I sighed again. “Are you going to transfer your internship?”
“I can’t. This was the only thing I could get, and it’s not even a paying job. You would think in this economy that agencies would want free labor, but they don’t. All the ones I’ve been to say they don’t have anyone who could supervise me.”
I nodded. Times were tight and jobs had dried up everywhere. I also remembered something Clotilde had said. “You tried to get in at the shelter, though,” I pointed out. “Clotilde said Astrid agreed as a favor to Kaylee Somebody. So, be honest, you pushed for this. Can’t you go back to Kaylee or whoever and get reassigned?”
He shook his head miserably. “I’ll flunk out. I have to have this internship or I don’t graduate. That’s why I can’t just sit there and not say anything. How is that going to teach me anything? I can’t learn that way.”
“Okay, look. I need you to at least try to transfer. I can’t watch you and deal with all this at the same time. It’s too dangerous. They obviously think you’re some kind of plant and that we’re in this together.”
He smiled a little at the “in this together” part. Until I reminded him that I’d been attacked as recently as two nights ago.
We compromised. I got him to agree to talk to his internship advisor about a transfer. Since neither of us were confident that would happen, I reluctantly agreed to put together a tentative schedule for supervision.
My headache had escalated to near-lethal levels. His involvement had complicated things exponentially, and we’d both be lucky to get out of this in one piece. As he got up to leave, I asked one more time, “Paul, why did you do this? What were you thinking?”
He looked at me, all eyes and blushing cheeks. “I was thinking about you.”
It was all I could do not to thunk my traumatized head on the sticky table top.
CHAPTER FIFTY
When I got home, I sat down and compared the two files. In what I assumed was the original file, the progress notes documenting each session, had been handwritten. I recognized Regina’s spiky, aggressive scrawl. The second set appeared to be created from a computer template, Regina’s signatures on the bottom presumably forged. I held the papers side by side to compare. They all looked the same. I crossed handwriting analyst off my list of possible career choices.
The wording in both sets of notes matched, except for portions I discovered had been excised from the file I’d been given. Just a few sentences from each progress note, but enough to alter the meaning considerably.
The missing sections all had to do with Karissa’s relationship with Mitch and her reports of his own efforts at change. Apparently her husband was involved in therapy as well as attending anger management classes. According to Regina, Karissa and Mitch were working toward reconciliation. If I had been expecting a negative bias from her to the idea of reconciliation I would have been wrong. Regina’s statements were matter-of-fact, and the goals she and Karissa created—also absent from the fake file—were geared to facilitate a reunification.
So, Karissa wanted to return to her abuser and whoever doctored the file didn’t want me to know that.
Why, and also, obviously, who?
I moved to the computer and, for lack of any better idea, started plugging their names into the search engine. Astrid had a Facebook page, but it was set to privacy settings and I didn’t think she’d approve my friend request.
Clotilde’s name had dozens of hits. All that fundraising and speechifying. She was definitely the big winner. In fact, one of her speeches had been put up on YouTube last June. Technology amazed me.
I clicked the play arrow and sat back to watch. It was a basic give-us-money-we-save-lives pitch to an organization I’d never heard of. Judging by the glittery jewelry and stylish audience, I wasn’t rich enough. I studied Clotilde’s face. Though her face had a high-cheekboned, graveness that suited her, she wasn’t pretty. She hadn’t the warrior flare of Lachlyn nor the warmth of Astrid, but she definitely had style.
Much of her speech had to do with statistics, national and local. She covered the history of the shelter. I caught a glimpse of Beth Collier in the crowd, sitting at a table with a distinguished-looking man. She wore a diamond bracelet that held me enthralled for several moments. I didn’t know any rich drunks.
Then my attention swept back to Clotilde. She was talking about Cherly Bailey. About her life and death, the odds and obstacles she faced. About the need for services and programs to prevent just such occurrences.
Clotilde’s plea was heartfelt and sincere. Her life had been poured out in efforts to prevent this kind of tragedy, and she was reaching out, asking for help, demanding a response.
I could almost see the people reaching for their checkbooks. I would have. Apparently, victims had uses even in death.
Something flickered across my brain again. Something Paul had said at the restaurant. I tried to remember what we had been talking about, but couldn’t follow the spider web-thin trail back to its inception. I hated when that happened.
I didn’t have Paul’s number, but I took a chance and called the HP & Me club. An appropriately anonymous voice picked up, then at my request, hollered, “Hey, Paul. Some chick wants to talk to you.” The “chick” part was his own idea.
I could almost feel waves of joy emanating from the phone as Paul came on the line. He had publically received a phone call from a woman—and it was me. He was a happy man.
Eventually I was able to control his effervescence and asked if he could remember exactly what he had said when we were talking about why women went back to their abusers.
This produced a long, painful silence, punctuated by several consecutive “ums.”
“Was it about survival instinct?” he asked. “I said something about that. Remember?” I could tell from the plaintive quality in his voice that all his raw, people-pleasing needs were hanging on my answer.
“Not exactly, but that’s what we were talking about. So, it was around that time. Something about … Argh! I don’t know. I just can’t seem to remember, but I think it’s important.”
“Well, you’re still recovering from your concussion. Maybe it’ll come to you if you stop trying so hard.”
Good advice, but as usual I wasn’t able to take it. I fretted the rest of the evening, trying to sneak up on the memory by returning periodically to Karissa’s goals and staring at them until my eyes watered.
I was not crying.
Despite another restless night, I woke up Friday morning feeling physically a little better, but just as frustrated and emotionally lost as I had the night before. I lay in bed, trying to soak up comfort from the warm huddle of blankets that I’d twisted myself into. When it started to feel more like a straight jacket and less like a womb, I got up.
In the shower, I decided it was time to restore order in my life, starting with my legs. I’d either have to shave or braid and, frankly, I didn’t think my legs could pull off the Bo Derek look. It was while I was balanced precariously on one leg and thrusting its lathered mate straight out to avoid the shower spray that I heard Paul’s voice.
“You’d think getting away would just be a simple survival instinct. If I was the one trying to help that would make me crazy.”
Thankfully it wasn’t his literal voice or I would have sliced my knee cap off. As it was, a thin trickle of blood ran down the drain.
Seconds later, still damp and sporting one smooth and one bristly appendage, I ran out the front door.
The trailer in Lot 7 looked as dilapidated and deserted as it had the last time I’d been here. A not-so-gently used FOR RENT sign had been taped up in the window with “see Park Manager” penciled underneath. So that’s what I did.
Whatever misgivings I’d left her with, Tallie had reverted to her sunny disposition. Her hair had also morphed into an unnatural, but strangely suitable buttercup yellow. Not blond, mind you. Yellow. Staring into her bright black eyes and listening to her chirpy greeting, I had the strangest i
mpression that I’d caught her midway through a canary-to-human shape-shifting spell.
“Sorry to bother you again,” I said. “I was hoping to find that Bernie and Karissa had returned. Have you heard from them?”
“No, I sure haven’t. Bernie said she’d get back in touch and I really thought she would, even if she just wanted her deposit back. Although with the shape they left the trailer in, maybe she knew better.” She shook her head, making that teacherly “tsk” sound. “I was all ready to get in there and at least clean out the trash and the fridge, but my sister up in Bloomer broke her hip. I had to run up there for a couple of days, poor thing. I guess I’ll have to use some of the deposit to hire a cleaning service, although the park owner doesn’t like when we have to do that.”
I already knew what I was going to ask her, but I had a few more questions first. “You said they used the Wrangler to move. Did they make a few trips to get everything or just the one?”
“No, I know for a fact they left most of their stuff. All I saw them taking out was a couple of suitcases, the baby’s diaper bag, and some garbage bags. That trailer is rented furnished, but it’s just the basics. Thing is, though, when the fridge died about five months ago, Bernie bought herself one. Said she wanted an ice maker. She got a nice one, too. I can’t imagine her leaving that behind. She really loved that ice maker.”
Tallie’s wistful tone left me wondering if she’d been tempted by the alluring ice maker herself. As one who lived with ice trays and tap water, I could relate.
“I’m going to have to decide pretty quick though,” she continued. “All I got from Bernie was her last month’s rent. She was usually behind a few weeks, but never too bad. Once Karissa moved in, they kept it up pretty current. She must have been helping out. I don’t suppose you know anybody interested in a nice trailer?”
“Nice” was a highly subjective term, and not my first choice as an adjective for the domicile on Lot 7, but now was not the time to quibble.
“How much are you asking?”
“Three-fifty a month, includes utilities. First and last month down. No smoking, no pets, no kids.” Her eyes brightened in “Could it be?” hopefulness.
No. It could not. However …
“I’ll keep it in mind if I hear of anybody looking for a place,” I said. “But listen, Tallie, how about if I helped with the cleaning?”
Her head tilted. “Really? How much?”
“How much?”
“How much do you charge?”
“Uh, I don’t know really. I just …” Just wanted to paw through Karissa’s belongings and didn’t want to get charged with trespassing? “Just wanted to help. I feel bad that they took off so suddenly. It was almost as if something frightened them off, wasn’t it?”
Tallie’s face clouded. “I can’t say I haven’t wondered about that. It’s just that them being scared away seems so overdramatic. Usually when people take off, it’s a money thing.”
“Maybe, but you said they were doing better with the bills.”
She sighed. “Yeah, they were. If it was just money, I think Bernie would have come back for her stuff. Especially the deposit and that fridge. It just doesn’t make sense.”
We stood silent for a moment as we pondered the mystery of the abandoned fridge. Tallie finally shook herself.
“Well, this isn’t getting that trailer cleaned. I’ve been dreading it, but if you want to take it on, that works for me. How about this: I’ll provide the cleaning supplies and pay a hundred bucks a day. Don’t go over three days though. What do you think?”
“Three hundred bucks?” I turned to look at the trailer. With all that had happened, I’d been off work quite a bit. I could use the money, plus this was open season on snooping.
How bad could it be?
CHAPTER FIFTY ONE
Bad, of course. Really bad. I wouldn’t say Bernie was a hoarder, but if reality TV ever started a show called “Extreme Collectors of Creepy Shit,” Bernie could audition. She was definitely in that pre-hoarder zone where standing amid the clutter induced an immediate case of claustrophobia. Not to mention, pediophobia.
That’s fancy for “freaked out by dolls.” And there were dolls everywhere. Hundreds of them sitting on shelves and tables, the couch and the TV and the floor. Every one of them looking at me with blank, shiny plastic eyes, propped upright in frilly dresses and frozen poses.
The whole place stunk, too: cigarette funk, dust, old garbage. The stagnant air of a home that’s been shut up tight. The trailer itself wasn’t horribly filthy—at least, the parts I could see—but the odor, trapped in the doll clothes and hair, permeated the room.
I paused a moment when I realized for the first time, that cigarettes stunk. I’d always known that, theoretically anyway, but for once the smell of them didn’t tempt me. Progress.
Tallie had handed over the keys, along with a bucket full of generic cleaning supplies, a new pair of bright purple latex gloves, and four boxes of heavy duty trash bags. I shuffled the bucket and discovered a fifth box. Tallie’s strategy was clear: throw everything out and scrub down the rest. Not a bad plan.
I went from room to room turning on lights and trying to wrestle open the windows. I’d thought that the living room doll collection was overwhelming, but I hadn’t calculated on them appearing everywhere. The second bedroom had been completely given over to them, although any attempt at organized display was lost. Plastic humanoids covered every surface, piles and piles of them. Hillocks rose where presumably the bed and dresser sat. I couldn’t get to the window so I just shut the door on them.
The bathroom was the one room that was relatively free of them. There were a few, but I could see surfaces. Thankfully, the toilet only had four balanced precariously on the tank. Still, I’d hate to have eight eyes staring over my shoulder as I peed.
Two prescription bottles sat on the teensy ledge over the sink. Half full, made out to Karissa Dillard: Abilify and Zoloft. I set them back. I had to stand in the tub to get to the window, but it was stuck fast. I found myself looking straight across into the neighbors’ kitchen.
They were close. Like what-kind-of-toothpaste-and-are-you-getting-enough-fiber-in-your-diet? close. Bernie may not have had much to do with her neighbors, but that didn’t mean they didn’t know everything that was going on in her life.
Might be a good time to see if anyone was home. It was only midmorning but retired or the unemployed—and let’s face it, this was a trailer park—might be available. Besides, I could let the trailer air out and get away from the doll asylum.
Nobody answered at the first trailer, but I heard shuffling sounds after my knock on the next one over. The door opened to a tall, grizzled old-timer wearing pale gray sweatpants and a two-sizes-too-small pink T-shirt with a picture of a leaping musky on the front. His fish-white belly drooped six inches lower than the hem, peeking out like a fleshy orb from underneath. I tried not to look.
I really didn’t want to look.
“Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying. Unless it’s Girl Scout cookies. I like them coconut ones.”
“Do I look like a Girl Scout?”
“Maybe if we put you in pigtails and a little, green skirt.” He leered. “I like cookies.”
“Ew. I don’t think so.”
“Then, what do you want?”
The last thirty seconds of my life back?
“I’m looking for Bernie and her granddaughter, Karissa. Lot 7?” I pointed. Since it was only two doors down, it shouldn’t have taken as long as it did for him to focus. “Have you seen them?”
“They left. You a bill collector?”
“No. Do you know where they went?”
“No. Got any cookies?”
“No.”
He shut the door.
I trudged across the pitted concrete drive to the trailer directly across from the cookie fetishist. After knocking twice, a plump grandmotherly-type answered. The escaping aroma of baked deliciousness almost brought me
to my knees. She was coated wrist-to-elbow in flour dust and wore a burgundy apron trimmed in white ruffles that looked remarkably clean given her flour-sleeved status.
“Yes?” she asked. Her smile deepened a set of dimples, making her look like Pillsbury’s matriarch. If I poked her tummy, I bet she’d giggle.
I explained my purpose, a conversation made difficult because of the excessive drool that kept pooling in my mouth every time I caught of whiff from the kitchen. Louise—we’d done full introductions, including inquiries (hers) into possible relatives from the area I’d grown up in—didn’t know anything about Bernie or Karissa, although she said Mikey spent some afternoons over at her house. I couldn’t blame him. I wanted her as my adopted grandma, too. Before I left, she trotted back to the kitchen and brought me back three cookies—chocolate chip, warm, and melty.
Life was good again.
Still licking chocolate off my fingertips, I walked to the next trailer. The door popped open before I could knock, disclosing a fifty-something woman in a neck brace glaring at me. She needed a hair dye spruce-up since it was apparent that it had been several months since her last dye job. A three-inch strip of grey roots bifurcated her head. Again, it was hard not to stare.
“Yeah?” Smoker’s rasp with much attitude.
Fifteen seconds into my “looking for Bernie” spiel, she slammed the door. Maybe she had an emergency appointment with the hair dresser. Wouldn’t want to miss that.
The next two trailers were empty or, at least, their homeowners were nonresponsive. At work, maybe … or the liquor store. At the next place, I almost twisted my ankle on a discarded beer can buried in the shin-high scrub grass along the edge of the lawn. Nearly a dozen more lay close by. I sighed. At least I had been a tidy drunk.
The beer drinker’s trailer sat directly across from Bernie’s, theoretically giving its resident a clear view of her home. The trailer itself was dilapidated, the skirting missing in spots giving the exterior a gap-toothed appearance. Not the happy, in-search-of-tooth-fairy look of a young child either. More like the smashed out spaces of a has-been boxer.
Whittaker 02 The One We Love Page 20
