More Like Her

by Liza Palmer

  He continues. “Mine were six through nine.”

  “You’re a real hero, Mr. Earley. You saved everyone in there,” Detective Samuelson says, still writing in his book.

  “Thank you,” Sam says, pulling me close. His gaze is fixed, his jaw tight.

  “And where were you, Ms. Reid?”

  “I was stupid enough to throw myself over Emma. So stupid . . . I could have gotten . . . I could have been killed, gotten you killed, Grady . . . Lisa . . . ,” I say, trailing off, looking at Sam. He pulls me closer.

  I know, even though I dread the knowing, that my life is going to be divided into the time before Emma’s murder and the time after. It’s not that I suddenly feel like making a Bucket List or shaving my head and trekking to India in search of the meaning of life. But I understand I’ve been sucker punched and I won’t know what the impact is until the bruise forms.

  But there’s nothing for me to do. Emma’s dead. She’s gone. I was just getting to know her and now I realize I had no idea who she was at all.

  “A violent crime such as this one isn’t something you can necessarily prepare for, Ms. Reid. You did what you thought was right,” Detective Samuelson says.

  “You’re clearly new to the force,” I say, looking him dead in the eye.

  “Yes.” He nods.

  “Thought so. My dad’s a cop and will be none too pleased with my behavior,” I say.

  “He’ll understand it, though. Right?” Detective Samuelson asks.

  “He might,” I say.

  “Did anyone else get hurt?” Sam asks.

  “Besides Mr. Davis and the two fatalities?” Detective Samuelson says, reading from his notepad.

  “Yeah,” Sam says, his breath catching.

  “There were some bumps and bruises, but that was mostly from the commotion,” Detective Samuelson says, waving over a CSI.

  “The commotion,” I repeat.

  “Would have been a lot more if Mr. Earley here hadn’t stepped in,” Detective Samuelson says.

  “Stepped in,” Sam repeats, a haunted curl of a smile quivering on his lips. I don’t know what to say. I wrap my arm around his waist and pull. Curling my fingers around him. Trying to curl my entire body around him. He shakes his head and looks down. At me. Calm yourself, he says. I’ll be fine. I pull tighter and take a deep breath.

  “We’re going to need your clothes, I’m afraid,” Detective Samuelson says to me.

  “I think I’ve got some extras in my car. I was preparing for the dunk tank on Friday,” Sam says, standing.

  “We’re going to need yours, too,” Detective Samuelson says to Sam. Sam looks down at himself as if for the first time. His light-blue collared shirt is covered in blood—down the sleeves, the collar. It’s everywhere.

  “Right. I have enough for both of us,” Sam says. I stand, gripping my tea with one hand, whipping the blanket off my shoulders with the other.

  Sam continues. “May I go out to my car, detective?” The detective nods, telling him to be quick. Sam gives me a look—furrowed brow, tight lips. I try to smile. It feels creepy and misplaced. I’m okay. I’m alive and okay. And something about this piece of information makes me feel crushingly guilty. Sam takes off down the street at a run, his lanky frame disappearing quickly into the dark night.

  “I can’t stop shaking,” I say to Detective Samuelson.

  “That’s normal,” he says.

  “So stupid,” I say.

  “So, your father was a cop?”

  “San Francisco PD.”

  “Wow.”

  “Just retired.”

  “And how did you know the victim?” Detective Samuelson is buttering me up with talk of my dad. We’re back on point.

  “Emma was the head of school. The headmistress,” I say, snapping back into witness mode.

  “And that was the extent of your relationship?”

  “We might have been becoming friends.”

  “Might have?”

  “She talked about wanting to paint again. Reconnecting with her family.”

  “Was this new?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything else?

  “Initially, we had gone back and forth about one of my speech therapy kids . . . Harry Sprague. We went back and forth about Harry being bullied.”

  “Back and forth?”

  “Harry was being bullied and, uh . . . she . . .” I trail off. I’m sick to my stomach. All the pieces. All the clues. I knew. I knew something was wrong and I—

  “What is it, Ms. Reid?”

  “In the beginning she sided with the bully, said Harry was asking for it. Provoked it. Deserved it, even.”

  “Harry?”

  “My student.”

  “Go on.”

  “Right before her party she took me aside and told me she’d changed her mind. Said that when we focus on the bully, the victim’s needs go unmet. She had clearly had a change of heart.”

  “Did you know anything about the domestic abuse?”

  “What domestic abuse?”

  “So, that’s a no.”

  “He was creepy, but I never thought . . .”

  “You never noticed anything?”

  Sick. Sick to my stomach.

  “Ms. Reid, if you know something or saw something . . . ,” Detective Samuelson says urgently.

  “I was at this party at their house last week and he caught me snooping in their bathroom cabinets,” I say, embarrassed. Sam reappears over my shoulder with a duffel bag and some clothes tucked under his arm.

  “And?”

  I hesitate. Sam listens. “I could have sworn that as I was walking out of the bathroom, he tried to snatch me back. By my hair,” I say.

  “What?” Sam asks.

  “We fought. I didn’t consider him a threat; he was small, you know?”

  “Why didn’t you say something?” Sam asks.

  “I convinced myself it wasn’t what I thought it was. I was snooping and he said he was just trying to close the door behind me. How was I . . . How was I supposed to know?” I say, the emotion choking in my throat. Sam pulls me in close. Closer.

  Detective Samuelson starts to say, “How did—”

  I cut him off. “Emma was perfect and fancy. I can’t express that to you more. Her clothes were impeccable, her demeanor. Everything. She was lovely. Just . . . lovely. There wasn’t a hair out of place. In my mind, a woman like that lives on a puffy cloud with little cherubs and violins,” I say, my eyes wild.

  “Well, that didn’t seem to be the case here.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “It was all a fantasy, Ms. Reid.”

  “Wait. No, there was a . . . there was a dog!”

  “A what?” Detective Samuelson flinches slightly at my yelp.

  “A dog. Did you get the dog?” I say, panicked.

  “I don’t know.” Detective Samuelson looks to the CSI. She shrugs her shoulders like she doesn’t know.

  “Do you have a crew at their house?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Detective Samuelson says.

  “Can you ask them if they found a dog? It’s a Weimaraner. Super-trained, nothing to fear. Name is John Henry,” I say.

  “John Henry?” Detective Samuelson says.

  “Yeah, like the guy with the hammer,” I say, watching.

  They stare at me.

  I continue. “It’s not made-up—well, the folktale has sketchy origins, but the dog is real. It’s not a fantasy dog. I saw it. I saw him. Well, I saw a picture of him. But he’s real. And he’s probably terrified right now. Can we see if the dog is okay?” Detective Samuelson pulls out his cell phone and dials. The look on his face is annoyed; the dog’s not a priority to him.

  “Hey, Jay—yeah, it’s Mark over at the school. Can you tell me—is there a dog? At the Dunham house? A Weimaraner? Yeah, it’s one of those gray—” He is cut off. He’s nodding. Nodding. He continues. “Right. Okay. Thanks, man.” Detective Samuelson hangs up.

  “Well
?” I ask.

  “The dog was in his crate. Animal control took him to the pound,” he says.

  “The pound?” I ask.

  “Yes, that’s procedure,” Detective Samuelson says.

  “Isn’t there something we can do?” Sam asks, handing me a stack of clothes. I take them.

  “Emma loves that dog. She loved it; now I know that it was the only thing . . . he’s at the pound. They took him to the pound,” I say, my voice rising as I clutch at Sam. Make him understand.

  “Okay,” Sam says.

  I continue. “Detective Samuelson, that dog shouldn’t be at the pound. Emma had family. Clara. Her sister is here in Southern California. She should know . . . that . . . she should have the . . . the dog should be with them!” I am using the newly acquired stack of clothes to make my point.

  “That’s not our job, Ms. Reid. Now, if you could get out of those clothes and give them to Ms. Reyes here, I’d much appreciate it,” Detective Samuelson says, motioning to the CSI.

  “Frannie,” Sam says, taking my arm and guiding me away from Detective Samuelson. Ms. Reyes leads us through the school hallways and points to the student bathrooms like she knows these halls better than we do. A little boy and a little girl in blue circles adorn the doors.

  “Please,” she says, and opens the girls’ bathroom door for me. Sam steps inside the boys’ bathroom after one final look at me and a quick nod. He locks the door behind him.

  Ms. Reyes continues. “You can go down to the pound first thing in the morning. Fill out the paperwork necessary to adopt the dog and then take him to her sister. If you want.” She looks away. Clearing her throat. She wasn’t supposed to tell me that. She’s not supposed to care about shooting victims and their dogs. But she does.

  “Thank you. I’ll do that. I’ll do that,” I say, tears welling up.

  “Okay, now. Okay,” she says, guiding me into the girls’ bathroom. The door shuts behind me and the neon light is cruel and bright. I don’t look in the mirror. I don’t focus on anything except getting these bloody clothes off. I flip off my ballet flats, now soaked in blood, and let them rest under the sink. I peel my vintage beaded sweater off, the blood soaked through and dark red. I lay it on the sink. I undo the buttons of my blouse, my hands shaking uncontrollably. I breathe. Deeply. Focus. One button. The next. The next. I lay it on top of the sweater. Do I . . . do I take off my bra?

  “Ms. Reyes?” I call out through the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you need my bra, too?” I ask.

  “Is there blood on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we need it.”

  I am quiet.

  “Frannie?” Ms. Reyes calls in.

  “Yeah?” I ask, taking off my bra.

  “Same rule goes for anything else,” she says, her voice insinuating.

  “Like my panties?” I ask, sliding out of my skirt.

  “Yes, Frannie. Like your panties,” she says.

  “Okay . . . got it.” I fold up my skirt, lay it on my other clothes on the sink. I look at my panties and sure enough, they’re soaked through. The waistband, all along my left hip. Blood. Emma’s blood. I slide them off and stack them. I’m naked. I finally look at myself in the mirror. There are hints of dark stains all over my pale body. On my torso mostly. My hands are still sticky and can’t be washed enough. My hair is a tangle and I refuse to run my hands through it before I shower. I just don’t know what I’ll find. I reach down and pick up the stack of clothes Sam gave me off the floor. A pair of Adidas sweats and a University of Tennessee hoodie.

  How in hell did we get here?

  I pull on Sam’s sweats, cinching the drawstring tightly as they pool around my bare feet. I thread my arms through his bright orange hoodie and zip it up tight. I’m swimming in it and yet . . . it’s comforting. His smell. The warmth of it. Of him. I sit on the toilet and pull on a pair of white tube socks, pick up my stack of bloodied clothes (now evidence in a homicide) and unlock the door.

  “Put them in here,” Ms. Reyes says, holding open a plastic evidence bag. I oblige.

  “I’ll never see them again, right?” I ask as she seals the bag.

  “I’m afraid not,” she says. Sam unlocks the boys’ bathroom door and comes out in a pair of swim trunks and a white T-shirt, clearly part of his preparations for the fund-raiser’s dunk tank. He’s holding a peacoat in his other hand. He’s obviously freezing.

  “In here, Mr. Earley,” Ms. Reyes says, holding open another plastic bag.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says, obliging her. She seals the bag as Sam looks over at me. She labels the bags, gives us a quick thank-you and heads back out into the parking lot.

  “You warm enough?” Sam asks, holding out the peacoat.

  “You need to put that coat on right now,” I say, pushing the coat back to him.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asks again.

  “Yes, I am. Now put it on,” I say.

  “You’re shaking,” he says, stepping forward.

  “It’s not because I’m cold,” I say, taking the coat from him. I hold it out and motion for him to put it on. He turns around and I thread the coat onto his now-extended arms. One and then the other. He turns back around.

  We are quiet.

  “Thank you,” I say, stepping closer to him.

  Sam is quiet.

  “You saved my life,” I say, the words on one hand so clear and true, and on the other so unbelievable and dreamlike.

  Sam is quiet, his jaw tightening, his eyes focused on me. He pulls me in close, his arms wrapping around me. He’s situating and resituating, bringing me in tighter . . . closer. I wrap my arms around his waist and let my head fall onto his chest, tucking into the folds of the peacoat and settling in next to the thin white T-shirt just beneath.

  “I didn’t save your life,” Sam says, his voice a growl in his chest. I pull back and look up at him.

  “Yes, you did,” I say, my brow furrowed.

  “Fran—”

  “You need to let me thank you. You need to let me be thankful for you,” I say, emotion rising in my throat. Vast, endless emotion that scares me. My body is shaking. My voice is quivering. My mind is a chaotic mess of images and scenarios I don’t have any idea what to do with. I have to start with something I know and work from there. I have to feel something I can label and maybe that will give me some foundation for how to take on the rest of this. I am outside of my body right now, floating and terrifyingly untethered to anything familiar.

  “Okay,” Sam says, his face still twisted.

  “Okay,” I repeat, letting my head rest once again on his chest. He wraps his arms around me once more. He breathes. Deep.

  “You’re welcome,” Sam says, his voice quiet and wandering.

  “Thank you,” I say again. He tightens his arms around me.

  I am quiet. The red, blue and white lights of the police cars still playing off the halls of the school. The not-so-distant sound of walkie-talkies and urgent calls to action. As Sam and I walk back outside and hopefully away from all this, I can’t help but think about all the things we leave unsaid. All the things we hide, keep secret and are ashamed of.

  We’re only as sick as our secrets.

  Emma’s secret? She’d rather have died than tell the truth about her marriage.

  “Frances, can we have a minute?” Pamela Jackson emerges from Emma’s office. Sam and I both stop.

  “Pamela, I’ve had kind of a rough couple of hours,” I say, motioning to my outfit, the police cars . . . the blood still threaded through my hair.

  “I know that, Frances. I would like to do a quick check-in before you leave. I’ve been informed by Detective Samuelson that he’s done questioning you, so if we could just have a few minutes,” Pamela says, her voice calm.

  “I’ll be right outside, maybe see if I can get in touch with Lisa, ask if Grady’s out of surgery yet. See if they need anything,” Sam says, pulling his cell phone out of his swim trunk
pockets. I nod.

  “Come on in,” Pamela says, leading me into Emma’s office. A chill. My body convulses as the surroundings impact me. The pictures. The wingback chairs. The perfect flowers lolling to one side in exactly measured vases. A woman so at odds with herself, and yet . . . lovely. A leader in the making. Human. Flawed.

  Dead.

  I look away and focus on the seat of the wingback chair. Just sit. Pamela motions for me to sit in the chair I’m maniacally staring at. I oblige. She sits in the other. I like that she’s not sitting at Emma’s desk. I twist my body to face her, my leg inching up onto the seat of the wingback.

  Pamela starts. “How are you doing?” She leans back in the chair.

  “Fine.” Numb. Foreign in my own skin.

  We are quiet.

  Pamela continues. “I know you want to get home. I really thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It doesn’t have to be fine.”

  I am quiet. My mouth contorts and twists as I try to swallow everything. It’s burning my throat.

  Pamela continues. “We thought it might be a good idea to check in with the staff who were in attendance tonight. Just get a quick vibe, if you’ll pardon the hippie speak,” Pamela says, her face serene, her voice calm. Flashes of Jamie’s face. I blink it away.

  “You okay?” Pamela asks.

  “Fine.”

  “You had a moment there.”

  “It’s fine.” Crack. The loudest noise I’ve ever heard.

  Quiet. Chewing the inside of my mouth. The ringing in my ears is an unnerving and constant reminder of what’s happened. I’m swallowing. Swallowing the emotion. The leather is cold and slick under my clammy palms. Pamela waits. I focus on my feet. Little white tube socks. Where am I? What the . . . how did I get here?

  “From what I’ve gleaned from the detectives who worked the scene, you were standing next to Emma?”

  “Yes.” The blood. So much blood.

  “Emma Dunham was in an abusive marriage. One that ended tragically, but sadly somewhat inevitably. Do you get that?”

  I am quiet.

  “Frannie, I need you to acknowledge that you’re hearing me.”

  “I hear you,” I say.

  “Good. If you could, I’d like for you to come and talk to me early next week. Monday. Do you think you can do that?”