Daughter's Keeper (17 page)

“Are you all right?” Elaine asked.

“Just peachy.”

“Was it horrible?”

Suddenly Olivia wanted to reach across the seat and slap her mother across the face. Instead, she said, “You don't want to know how it was. You want me to say that it wasn't too bad, that I'm fine. You don't want to hear about how the women fuck the guards in exchange for drugs or how I spent half of every day puking because the place stinks like shit and Lysol.”

Elaine inhaled sharply through her nose and stared straight ahead. They rode in silence for a while. Despite herself, tears filled Olivia's eyes. She ignored them, and they streamed down her cheeks. She imagined that she could hear the plip plop as they fell from her chin into her lap.

“Did anyone hurt you?” Elaine whispered.

Olivia's anger left her in a rush, like air escaping a torn balloon. “No,” she said. “It was disgusting in there, Mama. I can't go back.”

“You won't have to go back.”

Olivia nodded and flipped down the mirror in the sun shade. Her hair hung in grease-stiffened curls. Her face was mottled and her normally smooth cheeks and forehead were dotted with pimples.

They continued up the freeway and into Oakland in silence. When the car pulled up in front of Olivia's apartment, Elaine said, “Should I wait here while you get your things, or do you want me to come in and help you?”

It was only then that Olivia realized that she was, of course, going to her mother's house. To her surprise, she felt intense relief at not having to stay alone in the home she had shared with Jorge.

“Wait here,” she said. “I won't take too long.”

Olivia ran up the path to her apartment. When she got to the door, she realized that she had no keys. She tried the knob. It was locked. “Fuck,” she said softly, and began searching for a rock to break a window. She was bent over, rummaging through the dirt under the front window, when she felt something cold and wet on the small of her back. She startled and turned around to find her neighbor's rottweiler puppy. She kneeled down, scooped the wriggling black dog into her arms, and buried her face in the soft fur of its neck.

“Hey,” a voice said.

Olivia looked up and saw the puppy's owner. He wore baggy black cotton pants with zippers and snaps in random places, and his hair was a sea urchin of short dreadlocks.

“Hi,” Olivia said.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I'm locked out.”

“I know,” he said. “Mother-fucking 5-0 left the door wide open the other night. After they cleared out, I locked it for you. Your keys was on the kitchen counter.” He stuck out his hand and dangled Olivia's key chain with the Virgin of Guadeloupe marble hanging from the ring.

“You went into my apartment?” she said.

The young man's face grew hard. He dropped the keys on the ground next to Olivia and backed away.

“I didn't take nothing,” he said, and whistled for his dog. “C'mon 8-Ball.”

“No! Wait!” Olivia struggled to her feet. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean that how it sounded. Thank you. Really, thanks for locking the door.”

The man seemed to relax.

“You out on bond?” he said.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Federal or state?”

“Federal.”

“Yeah. Fucking DEA. My cousin's at Lompoc doing twenty years on a bullshit DEA crack bust.”

“
Twenty years?
”

“Mandatory fucking minimums.”

“Jesus,” Olivia said. “What did he do? I mean, what was he convicted of?”

“Nothin'. He wasn't convicted of nothin'. Pled guilty.”

“He pled? Why?” The young man rolled his eyes, and Olivia blushed but continued, “I mean, if it was bullshit.”

“It
was
bullshit. All the fool did was
introduce
people. Ricky, meet Montel. Montel, meet Ricky. Thas it.”

“And he went to jail for
that
?” Olivia began to panic. He had to have it wrong. You didn't go to jail for
introducing
people. “He ­didn't, like,
buy
crack or something? Or help those guys buy it?”

“Girl, the fool never
touched
the shit.”

“Oh, God.”

“They want you in jail, you in jail. Thas it. You don't need to do nothin'.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered, again.

“Mother fuckers got me for a bullshit note-drop bank robbery.”

“You were in jail?”

“Three and a half years. Federal time.”

“And you're out now.” Olivia desperately wanted to ask him what it had been like, how he'd survived, but she was afraid he would think her question pushy, or, worse, trite.

“Yeah. I'm out. Supervised release. You want some help getting your stuff?”

Olivia started to refuse but saw his face threatening to close up again. “Sure,” she said. “I'm Olivia.”

“Treyvon. This 8-Ball.” The puppy wriggled its entire body in ecstasy at the sound of its own name.

Together they walked into the apartment. Olivia, her mind whirring with what Treyvon had told her about his cousin, stood forlornly in the middle of the room, staring around her at the havoc wrought by the police. The belongings strewn about, torn and broken on the floors, looked absolutely unfamiliar to her. She knew, of course, that that piece of pink fabric was her corduroy shirt, but it seemed utterly strange. She nudged a can of soup she didn't remember buying with her toe, and it rolled across the pitted and scratched wood floor. It bumped into a hairbrush and stopped. She walked across the floor, bent down, and picked up the hairbrush. She weighed it in her hand for a moment, and then let it drop with a small thud.

“You gonna clean up?” Treyvon asked.

She stared around at the detritus of her life. Slowly, she shook her head. She couldn't face it now, and there would be time to do it later, when her bond was lifted and she was able to move back. Izaya had told her the case would be dismissed, hadn't he? She ­hadn't done anything. Even if what Treyvon told her about his cousin was true, she had done even less than that. She hadn't introduced anyone. She hadn't
known
anyone, other than Jorge and Gabriel. Olivia threw as many of her clothes as could fit into a black backpack that she dragged out from under her bed. Her wallet was on the dresser, the contents dumped out. It took her a few moments to put back all her cards and slips of paper. The money was gone.

“Cops,” she said, holding up the empty wallet and wondering, despite herself, who had really stolen the money.

Olivia took a brown paper bag into the bathroom and tossed toiletries into it. She stood for a moment holding a box of tampons, weighing them in her hand. Then she put them back on the shelf, hoping that this very act would cause her period to arrive. Maybe she would put on a pair of white pants, too.

Treyvon heaved the backpack onto his shoulder and scooped up 8-Ball in his other hand. They walked together out to the curb.

As they walked down the path, Elaine popped the trunk. Olivia loaded her stuff into it and turned to thank Treyvon. He nodded and said, “Don't worry about it.”

She nodded and got into the car.

“Who's that?” Elaine asked.

“My neighbor,” Olivia said.

***

Arthur had emptied Olivia's old room of most of his things. His desk was pushed into a corner and cleared of the neat stacks of files and papers that usually decorated its maple veneer surface. His computer was gone, and he'd covered the printer and fax machine with a white sheet folded once down the middle. He'd even taken his framed Greg LeMond Tour de France poster off the wall and stuck it behind the desk. The thoroughness with which he'd erased his presence from the room struck Elaine as vaguely hostile, but Olivia didn't seem to notice. She dropped her things on the single bed, on the mirrored bedspread that Elaine had brought back from her trip to Rajasthan with Arthur. Elaine remained in the doorway, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Honey, do you think you'll be okay if I head back to work? There are a few things I'd like to take care of,” Elaine said.

“I'll come with you. I need to pick up some stuff from the store.”

“Some stuff?” She had told Warren and the others at work only the barest minimum in order to explain her absences and the calls from the lawyer and pretrial services. Now she didn't trust Olivia not to blurt out all the shameful details in some misguided confessional moment. “Why don't you just give me a list of what you need. I'll get it for you,” she said.

“No, that's okay. I could use a walk.”

“But don't you want to take a shower?”

Olivia looked at her sharply, and Elaine blushed.

“I didn't mean that you needed one or anything. Just that it might be nice to take a hot shower…you know, to relax.”

“I'll take one later.” Olivia's voice was flat. Elaine opened her mouth to protest one more time, but then snapped it shut.

The women left the house and headed toward College Avenue. They walked slowly, neither particularly eager to arrive at their destination.

“You see that house?” Elaine said, trying to make her voice sound as bright and cheerful as possible. “That's my house.” She pointed at a small Victorian painted in pastel pinks and blues. It was one Olivia usually claimed for her own. But this time, the girl didn't say anything.

“I'll let you live in the carriage house,” Elaine persevered.

“And I'll let you live in county jail with seven smelly crack-whores,” Olivia said, and then, an instant later, “Sorry.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

At the store, Elaine bustled behind her counter and immediately got to work, but she watched out of the corner of her eye as Olivia walked up and down the aisles, grabbing things seemingly at random. Elaine looked back at her computer screen, and the next time she raised her head, found that she could no longer see Olivia. Mounted under the counter was a security monitor installed a few years back when shoplifting had become a ­problem. Elaine watched the fuzzy image of her daughter, crouching down in the center aisle. She was furtively slipping an EPT pregnancy test off the shelf. Olivia opened the packet and took out the foil-wrapped stick. She shoved it into the waistband of her pants, pushed the now empty box behind the others on the shelf, and stood up and walked to the counter. Elaine tucked her hair behind her ear nervously and pretended to be busy counting pills.

“All set,” Olivia said.

At that moment, Warren came out from the back room. His mouth was smeared with cream cheese, and he had a bagel in his hand. “I'll ring you out,” he said.

Elaine opened her mouth to object, but couldn't think of a good enough reason to insist on doing it herself. He scanned the items Olivia had chosen into the register one by one. Elaine's eyes kept drifting to the waistband of Olivia's pants. She forced herself to look away, back at the pills she'd been counting.

“Still fighting the good fight, Olivia?” Warren said.

“I guess so.”

“What was it this time? The World Trade Organization? Sweatshops?”

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“Did you chain yourself to an ancient redwood?”

She looked over at her mother, who blushed and shrugged her shoulders.

“Something like that,” Olivia said.

Warren put her purchases into a paper bag. “That'll be fifteen twenty-six. Should I put that on your account, Elaine?” he asked.

Olivia and Elaine answered simultaneously.

“No,” said Olivia.

“Yes,” said Elaine.

“I can pay for it myself, Mom.” Olivia pulled her wallet out of her pocket. “Shit,” she whispered, staring into the empty billfold.

“I'll take care of it,” Elaine said.

“Thanks.” Olivia took the bag Warren held out for her.

“Here! Don't forget the key,” Elaine reached over the counter, and handed Olivia a key to the house. “I'll be home at about seven o'clock or so. Arthur should be back before then.”

Elaine watched as Olivia walked out of the store. “Warren, why don't you go finish your lunch.”

“That's okay. I'm basically done.”

“No, really. Go on.”

The young man looked at her, puzzled, and then disappeared into the back. Elaine walked quickly out from behind the counter and to the center aisle of the store. She found the empty EPT box and brought it back to the register. She rang it up, and then shoved the box down into the trash. She took the receipt from Olivia's purchase and the receipt from the EPT and scrupulously entered them under her name in the ledger where she kept the employee accounts.

***

Olivia sat on the toilet, the pregnancy-test kit in her hand. She ripped the foil wrapper with her teeth, took out the white plastic wand, and peed a long stream over the absorbent tip. Once she'd replaced the cap, she placed the wand gently on the windowsill and turned on the water in the shower to hot. After a few moments, the room filled with steam. Only then did Olivia strip off her clothes and get in the shower. She stood there, eyes closed against the cleansing stream that coursed over her head, fighting the nausea that seemed never to lose its grip on her, until the water began to cool. Then she took the bar of soap and scrubbed herself until her body shone pink and raw. The tap squeaked under her hand as she wrenched it shut. She stepped out into the foggy room and picked up the pregnancy test. Two dark pink lines stared back at her.

“Fuck,” she said, and threw the test into the trash. Grabbing a towel off the rack, she rubbed herself dry. She reached into the garbage can, retrieved the test, and took it with her into her ­bedroom. For a long while, Olivia sat on the bed, staring at the pregnancy test. She didn't feel pregnant, only nauseated and exhausted. And she could not get Treyvon's cousin out of her mind. How could she be pregnant if there was even the slightest chance she'd be going to jail? Saliva pooled in the corners of her mouth. Leaping to her feet, Olivia ran, naked, to the bathroom. She made it just in time. For long minutes she spat and heaved into the toilet and cried. Finally, the spasms in her belly stopped, and she wiped the noxious combination of tears, mucus, sweat, and vomit from her face.