CHAPTER 29

Mom

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“POLICE!” A HEAVY MALE voice yells from the courtyard.

I strain to listen, curious, but unafraid, and wondering which neighbor dragged the police to our quiet complex.

“Open up!” The sound of a thick fist hammering the door of our apartment makes me jump and I knock my spatula to the floor, getting fajita sauce everywhere.

“Shit,” I whisper, trying to settle my heart as I rush to answer.

“Hello?”

A bald tough-guy cop built like a soldier pushes me aside and barges in unwelcome. His nametag says FOSTER, and I make a mental note in case I need to get a lawyer.

I can still feel his strong hand on my shoulder as I try to think what I’ve done wrong, but this has to be about Lucy. His face is deeply wrinkled with frown lines, his grimace seeming almost permanent. He looks around my cluttered home, and I’m instantly ashamed of it all. I hug my loose breasts in a tight cross of my arms as the breeze from the door slips up my nightgown.

Another cop, slow to arrive, follows him in. I recognize him as the officer from the station where we picked up Lucy. Those strange eyes and deeply cleft chin.

We stare at each other for a little too long, making me strongly aware of my wiry greying hair pointing in all directions. I’m sure I look like a crazy person.

“We have reason to believe there are drugs in this house,” the familiar one tells me gently. His eyebrows pull together in concern.

“What?” my meek voice cracks.

Foster pushes my bedroom door open with too much force and it hits the wall.

“Come on. Out!” the cop shouts.

Ruth steps into the hallway. Our eyes connect in a moment of confused terror, but she stays silent, her back pressed to the wall as the rough cop struts past her like he’s a general in some secret war I know nothing about.

“It’s okay,” I mouth to her. I step forward. “Excuse me, Officer, I think—”

“Where’s your other daughter ma’am?” Foster interrupts. “Do you have trouble keeping track of your kids?”

“No,” I answer defensively. “She’s here.”

My stomach sinks at the mention of Lucy. The idea of her in trouble again jump-starts an internal engine of worry.

As if on cue, Lucy saunters out of her room in an over-sized shirt and underwear. She eyes the policemen and continues into the kitchen to look in the fridge. We all watch her, waiting for her reaction, but she completely ignores all of us.

Finally the familiar cop speaks up. “Do you want to tell your mom where you were last night, Lucy, or should I?”

“Fuck you, Mendoza,” she says, addressing him by name and flipping him off.

“Lucy!” I scold, but she just rolls her mascara-smeared eyes.

“You’ve got to get control of this girl,” Mendoza tells me. “She was with some bad people last night.”

“She was here,” I whine in protest.

“Must have snuck out when you went to bed,” Foster’s smile gives his words a taunting feel, and I can tell he’s enjoying every minute of this. He loves that I’m afraid. That I’m wrong.

“Did you sneak out?” I ask Lucy.

“No,” she says with a shrug, but I know she’s lying. She lies all the time now. “And I don’t have to fuckin’ tell them shit.”

“We’re going to have to search the house,” Mendoza says as if apologizing, but I can already hear Foster ripping up my room.

The three of us sit quietly on the couch while the two cops dig through laundry hampers and desk drawers, not bothering to pick up after themselves. My muscles are tense, my shoulders hiked and knotted as I wait.

“You’re an idiot,” I hear Ruth say under her breath. “Look what you’re doing to Mom.”

I don’t say anything because it’s what I am thinking too, somewhere buried under my motherly concern is that same awful thought.

“Fuck you,” Lucy spits.

Ruth leans forward. “What, is that the only word you know?”

“Don’t,” I finally intercede with gritted teeth. “Don’t fight.”

Lucy sinks back into the couch and Ruth sits tall and rigid next to her, the two of them separated by a thick wall of mutual hate that is clearly visible on their faces.

Mendoza steps into the hall and approaches carefully, as if he knows he’s interrupting our little squabble.

“Ms. Wilcox?” he asks, sticking his hands in his pockets for no reason, then taking them out to cross his arms. He seems nervous. “Can I speak with you?”

He nods for me to follow him, and I try reading Lucy before I do. Her face is a grimaced mask of annoyance. She doesn’t even look at me.

Foster has it all displayed on my desk like a science exhibit. The tall glass tubes of a line of bongs, assorted pipes, a small ziplock full of weed, at least six cans of spray paint. It’s not the drugs or the tagging that breaks my heart. I was a rebellious teen in my day. I get it. A little weed never hurt anyone, but the lying. The behind my back. The secrets and sneaking out.

I’ve lost her.

A tear runs down my cheek, and I feel a warm hand on my shoulder. I turn to Mendoza, surprised but comforted by his touch. Through it all he smiles at me in the sweetest way, and his wolf eyes soften.

“I’m taking it all to the car,” Foster blurts out, his rough voice jarring in the silent room. “Then I’ll be back for your daughter. We’re taking her in.”

He says it like he’s telling me his Sunday afternoon plans.

I sit on my bed, staring past the floor as Foster collects the loot. The glass pipes clink against the bongs like a disjointed wind chime, and I wonder where all those years went. I used to tickle her sides and kiss her cheeks. I was there for every scraped knee, asked a thousand times mommy please don’t go on my way to work.

And then one day, today, I’m nothing to her. All those midnight I love yous after bad dreams mean nothing. I’m no longer worthy of her secrets. Not trusted enough to confide in. Not loved enough to hold on to.

“Rachel?”

Mendoza is sitting next to me. I hadn’t noticed. The sound of my first name awakens me to the moment.

“I have to bring her in now.”

Suddenly I have the urge to fight for her. Maybe it’s not too late.

“Is this even legal?” I ask, standing to seem taller, stronger. “Since when do police barge into people’s houses over weed and spray paint?”

“It’s the affiliation, not the weed. This probably isn’t even her stuff. To be honest, my boss just wants to question her about her knowledge of FTC. He’s looking for names. Facts. Evidence.”

“What’s FTC?” I ask.

He gives me an uncomfortable smirk before answering. “It stands for ‘Fuck The Cops’. They’re a crew, a small gang. But they have ties to a larger one called Crazy Eights.”

“Oh.” My voice turns meek. I can’t help myself. “Will she be okay?”

“I’ll make sure she just gets off on a tobacco charge. She’ll be fine.”

My brow furrows. “Why would you do that?” It comes out sounding mean, but mostly I’m just not used to men doing me favors.

He shrugs. “I told you. She’s not a bad kid...”

I can tell he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead he stands up, straightening his shirt and asks what he can do to help.

Back in the living room Mendoza hands her a pair of folded jeans that I pulled from the basket of laundry near my bed. She rips them from his grasp and continues to glare as she slides them on in rough angry motions.

There’s nothing I can do, so I just stand there and watch as he gingerly folds her arms behind her back and cuffs her.

With Mendoza out of view she focuses her glare on me. It’s wounding. I buckle inside, guilt and worry flooding the many avenues of my failure. I follow them outside as they escort her to their car. The knot in my throat feels like splinter shards as our eyes connect one last time. I hardly recognize the girl looking back at me.