For the Best

by Vanessa Lillie

  “Of course not.” She pulls me into her arms, and even though she’s almost a half foot shorter, I still curl into her embrace. “Why would you think that?”

  How can I say that I saw the truth? Or that I saw his lie? That he was there that night with another woman? What right do I have to break her heart one more time after a lifetime of rips and tears? “I’m so tired,” I whisper, my headache starting as my hangover looms.

  “Let me text Ethan that you’re home,” she says. “Come lie down in your room in your old bed. It’ll feel good to sleep there. I’ll make you a hot toddy with my sleepy tea.”

  I can’t argue with the promise of sleep or a drink to take the edge off. Within a few minutes, Mom has me tucked under my pink quilt with a steaming mug of boozy tea.

  She turns out the overhead light and starts to shut the door. “Sweet dreams.”

  I really doubt it.

  Chapter 27

  Dream Journal, day 4: Dad is driving me down Hope Street. I’m alone in the back, in a tutu, of all things, and we’re heading to the Sider.

  “We have to hurry!” I yell and kick at his seat. “Please, I won’t make it in time.”

  He doesn’t answer but presses on the gas.

  “It’s better this way!” he yells. “This is better.”

  “I can’t go on!” I sob, crying so hard I can’t breathe. My knees are on fire. I can feel the blood and dirt burning into the cuts.

  “Get up, girl. Use your damn legs,” he says, and I’m not sure what he means. “Walk, Juliet, or I’m going to get caught.”

  I wake up screaming, and Mom is beside me. I don’t know where I am, but I’m so grateful to have her holding me tight. My throat is raw because I’ve been crying so hard in my nightmare, and the tears won’t stop.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” Mom says. “Those awful dreams have come back.” She hands me a piece of paper. “Write it all down. Like when you were a girl.”

  I do as she tells me, remembering the words Dad said in the dream and then connecting them to the video. “I think . . . I remembered something about that night,” I whisper, staring at the words on the paper.

  “You need to go see my therapist, honey. She can look at your dream journal. Try to help you remember what happened the night Terrance was killed.”

  That promise is double edged, and before I can discuss it further, there’s a knock at the front door. It feels early, but the sun is up and shining through the blinds. I look at my phone, and it’s almost seven. I have a dozen missed calls from Ethan.

  “Ethan had to drop off Fitz last night,” Mom says. “There was an emergency at the shelter with one of the homeless women.”

  “Oh,” I say, sliding out of bed. “Where’s Fitz?”

  “He’s asleep in your sister’s room.” She stands up, cinching her robe. “I bet that’s Ethan at the door. Why don’t you get it, and I’ll check on my sweet grandson?”

  “Thanks for taking care of me last night,” I say. “Can you make me another of those hot toddies?”

  “Sure,” she says, but there’s a shadow of judgment I recognize from years of seeing it with my father.

  I blow my nose and splash a little water on my face before going to answer. I’m upset with Ethan, but I still want to apologize for missing his calls. He was probably so worried.

  When I open the door, he’s holding two coffees and a bag from Knead Doughnuts. “Hey,” he says. “I’m really sorry.”

  I nod, unsure of how to be mad at him. “You broke our trust,” I say, more hurt than mad.

  He hands me a coffee, and I take it, though my stomach feels queasy at the thought. “Protecting our family is what matters,” he says, sounding like Dad last night. “And things have changed.”

  “What?”

  “The Trash Bag Lady came into the shelter last night. She was in another fight and really upset. I’m the only one who can calm her down lately. While I was there, she told me something . . .” He trails off and clears his throat. “She confessed to killing Terrance Castle.”

  I bobble the coffee, and it stings my thumb. “What? Are you sure?”

  Ethan nods. “Completely certain.”

  “What did she say?” I hold my breath for a moment. “She really did it?” I have to suppress the smile of relief. Thank God, it wasn’t anyone in this house.

  “She brought one of the flyers asking for any tips with Dr. Castle’s face on it.” He pauses to adjust the bag of doughnuts in his hand. “She wrote her confession on it.”

  I almost have to sit down, but I lock my knees instead. “Have you told the police?”

  “I rushed here to tell you first. You and your dad are innocent.” He has a small grin, as if he’s trying to encourage me to be happy too. Or forgive him. “This is all going to work out.”

  “Did anyone else witness the Trash Bag Lady confessing?” I ask.

  “Jonesy did.” He runs his hands along my arms. “This is all working out.”

  The relief expands through my body, and then there’s a thought: everyone else has to know. “We have to hurry,” I say, pulling him by the arm toward the house. I have to text Phillip. He can’t give up on me yet.

  Ethan starts to follow me inside but then stops us both on the last step. “Hurry for what?”

  I almost laugh but instead simply explain. Because I’m not asking. “To record her confession. So the world can finally know what happened that night.”

  VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 13

  PERSONAL VLOG

  INT. CONFERENCE ROOM—DAY

  JULIET WORTHINGTON-SMITH stands in front of two-way glass in an empty conference room at the Rhode House shelter. PHILLIP HALE is behind the camera.

  JULIET

  This is Juliet Worthington-Smith for Rhode to Justice, where we’ve had a major break in the case. As you know, I’ve been searching for who could have attacked and killed Terrance Castle. While the police continue to say I’m their only suspect, I’ve found undiscovered leads. Now, I bring you what we’ve been searching for all this time: a confession to Dr. Castle’s murder.

  JULIET steps toward the camera.

  My husband works for an organization that supports Rhode Island’s homeless population. Just last night, a woman came into the shelter with a flyer that had Terrance’s face on it. She told volunteers, including my husband, that she attacked Dr. Castle that night.

  The door opens in the other room, visible through the two-way mirror behind JULIET. A woman, REBA GABLES, enters wearing several thick coats. She shuffles to the table. ETHAN SMITH enters behind her and guides her to her chair at the small table.

  JULIET

  For the sake of transparency, my husband, Ethan, is worried about videoing this confession. But I knew that we owed viewers the truth.

  ETHAN

  Are you okay, Reba?

  REBA pats his hand, and the camera zooms closer to see her filthy fingers.

  ETHAN

  We’re going to record this, Reba.

  ETHAN points toward the glass between the rooms.

  ETHAN

  We’ll share the video so people will understand what happened. We’re also going to give a copy to the police. Do you understand?

  She keeps patting his hand but finally nods.

  REBA

  (mouths)

  Yes

  ETHAN

  My name is Ethan Smith. I’m an employee at the Rhode House, a shelter for homeless in Providence. Last night, one of the people in our care shared important information about the murder of Terrance Castle. She has agreed to let us tape an interview with her.

  ETHAN pauses and takes her hand.

  ETHAN

  Is your name Reba Gables?

  REBA

  (mouths)

  Yes.

  ETHAN

  Reba has been here at the Rhode House for homeless and displaced people off and on for her adult life. She’s mute, for the most part, after a terrible attack.

  JULIET (off-camera voice-ov
er)

  Reba’s brother poured battery acid down her throat when he was high. She can barely speak and has been growing increasingly violent.

  ETHAN

  Reba, you brought me this flyer.

  ETHAN holds up a flyer, and the camera zooms in close, showing an Information Wanted poster with Dr. TERRANCE CASTLE’s photo.

  ETHAN

  I asked you why you brought it to me. You wrote out three words: “He hurt me.” Is this correct, Reba?

  REBA runs her fingers along the poster and touches TERRANCE CASTLE’s face.

  REBA

  (raspy)

  Hurt me.

  ETHAN

  Reba, did Dr. Castle, the man in this picture, attack you?

  REBA stands up, pointing at the image. Then she slams her hand on the table.

  REBA

  (raspy)

  Hit! I hit. I hit.

  ETHAN

  Let’s calm down, Reba. I understand. When we spoke last night, you said, “Protect.” Were you trying to protect yourself?

  REBA

  (nods)

  Hit. Hit. Hit.

  ETHAN

  (looks toward camera through glass)

  She may have thought she was in danger when she was attacked by Dr. Castle. We do not know what happened, and I am not trying to accuse Dr. Castle of anything. Merely relaying what Reba told me.

  REBA stands up again and begins to slap the table.

  REBA

  (hissing voice)

  Hit me. Hit. Head? Hit head?

  ETHAN

  You hit him on the head? It’s okay, Reba. You didn’t know what you were doing. I’m so sorry. We’ll help you.

  REBA

  Hit. Hit. Head.

  REBA slams her fists on the table.

  JULIET

  (voice-over, sounds shocked)

  It’s like she’s replaying what happened that night in her mind. She’s showing Ethan how she attacked Terrance.

  ETHAN

  Please stop the cameras. We should leave the rest to the police. She’s not well.

  REBA shifts, and the acid scar on her cheek tilts toward the camera. ETHAN helps her up, still holding her hand.

  ETHAN

  Come with me, Reba. We can get you help. It’ll work out, Reba.

  Chapter 28

  The interview with Reba ends, and Phillip leaves the room to call Detective Ramos. I stare at her chair, now empty, and try to process what this confession means. Am I finally free?

  The room is silent, and I think of all the moments lost to blackouts and Drunk Me. I don’t remember Terrance’s words that night exactly, but since the nightmares have begun again, I’ve been seeing more flashes of him. Blurs of movement, touches, and gestures mixed with snippets of conversation among bar noises.

  Closing my eyes, I can see Sarah the bartender and the barflies. I see the cheap decorations and buzzing beer signs in glowing neon reflected in our glassy eyes. I see the alley and can almost remember the fear. Hear the creak of the back door from the kitchen and the smell of cigarettes. All of it is in there—a faded jumble of nothing and everything.

  Here’s what I want to ignore: from that night, that welter of memory and blackout, I don’t feel or see or smell, for that matter, the Trash Bag Lady.

  I pack up the camera and tripod and tell myself to find relief. There is another suspect finally. My life is not over. It has all worked out.

  Heading into the hallway outside the conference room, I find Phillip staring out a large window that overlooks the parking lot. “Detective Ramos is on his way,” he says.

  “He’s arresting her?” I ask, hoping other people finding her guilty will prove I am innocent.

  “No, not yet,” Phillip says, still not looking my way as he leans against the concrete block wall. “He’ll put her into protective custody. They first have to determine if she really did this. They’ll need specialists. It’ll take time.”

  “Where will the police keep her?” I ask.

  “A hotel, probably. I didn’t ask.”

  I pause before I ask the next question, unsure of what I want his answer to be. “Do you believe Reba?”

  He stares up at the dingy tiled ceiling, where two of three fluorescent lights buzz. “It’s suspicious that your husband brought forward a suspect. You recognize that?”

  I cross my arms, trying not to pout but feeling angry. I told myself it wouldn’t bother me if Phillip thought I was guilty. We could still use each other to get what we needed. Now that we know I’m innocent, I guess I expected more relief from him instead of what appears to be regret. “Are you disappointed I’m not in cuffs?”

  “No,” he says quietly. “You do see how this looks? We have proof your dad was there that night, around the time of the murder. I assume you told Ethan?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Of course. I was freaking out about it.”

  “And what does Ethan do?” Phillip steps toward me. “He comes into his work and finds this suspect within hours.”

  “You think Ethan is lying?” I say too loud. “That he . . . convinced this poor, abused homeless woman to come forward?”

  Phillip holds up his palms. “No, I’m not saying anyone is lying. But it doesn’t look right. Not to me. I doubt it will to the police.”

  I press my lips together and take in what he’s really trying to say. “This isn’t over.”

  “Exactly,” he says. “Maybe it was Reba. But I’m not going to stop looking until we’re completely sure.”

  “She did confess,” I say. “Plus, she’s unstable. She attacked me once.”

  “When?” Phillip says, incredulous. “Where?”

  “Don’t be so concerned,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re always fine, Jules. That’s the problem.” His voice echoes, and he balls both his fists, a signal he’s at the very end of patience. Back in college, it’d be followed by him having to walk out the door. Or ask me to walk out.

  “You wish I was being picked up instead of Reba?” I needle, as I always did.

  I see him really consider the question. “Did you do it?”

  “No, Phillip, I didn’t. That poor woman, Reba, says she attacked him. She even made the motions of how she hit him. You saw that too?”

  His shoulders relax a little, as if he knows I’m right. Or he’s tired of fighting. “What happened with her . . . attacking you?”

  “She hit my car when I was in the McDonald’s drive-through with Fitz. It scared us both. I thought she was going to break the window.”

  “Okay,” he says, not exactly repentant but maybe convinced that this behavior is possible. “I’ve seen her all over town. She keeps to herself. Collecting bags or sleeping on a bench. Why would she go after you like that? Or anyone?”

  A good point—and one I’ve pondered. None of this feels right, and I should continue to be honest about it if what I really want is the truth. “I think she recognized me,” I say. “In the drive-through, she mouthed . . . ‘You.’ Maybe she knew me from walking Hope Street.”

  Phillip’s eyes grow wide and round. He looks horrified. “Jules . . . if she was there that night . . .”

  “I didn’t kill him.” I throw each word like a punch, but none of them appear to land.

  He steps toward me, and the dread of hearing his words spreads up my spine in tingles. “She recognized you.”

  This fight or discussion or whatever feels like college. I was always scrambling to make enough excuses to get his support back around to me. “Maybe Reba attacked him first,” I say calmly so he’ll listen. “She could have been digging in the dumpsters and got startled by us coming outside. Maybe I saw her, and she remembered me.”

  “Maybe,” Phillip says. “She’s . . . not stable. How will we know what really happened?”

  “The police can get her to talk . . . or, you know, have a specialist help.”

  Phillip rubs at his stomach as Detective Ramos pulls up in front of the building.

  “A
re you getting ulcers again?” I had to take him to urgent care for them when we were dating. The doctor wanted to admit us both.

  He pulls out his Tums, which never worked. “Nothing we’ve found feels good enough. I’m going to keep looking.”

  “Don’t forget Dez. The money and how she’s using Terrance’s legacy.”

  “Yes, Jules,” he says, as if he can’t wait for me to stop talking. “I read the draft of Terrance’s essays that Dez gave me. I compared them to what you gave me at Brown. They’re not his words.”

  This is promising. I knew something wasn’t right about Dez. “How different?”

  “She is changing his legacy,” he says quietly.

  “What are you going to do about it?” I ask.

  “I’m suspicious,” he says. It sounds like a blanket statement about all of us. “I’m not trying to tell Dez how to mourn. Or what’s the best way to remember Terrance. But his words matter. How a person is remembered matters.”

  I think of the memorial wreath on the holly bush. “Can I show you something?”

  Chapter 29

  “We’re heading to the West Side,” I say as I slide into the passenger seat of Phillip’s car. “It really won’t take long. Half hour, tops.”

  Phillip lets out his annoyed sigh, then drops his messenger bag into the back seat. As he rights himself and passes close to me, I smell Irish Spring soap and a sweet cologne, awakening my nostalgia from college and our years together.

  I said goodbye to Ethan after the police took Reba. Detective Ramos spoke to Phillip briefly but ignored me.

  “We’re actually already on the West Side,” Phillip says. “Should I take Atwells?”

  “Broadway is faster,” I say, like I grew up around here instead of him. But I do know this route. I’ve been taking it once a month, the beginning of every month, for the better part of a decade. The only reason I’m familiar with this series of streets leading to this small house is because of my father. No one has ever gone with me before.

  Phillip doesn’t ask any more questions as I direct him toward one of the larger Latino neighborhoods in Providence.

  “Tell me about the difference,” I say. “In what Terrance wrote and what Dez wants to publish.”