Devon turned to Marley. “I think there’s more painter’s tape down in the basement if you and Aimee want to go check. It should be in one of the drawers by the work bench.” She turned and smiled at Aimee. “I think there might even be different colours.”
Aimee’s eyes brightened but then she glanced at Carla.
“Go ahead, pet. You can go in the basement as long as an adult is with you.”
Aimee leapt off the stool and ran to the basement door, followed by Marley.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get your messages today,” Devon said once the kitchen was quiet.
Carla scraped the chunks of cucumber into a bowl and twisted a bright red tomato off a cluster on the vine.
“I’m sorry I called you. I shouldn’t have done that when you’re just getting back to work.”
Devon watched her work, trying to decipher what was driving her anger.
“I’m not upset,” she said. Carla still didn’t look up. “Not about you calling or about the redecorating or the tape. I’m not upset about you being here and everything that means.”
Carla grunted and sliced through the tomatoes with grim efficiency.
“Marley said there was a letter,” Devon said.
Carla didn’t respond as she added the diced tomatoes to the bowl. She opened the fridge, pulled out a container of feta, and slammed it on the counter. Then she closed her eyes and took a long breath in and exhaled slowly.
“Randolph sent me a letter through his lawyer. Marley says she’s unsure how it got here since it’s not postmarked, and it didn’t come through regular mail. He wants to see Aimee and says he’s going to testify at some family court that I’m unfit to raise Aimee. He’s going to use his own childhood as evidence I was neglectful.”
Devon sorted through the information. None of it sounded right, the family court, Randolph’s credibility as a witness, the accusation of Carla’s neglect.
“What do you think is really behind it?”
Carla kept her focus on the plastic container of feta, ripping off the plastic seal and slamming the lid on the counter.
“My anger is telling me it’s payback for keeping him from his father when he was a kid.” Carla looked up, still clutching the feta container in her hand. “Did you know he started calling Family and Children’s Services when he was eleven years old because I wouldn’t let him contact his dad? He’d proven over and over he had no interest in kids, and I had a restraining order against him because he’d endangered the lives of my two children on more than one occasion. Took them to casinos and biker bars. He was a horrible person, a horrible parent. But Randolph didn’t want to hear that. Randolph always thought his dad’s life sounded glamorous.”
Carla snorted and looked down, still clutching the feta container. She seemed to shake herself, a release of the past or guilt, Devon wasn’t sure. Devon watched as Carla pulled out a hunk of feta and started slicing neat rectangles until she was finished. “I think he’s trying to get Aimee away from us so she can’t tell us what she knows.”
Aimee and Marley stomped up the basement stairs. Devon smiled at Aimee, then glanced at Carla’s face. Her expression had gone blank, as if she’d disappeared her anger and her worries and had nothing left.
Aimee stood at the top of the stairs, clutching three more rolls of painter’s tape in her arms. She seemed worried, looking at Carla.
“We’ve all got some worries today,” Devon said to everyone. “Some things we’re finding hard.”
Aimee nodded gravely then looked back at Carla. She put down her rolls of tape on the counter, then wrapped her arms around Carla’s middle and squeezed. Devon watched Carla hesitate for only a moment, her eyes shuttering closed. Then she reached a hand back and stroked Aimee’s hair.
“We’re okay, sweet one. We’re all okay.”
Aimee tucked her head under her grandmother’s arm.
“Let Grandma get supper on the table, and then you can choose what we do tonight, okay?”
Another nod from Aimee, then a tighter squeeze and Aimee let go.
Marley picked up the tape, a blue roll this time and held it up to Devon.
“How do you feel about tape poetry in your kitchen?”
Devon smiled. “I feel pretty great about it.”
Marley held out a roll to Aimee. “Your pick, Squirt. Let’s start with our names.”
Devon and Carla worked side by side as Marley and Aimee turned pieces of tape into colourful words along the wall by the table. By the time dinner was ready, tension had eased, though not disappeared. Aimee dragged Devon and Carla over to see their words. They’d taped out all their names, then the words okay, worried, together, candy, spin, blue, yum, and stay.
Once they were seated, Carla said, “I would like to say grace tonight, if that’s okay.”
Devon probably didn’t hide her surprise well but she and Marley both said “of course” at the same time.
Aimee looked curious as everyone held hands around the table. Instead of bowing her head, though, Carla read their names and the words on the wall, making it seem like a sweet plea to the world. Carla smiled at Aimee, and she beamed back. Then the four of them ate dinner together.
Chapter Thirteen
Marley knocked on the door of the small, two-story house with white siding, then she took a step down and waited. She’d contacted Mikayla that morning, surprised and relieved she was back at her parents’ house, reunited with her daughter and recovering from the overdose and side effects of withdrawal from opioid Z. Marley hadn’t been able to forget Mikayla, and even though she couldn’t explain to Simms how this meeting was going to help their investigation in any way, here she was.
Mikayla answered the door, her face puffy and pale and her smile shy.
“Hi, Mikayla. It’s good to see you again.”
“Hi,” Mikayla said, her voice quiet. “Come in.”
Marley stepped into the house, the smell of breakfast and burned coffee in the air. Mikayla’s parents lived in a working-class area of Hamilton that swung between families and transients, depending on the decade. Marley knew it as a generally quiet neighbourhood.
“Ava is at school, and my parents are at work, so it’s just me,” Mikayla said, leading Marley into the kitchen.
“Thanks for letting me disrupt your day. I wanted to check in and see how you were doing.”
Mikayla indicated the table, a covered butter dish, salt and pepper sitting atop a patterned cloth in the centre. Marley sat down, and Mikayla twisted her hands nervously.
“Would you like anything to drink? I could make you some coffee or tea?”
“Are you a coffee drinker?” Marley asked instead of an answer, trying to figure out how to put this young woman at ease.
Mikayla shook her head. “No. I’ve been trying different teas, though. Right now I like chai tea.” She blushed and looked down at her hands.
“I’d love to try that, if you don’t mind.”
Mikayla walked to the sink to fill up the plug-in kettle, and Marley looked around. The house was neat, signs of a young child in the drawings on the fridge, a fleece hoodie draped over a chair, and a stuffed elephant with a tea towel draped over its head on the counter.
“I imagine Ava was happy to see you when you came home.”
Mikayla smiled. “Not as happy as I was to see her. I think Ava thought I was just at work for a really long time.”
“I guess kids don’t have much concept of time.”
“Thankfully, no,” Mikayla said, her smile slipping. “And I’m lucky my parents took me back in.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “I lost my job and can’t afford to pay rent. So, we’re back here.”
“How are you feeling these days? You were in pretty rough shape last time I saw you.”
“Worn out. The combination of the rash and the hallucinations was…awful. Really awful. Nothing worked, so we just had to wait for it to get out of my system.”
“Sounds like you pushed through a rough time,” Marley sa
id.
“Do you know what it is yet? The other guy who talked to me, the Board of Health guy or whatever, he said they were tracking it as a new drug.”
“We don’t know much,” Marley said. “We know it’s an opioid with side effects that begin on withdrawal and not before. We’re still trying to figure out the rest.”
The whistle of the kettle interrupted her, and Mikayla prepared the tea. Marley thought she looked troubled when she returned.
“The guy who sold it to me, he’s sort of a friend.” Mikayla looked nervous, as if expecting Marley’s judgement or condemnation. “I know that’s weird. He doesn’t actually sell drugs anymore, he hasn’t for a long time. He only got them off his cousin for me. When I asked for them.”
“You said his name was Jaxon,” Marley said.
“Yeah.”
“Jaxon likes you.”
Mikayla smiled shyly. “He came to see me after I was in the hospital. Was super upset, said he didn’t know it would make me sick. And he said he didn’t care if I never spoke to him again, he wasn’t going to do anything that might hurt me.”
“Sounds like he’s trying to be a good friend.”
Mikayla poured the tea into two white mugs with a design of ivy curling up the sides.
“Jaxon said something weird the other day. He asked if Ava was okay, if she’d had the rash or gotten sick or anything. He was really worried. He said if something had happened to my daughter because of him, he’d never forgive himself.”
Marley felt her spine tighten at Mikayla’s words. She took a small sip of her tea before she asked her next question.
“Why do you think he was worried about Ava?”
“Partly because he’s a good guy. But I think his cousin told him something about the drug.” She fiddled with the spoon in front of her. “Jaxon said when he found out I was in the hospital, he went to his cousin’s. He was super mad his cousin had given him something that would hurt me. His cousin said it was experimental. That he was just a…preceptor or something?”
“A prospector?”
“Yeah, like these guys had given him these new drugs for cheap, and he was supposed to hand them out, get people interested, see what the reaction was.” Mikayla looked into her mug, her expression blank. “I guess we saw what the reaction was.”
Marley felt a little sick. The idea of prospecting wasn’t new to her. The first time she’d heard it described was when someone likened it to the people alcoholic beverage makers hired to make the product look cool and fun. But opioid Z seemed to act on a whole other level.
“But Ava has been fine?”
“Yeah, she’s good. I told Jaxon her vaccinations weren’t up to date,” she said, almost absently.
“Jaxon asked about her vaccinations?”
“Yeah. I don’t know why.”
Neither did Marley. But she really, really wanted to know.
“Mikayla, I think we’re going to need to talk to Jaxon.”
“The cops already did,” Mikayla said.
“I know, they talked to him right after you were in hospital. I’m pretty sure they told him they were more interested in where the drugs came from and not in his drug-dealing past.”
Mikayla took a sip of her tea and shifted in her chair as Marley let the silence stretch.
“He’s a good guy,” Mikayla said.
“He sounds like it,” Marley said. “He sounds like he’s trying to protect you. And his cousin.”
Mikayla’s expression was pained as she put down her mug of tea.
“Jaxon said he told the cops he got the drugs from someone he knew they’d already talked to, not his cousin. Figured he wasn’t throwing anyone under the bus that way, you know?”
Like lying to the police was perfectly reasonable, Marley thought. She waited, hoping Mikayla would come to the right conclusion on her own. Marley took another sip of her tea, watching Mikayla war with herself.
“Cole Rogers,” Mikayla finally said, sighing. “That’s Jaxon’s cousin’s name.”
“Thanks, Mikayla,” Marley said.
“You’re welcome.”
They sat in silence, the sounds of cars and lawnmowers outside dulled to a steady summer buzz.
“Life is messy, isn’t it?” Mikayla said. “Like, once you’re not a kid anymore, it’s just always messy.”
Marley thought about how Aimee’s life had been messy for most of a year now. The messiness of life didn’t apply only to adults.
“It is,” she agreed. “So messy. But sometimes you get to sit and talk and drink chai tea for the first time, and that’s pretty good.”
Mikayla smiled, looking happier but still unconvinced, and poured Marley some more tea.
* * *
Devon added a lump of almost too-soft butter to the mixing bowl on the counter. Aimee looked up at Devon from her perch on the barstool, freshly washed hands poised. Music played in the background, a counterpart to the gentle rain outside.
“Go to it.”
Aimee attacked the oats, flour, sugar, butter, and spices with her hands, squishing and squeezing the ingredients together for the fruit crumble. Devon’s dad always said it tasted better hand mixed. Devon just thought it was fun.
“I thought I already did that,” Carla mumbled from the table, peering at Devon’s laptop screen. “Didn’t I already do that?”
She was working on Aimee’s school registration paperwork now that they had the envelope from Marley. Once Aimee was occupied with the huge bowl, Devon walked over to the table.
“Can I help?”
“It’s these blasted tiny boxes. How am I supposed to see anything?”
Devon looked at the downloaded form on the screen. Then she pointed at the small magnifying glass in the top corner.
“Try that button.”
Carla clicked the button and the form jumped in size.
“Okay, I need to remember that button. That button is my friend.”
Devon laughed. “Mine, too.”
Carla continued her slow typing, looking from her fingers to the screen and back again.
“Too old for this shit,” Carla mumbled under her breath. “Maybe it’s a test. If you’re too old to see the font on the screen, you’re too old to be raising a kid.”
Devon glanced up to see Aimee still happily making crumble topping.
“If struggling with an online form is the biggest hassle you have as Aimee’s guardian, I think you’re probably doing pretty well,” Devon said.
Carla flashed Devon a quick grin and went back to peering at the screen.
“Do you think they’ll put her in a special class?” Carla said, her voice still too low for Aimee to hear.
Devon had wondered this herself. Aimee would need some specialized supports, especially if her mutism continued. But cognitively and adaptively, she was a sharp kid, and Devon saw no reason Aimee couldn’t do well in a regular grade three class.
“I think your plan to meet with the school before September is a good one. See what they think and go from there.” She paused and considered her next words. “If they want an assessment, I know some good people.”
Carla looked up, and Devon kept her face calm.
“An assessment? You think there’s a problem?”
Devon shook her head. “I think she’s an incredibly bright little girl with a history of trauma resulting in possible selective mutism. An assessment can give better insight and could also give you and the school some ideas on how to best support her.”
Carla’s hands had stilled above the keyboard. “I’d like to get her into therapy. Soon.”
Aimee was already on a waitlist for a trauma counselor through Family and Children’s Services. Devon had itched at the six-month waitlist, her professional self understanding that waitlist was actually quite short but her personal self hating every second of the wait.
“I think it’s a good idea now that you guys are a little more settled here.”
“I can’t afford it,” Car
la said quietly.
“I’d like to help,” Devon said, equally as quietly.
Carla didn’t respond, still staring at the computer screen. So much was on the line here, Devon thought, Aimee’s continued journey through trauma, Carla’s strength and pride. Charity was a complex, tangled offer and rarely the simple solution it seemed to be.
“Until I get a job with some benefits,” Carla said with a hard expression. Devon knew her well enough to not take offense to that look. “It’s not fair to make Aimee wait.”
“We can look at some options tomorrow,” Devon said. “You could meet a few of the people I have in mind and see who you think would be the best fit for Aimee.”
But Carla shook her head. “No, I trust you. You know who will be a good fit for our girl.”
A crack then in the woman’s hard expression, showing vulnerability and a sharing. Possibly the hardest human emotions. And the most necessary.
“Okay. I’ll look into it tomorrow.”
They both looked up as Aimee thumped on the wood paneling of the island with her feet, holding her hands, thick with oats and butter and sugar, above the bowl.
“Nice work, kid,” Devon said, going to help Aimee. “Your next goal is to cover the fruit with that delicious mess.”
It was small steps, Devon decided, as she and Aimee covered the sliced apples, plums, and blackberries with the crumble. It was filling in one form at a time, making a phone call, showing up to one meeting. Deciding to trust. Opening your heart. Listening. Small, wonderful, difficult steps.
Chapter Fourteen
Cole Rogers was a cocky kid, Marley’s least favourite kind. Anger tingled up her spine as he swaggered and postured through their questioning. She wanted so much to knock him down fifteen pegs and make him show the fear she knew he must be feeling just below the surface.
“We’ve got some time to wait,” Simms was saying. He seemed utterly calm in this interview. Either he wasn’t anywhere near as agitated as Marley or he was way better at keeping it under wraps. “We know the name you gave us isn’t the right one. We need to know who gave you those drugs. And everything you heard about them. In your previous interview, you tried to convince us you were just an innocent guy caught up in the drug trade. Well, we’ve come to realize that isn’t factual. So, here we are, back again for the real story.”
Storm Lines Page 19
