Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

  It was the spring she turned six that he first slipped vodka into her fruit juice. It would help, he promised, to loosen Sloane up before she went on stage. Just a few sips, and don’t tell Mommy.

  “Shake that sweet little booty, Angel. . . .”

  It worked. Sloane won a trophy taller than she was, the long-awaited crowns, and then a lifetime supply of cereal.

  “This is what you won, baby. For your whole life—that’s quite a net worth. Wait now . . . no marshmallows until you give Uncle Phillip a little sugar. . . . Ooh, yes, there’s my good luck charm.”

  It was shortly after Sloane’s big win that Phillip coaxed her mother into taking the swing-shift summer job. He’d babysit, no problem. It was a perfect opportunity to do some additional coaching. He turned their garage into a studio, painted it a sunny yellow, then papered two walls with hundreds of photos of pageant stars and child models. He mirrored the other walls, put in a small fridge for Popsicles and juices, set up a sound system and a video player. Then added a cozy futon so they could all sit and watch his recordings of Sloane’s practice sessions. But since her mother worked, it was mostly the two of them.

  The week of July 4 he bought her a new, star-spangled two-piece swimsuit, tasseled boots, and sparklers. Phillip had Sloane dance while holding them. He showed her how to be careful, how the metal part could burn, but if she followed his instructions, the bright, glittery sparks would bounce against her skin like happy Tinker Bell kisses. It was the day she learned a whole new meaning of “friendly fire.”

  “Angel Aames . . . you truly are the devil’s little plaything.”

  The fruit juice made her sleepy. And dizzy. She didn’t like the new swimsuit; it was pinchy and too tight. But Uncle Phillip said it was cooler in the summer heat, and she should sit with him on the couch. Give him a little sugar . . .

  When Sloane struggled, he said she was an ungrateful and shameless tease. He held her harder. When she cried and said she’d tell her mother, he threatened to kill their cat and—

  “Marty,” Sloane uttered aloud, new concern smothering the awful memory. Her pulse hiked as she remembered where she’d left him. She was out the door, down the porch, and at the gate in moments. She yanked it open, scanned the yard.

  Empty.

  No, please . . .

  “Marty?” Sloane called, stepping through the gate. She checked the fence top, the roof overhang, and—

  “There you are,” she said, relief choking her as he emerged, blasé and yellow eyes blinking, from beneath a bush. He wrapped himself around her legs, offering an “I’m right here, big deal” meow.

  Sloane knelt on the cedar bark, tamping down the panicky scenarios that had run through her head. Her cat chased by dogs into the street. And under the wheels of a car.

  “Hey, troublemaker,” she said, lifting him into her arms. “Next time, Mom’s staying right here. These eyes—on you. Get used to it.”

  She carried him back to the door and paused, glancing toward the garden. The radio continued its nonstop loop of country music, volume a little louder now. The dogs, Gibbs and McGee, lay side by side, one resting his fuzzy chin on the hip of the other. Jerry was kneeling down, measuring something. Sloane had seen him in that same pose dozens of times at the hospital. Celeste and Piper had returned to the house. Nothing at all out of the ordinary.

  Marty nudged his nose into the crook of Sloane’s elbow and began to purr. He’s fine. . . . I am too. We all are.

  She reached for the door, then stopped as the breeze carried Jerry’s music her way. At first she wasn’t sure, so she listened a moment longer. Her throat tightened; she knew this one. Willie Nelson. One of her mother’s favorites.

  “So leave me if you need to, I will still remember

  Angel flying too close to the ground . . .”

  Sloane carried Marty inside, set him down, and locked the door. She’d open the window a couple inches, let him peek through the screen. That was good enough for now.

  Sloane retrieved a plastic tumbler from the cupboard, filled it with water, and returned to the table spread with her parole board notes. She glanced toward the pantry, its sliding door open just enough to reveal the stacked boxes of cereal.

  In the end, it had been her mother’s outrage against a much-smaller violation that spared her. The week after their family outing to the fireworks display, Phillip decided angels should be blonde. When no hair salon would do it—and her mother was at work—he held Sloane over the bathtub to attempt it himself. The bleach caused an extensive and painful chemical burn to her left eye. When the emergency physician mentioned a Child Protective Services report, Uncle Phillip disappeared.

  It was weeks after the eye patch came off and about the time her damaged and shorn hair began to grow back that Sloane finally told her mother the truth. She figured she had nothing to lose since their cat had never been found. Phillip hadn’t returned either. Maybe Sloane felt some safety in that. She’d wondered many times since if she’d waited mostly because she feared what it would do to her mother. Because the smiles, the laughter, the fleeting sense of family had almost been worth it.

  Like the reward of marshmallows had almost been worth “a little sugar.”

  She told her mother, and the angel wings disappeared into the garbage. The smiles and laughter were replaced by fury, then tears, then vodka—lots of it. Her mother never told the authorities; she let the ugly secret simply drown.

  Sloane took a long swallow of her water, then picked up the pencil. She looked toward the couch; Marty was already pressing his nose to the screen. She shook her head and turned her attention back to the notes she’d made. Just under two weeks until the parole meeting. She might need that time—this was harder than she’d thought. She’d been right to scratch out the emotional pleas. They weren’t going to help. She’d present the facts as she knew them.

  Sergeant Robert Bullard’s treatment of her mother had been callous, insensitive, and at least emotionally abusive. The prosecuting attorney might have failed to prove he actually held her head under the water that night—waited as she struggled, strangled, suffered—but his irresponsible actions were absolutely the cause of her death. His claim that she screamed at him and demanded he get out of the hot tub and out of their lives was no excuse—and unwitnessed. He killed Sloane’s mother. She’d present only the facts, without emotion.

  But in her heart, Sloane knew the truth. Her stepfather put a final end to their hope for a family. His was the friendly fire that ended it all. There wasn’t a punishment on earth harsh enough for that.

  Sloane tried to swallow down the old ache. Even if her mother had made some really bad choices, it should never have happened. None of it. There was nothing Sloane could do about the fact that somewhere out there, Phillip was still at large. Whether he’d ever pay for what he’d done or might still be doing was an unknown. But her mother’s husband had been convicted and sentenced to twelve years behind bars. He couldn’t be allowed to get by with less.

  Sloane slid the envelope—with its many forwarding stamps—from beneath her papers. She stared at the State Prison return address and familiar, neat handwriting. She closed her eyes and felt the sting of Bulldog Bullard’s slap, heard her mother’s tears. And then remembered that awful moment she’d heard the news.

  “Drowned? No, you’re wrong. She couldn’t have . . . She can’t be dead.”

  Sloane’s fingers trembled with a rush of anger. Bob Bullard had written the letter and asked for her phone number because he wanted her to support his early release. He believed he deserved that. He’d probably been an exemplary inmate. What was it the prison office assistant had said?

  “Let’s just say that Mr. Bullard’s early release would come as no surprise.”

  Well, maybe Sloane had a surprise for him. She’d almost done it once but changed her mind at the last minute because she couldn’t put herself through it. But now . . . She picked up her phone, searched the call list, and tapped Redial.


  “Marcie Dumler.”

  “Yes,” Sloane said, her pulse accelerating. “This is Sloane Ferrell. I need to make arrangements for a visit.”

  18

  “THE ANNOUNCEMENT AND CEREMONY will be last of February or early March,” Micah said, brushing his thumb over the metal guitar string. He’d showered, pulled on some old jeans and a T-shirt, and had just picked up the Martin when his mother called. “I don’t want to press the issue, but has Uncle Clay said anything?”

  “Nothing definite, but . . .” There was a smile in his mother’s voice, the same one that accompanied every “It will be okay” encouragement she’d gifted Micah since he was a kid. Even during that reckless year he’d betrayed his family values as well as his soul. “Grace has been doing that thing she does when she’s expectant with song.”

  “Song nesting,” Micah said, remembering. His heart tugged. He missed them all—Oregon was too far. “What wall did she repaint?”

  His mother laughed. “The stair risers. To look like a stack of classic books. I’m serious. She saw it on Pinterest. Little Women, Pride and Prejudice, Gone with the Wind . . . Your uncle nixed Grapes of Wrath as ‘not conducive to peace and harmony.’”

  Peace. It had been so elusive after Stephen. For him, far longer than the others, it seemed. They’d all searched, each in different ways. Maybe Grace being “expectant” with song and taking a paintbrush to the stairs were signs she’d finally found it. Micah had hoped settling into the hospital marketing position would do that for him, but . . .

  “Grace is also volunteering with the Every 15 Minutes program here,” his mother said, her voice growing somber. “It’s like the one they have in LA.”

  “Right.” Micah was familiar with the program. In fact, the crisis team helped put it on.

  The emotionally charged event centered on the topic of drinking—more recently texting, too—and driving. It targeted teenagers and offered real-life experience without actual risk, featuring powerful, graphic reminders about personal safety and the responsibility of making mature decisions when lives were involved.

  Like Stephen’s life that night . . .

  “It’s rugged for her every time,” his mother continued. “But Grace thinks her honest reactions only make it more real, and if she’s able to keep one student from dying, convince him to call for a ride instead of getting in that car . . .”

  “Call for a ride.” Micah’s gut twisted.

  His mother sighed. “She says it’s more than worth it.”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a long pause and Micah heard music in the background. His father’s Beatles collection. As far back as he could remember, it had been as much a part of home as Sunday pot roast, sharing couch space with aging beagles . . . and his cousin.

  “You’re good?” his mother asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Seeing anyone special? You know I have to ask—for Grace.”

  Micah laughed, surprised by a thought of Sloane on the Prescott couch with a graying dog chin on her thigh and humming along to “Hey Jude.”

  “Well?” his mother asked.

  “Assure Aunt Grace,” Micah teased, “that when and if that happens, I won’t keep it a secret.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  He smiled. “And you’re the best.”

  They said their good-byes and Micah disconnected. He resettled the Martin in his lap and picked out the notes to “Hey Jude.” Strumming a C chord, he felt the response of the soundboard and enjoyed the feel of the instrument in his hands. It had been Stephen’s, and at first it had been impossible to pick up, the sadness too hard to bear. But slowly the connection became comforting. And nowadays it was the one thing guaranteed to relax Micah—take him away from all else. Except . . .

  Why hadn’t he asked Sloane out again? The truth was, he might have never met anyone as “special.” Beautiful, sure, but much more than that. The narrative nominating her for the Face of Hope had pretty much nailed it. He glanced to where he’d pulled it up on his laptop:

  She treats every patient with dignity, whether they are rich or poor, highly educated or seriously challenged. They all have worth, and she gives them her best.

  Admirable, absolutely. So why the hesitation?

  Micah picked the strings, reminding himself that Sloane’s “Maybe . . . I think so” response to his question about a second date had been delivered with a smile. The ball was in his court. There was no reason to make it a bigger deal than it was; they were only in that polite, cautious, do-you-like-sushi?, where’d-you-grow-up? phase.

  Except Sloane, beyond the sushi, hadn’t actually revealed much. Was there some reason for that?

  He frowned, strummed the strings, willing the music to do what it was supposed to do. Relax him, take his mind off things.

  It wasn’t as if Sloane had been overtly evasive. He hadn’t pressed for details; a first date shouldn’t be an interview. Micah thought of Coop. He would have wasted no time in asking Sloane all about herself, ferreting out the details. And oversharing his own. Coop was sharp, tenacious as a police dog with a mouthful of prowler pant leg, but also painfully honest. To his detriment at times: very few women on a first date were ready to hear that dinner couldn’t exceed thirty-two dollars because his credit card was over the limit and he used the rest of his paycheck to bail a former girlfriend out of jail.

  Micah shook his head, humming along as he picked the notes of the Beatles song: “Take a sad song and make it better . . .”

  Being with Sloane Saturday night had made things better. The inexplicable and persistent irritation he’d been feeling these past months seemed to suspend itself during those hours. He’d laughed, enjoyed the meal, the humor. Sights he’d seen before felt new in her company. All of that was good. And hopeful. There had been red lanterns, spontaneous music, and Micah thought, a real mutual attraction. Maybe the prospect of a kiss . . . on hold for next time.

  The truth was, Micah wanted that next time. Even if, in the light of day, he’d been left with more questions than certainties.

  Sloane was a real person with life experience, history. The same was true of Micah. These were the things, far beyond “Do you like sushi?” that built the framework for a strong, genuine relationship. He didn’t want a social media meme. He wanted . . .

  He set the guitar down and grabbed his cell phone, tapped the contact number. His pulse hiked when Sloane answered and said his name.

  “I hoped,” he told her, “I could tempt you with coffee and dessert. I know a place in Brentwood that has those Rice Krispy treats we ate as kids, but takes them to another level.”

  “Rice Krispy treats?”

  “Yeah,” Micah said, already imagining the bliss on her amazing face as she tasted one. “Cereal, marshmallows . . .”

  There was silence, so long that he thought their wireless connection had been dropped. “Sloane?”

  “I’m here.” It sounded like she cleared her throat. “I can’t. I mean, I appreciate your offer, but I have to be someplace tonight.”

  “Sure,” he told her. “No problem. Maybe another time.”

  “I’d like that.”

  He disconnected and lifted the Martin back into his lap. He hoped it would do its job and distract him. Keep his mind from leaping to the next logical question: Where did the enigmatic Sloane Ferrell have to be tonight?

  Sloane slid into the room just as people were taking their seats. She sat close to an exit door, leaving a cushion of several empty chairs between herself and the others, the way she always did. Three months now at this site; she’d shopped around for a meeting place the first few months in Los Angeles. AA advised that. Or maybe it was her excuse to avoid getting to know people—or be followed. But she’d settled finally. Not always the same day of the week, but usually this same place. It felt familiar now. That in itself was progress.

  When Sloane attended her first AA meeting, it hadn’t been anything like she expected. She probably assumed she’d
find a group of down-and-out people with desperate expressions, hangovers, shakes, all the things she’d seen so many times with patients in the ER. There were a few people who fit her initial assumption, but the majority looked like somebody you’d see at Target or Safeway. There were also men and women in expensive business clothes, a young woman in yoga wear, several senior citizens, and even a man Sloane was sure she recognized from a local TV morning show. The first time, that first meeting, she’d actually walked back outside to double-check she had the right room.

  Sloane hadn’t expected, either, to find jokes, laughter—lots of it—lively conversation, and a sort of all-pervasive positive energy. It was like she’d crashed a congenial cocktail party without the booze and boozers. AA felt like a club, open to anyone, with slogans and catchphrases instead of clever handshakes: First things first. One day at a time. Meeting makers make it. Easy does it. You’re only as sick as your secrets.

  But there was order, too, a sameness to each meeting that reinforced, without question, the reason these people were there and kept coming back: to stay sober and help other alcoholics in their recovery journey. Sloane also found—hung on to it like a life preserver—that she could utter the words “I think I’m just going to sit and listen this time,” and they would be respected. There was never pressure to share anything personal.

  “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”

  Sloane mouthed the words along with the group, the way she did at every meeting. God, a “higher power,” was part of this too. She’d accepted that but applied the “sit and listen” disclaimer there as well; the thought of tossing out a resounding amen felt as phony as those old feather angel wings. She simply wasn’t the type.

  “You don’t look like the cookie-baking type.”

  Not a baker, not a steadfast believer—or at least, not anymore. If there was one thing Sloane had learned from her messy life, it was that God didn’t want to hear from someone like her.