I walked into my room, the bathroom, and then through every room downstairs and the garage with the kids and Hershey following like ducklings. No one spoke.
Hamm stood at the bottom of the stairs, which was nearly the dead center of the downstairs, and watched. From his raised eyebrows and the hands propped on his well-padded hips, I could tell he wanted to spin his index finger near his temple. Loco lady. Crazy as the man was. Slap-ass nuts.
His partner, a gray-haired man who hadn’t spoken a word that I noticed, stayed back by the door, giving us space as though he knew exactly what we were up to. It was the house equivalent of counting fingers and toes. When we had made the rounds, it was him I stopped in front of.
“Do you need the kids for anything?” I asked.
“Probably not.” He finished scribbling something on a long notepad before he looked up with a tight-lipped pseudosmile of pity.
I’m not sure if my building anger was healthy, but I was not going to stand for pity. I turned to the kids, determined not to minimize the effect this had had on them. “If you want to add anything to the police report, stay down here; otherwise, go upstairs into Jada’s room and play a game. You can take ice-cream sandwiches—and napkins—with you.” I turned and leaned over to make eye contact with Hamm. “Ice cream, Officer?”
“Um, no thanks. I’m good.” He wiped a hand over his beard.
Jada ran for the freezer. “Ice cream in my room!” she sang. Drew and Hope stayed put.
We all sat at the table while my oldest kids made lists of the things that had frightened them, pissed them off, or hurt their hearts. They were lists no parent wants their kid to imagine, let alone live. I was surprised by how many things I had failed to hide. They hadn’t talked to me about these things, which I’ll admit made me sad, but they had obviously talked to one another, which made up for some measure of it. And knowing the load of secrets I had harbored, I couldn’t point any fingers.
When they had both finished, they went upstairs without any ice cream. I was surprised at first that they didn’t want to stay and hear what I had to say, but if I could choose to walk away and unknow all the things I had seen in the past years, I would do the same … except I would definitely take the ice cream with me.
Hamm and his partner, Bacon—just kidding, the older partner was Hancock—took notes, and asked effective enough questions to prove they had done this sort of thing before. Even so, the large number of bizarre stories I had for them appeared to tip the scale toward worst-case scenario of their careers.
“We were pretty far away when we got the call. It took a long time for us to get to you,” Hancock said. “It happens that way sometimes. Keep your gun ready, but away from the kids. If this were to happen again, if he were to get in the house, you should be prepared to shoot him.”
For the space of a single inhale and exhale, I wondered if I should have done it, unlocked the door and let him in to end it. This wasn’t over. Not now, and not ever. He would keep coming back. He would come to any other place I moved. He wouldn’t stop until something terrible enough happened that they locked him away for good. Until then, with his mental illness as a bargaining chip, they would always let him go. A few days or a week to stabilize him on his meds, and he would be free again.
Free.
That was a thing we would never be.
Hamm rattled off a list of charges. I waved dismissively. It didn’t matter what they charged him with. Yes, I would press charges, but it would only create short delays, days where we could breathe easy, not years.
By ten thirty P.M., they were gone and the house was ours again. Jada was asleep. I put Karma back in my closet, this time showing Drew and Hope where to find her. “He’ll be back at the state hospital for a few days, maybe longer. You guys okay?”
They nodded and meant it.
“Get some sleep.” I hugged Hope hard, and then Drew. He held on longer than I expected but not as long as I would have liked. These experiences were changing them, damaging them in ways a lifetime of good fortune couldn’t undo. People have endured worse, I told myself. Concentration camps, wars, torture. But having to sink so low in the scale of human atrocities to find a life more frightening than our own was a small consolation.
–23–
Rise
Scramble to the Finish
The cut over my eye quickly became a thin, unimpressive red line, but the bruises were dramatic and ugly, extending from the middle of my forehead to just under my cheekbone. I worked hard to keep a poker face for the first few days, which the kids took as a personal challenge to send me into hysterical laughter at every turn. It was better than the alternative, so I played the game, half terrified I’d split everything open with each outburst.
My hand was slow to heal, but functional enough for me to keep pushing forward with the work. Once the doors were installed, the girls punched the nails and filled the nail holes. Hope started caulking the seams and then prepping to paint, trim first and then the walls and ceiling. Even though we had lots of decorating ideas that involved color, we opted for a single color called Vanilla Brandy for walls and ceiling throughout the house. The trim would all be Parchment Paper, a creamy white that I really loved, and not only because of the name. Rolling through the entire house with a single color saved hours of cleaning paint trays, brushes, and rollers. We could get creative later on—assuming we ever had the energy.
My optimism pulsed with a steady glow.
In mid-August, the cabinetmaker installed the unfinished cabinets in the bathrooms and kitchen. They weren’t everything I had dreamed, but they were functional. We began staining them, which took a lot more time and probably killed a lot more brain cells than I could spare. Hope was the fastest painter and stainer, but she emerged fully coated from nose to toe in whatever substance she was applying. The rest of us couldn’t figure out how she managed full-body application, but didn’t complain about her method, since it yielded speedy results.
Just when we thought we couldn’t handle the scent of stain for another second, Pete helped install the oak stair treads and railing, and the cabinet guy finished the rough build of my bookshelves in the library. Gallons of stain and polyurethane loomed in our future.