by Cathy Lamb
“Obviously someone is still after me, or you, or both of us, and I’m freaking scared.”
He closed his eyes for a second. “Natalie, everything will be okay. It will.”
“But who’s doing this? Who hates us? And why?”
He pulled me closer.
I was so tired. Tired to my bones. I couldn’t even think through my tiredness anymore.
“Let’s go back to bed for a while, Natalie, then come to work with me. We’ll bring a card table and a chair, and you can bring your books and your jewelry supplies.”
“I can stay at the apartment, Zack. I’ll be in your way.” I wanted to go with him, though. I was flat-out scared.
“I insist you come with me.” There was Zack’s steel again. He hugged me. “You are never in my way, honey.”
“Okay, then.” I smiled. I willed myself not to cry. I was scared about what was going on, but I was no wimp. I would buck up and figure this out. In the meantime, Zack could work on the house. I could work on my jewelry. Jewelry was the one thing I seemed to be able to do. It was art. I was using my hands.
“I’ll bring my gun,” I semi-joked.
“I have one in the truck.”
He did?
His face grew more serious than before. “Listen, Natalie. I will do all I can to protect you. But if I’m not home, and a man comes in, you are to shoot. You saw the gun under the dresser. Remember, there’s also one in the drawer of the side table by the door, in addition to the one on the shelf in the kitchen.”
“Three guns in this house.”
“Yes. You are not to hesitate. Not at all. No man should be in our apartment, so if one is here, shoot him.”
“Makes me sick to think of it.”
He put a hand to my face. “It makes me sick to think of you doing it, too. It makes me a hundred times more sick thinking of something happening to you. So promise me you’ll do it. No matter what he says, no matter if he seems friendly, or pretends that he and I are friends, you will shoot if some strange man enters our apartment.”
“I will.” I would, wouldn’t I?
“Natalie.”
Those light green eyes held mine. He knew I was thinking it through. “Yes.”
“Thank you.” He kissed me, and that kiss became deeper and more passionate. Who would have thought that a bullet would have created this kind of heat? “Honey, let’s go to bed and take off your clothes.” He picked me up and swung me into his arms.
I smiled through my own ravaged sanity. Nothing like a little lovemaking to make you feel alive again after having the window above your bed shot out.
* * *
Zack’s new home was going to be a work of home art, so to speak, as usual. There were two other employees working upstairs. He would work downstairs. I had suggested to him before my accident that he use wood from a former barn like wainscoting around the dining room, and he had. He had also used it on the downstairs windowsills to add a rustic flavor to the house and as a mantle. It would help to sell the home, I knew it.
He set up my card table in the breakfast nook with built-in seating, and I was soon absorbed in making a necklace. I had gone to two Goodwills and several secondhand stores to buy unique pieces, just like I’d done as a kid with Chick and Justine. I was especially interested in using old brooches in new ways. I found an old-fashioned brooch with a picture of a woman carrying a blue parasol with a frilly, tilted blue hat. I paired that with two strands of blue beads, and it ended up looking cool.
At a secondhand shop I found an eclectic collection of old buttons in a jar. Anchors, hearts, birds, suns, moons, all colors, all shapes, some quite old. I couldn’t believe it. Who would throw a jar full of old buttons out that were this unique?
My dad was also sending me a box of metal treasures. I would combine those with the treasures from Goodwill and the secondhand stores and the fantastic buttons, beads, and charms, and my necklaces would be ready to go . . . somewhere.
I didn’t know what I’d do with all of them at the moment. Maybe I would sell them at a farmers’ market again in the future, but for now it was therapy. I tried not to think about anything stressful as I worked: not my injured brain, not a bullet splitting my bedroom window, not my husband who knew something that I did not.
My hands still trembled.
* * *
When we got home, our window was fixed. Zack had called in a couple of employees and they’d gotten it done. Whew.
* * *
That night Zack received a call at one in the morning. He went outside to take it. I followed and tried to listen through the closed door, but he was talking near the dead fountain. He wasn’t shouting, and I couldn’t make out all the words, but I know that man’s body language and he was livid. I could tell he was arguing. I could tell, when he turned in profile, that he was threatening someone.
I didn’t say anything when he came back to bed. He hugged me close and whispered, “Love you, baby.”
I didn’t answer because I wanted to pretend I was asleep. I wanted to say, “Who were you talking to outside at one in the morning?” I wanted to say, “What the hell, Zack?” I wanted to say, “You know what’s going on. You get it. Tell me.”
But I didn’t. I would wait. I would try to figure this out myself if I could get my brain in gear long enough. I knew, as messed up as I am, that Zack would lie to me, as he’d been lying to me, and the police, from the start.
I was devastated: My husband had lied to me in the past, he was lying to me now, and he would continue to lie to me.
Until I figured things out myself, I would play along.
I blinked at my own thought processes. That I was even able to have these thoughts, to have a rational and reasonable opinion, to have a plan, to be able to see what was going on . . . well, that was encouraging! I could think on my own! My brain was chugging along again....
* * *
On Friday evening, three nights after the call, I made manicotti. I forgot to put in the ricotta cheese. It was awful. So frustrating. And the other night I thought my brain was improving.
Part of the reason I messed up was because my nerves were shot and shriveling. I could not get the recent shooting out of my mind, the piercing sound of the glass breaking, the creepy peals of the man’s laughter, or the squealing of the tires as that maniac raced out of the parking lot. I kept replaying that whole night in my head. It was like a circle of anxiety with a headless bird, a carved-up Barbie, and a stalker thrown in. I was trying to be brave, and fake being calm, but it was affecting my sleep, and it was affecting my days.
“Should we leave, Zack?” I put my fork down and pushed the manicotti away. “Should we go to my dad’s until this maniac is caught?”
“No,” he said quickly. “You don’t need to. You’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”
That was telling. How did he know I was going to be okay? Wouldn’t a loving husband send his wife out of the city and out to the country to be safe?
Maybe I should leave for my dad’s. Just because Zack told me no, that didn’t mean it was no. I did what I wanted to do. He had no hold over me, he never had. He was not a controlling person at all, and I would not have taken that crap to begin with.
My brain said, Get the hell out of town, and my heart said, I cannot leave Zack. I know he’s lying to me. But I love him and I trust him.
Lies and trust do not go together, so I could only surmise that the rational part of my brain was completely, utterly damaged.
“How do you know, Zack? This is all getting worse.”
“Natalie, I just talked to the police. They’re on it. They’re close to finding who did it.”
“They are?”
“Yes.” His tone was impatient.
“Who is it?”
“They won’t tell me, but they’re almost there.”
“I’m not buying it.”
“There’s nothing to buy, Natalie,” he said, anger riding through his words. “You have to be patient. Wait. Conc
entrate on getting better and I’ll concentrate on this.”
“But—”
“Natalie, I’ve had a long day.”
“Me too, Zack.”
There was tension there between us as we glared at each other across the table. It was looming like an angry elephant in the room.
Zack and I rarely had tension between us, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t need it right now, either. It felt negative and fraught. I wanted to concentrate on speaking and thinking like a fully functioning human again. I didn’t want to get into this confusing feud with my husband.
I wouldn’t let it go forever, but I had to let it go now. That’s not a smart life or marriage strategy, burying what I don’t want to think about, not questioning when I know there’s something he’s hiding, but right then I couldn’t take on one more thing.
“Sorry about the manicotti.” How strange. I was afraid we were going to have bullets shattering our windows again and there I was, apologizing about the manicotti.
“It’s delicious,” Zack said. He stood and hugged me for a long time.
* * *
Even though I was suspicious of my husband, I still put on my purple negligee with the ruffles that night. Our sex was hot and rollicking. Nothing like being chased down by a human monster to put some passion into naked wrestling, I suppose.
* * *
Chick mailed Justine and me another picture.
She had cut out pictures of our faces from photographs, all three of us. She glued them on paper. Then she drew us naked—not too many details—on bikes. She wrote, “Moonshine and Milky Way Maverick Girls First Annual Naked Bike Ride.”
Had I truly agreed to this? Had I signed a contract? Could I get out of it?
Naked? In Portland? At night?
* * *
My dad came back the next week with a box. “Hummingbird, you tell me if your old man did what you wanted him to do.”
He poured out the contents of the box.
I could hardly speak.
“I didn’t do it right now, did I, Hummingbird? Let me try again. We’ll get these suckers pounded out exactly how you want ’em so you can make your jewelry. I like that necklace you have on today, by the way. . . .”
“Dad . . .”
“Size wrong? Color wrong? I think you call it a learning process and I gotta lot to learn. No hurt feelings here, Hummingbird. You let me know how I can fix these doodads.”
“Dad . . .”
“Learning keeps the brain young.” He tapped his head. I almost laughed. My dad hides it sometime, but he is super smart.
“They’re perfect, Dad.”
“What?”
“They’re perfect. I love them.” I so did. He had made the birds I requested. He had made, in different sizes: butterflies, the moon, stars, swirling designs, hummingbirds, hearts, birds, and leaves. He is a talented, creative metalsmith. I gave him a hug. “Thank you so much, Dad. Thank you.”
He became all misty eyed, poor guy. “Anything I can do to bring a smile to my hummingbird’s face, I’ll do.” He sniffled. “When I didn’t think I was going to see that smile again . . .” He choked up and wrapped me in a bear hug. It still killed me to think of the pain he went through, a father watching his daughter, in a coma, for any sign of life, grief and fear hanging like doom around you. . . .
I showed him what I was making, and he sat down and watched me. I used a leather strip for a chain and I attached a silver bar, about a half inch wide and three inches long. I put it around my dad’s neck, and we stared into a mirror together.
“I think it makes me look like a motorcycle gang member,” he said, pleased.
“I think it does, too. It’s tough guy jewelry, isn’t it?”
“Real men wear jewelry,” he said.
And there wasn’t a lot of jewelry out there for men, was there?
That got me to thinking.
“Dad . . .”
I gave him a list of things I needed for my “stud man necklaces.” I was so excited to see what he could do, and I think he was excited, too.
Later, I turned on country music, we sang along together, and I made chocolate chip cookies. The first batch didn’t work because I forgot the flour. My dad and I added flour to the remaining batter, and that worked out fine. He read part of a chapter out of Jane Eyre to me when they were baking.
The cookies were delicious, warm and melty. I was proud of myself. I had made chocolate chip cookies in only two tries!
Chapter 14
Detective Macy Zadora called. The police had the license plate of the car that the person who shot a bullet through our window was driving. They obtained the camera footage from two convenience stores down the street. It was late, there was hardly anyone out, and the car went through the view of those cameras less than a minute after I’d made the first call.
The car had been stolen. Whoever was driving was wearing a full black mask.
“Do you think you’ll be able to catch this person?”
“We’re trying.”
“Zack said he talked to you the other day and you said you’re getting close to finding this person.”
There was a silence. To my ears, a loud silence.
“Zack said we were close to finding out who it is?” the detective asked.
“Yes, he did.” I did not miss the surprise in her tone. “That’s why we’re not moving out to eastern Oregon, where I’m from.”
“You should consider moving temporarily, Mrs. Shelton.”
“But you’re close to figuring this out, right?”
“We’re trying. It’s more complicated than I initially thought. What is clear, however, is that these crimes are continuing to escalate against you both. I’m going to ask you again: Is there anything about Zack that you think we should know? Anything about his business? Anything he’s doing that would bring this on? Anything about his past, his history, relationships, finances? How does he seem to you? Is he acting as he normally does? Any changes?”
What should I say? That my husband was lying to me about what was going on and clearly had not spoken to the detective recently? That he was often angry and detached lately? That he continued to get phone calls that infuriated him? That I couldn’t remember the morning of my accident, but I think the answers lie there?
If I said all that I would be implicating Zack. It would be like pointing my finger at my husband and saying he was a partner in all of this, that maybe he’d paid someone to do it all. My husband would not do that and he would not pay to have someone do that to me.
“No, there’s nothing else. He’s a homebuilder. He’s my best friend. He’s always been a wonderful husband.” All true. But wonderful husbands don’t lie.
I could almost hear her frustration in the long silence. “Okay. We’ll keep you posted.”
“Detective, wait. You know something.” I might have an injured brain, but I could sense this.
There was a silence. “We’re still investigating.”
“Investigating the person who did this? You have a suspect? What else have you found out? You said it was more complicated than you initially thought.”
More silence. Then, “We have people working on this at the moment, Mrs. Shelton. We’ll get back in touch.”
I felt numb.
The detective knew something she was not sharing.
This whole horrible thing was not near to being over, I knew it.
* * *
Justine came by and saw me at lunch.
“We miss you at the firm.”
“Thanks. I miss you all, too.” I did.
“How are you?”
“Confused. Baffled. Trying to get my brain to work. I can’t add, Justine. I can’t subtract.”
“That’s what calculators and computers are for.” I saw the worry in her eyes. She is concerned about my ability to be an accountant again. She should be. I’m concerned.
“You look fantastic, Natalie. I love that shirt.”
“Thanks.
” I called it my “artist shirt.” It had been painted with a swirling design, as if a rainbow had been smooshed onto the fabric.
“And you sound better. Your words are faster.”
“I’m trying.” I tried to get my emotions together. Head injuries strip the ability to control emotions right out of your brain. “It’s . . .” I didn’t want to whine. “It’s, uh . . .” I didn’t want to complain. Zillions of people in the world have it worse than me. “Trying to . . . sometimes it’s . . .”
“The whole thing sucks.”
“Yes. That’s it. It does.”
We held hands.
Sometimes that’s all you can do.
“Looking forward to the Naked Bike Ride?” she asked.
I groaned.
* * *
Justine and I started our own accounting firm nine years ago in downtown Portland after we partied for four years at the University of Oregon and had a splendid time. She started college one term late but took extra classes and double majored in accounting and marketing, I double majored in accounting and finance. I took jewelry-making classes, too, and sold my necklaces in the student store and in Eugene’s Saturday Market.
We knew in our freshman year that owning our own firm “Knight and Fox” would be the goal.
The reason her name, Knight, came first was because she beat me at poker one evening, despite my grandma Dixie teaching me all she knew. I had had too much beer.
When we graduated from the University of Oregon, we both rented studios in the same building in the middle of Portland. We went to work at different prestigious accounting firms in Portland to pay off student loans and save money for our own firm, and we basically hated it. The work was long, the environment competitive.
One of Justine’s coworkers, whose name was, no kidding, Destiny, slept with Justine’s boyfriend at the time, Torvin Sakavea. They all worked at the same firm. Justine didn’t mind that the married Destiny slept with her boyfriend, who we named Ping-Pong Balls because of a small problem with his balls, in that they were—wait for it—totally tiny.
She minded that Ping-Pong Balls and Destiny slept together because it was flat-out wrong. She thought she was in a committed relationship with Ping-Pong Balls. She didn’t love him, she loved Jed, but she was trying to love Ping-Pong Balls.
