by Kim Karr
“Cover your head!” someone else screams at the top of his lungs.
What follows is an echo. My ears are ringing. I have no fucking idea what is going on except for the fact I know that is the sound of a high-powered rifle. Hysterical screams rise above the crowd and then I look over to see a blanket of red spreading across the faded blue jumpsuit of the other man in shackles.
Fuck!
Someone shot him.
Everything is hazy. There’s a thud. It’s his body. He dropped like a rock sinking to the bottom of the ocean. My heart is pounding. Fear rushes through me like I’ve never felt. Am I next?
Chaos everywhere.
Shoving.
Pushing.
Shouting.
“Get the fuck down.” The guard is in my face.
My surroundings are blurred and I teeter on the edge of the step until a sudden shift in movement, or more like a shove, has me falling and sinking to the ground. My head is level with the man who was just shot. He’s dead. There’s no doubt about it. But his eyes are open. Wide open. Nausea fills my gut. Unable to move, I can’t help but stare at his cold lifeless eyes—one blue and one green.
“Get him out of here,” I hear the detective yelling.
He’s talking about me.
The guards are huddled on top of me and swiftly stand, pulling me off of the ground with them. Before I know it, I’m sandwiched between them. One in front, one in back, and they are hustling me back up the remaining stairs.
I start to count the steps.
One.
I’m not going to make it out of this alive.
Two.
Shit. Shit. Shit. My life is over before I ever started it.
Three.
I’m sorry, Charlotte. Sorry about everything.
Four.
Wait. There are no more shots. What is the gunman waiting for?
Five.
The cuffs no longer bother me.
Six.
The world gradually speeds up again. I’m no longer moving in slow motion. There are no more stairs.
I’m inside.
Unharmed.
Safe.
Alive.
“What the fuck was that about?” one guard says to the other.
“I think the better question is who the fuck is splattered on the steps?”
They stare at each other in bewilderment.
“I know who it is,” I mumble.
Their heads snap in my direction. “Who?”
“Tom Worth.”
And as soon as those two words leave my mouth my concern for Charlotte has never been greater. Fuck my situation. Fuck what just happened. If Tom Worth is back in town, more than likely so is Charlotte’s mother, Allison Lane.
And how will Charlotte take that news?
Not well.
I need to find a way to reach out to her. Even if it’s possible, I know I shouldn’t.
Never in my life have I felt so conflicted.
SPEED BUMP
Charlotte
THE PROBLEM WITH community self-defense lessons is that they’re relatively civilized.
You square off against your instructor and although you’re using your fists to punch him and your legs to kick him, you aren’t really giving it your all because the reality is you don’t want to hurt him.
When looking your attacker straight in the eye—that no longer holds true, and all the lessons you’ve taken seem to have been for not.
“I’ve heard Krav Maga is the leader in self-defense training.”
I look over at Mrs. Storm as she takes the flowers out of the vases by the handfuls and tosses them into the trashcan she’s holding while we wait for my discharge papers. I can finally go home. Yesterday, I suffered from headaches all day, so I was kept overnight with strict orders to leave the television off and sit in quiet.
It killed me.
Today, I get to leave. Mrs. Storm is here with me and we’ve been discussing how I feel after my attack. Helpless. Vulnerable. Angry. Fearful. Yet, thankful that I’m alive. “So have I. I think I might look around for where classes are held.”
At forty-nine, Mrs. Storm is a classic beauty. With light-brown hair curled in big waves, high cheekbones, and a slender figure, she is probably the most beautiful woman I know. Petals fall to the ground as she looks back at me with what I can only describe as Bette Davis eyes. “I wish I could tell you not to, but with all the craziness going on around us it wouldn’t be a bad idea to be able to protect yourself better.”
I give her a nod.
“You know, Jasper isn’t going to take the news of your attack well. He’s going to blame himself.”
Jasper.
Oh, Jasper.
I miss him so much. My skin aches to be touched by him. My lips beg to be kissed by him. My hips feel bare without the press of his against them.
With a sigh, I swing my feet off of the bed and slip them into the flat sandals Mrs. Storm brought me yesterday when Jake ran her to my apartment to gather some of my things. “But it isn’t his fault.”
“I know that. And you know that. But Jasper, well, he’s—” She stops and waves her hand in the air. “Never mind.”
“He’s what?” I ask feeling comfortable enough to press her but not comfortable enough to press her too much. She spent all day Saturday and Sunday with me, and then came back this morning. Over the past two and a half days we’ve formed a connection that I find an uneasy comfort with. Uneasy because she’s not my mother, but Jasper’s, and he’s not that close to her—and I can’t figure out why. Which is why it makes me uneasy.
“Protective . . .” she says softly, then adds, “so very much like his father.”
Knowing from Jasper that talking about Luke Storm only upsets his mother, I haven’t brought him up and decide not to push my boundaries right now, so I give her another nod letting her decide what’s next.
Mrs. Storm leans against the rolling cart with the trashcan still in her hand and reflection in her eyes. Surprisingly, she doesn’t end the conversation there. “Luke and I were so young when I got pregnant. I was worried he wouldn’t be able to settle down and take care of us. But as soon as Jasper was born, his transition into a family man seemed effortless. I think I envied him for it. He was my rock. My cornerstone. He worried about us, protected us, provided for us—he took care of us. Sure, he still walked fast, talked fast,” she laughs for a moment as if letting the happy memories overtake her and I like seeing the joy in her eyes, “well . . . he did everything fast. Still, when he was alive I never had to worry about how much Jasper was like him. I just knew no matter what—Luke would never let anything happen to his son. But once Luke was gone, my fear only manifested itself and I worried I might lose Jasper too. As time passed, I knew I wasn’t wrong to worry. Jasper not only looked more and more like Luke, he acted more and more like Luke too. He, like his father, had a reckless side, but unlike his father, I couldn’t temper it. That’s why I sold the go-cart, the car, everything and anything I thought he might get hurt using. It wasn’t for the money like Jasper thinks; there wasn’t enough to have mattered. I thought I could change him, that’s why.” She laughs again. “Boy was I wrong. Jasper is who he is and I still worry every day that I might lose him to his reckless behavior.”
“Have you told Jasper this?”
She shakes her head and wipes a stray tear away. “No, I can’t change who he is.”
“But you can tell him how you feel.”
“I’ve tried many times. He hears what he wants to hear. I’m afraid my son doesn’t like me very much.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. He will never forgive me for what I did, and I will never regret it.”
“You mean sending him to juvie?”
“Yes. But you have to understand, after he got caught stealing that car, I was more afraid than ever about what else he’d do and where he’d end up. I knew if I sent him there I’d lose him, but there was a bigger chance I was
going to lose him anyway. I just wanted him off the streets. That’s why I encouraged the judge to send him to juvie. Not because I couldn’t control him, but because I knew fifteen was going to turn into sixteen, then seventeen, then he’d be an adult and his blatant disregard for rules would get him into even more trouble. Bigger trouble. So I had to do it. I had to send him away. It was the only way I knew how to save him.”
“I think deep down inside Jasper knows that.”
“I hope so. We don’t talk about that time. In fact, we don’t talk about much. You know, he thinks I don’t like to talk about his father because it makes me sad, but I don’t talk about Luke because it makes Jasper sad, and that, I don’t handle well. I had twelve great years with Luke, all of which I remember vividly. Jasper only had eight, and so many fewer that he actually remembers. He’s grown up more years without a father than with one. At least he has Hank.”
A shiver runs through me at the mention of Hank Harper’s name.
She doesn’t notice. “But anyway, I got off track. Back to what we were talking about.”
Uncertain what to say to make her feel better, I turn the conversation back to where it started. “I really want to be the one who tells Jasper about my attack. Aside from my itchy cast, I feel much better and most of the swelling is practically gone. It should be easier on him if it’s me. Do you think they’ll let me see Jasper if we go to the jail after we leave here?”
She shakes her head no. “I called there before I came here this morning. All local and federal buildings are still under lockdown.”
“But they apprehended Tom yesterday. Why are they still locked down?”
Her eyes shift toward the last of the flowers, and as soon as she tosses them in the trashcan she sets the can down and picks up two of the vases. “I have to empty the water from these.”
Suspicious about her reaction to my comment, and already having dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, I follow her into the hallway. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Body trembling, she leans against the wall like she might fall without its support.
Feeling weak kneed I beg, “Mrs. Storm, please, tell me, you’re scaring me.”
She stiffens, her shoulders sinking as she sighs heavily.
My heart is pounding so loudly in my ears that I don’t think I could hear her answer even if she was talking.
Gently, she takes my hand. “Come on, let’s go back in the room.”
The lump in my throat grows bigger and bigger with each step.
Once back in the hospital room, I plop onto my bed.
Mrs. Storm sets the vases down and comes to sit beside me. With her hand on my knee, she says, “There was a shooting at the jail this morning.”
Before she can finish, I feel the earth shift below my feet. “No!” I scream.
Her arms are around me. “Charlotte, honey, Jasper is fine.”
Relief washes through me. I can’t lose him now that I just found him again. “He wasn’t shot?”
She shakes her head.
“Then who was?”
“Tom Worth. He was shot to death after his bail hearing and the precinct is remaining under lockdown until the investigation into the shooting is complete. Right now, they have no suspects.”
He’s dead.
Uncle Tom.
My father’s once best friend.
My mother’s lover.
My attacker.
My father’s Judas.
My father was right about his theory, and all he had to do was look at the one who had already stabbed him in the back. It had been Tom all along.
Shocked, I find myself not only crying, but also seeking comfort in this woman’s arms. Not over Tom Worth’s death. Any feelings I once had for him that hadn’t vanished when he took my mother from my life and they abandoned me, completely depleted when he hovered above me trying to choke the life out of me. However, I’m terrified this means my mother might be returning to Detroit. With that thought, a memory surfaces that I’d completely suppressed and with it erupts a need to keep Mrs. Storm close.
Jasper and I are seven and we’re outside playing in the snow. We’re making the world’s biggest snowman and we need large branches for arms.
He looks up at the tree over our heads. Pulls his mouth to the side. He’s considering climbing it.
“Let me do it. I’m lighter. The branches we want are all the way at the top.” I point up.
Patting the last snow mound onto the body, Jasper shakes his head no. “I’ll do it.”
“I can climb higher than you,” I tease.
“Cannot,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Can too,” I taunt and head toward the tree trunk in my too-small snow boots.
Rushing toward me, he grabs my arm. “You’re a girl. Let me do it.”
I shove him back. I hate when he calls me a girl. “No way, I can do it,” I hiss and then hug the tree. Within moments, I’m climbing it. I hate heights, so I don’t look down. I just want to break two big branches off and then shimmy my way to the ground.
“Charlie, that’s high enough.”
“No, the branches are too small here.”
“That’s high enough.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Come back down, now,” he orders.
I ignore him. He always thinks he’s the boss of me. Suddenly, my toes start to cramp and I can’t move my feet very well. I look down. I shouldn’t have done that. “Jasper,” I call softly, because I don’t see him down there.
He doesn’t answer.
I look down again and this time I see him climbing the tree. “Just stay there, I’m coming to get you and help you down.”
But I can’t. I’m scared. I start to panic. I try to move down on my own. I look down again, but this time the early morning winter sun blinds me. My foot slips. And then I fall to the ground.
“Charlie!” Jasper yells.
Suddenly, his back door swings open and Mrs. Storm comes rushing out in her bathrobe and slippers. “Charlotte!” she screams, scooping me up in her arms. “Go get her mother,” she orders Jasper as she carries me into her house.
I send Jasper one of our secret signals by wrinkling my nose—letting him know I’ll be okay. Hoping he doesn’t do what his mother told him. It’s Saturday morning. As usual, my dad is at work and Uncle Tom is over with Tory. I told my mother I wanted to play alone in my room and then I snuck outside when I saw Jasper in his backyard. She will be so mad when she finds out what I did.
He shakes his head no and I know he doesn’t believe me. No secret signal is going to work. He can see right through me. I’m clutching my arm. Shaking. It hurts so badly.
“Don’t move it,” he tells me.
Now I’m crying. “I don’t think I can anyway.”
Jasper takes off. Fast as lightning, minutes later he flies back into the house. “No one’s answering the door.”
Mrs. Storm’s jaw clenches. “Let’s get in the car. I’ll call the plant and tell Adam to meet us at the hospital.”
My tears turn into giant sobs. “I don’t want to go to the hospital.”
“It’s okay, honey, you’re going to be fine once we have one of the nice doctors look at you. I promise.”
I’m shaking my head no.
“Charlie, it’s okay. Remember when I broke my arm last year after I fell off my bike? The cast was cool and everyone signed it.” Jasper tries to reassure me.
Just then there’s a knock on the door and it opens before anyone answers it. “Lynne, it’s Allison, is Charlotte here? She’s not in her room like she told me she’d be.”
Mrs. Storm cradles me. “Allison, don’t be alarmed but there’s been an accident. We have to take Charlotte to the ER.” Mrs. Storm is patting away my tears in a useless gesture because with the look on my mother’s face, the tears won’t stop.
“Why? What has she done now?” my mother says standing over me.
“She didn’t do anything. She fell out of a
tree and I think she broke her arm.”
My mother’s eyes narrow at me. “Stupid, stupid, girl.”
“It’s my fault,” Jasper lies. “I told her to.”
My mother throws Jasper a look of disgust. “She should have known better than to climb trees to begin with.”
“They’re just kids, Allison,” Mrs. Storm says. “And you really should get her to the hospital.”
My mother grabs me by the arm that is not hanging limp. “Tom stopped by to see if Charlotte wanted to go see Santa with Tory. I’m sure he won’t mind driving us.”
Now I cry harder. Not because of the pain, but because I want Mrs. Storm to take me, not my mother.
That was the truth.
Then.
Now.
Always.
I never wanted my mother.
She’d made me feel like I was unloveable.
She was cold.
Distant.
Uncaring.
Toward me—anyway.
And the thought of having to see her again makes me want to crawl back into that dark closet she used to lock me in.
Mrs. Storm is smoothing my hair with no real idea what I’m crying over. “Everything is going to be okay, Charlotte,” she whispers.
Gathering my courage, I pull back and ask, “Is my mother here, in Detroit?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I hope not.”
“But she’s your mother, honey. And she may be able to shed some light on what Tom was doing here and why he attacked you.”
“She was never my mother, and I don’t care what she has to say. Let the police question her. I never want to see her ever again.”
Shocked, Mrs. Storm just looks at me.
Unable to hold it in, I find myself telling Jasper’s mother everything about my life in Eastpointe—being left alone, locked away, constantly told how needy I was, and how Jasper was my only sanity.
“Oh, Charlotte, I wish I would have known. I mean, I suspected your mother was unhappy, but I had no idea just how bad things were.”
The empathy she exudes moves me. She doesn’t blame Jasper for not telling her about my life in Eastpointe. She knows we were kids and the fear of adults was far too great to risk telling awful truths about them. She doesn’t pity me either, or make excuses, instead she just cries with me. Tears for me, tears for Jasper, and tears for herself.
