by J K Franko
It had been a day just like this one. Bright and clear. The air filled with the afterburn of jet fumes, he had boarded this same flight: Austin to Miami. Everything had been fine in Austin. When he’d touched down in Miami, the world as he knew it had changed, forever.
Coming home.
The police car parked in front of the house.
The officers in the living room.
Susie lying catatonic on the sofa.
Him gripping the phone with white knuckles, his mind scrabbling for the right words to explain everything to Susie’s parents.
From that point forward, it seemed that everything moved in slow motion. Most of it was now a blur, with the exception of the agonizing task of identifying Camilla’s body. That was something he’d had to do alone because Susie was in no fit state to do so. And, to be fair, it was something that Roy managed to do with admirable dignity. It was only after he’d left the soul-crushing, gray government building and reached the parking lot that he collapsed against his car in a heap of convulsive sobs.
He was thankful that Susie hadn’t seen her. Camilla’s rosy cheeks and youthful dimples had been unrecognizable. Never to be seen again. He’d been sickened when he saw her, just as he was when he held her hand one last time only to find it stiff and cold. He was repulsed by his daughter. He felt guilt at his repulsion. Shame.
Roy had many memories, cherished images, of Camilla growing up. First steps, learning to ride a bicycle, her first date. It seemed so unfair for all of those images to culminate in a final, grotesque mental snapshot of her lying in the morgue.
Still, he pushed forward, and planned. He made lists: write obituary, contact family, select funeral home, choose coffin—a closed casket, of course. It couldn’t be anything else.
He visited Camilla’s school, clearing out her locker before they even had the chance to send her personal items to him, all the time ignoring the furtive glances from students and teachers. He’d canceled dental appointments, discovered her blouses mixed in with the dry cleaning, opened and dealt with all her mail.
What had been hardest for him was Camilla’s iPhone. He’d brought it home as a part of her personal effects. Left it plugged in on the kitchen counter. The next morning, as he drank coffee, the notifications began to ping and they continued to do so for days as Camilla’s friends exchanged messages in group chats she was once a part of. To unplug it meant letting her go. He couldn’t do it. Yet, every ping was a cutting reminder that she was gone and that the world continued to turn without her.
Without her. Forever. Life marched on.
Roy remembered how Susie had been, right after. At first, just silent. For days.
He found solace in working long hours. Susie just stayed in bed. The longer he worked, the less he saw of her, and the deeper the chasm between them became.
Then, after about a month, came the anger. How crazy she’d gotten.
Bareto was in a coma, but Camilla was six feet underground.
Bareto survived, but their baby was dead.
The angrier she got, the more he drank. To cope. To anesthetize himself.
And then came the accusations. Susie began to spin out of control.
Camilla was gone because of him. It was his fault.
If only they hadn’t moved to Miami.
If only he hadn’t bought her the car.
If only they’d lived near the horse stables.
If only...
When Bareto finally succumbed to his injuries, Susie’s anger subsided enough that she could listen to reason. She started therapy. Slowly, she began to improve. Bit by bit, she reclaimed her former self. He’d done everything he could to support her. To support them. To keep their marriage alive. He was not going to let this end them.
“Are you okay, sir?”
Roy jolted back into the present, to the whine of the aircraft as it prepped for departure, and looked up into the face of a blonde flight attendant.
“I’m fine,” he croaked. Then, clearing his throat, he repeated, “I’m fine.”
“I’m going to need you to switch that to airplane mode for me,” the flight attendant said, nodding at the smartphone in his hands.
“I have. It is,” he lied.
Then, as the flight attendant walked away, he quickly opened Messenger and sent a text.
“Blog post perfect. Love you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next day, I tuned in to Susie’s radio interview, mainly to see how she was coping with the dreaded anniversary. It went well overall, though the way the interview ended was unsettling.
The show is called Veronica in the Morning, and it normally involves Veronica Rios hosting a panel of journalists who comment on the news of the week.
Although Susie studied law, she went into journalism after law school and eventually ended up working in television—first in Austin and later in Miami. It was in the early 2000s that Susie Font made her mark as an investigative reporter by scooping a story exposing the Gang of Seven, a group of corrupt politicians and South Florida land developers.
The story exposed her to a lot of heat as the politicians fought to cover up their scheme and identify Susie’s sources, even to the point that her offices were raided by police and computer and paper files were confiscated. They didn’t find anything useful because Susie had learned early in her career the importance of covering her digital tracks. In fact, Susie’s technical skills are exceptional, but more on that later.
The Gang of Seven story also won her the respect of her peers. This credibility later added weight to her advocacy work against texting while driving. Her blog had won her a legion of fans, many of whom had also suffered loss.
Susie’s credibility was one of the reasons why she had been offered the tail ten-minute slot on Veronica Rios’ show as a special guest. That and the fact that the two women were old friends.
Veronica began the interview by touching sufficiently and delicately on Susie’s own tragedy, to provide the necessary context. They talked about the three-year anniversary and the weight that particular date held for both Susie and, no doubt, the Bareto family.
The interview went well. Susie was passionate but professional, grief-stricken yet hopeful.
At the end of the segment, Veronica opened the show to calls from listeners. Several people called in to share their own stories—some tragic, some with happier endings. A few called simply to thank Susie for her advocacy work.
The last caller was different.
“We have time for one more caller,” Veronica said. “You are on the air.”
“Hello. This is Liz Bareto, Liam Bareto’s mother.”
First, Susie went cold. Lightheaded. This was one call she hadn’t been prepared to take. Then, anger kicked in. She felt blood rush to her cheeks and ears. Her heart began to pound in her chest.
Had Veronica set her up?
She felt ambushed, and looked at Veronica questioningly, then silently swiped a hand across her throat.
Veronica widened her eyes. She held her hands up before her defensively, shaking her head. This hadn’t been her idea. She was as surprised as Susie.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Bareto.” Then, adding a suitably sympathetic tone to her voice, she added, “Let me just say, on behalf of all of us here, how very sorry we are for your loss.” She glanced at Susie who was slowly shaking her head, staring daggers at her.
“I mean that, while attention is, quite naturally, focused on the victims of texting and driving—we very much appreciate that you too have suffered a loss.”
“Thank you, Veronica. I certainly sympathize with Ms. Font and admire the work that she is doing, but I’d like your listeners to know that I don’t think it was texting that killed my son.”
As Mrs. Bareto spoke, Susie screwed her face up and made a scissor-snipping gesture at Veronica, who acknowledge
d her friend with a nod, but stopped short of taking action, trying to salvage the call.
“My son was injured as a result of that accident, but his prognosis was good. His condition was improving before he died, and I would like to ask—”
“Mrs. Bareto,” Veronica interrupted, “we’re really trying to focus on the broader issue of texting while driving. I’d rather not get into the actual details of how this has affected you and Ms. Font personally. Perhaps, on another show we could ask you both to—”
“But, Veronica, I feel it’s important that your listeners hear the truth, and if you’d just hear me out, maybe they can help me. I have—”
“Again, Mrs. Bareto—”
“—tried everything, but the police—”
“Mrs. Bareto, I understand—”
The back and forth continued for thirty more agonizing seconds, during which Mrs. Bareto tried to talk about her son and his autopsy. Veronica tried to steer the call to the topic at hand, but Mrs. Bareto was relentless. Finally, Veronica gave up and signaled to her sound engineer to cut the call.
The line went dead.
“Mrs. Bareto... Mrs. Bareto, thank you so much for taking the time to talk to us today, but I’m afraid we’re out of time. Before we go, I’d like to thank our special guest, Susie Font, for sharing your story with us along with all of the amazing work you’ve been doing to raise awareness. That’s all for today from me, Veronica in the Morning. And, of course, if you’re driving while listening to today’s show, put that phone away!”
After wrapping and thanking the crew, Veronica led Susie to her office and shut the door.
“Susie, I had no idea she was calling in. I swear.”
“I believe you, Roni.” Susie sighed, putting her interview notes in her purse.
“I would never do that to you.” Veronica opened the window and lit up a cigarette, offering Susie one, who declined. “What’s up with her?”
“Long story. Short version, she’s crazy. Her son’s injuries were critical. But, she’s deluded herself into thinking that he was on the road to recovery. She just wants someone to blame.”
“For what? He was the one texting and driving.”
“Exactly. It was all his fault. He caused a head-on collision. He was in a coma for a few months. And then he died. I feel for her, but she’s... ” Susie caught her breath. She realized that she was more agitated than she’d thought. She reached out, indicating the cigarette, and Veronica leaned over and handed it to her. Susie took a deep drag and held it, handing back the cigarette. She looked out the window for few seconds and forced calm into her voice. She exhaled smoke, and said, “She’s trying to find a scapegoat. I suppose it’s her way of dealing with it all. She’s relentless.”
Susie picked her purse up off Veronica’s desk. “And she’s been pedaling that autopsy shit for a while now. Claims her son died of something other than the injuries from the wreck.”
“From what?”
“Fuck if I know, Roni. I don’t think even she knows. Something about needle marks on his arm. I never got the details. She’s nuts.”
Susie looked at Veronica with teary eyes. “She scares me. Actually showed up at our house once and wouldn’t leave. We had to call the police, get a restraining order... ”
Veronica’s eyes widened as she released a puff of smoke through the slit in the window, and put out the cigarette. “For real? Oh, you poor thing. As if you haven’t been through enough.”
“Tell me about it.”
There was an awkward silence as the sound of traffic outside pushed its way in through the open window. The two women looked at each other.
“Anyway, Roni. Thank you so much for this,” Susie said, hugging her friend.
“No worries. Great show, girl. You ever think of coming back? TV, not radio; I don’t need the competition... ”
CHAPTER NINE
Susie left the radio station and went home. She changed into running clothes—lululemon tights, jogging bra, a loose top, and a pair of Asics—and went for a run. A fast-paced three-mile loop on historic Old Cutler Road was what she needed. She felt wound up after the interview. At first, she thought it was anger at hearing from Liz Bareto. But something else was niggling at her. She wasn’t sure what, but she felt frustrated, off-kilter, and she needed to burn off steam.
Old Cutler Road is a beautiful, winding thoroughfare framed by monstrous banyan trees. The branches of the prehistoric-looking banyans meet and mix over the two-lane road, forming a canopy that makes it feel as though the road runs through a tunnel of foliage. Impressive is an understatement. How many streets do you know that have their own Wikipedia page?
Susie and Roy live in a small, private subdivision off of Old Cutler Road called Lago Beach. Eighteen houses make up the neighborhood. Each on more than an acre. A few—like theirs—with direct access to the water.
Their house is big, a traditional Mediterranean-style home with wrought iron balcony railings, Spanish barrel tile roof, and limestone accents. The house is off-white with ivy growing up along the tower wall.
As Susie left their home and ran down Old Cutler, she thought about Liz Bareto’s latest intrusion into her life. The pounding of her feet and heart and her rhythmic breathing got her into a sort of meditative state. She thought about Camilla, Roy, and herself. As she did, she began to see things more clearly. And a realization began to take shape in her head.
Upon returning from her run, she got herself a bottle of water and went out back behind the house to sit on the dock and think. Their dock is large, spanning over 120 feet of waterfront. The waters below are full of sea life, and Susie often went there when she needed to be alone. She loved the tranquility.
She sat on the edge of the dock in the twenty-foot section between their two boats. Susie and Roy have a thirty-six-foot fishing boat and a fifty-five-foot yacht. As a family, they’d spent their fair share of time on the water, fishing, lounging, exploring the Bahamas. After they lost Camilla, both boats just sat there, idle. Monuments to their grief.
Susie noticed that she had several missed calls from Roy. But she was ignoring them, for now. She needed some alone time to process what she’d been thinking, to put all the pieces of her realization together. To decide what it meant.
In order for you to understand Susie’s reasoning, there is something you should know about her. I’ve shared quite a bit about Roy so far, but not so much about her. It’s important to me that, by the time we’re finished, you know everything there is to know about them both—or at least everything I know.
One thing that you come to appreciate, as a parent, is just how much of your child’s personality is hardwired at birth. Some boys are athletic and others bookish, no matter how much their parents try to influence them. Similarly, some girls love playing dress-up with dolls while others prefer tree climbing and slingshots.
As a child, Susie loved baby dolls. She had the little stroller, playpen, baby bottles, and even the diapers. Babies fascinated her. She played with these toys incessantly until her brother, Chris, was born. Then, at the age of six, she gave up all of her baby toys and focused her attention on her baby brother to the point that her parents called her “mini-mom.”
Susie grew into a smart, capable woman: law school graduate, respected journalist. But there’s no mistaking the fact that she finds fulfillment in children. She is maternal. In my opinion, this maternal side to her is and always has been part of her nature.
Fate, being the cruel bastard it is, targeted this maternal element of Susie’s. And no, I’m not just referring to the loss of Camilla. It’s more complicated than that.
When Susie married Roy, her maternal instincts kicked in. She wanted nothing more than to start a family. The subject wasn’t something the two discussed at length. She simply stopped taking birth control, and he was fine with that.
Susie started a fertil
ity calendar. She regularly tracked her cycle, ovulation, timed sex, and followed every tip on conception that her research yielded. Yet, month after month, breathless anticipation and cautious excitement culminated in a negative pregnancy test.
She knew that being unable to conceive for a few months was perfectly normal. All her research confirmed this. After six months, she began to worry. After twelve, Roy noticed a shift in her mood. She became withdrawn, distant, and when he finally confronted her, she broke down and confessed what she had come to believe, that she was in some way “defective.” Roy did his best to assuage his wife, but after two more months with no results, they went to a doctor, a fertility specialist.
They got tested, confirming Susie’s fears. Her condition was diagnosed as polycystic ovarian syndrome—a hormonal imbalance that makes conception difficult. PCOS is not uncommon; one in ten women have it. The good news is that it can be treated. In vitro fertilization is a common, successful solution to PCOS-related infertility.
On their second attempt at IVF, Susie conceived.
She felt like they had cheated fate.
They kept the news to themselves through the first trimester, though Susie immediately went into nesting mode: decorating the nursery, buying things she would need for the hospital and to wear on delivery day, compiling lists of suitable preschools. She checked her belly in the mirror daily to see if she was showing.
She was ecstatic.
Then came the shocker. More good news. At her twelve-week check-up, they were thrilled to learn that Susie was carrying not one, but two babies. During the sonogram, they heard the two little heartbeats, a sound Susie described as “two underwater choo-choo trains racing each other.” Six weeks later, they were told that the two choo-choos were going to be a boy and a girl.
In bed at night, Susie would hold the scratchy black-and-white-framed sonograms she kept on her bedside table and admire her little ones. She was grateful to whatever in the cosmos was responsible for their blessing, all the while trying to process the fact that, in just eighteen weeks, she had gone from thinking of herself as a barren, “defective” woman to being six months away from holding her own little boy and girl.
