Closer Home (27 page)

“Ricken told me they were in Portland,” Melody says. “He got the tip from Shadow.”

Erik looks at her and shrugs. “I’m not sure of your credibility, given what you stand to gain. Now. This way, yes?” He leads the way back to the living room and sits down in one of the chairs without waiting for the rest of us. Melody takes the chair across from him, pulling out her own notepad and pen. I wonder if we should offer him coffee.

Ariel perches on the edge of the couch and I take the place beside her. Both of us are stiff as boards, spines straight, feet flat on the floor. Our arms and shoulders touch, and I can feel her vibrating with suppressed energy. George sits in front of us, ears perked.

Erik sneezes again, wipes his nose with a tissue hauled out from the depths of his pocket, then glances down at his clipboard and makes a note. “Now Ariel, let’s be honest, shall we? I know how hard all this has been for you, but do you really expect me to believe you don’t already know who your father is?”

It’s like he lit a match and threw it into a barrel of gasoline. There’s an instant of supercharged silence. And then the explosion.

“Fuck you!”

She springs to her feet, every muscle in her body rigid, fists clenched.

“Ariel!” I grab for her hand, but she jerks it away from me.

“Do you think this is
fun
for me? Being stalked like some sort of game animal, all of them trying to get the biggest trophy? That’s what they think I am.
Meat.
You’re just like all of them. I bet you like to hunt. Do you have antlers on your wall? Do you go out every year and shoot yourself a nice big buck?”

“Ms. Redding, Ariel—”

A growl pulses in George’s throat.

Ariel advances until she is standing right over Erik. He leans back in his chair, his eyes darting toward the exit, then back to me. Considering his escape route.

“Answer me.
Do you?
”

If she hits him, or George bites him, we’re done for. Juvie, court, loss of custody. Without thinking, I’m up, too, grabbing George by the collar. There’s no room to get between Ariel and Erik. Yelling won’t work. I pitch my voice low, with as much authority I can muster.

“Ariel.”

She ignores me, and I say it again.

“Ariel. Go to your room. Now.”

Nothing happens. My heartbeat is so loud I’m sure they can all hear it. Melody sits frozen in her chair, mouth hanging open, camera in her lap. George tugs at his collar, still growling. Erik doesn’t dare move a muscle. Ariel stands there, panting. And then her mouth starts to work. Her face crumples. And she breaks into huge, wracking sobs that electrify all of us.

I wrap my free arm around her, pulling her in tight. She puts her arms around my waist and clings. “Don’t you dare say a word,” I tell Erik over her shoulder. “Give us a minute.”

George growls again, and I have to jerk hard on his collar to drag him away. Ariel comes with me, compliant, and I get both of them out of the room and up the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” Ariel sobs, her words blurred and muffled against my shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

I sit her down on Callie’s bed, stroking her hair. George licks tears from her cheeks and she lets go of me and hugs him, burying her face in his fur.

“You had something to say and you said it. At least you didn’t hit him.”

“Almost.”

“Yeah, well. I almost did, too. And I’ve never heard George growl at somebody before. All three of us could have wound up in jail.”

That earns me a choked laugh. Her sobbing slows and eases.

I cup her face in both hands and turn it up to mine. “We’ll fix this, okay? He doesn’t really have any ammunition. Nothing but allegations.”

She nods, sniffling, then flings her arms around me again and clings. Her whole body is quivering. “I’m scared.”

“I know. Me too. We’ll get through this.”

“I want to stay with you,” she says. “Even if we do find my dad. Just so you know.”

I tuck her head under my chin and rock her. Her hair is so soft, so warm. Impossible that two weeks ago she wasn’t in my world at all. The thought of her not being there going forward is inconceivable. “It will be okay,” I say again. “I’m going to talk to him again now.”

She nods and sniffles.

“In a minute, when you’re calm, you should come back down, too.”

Her eyes go wide. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“It’s a very good idea. And you will apologize to him.”

She pulls away from me. “I can’t.”

“You can. You will. We are going to do everything we have to do. Understand?”

Sniffles. And then a nod. I pat her head and leave her and George to pull themselves together.

Coming down the stairs, I hear voices in the living room. Shit. I’ve left the reporter and the CPS worker together in the room. This can’t be a good thing. They break off when I walk in.

The couch feels empty without Ariel at my side.

“That was quite a display,” Erik says. “Maybe some counseling is in order.”

I take a breath, plant my feet on the floor. My voice is calm. “Her mother just died. Her boyfriend sold her out. She has a pack of media hounding her everywhere. I can’t imagine what sort of emotional state you expect her to be in right now.”

“All the more reason why she needs to be in a structured and stable environment. With all due respect, I’m not sure you’re providing that for her.”

“With all due respect, I think you’ve let the media color your perceptions.” I keep my voice level, but I am not backing down.

“All right,” he says, after a long moment. “Suppose you tell me your version of events.”

So I do. I tell him everything, from the minute Ariel told me about her crazy plan to where we are now. He listens, takes notes. Melody takes notes of her own. I begin to relax, thinking he understands, that he hears how difficult this has been. For her, for me.

When I’m done, he looks up and says, “There’s something I still don’t understand.”

“What’s that?”

“Why did you go with her?”

I stare at him disbelieving. He hasn’t understood a thing.

He closes his notebook and slides it neatly and precisely back into his briefcase. “And now you’re essentially blaming her for the whole fiasco. A responsible adult would have stopped her. Are we ready to go do that drug screen?”

“That’s not fair!” Ariel says. I didn’t see her standing at the door, listening. George isn’t with her, and I can hear him whining upstairs, most likely behind a closed door.

“So long as you’re clean and sober, Ariel, you have nothing to fear.”

“I’m not talking about the stupid drug screen! It’s not fair to blame Aunt Lise. She was only trying to—minimize the damage.”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” he says, still patronizing. He edges around her on his way to the door.

I follow him. “What happens next?”

“I talk to some people. We look at your drug screens. And then we’ll see. Have a nice day.”

The door slams behind him. The three of us stand there looking at each other, three little pigs in a fairy tale that’s taken a wrong turn.

“So much for apologies,” Ariel says. “What now?”

I sigh. “Now we get the drug screen. And then we go see Grandma. Can we also volunteer at a soup kitchen, maybe feed some orphans or give coats to the homeless?”

Ariel’s face droops. She shuffles one foot on the carpet. Callie used to do that, usually when she was guilty.

“About the drug test,” she says, in a small voice.

“What about it?”

“There might be a problem.”

“Ariel, for the love of all things holy, do not tell me you’ve been using drugs.”

“Don’t shout at me.” She looks wretched. Mascara is smeared around her puffy eyes, her nose is red.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. You’d better spit it out.”

“I might, maybe, have smoked some weed with Shadow.”

“Might?”

“All right. Yes. I smoked weed. Now I’ll test positive and they’ll put me in some foster care place.”

Ariel stares at her feet. I stare at the wall. Surely, they won’t take her away. It’s not my fault if she smoked pot. But given Erik’s obvious bias, we’re going to be screwed if this goes to court.

Melody walks away, but she’s back in a minute with a tall glass of water.

“Start drinking, kid. This will help.”

Ariel takes the glass without protest.

“Now,” Melody says, as the water disappears down Ariel’s throat with small glugs, “when was the last time and how often did you do it?”

“I don’t know. A week, maybe? It was Pasco. The Timothy time.”

“You were with me the whole time,” I protest. “You never had the opportunity.”

“Outside,” she says. “On the balcony. While you were sleeping.”

“And before that?” Melody persists.

Ariel shakes her head. “That was the only time. Honest.”

“You should be okay,” Melody says. “Takes longer to clear for a regular user. A week ought to do it for you.”

“It’s only been five days! What are we going to do?” Ariel’s voice trembles, rising into a little squeak on the last word.

“If it was only the once, you’re probably still okay. Drink tons of water. Don’t suppose you have any vitamin B floating around?”

We both look at her and she shrugs. “Makes your pee yellow so it doesn’t look diluted from all the water.”

“How do you know all this?” I ask.

She just smiles. “Let’s go visit Grandma while Ariel gets hydrated.”

Which is when I suddenly remember who I’m talking to. “Even if Ariel tests negative, you’re going to have a fabulous story.” I smack myself in the forehead. “I am an idiot.”

“Tell you what. You give me Grandma, I don’t mention the pot smoking. Deal?” Melody holds out her hand. There’s nothing to be done but shake on it and hope she keeps her end of the bargain. I doubt it.

Ariel locks herself in the bathroom for what seems like hours, finally emerging with more makeup on than I’ve ever seen her wear. I don’t blame her; I’d do the same if I thought it would do me any good. When we’re ready to leave, I put George in the backyard to watch for overly venturous intruders, but he howls so loudly about being separated from Ariel that I relent and bring him along. To her credit, Melody has no objection to riding in the backseat with a whole lot of excited dog.

She insists on a quick stop at Safeway, so she can run in for water and a bottle of vitamin B. She also brings back a rawhide chew stick and a bunch of flowers. I don’t ask what the flowers are for. I know.

Whatever Glynnis meant by normal, I’m pretty sure this isn’t it.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

There are rules about nursing homes and hospitals. Patient confidentiality means paparazzi can’t come barging in, and we leave our little convoy parked in the lot, capturing the front of the building and our backs. Melody is restricted to a small pocket camera. She nearly has a tantrum at the idea of leaving her camera unattended even after I tell her that car theft and break-ins are unusual occurrences in Colville. Besides, George makes for a great theft deterrent. In the end, she downloads all of her photos, just in case, and we leave the camera locked in the car.

Valley View is a good place, as far as nursing homes go. It’s clean and airy, with lots of windows and high ceilings, but to me it smells like despair. Two wheelchairs sit facing each other inside the entry. In the first an old man, collapsed in on himself in a twisted wreck of limbs, glares at a woman who can only be called fat. I have no idea how they get her in and out of the chair. She is laughing, toothless gums pink, multiple chins wobbling.

Melody’s hand inches toward her pocket. I grab it and shake my head. No pics of the other residents is part of the agreement. We set out down the hallway, Melody beside me where I can watch her, Ariel trailing behind. An aide in cartoon-print scrubs steps out of one of the rooms.

“Hey, Annelise! She’s in her room. She missed you.” She flashes a bright smile. “Is this your niece?”

“It is.”

“Awesome! Dale was great while you were gone, but I know your mom will be glad to have you back. She’s quite alert this morning, so it’s a perfect time for a visit.”

We both know Mom has no idea who she’s talking to and that alert means awake, but the staff is like that, always maintaining a cheerful pretense that things are normal. The aide bustles into another room, and we continue our trek, detouring around Mr. Erhler, who is using the handrail to pull himself along in the wheelchair, one slow handhold at a time.

It’s a short hallway. Mom’s room holds two beds, both empty and neatly made with brightly colored quilts. The TV is on and blaring, Dr. Phil admonishing a teary-eyed woman in black. Mom sits in a chair, pointed more or less toward the TV, but the tilt of her head puts her focus to the left, between the screen and the window where there is nothing but blank wall.

Ignoring Melody, who is already snapping pictures, I bend down and kiss Mom’s cheek, cool and papery. She smells of baby powder. Her head turns, slowly, at my touch, and a wavering hand reaches out for mine. Her eyes find my face, the mind behind them wandering in search of a name.

“Callie? You never visit.”

“Not Callie. It’s Lise.” I’m not supposed to argue with her. She gets agitated. The staff says it’s better to let her believe I am whoever she happens to think I am. But I can’t do it. Not today.

“Aren’t you going to tell her?” Ariel says. She’s got the look of a deer in the headlights, wide-eyed and skittish, like she’s going to make a run for it any minute.

“She wouldn’t remember. She’s still asking when Dad is coming to see her.”

Mom turns her head at our whispered conversation, her hand in mine all fragile bones, vibrating with the tremor she can’t control. “Company,” she says. “Come in, sit down.”

“This is Ariel,” I tell her.

“Who?”

“Ariel. Callie’s little girl.”

“Hi, Grandma.” Ariel steps closer.

For just an instant, I think Mom has really seen us. Her eyes focus in on Ariel’s face.

“Where’s Jack? Let me get him. Jack! We have company.”

She rocks forward to stand up, and an alarm goes off, sharp and insistent. It sets my pulse to racing, even though I know what it is and have heard it plenty before.

“Mom, please sit. You’ll fall.” She’s still got a faint-green stain on her cheek from the last time she tried to walk on her own. By some mercy she didn’t break any bones, but she probably won’t be so lucky the next time.

Once in motion, she’s not easy to derail. Her hand detaches from mine, reaching for the chair arm to give herself leverage. She rocks again, manages to lift onto her feet. I stand in front of her, my knees against hers, and push her back down, hands on her shoulders. She’s wiry, stronger than she looks. Her face twists with anger. I’m not Callie anymore, not Lise, just an obstacle.

“Get out of my way, you.” She takes a swing at me, and I duck my head and take the blow with my shoulder. All the while the alarm continues to bleat.

An aide comes in full steam ahead, a different one, but with the same cheerful smile. “Hey, Emma. What’s going on? Why don’t you sit down, let me get you a glass of water.”

“I need to find Jack,” Mom says, her voice quavery and panicked.

“Jack is just fine. I’ll find him for you in a minute. Okay? Now, just sit back and drink this. There you go.”

The aide turns off the alarm and distracts her with a drink of water, then coaxes her to lean back into the recliner. The touch of a button brings up the footrest. In that position, with an afghan tucked around her legs and over her lap, she’s not going anywhere.

She’s forgotten all about us, anyway, her gaze drifting back to the edge of the television screen. I keep thinking I’ll get used to this, but I never do. Every time my mother looks at me, I hope she’ll know it’s me, even if it’s only for a second. Every time she starts asking about Dad, I remember coming home from the hospital to tell her that he died while she was home sleeping. Time and constant repetition has so far failed to build calluses over the pain, and it’s always fresh and new.

Today, though, I carry a talisman. There’s a corkboard on the wall by her bed. I pull the picture out of my pocket, the one where she’s holding me—me, not Callie—in a way that says I’m the most important thing in her world at that moment. The one where my dad is strong and smiling and alive. I pin it beside the chart that says what day it is, beneath the one that says what’s on the menu for dinner.

“I’m sorry,” Ariel says, behind me, “but I really need to pee.”

The only place in Colville to do a drug screen is at the family practice clinic. It’s busy. It’s public. I run into three people I know in the main waiting area before we even get to the elevator that takes us down to the lab.

Melody with her camera and citified clothes is conspicuous. In the elevator, she says, “You need to call that boyfriend of yours.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Whatever. Call Dale. Tell him he needs to go to the cemetery with you.”

The elevator doors open, but I don’t move. “We’re not doing that.”

“You want your public to feel compassion. And to see that you’re stable. He’s a steady guy, right? Well respected.”

The doors start to close, and Ariel catches them.

I shake my head. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You should definitely think about it,” Melody says.

“I thought we were going to do whatever it takes,” Ariel chimes in.

I glare at her. “Like apologizing to Erik?”

“But he was an asshole!” She says it with conviction, as if it’s a valid excuse.

“Are you getting out?” An elderly couple stands at the doors. Both of them lean heavily on walkers. The man frowns; the woman’s face is contracted with pain.

“Sorry.” We troop out of the elevator, and Ariel holds the doors while the couple shuffles in.

The waiting room is full. People waiting for the lab and to see the doctor. A young woman rocks a wailing baby while trying to control two rambunctious toddlers. One of them is banging on the closed door marked “Yellow Group.” I’m grateful for the squalling baby when I step forward to the window to give our paperwork to the receptionist, but of course he stops crying just in time for the whole lobby to hear our business.

I suck in my breath, but the woman is mindful of patient confidentiality and takes the papers with professional calm, as if we’re here to get our cholesterol checked.

Ariel goes first and returns to the waiting room nervous and twitchy.

“It’s like we’re criminals,” she says, and it does feel that way. Before I’m allowed into the bathroom, the lab worker puts tape over the knobs on the sink. My instructions are clear: I must not wash my hands or flush the toilet until I turn over the sample, or it will be disqualified. When I emerge with my little cup of pee in hand, I nearly run smack-dab into Pastor Montaigne. He’s decent enough to nod and say hello without asking questions or getting into a “so sorry for your loss” or “it’s been a while since I’ve seen you at church” mode. He pretends he doesn’t see the brimming cup in my right hand. Maybe he’ll think I’m just here for a bladder infection or something.

Until the headlines surface.

Face burning, I obediently observe the process of sealing the cup and then add my initials next to those of the tech.

There are no stairs that we can see, so we have to wait for the elevator, which we end up sharing with a guy who coughs so hard I expect to see lung tissue bursting out of his mouth. Not a word passes between the three of us. Even when we get to the car.

I’m too weary to argue about the cemetery. The biggest problem is going to be remembering exactly where the grave is. I don’t come here. Dad is dead. I don’t see how standing around and looking at a stone in the ground will make me feel any closer to him. So while I drive, I’m frantically sorting through my memory of the funeral to get some sort of bearing on where to park and where to walk because it’s not going to help my cause if Melody finds out I have no idea whatsoever where to find the grave.

Nobody mentions Dale, and I’m thanking my lucky stars that at least she’s forgotten about that little piece of torment. Until I drive up the hill, slowing for the turn, and see a familiar pickup truck parked down one of the lanes. George whines and prances, his tail creating a small windstorm and whacking Melody in the head.

“What’s Dale doing here?”

“I called him,” Ariel says.

“What? How?”

“Technology. Google.”

I lean my forehead on the steering wheel and bang it. I manage to hit the horn and it honks, loud and obscene among the peaceful dead. When I look up, Dale is approaching our car. A little bleat escapes me, a small, ridiculous noise like a sheep in pain.

“Well, you weren’t going to,” Ariel says. She starts chewing on a fingernail, catches herself, and drops both hands into her lap.

“Come on, everybody out of the car.” Melody sounds like a grade-school teacher charged with a bus full of slow kids.

Ariel turns her head to look at the cemetery, then back to look at me. Her jaw has gone soft, and her lip is dangerously close to trembling. She doesn’t get out of the car.

“At least there are no horses,” I say, finally.

Neither of us moves.

Melody is already busy, camera clicking and whirring in all directions. She’s mostly focused on the old part of the graveyard, which is visually interesting. Old tombstones and trees—picturesque and perfect for a photo op. But Dad is buried in the new section, which is just a flat green lawn marked at regular intervals by headstones. Since I still don’t know where to locate the particular one that marks his spot, maybe we can just pretend he’s buried somewhere in the old and interesting part. It would be as real as the rest of this charade.

Dale presents a whole new layer of difficulty. Melody greets him like a long-lost friend. He answers her greeting politely, but there’s no smile.

“Grave’s over that way.” He gestures toward the boring part of the cemetery on the north side of Seventh Avenue. Melody looks with obvious longing at what would obviously make a better story, then shrugs and heads off in the direction of his pointing finger.

Dale continues on to the car and opens my door, looking down at me. “You coming?”

I want, simultaneously, to fling myself into his arms and ask for comfort like a child, to beat on his chest with my fists, to kiss him. I stay in my seat, hands on the wheel.

“You’ve been quiet.” The bitterness creeps into my voice despite my best attempts to keep it out.

“I needed some time to think.” He is so cool, so distant, so controlled. I want him to fight with me, to show some kind of emotion. I feel like I’m suffocating.

“If we’re going to do this, let’s get it over with,” Dale says, after a long pause. He bends a little farther so he can look into the backseat at Ariel. “Come on, kid. Let’s go.”

She grabs the flowers and gets out of the car. George whines and she pats him and tells him to stay. The three of us start walking in the general direction Melody went: Ariel on one side of me, Dale on the other. A wave of déjà vu hits me. We walked like this to Callie’s grave. My feet stop moving. The rest of my body takes a little longer, and I trip over a clump of grass and very nearly fall. Dale and Ariel continue on a few steps before they realize I’m missing and turn back, questioning looks on both their faces. I remember Dale’s arm at Callie’s funeral, warm and supporting, the strength of his hand, but now he only looks at me and says, “You okay?”

I want to scream that I’m not okay. I wonder what would happen if I were to fling myself on the grass like an unruly toddler and scream and kick and shout obscenities. How would that fit with normal?

“It’s been a while,” I say, because Melody is just ahead of us with the camera and I’ve begun to feel like it’s really The Camera, all knowing and omnipresent. But he doesn’t understand what I’m asking for, can’t pluck the thought out of my head, and I finally have to admit the truth. “I don’t remember where we put him.”