by Laurèn Lee
Even my best female friend from work refused to talk to me. Apparently one night when the department went drinking, I blacked out after one too many Long Island iced teas. The story goes, I thought her husband was my Zac. I was so fucked up, I’d forgotten my fiancé was murdered. I pulled her husband into the bathroom with me and lunged at him. He tried to push me off, but I couldn’t help it, and Lisa found us in the bathroom together, my hands all over her man’s junk.
It was a safe assumption that everyone I called “my family in blue” hated my guts. It was as if my subconscious wouldn’t quit until I reached rock bottom. And I think I was close as hell to getting there.
“Hey!” Jack broke the silence. “Want to see what I found?"
This time, I followed him into the remodeled kitchen. Miniature bottles of wine covered the walls atop a cream wallpaper. Jack must have installed a new wine rack, which hung by the oven. My stepdad bent down near the corner cabinet and scoured through to pull out a dusty bottle of whiskey.
I smiled, wondering when I'd be able to try some of the expensive liquor. I'd been eyeing it for years, but if I ever opened it, I'd be in more trouble than it was worth.
"Ever tried this?”
"Not yet." I winked while my glands salivated for the amber liquid.
I collected glasses for us; luckily, they were still in the same place.
My mother walked into the kitchen, and her eyes grew to the size of beach balls once she saw my stepdad holding the whiskey.
"Jack!" she hissed. "What are you doing?”
"Just a little toast now that Elle is home," he said shyly. "Would you like one, too?"
She glared at him with narrowed eyes. "No, thank you. Now don't go getting yourself a hangover before lunch.”
Once my mom turned away, he gave me the "thumbs up" before he poured us healthy servings of the aged whiskey in the glasses I set out.
I couldn't help but love Jack like a father. Not only was the man gracious and kind, but funny too. He loved my mother with all his heart. It swirled in his eyes, the way he looked at her; it was like the love he held for her seeped out of his pores. They reminded me that it's possible to find true love at any age. Hell, they found each other decades ago, in high school, and reconnected as adults. Talk about fate, huh?
We clinked glasses, and each took a deep sip of the whiskey. It burned my throat at first but finished smoothly. I emptied the rest of my drink in another gulp and set it down a little too roughly on the table.
"Whoops," I said, embarrassed, my cheeks reddening.
Jack cracked a smile and emptied his too. He pretended to sway and wobble as if he wanted to audition for the role of Johnny Depp in the next Pirates movie. Little did Jack know, this wasn't my first drink of the day. It wasn't my second or third, either.
For the next hour or so, Jack, my mom and I sat in the living room and made small talk. My mom filled me in on the latest Keygate gossip while I relayed some bits of information about Ashford. I told her about a new restaurant opening down the street from my apartment.
"What's it called?" my mom asked.
"Ready Spaghetti," I said. "They have every kind of pasta you could ever imagine!”
My mouth watered at the thought, and I hoped I'd have enough restraint once the Italian spot opened up not to eat there every day. After beginning my administrative leave, I abandoned my strict workout regimen. Instead of a six-pack of abs, I enjoyed a six-pack of beer every morning for breakfast.
Around four o'clock, my mom retreated to the kitchen to start dinner. She promised to make a delicious pot roast, but I respectfully declined. I needed to visit my father. Here I was playing catch up across town while he mourned the loss of his wife only a few miles away.
We exchanged brief goodbyes, and I said I would return in a little bit. When I mentioned getting a motel to my mom a few nights ago, she told me not to be silly and that I would stay with them.
I walked out of the house with a heavy heart as I continued to notice all the differences in my childhood home. The familiar pang of being home didn't resonate just yet. I guess my home had disappeared once I left. It must have dissolved with the realization that a house didn't make a home, the people with you made it so. Inside my car, I finished the remaining sips in my water bottle, backed out of the driveway and headed across town.
Three
I drove to my father's condo with cement in my gut. What do you say to someone you love who's just lost someone they love? Can any combination of words make it better? Make the wound heal faster? Help them forget their grief?
No, I knew that firsthand.
I looked down at my ring finger, noticing the tan lines where a beautiful princess cut diamond once sat. I'd finally gotten up the nerve to remove the piece of jewelry a few weeks ago, but without it, I carried a new ghost. A reminder that a ring should be there.
Cruising through town, I drove by the sandwich shop where I worked in high school. It was my first job, and most of my paycheck went to buying food during my shift and my prom dress. I couldn't believe the shop was still open. I passed a few other boutiques and the ice cream parlor I often frequented as a kid. I could almost taste the vanilla and chocolate twist with rainbow sprinkles.
After memory lane came to a dead-end, I pulled into my father's parking lot where his two-bed, two-bath condo stood with a manmade lake in the backyard. He moved here after the divorce and settled in nicely. I'd visited the place every weekend and during some weekdays before soccer practice, although now it seemed as foreign to me as the home where I grew up.
Despite the bright skies, I could almost make out a looming cloud above my father's place, like his grief had materialized into weather, and a storm poured down over his residence. I chewed my nails to the quick until one of them began to bleed. I wiped my hands on my jeans and took a deep breath.
I stepped out of my car as slowly as possible, wanting to avoid the inevitable. Out of the corner of my eye, the curtains in my dad's place shifted ever so slightly. He saw me arrive. There was no turning back now.
My dad opened the door with a fake smile, in no way distracting from the red of his eyes and the dozens of extra wrinkles and gray hairs consuming his appearance. "Hey, sweetie," he said in a hushed tone. "Come on in.”
I stepped over the threshold, and an eerie silence greeted me. Clearing my throat, I asked, "So, uh, how's everything?" Despite knowing full well, everything was not okay. Not even in the tiniest bit.
"Oh, you know," my dad said, trailing off.
I swore I saw a single tear slither down his cheek. Why did I ask that? I mentally slapped myself across the face—such a moron.
I stalked around the condo, which had a few minor changes, but still held the same vibes from when my dad moved in. Only now, it felt a little more empty. Like a ghost lingered in the hallways, begging to be noticed.
"The place looks great," I said.
My father nodded as he sat on the couch with his head in his hands. My heart ached for him, and I wished the tendrils of my love could sprout arms and encompass him, reminding him he wasn't alone.
I ambled into the kitchen, past the island, and to the fridge. I pulled the door open to find barren shelves, a few cans of beer, an almost empty ketchup bottle and ripe leftovers.
I planned on cooking my dad dinner, but there wasn't much to work with here. "Wanna grab a bite to eat?"
"Sure," my dad replied half-heartedly.
"What's still good around here?”
My dad ran his fingers through his graying hair and sighed. "Uh, we can go to Jazzy's? Pasta sounds delicious right now.”
"Sure! Let me wash up real quick, and we can go. Sound good?”
I ventured into the bathroom and stopped dead in my tracks once I closed the door. Carin's personal items littered the sink, and the aroma of her stuffy perfume permeated the air as if she'd only just walked out. A variety of Clinique, Mary Kay and Avon products were spread out across the counter. A brand-new makeup brush sat
in its packaging too. Again, my heart ached for my father having to be reminded of his loss even when he used the bathroom.
I cleaned up quickly, wanting to avoid staying in the bathroom longer than necessary, and grabbed my purse and keys. “Ready?"
My dad nodded and locked the door behind us.
We drove to Jazzy's in silence. Only three of the parking spaces were taken, including our own. My dad opened the door for me, and I stepped over the threshold of a long-time favorite spot. My dad took me here at least once a month growing up. If I earned an A on a test at school: Jazzy's. If I served an ace on the volleyball team: Jazzy's. If I was having a bad day as teenage hormones ravaged my existence: Jazzy’s.
Fresh mozzarella, garlic, and homemade marinara filled my nostrils. My stomach grumbled as did my dad's, and he smiled weakly.
"Brian! Elle!" a familiar voice crooned from behind the hostess stand.
Martha, grayer than my father, reached out with arms wide open and pulled us into her embrace. Pizza dough and garlic clung to her clothes, like always.
"So happy to see you both! And Elle? It's been so long!”
"It sure has," I replied, grinning.
Martha was practically family to us in this town. She and my dad graduated high school together, and she took care of us anytime we came to Jazzy's, often bringing us a slice of the day's specialty pie or cake after our dinner. It'd been a handful of years since we'd seen each other, but it didn't seem that way.
She escorted us to our usual booth in the back corner while Frank Sinatra's voice lulled through the dated sound system. Without a prompt, she brought over a glass of wine for me and a Budweiser for my dad. I excused myself to visit the restroom, knowing Martha would keep my dad company in my absence.
In the bathroom, I pulled out two mini Smirnovs I carried in my purse. I twisted the caps off and poured the room temperature alcohol down my throat. I tried to toss the empties in the trash can, but missed by several feet. My vision twisted and turned as though I wore kaleidoscope glasses. A little dinner would straighten me out, though, and then I could keep drinking.
As I reclaimed my seat at the table, a basket of fresh garlic bread greeted me. My mouth watered, and without hesitating, I reached for a piece of bread and slathered it with butter.
My dad and I made small talk while we waited for our dinners to arrive. I tiptoed around the conversation, though, not sure what to say. I settled on talking about myself or letting my dad ask me about my life.
"Still on leave?" he asked after a while.
I nodded while slurping noodles from my pasta parmigiana dish. I sensed a dab of sauce lingered on the corner of my lips and used my tongue to wipe it clean. My dad smiled at my immature gesture.
“How much longer do you think it’ll be until you can go back?“
“Once my old-as-dust counselor says I can go back,” I replied as I chewed feverously. “He says I’m not handling the grieving process over Zac as best I can.”
Just speaking about him pierced my heart, while tears welled behind my eyes. If there was one thing my father and I had in common right now, it was grief. The only difference? His was fresh, and mine only scabbed over.
My father nodded understandingly, and silence impregnated our booth again. Martha checked on us several times, for which we were both grateful. A distraction. A buffer. We wiped our plates clean, and Martha smiled and ripped our bill in half.
"It's on the house," she said.
"You didn't have to do that, Martha," my dad said with rosy cheeks.
"I know, but I did it anyway. So, deal." She stuck out her tongue.
I dropped my dad off at his condo, and he squeezed me goodbye. The sadness in his touch seeped into my core, where my heartache lived too. He needed love, and not just to have it, but to feel it down to his very bones. He'd lost the woman he was in love with, and I was all he had left.
"Night, Daddy," I said. "Do you want me to pick you up in the morning?”
He stepped out of the car but rested his arms on the open window, peeking his head back inside my vehicle. "Thanks, but I'll meet you there. I want to drive alone tomorrow.”
Alone. I knew the feeling well.
Sometimes, we can be by ourselves but not feel lonely. And other times, loneliness feels like a worse punishment than death.
I waved goodbye to my dad and drove across town, wondering why life had to be so damn cruel. Parking my car in front of my mom’s house, I got out with a heavy heart to see my mom and stepdad having a drink on the porch. Jealousy coursed through my veins as my inner self begged for another drink too.
Suddenly, a police car with its sirens initiated sped down the street. I couldn't help the tingle of adrenaline coursing through my veins any time I heard that sound. Even if I wasn't an active detective, it didn't mean I wasn't a cop at heart.
In a small community like Keygate, there isn't much crime. Maybe a few domestic disputes and troublesome teenagers from time to time, but nothing serious. If I wasn't mistaken, it was the only town in the county without a murder or a robbery in the last ten years. It was a great place to live if you didn't spend most of your time running from the ghosts of your past.
Both Jack and my mom turned their heads in the direction of the car, which stopped several houses down. A few officers positioned themselves in the front yard, one setting up the all-too-familiar yellow and black crime scene tape. Something had happened. Something bad.
Another squad car with an equally loud siren raced past us. Up and down the street, neighbors gathered on their porches with looks of concern painted across their faces. Parents ushered their kids back inside the house, while older couples held each other.
"Oh my!" my mom said. "Something's happening!”
Without a second thought, I strode down the sidewalk toward the Keygate officers. They stood by their cars speaking to one another.
"Where are you going?" Jack called out after me.
"I'll be right back," I said over my shoulder.
I recognized both officers right away. One, tall, with his hands on his hips, graduated a few years after me. His muscles stretched the arms of his uniform, and his short black hair rippled in the breeze. The other officer, a couple of years younger, shifted his weight from foot to foot. He ran his hands through his dirty-blond hair.
As the sirens lured me closer to the house a few doors down, I managed to miss a step and tripped over a hole in the sidewalk. I fell to my knees, instantly feeling the squelch of blood seeping from my legs. I pulled myself up, and the officers quizzically turned their heads in my direction.
"Elle?" the younger officer asked. "What are you doing here?”
"What's going on?" I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
Officer Renlee gazed around at the residents standing near their front doors and lawns, while the older officer, Cameron, stepped away to take a phone call.
Despite his attempts to stifle his voice, I heard him clear as day.
"We've got a murder," Cameron said. "Get here fast."
Four
I looked to the house as a chill ran down my spine. Who lay inside this house, unmoving? What could have happened? For a moment, reality set in, and my heart about stopped. A young girl I babysat many years ago used to live here. Her name was Callie. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed that when I opened them, it'd be a different house on a different street. But it wasn't. You can't will away or pray away the truth. I just hoped Callie and her family didn't live here anymore. We lost touch over the years as time wriggled its way between us.
I stopped for a moment and collected my thoughts as additional sirens drew closer.
Sergeant Morton stepped out of the vehicle and eyed me up, no doubt noticing the blood oozing from my knee as he approached his reporting officers. The breeze parted his salt and pepper hair while he stared at me. His gait appeared slow and uneven, and he favored his right leg.
For once, I was standing on the outside of the yellow tape instead of
inside it. I yearned to be next to Cameron and Renlee. To have the power to do something. Anything. Instead of being where I was now: inebriated and powerless.
The sergeant wrangled Renlee and Cameron toward the front of the house. Just like almost all other homes on the block, the house was built two stories high with an attic at the top. I stared at the mint curtains in the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of what or who was inside.
I strained my ears to listen to what Sergeant Morton instructed the officers. "You clear the scene?”
"Yes, sir," Cameron said.
"Any witnesses?" Sergeant asked.
Renlee cleared his throat. "No, Sarge. We got a call into the station from a friend of the deceased, who we’ve positively ID’d. Said she hadn't shown up to work in a while and wasn't answering her phone. Parents were away on vacation, but they're on their way home now. When we arrived, the door was unlocked. We confirmed the victim was not breathing. And, uh, hadn't been for a few days.”
I watched the color drain from Renlee's face. His eyes bulged until he closed them and inhaled. His crewcut startled me at first. In school, he often bragged about his golden locks, which led many strangers to believe he was a surfer. He appeared to be in significantly better shape too. But that was part of the job.
"You two start canvassing the neighborhood to see if anyone heard or saw anything. I'll put the call in for the M.E.'s investigator to stop over."
Renlee and Cameron nodded. The duo set off toward the house immediately on the right of the crime scene. Luckily, most of the neighbors were already outside. They wouldn't have to hound too many people for a statement.
"Dahlia," Sergeant said as he turned to face me.
We knew each other well. Growing up, Sergeant Morton acted as a resource officer at my high school for a short period of time. I spent many lunch periods picking his brain about the criminal justice system, about what it was like to be a police officer. While I'd always been interested in serving my community, it was Sergeant Morton who ultimately convinced me to pursue my career in law enforcement.
