I recognize as the preamble to trouble. “Hey Jane, where’s Scott this evening?”
Jane turns to us, tight-faced, and I wave at her, offering an apologetic smile. Because once upon a time, I’d been more like Jane than I care to admit. My own Louie retired to the back of my closet, along with the tailored slacks and the pointy red-soled shoes that now seem nothing more than an elaborate costume. The Range Rover sold off for a bargain-basement price on Craigslist.
“He couldn’t make it,” Jane says, her voice more clipped than usual. “He’s photographing a gala at the Ford Coppola Winery.”
“¡Qué sofisticado! And he didn’t invite you?”
Tears fill Jane’s eyes, and she spins away, her ponytail whipping behind her like a horse’s mane. “It’s a work function, Luci,” she says to the bathroom door before ducking inside.
Luciana raises her penciled eyebrows at me, ignoring my disapproving frown. “Mentirosa. Liar. They’re done. It’s just her and King Louie now. You wait and see.”
“Luci . . .”
“Yes, mi querida?”
“That wasn’t very nice.”
She shrugs. “Lucky for me, nice is for white girls. Jane should try it.”
I don’t argue. Because she’s not wrong about Jane. Last December, she’d earned the distinction of Luciana’s mortal enemy when she’d asked why a psychic couldn’t predict that her own loser boyfriend would shake her little girl so hard, she’d lapse into a coma and never wake up.
I was crazy high on meth back then, Luciana had confessed to me later. My spirit guides were all out to lunch. Muy loca.
All I could think: Where were my spirit guides? What’s my excuse?
Luciana walks on ahead without me into the student break room, the site of our planned commiseration. I spot her through the small window, feeding change into the temperamental vending machine. On a bad day, it steals your quarters and dangles your M&Ms in a pinch grip until you kick it into submission. On a rare good day, you feast on two of your chosen delicacy.
A hollow whack from Luciana’s foot tells me what I already know. Today is decidedly bad. I wonder if it’s too late to bolt, if anybody will notice if I cut and run.
I glance over my shoulder at the door where the exit sign beckons from above. When Sawyer pulls it open,
I spot the sliver of night sky behind him, feel the rush of open air. It’s a vortex. I can barely keep my feet planted to the floor. This happens to me now too. A desperate need to take flight.
“Plotting your escape?” Sawyer asks. His work boots leave dusty prints down the hallway like a marked trail for me to follow. And his easy swagger says he’d come with me if I asked him to.
“How’d you know?”
“You’ve got that look.”
“And what look is that?” I ask, avoiding his eyes. He’s beside me now, smelling of freshly mowed grass and sweat. His usual cologne during tourist season since he never has time to shower after finishing up work as the groundskeeper at the Blue Rose B&B on the other side of town. It’s the sort of rugged, earthy smell that makes no apologies, and I don’t mind it. Mainly because it’s nothing like whiney Cole’s antiseptic soap.
“The scared shitless look of a boot about to drop into a combat zone.”
A dissonant laugh clunks from my throat like a single note played on a poorly tuned piano. “You’re right. It’s a support group. It’s not like I’m parachuting into a war zone crawling with Taliban.”
Sawyer’s face is unexpectedly grim as he points to the break room. “Have you met Jane? Luci? Bin Laden’s got nothing on them. I stashed a spare flak jacket in my truck if you need to borrow it.”
He’s joking. But I feel my knees buckle anyway. I should’ve known this would happen. Should’ve seen this day looming weeks ago and canceled tonight’s group. I should’ve called in sick, invoked the phone tree. Or had Luciana fill in for me. I should’ve driven straight home after I’d practically assaulted not-Dakota in the grocery checkout line and spent the night bingeing on peanut butter from the jar.
Sawyer nudges me with his elbow, and I flinch. “Hey, I was just teasing. Say the word, and I’ll pull the fire alarm. We’ll blow this popsicle stand.”
I ponder the small, red rectangle on the wall, my heart pounding like a fist in my chest. Surely, this counts as a fire. I imagine how relieved I’d feel to get back in my car and drive away from this place where I can’t escape who I’ve become. Where I have to speak it out loud and pretend that I’m okay.
“Is this where the Grieving Parents group meets?” The woman addresses me like I’m in charge. Like I know what the hell I’m doing. Like I’m the Lead Basket Case.
I nod at her. “Right in there. We’ll be starting soon.”
Sawyer holds the door as I follow her inside.
****
Luciana pops a blue M&M into her mouth, crushing its fragile shell with her teeth. That murderous crunching is all I can hear even as I talk over it.
“Since we have a few new members tonight, I’d like to do introductions and revisit the two group rules. They’re fairly simple but very important for the success of the group. First, this is a confidential environment. That means what gets said in this room stays in this room. No exceptions. Second, we treat one another with respect.”
Jane eyes Luciana. And Luciana eyes her right back, making another well-timed sacrifice. Yellow, this time. Down the hatch.
“A few months ago, the other members asked me to keep the group running smoothly until we find a new facilitator. I’m trained as a psychologist, but I’m here mainly as a participant. My daughter, Dakota, was murdered just a short while after her fifteenth birthday. Her body was so badly damaged the police couldn’t tell exactly when she died or how. As of today, the investigation is ongoing.”
There. The hard part is over. Somehow, I’d coasted through on autopilot and made it look easy. A credit to my Napa State Hospital days. Because even Luci and Jane can’t compete with the ten murderous psychotics who’d semicircle around me every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at Napa State Hospital, my state-issued alarm clipped to my waist. If I could handle those overmedicated bodies slumped in their chairs with their poor insight and their bad hygiene and their occasional need to whip it out and jack off right there in front of me, this should be a cake walk.
I smile as if I didn’t just splay my chest wide open and let these strangers have a look inside. Then I gesture to Sawyer sitting at my right.
“Grant Sawyer. But everybody calls me Sawyer—or One-Armed Jack. Cyborg works too.” He chuckles as he pulls up his left shirt sleeve, exposing the sleek metal of his prosthetic. But his grin falters, flattens. “My son . . . his name was Noah. He drowned in our pool back in 2010. I was supposed to be watching him. I come to this group because losing Noah is a million times worse than any war wound. And the only people who get that are sitting in this room. You’ve all been downrange with me, right there in the foxhole.”
I start to do it then, as unfair as it is. The ploy I’d never let my Napa patients get away with. I call it the comparison game, and it goes like this: At least Sawyer knows what happened to Noah. At least it wasn’t violent.
Jane sits up straight, rigid in her seat, holding King Louie on her lap. It’s her turn.
“My name is Jane Wiederman, and my husband, Scott, and I have been coming to this group for a year now. Scott couldn’t . . . he isn’t . . . he won’t be coming anymore.”
She lets out a tearful gasp, and Luciana winks at me. I shake my head at her, Jane’s tears a solid confirmation of what I’ve known for a while now. No marriage can survive this. Not Sawyer’s. Not Jane’s. Not even mine. This is a tsunami. And marriages, even the best of them, fall like houses of straw in its wrath.
“We separated last week. He blames me. Oh God. Of course, he does. It was my fault. I-I-I . . .” The rest of it is stuck in her throat, like a toy caught in a baby’s windpipe, and her face reddens with the effort of expelling it.
“She forgot their kid in a hot car,” Luciana finishes for her. “It was supposed to be Scott’s turn to take her to day care, but he had an early morning photo shoot. Right, Jane? Pobrecita.”
“Luci, let Jane tell her own story. As much or as little as she wants to.”
Two green M&Ms and a roll of the eyes, and we’re back on track. Sawyer was right. This is flat-out psychological warfare. And in my own battlefield, the comparison game rolls on: At least I didn’t forget my child.
“I hadn’t been sleeping well,” Jane admits. “I mean, who does with a new baby? And she was so quiet. So quiet. I was supposed to turn right at Cambridge and drop her off at daycare. But I didn’t. I turned left and went to work instead. One wrong turn. That’s why I’m here.”
In the pin-drop quiet that follows, I gesture to the first newbie, a dark-skinned woman with red-rimmed eyes. “Hi. I’m Debbie Baines, and it’s my first time here. Malcolm . . . he was my boy. A good boy. Not into drugs or gangs or any of that shit. He played football for a J.C. in San Francisco. A couple NFL scouts even went up there to check him out. He had real big dreams. Anyway, three months ago, he and his friend got shot outside of a nightclub in the Tenderloin. I told him so many times not to be hanging out with that kid. He was bad news. And you know what happened? Jalen ended up with a flesh wound. My Malcolm took a bullet to the head. Last week, they arrested some gangbanger. A case of mistaken identity.”
Debbie finally pauses, releases a shaky breath. “I didn’t expect to say all that. It’s not the kind of thing you can tell most people without scaring them away.”
“Well, we’re glad to have you here,” I say as Luciana squeezes her hand. I think: At least she knows who. She can stop searching. At least she has a face. A real name. Not a stupid moniker.
The man next to Debbie looks up, slightly stunned, as if he’s surprised to find himself here in this room full of basket cases and sad sacks. He brushes his hair back, fiddles with a silver thumb ring, and rubs a patch of waxy skin that stretches from his hand to his elbow. A burn, I assume. He catches me looking and tugs at the arm of his long-sleeve Star Wars T-shirt.
“Boyd Blackburn,” he says, with a bitter laugh. As if he’s knows I’m pondering
the irony of his name. “Do I have to talk about myself?”
“Not if you don’t want to,” Jane tells him, still sniffling. “I didn’t say anything at first. Scott did all the talking.”
“Alright, then. Maybe next time. I do have a question though.”
The room waits in silence, and Sawyer shifts in his seat, his knee nearly knocking into mine. I don’t trust quiet, he’d told the group a while back. It usually ends with a big fucking boom.
“Fire away, buddy,” he says. “You’re makin’ me nervous.”
“Oh. Sorry. I was wondering if it’s against the rules if I know . . . if I knew . . . one of your children. Would that be a problem?”
Sawyer is right. Boyd’s question detonates through the room with the force of an IED, leaving everyone staggering, slack-jawed, and speechless. Everyone but me. The woman who’d once broken up a fistfight between two men at Napa State, each of whom had been convinced he and he alone was Jesus.
“It shouldn’t be,” I say. “This is an informal support group, so we don’t have any rules about knowing each other or spending time together outside of this space the way a more formal therapy group might.”
And thank God for that. Because in forty minutes I fully intend to shove my tongue down Sawyer’s throat. Again. If he’ll let me. At least the day won’t be a complete loss.
“With that said, it might be easier to answer if you could be more specific. Who is it that you knew, Boyd?”
“I knew her. Dakota. I knew your daughter.”
Sawyer had said he remembered every bit of the explosion that took his arm. The eerie calm before the blast blew all the windows out of the Humvee and ejected him onto the road where he laid in shock, unable to look away from the shard of smooth, white bone protruding from the spot where his elbow used to be. For a solid eight hours after, he’d heard nothing but silence.
That’s how it is for me. I see Luciana’s mouth move—¡Ay, Dios mío! Watch Sawyer’s feet shift toward me. Eventually, he touches my arm.
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