The Desert Behind Me Read online

Jamie needed to be punished and he intended to make her suffer.

  He laughed out loud, no crazier than anyone else around. Wait until Jamie realized it was all her fault.

  He’d be there to watch that, too.

  9

  I craved silence. So rare I couldn’t remember the last time.

  Not that long ago I wouldn’t have been in crowds. Wearing a uniform again had seemed nearly impossible. But I’d pushed myself beyond wanting to end it all , toward creating a new life. I don’t know what primal instinct drove me to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I’d stretched myself further these last couple of days and everything jangled loose inside.

  Zoey Clark. I closed my eyes and fought against the feel of damp air, the clammy touch of mud beneath my fingers, the sickening smell of lilacs. I tried to hope for the best, but in the deep tissue of my body, I knew the probabilities.

  The best thing to do was race across town to my home that backed to the desert. Mom had called it the edge of the known universe and wondered if it was a good idea to live so far from a hospital.

  I didn’t tell her, because I didn’t want her to think I needed help, that the desert healed more effectively than any doctor.

  It took fewer than ten minutes from the moment I pushed the garage door button for me to park, dash into the house, tear off my uniform, and pull on running shorts. I tied a faded red bandana around my wrist to use when the desert sun caused me to rain with sweat. I needed to stop the images of young blonde girls, trusting, beginning their lives, brash and bold. Frank’s vague warnings of disaster bouncing inside my skull—harsh, blaming, wailing, hopeless.

  I sprinted out my front door, making my way toward the vacant lot next to my stucco one-story. I planned to slip into the desert behind my house and run until the demons stopped tormenting me.

  “Watch out!”

  I averted my step just before plunging it down on two tiny birds huddled together near an oleander bush at the corner of my yard. A desert dove shrieked and fluttered a few feet away, trying to draw me away by acting injured. As if all the mother’s squawking could make up for leaving her babies laying in the open.

  The sun beat on my shoulders while I hesitated. Let nature take its course? Which meant sure and violent death for the chicks. Or do what little I could to give them a chance?

  “What if the Universe is giving you an opportunity to start evening the score?”

  It took very little time to rummage in the garage for a bit of fencing the previous owners had around a small garden in back. I tossed the tools on the ground and worked at bending the wire. A slow-moving shadow shaded the tree from a gray sedan with tinted windows. Most cars drove too fast on this curved neighborhood road, so I should appreciate the driver’s caution. But the dark windows made me feel under surveillance and an involuntary shudder erupted from tingling hairs on my neck. The ultimate icky hairs. With so many generic gray sedans in Tucson, it seemed nuts to think this was the same car as the one at the grade school. Obviously, my overworked nervous system at play.

  Using a pair of pliers, I fashioned a play pen and dropped it over the chicks, protecting them from neighborhood dogs, hopefully also from coyotes who patrolled after dark. It wasn’t much and I already mourned the loss of the chicks, even though the dove population didn’t need my help to thrive.

  Twitchy with thoughts of children in danger, I sprinted away from the neighborhood. Someone had fired a charcoal grill and the smell faded as I ran further toward the sweet bloom of creosote and mesquite. The powdery utility road behind the subdivision cut a trail through the brush and cactus, worn from weekend ATVs. It made an easy path for the start of my run.

  The sun glared at me, throwing off the burning rays that battled, only to give in to another glorious sunset of brilliant oranges, pinks, indigo, and gold. I ran fast to leave everything behind me.

  Today was no different from every other day. I couldn’t outrun it. I never would.

  About a mile from the house I dropped into a sandy wash lined with ironwood and desert willow, barrel cactus the size of whisky casks, yellow buds ready to burst in bloom.

  The distinct maracas sound of a rattler made me leap and race from the wash, following the narrow trail through the sand. Brush, saguaro, and scrawny Palo Verde trees closed in on me. Lizards the size of my pinky, tails longer than my hand, zipped and zagged. Still, the voices egged me on, tried to convince me to return to the wash and offer myself as sacrifice to the rattler.

  Anything would be better than this. Better than remembering. But I doubted a bite from that old snake would end me.

  Nine hot miles later, mopping my face with the damp red bandana, I jogged into my driveway, the recriminations worn to the normal murmur. My breath puffed in short bursts as I walked in circles, letting the sweat catch up to me and start cascading down the sides of my face. Dry air scraped my raw throat.

  “Hello! Hi!”

  Facing my closed garage door, I waited to see if she’d speak again. It wasn’t a voice I recognized and I panicked at meeting someone new. There was no room, not even for one more.

  A baby screeched and started to cry. A smallish voice spoke quickly. “It wasn’t me. I think it was a bee.”

  The woman said, “There was no bee.”

  The child’s voice, now very matter-of-fact, stated with certainty. “Jackson wanted me to pinch him.”

  I had braced for blowback from the last couple of days, from the memories scratched raw by the blonde’s appearance. But this was too much. My hands shook and I squeezed my eyes closed.

  The tap on my shoulder couldn’t have shocked me any more than a bullet in my back. I yelped and spun around.

  A woman, probably ten to fifteen years younger than me, stood in my driveway, a huge grin across her face. She balanced a crying bald baby on her slim hip, held a tow-headed child by the hand, and flicked her gaze to a little girl with two messy braids a few steps off to the side. The braided tyke stood akimbo, assessing me.

  Four flesh and blood people in my driveway. For the first time, I noticed the moving van across the street, back open, ramps sticking out the cavity.

  Today had challenged me, grabbing me hard and twisting me like a wet dish cloth, squeezing until I dripped dry. My years of experience observing everything, from people to surroundings, had shifted into an internal struggle to keep myself together, and I hadn’t even seen a truck the size of an ocean barge parked practically in my front yard.

  I stepped back to pull my focus from inside my head.

  The woman, in a strappy lime green top and cut offs, thankfully longer than the yellow cheerleading skirts, wore thin flip-flops, her mud-colored hair scraped into a scruffy ball in the back of her head. She hoisted the baby higher on her hip. “I’m Sherilyn.” She tipped her head to the bossy child in the spotless sundress. “That’s Cheyenne.” She tugged the hand of the toddler. “This is Kaycee.” She planted a kiss on the pink nose of the baby and he quieted. “And Jackson.”

  My ears roared. One small voice reached me like a pin prick of light through a closed curtain.

  Say hello.

  My throat, too dry from my run, managed to creak out, “I’m Jamie.” The smallest of small talk that I hoped would buy me time to focus.

  Cheyenne took her hands off her hips and pointed across the street. “We’re moving in here because Daddy got a job on the railroad and we can’t stay in Oklahoma because Grandmother is a demanding bitch.”

  “Cheyenne! What have we told you about using those words and about repeating our family talk?”

  The memory struck with the force of a blow.

  Mom’s Thanksgiving table is full with too much food she’d had catered from a local grocery store. Mom sits at one end, Dad, quiet and morose as usual, sits at the other. Various county officials line the sides, with me and Larry feeling like odd balls. Our glasses are full of wine. She’s only three and I’ve been cutting her turkey and trying to keep her entertained but she wants to be pa
rt of the conversation, only everyone is ignoring her. She’s tired of being seen and not heard.

  She’s fidgeting and impatient for pie when a sudden lull drops in the conversation. “Mommy and Daddy play World Federation Wrestling on their bed at night.” She struggles to pronounce the words, but leaves no question to their meaning. I want to hide, but join the laughter and forgive her. She’s adorable.

  I fought the memories and eased toward the closed garage door.

  Sherilyn gazed up at me, her 5’5” height needed to elevate four inches to make direct eye contact. “She’s right, though. My mother-in-law is a piece of work. But that’s a story for a Friday night and a cold beer.”

  Cheyenne’s quick mind jumped ahead. “What’s in the little yard?”

  My head pounded and the tingling in my fingers increased. “A pair of doves left their chicks on the ground and I put a fence around them for protection.”

  Cheyenne marched to the oleander with its dark green leaves and deadly pink blossoms. She squatted, folding her legs without effort, a position that always amazed me.

  Sherilyn pulled Kaycee to the side of the driveway to get a better look. “Cheyenne has a mind of her own, and doesn’t mind telling you about it.” She ruffled the dandelion wisps on Kaycee’s head. “This one, hardly says a word, and only to Cheyenne. She’s our little shy baby.”

  The soft purr of an expensive car barely interrupted. The gray sedan with the tinted windows trolled by again. This time I noticed the plate number and hoped a part of me would commit it to memory.

  “You’re not supposed to touch them,” Cheyenne said with authority. “The mother will smell you and then she won’t feed them.”

  These girls forced bittersweet flashes of memory and I didn’t know if I was grateful or not.

  She folds down next to me. Branches heavy with new leaves sway overhead, sending shadows dancing. It smells like spring and life and happiness. The deep green grass rises up to her bare knees. I whisper, “Birds can’t smell.”

  We pick up the chicks and put them back in their nest. Her fat little hands scoop the babies with such care and she settles them into the bed of sticks and grass. I place it back on to the branch from where the wind had flung it.

  Another thunderstorm tears the nest apart the next day. We find one chick dead in the grass. The other is gone.

  I forced my focus back to Cheyenne. Words tipped out of my mouth, though I hadn’t known they would. “Doves raise their chicks in pairs, both mother and father feeding them. These probably got kicked out of their nest early because the parents hatched another clutch.”

  Sherilyn patted Cheyenne’s head in a way meant to get her to move on. “That’s fascinating. We’ll watch these little guys grow up and fly away, huh?”

  Disappear, more likely. But Sherilyn could lie to them, tell her kids the doves sitting on their back fence are these. “Nice to meet you.”

  Whatever scary-neighbor vibes I might have given off didn’t hit Sherilyn. She kept that sunny shine. “We’re really looking forward to getting to know you.” With Kaycee in tow, she started down the driveway.

  Looking forward. Sherilyn made it sound like it was something to anticipate with excitement. For me, looking forward meant something I did with grim determination. Maybe it would be good to get to know this family. Or it could kill me.

  Cheyenne straightened. She assessed me and somehow found me lacking. Perceptive kid.

  Kaycee suddenly jerked her hand away from Sherilyn. Her two-foot-long legs tottered in what must have been a sprint for her. She covered the few yards between us and latched on to my legs, her plump arms circling just above my knees, her grasp imprisoning me.

  Screaming shot through my brain, stabbing pain. I closed my eyes against it. But couldn’t stop myself from prying them open to squint down at the white-blonde head, face buried in my thighs, arms hugging me tighter than anyone had for years.

  I watched my arm twitch as if it belonged to another woman. Someone buried long ago, rising impossibly from the grave. My hand opened from a clenched fist, spreading out, moving slowly as I fought against it, knowing this touch could undo me.

  I let my palm rest softly, barely daring to touch the fine down of the child’s head. My throat ached, my breath dammed behind the pain.

  “Huh.” Sherilyn said. “I’ve never, ever seen her do that.”

  10

  I don’t know if Sherilyn noticed my paralysis or if she simply needed to get back to unpacking, but she pried Kaycee from my legs and I breathed again. I managed to say the appropriate words to welcome Sherilyn to the neighborhood. At least, I tried.

  My fingers fumbled to punch in the lock code on my front door. I kicked my shoes off, dropped the sweaty bandana on them, and peeled damp socks to allow my feet to cool on the Saltillo tile of my entryway. The safety of solitude—with pulled blinds darkening the house—usually helped to still my mind.

  The abstract painting above the fireplace swirled with blues and pinks which always made me think of an ocean and encouraged me to hear the crashing of waves against the shore. I’d found the painting at a street fair and imagined some force of the universe put it there specifically for me. Mom hadn’t been here since I’d hung it, and I worried she wouldn’t like it and insist I move it.

  Anyone stepping through the front door would see an open area, furnished comfortably with padded wicker furniture, an expensive Navajo rug over the Saltillo tile, flowing into an airy kitchen. A rustic wood dining table continued on the mission theme. French doors opened out to a small backyard and patio lined with desert plants in colorful Mexican pots. Aside from the location away from town, with the quiet desert stretching behind me, the reason I’d chosen this house was the pool. When I submerged myself, even the commotion in my head faded away. I only wished I could grow gills.

  Not homey, but tasteful. Mom’s taste, who had spent two weeks with me when I’d first moved from Buffalo, helping me furnish the house and get the lay of the land. I’d allowed her to place three photos in the living room because she thought it would be good for me. I never looked at them, but I felt their weight every day.

  As soon as I’d convinced Mom I knew how to navigate to the nearest gas station and Safeway, and I could reliably drive across town for my sessions with Tara, she’d boarded the plane back to Buffalo, where she’d already been gone too long. I promised her I’d decorate the rest of the house, a promise two years later I had yet to fulfill.

  Aside from the open communal space, the house had three small bedrooms, one with unpacked boxes, one empty except for a perfectly made bed, waiting for an inhabitant who would never arrive, and the room where I slept more and more often—blank walls, no family photos, little indication a living, breathing woman occupied it. One polished malachite sphere about the size of a grapefruit rested on a wood base on the dresser. I had bought it at Tucson’s famous gem and mineral show a couple of months earlier. Something about it made me feel hopeful and I thought it would be a good start toward decorating. I intended to add more but the room looked Spartan.

  From the front door, my home looked normal, if not remarkable. Anything more than white walls and bars on the windows was progress.

  Lilacs. The smell crept up my nose. Impossible. There were no lilacs in Tucson, at least not in my southern neighborhood. I couldn’t be smelling their sickening sweetness. My footsteps echoed on the tile as I traipsed through the bedrooms and back to the kitchen. No flowers, of course. Still the smell seemed real, not something I dreamed up.

  “Ha.” I laughed in the empty house. “And I ought to know about the senses and imagination.”

  Sheer determination allowed me to ignore what my brain had obviously conjured up. There were no lilacs here. Wouldn’t it be dandy if I started having phantom smells to contend with on top of everything else.

  After a shower and a carefully prepared chop salad, my nerves still jangled. When my phone rang, I nearly choked on lettuce.

  I cleared my throat
and sat up straighter. “Hi, Mom. Twice in one day, it must have been a hard one for you.” She’d be winding down at home.

  Her voice sounded tight. “The usual, plus some.”

  I pushed boiled egg around my plate and noticed the death grip on my fork. Deliberately, I set the fork down and shook out my hand. “You sound tired.”

  “It’s nothing. Just that little prick, John Overton. The election is still six months away and he’s playing hardball.”

  “Is he running ads already?”

  “Not that I’ve seen. But he’s got a special investigator digging around.”

  “He can’t do that, can he? I thought only the governor could investigate a county sheriff. Overton’s a private attorney, right?” Mom’s career demanded so much she didn’t have many friends and fewer confidantes. The least I could do was let her vent.

  It sounded like she could chew glass. “It’s not officially Overton’s call. But he’s got that limp-dick governor in his pocket. His father went to Harvard a few years ahead of the governor. Same good ol’ boys crap I’ve been dealing with my whole career.”

  “As sheriff, you don’t have a say in this?”

  “It’s always best to cooperate so they don’t think you’ve got anything to hide. This time, they hired a woman investigator so it won’t look sexist.”

  The election always brought tension into our lives. “You’ve been investigated before. It never amounts to much.”

  Something slammed, maybe a cupboard door. Mom liked to bang things to ease her anger. “Annual audits and checks and balances, sure. But this bitch is bringing in a shovel.”

  “Let her dig. You’re clean.”

  Another bang. “Obviously, I’m clean. But she can leak a perfect record and an opposing campaign can turn it ugly.”

  It’s not often I got the chance to comfort her. “You’ve been through campaigns before. You’ve got this.”

  “Of course, but that was before you…well, things were different last time.”