by Cathy Lamb
* * *
They were both moved from jail and transported to prison. Their nightmares began anew.
* * *
The first night in her new prison cell, battling fear and grief, listening to bars clanging, a woman wailing, and a guard yelling, Betsy had the same premonition that had plagued her her whole life.
She was on the same road. It was tight, narrow, curving. The sun behind her was slanting through the fir trees. The mountain was on the left, cliff on the right. Orange poppies were scattered here and there, like a floral blanket.
Betsy saw her hands clutching the steering wheel. She looked over the edge of the cliff, to make sure she wasn’t too close, and then she saw the blue truck suddenly in front of her as it barreled around the curve. A woman was driving.
She drew in a breath, then turned the wheel hard to the right and drove her car straight off the cliff. The car bounced down, glass smashing, metal clashing, the noise a screeching, splitting cacophony. She saw herself banging around in the car, her body thrust into the airbag. She felt the heat. She saw the flames. Was she going to burn to death? Was the car going to explode?
Why did she turn her steering wheel and drive straight over the cliff? There was still ten feet at least between her and the oncoming blue truck.
Did she die?
It looked like it. Her head was out the window, hanging like a rag doll. She sensed someone coming down the cliff, rocks slipping. She heard a scream of alarm, then another scream from pain. Had the other woman fallen? Was she okay? Had she died?
Betsy shivered.
One of them dies, she thinks. She felt the black claw of death, but the death was murky, blurry, and deaths were never blurry in her other premonitions.
Was it her? Was it the other woman?
Who was the other woman?
She pulled herself into a ball on her prison cot. She was cold, utterly depressed, and worried about her baby Rose. Was she healthy? Were her new parents kind and patient with her?
But if the premonition was correct, if the accident happened, she is released from prison at some point in time in the future.
She held on to that faintest glimmer of hope yet again.
She did not sleep at all that night. Prison is never conducive toward sleep.
Plus, her new roommate jumped her and beat her face up.
* * *
In response to Johnny Kandinsky’s claim that his father had murdered his mother in Idaho, before they moved to Oregon, the police in Idaho searched the Kandinskys’ abandoned home up in the hills. They searched below the home in the crawl space, the barn, and an outbuilding. They saw no sign of a crime, no blood splatters, no body. They never moved beyond the immediate property to search the acreage that Peter Kandinsky owned.
No one had ever claimed that Gabriella Kandinsky was missing. Plus, she was an illegal Mexican. She shouldn’t have been here in the first place, even if she did marry an American, right? She had never applied for citizenship. She had simply snuck into the country. In all likelihood she had moved back to Mexico with her lover and was working there. She went home, they said.
There was no body, no signs of violence.
And, again, she was illegal. . . .
Case closed.
Chapter 19
I saw Marco in town talking to a couple of other men. Both of the men were kind, friendly people. One was Zeb Lowry, who used to be a corporate manager at a huge shoe company and burned out. The other was a businessman who flew in and out of Seattle to the island.
I ducked into my friend Callie’s shop. She sold women’s clothing. The shop is called Abracadabra Now You Will Be Pretty. It’s an odd name for a shop, but Callie says she has a grandmother who’s a witch and her mother thought her grandma might truly have witchly powers, so there it is. Abracadabra. Callie has bright red hair. She’s thirty-five.
“Hiding from someone?” she called out, and I made a face at her. “Ahh.” She sighed when she looked out the window. “I totally get it. I’m thinking about getting animals so I can go and visit him. I don’t even like animals—they get all slobbery and dirty and they poop—but every time I see him I can’t talk. It’s like my tongue gets all swelled up and I can’t blink and my bladder gets a little wiggly.”
“Your bladder gets wiggly?” That was bizarre.
“Yes. I don’t know why.” She sighed again.
“When your husband is around, you don’t get all wiggly if you see Marco, do you?”
“I try not to. But you know Ziggy. The man’s blind.”
“Only in one eye.”
“He’s dense.” She shrugged. “All men are dense, aren’t they? It’s like they’ve got wood in their brains. They see what they want to see and ignore the rest. They ignore facts they don’t like or can’t comprehend. When I look at Marco and my toes curl in, I think bedroom thoughts. Hey!” She snapped her fingers. “While you’re hiding here, can you see my future?”
“I can’t see the future.”
She went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “I want to know if Ziggy will ever have an affair.”
Ziggy loved Callie. I knew Callie loved Ziggy. I pretended to think about it. “No. Never.”
She clapped her hands. “Yes! I knew it.” Her brow furrowed. “Will I?”
I pretended to think again. “No. Never.”
“Hmm!” She looked proud of herself and irritated at the same time. “Okay. Fine. But darn it, too. I was hoping for a quick romance on a girls vacation or something. One seductive Frenchman for a week.”
“No, sorry. It’s not in your future.”
“Can you tell me another future?”
“No, I have to stick with the accurate ones. No affairs, no fun.”
I snuck out the back of Callie’s, but I couldn’t continue to avoid Marco when he came into my bookstore looking all handsome and studly in jeans and a black T-shirt about an hour later.
“Hi, Evie.”
“Hi, Marco.” You literally take my breath away.
“Can you help me find some more books? I read all the ones from last time.”
“Wow. You’re a fast reader.”
“You chose great books for me.”
“What do you want to do with me?” Oh no. Oh no. “I mean, what book type, genres, do you want to be with?” What book did he want to be with? Must I speak in a carnal fashion? “Read. What books do you want to read?” I am a lovesick fool.
He smiled, so gentle in that masculine face, scars here and there, and I smiled back and tried not to groan in a sexual way.
First we found him three books. Then I asked him if he wanted to have coffee and a slice of six-layer mocha fudge chocolate cake with me. I was surprised at myself for that invitation. He seemed surprised, too, but pleased, and we had cake out on the deck and watched the boats sitting in the sun. We talked more, endlessly, easily, from one subject to the next, from animals to movies to the island to fun things we liked to do, until he said, “I have to go. I’ve got two horses and a sheep coming in to see me.”
“You can’t be late for them. The horses will think you’re rude and the sheep will think you’re ill-mannered.”
“I try not to be either.”
He smiled and I smiled back, and I could feel that pull of him. I could feel the love I had for him. I could feel how irresistible he was.
It stabbed me in the heart, that it did.
I stared out the window from my upstairs office and watched Marco cross the street like the sappy love-fool that I am.
My relationships with men in the past have all been shallow. Initially, in college, I went for the “bad boys,” but not for the usual reason: Bad boys are intriguing and sexy and rebellious.
I assumed they would be fine if I broke up with them. They’d simply move on to another young woman. I also thought they would give me emotional space. They would not demand much from me. They wouldn’t want to get serious because they were “bad boys.” One was in a rock band that today churns out h
it after hit. We’re still friends.
One was a motorcycle rider who wrote a book about his adventures that sold widely, then he became a college English lit professor with six kids. When I knew him he had long hair, a bandana, a bike, and no money. With six kids he probably still has no money.
But those two men, under the bad boy persona, had soft hearts, and we were all hurt when I broke it off before they could breach the wall around me. I can’t be honest with a man about who I am. I can’t tell them I have premonitions. They would think I was looney. I could prove it to them, but then they would know I was looney. Plus, my premonitions are a huge part of who I am, what I battle. If I can’t share that, we don’t have an honest relationship.
Besides, who would want to live with, or be married to, someone who not only sees premonitions but tries to stop them, rescue people or not rescue people based on objective/subjective/playing God reasons? It’s head-case city up in my brain, with moderate to high doses of depression and anxiety, with some of that depression and anxiety buried in the sand and flames of a faraway place.
I have a put-together front, a smile that says all is well, like many women, but beyond the smile, scrape it a bit, and you’d see a semi-wreck who tries hard not to give in to many mental health issues.
I would like to sleep with Marco. I would.
But how do I sleep with Marco, walk away, and not let the relationship grow into something else? Marco is super interesting. He’s deep. And he’s a thriving, sexy man who would not sleep with a woman who he knew would walk away. That’s not who he is. He doesn’t deserve that kind of meanness and disrespect, either. No one does.
Marriage is out of the question, even if I allowed him to get to know the true me.
I don’t want to have children. What if this premonition thing is genetic, starting with me? My mother doesn’t have it, my aunts don’t have it, Jules doesn’t have it, but my grandma had mental health issues galore. Maybe she was having premonitions. She never mentioned it, never had any predictions, but maybe she had something and it was passed on to me in a different form.
I will not risk passing along this terror to any other human being. I will not inflict this on someone else. I will not have my kid suffering as I have suffered.
The most insurmountable problem was this, though: I could not be with Marco, as it would be a threat to his life. My premonition had told me so.
* * *
Chief Reginald Ass Burn watched me climb into my truck after work on Wednesday. He was parked at the end of Chrysanthemum Way, between the bakery and library, and standing like a beached whale next to his police car. I saw him spying on me when I was chatting with Ernetta Oliver outside the bookstore, people playing in the waves of the bay behind us.
Ernetta is in her forties and from the South. She is a southern belle with steel in her spine (as in, she grew up in Louisiana near the coastal marshes and is not afraid of alligators), iron in her fists (bar fights, only occasionally), and a brain that earned her a doctorate in math. She has zero belief in my premonitions, which means we get along well because I know she will never bug me about any predictions about herself. She is a true book nerd, however, so we can talk forever.
Before we parted, Ernetta said to me, “Chief Reginald Ass Burn is watching you, that possum.”
“I know he’s watching me. He’s creepy.”
She glared at him. “What are you staring at?” she yelled at him across the road. For such a small woman, she has a booming voice. The southern accent added flair. People on the street turned to see what the commotion was about.
He did not respond.
“I said,” Ernetta boomed again, “Chief Ass Burn, what are you staring at? Speak up! You got grits stuck in your throat? You got your tongue stuck in a swamp? Bless your heart, has your brain decomposed again?”
I could see his face twist in fury and humiliation.
“I’m fixin’ to come on over there and ask you these questions face-to-face, Chief.”
“I don’t need you telling me what to do, Ernetta. Quiet down, or I’ll give you a ticket for disturbing the peace.” He settled his wide girth back in his car.
“I don’t like being quiet,” she shouted, her southern accent even stronger. “I like for people to hear my voice, especially men.”
We chatted about what a swamp monster Chief Ass Burn is. “I’m going home to cut a pile of flowers for my mom and aunts. They’re making bouquets titled ‘Don’t You Mess With My Womanhood,’ and they need more flowers. I’ll see you later, Ernetta.”
“Don’t let that chief intimidate you. I’ve seen him watching you before. We’ve all seen it. He likes you, but in a dangerous way. I think he hates you, too. You should be married to Marco. Now there’s a man’s man. Plus, he’s hot. I’ll be in tomorrow. I want to find books on genetics, mastering chess, and the migration pattern of South American butterflies.”
I headed out of town in my truck, driving the speed limit. I ignored the chief’s car following me. As soon as I rounded the corner, out of North Sound, and turned left down another road toward our property, then to Robbins Drive, he was right behind me. He waited a minute as I drove in dread, farther away from town, then flashed his lights, turned on his siren, and rushed up on my bumper.
“I could foresee that one all on my own,” I muttered. “No premonition needed.” We were alone, which made my spine start to tingle.
“Evie,” he said to me after he waddled up alongside my truck.
“Yes?” I wasn’t giving him anything. I glanced at his face, his stomach bulging against his uniform. He was staring down his nose at me. For one second his eyes dropped to my chest.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“No.”
“License and registration and insurance.”
I didn’t want to give them to him, but I did. He stared at my license for way too long. “Is there a problem?”
He didn’t answer me, and I knew he enjoyed that. Enjoyed the power of choosing not to answer a direct question. He took his time memorizing, I suppose, every detail on my insurance card and registration. It is utterly fascinating information.
He gave the license and registration and insurance back to me. I deliberately made sure I did not touch his fingers. The chief was a stew of misogynistic crap.
“Why did you pull me over?”
“Well, Evie, it seems like you have a little problem with one of your taillights. It’s out.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
“Now you do.” He tried to smile, but it came out lecherous.
“I’ll fix it.”
He nodded. “I think that’d be a smart idea. So, Evie. We haven’t had much of a chance to talk. Tell me about yourself. How did you get the name Evie? Like Adam and Eve. Are you the temptress? Are you the woman who leads a man to evil? Are you a woman who brings sin to others?” He smirked, as if he was so self-satisfied with his cleverness. I could tell he’d been thinking about this speech.
“First off, all Eve did was eat an apple because she was hungry and it was hanging in front of her face. Apples are not sinful. Adam hardly tried to prevent it, did he? Then he tattled on Eve to God. What a man. He blamed Eve. Second, Eve didn’t lead Adam to evil. That’s ridiculous. Adam was already weak and disloyal to her, though he was her husband and should have protected and stood by her, even in front of God. But then, the Bible was written by men, and men are known to blame women and want to control them at the same time. Eve did not bring sin to the world. Men have been gloriously successful since the beginning of time at bringing sin and violence and other depravity in without any help from women at all. Maybe you need to read that Bible story again.”
His smirk faded. He could tell I was mocking him. And he had been so clever!
“I’m a Christian man, and I do know that story, Evie, which is why I brought it up. I think it’s you who has it wrong. Eve sinned. Adam did not. Eve led Adam to sin—”
“Are you going to wr
ite me a ticket?”
He stopped. His face flushed.
“If not, I need to go. I have plans for tonight and I’ll be late.”
His whole body tensed, chest up. “Got a date?” The three words seemed as if they were torn from his tight-lipped mouth.
“I’m not required to tell you my plans.”
His eyes narrowed. He liked the power to ask questions and get them answered even when they weren’t his business. “I will be giving you a ticket. A car must be in working, functional order at all times, and yours is not.” He turned on his heel and waddled back to his car and heaved himself in. I knew I would have to wait for a while. This was all part of controlling the situation. He would make me wait. He wanted to make me late for my plans tonight.
I called my friend Bettina at the bakery and ordered a key lime pie. I love those. I think they calm my nerves. Hence, nutritionally speaking, they’re good for me. We also talked about the other cakes and treats she would be delivering to the bookstore in the future. Next I called Sandy at the hardware store because I needed to add more support to one of my bookshelves—too many books, too much weight. She knew just the thing I needed!
I texted my mother and aunts in our group text and wrote, “Pulled over by Chief Ass Burn on Robbins Dr.”
“I’m coming,” Aunt Iris said.
“There’s no need to,” I texted back.
“I’m coming,” Aunt Camellia said.
“Don’t bother,” I texted back.
I called Tiala at the bookstore to make sure all was well. The science club was meeting that night. She expected, as I did, that there could be heated discussions about current scientific breakthroughs and discoveries, but we knew that there would be nothing thrown, including punches or plates, as they are a dignified group.
Finally Chief Reginald Ass Burn tumbled himself and his gut out of his car. I was on the phone with my mother. When he was in front of my window I said to her, “I love you, too. I’ll see you later,” and hung up.
I could tell he thought I was speaking to my “date.”
“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone,” he said.
