by Neal, Toby
I looked down. “I’m sorry I didn’t go to Aloha House to get sober.”
Bruce gave a bark of laughter. “Whatever works, and I’m guessing this adventure worked. Are you sober?”
“Stone cold. And planning to stay that way.”
“Then no worries.” He sat beside me on the bunk, an awkward endeavor with his size. He slung an arm over my shoulders. “Let’s get you home and back to work. You’ve got people who need you.”
My eyes prickled with tears—his words warmed me right down to my bruised bones. Being needed was my personal kryptonite, always had been. “I’m going to be making some big changes when I get home. I’m going to need a few weeks.”
“I expected nothing less. We’ll be waiting.”
“Thanks, Bruce. For everything.”
Our words felt layered with meaning.
Because they are layered with meaning, Constance said. You like him.
I had to admit that, as usual, she was right.
Chapter 22
Two weeks later, I handed Detective Freitas her folder—missing the notes I’d written on. “So sorry I missed the window for doing these profiles on your case. I promise it won’t happen again.”
“It’s understandable, after all you’ve been through. We got the case covered.” How I’d come to be hiking Haleakala Crater in the middle of a job was skimmed over. “How’re you doing? You look wonderful.”
Freitas’s big brown eyes were still concerned, as we sat in my counseling office and she took in the changes I’d made. I knew I was still thin, but the bruising on my face was gone and I’d had my hair cut and colored. It was a tousled mix of blond, everything from caramel to cream, and the new look did good things for my skin and eyes. Dressed in a sky-blue silk wrap dress and kitten heels, I was debuting Dr. Wilson’s new professional image.
The polo shirts and twill skirts had joined a lot of other stuff at the Goodwill. Constance’s influence was all over my life, and I felt more myself than ever. I was listening to that little internal voice saying “yes” to this, and “no” to that.
“Making some major changes, but they’re good ones,” I said, folding my hands over my knee. “How’s the department?”
“Something’s always cookin’ in paradise,” Freitas said with her big smile. “We’ve got some good cases. It’s a living.”
“There’s a lot more to life than catching criminals. I hope you’re taking time for some of those things.”
“Sounds like time-tested wisdom. What are you doing in that area?”
I smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Freitas laughed, standing and swinging the pebbled-leather briefcase containing the folder over her shoulder. “It’s great to see you looking so good. We’ll be calling you again.”
“You do that. Bye, Kamani.” I followed her to the door. She hugged me, that powerful squeeze from strong, toned arms—and this time it just felt good, a reminder I was loved more than I knew.
I shut the door behind her.
This had been my first day back in the office, and it had gone well. I’d made some changes here too, bringing in some of my favorite art pieces from Hidden Palms and my sheepskin bedroom rug, which lay invitingly in front of the sofa for clients to sink their toes into.
Detective Freitas was my last meeting of the day, which had been productive as I reconnected with each of my regular clients. I’d decided to throw away the items Russell Pruitt had gifted me with, except for the world’s greatest grandma mug, which I’d returned to Mrs. Kunia. In the excitement of telling me about her husband’s rescue by the rangers at his hunting cabin, she’d put it in her purse without comment. They were turning a corner in their grief at last, and she’d brought her granddaughter, Maile, in today.
My phone beeped with a message, and I listened to a voice mail from my real estate agent detailing upcoming showings for Hidden Palms, which was already attracting some solid offers. I closed the office windows, locked the door, and activated the alarm, clicking down the wooden steps in my pretty heels. I walked past the red gingers, which I’d had cut to waist height for visibility.
I unlocked the Mini Cooper and got in. Sighed with happiness, breathing in natural vanilla air freshener and leather cleaner. Coming back from Haleakala Crater, I’d walked through Hidden Palms and chosen only the things I really needed and left the rest without looking back.
The car I really needed, and I’d sent it to be detailed. That was the new way I was living—only the essentials. And those, lovingly cared for.
I turned the key, and the engine started with its low purring, a sound that somehow reminded me of the nene in the crater—a happy little conversation, just beginning. I pulled out and got back into the Hilo traffic, thinking over my various cases with the sound of Ottmar Liebert’s guitar rarefying the air.
I pulled up in front of my apartment building on Banyan Drive immediately on Hilo Bay, sandwiched between a couple of hotels. A little trade wind off the Bay lifted my hair and tossed it around as I beeped the Mini locked and walked up the path. Bordered by trimmed naupaka shrubs, it was a small building but well maintained. I wound around the cement walk to the entrance of my ground-floor apartment and unlocked the door.
Hector sat on the tile in the entry, his tail arcing back and forth. He greeted me with loud accusations.
“You can go out. Just in the front yard,” I reminded him, slipping my little heels off and setting them on the rack. I walked across the gleaming bamboo floors to the front deck, opened the slider, and let Hector out—he’d ignored his cat door in the screen window. Still piqued, he refused to acknowledge me and walked by, tail twitching. I had the lawn out front staked with one of those sonic pet barriers, and I followed him out onto my sweet little deck. The Adirondack chairs from the Palms house sat at inviting angles for me to look at the smooth evening waters of Hilo Bay.
Hector walked over the immaculate grass to the sonic barrier and yowled. The coqui frogs in a nearby banyan were just tuning up, and he and the ubiquitous tree frogs seemed to have a meaningful exchange.
“Russell Pruitt told me you’d get used to this,” I told Hector, feeling a pang as I spoke the giant’s name. “We’re both making some adjustments. It’s a good thing.”
He disagreed vociferously.
I walked back into the apartment and into the kitchen, a little galley style with a breakfast bar open to the rest of the condo. I poured myself a Perrier, dropped a couple of ice cubes and a slice of lime into it.
I hadn’t taken much from the Palms house. The good leather couch and that comfy chair for reading. A particularly fine painting Chris had done in high school hung over the couch, a seascape of Punalu`u Beach, with a turtle sunning itself on the black sand in the foreground. One bedroom I’d made into a guest room/office in hopes Chris would join me at the holidays. The other was mine, equipped with a new queen bed—just right for a woman alone.
I walked back outside. Hector was walking the perimeter of the fence, complaining, but when he saw me sit in the Adirondack chair, he came back, climbed into my lap, and turned on his motorboat purr. Hilo Bay was settling into evening glass, candy-pink clouds reflected in the water gilded by sunset happening on the Kona side of the island. Palm fronds clattered, the coqui croaked a jungle chorus, and mynahs chattered in their sleep tree nearby. This was where I’d always wanted to be—on the ocean, wide open and fresh. Sipping my Perrier, I even spotted the plume of a humpback’s breath near the mouth of the Bay.
I loved being here, in this cozy little space. I didn’t miss anything but a few memories from the Palms house.
I got my phone out and speed-dialed my mentor, Dr. Judy Dennis. She’d been one of my instructors at university and a professional, then personal, mentor after she retired. She was also in AA and my new sponsor.
“Hi, Cappy.” She was the only one to call me that, and it made me happy to hear her husky smoker’s voice say my name.
“Hi, Judy. Well, I made it through my first day back
at work.”
“Excellent. Whatcha drinking?”
“Perrier with lime.” I stroked Hector, and he blinked his crystal-blue eyes at me. They still reminded me of Richard’s eyes, but I hoped they wouldn’t someday—those were Chris’s eyes too.
“Good girl. The first day back at work is hard and the evening routine even harder.”
“It helps so much to be in the new place. I knew I had to get out of the Palms house the minute I got out of the crater if I was going to stay sober. This is so much better.” Even as I spoke, one of my neighbors, retired Mr. Gonsalez, wandered across the lawn with his binoculars—he kept a close eye on the humpback activity in the Bay. He raised a hand in greeting, which I returned.
“I’m not alone out in the boondocks. I’m right in town. I see people. I’m a part of the community.” I stroked Hector’s soft fur, drawing my fingers along his seal-point ears. He shut his eyes and turned up the purr volume. “I’m away from a lot of my triggers.”
“How bad were your cravings today?”
“About a three and a half.” We used a five-point Likert scale for me to report daily craving levels, with one the worst ever and five completely craving free. I also kept a log of my triggers and how I handled them. “I want to talk about Russell Pruitt.”
“It’s about time.” I heard Judy drag on her cigarette; she’d told me I could be her sponsor when she finally quit smoking. “What brought him up?”
“He’s always there. Taken up residence in the mental closet Constance used to live in.” I gave a bark of a laugh. “I couldn’t get her back in there if I tried.”
“I’ve always thought the way you disappeared her from your life wasn’t healthy.”
“It wasn’t a choice early on. I missed her too much. The pain was too bad. I put her away because it was so hard to go on without her as only one of a pair of shoes. But in the crater, I realized she was always with me; she lives on in my very DNA. And she has very good taste.”
“So you are bringing her out of Shadow. And now Russell Pruitt is in Shadow, much bigger and scarier.”
“The key is to know and own your Shadow, make friends with it.” A concept out of Jungian psychology I’d always liked. “Also, no one could be stronger and scarier than Constance.” I remembered her voice telling me to stab Russell Pruitt. “I was afraid that if I let her out, really remembered and experienced her, my twin would take me over. I realized that wasn’t the case. I could love and embrace all Constance was—because she’s me too. Ultimately, she gave me the strength to deal with Russell Pruitt.”
“You still feel guilty about his death.” I’d told her the bare bones—that I hadn’t actively killed him while he’d certainly tried to murder me—but I’d taken his life in a passive form of murder.
“I know I shouldn’t feel guilty. No matter how I come at the situation we were in—legally, morally, mental-health-wise—I know I had to defend myself by any means I could find. The coroner cleared me. The ME said that nitro medicine or no nitro, his heart was in bad shape and he could have gone anytime.”
“So why do you feel guilty?”
“I don’t know. He was narcissistic, twisted, and he took me prisoner and did abusive things to me. And yet, until the moment when he was hauling me by my hair to the pit, I didn’t really believe he’d hurt me. I had to keep trying to hold on to my defenses. I felt a real affection for him.”
“You’re the mother of a son close to his age. You felt a degree of responsibility for what happened to him. You’re a kind and compassionate woman. It’s natural.”
“The psychologist I talked to said I was Stockholmed.”
“I actually think that’s too simplistic an explanation for what happened between you two.”
I knew that was true.
I found myself petting Hector too hard, but he just kneaded my lap, potentially ruining my new silk dress. I didn’t care. I felt closer to understanding what had happened between Russell Pruitt and me.
“We were on parallel journeys. He was trying to find out if he was his father, trying to resolve his past by confronting me. I was trying to find out who I was too—make peace with my grief over my twin, with losing my husband and role as a mom. Trying to find out who I was without alcohol. By the end, even our bodies were in sync.”
“That’s amazing. What a great case study it would make.” Her scholar’s mind was always analyzing. “You both resolved things you came to resolve—and in that incredible setting.”
“I know. But I have this guilt. I lived and he didn’t. I lived and Constance didn’t. I feel like it’s supposed to mean something.”
“You know about survivor guilt. You can ascribe meaning to this, or not. Be aware of your process.” Judy was a sharp cookie. She didn’t get to be head of the psychology department at a major university by accident. “I’m interested to see what you make of your life, with this release from the past, uncharted future without Richard, and kicking booze in the teeth.”
I gave a shaky laugh. “Think I’ll do some journaling about it. See what emerges. I was already doing good work I’m proud of, so that doesn’t need improvement.”
“You might be surprised,” Judy said. “Call me tomorrow, same time. Full report, babe.” She hung up.
I sighed, pressed the Off button. Switched to my photo and video cache. I’d purged pictures with Richard out of the phone. I thought someday I’d be able to appreciate all he’d been to me, what he’d brought into my life, but this wasn’t that time. So now I just had pictures of Chris and my little cache of video documentary I was making for my future self.
I’d been able to save the SIM card—it had ridden through my travails in my pocket, and the data had transferred to my new phone. I thumbed to the video called “Haleakala Crater Cabin.”
I pressed the little arrow key, and my haggard image looked me in the eye.
“Caprice, you’re a wreck. You’ve been given another chance at life.” I listened to the riveting monologue ending with, “I’m doing it. I’m suffering now so you, me in the future, can have a better life. Don’t fuck it up.”
I didn’t plan to.
The doorbell rang, an unfamiliar buzz. I stood, and Hector complained, following me as I applied my eye to the peephole.
I felt my pulse pick up. I opened the door. “Hi, Bruce. What brings you here?”
He pushed his Oakleys atop his buzz-cut head. He was holding a fern plant, a glorious one lush with curling, intricate fronds. “Wanted to check the security on the new place.”
I laughed, standing back. “Come on in. Not worried about that anymore.”
He handed me the fern. “Congrats on the move.”
“It’s really a very good thing.” I set the plant on the counter. “Thanks so much; this is gorgeous. I’d offer you a drink but—you know I don’t have any. I can get you some Perrier.”
“Wasn’t checking up on that,” he said. “But I’ll take some, thanks.” He’d walked to the front of the apartment. “Great view, great spot. Do you have a broom handle to put in the slider at night?”
“Seriously, Bruce, the crisis is over,” I said, bending into the fridge to get the bottle of Perrier and the limes. When I stood back up he’d rejoined me in the kitchen, and I could swear he’d been looking at my rear, even though he cut his eyes away before I could be sure.
My cheeks went hot. I busied myself cutting the limes and making the drinks as he turned away, taking in the space. “Nice painting.”
“My son did it. He’s very talented, got a creative side.” I handed him the glass, and our fingers brushed, which activated a tingle somewhere I forgot tingles could be activated. “Want to sit outside?”
“Sure.” We went out to the deck again and sat in the Adirondack chairs. He put his head back against the solid wood frame, and I let myself look at him over the top of my glass.
He looked tired. Being a station chief was no small responsibility, and I could see it in the tiny puckers of stress beside
his mouth, in a line between his brows that never really left. He adjusted his big body in the chair and sighed. “Feels good to smell the ocean.”
“That’s why I’m here. The whales have been jumping in the Bay every evening.”
“Would you go out with me?” he asked suddenly, as if he had to just say it. He turned his head, still resting against the back of the chair, and looked at me. “I’d like to—spend more time with you.”
Heat came wafting back over me like a hot flash—what the hell. I was menopausal, so maybe that was what it was. “I’d like that.” I slurped my Perrier clumsily.
“Good.” He sipped his Perrier. “I find myself thinking about you a lot.”
“Huh. Really.” We talked on the phone almost daily since the crater, but I hadn’t let myself really think about where things were going—it had started to matter too much.
“Yeah. I like you a lot. You’re an amazing woman, Caprice Wilson. Way out of my league.”
“Ha-ha,” I said. My heart was thundering. “Wrong about that. Just a middle-aged alcoholic divorcée.”
“Educated. Beautiful. Smart. Courageous as hell.” He took a sip of the Perrier, shook his head, set the drink down on the side table. “Mostly I really like hugging you.” He patted his lap. “Come on over here.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I said, getting up out of my chair. Bruce folded me in against him. My cheek rested on his chest, and I heard the thump and swish of his heart. I closed my eyes and remembered the last faltering beat of that other great big heart.
Good-bye, Russell Pruitt. Rest in peace.
Bruce’s heart beat on—strong and regular. I hoped I’d hear it for a very long time.
**************************************
Photos
The author following in Dr. Wilson's footsteps on Sliding Sands.
View from the first outcrop Dr. Wilson tries to reach.
