Chapter Twenty-Nine: Is Doug moving forward or backwards?

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE



Scarborough Beach is known for its surf and tonight is no exception. Doug watches a pack of surfers seize the ocean breeze, their torsos impossibly lean. They lie down on sleek boards and paddle out to deep waters, to risk. The current drags them back easily until, arms extended like wings, they stand up and squat. Billowy waves pass beneath them before an enormous one rolls forward, gaining speed and astonishing height. They glide along the wave’s lip then drop amazingly into its wide open throat.

Miles behind them, a peaceful September sun sits low on the horizon. Feverishly pink, its rays fan out, splashing brilliant color onto a clear sky. Doug stares at the sunset, reflecting on the dichotomy between the sea up-close and beyond. They are blissfully ignorant, these surfers, and Doug envies them. He raises his chin and tips the last of his Miller Lite into his mouth before crushing the can into the sand. He cries some more.

“You think I’ll be able to do that someday, Dad?”

Josh loved watching the surfers. He’d sit beside Doug on a damp towel, his arms propped up on bent knees.

“I think you’ll be able to do anything you set your mind to, Josh.”

The comment was as sappy as a Hallmark card, he knew… but he had meant every word of it. He actually believed that his son was invincible, and that he’d be there to watch him soar through life’s highs and lows. Even after the abduction he had felt this way, as though he and Serena had been granted a second chance to do a better job as parents.

How had they failed so miserably?

The abduction was tragic, no doubt. Jaded by the incident, Serena was never quite right afterwards. Had her decision to hook up with Bari been part of a weird self-fulfilling prophecy? A curse?

“I thought you’d be here.”

Justine.

“You found me…”

“Yes… and I come bearing goods.” She kneels beside him, snaps off the cover of a small cooler, and brandishes a pint of Black Raspberry ice-cream.

“You’re too much,” he says, touching her wrist.

On the first day they’d met, she had been sitting alone in the teacher’s lounge, stripping the wrapper off of a granola bar. The rest of the staff—older and more miserable—had been complaining about unfair contracts. He casually made his way to the vending machine when her soft brown gaze lifted to meet his. She wore an off-white cashmere sweater, black leather skirt, and designer boots, perfectly fitted to her calves. Her smile was modest. A burning desire to take care of this girl had overcome him. What is it about certain women… that makes them impossible to resist?

Alyssa Galica’s face invades his mind. Josh, too, had been bit.

He stares at his girlfriend as though studying an exquisite sapphire, feeling buzzed by the four previous beers. A warm breeze blows strands of wavy brown hair across her cheek. She scoops a mound of ice-cream into a small plastic bowl. He sweeps the loose strand behind her ear. “You gonna be okay?” She hands him a spoon.

He gulps his beer and swallows. “I don’t think so.” His eyes drift to the horizon. At any moment, an asteroid could explode in the atmosphere and blow them to pieces. The sound of the gunshot invades his mind again, as it has for the last few weeks. He sees his son, lifeless on his lap, his eyes open and lucid. Regret charges in like a bull. If only the front door was locked, if only he had chosen to have the sex talk at his apartment, if only Serena had chosen someone else—


Her hand finds his. “I know this isn’t going to be easy, Doug.”

“I don’t think we’ve met.” It had been raining hard that day. The teacher’s lounge had smelled of musk and leftover coffee. The inevitable gossip burned through his thoughts. The divorce was so hard on him. He deserves to love again. She’s a bit young for him, though. He’s been through so much….


He turns to her. “Why do you think Bari would kill him? I mean, even if he thought he was avenging his daughter… he shot my son at the expense of his own life.” He scrunches his nose, holds back tears. “Bari turned himself in, you know. He didn’t even attempt to get away.”

It was true. Following the shooting, Bari had raised his hands in the air. “I do not expect you to understand why I had to do this.” He was wearing a white polo golf shirt and cargo shorts. He clutched the pistol tightly with his right hand as he said this, as though deciding whether or not to shoot Doug as well. In hindsight, Doug wishes he had.

“I couldn’t speak. My throat went dry and I became disoriented. At one point, I couldn’t see.”

Justine rubs his knee. “I don’t know if you’ll ever be able to make sense of what happened that night, Doug.”

“I felt like I was in one of those dreams… where you know you’re supposed to run, but your legs won’t move … only it was my voice that seemed to be paralyzed.”

She rubs his back, tickles his neck with her long fingernails. “I’m so sorry that this happened to you, baby.”

He lowers his head to her lap and lets her run her fingers through his hair. By now, the sun has dunked its fiery head under the sea’s surface, turning day into night. A few stars twinkle to life. The roar of the waves rolls through his mind, easing him, until, for a perfect moment in time, he forgets. Justine’s spiral curls tickle his neck like a soft paintbrush as she massages his shoulders. Instinctively, his arms float to the back of her head where he pulls her face down to meet his lips. They exchange a kiss that tastes of salt and beer and raspberries.

Cradling her lithe body in his arms, he draws her even closer until she’s on top of him, beside him, and both of their hands are sliding in and out of loose clothing. The surfers are hooting joyously in the dark, oblivious, and Doug feels as though, like them, he’s breaking a rule. He’s about to have sex on the beach with a perfect woman and a terrible tragedy has not taken place. It was only a dream.

His fingers glide along the skin beneath her sundress, surf along her curves. Justine works at the button of his fly. Led Zeppelin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven’ punctuates his thoughts. His new ring tone.

He sits up awkwardly, digs in his pocket for his phone, and checks the caller ID . Kim Murray, Serena’s best friend. “Jesus… I have to take this one, honey.”

He presses the ‘answer’ key. “Hello?”

“Doug—this is Kim. You’ve got to come home… I mean to Serena’s—and quick.”

“What’s going on?”

“I think she tried… I mean, I don’t know for sure, but—”

“Tried what? What are you talking about, Kim?” He levers himself up.

“Suicide, Doug.”

A sharp pain jabs at his stomach. His knees wobble as he struggles to stand.

“What’s this all about?” Justine asks, adjusting her dress.

“It’s—it’s Serena… she’s in trouble. Suicide, I-I gotta go.”

“Oh my God. I’ll drive.”

* * *



Saddled with beach bags, damp towels, and a single cooler, they stumble anxiously to Justine’s car. Doug is unable to drive. She fumbles in her pocketbook for her keys and pops open the trunk. They stuff their belongings inside and Doug slams it shut.

He rounds her Saab to the passenger’s side. Justine does not join him “All set?”—he calls out. “Oh gosh, Doug,” he hears her say.

“What’s going on?” He walks back towards her.

“We just locked my keys in the trunk.” She pats at her pockets, as though looking for another set.

“When you opened it, the doors don’t automatically unlock?” He yanks at a backseat door.

“Yeah, then they automatically lock when I shut it.” She bites her thumbnail. “My spare is at home.”

“We’ll take my car, then. I’ll drive you back here tomorrow with the spare set.”

“That’s fine. Give me your keys. I’ll drive your car.” She holds out her hand, palm side up.

The request, though appropriate in this situation, catches him off-guard. His dad, an automobile hobbyist, just handed him down a restored Corvette. It’s not that Justine is a bad driver. It’s just that he’d rather not take the risk of something happening, something he could have prevented.

“Oh, I’m fine now, hon. I can’t even feel the beer, seriously. I’ll drive.”

“It’s not worth taking a chance, Doug. Rhode Island is loaded with Stateys this time of the night. With everything you’re already dealing with, you don’t need a DUI.”

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and draws out a set of keys, trying to remain casual. “Totally true. I’ll go slow. Let’s go.”

Justine stands still, tilts her head slightly. “You don’t trust me to drive the ‘Vette, do you?”

“I just want to drive, that’s all… no big deal.”

She squints at him, as though perplexed. “The mother of your dead child is suffering and you’re actually thinking about your car.”

“Give me a break, Justine! Why are you doing this? It’s been hard enough for me, without having to argue!” The words are a throw-back of a marriage past. In his mind, he hears himself fighting the same cause with Serena. The umbrella.


“I promise I won’t break it, Doug… it’s just pouring buckets out and the large one is so much better than my cheap, busted one.”


“It’s my umbrella. Why don’t you buy your own?”


“Why don’t you share your things?”

He had held his own that day, and refused to let her use his gigantic green umbrella, a free gift given to him by the advertising firm he had previously worked for. Eventually, she had stopped asking and purchased her own umbrella, along with other things. It didn’t take long for their materials to multiply. By the time of their divorce, they had owned two iPods , two recliners, two television sets, and two coffee makers. Ironically, dividing their things had been easy—they hadn’t been sharing them anyways.

“Gee, Doug… I don’t know why I’d argue for the sober person to drive? Are you crazy? What’s more important here?—protecting your mint vehicle, or saving a life?”

It’s maddening, this moral reasoning, always making him fall short. The second time around, he decides, is no less forgiving. He looks at Justine: golden skin, full lips, perfect teeth. The sleeves of her hooded sweatshirt are too long. They shield her small hands, though he catches of glimpse of the ring he bought her for Christmas last year. He does not want to make the same mistake twice.

“I just want to drive my own car, Justine, alright?”

But he will.

“Fine, then count me out.” She turns away from him and approaches the parking lot steps leading back to the beach.

“Your keys are in your trunk, Justine. You can’t stay out here alone.”

“Watch me.”

She fades into the cool, salty night, though the sound of her footsteps remains palpable.

“Come on, Justine… don’t be like that!”

He’s about to chase after her, when his cell phone rings again.

This time, the caller ID reveals Serena’s name.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: In the Wake of his Death...

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT



On an ordinary day, Alyssa Galica possesses a look that drives middle-aged women crazy. With sultry full lips and mischievous eyes, the young girl has the power to make a man’s mind wander to dangerous places.

“Serena…”

But this is no ordinary day.

“I don’t want to live.”

The young girl appears as pale as the moon.

“He never raped me.”

Smudged mascara rings the skin below her eyes, eyes diminished to slits. She stands hunched over, trembling, her arms wrapped around her waist as though she's about to vomit.  

“I can’t discuss this right now… or here, Alyssa. Certainly, you understand this?”  Her voice is as fragile and unreliable as pond ice in the spring.  She does not trust it to hold the weight of her anger.

"I coaxed him to do it… I told my father a lie in order to—”

“Alyssa…” she says sharply. “Please. I will agree to allow you a moment with Josh, but you need to calm down. I’ll take you back to my house afterwards.”

Out of nowhere, the funeral director, a slight man who has spent the evening standing like a butler at the door’s entrance, interrupts them. “This decision is entirely up to you, Ms. Davis. It is not customary to keep the doors open after your guests have visited the deceased, but I’m willing to make an exception in this case.”

The deceased. The phrase burns her tongue. “She’ll just be a few minutes, Sir.” She turns to Alyssa and offers a stern nod. “Go ahead… I’ll wait here for you.”

“Thank you.” Her would-have-been stepdaughter takes a shallow, rattling breath and slowly moves towards the casket, as though one wrong move might awake the sleeper. She kneels down in prayer.

I was the one who coaxed him to do it.

 Serena watches the girl tremble and sob over folded hands, guilty hands.  . It was Josh who had said no that night. It was Josh who had been killed for the lie.

You have to know that I want to hurt the boy who hurt my Alyssa… even if it is Joshua.

It hadn’t been the first time Bari had raised an overprotective hand for his daughter. There was the time at the school dance when he drove to the parking lot to spy on Alyssa as she flirted with her boyfriend.

“You’re acting insane,” she had told him and, afterwards, they had joked about it over sundaes. Yes… She had known from the start of his issues with his daughter, issues stemming from his wife’s death, but she had understood. Parenting and worrying went hand-in-hand, and if this man seemed wrong in that department, so be it. There was enough that he did right and, besides, she was no one to talk.

But this threat—along with what followed—made no sense. Bari… Murder? Watching the Fox 25 news clip (the same one she had refused to comment on) had been surreal. Glenn Baker, a compassionate young reporter who had become somewhat of a Monday night companion, interrupted a baseball game with Breaking News. She had been seated at the edge of her bed.

“A disturbing murder involving the boyfriend of a forty-seven-year old Westboro mother, whom friends and neighbors describe to be genteel and loving, has shattered this suburban community.” Bari’s neighbor was interviewed. “I’ve watched him play ball with his son in this yard for over a decade now,” she had said, pointing out the location. “My husband and I are completely shocked.”

Betty. She had waved to her while pulling into Bari’s driveway last week. Into Bari’s driveway—the driveway of a man who brought his nan, Gjyshe, chocolates at her nursing home, rubbed foot lotion on her tired feet… and shot her child.


She feels dizzy.  Her legs are suddenly heavy. They weigh her down. She feels as though she’s drowning. A sharp pain bites her elbow as she slips away…

“Ms. Davis!” The funeral director, his surprisingly sturdy arms beneath her elbows. “Ms. Davis… it’s been a long day… you need a break. I’m going to lock up now. Let’s go. I’ll walk the two of you to your car.”

“Oh gosh… I’m sorry, I was just thinking about something when a wave of nausea came over me and—”

“Are you okay?” Alyssa.

“I’m okay… and thank you, Sir.”

The director locks up and the three of them walk to her car, the night air cool and slightly humid. Teenage drivers zoom by, car radios turned up too loud. Familiar songs blare then fade away. She thinks of the endless nights spent awake in bed while waiting for Josh to arrive home. She’d answer on the second ring, so as not to appear overly concerned—Hey, Mom… I’m just at The Pizza Palace, running a few minutes late.

She’d thank him for calling and bookmark her novel.

“Thanks for your help tonight, Sir.” She turns on the ignition. “I think we’re all set now.”

“Have a safe trip home, Ms. Davis. I’m deeply sorry for your loss.”

Gently, he shuts the door and walks away, leaving her alone with the girl responsible for her son’s death.

* * *

Lori Hearns bookmarks her novel and reads the obituary again. Joshua Davis, 17, of Wilder Road, passed away from a gunshot wound on Saturday, August 18th in the UMass Memorial Healthcare, 119 Belmont St. She scans over the names of surviving relatives. Her watery eyes blink and settle on the last section. Joshua will be remembered as a happy child who always saw the good in people. He was an exceptional athlete and well liked by his teachers and peers. He was a member of the National Honor Society and participated in numerous community service efforts. The funeral will be held Wednesday, August 22nd from the HARRISON B. WILSON FUNERAL HOME, 220 Main Street, Westboro.

She grabs a second tissue and wipes the corners of her eyes. Serena and Doug Davis have been wronged again

The first time she had met Joshua, they were seated across from each other in the ambulance, the snowy New Hampshire highway rumbling beneath them. The EMT, a young girl whose face beamed with compassion, checked his vital signs and made small talk while Lori casually probed for answers. The closer she could get to his side of the story—while it was fresh—the easier it would be to move the case along.

“Mr. Roth lied to me because he said he needed my help with some special bandages for my Dad’s wrist but then he tied my mouth up.”

He had the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.

“That must have been very frightening,” she had said, adjusting the volume of her tape recorder.

“Is Mr. Roth going to die?” Josh was lying on his back on a stretcher; his head at a right angle to speak to her, his bangs flopped to one side.

It would certainly make our lives a lot easier, she had thought, “Uh-no… I don’t think so,” she had said. “He’s being flown to the intensive care unit right now.”

“I don’t think he would have hurt me, you know.” He had folded his hands, studied the ambulance ceiling. “He was missing his own son, I think.”

Crying has never been easy for Lori. When her own father died, the endless tears her siblings shed must have made up for her own dry eyes. Once you learn how to shield yourself from hurt, the protective walls you’ve learned to build so well erect automatically. They become a part of you, just another layer.

“I don’t want Mr. Roth to die… I just hope he learned his lesson.”

The walls crumble like a sandcastle swept under the tide. She runs an index finger across his picture and weeps effortlessly, never hearing her bedroom door creak open.

“Mom?” .

She presses her fingers to her eyes to clean up, but it’s too late. She’s been caught. Her son sees his Mom cry for the first time.

“You okay, Mom?” He walks to the edge of the bed.

Taking a deep breath, she reaches out to hug him. “I’m fine, Scottie… something sad happened to a boy I once knew, that’s all.”

“Did he die or something?”

“No, he just got hurt, that’s all.” Your half-brother will feel no more pain.

“Come on downstairs. I have a few projects to finish.”

She will build her son’s sandcastle for him, using cement.