“I had to pretend to care, didn’t I?” The girl said, and she laughed again. “You’ll see things will be good. They’ll be great. I doubt he’ll come back for a while.”
At the next bus stop, the girl with the short blonde hair leaned toward Evie and said: “Glad to be rid of him?” The girl flashed her eyes toward the rear of the bus where Daniel was standing, looking down at his phone.
Evie could smell the strawberry-flavored gum on her breath.
The tears were gone, like they had never been there.
“Are you okay?” Evie asked.
“Yeah,” the girl pulled out her phone, unlocked the screen and pointed the camera at her face. She patted around her eyes with the pads of her index and middle finger.
“Some girl in our class got killed.”
Evie gasped. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” the girl put her phone away.
“What happened?” Evie asked.
“She was shot in the neck in Humboldt Park. Probably some gang something. Who cares?”
The boy sitting next to the girl leaned in. “No one really knows what happened,” he said.
“This is Mo.”
“Mohammed,” he said and waved hello. “Mo’s fine though.”
“I’m Finley...but Fin’s fine.”
“Did you know her?”
“Hadiya? Yeah. She was probably on track to be valedictorian. Smart.” Fin shrugged. “Sad, I guess.”
Fin’s eyes widened when she looked down to the book in Evie’s hands. “Ah, you’re probably in Mr. Sylvan’s English class. Which explains this.” Fin reached for Evie’s book, taking it out of her hands. “Grimm’s Fairy Tales. He starts off the first few days of class pretty boring, but then gets into fairy tales, and that’s where things start to have meaning.” She flipped through the pages of Evie’s book. “Weird, right?”
“We’ve already started on that part.”
“Did you guys go on the field trip yet? To Newberry Library?”
Evie nodded. “Last week.”
Fin laughed. “He’s been teaching the same class for decades. My aunt had his class years ago.”
“He just came back out of retirement last year,” Mo interrupted. “He retired to Germany and then came back.”
Evie reached for her book, but Fin did not offer it back.
“Does he still do that thing where the class goes into the big conference room, and he tells you to stand in front of a covered book. Then it’s your job to unveil the book and title to the class and present it?”
Evie nodded.
“I knew it,” Fin said into Mo’s shoulder, a bright smile on her face.
“Nice,” he nodded.
“Very nice,” Fin agreed.
It was as if they were saying something without really saying anything at all.
“I had a feeling about you, as soon as I saw you with this book. Let me guess?” Fin looked from Mo and then to Evie. “Your pick at Newberry Library was an especially rare copy of the Grimm’s Fairy Tales?”
Evie’s mouth opened. Her eyes widened. “How’d you know...”
“A good guess. We got the same book during our field trip of Newberry Library too, and I could just tell there was something special about you. You flipped through the pages then?”
Evie nodded.
“And you found the black page?”
Evie stared. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m psychic,” Fin laughed. “No, not really, but I just knew you found it. See. We were meant to sit next to each other today.”
“It’s not real, though?”
What Evie had read on that black page, in that aged book could not have been real. What she had seen in the library later that day, and what she had seen later that night outside of her bedroom window could also not possibly be real. That page, a single black page in a book of aged, yellow paper did not make sense. Its shimmering golden text in beautiful looped script did not make sense. Because of that, she had ripped the page out of the book when no one was looking and tucked it away in her backpack. She had to have that page. She had to have those words.
Fin looked to Mo, and they both broke out in laughter. Mo applauded. “We are not alone,” he said.
“Oh, it’s real,” Fin said. The bus sped along the street now. “It’s very real.”
That was impossible, Evie thought. For so long she had hoped for fairy tales to be real, but they could not be real, could they?
“You’re joking,” Evie said. She was sure that this was some mean joke on a freshman by upperclassmen. She was waiting for them to laugh in her face and spread the story about her throughout the school the next day, about how gullible and insane she was.
Fin shook her head. Mo smiled.
“I’m not joking,” Fin said.
“Prove it,” Evie said looking at her Grimm’s Fairy Tale book resting on Fin’s lap.
“Hadiya is dead, isn’t she?”
CHAPTER 4
A floorboard creaked in another room. Lauren dropped her suitcase on the floor with a thud, and listened. It was quiet in her father’s house—now her house. This suitcase contained the last of her things from the condo she and Bobby had shared. After he left, she’d lived there alone for some time. She came to live out of both homes, nearing the end of her father’s life. She did not expect that she would take on the role of caretaker so early on.
It started while she and Bobby were still married a year ago, and it all happened so fast. Her father called her in the middle of the night and said: “Your mother wants to talk to you.” He must have held up the phone to an unseen specter because Lauren heard nothing.
“Dad, mom’s been dead for years. Did you have a bad dream?”
“No!” He shouted into the phone. “She’s here with Marie.”
That’s when Lauren kicked off the blankets, signaled to Bobby that she was leaving and stayed on the phone with her father until she arrived at his house. She found him sitting outside on the front steps shivering in his pajamas waiting for her.
“Shh.” He held a shaky finger to his lips.
She did not hear anything.
“The music is everywhere,” he said. “It’s outside. It’s inside.”
“Dad, let’s go in the house,” she said as she took him by his arm and led him inside.
“It’s everywhere. The donkey. The dog. The cat. The rooster,” he said as he shuffled slowly towards his bedroom. “They were so mistreated by their masters, they set out and left their homes and became musicians, and now they are here, and now they are playing for me. They are playing for you too, Lauren. They are playing in Bremen, because here they have their freedom and to live without owners and to become musicians is something better than death we can find anywhere.”
None of his ramblings made any sense. He must still be in that in between place, between dream and awake she thought. She set him down on his bed. “Dad, please. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You need rest. I’ll be asleep on the sofa if you need anything.”
“And why don’t you just sleep in your bedroom?” His eyes wide. “Marie is there.”
Lauren sighed, tucked her father into bed, kissed his forehead and turned off the lights. Bobby called her to make sure everything was all right. On the phone she asked him:
“This might sound strange, but does this mean anything to you, a donkey, dog, cat, and a rooster and music and Bremen...”
“What? Umm...yes, the ‘Town Musicians of Bremen.’ Why are we talking Grimm’s Fairy Tales at one in the morning?”
She rubbed her eyes. “It’s nothing. I don’t know. Maybe dad was up late reading or watching TV and his brain got all jumbled, and he had a nightmare. He’s fine now. I’ll see you in the morning. I’m going to stay here with him to make sure he sleeps through the night.”
She sat up in the living room all night that night, hoping to hear what her father heard, but
she never heard the music.
Standing in the living room today, she almost thought she could hear a soft, repetitive cheerful melody. Maybe it was coming from a neighbor’s house, their loud music seeping through their walls. It was still early enough, just shortly past 7 p.m. People had every right to play music outside at this time. Was this what her father heard that night many months ago?
It was just sounds of the neighborhood and nothing more. He was not well then and deteriorated from there, speaking of ghosts and witches, gnomes that lived in the walls, animals he spotted in the yard who begged him to come closer, so they could share secrets with him, and fairies who would float and dance above his bed, speaking of promises and curses. In those final days, her father was tormented by a world she could not save him from.
Lauren reached down and slipped off her black ankle length boots and set them beside the door. She hung her jacket in the coat closet. When she looked down the hallway, she thought she saw the wisp of a shadow floating across the kitchen. She rubbed her eyes. It was the lack of sleep, she reasoned with herself. Her eyes were tired. Lauren walked into the kitchen, opened a cabinet and reached for a bag of coffee—her father’s favorite—Café Bustelo. The familiar yellow and red packaging was welcoming. Here in this kitchen is where he spent most of his time, or in his office, reading and drinking coffee. She looked to the right of the coffee can and made sure the key was there, and it was, gold and glistening and taunting her all the same. It belonged here and not in her bag. With it here, she would be able to watch it closely, and if the time ever came to use it she knew where to find it. Keys unlocked more than just doors and this one, she suspected, would give her answers to questions that she was not yet ready to have revealed.
Lauren shut the cabinet, spooned two heaping spoonful’s of ground coffee into the French press, boiled water and poured it over the grounds. She poured herself a cup of black coffee into her Chicago Police Department coffee mug.
Hearing music in this house now was strange and conjured a memory of the way things once were. This had been a quiet home since Marie and Diana’s death. When Diana was alive the house was filled with music. The living room was imprinted with the memories of Chicago blues players singing their sad, soulful song. When Diana was alive, the turntable in the living room seemed to always be on. The soundtrack of their home: Muddy Waters, Willie Dixon, Louis Armstrong, or her mother’s favorite Guy Legend…
My songs do not sound the same
There’s so much heartache and pain
When it’s all taken, I will not be blue anymore
The spare bedroom on the first floor had once been Diana’s music room. There, Diana wrote, practiced and listened to music. It was a sanctuary of sound, a place where Lauren and her sister Marie would very often run off to when no one was looking. They would look through the books of music, sheets with cryptic symbols which were overwhelming to review, but it was all so exciting. Their curious script seemed secretive but intriguing—a mysterious clue to decode. They fought the urge to press the keys on Diana’s piano. Instead, they would brush their fingertips across the ivory keys.
A saxophone, clarinet, and a guitar rested safely in their enclosed cases, but the sisters knew they were there, and still, sometimes they would open those cases just to look at the instruments their mother played. Then there were the harmonicas, so many shiny, brassy, leather and metal covered harmonicas. Lauren’s favorites were those harmonicas in silver and metal finishes.
Diana would not necessarily be angry when she found the little girls in her music room, annoyed perhaps. Diana would laugh this dazzling laugh and cover her mouth as if surprised to see them there. An exaggerated look of shock to find the girls playing in her room.
“What are you two doing in here?” Diana would wrap her arms around Marie and give Lauren that forced smile she often gave her. By this point, Lauren’s wish of having any skill at the piano had fizzled, and so it was very often little Marie whom Diana would sit at the piano, guiding her tiny fingers against the ivory keys, pressing them down and playing music. Amazing, beautiful, radiant music would fill the house, created without the help of Lauren of course. After Diana’s death, Armando sold all of the instruments and turned Diana’s music sanctuary into a guest room no one ever slept in. Music was never played in this house again.
Lauren dragged her suitcase upstairs, to the master bedroom that would now be hers. She set the bag beside the closet. It was unlikely she would unpack what was in it today or tomorrow, or ever. Exhausted, Lauren relaxed back onto the bed and closed her eyes. She wondered what it would be like to have her father still alive and healthy. She wondered what it would be like to have her mother still here, and finally, her thoughts drifted to Marie.
Marie. So sweet. So trusting.
Lauren had learned a lot about what happens to someone when they drown. She knew holding her breath was a conscious act. She knew if she were forced to hold her breath the desire to breathe would increase with intensity and burn. When someone holds their breath carbon dioxide levels accumulate in their blood. While underwater, when someone can no longer hold their breath they naturally, forcefully breathe, water rushing in. As the liquid flows in through their nostrils, and into their lungs, their vocal cords spasm. Their vocal cords close. When their body fills with water, they violently, and noiselessly, cough. Movements slow. Consciousness is lost. And as their heart struggles to work against the onslaught of water, it reaches a point where it can no longer effectively pump blood, too full of liquid. When awareness is lost, the body succumbs to the water. That’s what Marie experienced when she drowned, according to the coroner’s report.
Sweet little Marie.
Thump.
Lauren sprang up and listened. She closed her eyes and strained to hear the noise again, but there was nothing. Even the faint music from moments before was gone. All was silent. It did not escape her that this house held more than just mystery; it held the ghosts of people long dead and secrets that should stay hidden. Like Bluebeard’s castle, or the murderous Chicago fortress created by America’s first serial killer H.H. Holmes who filled dozens of rooms with bloody secrets, her father’s mind too was full of rooms filled with blood. And this is why Lauren kept that key close, but never used, because she was not yet ready to unlock her father’s office.
She checked her phone. There were no messages. She had spent the afternoon knocking on doors, asking people if anyone had seen anything before the shooting at Humboldt Park. People did what they often do in Chicago; they did not open the door, or they refused to provide any information. The unsaid “no snitch” policy was in full effect, not because of some loyalty to some gang, crew, or person: People did not want to talk about things that could potentially get them killed. It could have been a completely random shooting. Those were not unheard of in the city. What made this different was that spray paint on the concrete. That name gnawed at brain: Pied Piper.
Taggers got creative with their aliases around here, making their mark with not only their names but with color and characters. This name, however, seemed different. It stood out from the other famous Chicago street artists—JC Rivera, Hebru Brantley, Sentrock and the others. It also stood out from any common street tagger name. People around here often did not pick their names from books, legends, myth and fairy tales.
Thump.
Lauren walked to the stairway. Maybe it was a rat, or rats. If you saw one rat that meant there were dozens nearby. Her hand moved to her waistband. A 9mm semi-automatic Smith & Wesson on her hip. She slowly moved downstairs, listening. It was quiet. The refrigerator was old. It could be the ice maker. The ice maker at the condo always rumbled in the night.
She took a seat on the sofa in the living room and kicked her legs up on a footstool. She pulled out her phone and looked at the blank screen. It rang in her hand, as if she had willed it to ring.
“Hello,” she answered.
“Hello, is this Detective Medina? This
is Sara Crowe from Newberry Library.”
“Yes, thank you so much for calling,” Lauren removed her feet from the footstool and planted them on the floor.
“Sorry I missed your messages,” Sara laughed to herself, a nervous laugh. “I have to tell you, Ms. Medina, I’ve never had a detective call requesting a book. Is this for official business?”
Lauren did not know how to answer. How could she explain that a rare book of fairy tales was needed in a murder investigation? She still did not want to revisit what happened that night. For years, it had gone without a name. Her childhood therapists had kept much of the scientific reasoning behind her condition out of their sessions. It was Stephanie, her therapist today, who helped finally give it a name.
“Dissociative amnesia, Lauren. That’s what you have, and it’s not your fault,” Stephanie told her in one of their first sessions.
“Will I ever remember?” Lauren recalled asking.
“Maybe. Maybe not? There’s no way to know right now,” Stephanie said in that calm, soothing voice of hers. “Those memories still exist, and maybe they’ll resurface on their own when you are ready. Sometimes a trigger is needed to recall them, but you can’t worry about it. You can’t obsess about that hole in your life. For whatever reason, your mind is protecting you from retrieving those memories. If it’s something you think you would like to try to tap into, then I can refer you to someone who can probably help.”
“Another therapist?”
“Yes, there are some who claim to use some techniques, hypnosis, for example, to try to unlock what the brain has stored away.”
At that time, Lauren was not ready to dig into the depths of her mind. Instead, she asked for some reading recommendations on dissociative amnesia. She wanted to know why she had blacked out a space and time in her life.
Memories came flooding back over the years, at times like droplets of rain and at others, torrents. At first, all she knew was what she was told: that she was found wandering Humboldt Park hours after Marie was discovered floating in the lagoon. Lauren was told she was found barefoot. Her jacket was missing, and she was trembling, cold and soaked from a thunderstorm that had passed. Marie was found still in her school clothes, and her backpack was tossed onto the sidewalk. A copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales was found resting in the sand at Chicago’s only inland beach. Lauren was questioned at her father’s police station by Commander McCarthy before he was Commander McCarthy—Detective McCarthy then. After being questioned, Lauren was sent home.
Children of Chicago Page 4
