Woman in Blue

by Eileen Goudge

  When Kerrie Ann’s case was called, Abel Touissant spoke briefly but compellingly. “Your Honor, my client has complied with every one of the court’s stipulations. As you can see, her drug tests have all come out clean. She goes to twelve-step meetings three times a week. She also lives with her sister, who owns her own home and business, where my client is currently employed.” He paused before going on, “I believe Ms. McAllister has proved herself trustworthy enough for unsupervised visits with her child. She’s a good mother, Your Honor. All she’s asking for is another chance, and I think she deserves that.”

  The judge peered down at Kerrie Ann from the oak-paneled bench, his face expressionless. She shifted in her seat, darting a nervous glance at the Bartholds, who were seated in the front row. George Barthold, in a conservative suit and tie, looked like someone you’d trust not just to fill your cavities but with your life … and Carol Barthold like someone who, if you were running for office, you would want as your campaign manager.

  Kerrie Ann felt the knot in her belly tighten.

  When Abel was done speaking, the judge called upon the court-appointed attorney representing Bella, a skinny woman with pop eyes and frizzy brown hair. “Ms. Travers?”

  Skinny Minnie set aside the papers she’d been shuffling through and stood up. “Your Honor, in my opinion there needs to be further evaluation of the mother’s, ah … suitability … before any changes are made to the current visitation,” she said in her high, nasal voice.

  “What’s the basis for that recommendation, Ms. Travers?” he asked.

  “The child’s caseworker has expressed some concerns.” She gestured toward Mrs. Silvestre, seated to her right. “Apparently there was an incident,” she added darkly.

  “Mrs. Silvestre?” The judge cocked a brow at the caseworker.

  Kerrie Ann watched with mounting dread as Mrs. Silvestre rose to address the bench. “Your Honor, I’d first like to say that Ms. McAllister has made significant strides over the past seven months. And from what I’ve observed, there’s a real bond between her and her daughter.” She cast Kerrie Ann a look that was not without compassion. “What concerns me is her difficulty in managing her anger. The incident in question happened during a recent visit. I only came in at the end, but I noticed that Ms. McAllister was quite agitated and I was told she …” Color seeped into her cheeks. “She made a racial slur.”

  There was a collective gasp from the gallery, and Kerrie Ann surged to her feet. “That’s a lie!” she cried. The judge stared at her until she subsided into her seat. She realized too late that in shooting off her mouth, she’d only given credence to the accusation. Still, she quivered at the unfairness of it. Racial slur? She’d been accused of some terrible things but never that. Her own child was mixed-race. How the hell could she be racist?

  “I’d like to hear more about this alleged incident, Mrs. Silvestre,” said the judge. His expression was grim.

  “It happened just after the child’s foster parents arrived to pick her up.” The caseworker turned to indicate the Bartholds, who looked to be very much the injured parties. “Ms. McAllister ran into them in the parking lot as she was leaving. Apparently words were exchanged. It became quite heated, from what I’m told. When I spoke with Dr. Barthold about it afterward, he said that she told him—” She broke off, looking embarrassed, before repeating with obvious reluctance, “‘You can kiss my white ass.’”

  All eyes in the courtroom were on Kerrie Ann as she sat shaking her head in disbelief, struggling to keep from digging her grave any deeper with another outburst.

  “Is this an accurate account, sir?” The judge addressed Dr. Barthold.

  George Barthold stood up. “Yes, Your Honor, it is,” he replied in a solemn tone.

  The judge brought his attention back to Kerrie Ann. “What do you have to say for yourself, Ms. McAllister?” He eyed her as if she were something that had crawled out from the floorboards.

  “I told him he could kiss my ass, yeah. But I never used the word ‘white’!” she blurted.

  Beside her, she heard Abel give a muffled groan and knew she’d once again said the wrong thing. She turned her head to glare at George Barthold, hoping to shame him into coming clean. But she could tell from his stiff bearing and the deeply proud look he wore that he believed it to be the truth. It was the same look she’d seen on Jeremiah’s face whenever some redneck asshole had called him the n-word. Deep down, she knew she had only herself to blame.

  It was over within a matter of minutes. The judge declared, “Motion denied. Visitation remains as is until further ruling.” Ignoring Kerrie Ann altogether, as if she were a subhuman species incapable of understanding, he advised her lawyer, “In the meantime, Mr. Touissant, I suggest your client take a course in anger management before we revisit this issue.”

  Kerrie Ann waited until they were outside the courtroom to ask point-blank, “How bad is it?”

  Abel eyed her wearily. “Let’s just say you didn’t do yourself any favors today.”

  She was quick to set the record straight. “I’ll own that, but I’m no racist. Yeah, I mouthed off when I shouldn’t have, and I know that was dumb, but it had nothing to do with his being black.”

  “I know that. But the people in there don’t know that.” He jabbed a finger toward the courtroom. “And the judge certainly doesn’t know that.” He shook his head. “Like I said, you didn’t do yourself any favors.”

  He was fed up, and she didn’t blame him. She was suddenly filled with remorse. “Does this mean I won’t get custody? Because if that’s the case, I might as well shoot myself now and get it over with.” She felt miserable enough at the moment to do just that.

  Abel’s expression softened. “It’s not as bad as all that. We lost the battle but not the war.”

  “But the Bartholds …”

  “As far as they’re concerned, it’s far from a slam dunk. The court usually rules in favor of the biological parent, especially when the petitioners are non-blood relatives. That being said,” he continued in a sterner tone, “I’ve seen cases where it’s gone the other way.”

  His words struck dread in Kerrie Ann’s heart. “Just tell me what to do. I’ll do anything you say.”

  “Anything?” Abel arched a brow.

  “You name it.”

  “Learn to rein in that mouth of yours.”

  Lindsay and Miss Honi did their best to comfort her.

  “That man was lying through his teeth,” Miss Honi staunchly proclaimed on the drive home. “The very idea! Why, there ain’t a prejudiced bone in your body.”

  “It wasn’t a complete lie,” Kerrie Ann was forced to admit.

  “Well, no sense crying over spilled milk. Best move on,” Lindsay said briskly. She glanced at Kerrie Ann in the rearview mirror. “What did your lawyer have to say?”

  “That I should learn to keep my mouth shut.”

  “Good advice.”

  Ordinarily Kerrie Ann would have bristled, but she knew her lawyer was right. In fact, for the rest of the trip, she followed his advice, staring mutely out the window as she sat slumped in the backseat while Lindsay and Miss Honi conversed quietly up front.

  “I wonder how Ollie’s managing,” Lindsay fretted aloud at one point.

  “He can hold the fort down for one day. You know him—nothing fazes that boy,” said Miss Honi in reply. “If it were a fire, he’d be the last one out after making sure everyone else was safe.”

  Kerrie Ann suddenly wished Ollie were with her now. She longed for the comfort only he could provide.

  They didn’t get home until almost midnight, after stopping for a quick bite at a Friendly’s along the way. Kerrie Ann was exhausted but doubted she’d get much sleep tonight. Her head was buzzing, and she felt twitchy all over, as if she were jonesing for a fix.

  What I need is something to kill the pain.

  The thought sneaked up on her as she brushed her teeth before bed. She froze, toothbrush poised over the sink, as she star
ed at her reflection in the medicine-cabinet mirror. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her face was the chalky white of the toothpaste foam around her lips. She felt about as far from the tenets of the twelve-step program as Saul from Damascus.

  She was shivering when she finally crawled into bed and pulled the covers over her head. Not just from cold. She never knew when the urge to use would strike—it came at odd times, mostly when her defenses were down—and now she did her best to shut out the insidious voice whispering in her head, Just one beer. Where’s the harm in that? No one ever has to know.

  She didn’t get to sleep until almost four A.M. When the sun woke her, she was so wiped out, she wouldn’t have been able to climb out of bed if the house were on fire. She felt hungover, too, like after a night of hard partying. With a groan, she burrowed deeper under the covers.

  Lindsay, just back from her morning run, took one look at her and pronounced, “You’re staying home today.” Kerrie Ann was too weak to manage more than a feeble protest.

  She promptly fell back to sleep. She woke hours later to pale sunlight streaming in through the window. Peering out, she saw patches of blue sky where the fog had burned off. She yawned and threw back the bedcovers, sending one of the cats, curled asleep in the folds of the quilt, leaping off the bed with a disgruntled meow. She was on her way to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee when she was startled by a knock at the door.

  They didn’t get many uninvited callers this far off the main highway. She recalled Lindsay’s troubles with those creeps who were trying to muscle in on her land and wondered nervously if it might have something to do with that. Only one way to find out …

  She cracked open the door and peered out. But it was only Ollie, wearing faded jeans and an equally worn Harley-Davidson sweatshirt and holding a shopping bag bearing the book café’s logo. He stood on the stoop regarding her sheepishly. “Did I wake you?” he asked.

  “No, but you sure picked a fine time to drop by. I look like hell.” She ran a hand through her tangled hair. The only thing she had on besides a pair of panties was an old T-shirt of Jeremiah’s that barely covered her ass.

  “Not to me you don’t,” he replied with apparent sincerity. She noticed he was having a hard time keeping his gaze from straying south. He thrust the bag at her. “I brought you some muffins. Blueberry—your favorite. You haven’t eaten yet, I hope?”

  “I haven’t even had my morning coffee.” She opened the door to let him in before making her way, yawning, into the kitchen. “Want some?” she asked as she reached for the pot. Even though she wasn’t exactly in the mood for company, she was glad to see him.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “Actually, I’m on my lunch break. I just came over to see how you were doing.”

  “Is it that late?” She peered at the clock on the stove and groaned. Half past twelve. “I can’t remember the last time I slept past noon.” Memories of when she’d been using—back when time had no meaning and one day blended into the next—washed over her in a dirty gray tide.

  “Sounds as if you needed it.”

  “Lindsay told you?” Her hand shook a little as she poured coffee into a mug.

  He nodded, his easygoing smile giving way to a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve been there. I would have come if Lindsay hadn’t needed me at the store.”

  “It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

  “What happened, exactly?”

  “In a word, I blew it.”

  He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her. She stiffened for an instant, thinking of her sister, but it felt so good to have his arms around her that she relaxed into him. They stood that way for a while, not speaking, spooned against each other, swaying slightly from side to side, Ollie’s cheek pressed to her ear.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” he murmured at last.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  She swiveled to face him. “Just like you thought Madonna would never divorce Guy Ritchie?”

  He grinned and gave a loose-limbed shrug. “Okay, so I was wrong about that. But I’m not wrong about this.” His expression grew solemn, and he brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “You’re Bella’s mom. They can’t take her away for good. Hey, I’m no lawyer and even I know that. Unless she’s an ax murderer or something, the mom always gets the kid.”

  Kerrie Ann knew that wasn’t always true, but his words had a soothing effect. She leaned in so her forehead rested against his, their arms loosely linked about each other’s waists. She could feel Ollie’s breath, warm and clove-scented. When at last he cupped her chin and tipped her head back to kiss her on the lips, it was with none of the windswept urgency of the night out on the cliffs. This time it was soft and sweet. She might still have been asleep, dreaming of better days to come, as she stood wrapped in his arms, her mouth opening to his like the petals of a flower to the sun.

  Something stirred inside her. “Come to bed,” she whispered.

  Ollie did his best not to appear too eager. “Are you sure?”

  “No one’s home. No one will know.” She took him by the hand and gently tugged him in the direction of the bedroom.

  Ollie needed no further encouragement.

  If she’d expected him to attack her with most twentysomethings’ lack of finesse, she was in for a pleasant surprise. Despite his lack of experience, he didn’t make love like a novice. He took his time, the way she imagined he would baking a cake. Sugar and spice and everything nice … The words from the nursery rhyme came to mind, and she smiled to herself as she luxuriated in his arms, surrendering to his feather-light kisses as they traveled over her body.

  With the tip of his tongue, he traced the rose tattoo that snaked up her right shoulder and halfway up her neck before bending to kiss one breast, teasing the nipple with his tongue as he touched her below. A ripple of pleasure went through her, one she could feel all the way down to her toes. She moaned softly, reaching to pleasure him as well, but he gently pushed her hand away.

  “No,” he whispered, reminding her that he was still a kid in that respect—one with a hair trigger. Which only made her feel more tender toward him. He wasn’t going to be greedy until he’d satisfied her first.

  Snippets of memory, of the men before Ollie, riffled through her head like shuffled cards: the brief affairs, the one-night stands, the faceless men she’d gone home with after one too many drinks in a bar. Too many to count, but they all added up to one big fat zero. No, less than zero. Because with each mindless fuck she’d felt another piece of herself being subtracted until there was nothing left. Until she herself was as empty as all that meaningless sex.

  Ollie made her feel newly minted. With him, she wasn’t some marked-down piece of merchandise. Just the way he touched her, almost reverently, let her know she was worth something.

  She returned the favor by kissing and stroking him all over. Behind his earlobes. Inside his elbows. The tender spots where his armpits met his rib cage, with their dark tufts that stuck out like the hair on his head. The soles of his narrow, long-toed feet. He was built like a long-distance runner, every well-defined muscle streamlined for maximum speed and efficiency. A runner who was taking it slowly this time, not rushing to get to the finish line.

  The first time he brought her to climax was with his hand. She hadn’t expected that, either—that he’d be so adept. She was still coasting on the thermals when he entered her. Minutes later she was coming again, this time along with Ollie.

  Afterward he rolled off her, not with a murmur of contentment but with a cowboy whoop. “Man! Man, oh man. Sweet.” He grinned at Kerrie Ann. “You’re really something, you know that?”

  She was feeling vulnerable, so she hid behind a wisecrack. “Yeah, the question is what?”

  “You don’t know? You honestly don’t know?” He propped himself up on one elbow, staring at her incredulously.

  “No; why don’t you tell me?”<
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  She could see that he was struggling to come up with the words to express what was in his heart—a range of emotions scudded across his wide-open face like great, fluffy clouds across a prairie sky—before he finally gave up and burst out with, “You’re … you’re it.”

  And somehow they were the perfect words.

  The meetings took place every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in the social hall of the Catholic church at the corner of Water and Harborview. Kerrie Ann usually caught a ride with one of her fellow twelve-steppers. Most often it was Big Ed roaring up on his Harley Fat Bob, helmetless and with the tails of his bandana flapping in the wind along with his ragged gray ponytail. Other times it was her sponsor, Lois, or the retired naval officer known as the Admiral, who always made her smile when he came tootling down the drive in his bright yellow Smart Car, looking like the world’s oldest child riding a pedal car. Ray, the tweaker who’d given her rides in the past, had succumbed, like so many before him, to the pull of his addiction.

  At the church Kerrie Ann would make her way down a short flight of steps to the basement, a low-ceilinged room floored in scuffed green-and-tan linoleum and lit by overhead fluorescent tracks, where for an hour or more she’d sit in a folding chair, with anywhere from a dozen to three dozen people, sipping bad coffee and listening to strangers tell their stories.

  The stories varied only in the details. There was the young mother who backed out of her driveway while on meth and ran over her four-year-old boy, maiming him for life. The former airline pilot who lost everything to blow—wife, kids, job, savings—until one day he found himself living out of his Range Rover. The former beauty queen who, in eerie shades of Kerrie Ann’s own mother, lost her kids to the system when she was sent to prison for peddling dope. People who, by all outward appearances, had little in common with each other but who shared a common bond: They had all been to the dark side and back.

  In her first weeks of sobriety, Kerrie Ann had hung back, reluctant to share at meetings, but it had become easier over time. These people, wildly disparate though they might be, were the closest she had to a tribe. She could tell them things she wouldn’t have felt comfortable confiding to anyone else, knowing she would get nods of understanding in return, not judgmental looks. In this room, there was neither shame nor pity. Here any sympathy was reserved for the former occupants of chairs that now sat empty.