Locked In

SHARON McCONE

Elwood sat in the chair next to me, his gaze gentle on mine.

“I can feel your spirit, Daughter,” he said. “I can feel your fear. But also your determination and hope.”

Well, that’s a hell of a lot better than wailing and hurling yourself on my chest and nearly crushing me.

“I can also feel your anger. At the one who did this to you, but-worse-at those like Kay who indulge their own emotions at the expense of yours. Or those who treat you as a person forever changed.”

I blinked once.

“You must let go of that anger. People are fallible, often weak, but they love you. Focus it instead on the one who did this to you.”

Blink.

Elwood touched my arm. First time I’d ever had comforting physical contact with my birth father. Tears blurred my gaze.

“Anger is powerful and good, if not misused,” he added. “You must tap into your roots, feel the rage and the power of those who have lived before you.”

I blinked, and the tears trickled down my face.

“Your great-grandmother, I understand, knew anger and became a warrior woman. She found the courage to leave the Indian agent who had taken her for his own and abused her, to accompany a kind white man to California and build a new life. Your grandmother on my side was a woman who accepted nothing-poverty, lack of education, abandonment-on other than her own terms. Your mother, Saskia, she’s brave and smart, has argued before the United States Supreme Court-and won every case. And your people, the Shoshone, go on and on against all odds.”

My emotions were on a roller-coaster ride again. Elwood’s hand touched my forehead, then brushed my tears away.

“It’s in your blood, Daughter,” he said. “You will continue to fight this, and you will win.”

I must have slept because I didn’t remember Elwood leaving. One minute he was talking to me, the next I felt someone holding a cool cloth to my face and opened my eyes to see Saskia. As ever I was struck by our resemblance to each other and to my half sister Robin. Put the three of us together in a photo, and you’d see one individual aging well through different stages of life.

She smiled at me. “Rough morning?”

I blinked.

“Your mother is… not emotionally stable these days, and your condition has somewhat unhinged her. Your doctor prescribed a mild tranquilizer, and Hy took her back to her hotel. She’ll be here again tomorrrow.”

Why is she unstable?

Saskia had seen the question in my eyes. “Her husband has been diagnosed with bladder cancer. And she has been having dizzy spells and weakness in her limbs. Most of her problems, I think, are in response to his condition.”

Ma hasn’t told me any of this! Nobody’s told me. What’s wrong with them? Do they think I can’t take upsetting news?

Again Saskia understood. “Neither of them wanted anyone to know or to worry. Just as you wish you could go through this ordeal in private. But that’s a mistake, Sharon. Your life and health don’t belong exclusively to you; those who love you have a big stake in your future.”

Obligations to others? Fuck that!

“And they can help you through this.”

Well… maybe.

Saskia and Elwood, they were both so insightful in their different ways. And Pa was wise, too: he had left me the documentation to find out who I really was. Ma: she took me in as a tiny baby, loved me, and never treated me as if I weren’t her flesh and blood.

Hy-he was and always would be my lover and my best friend.

My stepfather, Melvin Hunt. Bladder cancer-my God! He and Ma would need my support, but how could I give it to them from a hospital bed? I had to get better.

Rae and Ricky and the kids. Especially Mick. Ted and Neal. Craig and Adah. Julia. Charlene, Vic, Patsy, and John. Patrick. All the others who were family, bloodlines not withstanding.

Saskia is right: my life belongs to them as much as it does to me.

My eyelids were getting heavy again. My birth mother said, “Rest now. You’re not alone, Sharon. Not ever.”

JULIA RAFAEL

Union Square was teeming with people clutching bags from the department stores and specialty shops. Many were tourists who had come unprepared for a San Francisco summer and shivered in shorts and T-shirts. In spite of their discomfort, the scene was lively. Cable cars rumbled and clanged on Powell Street, people hanging off the sides and, in some cases, waving energetically. Pigeons flocked to a woman who stood in the square, tossing them bread. There were long lines at the discount ticket office for plays and concerts. Julia could feel the crackling energy.

Although she’d lived most of her life in the city, as a child and young adult Julia had seldom come downtown; the Mission district was her turf-a closely defined and confined neighborhood. Many of San Francisco’s poorer areas were like small cities unto themselves, their residents rarely venturing past their limits, except to go to work-if they had work.

Besides, what would’ve been the point in coming here? Bus fare was expensive, and Mission district families like Julia’s didn’t have the money to shop in the stores, to eat in the restaurants, to go to the theaters. She remembered one time when her sister Sophia had brought her to see the annual Christmas tree all decorated in the square: the tree had been nice, but it was the people who fascinated her-well dressed and carefree, the women smelling of expensive perfumes and the men of aftershave, many of them getting out of cabs and limousines or turning their beautiful cars over to valet parkers. It was an exciting experience, but after enjoying a gingerbread man Sophia bought her from a street vendor, Julia had been glad to go home to the Mission. It was where she felt comfortable.

But now, she realized, all that had changed. Sure, she had a crappy car, but she also had parked it in the garage under the square, on her expense account. She was wearing a good leather jacket-almost paid for-and a pair of stylish jeans and boots. Best of all, she was a woman with a business to go about, and a State of California private investigator’s license to prove it. And last night-much as she’d hated the silence-she’d spent the night as a guest of a Sonoma Valley vintner.

Don’t let it go to your head, chica, you’re only the hired help.

But it was a lot better than what she used to do when men hired her.

The light changed, and she crossed the intersection. The big Home Showcase store on Stockton Street was crowded with shoppers inspecting the specialty food items, glassware, china, and linens. Julia angled toward the sales desk, briefly slowing her pace to admire a set of candlesticks that she knew Sophia would love. Maybe she’d buy them for her birthday; that way they could use them on the Thanksgiving table…

Ben Gold was behind the desk, wrapping up a cut-glass vase and a bunch of multicolored dried flowers. He handed the shopping bag to the customer and turned expectantly to Julia. His smile faded when he saw her, and his handsome features sharpened; alarm showed in his bright blue eyes.

“Is it news?” he asked. “About Larry?”

“Can you take a break?”