When She Flew (34 page)

When she couldn’t sleep, Jess let her imagination run. They’d found a safe haven, another farm deep in rural Oregon where folks didn’t ask too many questions. Lindy would go to school and make friends, attend 4-H fairs and sleepovers, and giggle with other girls about their crushes on boys. She would learn that she had options as she matured and became a young woman, and that it was normal to leave your parents when the right time came.

Jess could only hope all those things would happen for Lindy, and accept the fact that she’d never know for sure. Thank god the girl was made of steel, inside and out. Just like Nina, only Jess hadn’t trusted her daughter enough to realize she would come back to her when she was ready. Now Jess had to trust that Lindy would find her if she ever needed help. If she didn’t believe that, she’d never sleep again.

 

 

 

AS SUNDAY AFTERNOON BECAME SUNDAY evening, shadows lengthened and the air cooled, a harbinger of fall. Jess pushed herself into a sitting position on the couch, mind thick with the semiconscious cycling of grief, worry, love—pieces of memory and dream and intuition. She no longer had the ability to do something physical to chase it all away, to work, or clean, or take care of others.

Without Nina, she wondered if she could even fend for herself, heat up the meals her daughter had left in containers, change out of the musty T-shirt and pajama bottoms she’d been wearing all weekend. Clara wanted to come over and help, but so far Jess had been successful in holding her off. Even if she starved and they found her dead in a smelly heap of unchanged garments and bed linens, that would be easier than having to care for her mother emotionally as her mother tried to figure out how to take care of her. Besides, Chris had also offered to help, a prospect that stirred Jess as much as it scared her. Maybe when she figured out how to change her shirt, she’d give him a call.

Outside, a dark red Chrysler pulled up to the curb. Jess watched with disinterest, running her good hand through her pillow-matted hair. Someone was visiting a neighbor. A man stepped from the car. Before she could see his face, Jess knew who it was from his erect posture and damn-the-torpedoes gait.

“Oh, great,” she moaned, planting her feet on the carpet and struggling to stand. She moaned at the dizziness and disorientation, drawing deep breaths through her nose before proceeding toward the door. He’d only come to her house with bad news, but what could be worse than everything they’d already thrown at her? Could they fire her before they’d investigated the case? She didn’t think so. Had they caught up with Ray and Lindy?

At Sergeant Everett’s knock, she steadied herself and opened the door. He wore khaki shorts and a Seahawks polo shirt. She’d never seen his legs before, and kept her eyes averted now.
He’d be in uniform if it was official,
she thought,
and driving a city car.Wouldn’t he?

“Jesus Christ, Villareal,” he said. He held a baking dish covered with foil. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I try.”

“My daughter, Megan, insisted I bring you dinner. She makes a good manicotti. Takes after her mom.”

Jess held tight to the doorknob. She had to be strong, even in pajamas, even injured and sleep deprived and looking repulsive.

“Well,” he said, “I’m guessing you can’t carry this thing, so how about I put it in the fridge for you?”

She stepped aside, letting him in.

“I’ll be out of your way in a minute,” he said, heading for the kitchen.

The dizziness returned, and no matter how much she wanted to stand, she would have to sit. Everett walked into the living room and watched her return to the couch and carefully lower herself onto it. She couldn’t read the expression on his face.

“That looks pretty serious,” he said, nodding at the football pad-sized bandage that was her shoulder. “You did all that in the woods the other night?”

“They think the initial injury happened when I took that fall on my shotgun,” she said, offering nothing more. Was he fishing for worker’s comp fraud? “So, anyway—” she prodded.

“Yeah, anyway, I, uh, I have some updated information for you.” He nodded at the chair by the window. “Mind if I sit?”

“Might as well be comfortable.”

He took a seat, crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. Was he nervous?

“Seems the chief got a phone call this morning from someone . . . well . . . let’s just say someone pretty high up on the city’s food chain. This person was able to convince the chief to drop the investigation against you.”

Jess drew a breath, held it.

“For the record, Jess, I was never on board with that, with the investigation stuff. I tried to tell him the same damn thing, but hell, I don’t carry any weight around there.” He sighed. “That doesn’t mean I think what you did was right. But you’re stubborn, like me, when you get your mind wrapped around something.”

She nodded. This was Everett’s idea of an apology, and it didn’t feel half bad.

“What about Ray and Lindy?” she asked. “Still after them?”

“Nah.” He leaned back. “We called off the search, too. That was also one of my little ideas the chief ignored. Maybe I’m not as much of an asshole as you think.”

“You know, Sergeant Everett, I really don’t think you’re that much of an asshole.”

His eyebrows rose. She rattled her prescription bottle at him. “Teasing, Sarge. I’m kidding. I’m on drugs. I can’t be held responsible for anything I say.”

He shook his head but chuckled.

“It’s not all rosy,” he said. “Your suspension stands.”

Of course it did; she’d gone against orders. “What about Z?”

“Dog man? Two weeks, paid.”

It could have been worse.

“Your suspension and medical leave will run concurrently, however, and after that, you’re on desk duty until you’re back in fighting shape. Okay?”

Jess gave a crisp nod but smiled. She would cry and laugh and call everyone she knew after he left. “Thank you, Sergeant,” she said.

“Yup.” He stood. “Don’t get up. I’ll let myself out.”

At the door, he stopped, turned toward her. “I never knew you had friends in such high places, Villareal. Who do you know in the mayor’s office, anyway?”

“It’s a mystery to me, Sarge,” she said. “Maybe I just have a guardian angel.”

“Huh.” He looked at her for a long moment, like maybe she’d crack and spill something, then shrugged. “Take care of that shoulder,” he said. “We need you back.”

She watched through the window as he strode to his car, wishing she could call Michael or the reverend to say thank you, but she knew it would be best for them if she never made contact with anyone at the City of Refuge Church again.

Unless, of course, she came across someone who needed their help.

Jess reached for her cell phone. Whom should she call first to share the good news? Ellis? Nina? Her mother? She bit her lip, then dialed Chris. Maybe he liked manicotti.

36

O
regon is a state of many forests. Even though we couldn’t go back to our home in the Joseph Woods, we found a nice spot after hitching a ride south with a logging truck. The driver knew the woods where he let us off, and told us where the nearest town was. He said if we stayed too near the river, we’d be bothered by hikers and boaters, so he pointed the way to a less-traveled area. He was sympathetic to our plight, having a nephew who had served in the war and came back missing the lower half of his body, not to mention any prospects for a job, or marriage, or a family. I don’t think he’d seen us on TV, or if he had, he was too polite to mention it.

We found a flat, sheltered spot, already cleared by previous inhabitants. They’d built a wood structure on a platform, which gets us out of the rain now that it’s the wet season. It’s not exactly a cabin, Pater says, but it’s a solid enough shelter. He thinks maybe we’ll like it even more than the tree house, but I miss my nest. We’ll work on enclosing it as soon as he is able to move around more and do physical work again. He can hardly walk more than a few yards at a time right now. I think he will always walk with a limp, and his back troubles him more than ever. His hands are still a problem, and they look just awful because he wouldn’t go to the hospital or a doctor after he jumped out the window. He insisted he could clean and tend the wounds as well as any doctor, which he did in a service station bathroom, using the sleeves of his shirt for bandages. They are healing slowly, and he is frustrated that he has to have me do most of the chores. Pater is not one to sit idle, no matter how much pain he is in.

We are different now than we used to be. He acts less like the adult, and I act less like the child. We’ve had to start from scratch again. We will never replace everything we left behind; some things are gone forever, like my stories buried beneath the foliage up in the Joseph Woods, and the new one I was writing in Officer Villareal’s notebook.

The twenty-dollar bill I used to keep in my shoe went for groceries when we first got here, before Pater could tell the VA where to find us. There’s a little store a few miles down the highway, and I like walking there by myself, even though it makes Pater nervous, but he’s not up for making that long of a walk. Before all this happened, I’d never gone anywhere alone. Not until I first followed the heron, that is, which led to all kinds of things, good and bad.

Bad is that we had to leave our home, and that the police wanted to take me away from Pater, and that all those TV people were lying about us, making us seem peculiar and scary. Bad is that Pater went crazy from it for a while and nearly destroyed the both of us.

Good is that I didn’t let him, and that we got away from all of it so he could be himself again. He survived his demons. That’s what he says. He apologizes almost every day, and at night I hear him whispering, asking God not to ever let him get that way again. I pray for the same thing most nights, and I wonder what will become of me when I am older. For now, though, Pater needs taking care of, and I’m the only one he has. When I needed rescuing, he came and swooped me out of the arms of evil and brought me to a place of beauty. And now I can try to do the same for him.

The store in town is called Dixie’s Thrifty Mart, and in addition to food and firewood and fishing gear, it sells
The Oregonian.
When we first got here, I asked if I could buy a used newspaper for a discount, and the man at the cash register just laughed, but in a nice way. He reached under the counter and pulled out a few old papers, let me look through them and take what I wanted, and now it’s become a habit. The first thing I found out was that they weren’t looking for us anymore. When I told Pater, he just shrugged, but I know that helped him settle down some. I’ve read everything printed about Officer Villareal and us in the past two months. I try to neatly tear the articles out, then fold them and put them in my pocket. At home I hide them in a dry space between two boards near my bed, where I keep her card along with Reverend Rosetta’s phone number and my birth certificate.

There hadn’t been anything in the news in weeks, but yesterday, on the front page of
The Oregonian
, it said that Officer Villareal was awarded a commendation for “heroism and humanitarianism.” There was a picture of her in uniform with her arm in a sling, but she was smiling and looked happy. Next to her were the mayor and the chief of police and the older policeman who was in the group that found us. Sergeant William Everett, it said his name was. He was nice right up until he tried to trick us that night in the police station. I certainly hope he didn’t get an award, too.

The other place I like to go in town is the church. It’s small with no steeple, nothing like Reverend Rosetta’s church, and the singing on Sundays is almost painful to listen to, but the people are mostly nice. They have a used-clothing box out front, which I went through when we first got here so Pater and I could have some decent clothes and coats for the winter.

On Sundays, I lie about who I am, say my name is Jessica and that I just moved to the area and live with my invalid father, and then I ask the Lord to forgive me. I don’t think He minds too much. If I don’t lie, I can’t go to church. If I don’t go to church, I can’t meet other people, and if I don’t meet other people, I will never be able to find a way to live in the real world again. Pater may not want to, but I do, someday.

After church, I like to stay and talk with some of the kids about what their favorite movies are, who the best bands are. Once I said I liked Green Day and two of the boys nodded their heads, and one said, “Old-school. Solid.” When they’ve all drifted away to their families or their groups of school friends, I walk back to our camp and tell Pater what the preacher had to say. Pastor Sorensen is not that powerful of a preacher, even though he is a devoted man of God, so I embellish a little to cheer Pater up.

I have found that I’m pretty good at it, at telling stories, at writing them down. I don’t think I’d ever want to be a preacher, but maybe I could be someone who writes down stories for books. Or a person who studies birds—an ornithologist, Pater says. Or I could be a teacher. Maybe I could do all those things at once, like Miss Carol Frischmann. Maybe I could write a book about my new forest and all the things I’m learning about here: the towering sugar pines with their long cones, the incense cedars that smell like pencils. Black bears roam these woods looking for anything humans leave behind, and deer browse the manzanita, ripping leaves and berries from stems with more force than you’d think a deer would have in its dainty jaw and slender neck. The big oaks and maples are getting ready to shed their fall colors and turn to bone for winter; the flowers of bear grass and white ginger are already delicate skeletons, rattling in the cold wind that comes down from the mountains.