The Good Father

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  The young woman looked rested. She smiled. And if baby Henry remained stable, he’d be released to her care early that week.

  There was already a crib waiting for him in Nora’s room at The Lemonade Stand.

  Ella made a note on the chart she was keeping on Nora and Henry for her report to the High Risk team when she attended their first meeting on Wednesday. She was keeping a chart on another patient, as well. A twelve-year-old boy had come in over the weekend with what appeared to be a cigarette burn on his arm. He said that he’d been playing at the family bonfire and sent up some ashes, one of which landed on his skin. The doctor on call had been certain the burn came from something pressed against the skin and held there.

  Mom and Dad had both been present at the hospital. Police were notified. There’d been a previous domestic disturbance call to the home the year before. Called in by a neighbor.

  In separate interviews, both parents verified the boy’s story.

  A ten-year-old sister did, as well.

  There was nothing anyone could do but keep a watch on the family. Ella’s report to the team would ensure that elementary school and junior high counselors and a social services staff member would keep both kids on their radar. Officers from the Santa Raquel Police Department would make well checks in the neighborhood.

  Notes had been made to the boy’s hospital chart, a flag added to the family’s address, so that if anyone came in again, the doctor on call would be alerted to the situation.

  When Ella looked at the domestic-violence statistics she’d been given, she was overwhelmed by the size of the demon they were fighting, but on Wednesday afternoon, as she sat at a conference table at the local police precinct, looking around at the other people who sat there—different races and levels of education, different genders and ages—with one common desire to eradicate the disease of domestic destruction, she knew that they’d win. Have an impact, at least.

  Having traded her scrubs for black dress pants and a white blouse, she tried to blend in as she sat quietly and took notes. When she was called on, she made her report. And throughout the meeting wrote down three names she’d been given—one from child services, and two from Officer Sanchez—to check against hospital charts for recent injuries.

  At the table she finally had the opportunity to meet Sara Havens, a counselor at The Lemonade Stand and the Stand’s representative on the team.

  With her shoulder-length dark blond hair and blue eyes, Sara looked like a stereotypical California beach beauty with nothing more on her mind than getting the perfect tan. Until she was asked to give an overview of the team’s core approach, as well as a profile of their victims, as a reminder for the seasoned members and to educate the newcomers. There were two other new members in addition to Ella.

  Soft-spoken and unassuming, Sara captured Ella’s full attention and respect as soon as she opened her mouth.

  “You can’t just tell people what they have to do and expect them to do it,” she told the table at large. “We’re dealing with individuals who feel pushed into a corner—a lot of them literally as well as figuratively. So while, yes, we’re fighting a dragon and have to be willing to use every effort to slay it, we have to tread softly. To approach with an outstretched hand, not a raised fist. If we threaten, we risk doing more harm than good. We’re trying to prevent crime here. In most cases, the next choice isn’t ours—it’s theirs. We’re just here to try to shape that choice.”

  She had more to say. Then, and later in the meeting, as well. Every person around the table had a chance to speak. To give a report or a simple introduction if there was no report to give.

  Sara reported on a case she and her fiancé, a bounty hunter, had just worked on with the team. The victim was at The Lemonade Stand; all warrants against her had been expunged. The gunshot wound she had incurred from her husband was healing, and her parents had temporary custody of her infant son until she and child services—Sara gave a nod to Lacey Hamilton, the team’s child services representative—determined that she was mentally and emotionally well enough to give him a stable home.

  Ella added baby Toby and his mother, Nicole Harris, the victim Sara had just mentioned, to her watch list. Just in case.

  The meeting ended shortly afterward. Feeling overwhelmed, awed and ready to do her part, she put her folder in her bag, slung her satchel over her shoulder and was on her way out the door when she felt a tap on her other shoulder.

  Sara Havens stood there, a welcoming light in her eye. “I’m Sara. Lila told me to make sure we meet.”

  “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” Ella told the counselor in return. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “You’ll need to meet Lynn Bishop, too. She’s our resident nurse and chief medical officer. Lila told her about you at our last staff meeting.”

  Ella had heard about Lynn—she and her husband lived at the Stand along with his brother and sister-in-law, who were both mentally challenged. The number of people she knew in town—and wanted to know—was growing.

  In a very short time, Santa Raquel was becoming home.

  Sara told Ella about a couple other staff members as they walked together out of the police station to their cars. As Ella said goodbye and turned toward her own vehicle, Sara touched her arm again.

  “Can we chat a minute?” She motioned toward a bench on the edge of the sidewalk.

  Curious, Ella followed her. Clearly Sara had a favor to ask. Ella hoped it was one she could grant.

  “It’s about your sister-in-law,” Sara said as soon as they were seated. “She’s not my client, and I haven’t spoken with her, but Lila told me about her situation and asked that I keep an eye on her for you.”

  Ella hadn’t known. But... “I can’t thank you enough for that,” she told Sara. “She’s so vulnerable right now, and I’m holding my breath every day that she doesn’t go back to Jeff before he gets help. He’s never hit her, so she doesn’t think she’s as at-risk as the other women were...”

  “I understand that he bruised her pretty badly, though.”

  A vision of Chloe’s injuries two weeks ago sprang to mind. “Yes.” Ella swallowed, looked away and then back. “My brother’s not the stereotypical abuser,” she said. “He’s so easygoing...I can hardly remember him ever being angry when we were growing up. I don’t know what’s gotten into him...”

  Sara said nothing as Ella paused. But her gaze showed that she was completely focused on Ella and Chloe’s situation. “I think that’s part of what makes it so hard for Chloe. Jeff’s normal demeanor...he’s like that dog that lets you hang off his ear. He’s gentle. Soft-spoken. Kind.”

  Sara was nodding, and Ella stopped, worried that she wasn’t painting an accurate picture, that she was protesting too much, or not enough.

  “It’s easier to wall your heart off to a mean person” was all Sara said. “Or one who has a hair trigger and keeps you constantly alert to potential danger.”

  The sun was setting in the late-afternoon sky, practically blinding Ella if she glanced to her left. Feeling her eyes grow moist, she looked away from its brilliance.

  “My ex-husband...he was a victim of domestic violence,” Ella heard herself saying, though this wasn’t about her. They were talking about Chloe.

  About helping Chloe...

  But she continued, anyway. “He described his home as a minefield. He said he never knew—whether he was getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, or coming down to dinner when he was called—if he’d tip off an explosion.”

  “Was it his mother or his father?”

  People came and went several yards away from them. One or two at a time.

  “His father. The way he tells it, for the first ten years of his life, his dad was a great guy. The best. But then they found out his sister had leukemia, and his dad lost his job. I don’t know which came first, the drinking or the beatings, but they both came. And for the next eight years, my ex was on alert every day, setting him
self up as his mother’s protector. He intervened whenever he could. And bore the brunt of his father’s outbursts when his mother wasn’t around.”

  Ella stopped short of giving Brett’s name. And then wished she hadn’t mentioned him at all. His anonymity at The Lemonade Stand had been the one sticking point for him. He’d been unwilling to compromise on that. Period. He’d felt, erroneously in Ella’s opinion, that if people knew the founder was a victim, they’d be less likely to take The Lemonade Stand seriously. He’d also once told her that he couldn’t stand the idea of being scrutinized as a victim everywhere he went. But that had been long ago.

  And Ella had been protecting his secrets for so long...

  “In cases like that, fear, either of retribution or of an inability to make it alone, is often what keeps someone there. And while it’s a horrible, criminal situation, it’s also sometimes easier to treat. Assuming you can get the victim safely away.”

  Which was the purpose of their team.

  Sara waited, as though allowing Ella time to continue. She’d already said too much.

  “Cases like Chloe’s, in some ways, can be a lot tougher to help,” Sara continued after many seconds of silence had passed. “The bond of trust between your brother and his wife is still intact. Her sense of safety, while somewhat breached, has not been broken.”

  Two sentences, and Ella’s perspective crystallized in a way she could grasp. Work with. “She’s not afraid of him.”

  “She hasn’t built walls against him. More likely, at this stage, she’s trying to understand, to empathize, in an effort to be able to help him herself.”

  “She makes excuses for him.”

  “That’s her way of trying to make sense out of something she doesn’t understand. She’s trying to find a way to justify actions that are out of character without accepting that maybe the man she fell in love with has changed.”

  “Is that what you think? That the Jeff we all know and love has suddenly become a monster?” She blurted out the words without stopping to consider how she sounded.

  “No.” Sara’s quick covering of Ella’s hand brought her back to the current situation. They were there to help Chloe.

  “I’m only saying that Chloe is probably too confused to be able to act rationally at the moment. Her head tells her one thing while her heart is telling her another.”

  “I do agree with that.” Which was why Ella was living second to second, always worrying that she’d get a call at work telling her that Chloe was on a bus back to Palm Desert.

  “Good, because you need to understand her struggle to be able to deal well with what else I have to tell you.”

  Her chin fell. “What?” Was Chloe gone already? Was that why Sara asked for this chat? Had Chloe said something at lunch that day? Or not shown up at the Stand at all?

  “Our residents’ cell phones are taken away when they arrive at the Stand,” she said. “They’re kept at the local precinct...”

  Just in case, Ella surmised, based on what she’d read, but also on what she’d heard that day. The police would need to be able to listen to messages. And wouldn’t want them traced to the Stand, either.

  “Every resident is given the option of having a prepaid cell while she’s with us. They aren’t prisoners, and if they have other loved ones who can help them once they resume their lives, we find that it helps for them to be in contact during the recovery process...”

  Ella hadn’t known that. It made sense. But what did it have to do with Chloe?

  “Our residents are made aware of the danger of being in touch with their abusers during their recovery process. If he continues to control her mind, she’ll never heal. If he reminds her of who she was, fills her head with ‘abuse talk,’—you know, telling her it’s her fault, or reminding her that if she leaves him she’ll have nothing, she’ll lose everything...”

  Ella nodded, familiar with the material.

  “Because of their heightened awareness, a couple of the women who work with Chloe in the kitchen came to me this morning. They said that Chloe’s husband has been calling her.”

  “I know they’re in touch. But only occasionally. They still have bills to pay and responsibilities to tend to. For now no one else knows that Chloe’s left him.”

  “He called her four times in two hours yesterday. I made it a point to be busy in the kitchen this morning and witnessed three calls myself.”

  Ella and Chloe had played cards last night after Cody went to bed. Her sister-in-law hadn’t said a word about speaking to Jeff.

  “You’re sure it was Jeff?”

  “Positive. She called him by name the first time. And ended all three conversations with ‘I love you, too, babe.’”

  Babe. Chloe had always called Jeff that. A term of endearment Ella had always liked.

  She didn’t now.

  Chloe was lying to her. Not uncommon in domestic-violence situations, but still, Ella was hurt.

  “Did she seem upset?”

  “From what one of the other girls said, he seemed to be trying to find out where she was. Which was why their alarm bells first went off.”

  Brett had said he’d talk to Jeff. Tell him that he’d seen Chloe and that she was fine. Hadn’t he done so?

  She’d assumed he had. He always did what he said he was going to do. But it wasn’t as though he reported in to her. Brett Ackerman hadn’t been all that great about sharing even during the last couple years they’d been married. She knew better than to expect it of him now.

  “Did she tell him?”

  “No.” Sara’s glance was warm and filled with compassion. “I made certain of that much. And the last time he called, I heard her chuckle before she hung up.”

  Jeff was charming her. Or was he keeping her mentally enslaved?

  Ella hated that she could even think such things about her brother.

  But it was for his own good. She was trying desperately to save Jeff from himself. From a future that could kill him. If it didn’t kill someone else first.

  “I have no idea what to do.”

  “You don’t have to do anything,” Sara said, taking her keys in hand. “Chloe’s an adult. She’s taken the first step—coming to stay with you. Feeling her way. Finding out who she is with Jeff, and apart from him. If you push too hard, you might just push her away.”

  “So you aren’t worried about the calls?”

  “I’m concerned. I’m planning to try to engage her in a serious conversation, get her into counseling if she’s ready to go that far. And I wanted you to know so you could be aware.”

  Standing as Sara did, Ella thanked the other woman. Agreed to stay in close contact. And felt as though she’d gained a hundred pounds in an hour as she walked slowly to her car.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ELLA HAD INTENDED to go straight home after the meeting. Chloe was spending the entire day at the Stand to oversee the dinner hour, which meant Ella would have a little time to herself in her apartment.

  As much as she loved Chloe and Cody, as adamant as she was about wanting them with her, she’d been living alone for a long time and had been looking forward to having some space for a few hours. To be able to talk out loud to herself if she wanted to. Or sing off tune.

  But home spoke of Chloe, too. Chloe’s and Cody’s things were scattered around the apartment. Reminders everywhere of the problems they faced.

  Ella had a potential new house to drive by. A for-sale option Chloe had found on the internet the afternoon before and suggested she look at. She’d taken the address with her when she’d left the house that morning.

  And didn’t get it out of her purse.

  Just as she didn’t think about where she was going when she turned on her car. Didn’t consider options, or ask herself what she should do. Didn’t give herself a chance to object.

  Putting her car in Drive, she pulled out of the police-station parking lot and headed straight to Brett’s place.

  To share the burden of Jeff and Chl
oe’s situation with him.

  Because she wasn’t like him. She asked for help when she needed it.

  * * *

  HIS BAG WAS packed, by the door, and he was ready to catch a flight later that night. With a pool towel in hand, Brett was walking naked through his living room when he heard the front bell ring.

  It wasn’t a common occurrence. His place was set back from the road, and labeled with no-trespassing signs, so he didn’t get door-to-door salespeople, or religious advocates knocking on his door. He hardly knew his neighbors. And the rest of his life was run by someone who refused to see him.

  Wrapping the towel around his waist, he went to investigate. He saw her car first. And then, through the peephole, Ella, in street clothes, her dark hair curling around her shoulders, looking...good.

  Too good.

  He considered pretending he was already out back in his enclosed backyard, under water in the pool. Considered turning his back, walking outside and diving in. She’d have no way of getting his attention.

  And even as he considered doing so, he pulled open the door. If he thought he had to avoid her, they had a problem.

  “Oh!”

  Whatever words had been on her lips, ready to be delivered, didn’t make it past her open mouth as she stared at him.

  “I...I’m sorry...” She was backing away, one step at a time. “I didn’t realize...”

  Intrigued, a bit turned on and not unhappy to see her, Brett switched gears when it occurred to him how the situation might look, from out on the porch, looking in.

  Not yet dinnertime. Him clearly naked beneath his towel...

  She could easily assume he had a woman inside.

  “It’s not what you think...” He spoke quickly, before she turned tail and ran. When he and Ella had lived together, they’d made love before dinner on a regular basis. They’d been apart all day. And were hungry.

  “I should have called,” she said, awkwardly looking around—everywhere but at him.

  “Probably,” he allowed. “But more because your chances of catching me at home are slim.”

  Yet she had.