The Face of Death

face. I kept my hair forward on the left, trying to obscure what Joseph Sands had done to me. Life got its grip on my heart again and my view of those scars changed. I keep my hair back these days, tight against my head in a ponytail, daring the world to look. The rest of me is not too bad. I'm a shorty, four foot ten inches tall. I have what Matt used to call 'mouth-sized boobs.' I'm not thin, but am in shape. I have a not-small ass, more of a bubble butt. Matt used to love it. Sometimes he would fall down on his knees when I was in front of the full-length mirror, grab my butt, and look up at me. In his best Gollum voice he would go, 'My preciousssss . . .'

It never failed to give me a case of out of control giggles. Bonnie pulls me out of this idle reverie with a tug on my sleeve. I look to where she is pointing. 'You want to go into Claire's?'

She nods.

'No problem, munchkin.' Claire's is one of those places that was designed for the mother/daughter experience. Cheap but stylish jewelry for young and old, hair scrunchies, brushes emblazoned with glitter.

We walk in and a twentysomething turns out to be one of the salespeople. She comes up to us with a patented retail smile, ready to help and sell. Her eyes widen as she gets a good look at me. The smile falters first, then shatters.

I raise an eyebrow at her. 'Problem?'

'No, I--' She continues to stare at my scars, flustered and horrified. I'm almost sympathetic. Beauty is her deity, and so my face must look like a victory for the devil.

'Go help the girls over there, Barbara.' The voice is sharp, a slap. I look over and see a woman in her forties. She's beautiful in that way that beautiful women can have when they get older. Salt-and-pepper hair, along with the most striking blue eyes I've ever seen. 'Barbara,'

she repeats.

The twentysomething snaps out of it, flings out a single 'Yes, ma'am,' and races away from me as fast as her perfectly pedicured feet can carry her.

'Don't mind her, sweetheart,' the woman says. 'She's big on smiles, but a little lacking in the IQ department.' The voice is kind and I open my mouth to reply when I realize that she's not talking to me, but to Bonnie.

I look down and see that Bonnie is staring daggers at the twentysomething. Bonnie is protective of me; she had not been amused. She responds to the woman's voice, turning to her, giving her a very frank look of appraisal. The frown is replaced by a shy smile. She likes the salt-and-pepper lady.

'I'm Judith, this is my little shop. What can I help you ladies with?'

Now she is speaking to me. I give her my own look of appraisal, and see nothing false here. Her kindness is unforced, more than genuine. It's innate for this woman. I'm not sure why I ask it, but the words fly from my lips before I can stop them. 'Why aren't you bothered like she was, Judith?'

Judith gives me a look with those oh-so-sharp eyes, follows it with a soft smile. 'Honey, I beat cancer last year. It required a double mastectomy. The first time my husband saw the results, he didn't even blink, just told me he loved me. Beauty is a highly overrated commodity.' She winks. 'So, can I help you . . . ?'

'Smoky,' I reply. 'Smoky Barrett. This is Bonnie. We're just looking around, and you already helped us a lot.'

'Well, enjoy and you just let me know.'

One last smile, a small wink, and she's off, trailing kindness behind her like a fairy glow. We spend a good twenty minutes in the shop, loading ourselves down with trinkets. Half of them will never be used, but boy were they fun to buy. We get rung up by Judith, murmur our good-byes, and leave with our loot. I look at my watch as we stand outside the store.

'We should get back, babe. Aunt Callie is going to be showing up in an hour or two.'

Bonnie smiles and nods, takes my hand. We exit the mall into a perfect day of California sunshine. It's like walking into a postcard. I think about Judith, and glance at Bonnie. She doesn't see me looking at her. She seems carefree, like a child should.

I put on my sunglasses and think again: This is a great day. The best in a long while. Maybe it's a good omen. I'm clearing the house of ghosts, and life keeps getting better. It makes me certain I'm doing the right thing.

I know when I go back to work that I'll remember: There are predators out there, rapists and murderers and worse. They're walking with us under that same blue sky, basking in the heat of that same yellow sun, always watching, always waiting, brushing up against the rest of us and quivering when they do, like dark tuning forks. But for now, the sun could just be the sun. Like the dream-voice said: We broken things, we still catch the light.

3

THE LIVING ROOM COUCH HOLDS US IN A SOFT, RELAXED GRIP. It's a slightly battered old couch, light-beige microfiber, spotted in places by the past. I see wine drops that wouldn't come out, something food-related that probably dates back years. The loot from the mall waits in bags on the coffee table, which also shows signs of past misuse. Its walnut was shiny when Matt and I bought it; now its top is marred and scarred.

I should replace them both, but I can't, not yet. They've been loyal and comfortable and true, and I'm not ready to send them off to furniture heaven.

'I want to talk to you about something, honey,' I say to Bonnie. She grants me her full attention. She senses the hesitation in my voice, the conflict inside me. Go ahead, that look says. It's okay. This is another thing I hope to put behind us, someday. Bonnie reassures me too often. I should be guiding her with my strength, not the other way around.

'I want to talk to you about you not talking.'

Her eyes change, going from understanding to troubled. No, she's saying. I don't want to discuss this.

'Honey.' I touch her arm. 'I'm just concerned, okay? I've spoken with some doctors. They say if you go too long without speaking, you could lose the ability to talk for good. If you never talk again, I'll still love you. But that doesn't mean that's what I want for you.'

She crosses her arms. I can see the struggle going on inside her but I can't define it. Then I get it.

'Are you trying to figure out how to tell me something?' I ask. She nods.

Yes.

She stares at me, concentrating. She points at her mouth. She shrugs. She does this again. Points. Shrugs. I puzzle about it for a moment.

'You don't know why you're not talking?'

She nods.

Yes.

She holds up a finger. I've come to learn that this means 'but' or

'wait.'

'I'm listening.'

She points at her head. Mimes being thoughtful.

Again, it takes me a moment.

'You don't know why you're not talking--but you're thinking about it? Trying to figure out the reason?'

I can tell by the relief on her face that I've hit the mark. It's my turn to be troubled.

'But, honey--don't you want some help with that? We could get you a therapist--'

She jumps up from the couch, alarmed. Cuts her hands in the air. No way, no how, uh-uh.

This one needs no explanation. I understand in a flash.

'Okay, okay. No therapists.' I put a hand on my heart. 'Promise.'

This is another reason to hate the man who murdered Bonnie's mother, dead or not. He was a therapist and Bonnie knows it. Bonnie watched him kill her mother, and he killed any potential trust of his profession along with her.

I reach out, grab her, pull her to me. It's clumsy and awkward but she doesn't resist.

'I'm sorry, babe. I just . . . worry about you. I love you. I'm afraid of you never talking again.'