“
I stand there still watching as I put the phone down.
Esperanza returns, holding her cell phone. “I called the police,” she says, looking out the window. My heart sinks. I want to tell her that she shouldn’t have done that, but I don’t. It would seem suspicious. I’ll just have to play it out.
I look back at our visitor. He is so still. He radiates an aura of calm, the predator so sure of his prey that there’s no need for frenzy. When I hear the distant whine of sirens, he seems to sink into the blackness from which he emerged. And he is gone.
Tonight is the five-year anniversary of his alleged death. The doctor is right: Though I remember nothing about the events of that night, something that lies dormant in my memory resurrects itself as regularly as seasons. Both a terrible dread and a terrible longing dwell side by side within me. I’ve been here before, this is true. But not like this.
The clinically depressed and functionally mentally ill do a little dance, a kind of two-step with their meds. I need them; I don’t really need them. I need them; I don’t really need them. Cha-cha-cha. After you’ve been on them for a while and the chemicals in your brain have normalized somewhat, you’ll read an article about the dangers of long- term use of the particular medication you’re taking, or you’ll just start to feel like maybe all those times when you couldn’t get out of bed for three weeks were simply a lack of self-discipline. You convince yourself that you’re not as creative, productive, mentally sharp as you are when you’re off them. So maybe you miss a dose, then two. The next thing you know, you’re off them altogether. Again.
Of course, some people don’t really need to be on medication long-term. Maybe they took something to get them through a bad patch-the death of a loved one, a divorce, even a nervous breakdown. Maybe some irresponsible doctor suggested an antidepressant for a general malaise that could have been addressed by taking a hard look at their lives. When those types of people choose not to take the medication that has been prescribed, it’s not such a big deal. But for some people it’s quite the opposite. I guess I’m not sure which of those people I am. I do know this much: If Esperanza hadn’t seen the man I’d seen, I’d have no way to be certain if he’d actually been there or not.
In my life I have suffered periods when, due to cumulative and acute trauma, I have dissociated from reality and essentially disappeared, figuratively and literally. I have seen a number of doctors and received as many diagnoses for these “episodes”-one called them fugues, another psychotic breaks. One doctor believed I was bipolar. None of the diagnoses have agreed with the others or quite fit the nature of
I have suffered dreams that seemed like reality and endured realities that might have been dreams. I have found myself on buses headed for parts unknown, on park benches in unfamiliar cities, with no idea how I arrived there. I have lost huge pieces of my life; there are black, gaping holes in my memory that have swallowed months, even years. I have not had these episodes since Victory’s birth, but I know they are always waiting on the periphery of my life, like vultures circling a limping coyote in the desert.
I watch the cops on the beach using their flashlights to look for the man or some trace of the man who followed me home. I sit on the couch with Victory on my lap. She has curled herself up into a little ball and, half asleep now after being awakened by the sirens and the men at the door, is sucking on the ear of her stuffed puppy. I hold her tight; she is my anchor in the world. Ella sits on the other couch, looking anxious and gnawing on the cuticle of her thumb.
“I just can’t believe this,” she says absently. She looks over at me. “You seem so calm.”
Esperanza’s call had resulted in three screaming cruisers and a couple of plainclothes officers showing up, attracting the attention of all the neighbors. It’s a quiet beach town, not much going on usually; this was making everyone’s night. Most of the neighbors had called or come by to see if everything was all right. Ella had left her husband to tend to the stragglers at their party while she came down to be with us.
“It was probably nothing,” I say lightly. “Some vagrant.”
Drew throws me a look from the chair by the window. He’s tense and not hiding it well, with a white-knuckled grip on the chair arm. Vivian stands behind him looking out into the night, frowning with worry.
“I told you not to call the fucking cops,” he’d whispered harshly on his arrival. He took me into his arms so that everyone in the room thought he was embracing me. He smelled of cigars. “What were you thinking?”
“It was Esperanza.”
He pushed a disdainful breath out of his nose. “And I told you two to hire an illegal.
He’d released me and given me a disapproving scowl, reminding me how much I actually dislike him. Drew is a cold mountain of a man, as distant as the summit of Everest and about as easy to reach. Even if you got there, you’d want to leave right away.
“Annie,” Ella says, looking at me gravely, “someone followed you home. It’s something.”
One of the plainclothes officers walks in through the open door leading from the pool deck. We’ve already been through how I couldn’t identify the man, haven’t noticed anyone following me at any other time, and have no history with a lover, old boyfriend, or stalker. Of course, I
“To be honest, Mrs. Powers, there’s really not much we can do,” he says, closing the door behind him. I find myself liking him for some reason. He has a quiet air and seems like a careful person, observant and slow to react.
“I do see tracks leading from the beach; a smaller set leads up to the door to your house. They’re yours, I’m assuming. The larger set stops at the edge of your property. Technically, whoever followed you didn’t set foot on your land. And even if he had, we wouldn’t be making molds and tracking down boot manufacturers unless…”
“Unless he’d killed me,” I say, feeling Drew’s eyes on me. Wouldn’t
The cop clears his throat, runs a tan hand through salt-and-pepper hair. “That’s right. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t be here at all except that there’s been a rash of break-ins over the last few weeks. Usually the uniformed officers would have come to take a report.”
“That’s great,” says Ella. “That’s just great.” She has the sense of entitlement that pampered, wealthy people have, but not in that awful way. Just naive. “How is she supposed to sleep at night?”
I look at her. I want to tell her I haven’t slept in years.
“This house has a good security system,” he says. “Keep the doors locked, and you might think about getting a dog.”
“A dog?” says Ella. “
I give the cop an apologetic look.
Drew stays silent. Vivian walks over and sits beside me, rests a hand on my leg. I examine her face for signs of judgment and disapproval. But I just see compassion and worry. And the shade of something else I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Mrs. Powers,” says the cop. Everyone’s looking at me. He has asked me something that, lost in thought, I didn’t hear. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, rubbing the bridge of my nose with my free hand. “Sure of what?”
He lets a beat pass. “That you have no idea who might have reason to follow you.”
“Yes, of course,” I say.
His expression tells me he doesn’t believe me. He has picked up on something; he glances over at Drew, then back at me. I feel my shoulders go stiff at the tension in the room.
“All right,” says Ella, rising. “She said she’s sure. If there’s nothing else you can do, you might as well just go and let her get some rest.”
I focus on Victory, who has somehow, in spite of all the talking, drifted fully asleep in my arms. I listen to her deep, restful breathing.
He places a card on the coffee table, throws another glance at Drew. “If you need anything tonight, Mrs. Powers, give me a call. I’m on all night.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You’ve been a big help. Really.”
