Rachael's Return

by Janet Rebhan

  “Okay, I’m tired already,” Caroline said. “I need a nap. And if you ever see me with a glass of red wine again, please kick me.”

  Jena laughed. “Oh sure,” she said. “You’ll be good for a day, maybe two.”

  “Thanks. You’re a lot of help,” Caroline said.

  “I just know you,” Jena said. She stood and placed her napkin by her plate. “I’ve got to go to the ladies’ room. Like I said, lunch is already on my tab, so don’t even try to pick up the check, because cute buns won’t be bringing one.” She slipped her chair under the table.

  Caroline sighed, shook her head, and smiled. “Thanks, Jena. You’re the best. I’ll meet you out front. I’m just going to text Jake real fast.”

  Caroline reached into her purse for her cell phone and texted Jake she was leaving the club and would be home soon. Would he like her to stop at the grocery on her way home? He answered no by replying with a thumbs-down emoji. This was also shorthand for “can’t talk now.” She stood up and glanced at the woman at the neighboring table one last time before walking out of the bar. Something about her intrigued Caroline, but she couldn’t figure out what. The woman looked up, caught her gaze, and nodded. Caroline smiled and began to walk toward the lobby when she heard the woman speak in a low voice.

  “I so would have killed him too,” she said flatly.

  Caroline stopped and turned around, not sure if she had really heard the words or just imagined them. The woman looked directly at her with a calm, matter-of-fact smile on her face. Caroline returned the smile, somewhat embarrassed, turned slowly, and walked out of the bar without looking back again.

  Once in the lobby, she saw Jena with the valet parking attendant just outside the front sliding glass doors. The young man took Jena’s ticket and began running to fetch her Porsche Cayenne, but not before he openly admired her toned physique and long, shapely legs, which were so nicely revealed in a short halter-top tennis dress. Jena’s long, straight blonde hair glistened in the sun. Grandmothers aren’t what they used to be, Caroline thought.

  She began to cross the lobby when she heard a man’s voice call out to her.

  “Caroline?”

  She turned to see her husband’s former associate. He wore golf clothes and was with another man. They exchanged pleasantries, and he introduced the man to Caroline as his client.

  “I’m meeting my assistant in the bar. Got to mix a little business with pleasure, so I’d better get going. It’s good to see you. Please tell Jake I said hello.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Marge parked her lime-green Prius in the driveway of the little yellow house in Winnetka. She noticed Freddie had again forgotten to leave the porch light on for her. It had been a long drive in heavy traffic from her office in Encino to the North Ranch Country Club in Westlake Village and then back home again after running her own personal Saturday errands. When she entered the front door, the house was dark save for the flicker of soft light coming from the television set in the family room. Muffled voices streamed from the movie her husband was watching. When she entered the kitchen, she noticed a note near the telephone in her husband’s handwriting: Don’t forget to call Bennie back. Next to the words, he had drawn a frowning face. She turned to see Freddie asleep on the sofa. Setting her handbag on the counter, she took out her vinyl notary book, her stamp, and a fingerprint pad. She placed them off to the side to put away in her desk drawer in her office later. It was the second time this month she had gone to the office to work on a Saturday and then driven out to the club to notarize a document for one of her boss’s golf-crony clients, and she was already sick of it. Her boss never offered to pay her extra for gas. He acted as though she should be grateful for getting to sit in the ritzy club bar and have a Diet Coke. Probably time she hit him up for a raise, but she had to be careful. Jobs like hers were at a premium since the recession, and she didn’t want to be forced into early retirement. She picked up the landline in the kitchen and selected the phone number for her son.

  “Hi, honey,” Marge said. “Freddie left a note that you called yesterday.”

  “Oh hey, Mom. Listen, I can’t talk now. Just want to know if you can rent the garage out to me for a little while. Langdon and I are taking some time apart. Didn’t you say your current tenant is on a month-to-month?”

  “Yeah, but I’d still need to give her at least two weeks’ notice. I’m sorry to hear this, Bennie, but why are you moving out? It’s your house, isn’t it?

  “I know, Mom; I’ll explain later. Can you just go ahead and give her the notice? I promise to pay a year’s rent to you up front whether I use it for that long or not.”

  “Okay, but I really don’t get this. You make enough money to rent anywhere. Why would you want to live here?”

  “Because I need my space, and no one will ever look for me there, Mom. Like I said, I’ll explain it all to you later. I’ve got to go now. Don’t worry. I’ll mail you a check. I love you.”

  Marge hung up the phone and stood motionless in her kitchen. It had been a long day, and her body ached. Her mind felt numb and her chest heavy. She looked up as she heard the intermittent taps of sprinkles on the skylight above her. Tap—tap, tap, tap—tap, tap. Freddie had installed the skylight shortly after they had purchased the house. Marge liked a bright, sunny kitchen. Although she had not checked the weather for the day, there had been no visible sign of rain so far as she could tell. She thought it funny that the very thing that allowed the sunshine to break through and illuminate an otherwise dark and dreary room was the very same thing that announced the rain’s arrival. You’ve got to take the good with the bad, Freddie would say. Yet Marge would put it differently: There is no good and no bad. There is only life and it’s complicated.

  Marge turned the lights off in the kitchen and walked back toward the master bedroom. Along the way, she checked on each of her foster children—all of whom were sleeping soundly. She undressed and dressed again in her pink cotton pajamas before she checked on baby Rachael in the crib. She lay on her tummy with her soft fuzzy blanket held tight against her face. Her knees were bent underneath her, and her little bum stuck up in the air. As Marge studied her, she thought of what she’d overheard that day in the bar at the country club. She wondered who that woman was and what baby the woman’s friend had been referring to. She thought of what her own friend Ragna had confided to her about Rachael’s father. And she wondered whether or not he would actually harm his own child. Marge supposed Vito Gamboa could very well cause harm to Rachael if he saw her as a mere reflection of her mother, the woman he had beaten, shot, and later run off the road and killed. But then again, he was probably a proud man who could see Rachael only as an extension of his own ego. If this was the case, Rachael would perhaps be a little safer, Marge thought. But then it would only be a matter of time before Vito lost his temper with her and treated baby Rachael the same as he had her mother. Vito Gamboa was not to be trusted. In fact, he was a very dangerous man.

  Marge felt relatively sure Vito would never be able to find out where his daughter was living. The child services department operated under strict confidentiality rules. Regardless, she decided that should Vito ever make any moves toward taking this little one while in her care, Marge would by necessity be the first to make sure such moves would be his last. She didn’t like thinking about it. It was indeed a touchy subject like the woman in the bar had mentioned. Yet Marge had the heart of a mother lioness when it came to her kids. And what most people didn’t know about Marge was she also had the courage, the strength, and the necessary skills to defend them. She was a peace-loving person who thought positively most of the time. But when circumstances called for it, she could be one to contend with. You didn’t want to ever cross her. And if Vito Gamboa was going to try to steal Rachael away, he was going to have to deal with Marge first. She would stand up to him. She would be unrestrained. She would never allow him to succeed.

  Vito Gamboa bristled at the thought of anyone other than himself
getting custody of his own daughter. Where he came from, family was everything, and a beautiful daughter, like a beautiful wife, was a prized possession. What kind of man would it make him if he lost control of his own family? It was bad enough he had already lost Mary Anne. He vowed no one would take his daughter from him. He would raise her with the help of extended family and, unlike her mother, he would see to it she grew up to respect him.

  And as luck would have it, the heavens had parted, and he now had a plan. It had come to him surely and suddenly. First a bright flash, then an earsplitting crack followed by the sound of the gods bowling. Steee-rike! It was absolutely flawless. He was certain now heaven was on his side. And it never would have happened had it not been for an unscrupulous pharmacist on the Westside by the name of one Benjamin Bechtel.

  It all began the night he showed up at his friend Sparky’s house in Culver City. Vito couldn’t stay in one place for too long without the cops picking up on his trail. So he crashed in a succession of places, all the while continuing to search for the baby that rightfully belonged to him. He found out Mary Anne had given the baby the name of Rachael. Where she got that name, he had no idea. He would change it as soon as he had control again. Right now, it was the least of his worries.

  As it turned out, Sparky, who got his nickname for being short and stout, was anything but energetic. In fact, Sparky liked to chill on OxyContin he had arranged to get from the pharmacy just off West Third Street in nearby Santa Monica. Vito arrived one evening just as Sparky was leaving his house on his way to the pharmacy. He climbed in the car with Sparky and got an earful on the drive. By the time they arrived, Vito had learned that Bolillo Bennie (BB for short), as Sparky liked to call him, was rather fond of using a nonprescription stimulant that Sparky supplied, so they had worked out a trade of sorts: Crystal Meth for OxyContin. Only problem was now BB was in trouble with the DEA because his inventory count wasn’t exactly matching up with his accounts receivables. As a result, his romantic partner now wanted nothing to do with him and his fast-sinking shipwreck of a life, and had kicked BB out of the house.

  BB had told Sparky he was going to have to drive out to the Valley from now on to make future trades because he would be lying low for a while at his mother’s house in Winnetka. Just when Vito’s mind had started to wander from the inanity of it all, Sparky mentioned BB’s mother was a foster mom to five kids, at which point, Vito was curious.

  “How, I mean why would you even need to know that?” Vito said.

  “I don’t know, man; he just told me ’cause he don’t want no problems with the kids is all, I guess,” Sparky said. “Sometimes the state workers come around and check the place to make sure everything’s in order. You got to pass all kinds of rules and stuff before they let you keep kids in your home. I guess she gets paid good money for it though.”

  “So why would this BB guy want to stay with his mother and a bunch of foster kids?”

  “Well, he’s got the whole garage to himself. It’s been converted to a separate apartment. It has a back alley entrance and everything. Still, he says we have to be careful.”

  “You know they put my baby daughter in a foster home,” Vito said. “Maybe I could talk to this BB guy’s mom. Maybe she could help me find out who’s got my daughter.”

  “Get real, man, she ain’t going to help you! You’re a fugitive, wanted for murder!”

  “Hey, I’m not a murderer! That stupid woman drove herself into a cliff. She had no business running away from me with my daughter like that. She got exactly what she deserved.”

  “Well, you ain’t going to be meeting this BB guy no how, ’cause I’ll be going in now by myself to see him. You’ll just have to find yourself some other brain to pick about how the system works and where they would have put your kid.”

  “Oh, I’ll be meeting him all right. You can’t stop me. But don’t you worry, I won’t be interfering with your little trade agreement you got going on. Just leave everything to me. I will only make you look good, I promise.”

  “I don’t know, Vito. You start asking questions, and next thing you know, the cops are at our door, and you can forget about ever being reunited with your daughter.”

  “I’ll handle it,” Vito said. “This is the closest I’ve been so far to finding my daughter and getting the hell out of this place.”

  “And if you find her and manage to take her, where will you go then?” Sparky asked.

  “Back home, of course, to my real home—to Portugal.”

  “Whoa, Aurora,” Thor said. “Vito’s extremely close now. What is the plan anyway?”

  “Well, I’m thinking we’ll beef up the protection around the baby, then draw him in with Rachael as the bait. When he bites, we hook him and reel him in.”

  Thor thought for a moment. “But couldn’t we have done this in a safer way? Perhaps a plan that wouldn’t place the baby in so much danger?”

  “Remember, we’re dealing here with someone whose ego has completely taken over. He’s not going to seek higher guidance, so we will just have to make full use of his weakness. His overinflated ego is his Achilles’ heel. Right now, Vito’s feeling very comfortable, but he’ll slip up when his ego is threatened. And when that happens, we’ll be ready.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “We have plenty of good people here to work with who are open to suggestion. With their help, we can intervene in ways that will work full-blown miracles on the Earth plane.”

  Thor clasped his hands in front of him and was quiet for a moment. “You once told me that each and every human on the planet has another self who remains here in the higher realms while they’re down on Earth pretending they are mere humans.”

  “Yes, that is true.”

  “And where are they? These higher selves, I mean. What level?”

  “They are at the highest level, the one just above ours. The one we call Seventh Heaven.”

  “So do you not think it would be a good idea for us to communicate with each of our subjects’ higher selves? Would that not save us a lot of time and stress? I mean, particularly in Vito’s case, where he is completely shut off to our assistance?”

  “Um, not necessarily. The most we can do is send out a thought request, but they don’t have to answer.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because in some cases, it would be akin to cheating,” Aurora said. “You see, Thor, while the human ego is learning specific lessons on the Earth plane, the individual’s highest self is also learning. He or she—and there really is no gender here, although each soul usually embodies more feminine or masculine energy—is learning to communicate to their own human counterpart and thereby manifest their creative energies through this human out into the projected world of reality on the Earth plane. Sometimes they want our help; sometimes they don’t. All we can do is offer our assistance.”

  Thor was quiet again for a moment. “So the level above us is populated by the highest selves of all the humans alive on the Earth plane at this moment.”

  “Yes, and a few recently departed who are preparing for another incarnation.”

  “And the higher self needs the human as much as the human needs the higher self, but they are truly both one entity.”

  “Yes,” Aurora said. “And each and every human existence is important. Regardless of who they are on planet Earth, they are of great significance in the heavenly realms. No one becomes a human being by accident. They are chosen.”

  “Wow, I always suspected that. I just never had any proof. That’s an awesome thought.”

  “Yes, it is good to be here. There is much to learn and much to teach.”

  “Just one last question if I may,” Thor said. “This Seventh Heaven level, is it a restricted area?”

  “Well no, but—”

  Thor suddenly looked beyond Aurora toward the viewing window. “What on earth is that?” he said, pointing to the lower left corner, where a crimson brushstroke presented itself as an arch that slow
ly formed into the shape of a large heart.

  “Ooooh,” Aurora said, walking toward the window, “a cry for help.” She reached toward the color with her right hand to feel the energy that emanated from it. “It’s Dr. Goodwin’s nurse, Fiona—such an interesting name, that one. Oh dear. Oh my goodness. Fiona . . . Fiona . . . Oh dear, dear Fiona, what have you done?”

  By the time Nancy returned to the hospital that day, she walked beside Fiona’s stretcher on legs that seemed to be treading water, each step she took was an ordeal. An image flashed in her mind of the dripping clock in the famous Salvador Dali painting: time was melting, all was surreal.

  She walked behind the paramedic she had only recently met. His name was Sean. She remembered he was the same one who came in with Mary Anne Maynard the day she’d been shot. The same one who had just administered so deftly the lifesaving measures to her friend. He was young and steady, and he couldn’t keep his eyes off Fiona.

  “We need a transfusion stat! Universal, O negative!” Sean shouted.

  It all began when Nancy saw the notification on her cell phone that she had received a call from her friend but no message. Because Nancy was already passing by Fiona’s neighborhood on her way back to the hospital after running a quick errand, she stopped by the house only to see through the window by the side of the front door that Fiona’s cat, Charlie, was crouching by the sofa covered in what she could only assume at the time was red blood. Panicked, she had entered the house through an open sliding glass door in the back and found her friend in the upstairs-master-bathroom tub: her body white and clammy, the water in the tub tainted red-brown. Cocked back on the rim of the freestanding claw-foot tub, Fiona’s head faced the ceiling. The peaceful expression on her face caused a disconcerting jolt of emotion to erupt in Nancy’s gut, and for a moment, she thought she might vomit despite her training.

  She called 9-1-1 on her cell, placing it on speaker and setting it aside on the counter next to the sink before wrapping Fiona’s forearm tightly using the belt from a nearby terrycloth bathrobe. She felt the water temperature; it was lukewarm. She checked for a pulse but couldn’t get a reading. She pulled the stopper to drain the tub.