Little Mercies (6 page)

Adam broke first, he always did. It was the end of the third day and Adam was standing at the kitchen sink, eating a bowl of cereal. “You’re lucky you’re my soul mate,” he said through a mouthful of Wheat Chex.

“You’re lucky you’re the love of my life,” I countered. And it was over. Like the fight had never happened. From then on whenever we got angry or argued, those words would follow.
You’re lucky you’re my soul mate. You’re lucky you’re the love of my life.

I lift the phone to my ear not to call my husband, not just yet. The phone rings and rings until it goes to voice mail. “Mom,” I say, finally surrendering to the tears that have been collecting behind my eyes. “Something happened to Avery.”

Chapter 10

A
s the police officers approached, Jenny froze in fear, a chunk of pancake lodging in her throat midswallow. She reached for her milk, took a swift drink and swallowed hard, willing the mass to slide down her windpipe. Ducking beneath the table, Jenny pretended to search for something on the floor, only raising her head when she was sure the officers had retreated to the far side of the restaurant.

With a sigh of relief, Jenny dug into her breakfast and ten minutes later, the eggs, bacon and four red-tinted, chocolaty pancakes were gone and Jenny was licking syrup from her sticky fingers, her belly uncomfortably full. Jenny fished inside her backpack and pulled out an envelope addressed to Jenny at the apartment where she first came to live with her father. The return address sent a shiver of excitement down her spine.
Margaret Flanagan, 2574 Hickory Street, Cedar City, IA.
It was like discovering an unexpected world, like Narnia and Nimh, the places her teacher read to them about, were real. It was a card for her fifth birthday from her grandmother. Her mother’s mother.

The day the letter arrived she watched as her father held the envelope in his callused hands. The letters they usually received were stark white envelopes holding bills that caused Billy to swear beneath his breath. This one he held carefully, staring silently down at the lavender envelope and for a moment Jenny was scared.

“It’s for you,” he said. Jenny, bouncing in anticipation, squealed in delight when a ten-dollar bill fell out as Billy opened the card. Jenny begged him to read it to her and tell her who it was from. “Your grandma,” he said grimly. “It’s from your mom’s mother.” Dutifully, he read the birthday card to Jenny, then retreated silently to his bedroom where he stayed for a very long time. Despite her father’s obvious lack of enthusiasm about the letter, Jenny was thrilled and incessantly pestered her father about going to visit her grandmother in Cedar City someday. They never did. Her father lost his job, they moved from their apartment and Jenny never received another letter or card from her grandmother. Eventually, Jenny stopped asking about her.

But now, sitting in a restaurant in Cedar City, in the very town where Jenny’s mother grew up, where her grandmother may still live, she slowly, methodically deciphered her grandmother’s handwriting. It was written in tiny, cramped cursive and Jenny, on her best days, struggled to read a menu. In the card, her grandmother said she was sorry that her daughter, Jenny’s mother, wasn’t there for her. That she didn’t used to be this way. She was once a caring, loving little girl who spent her days riding her bike around Cedar City and evenings catching fireflies and playing Kick the Can and Boys Chase the Girls. Jenny couldn’t imagine her mournful-faced mother ever hollering
Ollie, Ollie oxen free
at the top of her lungs and kicking at an old rusty coffee can with all her might.

Her grandmother wrote that she hoped that Jenny would write back to her, that maybe one day they would meet and she could tell Jenny more about how her mother used to be. She signed the letter Grandma Margie.

Jenny’s stomach flipped with excitement. Now all she had to do was find Hickory Street and the house where her grandmother lived. Jenny carefully placed the birthday card back into its purple envelope and returned it to her backpack. She turned her attention to the large manila envelope that held all the important papers in her father’s life. “This is it, Jenny,” he had said just the night before as they made their way to the bus station, all their worldly possessions in the two bags that they carried with them. “Say goodbye. We’re never coming back to Benton.”

Jenny slid a sticky finger into the envelope and her touch landed upon three photos. They were the thick kind of old-fashioned pictures that slid out of the bottom of the camera. The kind that you would shake until, slowly, like magic, the picture would emerge. Jenny gasped at the images. She wouldn’t have recognized herself if it weren’t for the Worlds of Fun t-shirt, once her favorite shirt, that showed a cartoonish map of the amusement park. She never actually had gone to Worlds of Fun, it was just another used article of clothing picked up from Goodwill, but she remembered loving that shirt, wearing it nearly every day. She could imagine herself raising her arms above her head as she rode the mini roller coaster or eating a mound of cotton candy on the carousel. The picture was a close-up of Jenny, both her eyes swollen shut, her upper lip so puffed up that it concealed her nostrils. A large cut slashed across her left check and appeared to be oozing, her Worlds of Fun shirt stained with what could only be blood. Jenny felt suddenly dizzy and the pancakes in her stomach churned like stones being skipped across a pond.

“Whoa, you were hungry,” the waitress exclaimed, reaching down for the empty plate and gathering wadded-up napkins and syrup-coated utensils. When Jenny didn’t respond, she looked down, her forehead pleated with concern. “You, okay?”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Jenny whispered hoarsely, clapping a hand over her mouth, her eyes searching desperately for the restrooms.

“It’s thataway.” The waitress pointed as Jenny slid out from behind the booth and stumbled away. Biting her cheeks and swallowing hard, she bumped from table to table, not noticing how the other customers recoiled at her approach. Jenny threw open the bathroom door and staggered to an empty stall, fell to her knees and vomited. Drops of perspiration beaded at her hairline and she gasped for breath. Again her stomach seized and she clutched the sides of the toilet trying to steady herself.

Jenny sensed rather than heard the presence behind her, and her face burned with shame at being caught in such a private act in such a public place. One gentle hand pressed against her shoulder and another cupped her forehead as her stomach gave one final violent lurch and the last remnants of her breakfast erupted.

Jenny was unfamiliar with such gentle touches, more accustomed to her father’s good-natured nudges and careless ruffling of her hair, but she had vague inklings of her mother and nestling against her on their old flowered sofa.

“Shh, now,” a voice soothed, and Jenny realized that she was crying. A low, sad moan, thick with mucous and tears. “It’s okay, get it all out.” Jenny didn’t want to move her head to see who was standing behind her. She thought she could fall asleep right there, kneeling on the floor, next to the toilet, her forehead cradled so carefully in one cool, capable hand while the other rubbed her back in slow, rhythmic circles. Jenny looked behind her and saw the blue hem of a skirt that stopped just above a thick calf seamed with bulbous purple veins and was glad to know it was the nice waitress rather than some stranger. “Are you okay?” the waitress asked. “Do you think you’re all done?”

Jenny closed her eyes; the sweat had cooled on her skin, causing her to shiver and the fine hair on her goose-pimpled arms to stand at attention. Her stomach burned slightly, felt hollowed out, empty. An ulcer, the doctor had warned last year when her father had taken her to the community health center after weeks of complaining about stomachaches. Jenny had a vision of her stomach with one perfectly round circle carved out, the red velvet pancakes she just ate wandering out of the hole and flowing into other parts of her body, floating aimlessly through her bloodstream.

“You think you can stand up?” the waitress asked, and Jenny reluctantly nodded. She pushed herself up from the grimy linoleum and stood on shaky legs. The waitress made sure Jenny wasn’t going to fall over and then turned to the sink, wet a dishrag that she pulled from an apron pocket and handed it to her. “Wash your face with this,” she urged, and stepped around Jenny to flush the toilet. Jenny was impressed. The last time she had the flu, her father had gagged right along with her, tossed her bedding into the Dumpster behind the apartment building and spent the rest of the evening lying on the couch with a cold washcloth covering his eyes.

“You want it back?” Jenny asked after she wiped her mouth with the rag. The waitress didn’t even hesitate or wrinkle her nose as she plucked the towel from Jenny’s hand and stuffed it back into her apron pocket.

Jenny faltered as the waitress opened the door that led back into the restaurant’s dining area. “Do you want me to call your sister for you?” the waitress offered. “You can wait in here until she comes.”

Jenny shook her head. “Nah, that’s okay. I’ll just call my mom, she’s going to be so mad at my sister,” Jenny lied. She bit her lip and looked up at the waitress apologetically. It was too much to ask for this nice lady to go and gather all of her things and bring them back to her hideout in the bathroom just because she ate too much and dreaded the long walk past the other diners back to the booth where her book bag rested.

“You wait right here and get your bearings and I’ll grab your bag for you,” the waitress said, reading her thoughts. “I’ll be right back.” Jenny watched the woman push through the door, the sunny fabric of her uniform stretching tightly across her swaying rear end like a waving flag. It was funny, Jenny thought, how different people could look in the front compared to the back. The waitress had an old, tired face and a young rear view. She remembered once, when she was little, she had gotten separated from her mother at Walmart. Jenny had looked anxiously around at all the knees that surrounded her until she found a set of tennis shoes and faded jeans that resembled her mother’s. She’d wrapped her arms around the familiar legs in relief until she was shaken gently off. Her heart had skipped in her chest when she looked up into the eyes of a bemused stranger who handed her off to a blue-smocked greeter who gave her jelly beans until her mother, out of breath and teary-eyed, rushed up to claim her. Her mother had swept her into her arms and covered her face with kisses, Jenny remembered, as she looked at her own pale-faced, red-eyed reflection in the mirror.

Jenny turned on the water faucet and held her hands beneath the tap and ran her wet fingers through her long tangled hair, trying to force it flat.
Like trying to tame a rabid squirrel with its tail caught in a light socket,
her father laughed about Jenny’s unruly hair and Jenny had laughed halfheartedly right along with him.

Jenny miserably waited until the waitress returned to the restroom with her backpack. When the door finally opened, Jenny snatched at the bag, set it on the sink and quickly inventoried the contents. Envelope, cell phone and clothes, all accounted for. Jenny slid her hand into the envelope, felt past the photos and letters to the cash and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “Here,” Jenny said, and thrust the money toward the waitress, who looked down at her with an expression that she couldn’t quite read.

“No, no,” the waitress answered, gently pushing Jenny’s hand away. “It’s on the house. We don’t make customers who get sick from our food pay for it.”

Jenny wanted to tell her that it wasn’t the food, that the red pancakes were actually very good, that it was this day, her father’s fight and getting separated from him, the strange man on the bus, the letter, the pictures, that made her throw up. Instead she shoved the bill back into the envelope, stepped past the waitress, out of the bathroom, into the restaurant and out the main doors into the parking lot, fleeing the Happy Pancake without even a backward glance.

The morning air was scorching but Jenny welcomed the relief from the frigid restaurant air. Traffic was still busy along the street and Jenny measured her options. There was a hotel just down the block and she knew how to reserve a room. She had done it several times when she was with her father and found that she needed to do the talking. It was easy, just tell the clerk that your father was getting the bags and your mother was changing your little brother’s diaper in the car. Look the clerk straight in the eyes and push the thirty dollars across the counter and wait for him to push back the key. It always worked.

The problem was this hotel looked much nicer than the ones she and her father ever stayed in. It looked like it probably even had a pool. Jenny would have liked that, a hotel with a pool. She imagined luxurious fluffy white towels and a heated whirlpool.

Her other option was to cross the street to the bus station and purchase a ticket back to Nebraska. She wondered if her father was in a hospital or maybe even in jail. When she returned she could use the cell phone to call one of her father’s friend-girls, one who hadn’t figured out that her father would never have just one friend-girl, and see if she could stay with her for a day or two. The thought of climbing back on the bus and the eight-hour ride back to Benton in the dark with a busful of strangers made Jenny’s stomach wobble again. She knew what she needed to do next. She would check around, find out where Hickory Street was. Take a bus or a cab there. Certainly her grandmother would be glad to see her, to actually meet her. And maybe, just maybe, her mother would be there, too.

Chapter 11

I
check in one more time with the receptionist, hoping there is some kind of update on Avery. She shakes her head. “I know it’s hard to wait,” she says kindly. My red eyes and mascara-stained cheeks must have convinced her that I do have a soul.

“I’m going to go outside and make a phone call. Could you...” I begin.

“I will come out and find you the second the doctor comes out,” she assures me.

I step through the automatic doors and a surge of heat washes over me and I immediately begin to sweat. I don’t think, I just press the button that connects me to Adam.

“Ellen!” he says by way of greeting. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for two hours!”

“Adam,” I interrupt. “I’m at the emergency room with Avery.” My social worker persona is trying to take over, but I don’t want it to. This is about Avery. This is my husband. “Please come. Please hurry,” I choke. “Please.”

“I’ll be right there,” he says, and hangs up. I wonder if Leah and Lucas are with him or at the babysitter’s house. I hope they are with the sitter. I don’t want them to be afraid; I don’t want them to see me explain to their father what has happened to Avery.

I try to call my mother one more time, but again there is no answer. Next, I dial Joe, knowing that he’s at the police station. Ever since the first day we met, amid the tragedy that was the Twin Case, we’ve been good friends. Joe is now a detective with the Cedar City Police Department, and I wonder if he has heard about what has happened to Avery. As soon as he picks up his phone, I know that he hasn’t. “Hey, stranger!” he exclaims. “How’re you?” There is a happy lilt in his voice that he unknowingly reserves just for me. Sometimes I think Joe might be a little bit in love with me, but I choose to ignore it. I don’t want to lose our friendship.

“Joe,” I begin, “I left Avery in the car. I didn’t know. I didn’t know!” I am quickly losing the fight to keep my emotions under control. I do my best to explain the events of the morning, but even to my own ears, it sounds unbelievable.

“Hang on,” Joe finally interrupts. “Where are you right now?”

“At the hospital. They aren’t telling me anything. I don’t know what’s happening.”

Joe is quiet for a moment and I know his detective mind is itching to ask me a thousand more questions. To his credit, he doesn’t. “I can be there in ten minutes,” he finally says.

“No, no.” I shake my head. “Don’t do that. Adam is on his way.” Even across the telephone line I can almost feel Joe bristle. “Thank you, though. I just wanted...” What do I want, I wonder. “I just wanted to let you know,” I finish lamely.

“She’ll be okay,” Joe offers kindly. We both know that this is not an absolute. In our lines of work we have seen way too much to ever believe that things always turn out just fine. Still, my heart lifts for a moment. There are successes: the father who goes to anger management classes, the mother who regularly attends AA, the families reunited. “Give me a call when you can,” Joe says, “and I’ll do some checking around here.”

I thank him and hang up the phone, wondering, after the fact, what he would need to check on at the police station.

With shaking hands I call Kelly, my best friend since third grade. Kelly lives in Cedar City and stays home with her four boys, all under the age of six. There was a time when Kelly and I would talk nearly every single day, no matter how busy our lives got. This isn’t the case any longer. Kids, work, laundry, our husbands always seem to come first. Still, we make a point to get together once a month for breakfast at a local bakery. Some months we only have half an hour to spare, but still we meet, exchange the high and low points of what is happening in our lives, hug and then go back to our insane lives.

“Kelly!” I exclaim as soon as she answers, but that is all I can say. I find it impossible to once again put into words what has happened. But Kelly is a master at prying information out of people, a remnant of our high school days when Kelly was the editor of the school newspaper.

Who, what, where, when, how?
Kelly asks, listening carefully as I respond in equally short, staccato answers.
Avery, heat stroke, van, this morning, I don’t know,
I say between sobs.

“I’m calling Nick to come home to be with the kids,” she says. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she assures me.

Then it hits me, a quick strike to my solar plexus. Leaving a child locked in a hot car is neglectful, abusive, criminal. I could be charged and arrested for child endangerment and if the unthinkable happens, if Avery dies, I could be charged with worse. I could lose my entire life, my family, my career. “I didn’t know,” I whisper. Then again more loudly, “I didn’t know.” Passersby give me curious glances but keep moving. “I didn’t know she was there!” I plead to no one in particular, my breath coming now in ragged gulps. I feel light-headed, dizzy, and clutch at the wall to keep from falling.

“Shh, now,” the receptionist from the emergency room is at my side, trying to hold me up, keep me from collapsing to the floor. “Dr. Nickerson is ready to speak to you. She has word about your daughter. Come quickly.”