Safe from Harm (9781101619629) (22 page)

Salihah lifted shocked and reproachful eyes to mine. I was shocked, too. “If you think you are going to Heaven because you are a good person, Josephine, then your daddy and I are going to have a talk.”

“No, but—”

“There is no ‘but.' It is grace that saves us, Josephine.” She thought for a second, her forehead crumpled. “This is what my daddy told me. He said, ‘Salihah, you are a good person. Your friend Layla, she flirts all the time with boys, she answers back to her daddy. But, Salihah, please see it this way: You and Layla, you stand on the shore of Alexandria. Heaven is Cyprus. Layla, she swims less than a mile. She can swim no more, and if the lifeboat of grace does not come and save her, Layla drowns. My Salihah, she swims for miles and miles and miles, so strong, so swift. But even my Salihah, she cannot swim to Cyprus. If the lifeboat of grace does not come and save her, my Salihah will also drown. She will not get to Cyprus either.'

“Phoebe could not swim to Cyprus. But Josephine, neither can you. We can't be good enough to get into Heaven. If you think your Lord closes the door on us because we are sinners, then we are none of us getting in. It's about relationship, Josephine. It's about knowing who you belong to.”

Fresh tears. I wondered if Salihah would mind if I used her father's analogy in a sermon.

“Now, Josephine, ask Phoebe to forgive you.”

Jo did. I felt wrung out, but Salihah wasn't done. She had us each lay a hand on a wall of Jo's room (I'd heard “Josephine” so often in the last half hour that I'd almost started to think of Jo as Josephine—I mean, it is her name, but we only use it in extremis, like when she's going to get grounded for the next seventeen years). Then she had us ask for God to bless the walls of the room, to bless all who entered the room and all who left its door (I mentally added window, knowing that Jo has, on occasion, used it as an exit or entrance). Salihah asked that all unhappiness and despair be driven from the room and that God give Jo sweet and peaceful sleep in this room. And then we all said, “Amen.”

•   •   •

Annie Laurie and I sat in the family room, listening to the sound of the upstairs shower running. I brought Annie a glass of wine, and poured myself half a glass. We both needed it. I took Baby Bear out to do his business and when we came back in, Annie was on her way upstairs.

“Problem?”

She shook her head, a film of tears over her eyes, but with a smile. She held her phone up for me to see a text from Jo: Come tuck me in?

Five hundred years.

That's how long it's been since our baby had asked to be tucked in. I felt jealous. In a good way. I watched Annie and Baby Bear climb the stairs to tuck Jo into bed in her own, safe, room.

I thought about Salihah's words. About forgiveness. I spent some time on my knees. I spent a long time on my knees. Then I made a call.

“Hey, Mom. It's me. Is it too late to call?”

Fifteen

M
onday afternoon, Detective Wanderley called and told me that Phoebe Pickersley, it turned out, had died from a massive overdose of Dilaudid, a morphine substitute. There were no signs of violence on Phoebe's body except for those terrible piercings, and she'd done that to herself; and Wanderley said, no, he didn't consider a nipple piercing an act of violence and maybe I ought to go ahead and reserve my room at the old folk's home. Wanderley and his team were no longer considering Jo a suspect in Phoebe's death, as it wasn't likely Jo would have had access to Dilaudid. I said thank you very much. Dilaudid, it turns out, is not a street drug, not a drug commonly abused for recreational purposes. It's a palliative opiate most commonly used in oncology practices. That means it's a painkiller for cancer patients.

Phoebe had taken the Dilaudid in a concentrated flavored syrup—it is commonly prescribed as a liquid if the patient is having trouble swallowing. If, say, the patient has throat cancer, the way Phoebe's mom did.

It had indeed been prescribed, Wanderley told me, to Jennifer DeWitt Pickersley. Wanderley said it's not uncommon for terminal patients to hoard their pain medicines, in case they decide to make an early exit. He said that, very likely, Jenny Pickersley had hoarded her Dilaudid and either died before she got desperate or had been too far gone by the time she was ready to use it.

That means Phoebe hadn't been looking for the highs and lows an addled teen might seek with a drug cocktail.

That means she'd been looking for an exit.

That means that in Jo's parlance, Phoebe
was
a quitter.

I was with Jo. She should have gone to Darfur.

•   •   •

There was still no sign of Phoebe's phone, and, since there was some indication that Phoebe had deliberately killed herself, the case had been closed and the subpoena to the phone company would not be requested, so if Phoebe had written her last message on her phone, or if she had called or texted anyone in her last moments, those words would stay a secret. Unless the phone turned up or whoever she had contacted came forward.

At dinner I told Jo and Annie Laurie the news that Phoebe's death had been ruled a suicide, and Jo's face turned into rock and she put her plate on the floor for Baby Bear, dropped her silverware in the sink and walked out of the house without a word. Baby Bear abandoned his plate and scratched at the door to be let out. Annie took his leash off the hook, wound it and put it in his mouth.

“Stay with her,” Annie said, and opened the door. He took off.

“Next time,” Annie said to me, “would you wait until after dinner? I don't know if you've noticed, but Jo's weight is down to half of nothing.”

I said I hoped there wasn't going to be a next time.

•   •   •

Mark Pickersley-Smythe called me on Tuesday and asked if I could meet him for lunch. I asked if we would be eating in his study and he said, no, he would meet me at Perry's Steakhouse and he'd take care of the check. Perry's Steakhouse is about burnished woods and comfortable leather seats and two-dollar-a-stalk asparagus and slabs of succulent, decadent, please-don't-let-it-be-a-sin-to-eat-meat steaks. I was glad I'd worn nice slacks to the office that day.

Mark had already secured a corner table and an icy-looking martini with three jalapeño-stuffed olives on a pick.

He stood as I approached the table and held his hand out to shake.

“Hi,” he said and shook my hand firmly. “Let me
re
introduce myself. My name is Mark Pickersley. That's ‘Pickersley' without a ‘Smythe.' Have a seat and let me get you a drink.” He held a finger up for the waiter. “I want to recommend the martinis. I ordered dry with two olives, but my fine waiter”—he nodded to the man now standing at his side—“informs me that you can't drink a martini with an even number of olives because it's unlucky.” The waiter bowed and confirmed this information. Mark slapped himself on his forehead. “
That
explains
so much
! It's been the olives all along!”

The waiter asked what he could get me and I asked for iced tea and some water. He wanted to know did I want still or sparkling and I said I wanted tap, with lots of ice. The waiter was very nice about it and didn't get snooty.

I opened my mouth but Mark shook his head and handed me a menu. “Decide what you want and let's get it ordered. Then we'll talk.”

I asked for the New York strip, rare, which at Perry's meant it would have a cool, bloody center. Mark ordered the same thing, with sides of creamed spinach, au gratin potatoes, and roasted sherried mushrooms for the table. On a second thought he also added the iced seafood tower to start, and the beefsteak tomato salads for us both.

“Do you think we ordered enough?” I said.

Mark's mouth fell open, but he raised his finger.

I said, “It was a joke, Mark,” and he apologized to the waiter and sent him away.

“Tell me how you're doing, Mr. Pickersley,” I said.

Mark drew a deep breath in through his nose. He took a sip of his martini and blew his cheeks out to let me know his drink was cold and strong and delicious. I drank some ice water.

“Detective Wanderley told you about the lab results?” he asked.

I said yes, I hoped that was okay.

“I asked him to tell you. So, the good news is my daughter wasn't a druggie, the bad news is, she wanted to die. I'll have that to live with.” Mark lifted up from his seat and pulled his wallet out, flipped it open and showed me a school photo of a much younger Phoebe. I took it from him.

She would have been twelve or thirteen here. I recognized her—there were those huge, blue eyes, and the slightly weak chin. But here her hair was as blonde and straight as corn silk and it fell past her shoulders. Her eyelashes and eyebrows were so fair they were nearly invisible against her pale skin. She had tiny pearl earrings in her ears, no other piercings that you could see, and was dressed in a blue button-down shirt that matched her eyes. She wasn't a beauty, but she might have become one. In an exotic, bird-like way, she might have grown into beauty.

I gave him the photo back.

“You know why it's an actual photo? Why I'm not showing it to you on my iPhone?”

I put sugar and lemon in my tea and stirred. “It's a school photo, isn't it?”

“I'm not showing you a picture of Phoebe on my iPhone, because by the time I could afford an iPhone,
any
kind of cell phone that could take a picture, she didn't look like Phoebe anymore. She'd done the whole”—he waved his hands over his face and his hair—“and I hated it. She embarrassed me. I was embarrassed of my daughter. That's the truth. I'm going with the truth from now on.” He pulled the silvery pick from his martini and bit off an olive. “That's why I'm dropping the Smythe. The people I come from don't do hyphenated names. Incidentally, Liz started as plain Liz Smith. No ‘Smythe' to rhyme with ‘blithe.' But that's her business. She can spell it and pronounce it any way she wants to because I ain't going to be carrying it around anymore. There's something else I want you to know.” He took another sip from the icy glass. “No, there's a lot I want you to know. You got time?”

I told Mark my time was his.

“Thanks. You'll get a good lunch out of it. You should have a drink.”

I assured Mark I was good with my tea.

“You know how Liz tells everyone that we met at work? Like I was a hotshot executive or something? We did meet at work, but she was the hotshot executive—I was working a machine. You know, name embroidered on my Dickies' pocket? I graduated from high school with a C average and that's only because I was their starting quarterback and got helped a lot. I injured my knee my senior year and that was the end of my college dreams. No one in my family has ever been to college. I would have been the first.

“Jenny and I thought Phoebe would make it for sure. Phoebe was smart. Not like me. Not like her mom. She was never popular, the way we were, but our daughter was
smart
.” He took a piece of bread from the basket, buttered the whole piece and took a bite. “I know I'm supposed to break a piece off, butter it and so on—Liz had me in hard-core charm school for the first year of our marriage. Phew.” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “That was a kick. Every bite I put in my mouth, she had something to say about it. That's over, too. I'll eat the way I want to eat—if Liz can't stand to watch, I'll go eat in front of the TV.” He took another bite and chewed with enjoyment.

Ahh. This was going to be a confessional lunch. I was okay with that. I said, “Did you find a letter? Did Phoebe leave some kind of explanation? Did something happen right before . . . right before?” I wanted to know why that girl had killed herself. What had been going on in her life for the months we hadn't seen her? I wanted to know it wasn't anything our family had been a part of. I'd never seen anything like that in Phoebe—anger, grief, yes—but that black despair? That hopelessness? No—if anything, I'd seen Phoebe as a fighter. She was mad at Jo, well, she got back at Jo. She felt hard done by Liz—she sure as shoot made Liz pay. Those are the acts of a
fighter
.

Mark put his fork down and shook his head. “Nah. There was nothing. And no note. I could tell Detective Wanderley didn't like that. I think he thinks we found something that makes us look bad, but we really didn't find anything. And I look plenty bad even without a letter.”

“So you don't have any clue?”

“I know Phoebe was unhappy and mad but I'd have expected her to kill
Liz
, not herself.” He paused. “I didn't mean that. She wouldn't have killed Liz. I only mean that she seemed angry, not depressed. That's all I mean. The last time I saw her, she and Liz had a knock-down-drag-out in the kitchen and Phoebe went flying up to her room. I was going up to talk to her but Liz stopped me and said to let her go, that this couldn't go on and she'd handle it. Liz went up to Phoebe's room for a half an hour or so, and when she came out, she said they'd reached an understanding and that Phoebe wanted to be alone for a while and I should respect that. So Liz thought everything was going to be okay from now on.” He smiled. “Liz doesn't always read people that well.” The smile slipped and Mark closed his eyes. “But I have no clue why Phoebe would . . . you know.”

The waiter came over with the iced seafood tower, and set two plates down in front of us. You should have seen it. This thing was sex as food. I'm not lying. Crab, shrimp, scallops, calamari, lobster—be still my heart. I tried not to attack it too eagerly.

Mark paused, his fork in the air. “Know how many times I ate in a restaurant like this before Liz? Not one single time. Are you kidding me? Did you see these prices?” He loaded his plate. “Before I go any further, will you speak at Phoebe's memorial service? Thursday. Six thirty. It's going to be at that funeral home on the Southwest Freeway, right up here. It's called . . .” He snapped his fingers in frustration.

“Settegast-Koph.”

“Yeah. Cremation. Phoebe hated the idea of . . .” Mark stopped, struggled. He picked up his martini glass, didn't drink from it, put it back down. “Give me a minute,” he said and left the restaurant.

Cremation? Well, the case
was
closed. And there had been an autopsy. Still . . .

The waiter drifted over looking concerned but I waved him off. Drank some tea. Broke a bread roll into pieces.

Five minutes and Mark was back.

I said, “Liz doesn't want me to do the funeral, Mark. She wasn't too happy with the way I handled things at your house Saturday.”

Mark picked a shrimp up by the tail, dunked it in rémoulade and popped it, tail and all, into his mouth. “Ahh. Because you wouldn't pry me out of my study? Yeah. She's cooled down about that, but she's still mad at you. Doesn't matter. Phoebe wasn't her daughter. Liz told me that a thousand times. That means I'll make the funeral arrangements, and I don't have anyone else to ask. You're it.”

“I'd be happy to speak at Phoebe's memorial service.” Not a compliment that I was only being asked because he didn't have anyone else, but
I
wouldn't ask me if there had been anyone else.

Mark asked the waiter to box up the rest of the cold seafood. “You'll take that home, Bear.”

I refused but he reminded me that Liz was allergic to seafood and wouldn't allow it in the house. The waiter said he would keep it chilled until I was ready to leave.

I said, “So what's with the name change?”

Another waiter appeared with the beefsteak tomatoes.

“Like I said, I'm not living the lie anymore. Who does that hyphenated name thing, anyway? Not East Texas machinists—I'll tell you that. I'll wear the clothes. If I'd had money back then, I would have dressed this way. I like nice clothes.” He considered. “Except those white linen slacks are going to have to go—I didn't pick those out.” Mark ate a bite of bright red tomato. “But I'm done being Liz's poodle.”

You know, the polite thing would have been to protest, but it would have been false, so I didn't. He had been playing the lapdog. I mean, God help the man who has to
lock himself away
from his wife.

“Did you know that Liz and I went to high school together? I didn't
know
her, but I knew who she was. She was the smart, fat, ugly chick. That's actually sort of a compliment to Liz; when we talked about her—which was almost never, she wasn't even a blip on our radar screen, but still— ‘smart' always came before ‘fat' and ‘ugly.' I know how that makes me sound, but I'm telling you how it was. I was a high school god.” He saw my expression and laughed out loud. “I was, Bear—you played ball. You have to know.”