One We Love, The (22 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY

W
hen I got home,
I sat down and compared the two files. In what I assumed was the original file,
the progress notes documenting each session, had been handwritten. I recognized
Regina’s spiky, aggressive scrawl. The second set appeared to be created from a
computer template, Regina’s signatures on the bottom presumably forged. I held
the papers side by side to compare. They all looked the same. I crossed
handwriting analyst off my list of possible career choices.

The wording in both sets of notes matched, except for
portions I discovered had been excised from the file I’d been given. Just a few
sentences from each progress note, but enough to alter the meaning
considerably.

The missing sections all had to do with Karissa’s
relationship with Mitch and her reports of his own efforts at change.
Apparently her husband was involved in therapy as well as attending anger
management classes. According to Regina, Karissa and Mitch were working toward
reconciliation. If I had been expecting a negative bias from her to the idea of
reconciliation I would have been wrong. Regina’s statements were
matter-of-fact, and the goals she and Karissa created—also absent from the fake
file—were geared to facilitate a reunification.

So, Karissa wanted to return to her abuser and whoever
doctored the file didn’t want me to know that.

Why, and also, obviously, who?

I moved to the computer and, for lack of any better idea,
started plugging their names into the search engine. Astrid had a Facebook
page, but it was set to privacy settings and I didn’t think she’d approve my
friend request.

Clotilde’s name had dozens of hits. All that fundraising and
speechifying. She was definitely the big winner. In fact, one of her speeches had
been put up on YouTube last June. Technology amazed me.

I clicked the play arrow and sat back to watch. It was a
basic give-us-money-we-save-lives pitch to an organization I’d never heard of. 
Judging by the glittery jewelry and stylish audience, I wasn’t rich enough. I
studied Clotilde’s face. Though her face had a high-cheekboned, graveness that
suited her, she wasn’t pretty. She hadn’t the warrior flare of Lachlyn nor the
warmth of Astrid, but she definitely had style.

Much of her speech had to do with statistics, national and
local. She covered the history of the shelter. I caught a glimpse of Beth
Collier in the crowd, sitting at a table with a distinguished-looking man. She
wore a diamond bracelet that held me enthralled for several moments. I didn’t
know any rich drunks.

Then my attention swept back to Clotilde. She was talking
about Cherly Bailey. About her life and death, the odds and obstacles she
faced. About the need for services and programs to prevent just such
occurrences.

Clotilde’s plea was heartfelt and sincere. Her life had been
poured out in efforts to prevent this kind of tragedy, and she was reaching
out, asking for help, demanding a response.

I could almost see the people reaching for their checkbooks.
I would have. Apparently, victims had uses even in death.

 Something flickered across my brain again. Something Paul
had said at the restaurant. I tried to remember what we had been talking about,
but couldn’t follow the spider web-thin trail back to its inception. I hated
when that happened.

I didn’t have Paul’s number, but I took a chance and called
the HP & Me club. An appropriately anonymous voice picked up, then at my
request, hollered, “Hey, Paul. Some chick wants to talk to you.” The “chick”
part was his own idea.

I could almost feel waves of joy emanating from the phone as
Paul came on the line. He had publically received a phone call from a woman—and
it was me. He was a happy man.

Eventually I was able to control his effervescence and asked
if he could remember exactly what he had said when we were talking about why
women went back to their abusers.

This produced a long, painful silence, punctuated by several
consecutive “ums.” 

“Was it about survival instinct?” he asked. “I said
something about that. Remember?” I could tell from the plaintive quality in his
voice that all his raw, people-pleasing needs were hanging on my answer.

“Not exactly, but that’s what we were talking about. So, it
was around that time. Something about . . . Argh! I don’t know. I just can’t
seem to remember, but I think it’s important.”

“Well, you’re still recovering from your concussion. Maybe
it’ll come to you if you stop trying so hard.”

Good advice, but as usual I wasn’t able to take it. I
fretted the rest of the evening, trying to sneak up on the memory by returning periodically
to Karissa’s goals and staring at them until my eyes watered.

I was
not
crying.

D
espite another
restless night, I woke up Friday morning feeling physically a little better,
but just as frustrated and emotionally lost as I had the night before. I lay in
bed, trying to soak up comfort from the warm huddle of blankets that I’d
twisted myself into. When it started to feel more like a straight jacket and
less like a womb, I got up.

In the shower, I decided it was time to restore order in my
life, starting with my legs. I’d either have to shave or braid and, frankly, I
didn’t think my legs could pull off the Bo Derek look. It was while I was balanced
precariously on one leg and thrusting its lathered mate straight out to avoid the
shower spray that I heard Paul’s voice.

“You’d think getting away would just be a simple survival
instinct. If I was the one trying to help that would make me crazy.”

Thankfully it wasn’t his literal voice or I would have
sliced my knee cap off. As it was, a thin trickle of blood ran down the drain.

Seconds later, still damp and sporting one smooth and one
bristly appendage, I ran out the front door.

T
he trailer in
Lot 7 looked as dilapidated and deserted as it had the last time I’d been here.
A not-so-gently used FOR RENT sign had been taped up in the window with “see
Park Manager” penciled underneath. So that’s what I did.

  Whatever misgivings I’d left her with, Tallie had reverted
to her sunny disposition. Her hair had also morphed into an unnatural, but
strangely suitable buttercup yellow. Not blond, mind you.
Yellow
. Staring
into her bright black eyes and listening to her chirpy greeting, I had the
strangest impression that I’d caught her midway through a canary-to-human
shape-shifting spell.    

“Sorry to bother you again,” I said. “I was hoping to find
that Bernie and Karissa had returned. Have you heard from them?”

“No, I sure haven’t. Bernie said she’d get back in touch and
I really thought she would, even if she just wanted her deposit back. Although
with the shape they left the trailer in, maybe she knew better.” She shook her
head, making that teacherly “tsk” sound. “I was all ready to get in there and
at least clean out the trash and the fridge, but my sister up in Bloomer broke
her hip. I had to run up there for a couple of days, poor thing. I guess I’ll
have to use some of the deposit to hire a cleaning service, although the park
owner doesn’t like when we have to do that.”

I already knew what I was going to ask her, but I had a few
more questions first. “You said they used the Wrangler to move. Did they make a
few trips to get everything or just the one?”

“No, I know for a fact they left most of their stuff. All I
saw them taking out was a couple of suitcases, the baby’s diaper bag, and some
garbage bags. That trailer is rented furnished, but it’s just the basics. Thing
is, though, when the fridge died about five months ago, Bernie bought herself one.
Said she wanted an ice maker. She got a nice one, too. I can’t imagine her
leaving that behind. She really loved that ice maker.”

Tallie’s wistful tone left me wondering if she’d been
tempted by the alluring ice maker herself. As one who lived with ice trays and
tap water, I could relate.

“I’m going to have to decide pretty quick though,” she continued.
“All I got from Bernie was her last month’s rent. She was usually behind a few
weeks, but never too bad. Once Karissa moved in, they kept it up pretty
current. She must have been helping out. I don’t suppose you know anybody
interested in a nice trailer?”

“Nice” was a highly subjective term, and not my first choice
as an adjective for the domicile on Lot 7, but now was not the time to quibble.

“How much are you asking?”

“Three-fifty a month, includes utilities. First and last
month down. No smoking, no pets, no kids.” Her eyes brightened in “Could it be?”
hopefulness.

No. It could not. However . . .

“I’ll keep it in mind if I hear of anybody looking for a
place,” I said. “But listen, Tallie, how about if I helped with the cleaning?”

Her head tilted. “Really? How much?”

“How much?”

“How much do you charge?”

“Uh, I don’t know really. I just . . .”
Just wanted to
paw through Karissa’s belongings and didn’t want to get charged with
trespassing?
“Just wanted to help. I feel bad that they took off so suddenly.
It was almost as if something frightened them off, wasn’t it?”

Tallie’s face clouded. “I can’t say I haven’t wondered about
that. It’s just that them being scared away seems so overdramatic. Usually when
people take off, it’s a money thing.”

“Maybe, but you said they were doing better with the bills.”

She sighed. “Yeah, they were. If it was just money, I think
Bernie would have come back for her stuff. Especially the deposit and that
fridge. It just doesn’t make sense.”

We stood silent for a moment as we pondered the mystery of
the abandoned fridge. Tallie finally shook herself.

“Well, this isn’t getting that trailer cleaned. I’ve been
dreading it, but if you want to take it on, that works for me. How about this:
I’ll provide the cleaning supplies and pay a hundred bucks a day. Don’t go over
three days though. What do you think?”

“Three hundred bucks?” I turned to look at the trailer. With
all that had happened, I’d been off work quite a bit. I could use the money,
plus this was open season on snooping.

How bad could it be?

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

B
ad, of course.
Really bad. I wouldn’t say Bernie was a hoarder, but if reality TV ever started
a show called “Extreme Collectors of Creepy Shit,” Bernie could audition. She
was definitely in that pre-hoarder zone where standing amid the clutter induced
an immediate case of claustrophobia. Not to mention, pediophobia.

That’s fancy for “freaked out by dolls.” And there were
dolls
everywhere.
Hundreds of them sitting on shelves and tables, the
couch and the TV and the floor. Every one of them looking at me with blank,
shiny plastic eyes, propped upright in frilly dresses and frozen poses.

The whole place stunk, too: cigarette funk, dust, old
garbage. The stagnant air of a home that’s been shut up tight. The trailer
itself wasn’t horribly filthy—at least, the parts I could see—but the odor, trapped
in the doll clothes and hair, permeated the room.

I paused a moment when I realized for the first time, that
cigarettes stunk. I’d always known that, theoretically anyway, but for once the
smell of them didn’t tempt me. Progress.

Tallie had handed over the keys, along with a bucket full of
generic cleaning supplies, a new pair of bright purple latex gloves, and four
boxes of heavy duty trash bags. I shuffled the bucket and discovered a fifth
box. Tallie’s strategy was clear: throw everything out and scrub down the rest.
Not a bad plan.

I went from room to room turning on lights and trying to
wrestle open the windows. I’d thought that the living room doll collection was
overwhelming, but I hadn’t calculated on them appearing everywhere. The second
bedroom had been completely given over to them, although any attempt at organized
display was lost. Plastic humanoids covered every surface, piles and piles of
them. Hillocks rose where presumably the bed and dresser sat. I couldn’t get to
the window so I just shut the door on them.

The bathroom was the one room that was relatively free of
them. There were a few, but I could see surfaces. Thankfully, the toilet only
had four balanced precariously on the tank. Still, I’d hate to have eight eyes
staring over my shoulder as I peed.

 Two prescription bottles sat on the teensy ledge over the
sink. Half full, made out to Karissa Dillard: Abilify and Zoloft. I set them
back. I had to stand in the tub to get to the window, but it was stuck fast. I
found myself looking straight across into the neighbors’ kitchen.

They were close. Like what-kind-of-toothpaste-and-are-you-getting-enough-fiber-in-your-diet?
close. Bernie may not have had much to do with her neighbors, but that didn’t
mean they didn’t know everything that was going on in her life.

Might be a good time to see if anyone was home. It was only
midmorning but retired or the unemployed—and let’s face it, this
was
a
trailer park—might be available. Besides, I could let the trailer air out and
get away from the doll asylum.

Nobody answered at the first trailer, but I heard shuffling
sounds after my knock on the next one over. The door opened to a tall, grizzled
old-timer wearing pale gray sweatpants and a two-sizes-too-small pink T-shirt
with a picture of a leaping musky on the front. His fish-white belly drooped
six inches lower than the hem, peeking out like a fleshy orb from underneath. I
tried not to look.

I
really
didn’t want to look.

“Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying. Unless it’s Girl
Scout cookies. I like them coconut ones.”

“Do I look like a Girl Scout?”

 “Maybe if we put you in pigtails and a little, green
skirt.” He leered. “I like cookies.”

“Ew. I don’t think so.”

“Then, what do you want?”

The last thirty seconds of my life back?

“I’m looking for Bernie and her granddaughter, Karissa. Lot
7?” I pointed. Since it was only two doors down, it shouldn’t have taken as
long as it did for him to focus. “Have you seen them?”

“They left. You a bill collector?”

“No. Do you know where they went?”

“No. Got any cookies?”

“No.”

He shut the door.

I trudged across the pitted concrete drive to the trailer
directly across from the cookie fetishist. After knocking twice, a plump grandmotherly-type
answered. The escaping aroma of baked deliciousness almost brought me to my
knees. She was coated wrist-to-elbow in flour dust and wore a burgundy apron
trimmed in white ruffles that looked remarkably clean given her flour-sleeved
status.

“Yes?” she asked. Her smile deepened a set of dimples,
making her look like Pillsbury’s matriarch. If I poked her tummy, I bet she’d
giggle.

I explained my purpose, a conversation made difficult
because of the excessive drool that kept pooling in my mouth every time I
caught of whiff from the kitchen. Louise—we’d done full introductions,
including inquiries (hers) into possible relatives from the area I’d grown up
in—didn’t know anything about Bernie or Karissa, although she said Mikey spent
some afternoons over at her house. I couldn’t blame him. I wanted her as my
adopted grandma, too. Before I left, she trotted back to the kitchen and
brought me back three cookies—chocolate chip, warm, and melty.

Life was good again.

Still licking chocolate off my fingertips, I walked to the
next trailer. The door popped open before I could knock, disclosing a
fifty-something woman in a neck brace glaring at me. She needed a hair dye
spruce-up since it was apparent that it had been several months since her last
dye job. A three-inch strip of grey roots bifurcated her head. Again, it was
hard not to stare.

“Yeah?” Smoker’s rasp with much attitude.

Fifteen seconds into my “looking for Bernie” spiel, she
slammed the door. Maybe she had an emergency appointment with the hair dresser.
Wouldn’t want to miss that.

 The next two trailers were empty or, at least, their
homeowners were nonresponsive. At work, maybe . . . or the liquor store. At the
next place, I almost twisted my ankle on a discarded beer can buried in the
shin-high scrub grass along the edge of the lawn. Nearly a dozen more lay close
by. I sighed. At least I had been a tidy drunk.

The beer drinker’s trailer sat directly across from
Bernie’s, theoretically giving its resident a clear view of her home. The
trailer itself was dilapidated, the skirting missing in spots giving the
exterior a gap-toothed appearance. Not the happy, in-search-of-tooth-fairy look
of a young child either. More like the smashed out spaces of a has-been boxer.

I tapped on the door. A has-been boxer type in a filthy,
stained, tank T-shirt answered. He stood in the doorway, weaving unsteadily,
gripping the frame to keep himself from falling on his face. Instead of
“hello,” he greeted me with a long, odorous belch. The belch, by itself, was
fairly impressive, demonstrating a range and variety of tone found in most
operettas.

It really stunk though. My guess was a beer and taco
breakfast with undertones of lost-my-toothbrush-ages-ago grunge.

“My lucky day,” he said. Actually he said, “Mmm lickee duh,”
but I speak fluent drunk. His bleary eyes crawled over my body. All of a sudden
I found myself nostalgic for the charming innocence of the cookie creep.

 “I’m looking for Bernie and Karissa,” I persevered,
although frankly I don’t know why. “They were renting Lo—”

“Come on in, baby!” He threw the door open. Unfortunately
for him, it ricocheted off the wall and slammed into his shoulder. He stumbled
sideways, his face folding into a snarl of rage. “Grrr.”

“Did you just growl?”

“Grr . . . ahrooooo!” He threw his head back in full
werewolf howl.

Time to split.