I smiled and took the snow white bird in my hand, the lyrics of a Pink Floyd song playing in my head. “Now wakes the hour, now sleeps the swan, behold the dream, the dream is gone.” I smiled sadly, as I realized the dreams I had a few days ago were gone. “Thank you sweetie, it’s lovely. Are you ready to go home?”
Emma nodded, collecting her fleet of paper swans and waved goodbye to Cindy the receptionist. The trip back across town took less than ten minutes. As I pulled into the driveway, it felt as if we’d been gone much longer. So much had happened in the span of a few days and yet I felt changed by it all.
I glanced across the yard at Steve’s house, his kitchen light on in the descending twilight. I wondered if I should go over and say something to him when I noticed him at the window, glancing out at us; I raised my hand in silent greeting and smiled for show’s sake. Steve shook his head and walked away from the window.
Emma watched the silent exchange with rapt attention. “Mom did you and Steve have a fight?”
I nodded wordlessly. “Come on, let’s get inside. I’ll make dinner and we’ll talk.”
I exited the car and headed toward the trunk, grabbing our bags and slamming the trunk. Emma ran ahead, climbing the stairs and opening the screen door. I followed behind her, lugging the bags up the brick steps. I handed her the keys and chastised myself for not leaving the porch light on.
Emma found the lock and slipped the key inside, disengaging the deadbolt. She pushed the front door open and clicked on the porch light, flooding the yard with buttery light. Attracted immediately to the light was a moth that flew stupidly into the fixture, bouncing off only to fly right back to it.
I shook my head, feeling somewhat like the moth, flying stupidly into something I knew I couldn’t have. I stepped into the foyer and set the bags down then shut and locked the front door behind me. In the other room, Emma had clicked on lamps, the light chasing away the darkness.
“What do you want to eat?” I asked her, heading into the kitchen.
“Chicken,” she replied.
I opened the freezer and pulled a package of frozen chicken breasts out, setting them in the sink under hot water to defrost. Emma entered the kitchen and hopped up onto the counter,
“So you and Steve?” she asked.
“We broke up,” I told her as I pulled a bag of egg noodles out of the cabinet.
Emma gasped. “What? Why? Did he say something mean to you?
“No,” I told her. “Sometimes, when you date someone you realize that you don’t have as much in common as you thought and it’s easier to break up than to stay in a relationship where no one’s happy.”
“But I thought you guys were happy.”
“We were for a while,” I replied.
“But you’re not anymore,” she supplied.
“I guess so.”
“So you had a fight then you broke up?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“You guys should say you’re sorry for the fight and make up. It’s stupid to be mad at each other, especially when you were happy before. Remember your birthday, when Steve came over and we had pizza and played twister? That was so much fun. Maybe if we did that again you guys could get back together and then you wouldn’t be sad anymore.”
If only it were that easy, I thought, tearing up. “Maybe,” I told her. “Yummy Chicken Dinner?”
Emma nodded and reached into the spice cabinet, pulling out the chicken seasoning. She set it down on the counter beside me, leaned to the left, and pulled out a can of green beans. I set a frying pan on the stove, got out the butter, and retrieved the chicken from the sink.
“So, are you gonna talk to him ever again?”
I shrugged, setting the chicken in the frying pan and adding butter and seasoning. “I don’t know. He’s pretty mad right now, so I think I should probably give him a few days then talk to him.”
I reached for the pot from the dish drainer, filled it full of water, and set it on a burner, turning it on to boil. Opening the fridge again, I pulled out a block of Monterey Jack cheese and set it on the counter. “Get me the cutting board, please?” I asked as I searched the utensil drawer for the cheese slicer. Emma hopped down and got the cutting board out of the cabinet, placing it on the counter under the cheese she said, “Promise me you’ll talk to him, I like Steve.”
“Promise,” I would talk to him, because she asked me to, but I truly believed that the damage to our relationship was irreparable.
We ate in the living room, a movie providing entertainment for Emma. Steve’s absence was glaringly obvious now; he was the finishing piece of our family, the other piece that made us whole. I had to make this right again.
I had no idea how to fix us, what to do or what to say, but I knew I had to try because if I didn’t, I’d regret it foe the rest of my life.
Chapter Fifteen
Monday morning found me sitting in a stuffy courtroom full of reporters and people who had nothing better to do with their day than to see Curtis Duggar be branded as a psychotic stalker who enjoyed killing small animals and writing messages in their blood.
As I sat in the courtroom, I found it hard to look at my ex-best friend, His wife; however, had no trouble shooting daggers at me with her angry, bloodshot eyes.
I stared down at my lap, desperate to avoid her gaze. I wanted to turn around and scan the courtroom for Steve, but I had a feeling that I wouldn’t find him. Garza, who was sitting beside me, opened his briefcase and made a big show of laying all his folders and legal briefs out on the table before him, a smug smile on his pudgy rodent face.
I shivered; I did not like this man. He was seven shades of creepy himself. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if he stalked a few people in his day. Garza glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “You okay?” he muttered.
I nodded, wrapping my arms around me; I wished I didn’t have to face this alone. I screwed that up though, by breaking up with Steve. Today made five days since I’d broken up with him; five days since I talked to him or felt his arms around me, his lips on mine, and five days without him.
A soft hand patted my shoulder from behind; I whipped around and stared into the kind and pretty eyes of Dr. Conrad. She smiled at me as she unwound a scarf from around her neck. “How’re you holding up?”
I returned the smile and said, “Fine.”
“Good. Well, I’ll be here if you need me.”
I quietly thanked her, taking the opportunity to scan the courtroom for Steve; taking care to avoid Curtis’s wife. My eyes skimmed over every face, picking out the ones that were slightly familiar, but failing to find the one face I’d know anywhere. I sighed sadly and turned around. I guess he had somewhere to be.
A commotion at the front of the courtroom caught my attention. The bailiff stepped forward, “All rise!” he stated. “The Honorable Judge Jeremy Fisher presiding, this court is now in session.”
A door behind the judge’s bench opened and an attractive middle-aged man bearing a stunning resemblance to Jimmy Smits entered the courtroom, dressed in his black robe. Making a big show, the judge shuffled several stacks of papers around his desk before addressing the court. “Be seated,” he ordered. “So let’s see what we have today. The state of Washington versus Curtis Jonathan Duggar, who is being charged with criminal trespassing and felony stalking against a law enforcement employee. How does the defendant plead?”
Curtis’s lawyer, a balding man with a potbelly replied in a nasally voice, “Not guilty, your honor.”
“So be it, a plea of not guilty has been entered. Mr. Garza, selection of the jury has been made; do you object to jury selection?”
“No, your honor,” Garza replied.
Fisher turned to Curtis’s lawyer, “Mr. Hall, do you object to the jury selection?”
“No, your honor.”
“Fabulous, then let’s get this show on the road. Mr. Garza?” Fisher motioned a podium stationed between the two tables.
Beside me, Garza rose
, shuffled some papers on the table before him, collected the ones he needed and confidently approached toward the podium. Garza stood at the podium silently for a moment, allowing the dramatics to mount. It was a poor attempt at building suspense however, as Judge Fisher was having none of it.
“Sometime this year would be fantastic,” the judge muttered, irritated.
Garza flushed under the judge’s admonishment and cleared his throat, then turned to the jury and said, “What’s the worst thing that ever happened to you? What’s the worst thing you’ve ever let happen to your child?”
I flinched, immediately knowing where he was going with this; just as I suspected, the rest of his opening statement was about the dead piglet that Emma found in the kitchen and the sinister message scrawled in blood. A few women on the jury gasped slightly as Garza spoke and shot me sympathetic glances. I averted my eyes and prayed he would hurry up and finish.
After what seemed like an eternity, Garza returned to the podium, collected his notes, and returned to his seat beside me at the table.
Curtis’s lawyer stumbled out of his seat and tripped to the podium. As he stood there, he began speaking. Coughing nervously at first, then stuttered his way through his opening statements. At the front of the courtroom, the judge looked bored and slightly irritated. I got the feeling that he’d rather be knee deep in the back nine. Either that or shacked up in some seedy motel halfway to Seattle with a hooker named Star or Glitter.
Thankfully, Mr. Hall finished and managed to make his way back to the defendant’s table without making a spectacle of himself. What happened next was a blur.
Large bags filled with items I recognized from my house, as well as several police officers were paraded through the courtroom, questions were asked of the officers, Curtis was called a killer – even if it was just an animal killer – Mr. Hall tripped several more times and words like, “Objection, sustained, overruled,” were shouted a lot.
As the last of the officers shuffled out of the courtroom, a new set of employees were herded in. Character witnesses, in the form of Curtis’s employees, were all seated before us, one at a time. Each one offered the same, strikingly similar story – that Curtis was a good guy, a decent boss, someone who would never hurt a fly let alone break into someone’s house and leave a dead pig in their kitchen.
After a quick lunch in the courthouse cafeteria, it was back to the courtroom, more character witnesses, this time it was friends and ex-girlfriends, who told the jury about Curtis’s temper and his penchant for blowing things way out of proportion.
It was damning stuff. I would have felt bad if Curtis’s wife wasn’t staring daggers at the back of my head. I tried my best to look interested but internally I was a million miles away.
At the end of the day, I escaped the courtroom, avoided the mediocre news crew waiting on the courthouse steps, and retreated back to the confines of my cozy home.
The rest of the week went the same way. Steve testified the following day, and then it was my turn after lunch. I can’t remember all that was said or what I answered. Being on the witness stand is an intimidating place to be. On Thursday, both attorneys gave their closing arguments and the jury retreated into their special room to deliberate.
I waited at the courthouse until after six for the verdict then finally went home. At least there I could wait comfortably. Earlier this morning, an article in the newspaper had caught my attention. The headline screamed, “Ancient Grudge Breaks Forth New Mutiny.” Below the headline was a photo of Curtis and me from high school. I skimmed the first paragraph, appalled. The reported had an exclusive from Curtis himself, who told the reporter that this was my way of having revenge. Then he went into great detail about what happened the night of the party, called me a liar and told the whole town of Mora that I seduced Rodger Byers and when I got pregnant, I lied and claimed he raped me.
At home, the house was eerily quiet. Emma was with the sitter and I was alone. I wearily climbed the stairs, ready for this day to literally be over. In my room, I slipped out of my wool skirt and pulled on some sweatpants, tugging my hair into a high ponytail.
Back downstairs, I fixed a sandwich and sat down at the table. The glow from Steve’s porch was warm and inviting through the window. I swallowed the bite of sandwich, the bread stuck in my throat as emotions overwhelmed me. I missed him fiercely and decided that as soon as the trial was over, I was going to apologize for everything I’d done to him, and ask him to give us another chance. I would apologize until I died and I would never stop fighting to get him back. Facing this, the trial, Curtis, all the nasty things the newspaper and TV were saying about me, unlocked something inside me.
I was stronger than I’d ever given myself credit for. I wasn’t weak or pathetic, but I’d spent so much time believing I was, that I actually became a basket case. I bound myself to the past with my own actions. Being forced to face this on my own, having no one to shield or protect me, well it was liberating. I’d actually done something on my own. Knowing that I was braver than I thought, gave ne the courage to decide to go after what I wanted.
Finishing the sandwich, I set my plate in the sink. I’d wash it later. As I went to the fridge for a bottle of water, a thump from upstairs stopped me. I glanced up at the cracked plaster ceiling, my breath trapped in my chest. Did I really hear that or was it a product of my overactive imagination?
I waited my heart beating so loud that if the noise happened again I couldn’t tell. Exhaling slowly, I crept toward the stairs. At the foot under the staircase, I paused, my hand resting gently on the banister.
The noise banged again. A soft whimper exploded in my throat. I slowly climbed the stairs, telling myself with each step that whatever was causing the noise was harmless, an animal in the attic or a loose shutter – something not sinister and dark.
On the second floor landing, I paused, waiting to hear it again. All was quiet for a moment, then there was the sound of footsteps scampering across the attic. I stood there, hand lingering over the light switch, rooted to the spot.
Oh shit, my mind screamed. Shit, shit, shit.
Run! My subconscious offered. Don’t wait to see what it is, run the hell away and get help.
I turned quickly, stumbling over my own two clumsy feet. I tumbled down the stairs, smacking my head on the rough wooden steps as I plunged toward the first floor. Landing on my back at the foot of the stairs, I smacked the back of my head on the floor. The pain was intense, my eyes stung as tears made my already blurry vision doubly so.
I didn’t have time to lie there in pain. I quickly got to my feet, the floor rising to meet me. I closed my eyes and darted to the front door, yanking it open and fleeing into the night. The air was bitterly cold as I darted across the frozen front yard, sprinting clumsily toward Steve’s house.
His porch steps were icy under my feet. I slipped, and clinging to the railing, righted myself. Frantically, I jabbed the doorbell. “Steve!” I called. “Oh god, Steve please opens the door!”
The hall light turned on and the front door opened. Steve stared down at me, concern written all over his face, “JoJo, what’s wrong?” He asked, opening the storm door.
“There’s someone in the attic,” I gasped, the air stinging my lungs.
“Are you sure?” he asked dubiously.
I nodded. “I heard footsteps; they were walking around, all over up there. Can you please come check it out?”
Steve sighed. “Let me get my coat. I’ll be right back.”
I wrapped my arms around my torso as I waited for him to come back. He reappeared momentarily, a vicious looking black gun in his hands. “Let’s go,” he said, tucking the gun into the waistband of his pants and cautiously took to the stairs. He reached for me, steadying me as I carefully returned to solid ground.
Confined Page 16
