Leanne Davis - Natalie (Daughters Series #2)

by Natalie (Daughters Series #2)

  I take some offense to Dustin’s comment. So I am a little grubby of late. The kind of work I’m doing is dirty and makes me sweaty. I wear sweats and t–shirts there because I often get filthy. I haven’t cut my hair in a while. So no, I’m not taking particularly great care of myself. But I’m obsessed and determined. This place won’t be such a dangerous eyesore anymore. I work all day weekdays and weekends. I get there early and leave late. It is taking that much work to improve it.

  That’s fine. Because I own it now. I think growing up, I assumed the city owned the park. It was a bit of a surprise to discover it didn’t. A goodhearted community leader was the first kind soul who provided the space for kids, and he did that just because. I want to do that now, too.

  One afternoon, I see some kids coming by on skateboards. They ask and nod towards the baseball diamond. It’s the only part that is totally—weed, garbage and graffiti—free. Although by the second night I made it so, someone came by and tagged it overnight. I just went back to work on it again. It’s happened every night since then too. And every morning, I fix it. Paint it. Scrub it. Whatever. I see it as the test now. It comes to signify a bigger test for me. A test of my morality. My ability to commit and stick through the hard stuff. So every morning, my first chore is to make sure the park is once again graffiti–free. Either whoever is doing the tagging or I will eventually tire of this routine, and move on to end this ongoing stalemate. But by God, on my life, I don’t intend for it to be me.

  Anyway, when the teens asked to play on the field, I nodded my permission. I restrained myself from falling on my knees and thanking them with relief for showing some interest. For giving me hope that all my hard work was not for naught. Perhaps somebody might even give a crap about this park again. After sinking my half of our savings into it, maybe someone would be interested in it long enough to justify all my effort.

  Natalie

  I glance up when I hear the knock and see Dustin letting himself in. He walks over and sits on my couch where I am lounging. I look at him when he sighs heavily as if asking for my attention.

  “Something up?”

  “Have you spoken to Sam?”

  I close the game on my tablet, tuck my legs under me and face Dustin. Sam. Always back to Sam. Wearily, I shake my head to the negative. “Only through texts about functional stuff, you know, coordinating the bills and adjusting our finances and such.”

  “Have you been by the old neighborhood recently?”

  I hesitate. What does one have to do with the other? “It’s been awhile, but last time I was there, it was a real shithole. Sad to see how drastically it declined. Why?”

  “Sam’s hanging out there. I mean, like he’s fixing up the old field. I—I don’t recognize him. He’s acting like a man possessed on a mission. I was thinking maybe you could go down there and check on him.”

  I stare at Dustin. Is he for real? “What do you mean, he’s ‘hanging out there’?”

  “I mean, you know that money he withdrew and said it was for a down payment on a place? It wasn’t a house, or an apartment, or anything; it was the park. I swear to God, he’s acting possessed and returning it to its former glory. For you. I think he’s doing it for you, Natalie. I get you’re mad. Pissed. Hurt. But maybe you could check up on him. He’s literally on his hands and knees by himself, doing all the weeding, picking up trash, scrubbing out and repainting graffiti…”

  I hear all those things, but I can’t picture Sam out there on his hands and knees, doing physical work. I assure Dustin I will follow his advice, and the next day when I have some time, I head over to the neighborhood.

  It feels good to be back on the job, especially after the odd vacation I had. It gives me a familiar high to wear my uniform and cruise the streets, patrolling citizens. After taking a couple of calls—a burglary and a minor traffic accident—I swing through the old neighborhood, and catch up on my reports.

  Pulling in across from the old park, I have to agree with Dustin. Sam’s lost his ever–loving mind. But the place is actually starting to look the way I remember it from a decade ago. My gaze scans the field until I find Sam, and sure enough, he’s out digging post holes for a new fence. I see the material behind him. Sweat rolls down his face and washes the grime already stuck on his cheeks and neck. He’s dressed in a tank and sweats, and his muscles strain as he pushes and pulls the dirt out of the hard ground. Something inside me twists with emotion. I haven’t seen him since Ellensburg, about two months ago, but it’s startling to see him again. I feel that deep, magnetic pull towards him also.

  I wait for traffic to clear before I cross the street and finally stop a few feet away from him. Placing my hands on my hips, I address him. “Sam?”

  He straightens up. His face, so uncharacteristically dirty and sweaty, breaks into a wide smile. A big, huge, welcoming smile. He’s so glad to see me, it makes something swirl in my guts. Gladness. First and foremost, a smile appears on my mouth and deepens my cheekbones. Then I squelch it. Goddamn it! Always, it’s little Natalie in awe of big, popular, well–loved Sam. I grit my teeth and stop the happy feelings striving to grow in my chest.

  However, this Sam doesn’t look like the Sam I know. He’s handsome, of course. But his sweats are ripped and hanging from his knees and his sneakers are dirty. He looks a little bit like a homeless person. I see why Dustin asked me to come there. It is sheer unreality to find Sam working at this place, of all places, and doing such physical grunt work.

  “Hey, Nat,” he replies casually. Like how he used to greet me when I surprised him by coming to his office. The same place where he wore designer suits that were cut to his precise measurements and made out of fabrics that cost what I could make in a whole day. His former office was huge, and his desk’s massive size can only be compared in length to a car. He always had countless piles of paper and folders cluttering it. Always so busy. Always so successful.

  “Uh, what are you doing?”

  “Fixing it up,” he answers simply, sweeping his hands around in both directions as if displaying the subject of his toil. I glance up. He isn’t staring at me. Is there a double meaning in his words “fixing it”? I stare at him. Holy crap, maybe he doesn’t know why he’s doing that. Maybe he doesn’t even know he’s trying to fix that because he can’t fix us. Because this once was us, and where we started. My mouth drops open, and my heart swells. This is actually better than anything else he could have done. Sending me dozens of flowers with pretty messages would have left me cold. In fact, I was kind of waiting for Sam to wage a long, drawn–out seduction. Especially after the way we left things. But this? This is it! This is definitely the way to my heart and soul. Sam knew what maybe no other man could have. Tears fill my eyes and I gulp hard to keep them from falling.

  He looks so tired. His eyes are rimmed in purple rings under the dirt, grime and sweat.

  “Is it working?” I ask softly.

  His gaze settles back on me, and this time, his eyes clear up. They narrow on me, like he gets my meaning. He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m just trying really hard.”

  “Did you really buy it?”

  “Uh–huh. Stupid, yeah? But it seemed so sad to let it just go to waste. So much history, and meaning and fond memories for a lot of people. I wanted it to be like that again.”

  What if it can’t? I almost voice the obvious. I nearly let the tears that are filling my eyes fall. Somehow, observing his desperate need to fix this park… in his own way, for us, leaves my heart aching and hollow. It’s terribly sweet, but he can’t fix it all.

  “Not stupid. But sometimes, things are too wrecked to go back to the way they used to be. Sometimes, things… and circumstances just change too much. Sometimes, it’s better to level it to the ground and start all over.”

  He stares at me, his face frozen in abject horror. His mouth opens, then closes as he shakes his head. “I can’t accept that. Not yet.”

  A few tears fall from my eyes and I squeeze them shut to stop myse
lf. I glance past him. “Look at you, Sam. How long have you been at this?”

  “A while. But it’s nothing I can’t handle. Do you remember Jim Lefsano? He ran the community center before it shut down?”

  “Yes, I remember him.”

  “He opened another one a few miles from here. He noticed what I was doing and stopped by a few days back. I offered him the use of the place, of course, and he asked if I needed a job. Working there. It’s not much. Low pay. Long hours. But the kids? They are so like us. Fierce. Competitive. I’ve been coaching a few of them on basketball and I really like it.”

  Sam working at a youth center? Coaching? Mentoring? Actually, the mentoring part completely fits. He is so good with people of all ages, so why not teens? He has a lot to offer them in athletics, so yeah, that fits. Plus, he’s a natural leader. People always sense that and give him their respect. Still… Is that his job? Maybe as a volunteer, or on a weekend here and there, but full time? His permanent job? I feel like I time–traveled to an alternate planet. I don’t even know what to say.

  “They will be playing a few games here on Saturday. You should come sometime. They start at ten.”

  He’s eager for me to attend. Even excited about it. I've never seen that kind of sparkle in his eyes. What he’s doing here might have started out as a metaphor about us, or a gift to me, but he’s actually getting something out of it. Something has stirred his soul and ignited his interest in living again. He was never this engaged about his work for BorderLine Solutions. Or if he was, he never shared it with me. Then again, maybe I never let him share it with me.

  “I can’t. I’m on duty.” His face falls. I nod. “But I can try and swing by afterwards, for a few minutes even.”

  “That would be nice.” He shoves the posthole digger aside and steps towards me, his dark eyes searching mine. “How are you?”

  “I’m… good. Busy… Strange. I’m really strange.”

  “I feel that way too. Strange. Did you hear from any of the Hendrickses?”

  “Yes. All of them. I text my sisters quite often. They love hearing stories about what I encounter all day long.”

  “I always liked those too. What about Jessie?”

  “Yeah, I’ve talked to her a few times too. They asked me to come back for Christmas. Hard to say yet if I’ll go. It’s so far from now. Emily keeps asking and begging if she can come visit me before school starts for her. She wants to see San Francisco.”

  “Is there any chance you’d like to meet? Or go to dinner? I don’t know…”

  “I’m not ready yet, Sam. Look, this is amazing. You’ve changed a lot. I can see what happened has profoundly changed you and your outlook. It’s obvious. But you’ve got to remember this could all be no more than a rebound. You were so shocked by what happened, you’re dropping everything and going the opposite way. There is nothing wrong with your ambition, or your former job, or liking the lifestyle you used to have. The way you’re shunning it all… and so fast… I don’t know what to make of it, or how it fits into my life now. I sometimes wonder if it’s just a strong reaction and after you get your shit worked out, you will go back to it all. Which isn’t bad either. I’m just so confused and I don’t know what to do right now. I just know this might not be as real as you think.”

  He shrugs. “Nothing I did at BorderLine Solutions gave me concrete, visible results. Not like I see here. Not like working with those kids. One kid has so many gang tats, I’m not too sure what his skin color is. But he comes in there, all bad–ass and shit, and he listens to me. For a few hours, he’s just a fifteen–year–old kid learning about b–ball. I wish I could undo so much more. But it feels nice to do some good.”

  I get that. It’s hard to stand there and criticize him without falling into his arms and raving how proud of him I am. I was part of our problem before; and I didn’t tell that to him enough. But this? I don’t know yet. Any of it. So I simply step back and finally say, “I’ve got to get going. I’ll see you, Sam.”

  He stares after me, his look longing and somehow resigned.

  None of this goes the way I could have ever dreamed it would.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Natalie

  I work at the Tenderloin Station. It’s the smallest in the city, but has the highest population of parolees. To counterbalance that there are lots of immigrant families making their homes and businesses there and trying to turn the area around. It pleases me to watch and make that happen. My day starts at seven today and I ride with my partner, Glenn Orion. We start on Market Street, the main street through our district. It’s one o’clock before we get a call of any interest. Responding with our lights glaring, we speed up and down the side streets of the city before pulling up to investigate reports of a woman screaming. We park at the four–unit condo and find nothing but quiet. We get out, gently tapping our doors shut as we glance around. It’s sunny, pleasant and quiet. I lightly set my fingers on top of my holstered gun for reassurance. Something pricks up the hairs on my arm. Something feels wrong. Or right. I’m not even sure why.

  My partner motions that he’s going around back. I nod, starting towards the unit.

  “I know what you want!”

  I flip around at the sudden hiss. It’s a high–pitched, shrill sound before a woman steps out from behind a pillar where she was hiding. She’s in her late twenties or early thirties, and as she steps out, she watches me closely. Her eyes are crossed and the pupils are dilated. She is holding a knife that’s dripping something red. A quick scan reveals a series of cuts on her thighs and chest. Shallow, but they appear to be self–inflicted wounds. She’s crying, but calm. She flips the knife my way, and my hand is already on my weapon. I turn my head just a fraction of a centimeter to speak into the microphone on my left epaulet. I have to call my partner. In doing so, I break eye contact for just a moment and the woman starts screaming as loud as a bullhorn. Her voice is shrill and piercing, which scares me more than normal screaming. She sounds crazy. She’s either high or clearly out of her mind.

  “Put your hands up! Where I can see them! You’re here with them, aren’t you? Wanting to take me away! I know you are. But you can’t. You can’t have me!” She covers her ears with her bloody hands and shakes her head back and forth as if someone is talking to her. She suddenly jerks her hands toward me. “I said, hands up!”

  I immediately put my hands up where she can see them. I’m nervous, sure, but feel she’s more of a danger to herself than to me. Her mental condition is what I’m worried about. I feel sympathy for her, but also apprehension. Mental health issues often lead to unpredictable behavior. Usually, it’s nonviolent. But there are other times… I swallow the lump of fear in my throat and say softly, “Who is trying to get you? Can you tell me? I can help you, okay? I’m sure I can help you.”

  I keep my voice neutral and gentle. No shaking. No fear, although my palms are sweating and I am completely afraid. Something pits out in my stomach. Come on, Orion! Where are you? I chant it over and over. He must be close.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, keeping my eyes wide and my hands up. I am trying to make my facial expressional look calm, like we’re two woman chatting in line at the grocery store.

  She tilts her head as if she almost understands me. Then she says, almost in a little girl’s tone, “Carmel. My name is Carmel.”

  “Hi, Carmel. I’m Officer Ford. I’m a cop. See? Uniform and all.” I nod towards my uniform, keeping my hands high in the air. “I can help you. Is there anything I can do to help you right now? That’s my job, right?” I try to sound and look nonthreatening, hands up, smiling softly, my voice warm and friendly.

  She doesn’t answer. Vacant eyes. Her hand flops as if she’s too lazy to hold the knife up any longer to fend me off. She wears a white, fluttery gown that I’m sure is her nightdress, and a bag crossed over her chest. Her hair is matted and it sticks out in blonde strands.

  “Carmel, can you tell me who is after you?”

  “T
hem. They’re everywhere. They won’t leave me alone. They talk to me all the time. They tell me to kill myself. But I don’t want to. I think they want to take me with them.” She starts to cry. Tears pour down her face and her expression becomes that of a bewildered child.

  “With them? Where?”

  “Their planet, I think. Shh. They’re all around you now. Everywhere… so… STOP!” She goes from whispering their presence to screaming, and again holds her arms over her face as if shielding herself from attack. I’m concerned she could hit her neck with the spastic, incautious movements of her hands and knife.

  I step forward when it all happens faster than I could blink. First, she screams and her hands dig into the bag at her side. She pulls a gun out and shouts, “STOP! STOP! RIGHT NOW!” She’s screaming at me. I keep my hands up and halt, trying to still my racing heart and shallow breathing. She’s scared. Whatever she’s hallucinating on and seeing is obviously terrorizing her. She wets herself. I can smell the acrid, stinging smell of ammonia. She fears something around here might hurt her. Drugs? Maybe. But whatever she’s seeing, it’s overtaken her sanity. I’m starting to get agitated, now, and I glance over my shoulder. No sign of Glenn. I hold my gaze on her, and she starts backing up. Suddenly, she points the gun lower and the gun goes off.

  It’s a small pistol that makes a sharp crack! I jump and so does she, dropping the gun to the cement. I feel something and glance down only to stare in shock and awe, as if I’m hallucinating. It’s blood. It’s starting to flow from my stomach, just below my bullet–resistant vest. Thankfully, below my vital organs. But still, blood. So much of it is spewing out of me. I glance back up in confusion and my hands naturally clasp my wound. I can see the whole inside of my flesh. My mouth opens now in complete horror. I never expected this. I didn’t foresee even the possibility of this happening. Ever. But especially today. This beautiful August day! The sun is high and warm and pleasant and the woman I first encounter is small and weak, but violently crazy.