Becoming Sarah

chapter SEVEN


In the bedroom, I scanned Sarah’s collection of miniskirts and belly-baring tops for something that would force a cop to take me seriously. I tried and rejected half a dozen outfits before I settled on a long, pencil-slim hound’s tooth skirt and a crisp white cotton shirt. I modeled my choice in the mirror, striking various poses; I looked like a sexy schoolteacher, slender and stylish. No wonder Sarah loved to shop. Everything looked great on her. I hadn’t had so much fun playing dress-up since I’d packed away my Barbies.

I hadn’t forgotten my concern for Otto, though, or my desire to see Ricky in prison. I slipped on a pair of low heels and headed for the bus stop.

I spent the ride to the police station going over and over my story. I couldn’t exactly march in and blurt out the truth – they’d lock me up and throw away the key. By the time the bus chugged and lurched into my old neighborhood, I thought I had a pretty good plan.

At the front counter, I asked for Detective Todd. After a short wait he appeared, an African-American man in his early 30s. As he shook my hand, I caught him giving me an appreciative once-over. So even the law wasn’t immune to Sarah’s physical charms. Good. Maybe it would help me make my case.

“Ms. Winslow, pleased to meet you,” he said, and motioned me toward a folding metal chair near his desk. “You have something to tell me about the Lumley case?”

I perched on the edge of the seat and pressed my knees together; they wouldn’t quit shaking. “That’s right. Uh, I knew Jamie pretty well –“

Detective Todd cocked his head. “Is that right? Because I’ve talked to her mother, classmates, co-workers. . .no one’s mentioned your name.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t meet a lot of her friends. I was sort of her mentor – you know, like a Big Sister kind of set up.”

“Oh? Was that an official arrangement?”

“Unofficial. We – we met at the library and hung out together sometimes. Talking, you know, about the stuff going on in her life.”

The detective leaned back in his chair and tapped the eraser end of his pencil against a file folder on his desk. “Go on."

“Yes, well, she told me –“ I took a deep breath – “She told me there was a guy in her health class, Ricky Jones, who was harassing her. Leaving her threatening notes, following her home from work, that kind of thing.” Lies, since Ricky had never spoken to me before that night, but I felt justified. They were lies that would lead to the truth.

“Hmmm.” Detective Todd made a note on a blank pad. “And you think he might have something to do with her murder?”

“I’m sure of it,” I said, perhaps too quickly. The detective fixed me with a hard look. “I mean, I think you should follow up on this Ricky guy. Because Otto didn’t do it. Jamie told me all the time what a nice guy Otto is.”

Detective Todd nodded slowly. “Well, we haven’t made any arrests yet. Obviously you've been reading the paper, so you know that already.”

“So you’ll check out Ricky?”

“Sure. Can’t hurt. Let me get your information.” I gave him my name, address, and phone number. He stood and offered his hand again. “Thanks for coming by, Ms. Winslow. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Thank you.” I let him show me out. I had to bite my lip to contain a grin of pleasure. Finally, things were going my way.

As I crossed the lobby, though, I turned to look back. Detective Todd stood at the reception counter. He was watching me go, and he wasn’t smiling.

A faint edge of uneasiness spoiled my good mood. Maybe it wasn’t going to be this easy.

I meant to leave my mother alone, at least for now, but I missed her too much. From the police station, my feet took me down familiar streets, up a hill or two and onto the cul-de-sac where I’d lived before. Before Ricky Jones. Before Sarah.

The apartment I had shared with my mother was on the first floor of a dingy pink box of a building. Peeling paint. Iron bars on the windows. Nothing special, but it was home.

The curtains were open in our apartment. I could see into our kitchen, which was empty. I stood and waited.

A car pulled up. A guy got out, a guy my age who lived upstairs with his grandmother. I had to stop myself from calling out, “Hey, Darren.” As it was, he threw a curious glance my way before he ducked inside.

I stood outside for a long time, unable to tear myself away. And finally my mother walked into the kitchen. She filled the coffee maker and plugged it in. She looked tired but otherwise the same, in her old blue bathrobe with her hair in a braid down her back. She didn’t look like she’d been drinking.

Maybe she was okay without me. Maybe she didn’t need me after all. Self-pity brought tears to my eyes.

Immediately, I felt ashamed. What had I hoped to see? My mother, hysterical, falling apart, too distraught or drunk to stand on her own, much less make herself coffee? I should be overjoyed to see her coping. I needed her calm and ready to listen. My mistake with Maria was breaking the news too soon.

As I watched my mother move about the kitchen, my heart swelled with love for her. She'd never been the perfect mom, the milk-and-cookies PTA mother with an apron on and a roast in the oven. We'd had our share of knock-down, drag-out fights, mostly me trying to goad her into being more responsible, more adult. She had me young, and sometimes I thought we were more like sisters than mother and daughter.

Still, right now, I wanted more than anything to crawl onto her lap for comfort, as I had when I was a kid. She used to stroke my hair and sing a lullaby, a silly one. How had it gone?

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral,

Too-ra-loo-ra-li,

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral,

Hush, now don't you cry. . .

As if she’d heard me hum the tune, my mother raised her head and saw me standing on the sidewalk outside her window. I smiled; I half expected her to know me.

Instead she frowned and, with a jerk of her arm, pulled the curtain closed.