Authors: Liza Palmer
“That’s not our job, Ms. Reid. Now, if you could get out of those clothes and give them to Ms. Reyes here, I’d much appreciate it,” Detective Samuelson says, motioning to the CSI.
“Frannie,” Sam says, taking my arm and guiding me away from Detective Samuelson. Ms. Reyes leads us through the school hallways and points to the student bathrooms like she knows these halls better than we do. A little boy and a little girl in blue circles adorn the doors.
“Please,” she says, and opens the girls’ bathroom door for me. Sam steps inside the boys’ bathroom after one final look at me and a quick nod. He locks the door behind him.
Ms. Reyes continues. “You can go down to the pound first thing in the morning. Fill out the paperwork necessary to adopt the dog and then take him to her sister. If you want.” She looks away. Clearing her throat. She wasn’t supposed to tell me that. She’s not supposed to care about shooting victims and their dogs. But she does.
“Thank you. I’ll do that. I’ll do that,” I say, tears welling up.
“Okay, now. Okay,” she says, guiding me into the girls’ bathroom. The door shuts behind me and the neon light is cruel and bright. I don’t look in the mirror. I don’t focus on anything except getting these bloody clothes off. I flip off my ballet flats, now soaked in blood, and let them rest under the sink. I peel my vintage beaded sweater off, the blood soaked through and dark red. I lay it on the sink. I undo the buttons of my blouse, my hands shaking uncontrollably. I breathe. Deeply. Focus. One button. The next. The next. I lay it on top of the sweater. Do I . . . do I take off my bra?
“Ms. Reyes?” I call out through the door.
“Yes?”
“Do you need my bra, too?” I ask.
“Is there blood on it?”
“Yes.”
“Then we need it.”
I am quiet.
“Frannie?” Ms. Reyes calls in.
“Yeah?” I ask, taking off my bra.
“Same rule goes for anything else,” she says, her voice insinuating.
“Like my panties?” I ask, sliding out of my skirt.
“Yes, Frannie. Like your panties,” she says.
“Okay . . . got it.” I fold up my skirt, lay it on my other clothes on the sink. I look at my panties and sure enough, they’re soaked through. The waistband, all along my left hip. Blood. Emma’s blood. I slide them off and stack them. I’m naked. I finally look at myself in the mirror. There are hints of dark stains all over my pale body. On my torso mostly. My hands are still sticky and can’t be washed enough. My hair is a tangle and I refuse to run my hands through it before I shower. I just don’t know what I’ll find. I reach down and pick up the stack of clothes Sam gave me off the floor. A pair of Adidas sweats and a University of Tennessee hoodie.
How in hell did we get here?
I pull on Sam’s sweats, cinching the drawstring tightly as they pool around my bare feet. I thread my arms through his bright orange hoodie and zip it up tight. I’m swimming in it and yet . . . it’s comforting. His smell. The warmth of it. Of him. I sit on the toilet and pull on a pair of white tube socks, pick up my stack of bloodied clothes (now evidence in a homicide) and unlock the door.
“Put them in here,” Ms. Reyes says, holding open a plastic evidence bag. I oblige.
“I’ll never see them again, right?” I ask as she seals the bag.
“I’m afraid not,” she says. Sam unlocks the boys’ bathroom door and comes out in a pair of swim trunks and a white T-shirt, clearly part of his preparations for the fund-raiser’s dunk tank. He’s holding a peacoat in his other hand. He’s obviously freezing.
“In here, Mr. Earley,” Ms. Reyes says, holding open another plastic bag.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, obliging her. She seals the bag as Sam looks over at me. She labels the bags, gives us a quick thank-you and heads back out into the parking lot.
“You warm enough?” Sam asks, holding out the peacoat.
“You need to put that coat on right now,” I say, pushing the coat back to him.
“Are you warm enough?” he asks again.
“Yes, I am. Now put it on,” I say.
“You’re shaking,” he says, stepping forward.
“It’s not because I’m cold,” I say, taking the coat from him. I hold it out and motion for him to put it on. He turns around and I thread the coat onto his now-extended arms. One and then the other. He turns back around.
We are quiet.
“Thank you,” I say, stepping closer to him.
Sam is quiet.
“You saved my life,” I say, the words on one hand so clear and true, and on the other so unbelievable and dreamlike.
Sam is quiet, his jaw tightening, his eyes focused on me. He pulls me in close, his arms wrapping around me. He’s situating and resituating, bringing me in tighter . . . closer. I wrap my arms around his waist and let my head fall onto his chest, tucking into the folds of the peacoat and settling in next to the thin white T-shirt just beneath.
“I didn’t save your life,” Sam says, his voice a growl in his chest. I pull back and look up at him.
“Yes, you did,” I say, my brow furrowed.
“Fran—”
“You need to let me thank you. You need to let me be thankful for you,” I say, emotion rising in my throat. Vast, endless emotion that scares me. My body is shaking. My voice is quivering. My mind is a chaotic mess of images and scenarios I don’t have any idea what to do with. I have to start with something I know and work from there. I have to feel something I can label and maybe that will give me some foundation for how to take on the rest of this. I am outside of my body right now, floating and terrifyingly untethered to anything familiar.
“Okay,” Sam says, his face still twisted.
“Okay,” I repeat, letting my head rest once again on his chest. He wraps his arms around me once more. He breathes. Deep.
“You’re welcome,” Sam says, his voice quiet and wandering.
“Thank you,” I say again. He tightens his arms around me.
I am quiet. The red, blue and white lights of the police cars still playing off the halls of the school. The not-so-distant sound of walkie-talkies and urgent calls to action. As Sam and I walk back outside and hopefully away from all this, I can’t help but think about all the things we leave unsaid. All the things we hide, keep secret and are ashamed of.
We’re only as sick as our secrets.
Emma’s secret? She’d rather have died than tell the truth about her marriage.
“Frances, can we have a minute?” Pamela Jackson emerges from Emma’s office. Sam and I both stop.
“Pamela, I’ve had kind of a rough couple of hours,” I say, motioning to my outfit, the police cars . . . the blood still threaded through my hair.
“I know that, Frances. I would like to do a quick check-in before you leave. I’ve been informed by Detective Samuelson that he’s done questioning you, so if we could just have a few minutes,” Pamela says, her voice calm.
“I’ll be right outside, maybe see if I can get in touch with Lisa, ask if Grady’s out of surgery yet. See if they need anything,” Sam says, pulling his cell phone out of his swim trunk pockets. I nod.
“Come on in,” Pamela says, leading me into Emma’s office. A chill. My body convulses as the surroundings impact me. The pictures. The wingback chairs. The perfect flowers lolling to one side in exactly measured vases. A woman so at odds with herself, and yet . . . lovely. A leader in the making. Human. Flawed.
Dead.
I look away and focus on the seat of the wingback chair. Just sit. Pamela motions for me to sit in the chair I’m maniacally staring at. I oblige. She sits in the other. I like that she’s not sitting at Emma’s desk. I twist my body to face her, my leg inching up onto the seat of the wingback.
Pamela starts. “How are you doing?” She leans back in the chair.
“Fine.” Numb. Foreign in my own skin.
We are quiet.
Pamela continues. “I know you want to get home. I really thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”
“It’s fine.”
“It doesn’t have to be fine.”
I am quiet. My mouth contorts and twists as I try to swallow everything. It’s burning my throat.
Pamela continues. “We thought it might be a good idea to check in with the staff who were in attendance tonight. Just get a quick vibe, if you’ll pardon the hippie speak,” Pamela says, her face serene, her voice calm. Flashes of Jamie’s face. I blink it away.
“You okay?” Pamela asks.
“Fine.”
“You had a moment there.”
“It’s fine.”
Crack
. The loudest noise I’ve ever heard.
Quiet. Chewing the inside of my mouth. The ringing in my ears is an unnerving and constant reminder of what’s happened. I’m swallowing. Swallowing the emotion. The leather is cold and slick under my clammy palms. Pamela waits. I focus on my feet. Little white tube socks. Where am I? What the . . . how did I get here?
“From what I’ve gleaned from the detectives who worked the scene, you were standing next to Emma?”
“Yes.” The blood. So much blood.
“Emma Dunham was in an abusive marriage. One that ended tragically, but sadly somewhat inevitably. Do you get that?”
I am quiet.
“Frannie, I need you to acknowledge that you’re hearing me.”
“I hear you,” I say.
“Good. If you could, I’d like for you to come and talk to me early next week. Monday. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yeah.”
“Frannie, what you’ve been through is going to affect you in ways you’re not going to see coming. I want you to talk to people. Tonight. Keep talking. Let stuff out that feels . . . it’s going to feel like a lot. But I need you to let it flow. I know that sounds touchy-feely, but I need you to do that. Will you do that for me?” Pamela says, taking my hands.
I nod.
“I don’t want you to put any judgments on yourself in the coming days. It’s going to be scary and confusing, but I just want you to feel whatever it is that you’re feeling. I know that sounds like psychobabble, but you’ve survived something traumatic. And your brain isn’t equipped to handle things like this. You’re going to feel a little lost. I need you to know that.”
I nod.
“Feel. It’s okay. Cry. Scream. Laugh. Hug. Talk. But don’t judge. Can you do that?”
I nod.
“Okay,” Pamela says, guiding me out of Emma’s office. “Monday, we’ll talk again.” She passes me her business card. “This is my card. My cell phone number is on the back. I want you to call me anytime. You don’t need a reason. And please, if . . . if Sam needs me, please have him call. I’m here.” I take her business card and slip it into the deep pockets of Sam’s Adidas sweats.
“Thank you,” I say. And stop. I turn to Pamela. “You’re really good at your job,” I say, tears streaming down my face.
“Thank you. And thank god for Condoleezza Rice and Oprah, otherwise these Markham people wouldn’t know what to do with me,” Pamela says with a wide smile and a quick wink.
I smile. And my face crumples. Pamela smooths her hand over my shoulders and back. As we walk through the anteroom, she says, “Take care of yourself tonight, Frannie. Please.”
I nod.
“You survived, Frannie. You don’t need to feel guilty about that. Got it?” Pamela says, opening the door to the hallway. As the door creaks open, Sam looks up.
I nod.
“We’ll talk Monday,” Pamela says. She gives me a warm smile and steps back into the anteroom. The door closes behind her.
“Grady’s out of surgery. He’s doing well. He’s out for the night. Sedated. Lisa’s with him. She says we can see him in the morning,” Sam says as we pass through the double doors and back out into the parking lot. The crime scene. Still packed with emergency vehicles and police and firefighters.
“Okay . . . that’s . . . that’s good,” I say, breathing. Not judging, just breathing. I begin to meander to my car. Not saying good-bye to Sam. Not really doing or thinking about anything but a hot shower.
“Do you need a—let me follow you home. Frannie?” Sam asks, taking my hand. My fingers curl around his as the red, blue and white police lights play against the school’s exterior.
“Sure. Thanks,” I say.
Pamela says I’m going to feel lost. Lost.
Going to?
T
hank you for making sure I got home,” I say, closing my front door behind us. I spent my entire ride home on the phone with Jill. By the time we spoke, she and Martin were already safely tucked in bed. The only time she perked up was when I told her I was with Sam. That’s my girl.
We’re all going to meet at the hospital first thing in the morning; Grady should be alert by that time. Well, second thing in the morning. I have a dog to adopt first thing. Friday we have to attend and work the most morbid, sullen and tragic fund-raiser in the history of fund-raisers. I hope it will be healing and not just plain awkward and shitty. I hope. I’ve also decided not to call my parents just yet. My dad will question me like a suspect and my mom will just worry. I can’t handle either of those things right now. I’ll call them tomorrow. I’ll need errands tomorrow. I’ll want something to do on our official day of remembrance, a day when the last thing I want to do is remember.
I’ve been floating through these last few hours like someone who’s whistling past a graveyard in an effort to keep the ghosts and flashes of blood at arm’s length. Arm’s length, football field length,
China
. . . pick one. I’ve held other things at bay for a lot longer. Rejecting my true self for decades is good training to keep me in denial about how horrific tonight’s events were. I’ve turned into a single-celled amoeba who wants only two things: a long hot soak in a tub and a warm bed. That’s it. I can’t handle anything else. And yet, I feel this buzzing inside that has me worried. I’m either going to fall asleep or explode. Or vomit. I’m hoping it’s the former. I need this day to be like an Etch A Sketch: one shake and it’s a clean slate. I need a do-over. We all need a do-over.
Emma.
“We both need showers and we need something to eat,” Sam says, walking through my apartment. I wish I’d cleaned it up a little. My apartment is always relatively clean, but I didn’t know I was going to have company. I didn’t know a lot of things about today. It’s a good sign that I’m worried about something as trivial as dirty panties on the bathroom floor at a time like this. Although in a moment of rebellion against everything Emma died for, I kind of wish there
were
dirty panties on the ground. I’m not perfect, Sam Earley. What do you think of that? Oh god, I’m going to be sick to my stomach. I lunge into the bathroom.
“I’m in agreement so far,” I say, scanning the bathroom floor. Nothing. We’re clear.
“We could order a pizza,” Sam says. I decide that I’m going to wait and see if he brings
it
up. The
it
. The shooting. His shooting. The four shots that stopped the madman and saved us all. Except Sam. We were saved and he became a killer.
“Ah, pizza,” I say, checking his jaw. Tense. Still grinding. In time.
“We have good luck with getting pizza,” Sam says, slurring slightly. We’re both exhausted.
“Pizza and baths!” I say, unable to censor what I really want or have any decorum about inviting Sam into my apartment.
“Sounds like a plan,” he says, walking through my apartment, the hardwood floors creaking beneath him. He picks up the phone, finds a pizza-place magnet on my fridge and begins dialing. The biggest comfort I have tonight is that Sam understands. He shares that same glassy-eyed, single-cell-amoeba look. We want the same things. We’ve gone through the same things tonight. Is he . . . as in denial as I am? A scary wave of fear grips me. Will I even know how this night has affected me? Is this where I just . . .
become
different?
I walk into my bathroom, shuffling along in the too-long Adidas sweats, fidgeting with the zipper to Sam’s University of Tennessee sweatshirt. The old-timey porcelain tiles on my bathroom floor are cold underfoot; my “good” towels are all rolled up and displayed in a wicker basket. Totally unused. My favorite towel hangs on a hook on the back of my bathroom door. Bleach-stained and holey, it has yet to be surpassed. On my counter is a toothbrush, my perfume and a few products left out from my morning regimen. God, this morning seems like a lifetime ago. I sit on the rim of the large bathtub (one of the reasons I rented this place was because it had a huge soaking tub separate from the shower. It was a luxury I couldn’t pass up), insert the stopper and turn on the water. Hot. Too hot. More cold. Just right. I run my hand underneath the stream of water. It feels . . .
heavenly
. Sam walks into the bathroom with the cordless phone tucked into the crook of his neck. He’s still wearing the white T-shirt and swim trunks.
“What kind of pizza do you want?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You’ve got to have some—oh, hi, yes, ma’am, I’d like to orderrr . . .” Sam trails off, looking at me. In this millisecond I wonder why this whole “Sam in my apartment” thing isn’t having more of an epic impact on me. But the armor has been lifted. From me. From him. From in between us. If only for tonight, I’m done with the bullshit. I’m not sure what will happen come morning, but I’m going to take Pamela’s advice and go with the flow. I’m perfectly comfortable with Sam being in my apartment, on my phone, and me with nary an undergarment on, telling him what kind of pizza I want. How’s that for not overthinking shit, Ryan? Ryan. I’ll deal with him tomorrow.
“Cheese? Pepperoni?” I mouth.
“Let’s do pepperoni,” he says. I didn’t think he would go for just cheese; there would have to be some kind of meat. The water pours into the slowly filling bathtub. Sam walks back out into the living room. I close my eyes again. Tired. Quiet.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack
. Emma being lifted off the ground. Jamie’s blank stare. I blink my eyes open. Nope. We’re not doing that right now. I walk out into the living room just as Sam is hanging up.
“Okay, let me hop in the shower before you get in the tub,” Sam says, pulling the white T-shirt off over his head. It’s a shockingly intimate gesture.
He stammers, “I don’t know . . . I don’t know why I just did that, forgot where I was,” he says, holding the T-shirt out.
“Well, you’re inside someone’s apartment. I’ve almost taken my shirt off in a Laundromat before. Like came thiiiis close. And then I caught myself. I didn’t even have an excuse,” I say, perching on the arm of my couch.
“I’ll hurry,” Sam says.
“You don’t have to,” I say, looking off into the distance, Sam’s naked torso completely lost on me. Lost.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Sam says. And then catches himself. A small embarrassed smile. A nod at my bloody, matted hair and tight mouth, and then the bathroom door is closed. A second later the shower turns on.
I perch on my couch and don’t move. Time is irrelevant and in what feels like seconds, Sam peeks his head out of the now-steamy bathroom.
“Do you have anything I could wear? Anything warm?” Sam asks, his hair slicked back, his face blotchy and red.
“Let me check,” I say, walking past the bathroom and into my bedroom. I scan my wardrobe for something big enough to fit Sam. I realize I’m wearing the best option. I walk back to the bathroom.
“If you can hang for a second, let me get rinsed off and you can have your clothes back,” I say.
“You’re right,” Sam says, opening the bathroom door all the way. My favorite towel is wrapped around Sam’s waist, his upper torso bare. “I turned off the bath. You’re all ready to go. My suggestion would be to hop in the shower for a quick . . . you know, rinse,” Sam says, motioning to my hair.
“Yeah, I thought of that,” I say.
“I’ll be out here. Waiting for the pizza,” Sam says.
“Just wait right there,” I say, noticing he’s shivering. I close the bathroom door and strip off Sam’s Adidas sweats and UT hoodie. Creak the door open and pass them through. “Here you go,” I say, keeping my body out of sight.
“Thank you,” Sam says, taking them. I close the door. The steam is still thick, the mirror fogged over. The bathtub is full; a layer of bubbles sits atop the warm water. I smile. I walk over to the shower and turn on the water. Hot . . . too hot. Cold. More hot. There. Just right. I step into the shower. Immediately. Red. Everywhere. There was already a red ring around the drain from Sam’s shower before I got in.
I step under the hot water and close my eyes.
Crack. Crack
. Emma lifting off . . . nope. Open. Open the eyes. Got it. The water falls over my face and I finally run my hands through my hair. It’s matted and tangled and takes some doing to navigate. Red drains in a swirl as in an Alfred Hitchcock film. If only everyone wore their crazy like Norman Bates did. But no. Murderers don’t dress up in their mother’s clothes and victimize pretty blondes in showers. I pour out some shampoo and lather up. No, sometimes murderers are little priggish weaklings who’ve realized the jig is up. The emperor has no clothes. Their control is waning.
Crack
. Grady whirling around. I shake my head. Nope. I let my head fall back under the hot water, rinsing my hair and body. I turn off the shower. Ready for the tub. Ready to go underwater and hear nothing. See if this ringing in my ears will finally subside.
I carefully step onto the bath mat and pad over to the bathtub. Clean. I don’t look back. I won’t. I refuse to look at the red ring around the drain. Tomorrow. I’ll take that on tomorrow. I step into the bathtub; the warmth shoots through me at once. I sink in. Dipping my shoulders below the bubbles, my face tickled by their froth. Quiet. Safe.
After another unknowable stretch of time, I hear the doorbell and voices. The pizza’s here. I perk up. I start to straighten and sit up. A knock on the bathroom door.
“Pizza’s here,” Sam says.
“Bring it in,” I say, my shoulders just over the top of the bubbles.
“What?”
“Bring it in. We can eat in here,” I say.
“In the bathroom? Didn’t your mother ever tell you that you can’t eat in the bathroom?”
“Yes. Yes, she did.”
“Are you still in the tub?”
“Yes.”
Sam is quiet.
I continue. “The bubbles are providing the necessary camouflage, don’t worry.”
“Yes,
that
was my concern,” Sam says. I can tell he’s smiling.
I am quiet.
He continues. “Let me get some plates.”
“In the kitchen, upper right. By the sink,” I say, motioning with my arm, as well.
“You keep dishes in the kitchen?” Sam says, already out into the living room. I smile. I look down at myself. I fluff the bubbles closer to me. Sam stops at the bathroom door again.
“What’s going on over there?” I ask, sinking lower into the bathtub.
“I’m just . . . I don’t know,” he says, creaking the bathroom door open slowly. I’m watching him.
“It’s like you’ve never eaten pizza in the bathroom with someone in the tub before,” I say. Sam smiles, laughing a little—as much as one could after the day’s events. Every laugh is heavy with meaning. I’m laughing . . . after today. I’m smiling . . . after today. I’m alive . . . after today. Should I be doing any of this? Should I be feeling any of this? How does one behave after a day like today?
“Yes, imagine that,” Sam says, arranging a towel on the cold tiled floor and sitting down. He balances the pizza in one hand and two plates with paper towels on the other. He sits in the middle of the bathroom floor and pulls two bottles of beer from his Adidas’s pockets with a flourish. He twists them open, one after the other. Hands me mine as I sit up a bit straighter in the tub, the bubbles hanging on to my skin just as they should. My hair is slick and wet to my back. Sam holds his beer high.
“To Emma,” he says, his face serious.
“To Emma,” I say, her name getting caught in my throat. We clink beer bottles and drink. For a long time. Quiet. For Emma.
Crack
. Her ice-blue eyes glassy and . . . I shake my head. Out. Get out. Sam opens up the pizza box, puts a slice on a plate and hands it over to me.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” he says, serving himself up one.
“See? It gets easier,” I say, taking a big bite of my pizza. I’m starving.
“Ha,” Sam says, smiling. And then taking a big bite of his slice as well.
We are quiet. Eating pizza as the water laps against the walls of the bathtub, the random drips of water from the spigot. Sam’s hoodie lists open, his naked chest just underneath. I take covert glances at it.
“So, why Pasadena?” I ask, navigating between the bathtub, the pizza, Sam’s exposed chest and the bottle of beer quite well.
“I’m sorry?” Sam asks, his mouth slightly full.
“It’s a long ways from Shelby Forest, pardner.”
“That’s Texan.”
“Is that . . .
what
?”
“Or was that John Wayne?”
“It might have been . . . I don’t know exactly . . . just answer the question.”
Sam is quiet for a second. He takes a swig of his beer and pulls one of his legs up, balancing his pizza plate on his knee.
“I’m the third of four brothers.”
“That’s a lot of . . . brothers.”
“And being the third meant by the time I did anything in my hometown, some other Earley had done it better, worse, the same, with natural talent or with malicious intent.”
“And your parents?”
Sam is quiet.
“You don’t have to—”
“No, it’s okay. Especially today. My daddy and I have a complicated relationship,” Sam says.
“With all of the boys or . . .”
“Just me.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Pamela said we were going to experience weird stuff, but that we should just go with the flow,” I say, motioning that I’d like another piece of pizza, please. Sam obliges.
“Go with the flow?”
“You’re in California. People say things like that. And not ironically either.” I take a big bite of my pizza. Sam serves himself up another piece. We eat in silence. Beers clanking against tiled floors. Sam helps himself to another piece and swigs the last of his beer.
“We’re going to need more beer.”
“I imagine Grady’s got some pretty good drugs right now.”
“The good stuff.”
“He’s not feeling a thing.”
“Jealous?”