The Desert Behind Me

by Shannon Baker

  Not a killer.

  The Chorus of guttural chanting encouraged me to punch, shout, or even run.

  I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment and slowly took control.

  Sherilyn didn’t interrupt.

  When I opened my eyes the two of them studied me. Cheyenne spoke first. “Do you have invisible friends?”

  Sherilyn planted a hand on the child’s head. “Cheyenne. Some things you keep to yourself.”

  The voices rose in a whirl of sound. I swallowed hard, made eye contact with Cheyenne, and nodded.

  Cheyenne raised her little shoulders with a giant inhale and let it out in satisfaction. She gave Sherilyn a knowing look. “I told you. Like Kaycee.”

  Sherilyn spun quickly and motioned to her husband. “Donnie, come say hi to Jamie.”

  With Kaycee riding on his neck, little hands clasped in his beard, Donnie lumbered over like a friendly grizzly bear. With one hand around Kaycee’s back, he swooped down and snatched Cheyenne around her middle, lifting her like a sack of potatoes. Both girls squealed in delight. Donnie grinned and nodded at me. “Thanks a bunch for watching Jackson. Sure was a big help.”

  The girls giggled and struggled. Cheyenne admonished, “Daddy. Put me down before someone gets hurt.”

  Donnie winked at me. “I’m the daddy. You’re always safe with me.”

  My heart stuttered at his words. I needed time alone to gather myself. “He only made one little mumble in his sleep.”

  Sherilyn reached out cool fingers to pat my arm. Just a quick touch that sent my nerves flaming and the Chorus erupted.

  Sherilyn didn’t hear them, of course. “Glad we lucked out with such a good neighbor.”

  I hurried home, the sun blazing and slapping my skin with reflective heat from the street. Safely behind my locked door, the words spilled from me. “I’m Jamie Butler. I’m Amanda’s daughter. I’m a retired Buffalo cop. I am 46 years old. I can run a half marathon in less than two hours.”

  I continued listing facts about myself until the voices settled. Frank and Maggie kept their usual conversation going. They’d probably always be with me, but the three of us understood our boundaries better than we had for the last few years.

  A tall glass of ice water, thick slice of lemon, soothing Chopin wafting through the house, and an hour with my notebook, the pages filling automatically, like ghost writing.

  “You’re a goddamned fool if you get involved with that hillbilly circus over there,” Frank said.

  “Not involved. Just being a good neighbor.”

  18

  Frank chided me while I changed from running shorts and tank top to my uniform and boots. He didn’t let up all the way across town, through light Saturday afternoon traffic. He knew the rules. I’d talk to him on my terms. But he liked to see if he could make me break, like any bully.

  Living so far on the edge might seem inconvenient to most, but I loved the quiet. It seemed a reasonable tradeoff for having to drive across town for almost everything. Today, I used the time to calm down after letting Mom’s casual comment about Mother’s Day blindside me. I talked with Frank and Maggie and a few others chimed in on the half hour drive. By the time I reached Tara’s office, I felt calm again.

  We settled in and Tara asked how I’d been since we’d last met.

  It took some time to explain about the cheerleaders and my concern for Cali. We discussed how Zoey Clark’s disappearance might be translating into paranoia about Cali and I let it go without defending myself, even though I was certain it wasn’t the case. I didn’t delve into that the creepy feeling about the two men in blue shirts or the driver of the gray sedan. Having Tara think I was teetering wouldn’t do me any good.

  “Evidently I made enemies of the girls because they TP’ed my house.”

  Tara raised an eyebrow. “How did you deal with that?”

  I didn’t mention that confrontation, but came clean about talking to Frank in front of Sherilyn.

  “Does your mother know you still talk to Maggie?”

  I squirmed. “It would make her worry.”

  “And you feel as though you need to protect your mother’s feelings?”

  “Mom doesn’t need protecting from anyone. She’s the one doing the protecting.”

  “And yet, you won’t tell her about Maggie to keep her from feeling worried.”

  Mostly. But if she didn’t know, she couldn’t fight me about it. “Only because she’s never understood about Maggie or Frank. Or any of the others. She doesn’t know how important they are to me.”

  Tara tilted her head as if intrigued. “What doesn’t she understand?”

  Everything. “She thinks they’re damaging and are bad for me.”

  “Do you think that?”

  We’d been over these questions many times. “If I did, I wouldn’t spend so much time with them.”

  “Do you have a choice how much time you spend with them?”

  “I have some control, yes. As long as I give them time of their own, I’m able to keep them in line.”

  Tara nodded and made notes. “Why can’t you tell your mother that?”

  Did Tara see the spike of fear I felt? “If she knew I spent time every day with Maggie and Frank, she’d be upset. Chances are she’d move me back to Buffalo where she could keep better track of me.”

  “You’re an adult. You can make your own choices.”

  “We still have the DPOA.”

  She set her pen down. “Why do you feel you need the power of attorney? Aren’t you confident making decisions for yourself?”

  I’d never thought of rescinding the DPOA. “Do you think I’m ready?”

  “It’s not about what I think.”

  Circular dialogue to make me figure it out on my own. “Mom would be hurt if I asked to withdraw her authority.”

  “Back to protecting her?”

  Frustration started to build and I took a deep breath. “What’s wrong with being nice to people you love and who love you?”

  “Is hiding your true feelings being nice?”

  “It seems the least I can do. After everything happened, she took care of me. She’s the only one who’s been by my side my whole life.”

  Tara’s mouth tightened but she didn’t respond. “You’re not telling her about Frank and Maggie and you won’t revoke her DPOA. What else are you doing to mollify her?”

  Typical Tara, push at my comfort. The logical part of me understood she wanted me to heal and be stronger. The other part wanted to walk out. “Not mollifying.”

  “You’ve had some stress lately. Maybe we should delay the memory work for a while.”

  It would be nice to drift and not have to confront the memories. But, as Mom would say, there is no progress without effort. I didn’t want to spend five days of every week in a therapist’s office. “Let’s keep working.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I settled back on the couch and closed my eyes. “Ready.”

  It wasn’t quite hypnosis. Tara spoke slow and quiet and directed me to a time or place, then asked me to see, smell, hear, touch, and remember.

  “Remember, this is all in the past. It isn’t happening now. Tell me where you are,” she said, after she’d guided me.

  It was frightening to be in another place and strange to be in Tara’s office at the same time. I paused a moment to be grateful for that much distance between then and now. Then let myself sink into then.

  “I’m in Mom’s office, standing at the window. My palm is open on the glass and the cold seeping into my skin makes me want to scream. She’s out there somewhere. Is she wet or cold? Or is she inside? It’s drizzling again from heavy clouds. I haven’t seen sun for three days, and feel as if I’ll never see it again.”

  If I opened my eyes, I’d see the bright southwest décor of Tara’s office.

  “Mom’s phone rings and I listen to her grunt to the caller, keeping her response neutral so I can’t read any meaning in it. I shouldn’t be here, but I ca
n’t help it. I’ve been hounding her, demanding she put more officers on the case. She told me she’d like nothing more than to pull every cop off whatever they’re doing and set them on this. But she can’t. She has to avoid any whiff of nepotism.

  “The phone call is obviously about her but Mom won’t tell me. She tells me to wait in her office and she’ll be right back, but I know better. After she leaves, I convince another officer to take me with him.

  “We drive through drizzle that mutes everything to look like an old movie. The windows of the cruiser fog over and I rock in the passenger seat. I can’t sit still, can’t talk. The car is abandoned outside the gates of an automobile junkyard.”

  My words beat out in huffs of hot breath. I wanted to stop but I needed this if I was ever going to heal. I took a moment to calm down.

  “The overcast air is suffocating in the spring humidity. Trees shove and crowd everywhere and it feels like a fortress outlines the junkyard. Red and blue lights pulse against gray sky. I’ve been to a thousand crime scenes. But never like this. The chain-link gate, lined with barbed wire on top, is attached to a crumbling cinderblock garage at the entrance where the junkyard owner tinkers with old cars and collects the fees from those dissecting the wrecks in the yard. The Boneyard is spread in red paint, cracked and peeling across the front. An appropriate name for the cars who found it their final resting place. Mom is framed by the open garage. She’s barking orders and asking questions. In charge. I try not to let her see me because I know she’ll send me away.”

  I started to pant and fought the urge to open my eyes, transport myself back to Tara’s office and safety. But I can’t hide.

  “A uniformed officer hands Mom a barrette with a bit of tattered red ribbon glued on and wispy blonde hairs attached.”

  “Jamie,” Tara’s voice called me back. “That’s enough for today.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed and held myself tight. “I can go a little more.”

  “I really think—”

  “Green weeds sprout from the hulks of Chevys and Fords rusted and ruined. Some of them have been there so long they’re probably older than Mom. Officers shout through the yard, checking in. No one has found anything. The air fills with garbage smells of rotting upholstery and mice, along with the sickening sweet scent of lilacs. I know whose ponytail the barrette had been stripped from. The voices are thrumming in my head and sometimes I’m not sure if it’s officers’ talking to each other or within me. They’re louder than they’ve ever been. Like clanging bells beating on my brain, taking over my head. Then I see it. The silver chain, with mud ground in, as if it had been placed in the exact spot for me to find. The tiny silver runner poised and proud.”

  “Jamie.” Tara’s calm voice is colored with urgency. “Come back now. You’ve had enough.”

  I blinked in the bright, cheery office. My cheeks felt hot and wet and I realized I’d been sobbing again.

  She handed me the tissue box. After my breath returned to normal and I felt stable, we talked about the memories and Tara asked me to journal my thoughts as soon as possible.

  I snapped up a dry tissue and patted my eyes and cheeks one last time. “I have a shift at the ball park now, but I’ll write this evening.”

  She furrowed her brows. “Maybe you should cancel today’s assignment.”

  I stood. “No. Part of this whole thing is learning how to deal with life again. I need to be responsible for my obligations.”

  She didn’t respond, but in a swoosh of skirts, rose and walked me to the door. “We can explore farther next time. For now, you need to be good to yourself. Remember to hydrate and eat well.”

  19

  The lot at the ball park was about half full. Mid May brought the temperature into the low 90’s, not hot by Tucson standards. After the cold of my last years in Buffalo, when no matter how many layers I piled on or how high I set the furnace all that I felt was the chill of the grave, I embraced the desert heat.

  My uniform clung to damp skin, the duty belt strapped heavily around my waist. I used to wear it and a Kevlar vest as thoughtlessly as shoes. And, like it felt to wear shoes in the desert now, the belt was unusual and confining.

  Patricia and I met up by the concession stand where the poster for Zoey Clark hung wrinkled and sun faded already. Please, Zoey, be surviving better than these fragile bits of paper and ink.

  We began our rounds. She seemed stiff, not as chatty as usual. I waited for her to bring up my call to her yesterday. Instead, she talked about getting her husband to take the kids while she volunteered for the Rangers. I let her chatter wash over me as my attention wandered the ball field, and over to the fence separating it from the rest of the park. Several knots of homeless dotted the sparse grass, huddled around picnic tables. Various contraptions such as rusted grocery carts, grungy bikes, even a battered stroller, sat heaped with colorless belongings, the mobile homes of the drifters.

  I didn’t spot the flirting guy from Thursday. Maybe I’d scared him off. But guys like that could always find vulnerable girls flattered by his attention. I kept an eye out for the homeless guy with the missing dog. I felt bad about blowing him off. To someone so alone, who’d lost so much, his dog must be his world. I hoped he’d found her.

  I suddenly realized Patricia’s monologue wasn’t playing. When I glanced at her, she dropped her gaze to the ground, as if nervous to speak. She met my eye. “So, hey, I got a call from Mitch.”

  She’d finally gotten around to it. “He said you’d gone to Megan Thompson’s house and confronted her about TPing your house. If I’d known one of those girls was Jim Thompson’s daughter, I’d have tied you up before letting you go there.”

  Normally, I wouldn’t respond. Today I didn’t feel at all normal. “Mrs. Thompson will lie to keep her kid out of trouble. The kind of mother who complains to the coach that her baby deserves more court time. She probably writes the term papers and completes the science projects.”

  My words flooded me with a memory.

  She’s tall enough to reach mid chest to me now. In that awkward stage of all arms and legs and teeth too big for her mouth. Tears are building and she’s regretful for her procrastination. Pleading.

  “Emily’s mom signed off on the badges and her sash is totally full. I only have three. Can’t you just sign this and I can finish the requirements later? Come on. Please.”

  I want to do that, just to see her smile. But I resist.

  Later at the ceremony, she keeps her eyes to the ground, embarrassed because of her bare sash.

  It takes a year before I know I’ve done the right thing. At that ceremony, she beams with a sash filled with colorful badges. All rightfully earned.

  Patricia’s eyes traveled over the ball field, taking in everything. “Well, she was upset enough to light a match under Jim. He’s a prick, but he’s powerful.”

  We walked to the edge of the bleachers and sauntered back. We both surveyed the grounds, not each other. She wasn’t quite done. “Mitch asked me to talk to you. Wants you to tone it down.”

  I stopped. “What you’re saying is that if I see something wrong happening, ignore it so no one gets upset?”

  “Not at all. I mean, if there’s something legitimately going on, by all means, that’s why we’re here. It’s just….”

  No matter how soft she couched it, she was asking me to shirk my responsibility. “That guy was a predator. And those girls, whether they knew it or not, were in danger.”

  Patricia looked pained. “Yeah, but hunting down a teenager because she TPed your house is extreme.”

  I opened my mouth, not sure what I intended to say, but a shadow blocked the sun and I closed it.

  “Hi, Pete.” Officer Grijalva stood in front of us.

  Patricia blinked. Her O of a mouth morphed into a wide grin and she punched him in the arm. “Rafe, what the hell are you doing here…again?”

  Grijalva smiled a greeting at me and I nodded, worried we’d have a replay of my dressing dow
n this morning. “Officer Grijalva.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted in a slight grin. “Call me Rafe. How are you?”

  “Fine.” Feeling the need to look anywhere but at Grijalva, I shifted my attention to the bleachers behind his head. Megan and Jen, in their shorts and low-cut shirts, held drink cups a few yards from the concession stand. Instead of the brazen grin and thrust out chest, today Megan wore a grim face and her shoulders hunched like the troll she’d probably turn into, just like her mother.

  She caught my eye and sneered my way. In a quick movement, she lifted her hand and launched a bird in my direction. Obviously, she hadn’t learned any lessons. Without thought, I headed in that direction.

  A strong grip clasped my arm and my momentum swung me around.

  Frank hissed and shoved forward in my head. I fisted my hand, but easily resisted bringing it up to throw a punch into Grijalva’s calm face.

  With a serene expression he spoke quietly. “You’re not going over there. Save all of us some trouble and leave them alone.”

  I shook Grijalva off. “I’m not going to cause any problems.”

  Patricia looked skeptical. “Better stay here.”

  “I’ll be right back.” I expected them to try to stop me again, or at least follow along.

  Megan scowled at me while I approached. “I need to speak to you.” I could still drum up the authority of a cop.

  Megan’s head tilted to the side and her lip curled to the right. “I’m not supposed to speak to you.”

  Frank and The Chorus urged me to slap Megan. I kept my voice steady. “This isn’t about you. It’s Cali. You haven’t seen her, have you? Did she go with the guy?”

  The two girls exchanged a look that seemed to solidify their bond. Megan firmed her mouth, then said. “You got us suspended by saying we were talking to some guy. But there was no guy.”

  Dumb teenagers. Hiding and covering, sending their own into a dark forest of biting teeth and shredding claws. “I saw you talking to him.”