by Greta Boris
She escaped and was hidden by an anchoress in the cell that would later become her home. In the anchorhold, her wealth and status were left behind. She became an equal to the people outside the walls. By imprisoning herself she found freedom from Mammon's lure.
From the first draft of She Watches - An Anchoress Perspective by Abigail Travers
***
ABBY OPENED HER eyes and closed them again. They burned. Her mouth was dry, her skin brittle. She felt like she'd been lost in the Mojave for a week. She coughed, rolled onto her side, and tried to return to sleep. But all the burned and frayed pieces of her new reality circled through her mind.
Her eyes fluttered open. Flowered curtains framed a small window set in a white wall. Two or three feet to the right of the window, a Shakira poster was stuck up with thumbtacks. Underneath that was a dresser covered with a crocheted lace doily. A statue of the Virgin Mary gazed mildly at Shakira from its top. This room was a memorial to the early years of Miranda Rojo, Carlos's sister. Abby's own childhood bedroom was uninhabitable.
Carlos had picked Abby up from the hospital last night after she'd been run through a battery of tests and was cleared to go. Her father hadn't been as lucky. He'd inhaled more of the noxious gases than she had and was still on oxygen. They'd be keeping him under observation for the next forty-eight hours.
The only good thing about that was it gave her a few days to figure out where and how they were going to live while the house was being cleaned, deodorized, and secured. Abby had a perfectly good apartment to go home to, but she couldn't bring her dad there. It was much too small. Besides, Sharona would have a fit.
Carlos's mother, Connie, wanted them to stay with her. Which would be a good solution except Abby didn't want to make things more awkward for Carlos than they already were. He'd been wonderful through all of this, but he'd done enough. They weren't married. They weren't engaged. And, she was fairly certain he didn't want to be, not after everything that had happened.
It was time to establish boundaries, for his sake. To let him back away from his proposal gracefully. He shouldn't feel obligated to take care of her because of their past.
She put a hand on the bedside table and pawed around for her phone. One of the EMTs had found it and her purse on the grass and brought them to her before the ambulance drove away. Thank God for small favors.
She checked the time, rolled onto her back and groaned. She wanted to pull the covers over her head and sink into oblivion, but she couldn't. She had too much to do.
She sat up and groaned again. Pain shot through her back. She'd injured herself on a skiing trip in Big Bear City two years ago. Her back had never been the same. Lifting her father had pushed its limits.
A chair in the corner of the room held a pair of jeans and a pale blue t-shirt with "Sarcasm Is an Art" printed on it. Her own clothes were gone, maybe forever. She doubted any amount of washing would get the stink out. She'd shampooed her hair three times last night, and it still smelled faintly of smoke.
Miranda's old jeans were tight, low and boot cut. The t-shirt was tight and low too. But everything fit. Abby wandered downstairs. Mariachi music and delicious aromas flowed from the kitchen.
Connie turned away from the stove as Abby entered. She was a petite, bird-like woman, with bright eyes and closely cropped graying hair. "You look like a teenager in Randy's old clothes."
Abby eased herself into a chair. "I don't feel like one."
"It was a very brave thing you did last night." Connie cracked two eggs into a frying pan.
"I don't know. You'd have done the same."
Connie gave her a quick nod, acknowledging the truth of the words. Family was everything to Connie. "I'm making you huevos rancheros. You need to eat."
Abby's stomach rumbled. "Sounds great." She glanced at the clock on the wall; it was 7:15. Carlos must be at work already. "I'm not the only one eating, am I?"
"Carlos left a long time ago, and I already had breakfast. So, yes, you are the only one eating."
"You shouldn't—"
Connie waved a spatula at her. "Stop. Stop. I love to cook. You know that. You're doing me a favor when you eat my food."
"Thank you," Abby said.
"For what?"
"For everything. For taking me in last night. For the clothes. For breakfast."
"Corazon, you are family." That's what Carlos had said—that she and her father were family. But they weren't. Not really. "So tell me, what is your father's favorite meal? I want to make something special for him his first night here."
Connie assumed her dad would stay with her. Abby wanted to protest, but honestly she couldn't think of any place for him to go. Connie placed a steaming plate in front of her and took a seat across the table. "I can make American food as good as I make Mexican."
Abby pierced a fried egg with her fork and watched the golden yolk flow over a mass of pinto beans. "You don't mind putting him up? It will only be until we can get the house in livable condition."
"How many times do I have to tell you? I want your father to come and stay. It will be nice to have someone to talk to, someone to cook for. Carlos is so busy, and Randy only comes once a week since she had the baby. I'm lonely."
Connie was an intelligent, educated woman, but she came from a generation and a culture in which women were expected to stay home and care for the family. Abby was sure her life was full and busy when Carlos and Miranda were growing up and when Manuel was still alive. But things had changed. Maybe it would be a blessing for Connie to have Abby’s dad there for a while.
"He likes just about everything. I guess barbecued ribs are his favorite," Abby said. Connie rose, took a pad and pencil from a drawer, and began making a grocery list. She hummed along with the music coming from the radio, stopping every so often to ask Abby's opinion about side dishes and snack options.
When Abby had eaten half the food on her plate, which was twice as much as she usually ate, she pushed away from the table. "I have to go," she said. "I promised Dad I'd stop by the Mission booth and help set up since he can't."
Connie frowned and eyed her critically. "Doesn't the Mission have someone else who can do that? Someone whose house didn't just burn up?"
Abby gave her a wan smile. "Honestly, it seems like more work to find someone else, than it does to go myself. Besides I can't face the house yet."
Carlos’s family home was walking distance from the Mercado Street Faire. As Abby trudged up the street, she pulled her sweatshirt—actually Miranda's sweatshirt—tighter around her. The morning was chilly. Carlos was supposed to meet her at the Mission booth around 8:30. As soon as things quieted down and she could leave, he was going to drive her to her father's house. Thinking about what she would find there made her feel sick. Last night all she'd cared about was her father's safety. But now that she knew he'd recover, the full weight of what they'd lost was heavy.
She couldn't imagine how the fire had started. She knew she hadn't left the stove on. It was possible one of the appliances had a short and started an electrical fire, but it seemed unlikely. The appliances were all fairly new.
A thought, one she kept shoving away, niggled at her. What if her father had put something on the stove, returned to his chair and fallen asleep? He'd been so drowsy and disoriented since the accident. What if forgetfulness and narcolepsy were the new normal? She'd have to keep a close eye on him. Maybe move in with him permanently.
Either way, she'd find out soon enough. Arson investigators were combing through the debris this morning. Whatever their findings, she'd deal with it. Meanwhile, a job that didn't require thinking was just what Abby needed. There would be a mountain of decisions to climb in the weeks ahead. She wasn't up to the task this morning.
***
All outdoor events smelled and sounded the same, kettlecorn and hotdogs set to the tune of inflating bounce houses. The Mercado Street Faire was no different. Abby pulled one of the boxes a staff member had just dropped off out from under a t
able and opened it. Inside were decorative rosary beads in plastic bags and a stand to display them on.
As she arranged the items, she glanced down the aisle of booths, looking for Carlos. It was only 8:15, but she was feeling anxious.
She'd decided when he arrived, she'd tell him her father would be staying with him and his mother, but Abby would go to her apartment. She'd tell him she was thankful for his help last night and for all the other things he'd done for them. And, although he was driving her to the house and her car this morning, that was it. She was going to start managing things on her own. It was time to wean herself off him.
She loved him and she'd miss him. But if he was having trouble accepting her for who she was before all this happened, she couldn't imagine he still wanted to marry her. Not now. Not after all this.
She bent, stowed the box she'd emptied under the table and grabbed another. When she stood, she saw Detective Sylla striding up the row of kiosks toward her. Abby's pulse quickened. What now?
"Ms. Travers," Sylla said when she got close enough to be heard.
"How did you know I was here?"
The detective looked surprised by the question. "Carlos Rojo picked you up last night. I assumed he took you home with him under the circumstances. I stopped by there, and Mrs. Rojo told me you were here."
"That's a lot of effort. It must be important."
Sylla's face softened, and she looked almost human for a moment. "Sorry about the fire. Glad you and your dad made it out okay."
"Thank you," Abby said. "But that's not why you're here."
"No. Just wanted to make sure your father wasn't planning to recuperate in Switzerland, or someplace. We'll need to talk to him when he's well enough."
"I don't get it." Abby's temper flared. Her fuse was shortened by fatigue and trauma. Sylla here, so soon after what had happened, burned right through it. "He's told you, I've told you, everything. We've implicated ourselves in a crime, a small one, but vagrancy is a crime. I don't know what more we can say."
"There's a bit of new information," Sylla said.
"What kind of new information?" Abby was too exhausted and too angry to feel nervous.
"A witness."
"A witness to what?"
"Afraid I can't say more now, but I wanted to let you know." Sylla smiled, it almost seemed sympathetic. "One more thing. It's not official yet, but it appears the fire may have been arson. Looks like someone started a pile of combustibles in the middle of the kitchen floor."
Abby's raspy throat constricted. Panic boomeranged through her chest. Arson? "Someone tried to kill Dad?"
Sylla tapped a finger on the table. "Too soon to say. But I thought you'd want to stay alert." She turned from the booth.
"Wait." Abby almost screamed the word. "Wait, aren't you going to do anything? Aren't you going to protect him? Someone has tried to kill him twice now."
"He's safely tucked up in hospital. We'll know more by the time he's released. If he needs watching, we'll watch him."
"This must make you see he's innocent."
The detective stared at her shoes for a long moment. "He's not the only person of interest in the case."
"Thank God for that. I'm telling you, whoever left the girl at the Mission thinks my father saw them do it. They're trying to get rid of him so he can't I.D. them."
"That's one theory."
"One theory?" Abby's voice rose. "It's the only theory that fits the facts."
"I can think of at least one more."
"What? Why else would someone want him dead?"
Sylla shrugged. "Revenge?" Abby couldn't speak. "I came by to let you know about the arson just in case theory number one is correct. Be careful."
She watched Sylla walk away in disbelief. The woman was a pit bull. Once she got her jaws on something, she didn't let go.
She wasn't sure how long she'd stood like that, staring at the detective's retreating back and then at the space it had occupied. But at some point, she became aware of Tallulah rushing toward her. Colorful fabric fluttered around her like the wings of an exotic bird.
"Honey, what are you doing here? You've got enough on your plate. I've got this." She picked up a box, set it on a table, and began unpacking it.
"I need the distraction," Abby said.
"Lord knows, I love your father, but he isn't the easiest man in the world," Tallulah said, without acknowledging Abby's words. "Not even when he's in the pink. I can imagine what he's like when he's recuperating." She bustled around the booth, straightening things Abby had already arranged.
"You haven't heard then," Abby said.
"Heard what, honey?"
"Dad is in the hospital."
Tallulah stopped her work, her hands mid-flutter, and pivoted to face Abby. "What are you talking about?" She seemed genuinely shocked.
"Someone tried to burn down our house last night."
"Is he okay?"
"He will be."
"Who would do a thing like that?"
"It's a long story."
Tallulah folded her slender arms and leaned against a table. "I got nothing but time."
Abby hesitated. Could she trust Tallulah? She was one of the people who knew her father was a witness to the events of the Mission that night. She had a son the right age.
"Honey." Tallulah's voice was tender. "Let me help."
Something broke inside Abby. The wall of wariness she'd so carefully constructed around herself and her father cracked. She needed help. She needed comfort. She had to trust someone besides Carlos, or she'd never be able to let go of him.
She told Tallulah everything, about the attempts on her father's life, her book, the anchorhold, her father going to the police when it should have been her, and Sylla's insinuations that her father had held the girl and possibly even Abby captive.
Tallulah didn't say anything for several long moments. When she finally did, her voice was low. "Honey, that is the strangest story I've heard in a long time. Whatever put it in your precious head to do such a crazy thing?"
"I. . . I wanted to understand those women. To feel what they must have felt. Be closer to the Divine." Abby heard the words as if someone else had spoken them.
Tallulah snorted. "I don't think locking yourself up, away from other people is what the Divine had in mind when He made us. It might be less messy, but living is a messy business."
The truth of those words struck Abby like a blow. Locking herself up had caused her to become dependent, not independent. A curse, not a blessing. Because of her, her selfishness, her father was in the hospital, his home in ruins, and a person of interest in a police case. Tears welled up in her eyes.
Tallulah's face filled with compassion. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry. I don't mean to judge you." She opened her arms, and Abby walked into them. Tallulah murmured comforting words and smoothed Abby's hair while she cried.
"Everything okay?" It was Carlos's voice.
Abby pulled away from Tallulah and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Sylla came by. They think the fire was arson."
"You’re kidding?"
Abby shook her head.
"Of course you're not kidding. Sorry." He gave her a hug. "This must convince her your father's not guilty of all the stuff she accused him of. Right?"
"Wrong," Abby said. "She thinks the attempts could be motivated by revenge."
"Revenge for what?"
"Holding the girl captive, I guess. I don't know what she's thinking. She said she has new information, but she wouldn't say what it was."
Tallulah said, "I think it's time to get your father the best lawyer you can find, and I'm gonna pray. It will work out, you'll see. Your father is a good man. The best. They're not going to be able to prove any of this."
Abby wanted to believe her, but she was afraid. She reached for another box, too spent to talk anymore. The three of them worked together in silence until all the merchandise was on display.
Tallulah pushed the last empty box under a
table with the toe of her shoe. "I heard something funny last week. It might not be anything."
"The police are really good at turning nothing into something," Carlos said.
"What is it?" Abby said.
"Steven and an Asian lady were working on the roses. I was sitting on that bench in the central courtyard, the one under the bougainvillea."
Abby nodded. She knew the one.
"I don't think they saw me. Anyway, Steven had heard someone having a big old conversation with himself, and it scared him. He thought, at first, the man was mentally disturbed. Dangerous maybe."
"Did he say who the man was?" Carlos said.
"No. But the woman said she thought the guy was talking to the swallows. The swallows. That's what made me think about your dad, Abby. Could they have seen you two talking through your little window?"
Abby's mind flooded with the memory of Steven and Mimi's concerned faces as they stood on the path near her squint. "Yes. Yes, they did. We had a rule. Dad never came to the anchorhold when the Mission was open, only after dark. But he was very upset that day. We were arguing."
"So, you think this guy is the new witness?" Carlos said.
"It could be," Abby said. "It was awkward. Dad told them he was practicing for a talk he had to give to the Swallows Day committee. But I wondered at the time if they'd bought it."
"But why come forward now? Why not when it happened?" Tallulah turned her palms up, as if hoping the answer would drop into them. "If I didn't know the police were looking at your father for that crime, surely volunteers wouldn't know."
"Maybe it was Mimi. Maybe she's seen the cops coming and going from Dad's house, and it put ideas into her head," Abby said.
"Mimi?" Carlos narrowed his eyes.
"She was the Asian woman with Steven," Abby said. "It was the first time I saw her, but Dad knew her. Mentioned they were neighbors."
Carlos looked like he was going to be ill.
"What?" Abby said.
"Yesterday, Mimi was asking about Paul. I told her your dad built the room." Abby tensed. "It wasn't a secret. Everybody at the Mission knew that." He looked into Abby's eyes. "But I also told her the police thought someone had been living in it. I didn't tell her it was you. But she jumped to the conclusion it had something to do with the dead girl."
