Chapter 4
Four
Grady
“Trust dies but mistrust blossoms.”
Sophocles
“That’s bullshit, Tom. You know that.”
“Grady, I agree. But you are the one who decided to move back to Stowaway,” he says.
“Well, yeah, because it’s a hell of a lot less expensive than Portland. Now that I’m paying child support and all the bills by myself, that matters.”
“I know, but in the eyes of the court, they won’t necessarily see it the same way.”
“Will the court take into consideration that the marriage ended because of Brenda’s infidelity?”
“Probably not, since the divorce has been final for years.”
“She already agreed. Does that matter?”
“Some,” he says, but it doesn’t give me hope. “I’ll do everything I can to get you more time, Grady. I promise.”
“Thanks, Tom.” I hang up. Before I let my anger grow, I yell one single word at the raging ocean on the horizon in front of me. “Fuck!”
Seconds later, I hear the back door of the Jackson house shut loudly.
Damnit.
I’ve been at the station the past two days, since dropping Paige back at her mother’s house.
I haven’t seen Lou since Paige needed dirt, but she did send a text that said the honey was helping.
It felt like we were making some progress, a small step toward her realizing that not everyone in the world wished her harm.
The last thing I want is to scare her back into her hole because I can’t control my frustration.
Fucking Brenda.
Throughout all this mess, I never expected her to use Paige as a bargaining chip to try and leverage more from me. The thing is, I’d gladly give it. I’d give up any fortune I had if it meant I got more time with my daughter. The well is damn near dry, though.
Me:
Sorry you heard me. Dealing with a custody issue. I find screaming at the waves the best outlet.
Her response doesn’t come quickly. Over an hour later, I’ve convinced myself she isn’t going to say anything at all and that I’m going to owe Jules a big apology for setting her friend back a step in the trust department. But then, I get the notification.
Lou:
Messy divorce?
Me:
Despite my efforts to keep it clean, yes. She comes back every six months or so trying to renegotiate child support and visitation.
Lou:
Maybe it isn’t about money but rather staying in your life.
Well, fuck. If that’s what Brenda wanted, she should have been faithful. I don’t dismiss the idea, though; it could be on the nose. Brenda doesn’t need what she asks for financially. She makes a good living, as well as I do.
When I told her I wanted a divorce, she fought me on it. My assumption was that she didn’t want to admit guilt, not that she wanted to stick it out. Not really. She’s dating some guy now, too. Yet, that hasn’t stopped her from being a thorn in my side at every chance.
The more I consider it, the more I wonder if Lou’s theory could be true. But why?
Me:
I thought I understood women better than this.
Lou:
Me too.
Lou hasn’t said much in the near week she’s been here.
When she utters a few words, they seem heavy and meaningful.
Or deeper than surface level. As if they all mean something different to her than they do to whoever hears them.
Depression can fuck you up that way. She is that.
You can clearly read it on her face. Even if she wasn’t beaten and bruised. Even Paige picked up on it.
She asked me if I knew why Lulu was hurt. Lying to my daughter is something I avoid, so I told her the truth. That I wasn’t sure but that sometimes people come into our lives that we think we can trust, but we can’t. I think Lou met one of those people.
Me:
How are your fingers?
Lou:
Still broken.
I smile. Not at her pain, but at how she proved the thought I had only a moment ago.
Me:
I meant the splint. Do you need a new one?
Lou:
Probably.
Me:
Will you let me do that?
Again, there’s a long pause before she responds. I expect a no. I’d even understand a no.
Lou:
I don’t know if I can.
For some reason, her honesty surprises me. She doesn’t come across as a woman who wants to share her vulnerabilities.
Me:
They’re very easy to switch out. I could coach you through it. If you’re coordinated enough, I may not have to touch you at all.
It would take only a few minutes for me to redress her with clean splints—ones meant to be worn outside of a hospital. It’ll be awkward and take longer for her to do it, especially if her left hand is her dominant. We’re strangers, though. I can’t fault her apprehension.
Lou:
Can I think about it?
There’s no smile for this answer. Her question reminds me of why I’m such an overbearing asshole when it comes to new people in Paige’s life.
Me:
You only do what you want, Lou. You don’t need anyone’s permission.
Lou:
I don’t know how good I am at that anymore.
Me:
All habits can be broken. Especially the bad ones.
She turns quiet, and I leave her to it. It’s more interaction than I’ve gotten from her yet. I don’t want to push it or her. We all have demons to exorcise. She’s going through it now, but I’ve been there.
It’s late in the afternoon the next day when I get home.
Mr. Felton fell in his yard while doing spring cleanup.
I was only on call today, but Jerry, who is on duty, was across town dealing with a small fire started by a faulty portable heater at the Hall residence.
They can’t afford to repair their furnace.
It’s a problem we’ll have to find a solution for before they end up burning their whole house down.
Surprisingly, I’m following Lou’s car down the road.
As far as I know, this is the first time she’s left the house since arriving in Stowaway.
She pulls into the driveway, waiting for the garage door to open so she can pull in.
Then, she lets the garage door shut before she even gets out of the car.
It’s a security measure. One I’ve taught to women before. It’s also a stark reminder that I’m still considered a threat. Me knowing that I’m not one doesn’t change things for her. Effectively, the whole thing ruins my mood.
Whoever this motherfucker is that did this to her should be strung up by his toenails and tortured slowly and thoroughly.
A couple hours later, she texts me, and it feels like the smallest win, but still a win.
Lou:
I went to the grocery store today. I’m not much of a cook, but I bake a mean cookie. Can I bring some over and you can help me with my splint?
Me:
Of course, I’m home for the night.
Lou:
On my way.
She isn’t, though. It’s another hour before I hear the knock and open the front door to her.
The bruising on her face and neck are faded enough that if you weren’t paying careful attention, you’d almost miss it.
Her eyes, though, they’re as wild as they were the day I first saw her. Wide and hyperaware.
“I know my words don’t mean shit, but I swear I’m not a threat. You are safe here, Lou.” I step away from the door, leaving her ample room to move inside. She won’t have to pass me or feel trapped with me between her and the exit.
“I’ve been over there telling myself that if you were going to hurt me, you’d have already tried,” she whispers from her place on my porch.
“You made it this far, that’s progress enough,” I say. “We can do it from where you’re at.”
“You made it this far,” she repeats, more to herself than me. With tense shoulders, she steps across the threshold, a plate of cookies held so tightly her knuckles are white. She holds them out to me, not making eye contact. “I hope you like chocolate oatmeal.”
“I’m an equal opportunity cookie lover,” I say, taking the plate from her. “These look great. Paige will be jealous.”
“I can make some for her, too.”
“She’d love that. I’ll have her back in eleven days.”
“It’s cute you keep count like that,” she says with a small smile that I take means she’s relaxing into the situation.
“My kid is my favorite person. It’s hard being a weekend warrior parent,” I say. “We video chat every day, but it’s not the same.”
“I bet,” she says and takes another step into the house as I move to set the cookies on the eating bar that separates the kitchen and the living area.
She watches as I pull out the bin that I keep medical supplies in. I sort through the items we’ll need and set them on the counter.
“You left the hospital before you were discharged,” I say.
“Couldn’t afford to hang out there as long as I did,” she says.
I don’t think she means financially.
“Are there other injuries?” I ask. “Besides the ones I can see, I mean.”
“More bruises, a few fractured ribs.”
“Fuck, Lou. How are you moving around?”
“The physical pain is easy,” she says, running a finger over one of the splints I’ve set out. “It’s the other that’s harder to hide.”
Her words are sad. Her delivery is…I don’t know, content or resigned. As if it’s simply the way of life to be burdened with mental anguish. Maybe it is if you’re under that sort of duress long enough.
“When Juliet and I were young, not much older than Paige, maybe ten, I overheard a conversation that Irma had with Jules. She told her to treat all men like a loaded weapon. None of them are safe until you’ve cleared the chamber yourself,” I say, looking her up and down. “I’m assuming this was a man.”
“Yes,” she replies, her eyes watery as she picks at the fraying bandage wrapped around her hand.
“It hit me hard that it wasn’t a warning anyone ever gave me. I got the standard stranger danger talk that I’m sure all kids receive. Girls are different. You grow up with a separate set of dangers. I’m sorry you had to experience that.”
“I’m sorry I never had an Irma to properly deliver the message. She seems like she was a great woman.”
“She was up there with the best,” I tell her. “Can you pull that off and let me see what we’re working with?”
Her whole body shakes as she reaches her hand across the counter to me.
“Can you try?”
“I can.” Barely touching her, I get to work. “Do you have siblings?”
“A brother who is twelve years older than me. Almost to the day,” she says, her eyes tracking my every move. “I was a shock.”
“A surprise, you mean?”