Sunshine Cottage: A Pajaro Bay Mystery

by Lee, Barbara Cool

"I know how it is."

  His glance held malice. Of course she couldn't know. Teri Forest wouldn't know about things like that.

  "So where is Alastor now?"

  He tilted his head toward the south. "I got a place. Down by the tracks. I'm doin' okay."

  Down by the tracks. Where the homeless people hung out. The drug addicts would be there, and the insane. Anyone who had no one to take care of them would end up in a place like that.

  Teresa leaned back. "It's good to have someone who needs you, Austin. It gives you something to look forward to."

  "Yeah." He put his head down. "But I dunno if it's enough sometimes. It's real hard to keep going. I done things—you wouldn't understand."

  "I bet I would."

  He looked her over from her good-girl eyeglasses, to her flowered blouse and knit jumper, to her simple flats. His expression grew malicious, mean. "You'd faint, princess."

  She knew that part of it, too. That protective cover you had to put over your heart when you lived on the streets. "Try me," she said, her challenge unmistakable.

  And then, in a sudden burst that almost threw her back in her seat, he did. Out spewed it all, in a furious whisper that hissed with hatred. His skinny fingers gripped the neck of the guitar until his hands shook as his voice grew louder and louder. He told her everything that had been done to him, and everything he had done to survive. In gruesome detail. As if he wanted to stir some disgust in her, some contempt in her expression that would confirm everything he believed in his own heart. He pushed her as hard as he could, desperately trying to find that same hatred in her eyes he felt toward himself.

  She didn't take the bait. She sat there silently, looking him right in the eyes, letting him spill it all out, the crimes he'd been victim of, the crimes he'd committed, all of it, until she saw him break down, and the shell cracked, and the tears came. Still she didn't let her eyes leave his.

  Finally he was spent, all the ugliness and horror of what he'd been through emptied out of him like air out of a balloon. And then she took her hands and wrapped them around his dirty, skinny, pale claw of a hand. She cradled his poor hand in hers, as if willing away the marks of needles and scabs of self-injury. She leaned in really close. "Me, too," she whispered to him.

  He didn't deny her, didn't try to say she was lying. Their eyes were still locked together, and the boy could see in her expression that she was telling the truth, that she had seen and experienced the same world he had.

  She still didn't look away. "But I started over," she said, still in that same whisper. "You can, too."

  His hand was cradled in hers, and he clenched it, holding on to her, reaching for the lifeline she was offering.

  She thought she had him then, thought she could bring him back from the edge of self-hatred and self-destruction. But suddenly he broke away. "Too late, too late, too late!"

  He leaped to his feet, his voice rising as he repeated the phrase, ending it with a shout, like a mantra, a rejection of hope, a rejection of the hand she offered him, like a drowning man kicking and hitting at the lifeguard in fear. He wasn't looking at her any more. He was looking behind her.

  She turned, and saw Logan standing there at the top of the stairs, and his expression gave him away. He had heard what Austin had said, and he couldn't hide the shock he felt at learning about what the boy had done to survive.

  Logan tried to fix it, tried to reach out for him, to say, "it's okay, don't be afraid," but his horror at the boy's words had broken the spell of trust.

  The boy tried to run past him down the stairs, and when Logan tried to stop him, the boy slugged him in the stomach, knocking him back against the railing. And then the boy was gone, running downstairs and out into the night.

  Teresa ran to Logan, who was already trying to get back to his feet. When he reached for her, she pulled away from him, too, rejecting him for his judgment, for his superiority, for him being from some place safe and secure and not understanding the horror of the boy's life—the horror of her own life.

  His shock got through to her, though. His stunned reaction to the hatred showing in her eyes stopped her from yelling at him, from saying all the hurtful things Austin had said to her, thinking she wouldn't understand.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I just—I shouldn't have let him see my reaction. I know better. I blew it."

  "You think?" she said sarcastically, not willing to let him off the hook. He was a spoiled brat who had no idea what life was like outside his bubble.

  "I was just shocked. The things he did—the things he—"

  She cut him off. "There's always a story," she said. "Nobody does things for no reason. Who do you think you are to judge him?"

  "I'm sorry," he said, bewildered by her hostility. "I just came looking for you because it's late and we were supposed to meet for dinner, and—"

  "—not tonight," she said curtly. "I have a headache." She slammed out of there and went home.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning, Teresa saw Logan heading through Sunshine Cottage's back garden and ran to catch up. She ended up skidding to a stop on the gravel path when she reached him, and almost slipped.

  He reached out and grabbed her arm. "Careful! What's the rush?"

  She smiled. Her anger from last night seemed far away, and she stood there a moment, his hand resting gently on her arm.

  Then he seemed to remember what he was doing and let go of her.

  She smoothed down her tailored pink blouse, worn loose over skinny black pants, with matching pink flats that clearly didn't have enough traction on their soles to keep her from slipping on the gravel.

  "Um," he said sheepishly. "About last night…?"

  "That's why I ran—to catch up to you before we went inside. I wanted to say I was a bit harsh and that wasn't very nice of me."

  But he still looked worried. "I messed up. You were right to criticize. I just… I just feel like I don't know what I'm doing sometimes. A lot of people think I'm not qualified for this job, and maybe they're right…."

  She was taken aback. She'd been so worried about being judged for everything from her tattoo to her clothes to her background that she had forgotten these people with their picture-perfect lives were just human beings, too, and made mistakes just like she did. "Hey," she said, reaching a hand out to touch his arm. "I'm sure it'll all work out."

  "Yeah," he said, but he didn't look like he believed it. "I need to find Austin right away—to apologize to him. I looked last night, but there was no sign at the wharf, or around the village. I need him to know he's safe here and can talk about himself without being judged."

  She nodded. "I think that would help."

  "He probably won't listen."

  "He probably won't say he's listening, but he'll hear you."

  He peered at her a bit tentatively. "Would you help me? I mean, help me figure out how to approach him? What to say?"

  She nodded. "Let's go inside and brainstorm it." She took a step and almost lost her balance again, but quickly recovered this time. "I'm gonna have to get some different shoes," she muttered.

  The path they were on was strewn with geranium leaves, and the sharp licorice scent of them seemed suddenly overwhelming. "Did I break all these branches?" she asked, looking down at the mess of stems all over the path. "No wonder I keep slipping."

  Logan looked where she was pointing. "Maybe a raccoon came through here last night." He looked again. "Or an elephant."

  She noticed the broken branches continued off toward a dark corner of the garden that was shaded by an ancient, twisted Japanese maple tree with blood-red leaves.

  The shrubs showed a clear path of broken branches leading to where a pair of worn sneakers stood out pale against the shadow of the tree.

  "No!" she shouted, and ran for the spot.

  Austin sat against the base of the tree trunk, the needle still in his arm, his head nodding forward against his chest, the incongruous scent of geranium leaves musky all around th
em.

  She knelt in front of him, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, hard.

  "What did you take?!" she screamed at him.

  He lifted his head and she recognized the pinpoint pupils of his eyes.

  "No, please, no," she said.

  He didn't seem to be able to see her. "Had a little white horse," he whispered. "Bye bye," he added in a childlike sing-song voice. His head fell back against the tree and he was very still.

  She turned to Logan, who had followed her over to the tree. "Do you keep naloxone in the community center?"

  He nodded, looking stunned.

  "Run! Get it!"

  He took off.

  She turned back to the boy. His head lolled back, as if he had no muscles in his neck.

  She pulled at his arm. "Get up! Come on. You can't do this."

  "Doesn't matter," he whispered.

  "Of course it matters!" She shook him.

  When he didn't respond, she slapped him across the face. He didn't seem to even feel it. She pulled at him and he fell over, ending up lying curled on his side.

  The needle in his arm was still sticking up. She pulled it out and dropped it. "Wake up!"

  No response. She rolled him over onto his back, then slapped him again, hard, trying desperately to get a reaction from the boy.

  "What are you doing to him?!" The girl Mena came running up. She grabbed onto Teresa's arm and tried to pull her away. "Stop it! You're hurting him!"

  She pushed the girl back, ignored her, ignored everything but the sight of the boy's face, his neck.

  His worn flannel shirt gapped open, and she could see the pale, thin chest beneath. It wasn't moving.

  She tilted his head back and, without ceremony, stuck her fingers in his mouth. She swirled her hand around, looking for any obstruction.

  "Stop it!" the girl said again. "What's wrong with you?" She grabbed at Teresa's arm again.

  Teresa turned on her furiously. "I'm trying to keep him alive. Back off! Call 911."

  "911?" the girl said.

  "Do it!"

  Teresa gave Austin a rescue breath. Then another. Silence behind her. She looked back.

  The girl fumbled with her phone, held it in her hand, seeming to hesitate.

  "I don't have time for your distrust of authority," Teresa snapped out. "Dial that number or I'll make you eat that phone." She sounded nothing like the sweet literacy tutor she'd been playing, but it didn't matter.

  The girl stared in shock. "Do you want him to die?" Teresa asked, and the girl finally came to herself, punching the numbers into the phone and turning away from Austin's silent form to talk to the person who answered.

  Then Teresa forgot all about her and focused on the boy. Nothing. No movement. No reactions. She bent her face down to his, and gave him another quick rescue breath.

  Nothing changed. She began in earnest, breathing for the boy every five seconds, repeating the technique of timed breaths she knew too well.

  Logan was back. He knelt down next to her, again sending up that sharp scent of flowers that seemed so horribly out of place. "Do you need help?"

  "Where is it?!"

  "Here," he said.

  She glanced at the medicine he held, still in its package. "Put it together," she ordered, then gave Austin another breath of air. His chest rose and fell, and she sat back on her heels, watching to see if the motion repeated.

  It didn't. He wasn't breathing on his own.

  She saw that Logan was struggling with putting the drug inhaler together. She grabbed it from him without asking, pulled off the cap with her teeth, screwed in the drug vial and jammed the naloxone into the boy's nostril.

  She sprayed the rescue drug, then put the vial into the other nostril and sprayed it again.

  He still wasn't breathing. She tossed the vial aside, yelled, "get the second one ready!" and gave Austin more rescue breaths.

  "How many minutes?" she asked between breaths, not looking away from the boy's face.

  "No more than three or four."

  She looked at Mena, who stood crying, the phone in her hand. "How close are they?"

  "They said they're coming."

  "Tell them to move faster!"

  She slapped Austin's cheek again. The boy would have a bruised face when he woke up. If he woke up.

  No response. No breathing. He was gone.

  "No you don't!" she ordered him. "Get back here! You don't get to go yet."

  "Give me the second dose!" she ordered.

  "Are you sure?" he asked. "Should we wait for the doctor?"

  "Give it to me!"

  She performed more rescue breathing.

  After only two more breaths, Logan tapped her shoulder. He handed her the second unit, properly prepared this time in the same way she'd done the first one.

  She repeated the process, spraying into each nostril, then trying the breathing again to keep that oxygen flowing to his brain. "Don't you die on me, Austin. Don't you dare."

  Teresa could hear Mena sobbing behind her. "Maybe it's too late," she cried.

  "It's gonna be okay," Logan said to the girl.

  "Shut up!" she said. "Both of you!"

  She put her ear to Austin's chest. There was the faintest motion, the faintest sound of breathing.

  She rubbed his hand. "That's it! You can do this. Your dog needs you. We need you to play guitar for us again. We're here, Austin. We're right here. You're not alone. There are people here who love you. Come back."

  Suddenly there was the rumble of a car motor, and the doctors were there, an older woman with white hair and a younger Latino man.

  Logan pulled her back from the boy. "Give them room," he said. He helped her to her feet, holding her up when her legs collapsed under her.

  The doctors worked together well, checking Austin's vitals, talking softly to each other.

  She held onto Logan and watched numbly as the doctors worked. They heard a faint cough from the boy. Still he looked pale, almost like a rag doll. But she watched his chest move up and down in the gap of his flannel shirt. Watched it move, over and over, almost willing him to breathe.

  Finally the older woman said, "he's stable, for now."

  The male doctor stood up. "Dr. Nico?" Logan asked.

  "Help me get him to the car," the doctor said.

  He and Logan carried the boy through the geraniums to the waiting emergency vehicle. Teresa heard the slam of the door, and the sound of the car leaving. Logan came back down the path to them.

  The other doctor was still kneeling in the geraniums. Teresa gave her a hand to stand up, then helped her gather her equipment and put it in her medical bag.

  "Is he going to be okay, Dr. Lil?" Logan asked.

  "Let me get his history, quickly, and then I'll follow Nico back to the clinic," she said briskly. "What did he take?" she began.

  "Heroin," Teresa said. She searched in the leaves and found the needle, which Dr. Lil took from her.

  "You sure?"

  Teresa nodded. "He called it white horse. Could have fentanyl mixed in, given how badly he reacted, but he didn't say so."

  Logan started to speak, but the doctor interrupted. "And you gave him the naloxone?"

  "Two doses, because he didn't start breathing after the first one," she said, almost sagging against Logan as the exhaustion hit her. She felt his hand at her elbow, holding her up.

  "Will he make it?" Logan asked.

  "It depends on how long he had gone without breathing before you got here."

  "I was here when he stopped breathing," Teresa said. "I started the rescue breathing as soon as it happened."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. He spoke to me, twice, then his eyes rolled back and he stopped breathing. I checked for breathing, and when there wasn't any, I started the rescue breaths right away."

  "Good."

  "It's good that he stopped breathing?" Logan said in shock.

  "Good that you saw the moment it happened," she said. "It
means he wasn't without oxygen for any time at all. And that, kids, means there's still hope."

  Mena had crept closer while they were talking. "Hope?" she said in a choked voice.

  "He's still unconscious. But we'll do what we can. Does he have next of kin?"

  Teresa shook her head. "He was on the streets. I don't think there's anyone looking for him…."

  Dr. Lil shrugged. "It's a common story, unfortunately. Even here, this epidemic of despair is touching our community. We've had three cases this year."

  "Doctor—" Teresa stopped, not sure what to say. He wasn't a case. He wasn't a statistic. "He loves Harry Potter," she finally mumbled.

  The doctor smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. "Got it. We'll do everything we can for him. And you earned your paycheck today, young lady. Excellent job."

  "I'll drive you to the clinic," Logan said to the doctor, but she shook her head.

  "It's only two blocks. I'll get there faster on foot." She took off down the path at a brisk jog, and soon turned the corner out of sight.

  Teresa found she was still leaning against Logan, and felt her whole body shaking. She pulled away and straightened up, brushing her hair back from her face.

  Mena was still sobbing quietly. Teresa tried to reach for the girl, but the kid pulled away from her, and, her face still streaked with tears, ran away.

  "What the—?" Logan said.

  "She's in love with him," she said. "Or thinks she is."

  "How did you find that out? I haven't even been able to get her to speak to me."

  Teresa smiled faintly. "She doesn't want to talk to me, either. Got a real chip on her shoulder."

  "Then how do you know—?"

  "You've never been an adolescent girl."

  "Nope," he said. He put an arm around Teresa's shoulders and led her inside the community center. "Never have."

  Inside the community center, with its cheery artwork and polished wood floors and the tiles depicting Logan's mother in the sunshine of a summer day, it was hard to believe what they'd just done.

  The building was still empty, still not yet open for the new day's work.

  So she sat in the guest chair in front of Logan's desk, watching him, neither of them speaking. His golden hair glistened in the sunlight coming through the open window, echoing the image of the little golden child on the fireplace tiles.