We Rip the World Apart

Evelyn Toronto

Evelyn

Toronto

2004

The next evening, the conversation with Kingsley still thrumming through her bones, Evelyn pushed through the front door. She let Kareela’s backpack fall to the floor, the weight hardly seeming to lift from her shoulders. Without even asking, Kareela headed to the couch and pressed the button on the TV’s remote.

The screen came to life. What had they done in these hours just months ago? The playground. A walk. Meeting Dani and Asher. Making an elaborate dinner, while Kareela drew or worked on a puzzle, just feet away from Evelyn. A swim, perhaps, at the neighborhood pool when it was a scorcher, like today.

“Kareela.”

The girl turned her head.

“Want to go for a swim?”

Confusion spread across Kareela’s face, as if she hadn’t heard correctly, or the words didn’t make sense. “A swim?”

“Yes.”

“At the pool?”

“Yes, sweetie.”

“Me and you?”

Evelyn let out a sound that was half laugh, half frustration. Not at Kareela. But at herself. Remorse reared its head—had it really been so long since she’d done anything with her daughter that this simple proposition seemed perplexing? Forcing a smile on her face, Evelyn crouched to Kareela’s eye level. “Yes. Me and you. At the pool. It’s so hot out!”

“Okay!” Kareela jumped from the couch and headed down the hall. She ran back, laughed, turned off the TV, then sped down the hall again. Evelyn watched as her daughter grabbed a bag from her closet, her swimsuit, goggles from one of the dresser drawers.

“This is going to be so much fun!” Kareela giggled and Evelyn tried not to cry. Kareela looked up at her. “Mama. Get your stuff.” She stopped, her hands falling at her side. “You didn’t change your mind, did you?”

“No.” Evelyn shook her head, her smile firm. “No. I didn’t.”

“Mama! Look at me. Look at me.” Kareela, holding on to a flutterboard, kicked vigorously, water splashing up around her.

“Good job, baby!” Evelyn clapped. And laughed. And attempted to push away the memories that fought their way in: Antony at this age, Antony last summer on the other side of the flutterboard, cheering on Kareela as she made her way across the width of the pool toward him.

“Mama. Watch this.” Kareela held her nose, sinking under the water, her body twisting and turning, her legs flailing in what Evelyn knew was meant to be a somersault.

“Excellent.”

Kareela shook the water from her head, the puffs now two thick wilted pigtails.

“Race?” Kareela’s grin was broad, sun glinting off her goggles.

“Race.” Evelyn gripped the edge of the pool, one foot braced on the side as Kareela did the same, the flutterboard in front of her.

“One. Two. Three. Go!” They kicked and Evelyn paddled with her arms, keeping even with Kareela until just before the end, when she fell behind enough to let Kareela’s hand slap the other side of the pool first.

Kareela whooped. She spun. They went again and again, then lounged on the pool deck, licking frantically at the overpriced pink Popsicles dripping onto their fingers.

Towels slung around their shoulders, they walked home, hand in hand. Kareela squeezed, and Evelyn squeezed back, realizing, for a moment at least, she’d felt happy—for the first time since the night he was taken away. The pain reared up again. But something small and fragile existed beside it. Hope. Maybe.

“That was great.” Kareela nodded as she spoke, a bounce to her step. She stopped, then squeezed Evelyn’s side. “I love you, Mama.”

Hope, like a whisper. A possibility. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

Kareela bumped into Evelyn. “Sides.” She looked up and grinned.

Evelyn crouched. She pressed her forehead to Kareela’s. “Heads.”

Kareela laughed.

At home, Evelyn stepped out the back door and hung their towels on the line. As she stepped back inside to ask Kareela if she wanted a bath or shower, a knock sounded. Evelyn pulled open the door, her face falling at the sight of a man. He wasn’t in uniform, but something about the spread of his shoulders, the lift of his chin, the firmness of his feet placed on her doorstep, more than hip-width apart, made her suspect.

“Evening, Mrs. Jackson.”

“Good evening.”

“Wondering if I could step inside.”

“I…well…” Evelyn looked behind her. Kareela was nowhere in sight.

The man whipped out a badge. “It will just take a moment. I have something for you.”

“I…okay.” Evelyn stepped back as the man stepped forward.

He lifted an eight-by-eleven envelope, tapped it against his hand, but didn’t pass it to her. “I heard you’ve been…investigating”—he said the word as if it brought a rancid taste to his mouth—“the incident with your son.”

Evelyn’s heart beat against her ribs.

“I understand, Mrs. Jackson. Truly, I do. You loved your son. It’s hard to accept the truth. That he was a danger. Involved in things he shouldn’t have been. That he threatened the lives of good and honest officers. That they had a right to protect themselves.”

“He was unarmed.”

The man stepped closer. “Your son was a big powerful man. The body, Mrs. Jackson, is a dangerous weapon.”

His breath hot against her cheek, she stepped away.

“Mama?”

Evelyn whipped her head around. “Go to your room, sweetie.”

“Lovely girl you have there.”

Evelyn didn’t speak.

“Lovely home. Lovely life. Mrs. Jackson, you don’t want to bring trouble upon yourself.”

“I have a right to—”

“Or against your husband.”

Evelyn cast her shoulders back. “Are you threatening me?”

“No!” The man smiled. Laughed. “Not at all, Mrs. Jackson. The opposite. I’m letting you know you should be careful. That the world is a dangerous place. And the best thing to do is to focus on your family. The family you have left. Live for them. Protect them. Don’t get your nose into things you know nothing about. Don’t try to stir up trouble.”

“I’m not—”

“Going to the library. Pulling newspapers. Talking to lawyers. Trying to, what? Reopen an incident report? Turn it into a case? Something more?”

“There were witnesses.”

“And none of their written statements go against what the officers attest happened.”

“He was unarmed.”

“And aggressive. Using threatening language. Lunging at the police. Reaching for what very well could have been a weapon.”

“But he was—”

The officer took another step as Evelyn withdrew, the tension in her chest making her dizzy. Her back bumped the wall as the officer’s arm shot out, his hand landing just inches from her head. With the other hand, he raised the envelope, held it there until she grasped it. “I would hate to see anything happen to you, your husband, or that sweet little girl. That’s all I’m saying. People love the men in blue. And if they feel someone is trying to attack us, punish us for simply doing our job, they may get—” He hesitated, smiling, leaning his head side to side. “Upset. Aggressive. Vengeful, even. Not officers, of course. Civilians. People who believe as strongly as we do that our role is to serve and protect. Believe it so strongly, not even a child would be safe from their passion.”

He stepped back, smile still strong. “I hope you’ve appreciated this front-door service. Usually a request like this comes in the mail, but I wanted to place it directly in your hands, Mrs. Jackson, seeing all you’ve been through. You have a right to know the truth.” The officer started to turn, then stopped. “I should offer my condolences. For your loss.”

Once he was gone, Evelyn rushed forward and turned the lock. She kept her hand on the door, her pulse racing. After several breaths, she stepped back, back, back, then stopped. She tore open the envelope and yanked out the sheets. Six pages. So much of it redacted. What was left, apparently, was the truth. Their truth. Which indicated Antony was the aggressor. That the officers believed he was reaching for a gun. That the officers were acting in self-defense. Doing their job.

Evelyn let the papers fall to the floor as she stood, shaking. This had been her last hope. Her last chance at evidence she could take to a lawyer, to convince them she had a case. She’d expected inconsistencies in the officers’ stories as they’d tried to justify their actions. She’d expected internal investigations about why an unarmed man, just standing there, had been shot four times.

She picked up the pages and stuffed them back in the envelope. Fearful of how much Kareela had heard, she ran to her room. Empty. “Kareela!”

Evelyn rushed down the hall, checking the bathroom, their bedroom. “Karee—”

A whimper sounded.

Evelyn turned and made her way to Antony’s door, which sat ajar. She pushed it open. Kareela lay curled on the bed, knees up to her chin, doll tucked into the curve of her arm. Panic leaped within Evelyn. She wanted to pull Kareela off the bed, tell her to leave Antony’s stuff alone. But she also wanted to wrap her arms around her daughter, hold her close, protect her always, from men like that officer, from the ones who’d shot Antony, from the whole wide world.

She stood at the door, afraid that if she held her baby she’d unravel, and if she did, she wouldn’t ever stitch herself back together. “Sweetie.” Her hand clasped the doorframe. She braced herself against it. “What are you doing?”

“Is Daddy gone now, too?”

“What?”

“Last time a strange man came…”

“No!” Evelyn dashed to Kareela. She sat next to her and placed her trembling hand on Kareela’s back. “No. Daddy’s fine.”

“I didn’t like that man.”

“Me neither.” Evelyn lowered herself, so she was cradling her daughter in her arms, the scent of chlorine strong against her nostrils, overpowering the scent of Antony. Evelyn tensed, wondering if this would be it—the chlorine lingering until any trace of Antony was gone. A sob worked its way up her throat, but she pushed it back, the officer’s words echoing in her mind. The threats, which, according to him, were friendly advice. Bile rose in place of the sob. “Bath or shower?” she whispered.

“Bath.”

“Okay.” Evelyn gave Kareela a squeeze—her one remaining child, who with her research, her pursuit of justice, Evelyn had put in danger—then eased off the bed.

“Will you stay with me, Mama? Read to me while I play?”

“Of course.” Evelyn put out her hand. Kareela stared at it a moment, then grasped it and stood.

Later that night, Evelyn returned to Antony’s room, remembering the officer’s face, inches from her own. His threats. She lifted Antony’s pillow, the stinging scent of the pool hitting her nostrils. A tremor made its way along her arm. She set the pillow down, then turned to the envelope the officer had given her, cast to the desk at the sight of Kareela earlier that day, and placed it in the bottom drawer of Antony’s desk. She gathered the piles of research she’d been compiling—the printouts and clippings, notes in a repurposed file folder—and added them to the drawer. She closed the open web pages and Word documents on Antony’s computer, then powered off the device. The machine whirred and seemed to gurgle before shutting down with a whoosh.

All of them were right. Kingsley, Dani and Charles, Dr. Knowles. It was too late to protect Antony. She needed to protect Kareela. And this mission of hers—clearly—was only inviting more harm.

With a painful lump in her throat, Evelyn stood and crossed to the threshold, her hand on the doorknob as she surveyed the room where Antony had lived, the room where she’d tried to make his death have meaning, the room she was abandoning, in the hope that this—despite what she’d thought, what she’d worked for—was the surest way to keep her daughter safe.