The View from Here

by Rachel Howzell

  “She was passed out,” the deputy said.

  “I got here and the kitchen door was wide open,” Monica said. “And you weren’t in the house, and I didn’t know what…”

  My head ached from all the talking, from the hum of cicadas in the trees, from the clicking of the police lights. I winced and crumpled to my knees.

  Jake rushed to my side. “We should probably take her to the—”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I wanna go home.”

  No one spoke. The squawk of the police radio echoed through the canyon.

  My stomach twisted and threatened action.

  Jake said, “You need help carrying her?”

  Monica said, “No, I got it.” But she struggled as she tried to help me stand.

  Jake slipped one arm on the back of my thigh, and the other behind my back.

  I caught air then, and the world rocked all the way around this time, and then I saw blue sky.

  54

  Hot water. Shea butter soap. Warm soft towel. Strawberry-scented lotion.

  Third time Monica had helped me shower.

  My limbs felt goopy. Blinking sent sparks blasting through my head.

  Antiseptic. Bandages.

  Jake sat at the edge of the chaise, one hand covering his mouth.

  Monica guided me towards the bed.

  I stopped in my step. “Not in here.” I was out of it, but not that out of it.

  She led me down the hallway to the den.

  Jake followed.

  My quilt. My pillow. My remote control.

  I settled into the couch cushions.

  “Nic,” Monica whispered, “I don’t think…”

  I pressed “power” on the remote and the television popped to life.

  Maury. Who is my Babydaddy?

  “I know we joked about this, but now it’s not funny,” Monica said. “We think you should get help. Like in a supervised environment.”

  Sharalisa said Little Kenyon had Big Kenyon’s eyes and the same exact birthmark on his left calf. There ain’t no way that baby ain’t his, she claimed. I ain’t lyin’ about this.

  “Nicole,” Monica said, firmer now. “Are you listening to me? You’re starting to endanger yourself.”

  I shook my head—didn’t care what she had to say.

  “Sweetheart,” Jake said, “something could’ve happed to you down there. Coyotes, mountain lions…”

  Big Kenyon was not the father, and the audience went wild.

  Right as Sharalisa ran off the stage, Monica grabbed the remote from my hand and jammed the power button. “Nicole,” she shouted, “do you wanna die?”

  My body hurt. My mind hurt. Life hurt. And all of it made that question so easy to answer.

  “Well, I’m not gonna let you,” she said, grabbing the telephone.

  “Who are you calling?” I asked, interested now.

  “Harvey Feldman. If you won’t get help, then—”

  “I’ll never forgive you,” I shouted, sitting up.

  Monica turned to Jake. “Are you gonna say something or just stand there?”

  Jake stood there, mouth open, confusion painted on his face.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I wanted fresh air and it was so quiet out there and I fell asleep. After all that’s happened, is that so hard to believe?”

  “I’m moving in, then,” Monica said as she threw the phone on the desk.

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” I said. “I just want…” My throat closed, and I couldn’t speak.

  “What?” Jake whispered.

  I just want to be free. To know that God cares about me, and not in a theoretical sense, but is actively trying to find a way out for me like hostage negotiators did for those people in Iran.

  I shook my head. “I swear I don’t know what happened. I didn’t mean to be in the canyon. Maybe I was sleepwalking. I don’t know…”

  Monica was crying now.

  “I’ll get better,” I said. “Okay? I won’t leave the house like that again. I promise.”

  Monica nodded, but her eyes said something different.

  55

  I closed my eyes as Zephyr made a pot of tea. On this day, I had followed Dr. Lucas’ directions—one Xanax a day. The drug had smoothed me out some, and had made me less prickly just as the doctor had promised. Still, talking to Zephyr seemed so outlandish. Sure, she was more attentive than Dr. Tremaine, and since we had no past together (like I had with Monica and Leilani), she could offer advice without beginning or ending every sentence with “I know how you are.” And unlike Dr. Tremaine, Zephyr knew Truman’s name without me having to tell her five times. She knew it before I had even said it. Still… She was a psychic, and that little bit of truth scratched at the back of my mind.

  Zephyr’s pink and gold caftan billowed behind her as she returned to the couch with two tea cups. She handed me one, then sat beside me on the couch. “I know it’s different and can be startling, but it’s a blessing. Many people would love to have a visit from a loved one who’s away.”

  “But these visits scare me,” I said. “And I can’t tell if he’s real or not.”

  Zephyr cocked her head. “Oh, Emma. Of course he’s real.”

  “He’s getting violent,” I said, then rubbed my neck—still sore from the struggle at the pier two days before.

  “He cannot be violent,” Zephyr said and dropped two sugar cubes into her tea. “Truman is not a poltergeist.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Poltergeists don’t exist. God wouldn’t allow it.”

  I narrowed my eyes and cocked my head. “But God allows regular ghosts?”

  She smiled and stirred her tea. “God allows things that our itty-bitty brains could never comprehend. You’re projecting your anxieties about something else onto your husband, and it is manifesting itself through the physical world.”

  “Maybe if circumstances had been different,” I said. “Maybe if there had been a body, some sort of closure… I hate this. Not being in control of my environment. Truman knew that. Knows that. Whatever. That’s one reason we had problems. He was selfish sometimes. And I hate saying this, but if I had acted like him, we’d both be…”

  “Dead?” Zephyr placed her teacup on the table. “I know this will sound harsh, but you’re gonna have to be aggressive about moving on. You have to start removing some elements of Truman out of your path to recovery. I’m talking about painful reminders: houses, cars, designer clothes… Even money. If it’s keeping you from living a full and healthy life, then you need to give it all to charity, or to family members. Bury it if you must.” She paused, then added, “Then you must say your final farewells. It is part of the healing process.”

  “My sister-in-law wanted to have a memorial service,” I said. “It just seemed premature.”

  “I think it’s time,” Zephyr said. “Even if it’s a private service just for you and his sister. This way, you can tell Truman that he’s your past, and that you have to heal, that his visits scare you. Let him know that you love him but your life together is over. Confess whatever sins you’ve committed against him, and then, move on. It’ll hurt, but I’m here to help you. For as long as you need.” She took my hands and squeezed. “You have big things ahead of you, Emma. A new world with new challenges, with new friends. Maybe even a male friend. Don’t worry: it’s all a part of moving on.”

  She stood and retreated to her desk. “Your assignment for the week is this: you must engage in an activity that represents the start of your new life.” She smiled, and added, “You can do it. You must do it. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  Moving on.

  Moving on meant more than just rearranging closet space, and no longer buying Cherry Garcia. Moving on meant changing the name on the phone bill, and on the title of the house. Erasing the voice-mail message and recording a new one that said “I’m not home” instead of “We’re not home.” Moving on meant going to movies and eating at restaurants and planning sum
mer vacations…

  Too much to ask. Too much to do.

  But I had moved on before so it wasn’t too much to ask. After Aunt Beryl’s death, I had moved on. After my parents’ accident, I had moved on. I would have to do it again.

  56

  Jake was jogging up the road as I climbed out of the Volvo. He slowed as he neared my driveway, unsure of whether to speak or duck from bullets.

  Something inside of me popped, seeing him again. Don’t know what I felt, but it wasn’t fear. I waved to him, and said, “Don’t worry. I’m not armed.”

  He stopped in his step, and took a moment to catch his breath. “You feeling okay today?”

  I shrugged.

  “You really scared us the other day.”

  I grunted as response.

  “I don’t know what I did,” he said, “but your opinion of me has changed, and I’m sorry, okay? But I’m not out to hurt you, Nic. I’m not the bad guy.”

  I smirked at him. “Okay.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.” I turned to walk back to my house.

  He grabbed my hand. “Don’t go. Talk to me.”

  I pulled out of his grasp and backed away from him. “I’ve seen you sneaking around my house. Not just that one time when I came out with the gun. Other times. Sometimes late at night.”

  “Sneaking around? We’re neighbors. And I told you that I’m cleaning—”

  “And when you’re not sneaking, your little Mexican Mafia posse is following me around the city.”

  “What?” He laughed. “You’re joking, right?”

  I glared at him.

  “Nic, I haven’t asked the Mexican Mafia to follow you.”

  “So you just defend them, then, right?”

  He blushed and said, “You read about all that, I guess. My client—my dead client now—had bragged to me that he had killed that boy and that he knew where the boy’s body was. I couldn’t tell anyone. Even though he was an awful human being, it was my job to defend him.”

  I folded my arms, and said, “I’m not stupid, Jacob. I know all about attorney-client privilege.”

  “And you also know that as a criminal defense attorney, I can’t say, ‘This guy is yucky, I’m not gonna defend him.’ It’s my job.”

  “Did you have to take this case, though?”

  His eyes widened. “Yes. Who am I supposed to represent, Nic? Only the innocent? Don’t forget that we’re all innocent until a jury and judge says you’re not.”

  “I know that,” I said with a sigh.

  “Believe me, Nic,” he said. “A part of me wants to tell, especially to help that boy’s poor mother… But I can’t. Even when Hernandez died a few days ago, I still couldn’t say anything. Attorney-client privilege lasts forever. At least for now. The courts are trying to figure that out now.” He shrugged, and placed his hands on his hips. “It’s the moral thing to do, telling everything I know, but it’s still unethical. I’d never be able to practice law again.”

  My eyes burned with tears, but I shook my head anyway. “None of that has anything to do with you sneaking around. I saw you leaving my house with a trash bag—”

  “You left the door open that day,” he said. “And the trash bag… Someone had run over that chocolate Lab near your driveway, and I didn’t want you to see it.”

  I opened my mouth, but couldn’t speak.

  “Look, Nic,” he said. “Truman was my competition, but I knew that you loved him. I’m not a mob lawyer, okay? I didn’t put a hit on him, or have him kidnapped. I’m the jealous type, but I’m not the murdering type, and with everything that’s going on with me, I’m sure you think I’m a thug in lawyer’s drag, but I’m not. And I wish Truman was still alive because then I’d still have you in my life.”

  Don’t believe him. You can’t trust anyone.

  “You know me, Nicole,” he said with a fragile smile. “I’m the same guy who takes you to lunch and sends you flowers. And because I’d do anything for you, I’ll take a lie detector test if you want. Go on Maury just for you. I have the time nowadays.” He took my hands again and squeezed them. “Can I take you down the hill for coffee? Just to talk. That’s it. No shenanigans.”

  I smiled.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I like that word,” I said. “Shenanigans.” I shook my head, and turned backed towards the house. “I should go.”

  “I won’t let you,” he said.

  What if Truman comes and you’re not there? And all this is Jake’s fault anyway. You can’t trust him.

  “Please?” he said. “Let me take a shower and we’ll walk down together.”

  He was offering a cup of coffee, not a wedding ring.

  So, I nodded, and said, “Okay,” before I had the chance to change my mind.

  57

  I showered in the guest bathroom even though Truman had already proven that he could travel anywhere to write messages on any steamy mirror in the world. I exfoliated, then shaved hairy armpits that had grown as wild as a jungle, stopping short of attacking the chimp farm covering my legs. My heart hammered as I slathered lotion on my calves and belly. Tried to relax, and act nonchalant as I groomed, but all of it made me anxious.

  It’s not a date. It’s coffee. With an old… friend.

  I sat in the den and waited for Jake to arrive. The setting sun had painted the room bronze. Soon, the sun and the light would disappear altogether, and it would be dark and I would be out with a man.

  If it’s dark, it’s a date. You can’t do that.

  I grabbed the phone from the computer desk, and pushed 6-7-3, the starting sequence of Jake’s cell-phone number.

  The doorbell rang.

  Too late.

  Jake stood on my porch, more tanned now than he had been back in June. Since then, he had probably vacationed in the Bahamas with a cute blonde paralegal named “Jen” who sunbathed topless and pretended to read One Hundred Years of Solitude.

  “Ready, Nic?” he asked.

  His deep voice rumbled in my belly, and I remembered the way my skin tingled any time he said my name. In that fleeting moment, I envied Jen the Paralegal.

  We walked down the hill without talking. The neighborhood sat silent. No birds chirped. No cars zoomed up the hill. Only the sound of our shoes tapping against the sloping asphalt. Somewhere, someone barbecued, and smoky, sweet air tweaked my nose. Ribs. I wanted ribs. And grilled sweet corn. And a pitcher of sangria.

  As usual, dogs and their owners crowded the coffee shop. Jake joined the long line to order our drinks, and I wandered around until two teens with skateboards abandoned their window table. I slumped in the chair, smiling within, cheering myself for wanting ribs and for sitting in a coffee shop.

  Moving on.

  Jake, two cups in hand, slipped in the chair across from me. “Am I old,” he shouted, “or is this place louder than usual?” He considered the rowdy crowd and mindlessly touched an angry-looking scratch on his neck.

  I winced, and pointed to the mark. “Must’ve been some night. She jacked you up.”

  He smirked. “Love letter from Inmate 43986. She’s a wildcat. I had to get a tetanus shot and an HIV test. The glamorous life of a high-price lawyer, right? I’ll miss it.” He leaned forward. “So, Nicole Baxter: how are you getting through all of this?”

  I sipped my coffee, then shrugged. “Other than holding you at gunpoint, and my friends thinking that I’m crazy, with one of them wanting to commit me and the other one giving me a gun, and a bunch of other freakish, unimaginable things happening, including almost burning my house down? Other than all that, I’m great, just fantastic.”

  He reached across the table and grasped my hand. “First: I doubt your friends want to put you away, even after that episode in the canyon. Remember: you also thought I wanted to kill you, and that’s far from the truth. Life’s changed, you know? And I know it seems like you can’t trust anyone because it’s all so different. It’ll take time to adjust, but you
aren’t alone, Nicole. We’re friends. You’ll always have me.”

  My skin warmed with this touch, and my pulse quickened as I imagined the feel of muscles beneath my hands, stubble against my cheek, another warm body—any body—pressed against mine…

  My face flushed, and I pulled my hand out of his grip.

  What did the other customers think, seeing us there? That we were lovers? That I was happy? What would Leilani think? Worse: what would Truman think?

  “It’s been almost a month,” I said, “and I still don’t know…” Defeated, I pushed away my coffee cup.

  Jake peered at me in silence, then said, “My first wife, Heather, died of leukemia. She was only twenty-six.”

  I cocked my head. “I didn’t know… You told me about Dana, but not…”

  “Because I don’t talk about it much.” He gazed out the window. “I couldn’t understand it. How a healthy, vital woman could just… die, you know? She jogged. She ate better than most people. And then, she caught a cold except that it wasn’t a cold. We sat in the doctor’s office in total shock because we thought that leukemia was a kid’s disease.

  “It made no sense to me, and I tried to find the answer. Not the chemical, biological reasons why she got cancer. Understanding how she died was easy—leukemic blood cells overtaking good white blood cells. But I wanted to find the answer, you know?”

  I nodded.

  “I guess that’s what drew me to you,” he said. “What you do for a living. Helping people find the answer.”

  “How did you handle it?” I whispered.

  “I was raised Catholic,” he said, “and before Heather passed, I had been a pretty good one. Went to Mass every Sunday. Took Communion… I tried hard to stay faithful and to believe that it would all work out, but each day she got sicker, and I prayed a little less. One day, I stopped praying altogether.”

  An old couple—regulars who the baristas called Mr. and Mrs. Gudger—passed the window, holding hands and walking towards Sunset. Since Truman’s accident, I no longer enjoyed watching them (or couples like them) in their matching track suits stroll hand in hand. Caught myself thinking, That won’t be me, so why should it be them?