“Who took her?” Carmen asks, her hand raised to block the sun’s glare, her head bowed, trying to get a better look at my face.
“The police.”
Only then does she seem to connect the dots. She looks at the police cars pulling into the restaurant lot, at the officers approaching the front door.
“They arrested her? What for?” Des looks from me to Carmen. Already, we are expecting answers from her. She’s the lawyer. This is her world, not ours.
I hand Carmen the papers. I’d read them myself, but I’m not in my right mind. It’s like I’m inhabiting an entirely different body, and my brain’s synapses are not fully firing. All I can think about is Mom being stuffed into the back seat of a squad car, her broken cries before the door slammed shut.
“They weren’t using her name,” I mumble, remembering. “They called her Sarah.”
Des, boiling with anger, looks around the parking lot, her gaze stopping on an officer in uniform. She marches toward him, but I don’t follow. I watch Carmen’s face as she reads over the arrest warrant, hoping she will have an explanation.
“What does it say?”
Carmen bites her bottom lip, holding the warrant in her hands, as though the ink and paper bear hieroglyphics, some indecipherable code. I’ve watched her practice opening and closing arguments a dozen times, usually from the comfort of her living room over glasses of wine. Typically, each word leaves her lips with confidence and intention. But not now. When she does speak, her tone is as shaky as my comprehension.
“There’s a list of charges. Custodial interference. Kidnapping. Murder.”
I’m not even sure what the first phrase means, but it doesn’t matter. All I can hear is that last word over and over again. Murder. The police think my mother murdered someone?
“Carmen, this can’t be right. There must be a mistake.” My stomach sinks further. “The name—”
We’re both distracted by the sound of Des’ yelling. She’s standing in front of The Shack entrance, her wide frame blocking the officers from walking inside.
“What are you doing?” I ask the officer, jogging toward him. He looks to be a decade my junior, his face free from any lines or creases.
“I tried telling her,” he says, nodding to Des. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”
“But why?” I ask. “I don’t understand what you’re looking for.”
“The suspect is listed as an owner of this establishment.”
“Well, I own the building,” Des shouts, defiantly. “And I say you can’t come in.”
“It says here this is also her residence,” he says, pointing at another piece of paper. “Does she live here?”
“Upstairs,” I say. The word falls out.
“Desiree, please,” Carmen says, giving her a sympathetic stare. She turns to the officer. “I’m Carmen Banks, and I’ll be acting as Ms. Sams’ defense attorney. We’re in the middle of a private party. At least let us ask the guests to leave.”
The officer looks to his partner a few steps back, then nods at Carmen. “Five minutes. And I’ll be standing inside until everyone exits the building.”
“Thank you,” Carmen says, placing her hand on Des’ shoulder. “Let’s explain to the guests that something has come up.”
I’m still in a state of shock, trying to process what is happening. I’m thankful for Carmen and that logical, beautiful head on her shoulders. She’s taking back control of this predicament, something I should be doing, but shock has restricted my abilities. She identified herself as Mom’s attorney. Hearing that title startled me. This is real. Whatever this is, it’s happening.
The party. Suddenly, I remember Ava. It’s as if for the past ten minutes she hasn’t existed. I’ve been so lost in this foreign predicament I’d forgotten about her, and the birthday celebration that has been ruined.
When I re-enter the restaurant, Michael is holding her, bouncing her rhythmically on one knee. She reaches for me, as she always does, oblivious to the tense air in the room. I hold her close, and, for several seconds, do nothing but breathe, allowing Carmen and Des to wrangle the remaining guests.
“Looks like quite the commotion out there,” Holly says, craning her neck to get a better look outside. I ignore her.
“Is everything okay?” Michael asks. He’s standing now, his eyes wide and full of confusion.
“I… I don’t know.” I squeeze Ava tighter, nuzzling my jaw against her soft curls.
People gather their belongings and leave. They must be curious, even shocked. The people here know me. They know Eileen Sams. Who is Sarah Paxton? I push the thought out of my mind, focusing instead on Ava. Her powdery smell, the confetti clinging to her dress.
I feel a hand on my back. I turn and see Carmen, but she is not looking at me. Her face is fixed on the front door, where the young officer is standing.
“I’m going to the police station.” Her eyes fall on Ava, but her smile is strained, pretending for both our sakes the situation isn’t as bad as it appears.
“I’m coming with you.”
“I can’t figure out what’s happening if you’re right beside me,” she says. “Take Ava home. By the time you arrive at the station, hopefully I’ll have more information.”
I know Carmen is right, and she’s already thinking with her lawyer brain, not as my best friend, but I feel an unexplainable desire to be near my mother. I can’t erase the image of her sitting in the back seat of that police cruiser.
“I want to speak with her. I have to know she’s okay. You didn’t see her face when they arrested her. She was—”
“Just trust me to figure out what’s going on.” She gives Ava’s arm a gentle squeeze, then pats my back.
“I’ll drive you home,” Des says, jingling her key ring. “I can watch Ava when you leave for the station.”
“What about the restaurant?” I ask, disregarding the trail of police officers and technicians making their way inside.
“We’ve got bigger problems that need attending,” Des says, her eyes bouncing between Carmen and me. “That was my best friend in handcuffs.”
Des
