What Never Happened, page 11
Tomorrow.
“Don’t cross anybody,” she says. “I’m not tryin’ to die in this house.”
“I’m not trying to die in this house, neither.” My scowl tightens, and my breath comes hot through my nose. “You really have a gift, Auntie.” A virtuoso at making me feel like crap.
She mutters something, then takes her plate over to the armchair and TV tray. She aims the remote at the television and finds Wheel of Fortune. She snatches her phone from the tray and taps out a text message like a sullen teenager. What is she texting to Dee Dee? OMG I hate her sooooooo much grrrrr!!!!!
“Do you need anything else?” I ask.
She ignores me and focuses on the puzzle. It’s a phrase:
_ _ Y _ N
_ _ D
_ _ _ _ U _
“Day in and day out.” I ignore Gwen’s glare and take my burger and seltzer water out to the front porch and settle on the wet wood.
Fog drifts along Beacon Street. Out on the ocean, lights from marine vessels blink. Somewhere in Avalon, a monster is brushing his teeth or making a bologna-and-cheese sandwich for his loved ones . . .
Somewhere on the mainland, my ex paces on a beach, gnashing his teeth and snarling his snarls, his plans to destroy me foiled by the biggest body of water on the planet.
Thick splinters from the deck stick through my leggings to prick the backs of my thighs. But that’s how I know that I’m alive.
“Okay, so I’m not a cop or anything,” I tell Dr. Tamaguchi’s voice mail. “Nor do I know this island. But somebody’s gotta find out what happened the night they were taken from—”
The voice mail beeps and the recorded voice says, “Thank you.”
My phone chatters.
How’s it going? Maddy texts.
I’m good, I text back.
Healthy
Still keeping it together
Look at me
I send her a selfie of me sitting on the porch along with a video of dark Beacon Street.
Is this a good thing or a depressing thing? she asks.
Yes! I text back, laughing.
You know what’s missing from this picture?
You are vulgar—and yes
Gimme time tho
Only been here a full day
What’s his face from Hamilton texted me
You forgot to block him???
I did forget but then I hit that BLOCK
Anybody on this island do weaves?
Gwen braids but she doesn’t do the weaving part
Don’t let Gwen braid your hair!!
She used to light your scalp on fire!
Gwen did have a heavy hand, and my braids would yank at my scalp.
She just didn’t want them falling out, I text Maddy.
Sure. Okay.
I just won’t go swimming
The weight of water will weaken my tracks then I’ll have to explain weaves to whatever white boy I’ll soon victimize lol
Back in the house, Gwen turns the shower knobs. I can hear the bathroom pipes rumble as hot water travels through the house.
Maybe I’ll record my progress—a real-time home-improvement project combined with a personal journey and search for the killer. Maybe there’s a book in there somewhere.
There’s a book on the table already.
Oh. Yeah. I haven’t called the agent back. It’s not like I have to—I didn’t reach out to her in the first place, nor have I taken any money yet.
I find Andrea Liszl’s number, and her line rings until voice mail takes over. “Hi, Andrea. It’s Colette Weber. Let’s talk about this project this week. I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and now that I’m back in Avalon, I think there’s great promise in it. Looking forward to chatting.”
This will be hard—staying here, living with Gwen, working a full-time job, finding the monster who changed my life . . .
So many pebbles to turn over just to make sense of it all.
But I have time.
12.
Wednesday, March 11, 2020
My phone’s clock says that it’s now ten minutes after one, but that can’t be right, because the lamp shines bright, and a pen is in my hand, and there are sticky notes on the wall in the crude order of which house repairs to do myself and which house repairs deserve the expertise of Handy Andy.
Sticky Note 1: pipes (H.A.)
Sticky Note 2: electrical (H.A.)
Sticky Note 3: woodwork (H.A.)
Sticky Note 4: painting (me and H.A.)
Other task-related sticky notes: throw out expired food, throw out nasty linens and towels, buy new sconces and area rugs, light switches and a better broom, a hammer, nails, curtains. Buy a bed headboard. Buy good art and matching silverware and fruit fly traps . . .
Mom also made lists, and after I went through her things years after her death, I found a few in her favorite tote bag: steno pad sheet of Christmas-card recipients (Gwen wasn’t listed), a torn-out notepad listing ingredients that could’ve made a bomb (hydrogen peroxide, duct tape, and white vinegar), and a sticky note bulleting someone’s personality quirks (too stubborn, prideful, stops listening after three seconds).
Was Mom writing about Dad? Gwen?
And did Gwen intentionally braid my hair too tight? And what would Maddy know about Black hair care anyway?
The hardwood floor beneath my feet creaks now as I walk back and forth, adding notes and moving notes.
My eyes burn since I haven’t been able to close them.
At two thirty, I turn off the lamp and fall back onto the mattress. Sleep is a cobweb in the highest part of a cathedral ceiling. I can reach it . . . I’m almost . . . there . . .
Plip . . . plip . . . plip . . . right outside the garden-facing window.
Right now, that plipping is the loudest sound in the world.
I peek into the garden.
Its tawny head lowered, a deer drinks from a puddle. The drizzle wets her coat and makes her shimmer, makes her magic.
I watch her for a moment before crawling back to the mattress. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
There is no television in my bedroom because there is no cable box down here. There is no internet, so there is no streaming on my computer unless I use my phone’s hot spot. But my phone isn’t charging because the electrical system in this house is old as fuck.
I could go on a walk through the neighborhood . . . the dark, dark neighborhood . . . the cold and dark neighborhood haunted by strangers, deer, and possibly my ex-husband, who was never legally my husband, haunted by the monster who murdered my family . . .
Plip . . . plip . . . plip . . .
Is that deer still drinking?
I crawl back over to the garden window and peek out again.
She’s gone.
Plip . . . plip . . . plip . . .
I try to squint past the halo of white streetlight.
What’s out there in the darkness?
Who’s out there in the darkness?
After making oatmeal for Aunt Gwen, I find Handy Andy’s phone number written on a slip of paper beneath a Caesars Palace refrigerator magnet. The ink has almost faded—if I breathe too hard on the paper, the number will disappear. So I hold my breath and resolve to call him at a reasonable hour.
There’s a voice mail on my phone left by Pam Robins. Guess she’d called as I showered. “Thanks for your message. I’m glad to hear everything’s okay. Let’s check in later this week.”
I find Gwen in her armchair, and I kiss the top of her head. “I need to take your cart—I’m picking up some of my boxes from the post office.”
She opens her big Bible to Ezekiel, then pulls on glasses too big for her face. “Extra key is in the knife drawer.” She grabs my hand. “Don’t ever take a fence down until you know why it was put up.”
I squint at her. “Wow. Yours?”
She sucks her teeth. “Girl, that’s Robert Frost.” Then, she aims the remote at the TV and finds a rerun of the original Let’s Make a Deal.
What does she mean by this, though? I’m not making major changes to the house or altering the way she’s lived. But then, she and Dad quoted random things all the time, their favorite being, “Use your enemy’s hand to catch a snake.”
After wiping off dust, cobwebs, and dead leaves, I slide into the driver’s seat of Gwen’s cart and turn the ignition.
To my surprise, the engine purrs. The cart’s not as beat up as it looks.
There is no big-box store like Home Depot or Lowe’s on Catalina Island. Chet’s Hardware is open, and its inventory of appliances, home-improvement tools, and cleaning supplies makes my bleary eyes happy. I drag myself from aisle to aisle—hammers and nails there, and trash bags and mops and brooms there. Dad didn’t do much home repair, so I know almost nothing about building or fixing. I grab interior-decorating magazines for inspiration, and then, I grab caulk, a screwdriver, and air freshener. I snag three lavender candles to combat the headache banging above my eyebrows.
In line in front of me, a tall man wearing a jogging suit pushes a basket filled with face masks, latex gloves, six cans of Lysol spray, industrial-size jugs of bleach, and Mr. Clean.
Did he just cut up his girlfriend in his bathroom?
A man wearing paint-splattered whites snorts as he also scrutinizes Clean Freak’s shopping cart. “You really falling for this virus nonsense?”
“This nonsense is real,” Clean Freak says. “My cousin up in Spokane? You met him last year at the parade? He says the hospital beds in Washington are full. That it looks just like the movies.”
The painter rolls his eyes. “Fake news, my friend.”
The news stories I’ve seen have shown researchers wearing bunny suits peering into microscopes, and physicians wearing bunny suits peering into patients’ throats, and all of it looks like a Hollywood movie, like the one starring Dustin Hoffman or the other one with Gwyneth Paltrow. I hop out of line and grab the last can of Lysol spray along with a pack of gloves and face masks. Can never be too careful.
No one’s in line at the post office, and ten minutes later, six of my boxes mailed from Los Angeles are stacked into the cart.
It takes me another ten minutes to carry each up the steps, then down to my bedroom. My knees burn. Sweat streams down my back. I’m reminded to find a gym or fitness class sooner rather than later.
I find the unicorn in the bottom of the “Coco’s Junk” box. I tear away the loosely sewn stitch in her ass, then pull out the diamond-and-ruby ring.
I whisper, “Gorgeous,” as it sparkles in the light. How much will I get for it?
Back into the unicorn’s ass it goes.
I pull from the hardware store bag the most expensive purchase from this morning: a hot spot that allows me to connect to ten devices. Paying for data by the month will cost a lot, but then I’ll be able to work at home while the house gets rewired.
I pluck that “Get hot spot” sticky note off the wall, then rush out of the house to start my second full day at Avalon Breeze.
Rain clouds still sit over Paradise. Puddles are growing into lakes, some with purple oily sheens that spin and kaleidoscope with the reflection of the heavy sky.
A woman with a closed fist for a face sits at the reception desk. Phone to her ear, she tells the caller, “That GD flipper came back this morning, askin’ to buy my house. Why? So that some asshole from Miami can dig up the ferns? I worked hard on those ding-dang ferns.”
The office smells of fresh-brewed coffee and Icy Hot. Maddy’s been working out on the elliptical machine again. I follow her voice down the hallway to her office. She’s on the phone. An acai bowl sits untouched before her, but the berry smoothie is almost gone. She smiles and waves at me.
I settle at my desk behind the receptionist and pop an Advil chased by a pull of coffee. Now on the road to wellness, I check my email. No email.
Does Maddy have an onboarding process with sessions on time off, piracy, and sexual harassment? Do I need to complete a W-9? Show proof of identity to work in the US? She hasn’t asked for my Social Security number. How often is payday?
I check the calendar of events. Across the street at the museum, there’s an ongoing exhibit featuring Esther Williams, “The Swimming Queen of the Silver Screen.” There’s also naturalist training at the conservancy.
Exciting stuff.
I text Handy Andy.
Good morning!
Would you mind stopping by around 3:00 today?
I have THE LIST!
Would love to get started ASAP
I’ll pay whatever you need!
Let me know
This is the one time I don’t mind sounding desperate.
My inbox chimes—my first official email.
The sender: Heidi Paulsen.
Miss Weber, this is such a lovely obituary. Approved. Thank you so much. I stayed up all night thinking. It’s strange that Momma went out late like that. It’s really been bothering me, to be honest, especially since I still don’t know who she had dinner with. I talked to her friend Yvonne, and it wasn’t her. I wish I had time to talk to the others but I’m trying to finish up funeral arrangements. Anyway, I hope to see you at the services—she really loved reading the Breeze. I’ve counted 335 copies of it so far, ha ha.
My stomach feels slick, like one of those oil-sheened puddles on the sidewalk.
Who are the other people? I email back. I can ask them, and if they have special anecdotes about your mom, maybe I can write a follow-up profile. I don’t mind.
I turn in my chair, waiting for her reply. Okay, so it is crazy for a very sick and very old woman to be out and about in the rain. Avalon has its own rules, so I’d just figured . . .
A response from Heidi.
June Oliver
Clarence St. Joseph
Loretta Tucker
Heidi has provided phone numbers for each of her friends.
I call June Oliver first.
“And who are you again?” the old woman shouts into the phone. She sounds like a tuba and a “pack of Pall Malls a day” smoker.
I repeat my name and that I write for the Avalon Breeze. “Heidi Paulsen thought I should call you,” I shout.
The fist-faced receptionist turns around and shushes me.
I hiss back, “She’s old and deaf. Patience, please.”
“I don’t know you,” June Oliver shouts. “How do you know Pep? She’s dead, y’know. Damn shame.” A pause, then, “Are you selling subscriptions? Pep loved the Breeze, y’know.”
I try Clarence St. Joseph next. No one answers. No voice mail takes over.
I dial Loretta Tucker’s number, but her daughter, Loretta Junior, answers. “Mom’s at church, taking care of the priest’s robes.” The woman sighs, then adds, “Are you calling about Paula?”
“I am,” I say. “Heidi suggested I call a few of Paula’s friends.”
Loretta Junior grunts. “Poor Pep. Heidi should’ve forced her to move overtown once the city threatened to take the house.”
“Do you know if Pep and your mom had dinner together back on Friday night?”
“Mom was at church on Friday night,” Loretta Junior says. “Mom’s always at church. She attends Saint Catherine. She survives off communion wafers and the blood of Christ.”
I find directions to Saint Catherine. On Beacon Street, it’s just a five-minute walk from here, in the opposite direction of my—
Someone taps my shoulder.
I smile and spin around, expecting to see Maddy.
But it’s not Maddy.
He’s tall, tanned, and blue eyed. He smells rich: sunscreen, wood chips, and fresh fifty-dollar bills. His clothes are classic Americana with the blue sweatshirt over the white T-shirt and relaxed jeans. There’s a small compass pendant around his neck. He has the square jaw and straight spine of “legacy,” and his vibe is “total fuckup,” with the crooked smile and battered high-top Vans worn by other rich, hot total fuckups.
“Welcome,” he says with the drawl of a California white boy born by the sea.
I blink at him, and my head goes wobble-wobble.
He points at me. “You must be Colette.”
My tongue butts against my teeth like a robot vacuum cleaner against a wall.
He offers me his hand. “Noah Bancroft, your coworker.”
“Ah. Hi.” Victory! “Colette. Hey. Thanks.”
We shake hands.
One of his fingers feels crooked in my grasp—broken a long time ago. His palms are calloused in some places—boat hands. There’s an angry welt between his thumb and index finger—what or who was he doing to be scratched like that? He wears no rings, nor are there tan lines of rings from a once-upon-a-time love affair. My pulse jumps as I imagine this hand casually draped across my thigh.
“So,” he says, “where are you staying, Colette?”
“Call me Coco. And I’m living with my aunt. We have a house on Beacon Street.”
“And your husband?”
I frown. “My . . . what?”
He Mona Lisa smiles like a man who knows how to make women forsake their spouses. He lifts my left hand so that I can see, oh yeah, my wedding ring. A cheap gold band that Micah promised to replace once he “hit it big.” The only thing he hit big was our neighbor’s chonky cat, Weezer. And on his biggest payday, Micah bought a Ducati motorbike. For my image, he explained.
And now, I shrug as Noah holds my hand, and I say, “Oh. That. Means nothing now.”
He chuckles. “Lemme guess. You’re trying to figure out your marriage, and you’ve come to this beautiful island to learn life lessons, to sleep with a compassionate stranger, and to discover your truth in this stranger’s bed, which you’ll sneak out of as the new day starts. Then, you’ll sail back to . . .”
“LA,” I say.
“LA,” he says, “where your husband surprises you at the dock with a bouquet of . . .” He squints at me. “Purple roses.”
“Nice.”
“And over there, at the docks, he’ll apologize as you hold the roses to your nose. Your eyes will glisten, but with happy tears this time. He’ll get on one knee and propose, presenting you with a solitaire the size of the moon. Bystanders will stop whatever they’re doing to shout, ‘Marry him, honey!’ Overcome with emotion, you’ll nod and say ‘yes, I’ll marry you,’ and you’ll kiss him, and he’ll pick you up, and he’ll twirl you around, and together, you’ll live happily ever after, for real this time, the end.” He holds out his hands, ta-da, and takes a sweeping bow.
