Authors: Liza Palmer
“Thank you, Dolores,” I say with a huge smile. I open the wooden door and step inside Emma’s old office. Pamela’s things are in boxes, canvas bags and wicker baskets on the floor. The office is already warmer. A decorative throw here, a picture of a smiling family there. So many clues.
“Ms. Reid, thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice,” Pamela says, motioning for me to have a seat. I oblige. I approach the wingback chairs and once again I see there’s a stranger in our midst. A woman this time. I vow that if I ever plan on creeping up on someone, a must-have prop will most certainly be a wingback chair.
“Frances Reid, I’d like you to meet Clara Grey. Mrs. Grey is Emma’s sister,” Pamela says. My stomach drops.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Grey,” I say, extending my hand to the woman. Judging by her appearance, she’s no longer playing the role of black sheep. She’s tall and lithe, wearing a linen tunic that on someone less fashionable would look like a tablecloth. Her hair is a golden blond and cut stylishly, hanging to her shoulders. Her blue eyes are . . . well, Emma’s. I’m staring at her. I’m now actively staring at her.
“I know. We look a lot alike,” Clara says.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, breathless. I tear my gaze away from her and look to Pamela. “How can I . . . I’m confused.” I look from Pamela to Clara and back to Pamela.
“I hadn’t spoken to Emma in around eight years and then all of a sudden she calls me three days ago out of the blue. And now she’s dead. You’ll have to excuse the straightforward nature of this, but . . . I want answers. I want to know what happened. She mentioned you, Frannie. Talked about you. I thought maybe . . . maybe you could tell me something about my sister. I just . . . I just need to know what happened,” Clara says, choking through tears.
I am struck dumb. Quieted. Clara. The woman I heard about in passing is sitting here now asking me about her sister. Her dead sister. As if I know Emma. As if I have answers. As if. . .
“Clara, you’ll excuse us, but we’re all still dealing with what happened. And piecing together information without tapping into the trauma of the event might be a bit difficult for Frannie,” Pamela says, her voice calm.
“I understand,” Clara says, sniffling. “Thank you for your time.” She bends down and gathers the leather straps of her purse in one hand.
“She said she thought you were strong. She admired that in you,” I say. Clara crumples back down into her chair, her breath ragged, her sobs instantaneous. I continue. “We were brought together because one of my kids was being bullied. He’d stood up for himself and Emma took the side of the bully at first. Said that my boy had provoked it. Deserved it. Deserved no safe harbor. And I fought her. I thought she was a bitch who just didn’t understand what it was like to be bullied, you know? She was so perfect. So perfect. How could she understand?” The tears are streaming down my face now. Pamela offers me a tissue.
“She was always perfect, you know? Even when she was little,” Clara says, smiling.
“There was this mixer at her house for the heads of department and the board of directors. I went and of course her house was lovely and she was lovely. And I think that was where we started to become friends. You know? She talked about you. She was beaming. God, she loved you,” I say, reaching out for Clara. She clutches my hand, unable to look at me. I can’t look at her. I hear Pamela sniffle in the distance.
“I thought I embarrassed her,” Clara says, her voice a whisper.
“No, no way. She admired you. She talked about painting and choosing academia. I could tell she regretted it, choosing academia,” I say, finally looking up.
“She got me into painting in the first place. She painted in oils—skill, patience . . . she had it. I have some of her paintings at home if you want . . . if you want to see them,” Clara says, coming alive.
“I’d like that,” I say.
We’re quiet as the weight of
it
hangs around us like a poisonous gas. We’ve celebrated Emma. Her life. Her loves. It’s time. . .
“Had you met Jamie?” Clara asks, her voice ice cold.
“Yeah,” I say, my eyes set elsewhere.
“Before that night?” Clara asks.
“I met him at Back-to-School Night and then again at that mixer,” I say, becoming detached.
“And?” Clara’s voice is loud, catches Pamela and me off guard.
“And he was exactly what you think he would be. A mincing, beak-nosed weakling,” I say, my mouth curling in disgust.
Clara is quiet yet buzzing with anger.
“Mr. Dunham was the worst among men,” Pamela adds, her chin held high.
We are quiet.
“Emma has a dog,” I say, my voice soft.
“What?” Clara asks, confused.
“Had. Emma had a dog. I’m sorry,” I say, feeling stupid.
“What . . . why are you telling me this?” Clara asks, edging closer.
“Because he was the love of her life and I’m sure she would love it if you could give him a proper home. With the girls,” I say.
“I don’t . . . I . . .” Clara starts and stops, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“His name is John Henry and he’s beautiful. And he’s lost without her. Please,” I say. “Please,” I say again.
“You . . . I . . . I have to think about it. I can’t . . . she . . . I have to think about it,” Clara says, tugging on her purse straps once again. She stands. Pamela and I stand.
“Here, please. I know it’s a lot all at once, but take my phone number. And . . . just think about it. I’d love to see Emma’s paintings and . . . well, just think about John Henry. Please?” I ask, scribbling my phone number on some Markham card stock on Pamela’s desk. Clara takes my phone number and nods. And nods. And nods. She sniffles and wipes the tears from her cheeks.
“If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call,” Pamela says, passing Clara her business card. Clara takes it. She stacks it in her fingers next to mine.
“Here’s the memorial service announcement. It’s in Mill Valley. This weekend. I haven’t decided whether or not I’m going, but you’re welcome to. I’m sure it’s just going to be some ridiculous farce put on by my parents. It’d be nice to have someone there that Emma actually liked,” Clara says with a sheepish smile. Then she lunges into me for a hug. It catches me off guard at first, but then I wrap my arms tightly around her. She whispers, “Thank you. Thank you.” She breaks from me violently and races out of Pamela’s office, her sobs urgent as she closes the door behind her.
I look at the memorial service invite.
Emma Jane Dunham passed away on September 14 at the age of 35. Emma was a loving daughter, a devoted aunt and patient sister. She will be greatly missed by all of her family and friends. A celebration in her memory will take place on Saturday, September 24, at the Marin County Country Club’s Crystal Ballroom at 10
A.M.
Nigel and Jane Stanforth
Floral tributes may be sent
Passed away?
Passed away?
“I’m so sorry to spring that on you. She showed up here asking about you and . . .” Pamela speaks quickly, motioning for me to take a seat. I stuff the invite in my pocket.
“I thought I was coming in here to talk about my promotion,” I say, dazed.
“I know. I walked in and she was waiting in the anteroom. Dolores just . . . sat there,” Pamela says.
“Did I make things worse?” I ask.
“I doubt things can get worse than they are, Frannie,” Pamela says, pulling two candy bars from one of the desk drawers. She offers me one. I take it. We both tear our candy bars open and take a bite. Breathe.
We sit in silence for another fifteen minutes.
A
gain: I’m searching in this dusty campsite for the group. They’re leaving. They’re leaving and I’m about to get left behind. The rickety staircases and old dirt roads are confusing. My suitcase is heavy and I question why I brought it.
Crack. Crack
. It’s coming. It’s coming. Drag the suitcase faster. Run. Catch up. Get them.
Crack
. But they’re behind me. I’m not . . . I’m not running to something, I’m running away from something.
Crack. Crack
. My hand is curled around the suitcase’s handle. Slippery. Sticky. Let go. I bring up my hands.
Crack. Crack
. Blood. Everywhere.
“No!” I jolt awake. Saturday morning. Another terrible sleep. Another morning where I cherish those three seconds between realizing the dream wasn’t real and that reality is sometimes worse than we can ever imagine. I get dressed quickly. After I visit Grady and Lisa at the hospital, I get to finally pick up John Henry at the pound. I haven’t heard from Clara, but I still have hope. I have no idea why . . . but I still have hope.
I walk over to my laptop, set my cup of coffee down next to it. I plop down into my desk chair and wait for the computer to come on.
Once the computer buzzes to life, I click on the web browser icon and navigate myself to one of those review sites where people leave their opinions on everything—from restaurants and hotels to the best neighborhood hardware store and beyond. I type in
doggie day care
and watch as an entire world opens up to me. I click and read, click and read, and then, finding one that sounds exactly like what I’m looking for, I pick up the phone and dial.
“Southern Comfort, this is Jenny,” a woman’s voice answers. I couldn’t help myself.
“Hi, I’m adopting a dog today and wonder if you have any space available for him?”
“Well, we have a few spaces, but we’d have to meet him and see how he gets on with the other dogs and all that. What are you guys doing later on today?” Jenny asks. Her accent is deeper and twangier than Sam’s.
“Today?” I ask.
“We’re slow on the weekends. This would be a great time to meet him. We have just a few dogs here.”
“I’m picking him up later on this morning. I could be there by noon,” I say.
“You said you’re getting him today?”
“Yes, it’s, uh . . . it’s complicated,” I say.
“I like complicated.”
I smile. “Then you’ll love this.”
“You’re funny!” Jenny laughs. I am really going to hate to bring the room down, but. . .
“I work at a private school over in Pasadena. We had a shooting here on Friday,” I say, starting in.
“Oh my god! I saw that on the news! You were there?!”
“Yeah.”
“I just thought what a shame that was, what an utter shame that was, when I was watching it. Shouldn’t be like that, you know? Shouldn’t be like that.”
“Yeah.”
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.
.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to go on. I just can’t believe you were there.”
“Me either.”
“Got that right.”
“So, the woman who was killed . . . he was her dog,” I say, barely getting it out before the emotion of it strangles me. I exhale. Focus.
“Oh my god,” Jenny says, breathy.
“He’s a good boy. Three-year-old Weimaraner. His name is John Henry and he’s sweet and . . . I just . . . I don’t know how he’ll be around other dogs. The husband had him on quite a tight leash. Had everyone on a tight leash, it seems,” I say, my voice icy and clipped.
“The husband,
hm
,” Jenny says, clucking.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice dead.
“Well, you can bring ’im on by and we’ll see how he does.” I can hear Jenny tuck the phone into the crook of her neck.
“The thing is—I think it’s only going to be for a few days. Hopefully,” I say.
“Why would it only be for a few days?”
“I want to take him back to her family. Her sister lives in Los Feliz and she’s got three little girls. It’s a home, you know? A proper home. I just . . .” Choking. Tears.
“No, I get it. I get it,” Jenny says, her voice quiet. Finally. Someone. Someone gets it.
“So, noon?” I ask.
“Sounds good,” Jenny says, giving me quick directions to her house. We sign off with hope that John Henry will fit in. I feel myself keeping him at arm’s length. The last thing I want to do is get attached to this dog.
AS I’M WALKING INTO
the hospital, my cell phone rings. It’s my mom. I stop and sit on a bench just outside of Grady’s hospital room.
“Hello?”
“Frannie?”
“Hey, Mom.”
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” I can see my Mom now, sitting at the kitchen table wearing her usual khaki cropped pants with loafers, a cable-knit sweater in a soothing pastel. The last time I trekked up to Mill Valley was just a little over a month ago and while she looked essentially the same, I was caught off guard by the realization that she’s getting older. A little more hunched over, her hair a bit more gray, it takes a bit longer for her to stand. Needless to say, these realizations are unwelcome.
“How do you know something is wrong?”
“Sweetie?”
“I don’t want you to get worried, okay?”
“Frannie, you tell me right this instant what is going on.”
“There was a shooting. At the school. The headmistress was killed by her husband,” I say, my voice calm.
“Was she a friend of yours?” Mom asks. The cell phone crackles as I finally break the news to my parents about Wednesday. I’ll start with Mom and work my nerve up for Dad.
“No, but I didn’t think she was a complete stranger either,” I say, watching people bustle about the hospital. Worried looks, bouquets of flowers. What a gamut of emotions and situations.
“Does she have family?” Mom asks.
“Yeah, here’s the weird part. They live in the Bay Area apparently.” I can hear Mom moving around the kitchen now, the kitchen they just renovated. I told them—go media room! Pool! Cabana! Sunken fire pit! Nope. A breakfast bar and more cabinet space in the kitchen. They even kept their old kitchen appliances. They’re proud of the fact that they still have the same furniture they had when they moved to Mill Valley from the Bronx in 1972.
“What’s their last name?”
“Her maiden name was Stanforth, but her married name is Dunham.”
“I don’t know any Stanforths or Dunhams off the top of my head. I’ll ask around though.”
“The memorial service is at the Marin County Country Club this weekend.”
“So, you’re coming to Mill Valley?”
“It looks like it.”
“Not the best of circumstances, but a nice surprise just the same.”
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack
. Shake it off. Shake it away.
We fall quiet.
This is not a good thing.
“Frances?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“You okay?”
“Sure.”
“It sounds like you’ve gone through a lot.” Shake it away. I ball my hands in fists. The blood. So much blood.
“Yep.”
Quiet.
“You remember Jackie? She lived on the corner, right here on Miller?” Mom asks.
“Yeah, she had those super-high heels,” I say, remembering a woman who was so fancy I thought she was a movie star.
“When she committed suicide, I couldn’t help but think I could have done something. But I couldn’t have done anything, sweetie. Unfortunately, some people are past saving before you even meet them. Do you get that?” Mom says.
“Not yet,” I say honestly.
“In time,” she says.
“She lied about everything,” I say.
“It looks like that’s the case.”
“Why? Why lie about that kind of stuff?” I ask.
“It’s easier to lie than face the truth. Isn’t it?”
“I suppose.”
“Women are competitive, Frannie.”
“I know that.”
“And it seems that Emma was playing to win no matter the cost.”
I think of Jill. “Or the reality,” I say.
“There was no reality.”
“Oh, it got real. It got really ugly, really fast.”
“That’s usually the case. These kinds of scenarios never end well, honey.”
Crack
. Nope.
Nope
.
“I know.”
We are quiet.
“You couldn’t do anything,” Mom says.
I nod and nod and nod.
“Frannie?”
“I know.”
“Okay, sweetie . . . your father wants to talk to you about what happened,” Mom says. My dad. The retired police officer can figure out something is wrong from just one half of a conversation.
“Okay.”
“I’ll go finish the roast then,” Mom says.
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll let you know about the trip up there. When it’s happening. All that.”
“Okay, sweetie. You take care, okay? Take care?”
“I will.”
“I love you, my sweet girl.”
“LoveyoutooMom,” I squeeze out before a torrent of tears rumbles out in its place. A security guard looks over. A narrowed eye. I smile . . .
ish
. I mouth that I’m fine. A raised eyebrow. A pause.
“Frannie, honey? Is that you?” Dad says, getting on the phone. Then the sound of a referee’s whistle and my dad’s reaction (not a good one) to the call.
“Hey, Dad,” I say.
“Hey, sweetie,” Dad says. I always thought there’d be a time when my dad wasn’t a giant, like how you go back to your elementary school and realize it’s actually tiny. But my father has remained larger than life. For all of Mom’s apple stencils and home-baked cookies, Dad’s all guns, tools and bringing home the bacon. Hank Reid, resident tough guy.
“So, what happened?” Dad asks, muting the television.
“There was a shooting.”
“Where?”
“The school.”
“Lay it out for me.”
“Suspect walks in, unloads one into the victim, wings another, couple more into the wall before getting taken down,” I say, getting down to business.
“What kind of gun was it?”
“Guns,” I say, hitting the
s
.
“Jesus.”
“He had four forty-fives.”
“He meant business.”
“Yes.”
“And where were you?”
“Standing next to the victim.”
“She went down with the first shot?”
“It was a head shot.”
“Someone got winged?”
“Yes.”
“They okay?”
“He’s good. It was a through-and-through, didn’t touch the bone.”
“A forty-five will definitely do some damage.”
“I know.” Blinking back the images. The damage.
“And the other ones went into the wall?”
“Yes.”
“And you were standing next to the victim?”
“Yes.”
“So, one of the shots that went into the wall, it was actually aimed at you?”
I am quiet.
“Frannie . . .”
“I got really possessive of her. It was weird.”
“That can happen.”
“I know. You’ve said stuff about it before. I always thought those people were idiots.”
“Well, now you know.”
“That I’m an idiot?”
“No, sweetie.”
We are quiet.
Dad continues. “How did he finally get taken down?”
I think of Sam. “Someone stepped in. Saved us.”
“Frannie . . .”
“I know.”
“You can never tell your mother about this.”
“I know.”
“Dinner’s ready!” I hear Mom call in the distance.
“Not a word,” Dad says. Final.
“Okay.”
“Sweetie . . . I . . . I don’t know what we’d do if we lost you,” Dad says, his voice heavy with worry.
“I couldn’t let him put another bullet into her, Dad,” I say, the tears welling up finally.
“She was dead, honey.”
“I know.”
“She was a friend of yours?” Dad asks.
“No. No, she wasn’t.”
“Funny way to act about someone who wasn’t even a friend.”
“I know. I know.”
“Okay, sweetie. Your . . . what is it, Polly?” I hear muffled conversation and my dad gets back on the phone. “Polly says you’re coming up here?” More muffled voices. Dad continues. “For a memorial service? Who? Polly, I just . . . The victim? The girl who got shot?”
“Yeah, Dad.”
“Then . . . sweetie, I don’t understand.”
“I was telling Mom that I was going to be coming up there this weekend for Emma’s memorial service. Emma, that’s the girl that got . . . that got . . .”
“You don’t have to say it, sweetie,” Dad says.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I love you, Frannie.”
“I love you, too, Dad.”
I hang up. And sit. On the bench. The phone clutched in my hand. My palm sweaty. I breathe. Deep. The only thing that gets me off that bench is that I’m going to see my parents. And that there’s a Starbucks in this hospital.
I walk into Grady’s room with two coffees just a few minutes later. I’ve gathered myself enough so that I won’t be a sobbing mess when I see him again. I walk in to find the patient sleeping soundly and Lisa curled up in a chair reading a novel. She looks up. A smile. Beautiful. I walk over to her and give her a quick hug, the tray of coffees perched in my hand. I give her the large mocha with an extra shot. She thanks me.
“How’s he doing?” I whisper, settling into a smaller chair next to her with my coffee.
“Better every day,” Lisa says, gazing over at him.
“I just talked to my parents. About what happened,” I say.
“Not fun.” Lisa sighs.
“I’m glad they know. Have you told your parents?”
“About what?”
“About all of it, I guess.”
Lisa is quiet.
“So, no?” I ask.
“No.”
“The shooting?”
“No.”
“The wedding?”
“No.”
I am quiet.
“Yeah, I know. I’m going to have to tell them,” Lisa says, motioning to the very injured Grady.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“My mom is a bit of a drama queen. Everything is a huge deal. Me moving to California was enough for her to call for her smelling salts—and yes, she still calls for smelling salts.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Exactly. She wanted to be an actress. Never made it out of Jersey, though,” Lisa says, dog-earring her novel and setting it on Grady’s bedside table.
“So, she’s just—”
“Dramatic in her everyday life, yes. No, if I want this wedding to be about Grady and me at all, I have to figure out a way to tell her about this so she can’t turn it into the Cleopatra Campanari show.”