She was a strong swimmer. She had a pool and even when her brothers said they were joking and tried to hold her under, she could fight them off.
She loved red roses.
Her favorite shoes were a pair of black Steve Madden high heels with feathers.
She loved true crime shows like 20/20.
I can still see her in that pom-pom headband.
-8-
Liza
I WAS IN THE middle of chopping scallions to prepare Sam’s Noodle Salad with Smoked Brisket and Lime when my cellphone rang. I rinsed my hands, dried them, and picked up the vibrating phone, which informed me I had a “Private Caller.”
It had to be the police officer. I let the phone go to voicemail, but then it started ringing again immediately. I knew I had to answer, if only to buy time. “Yes?” I said.
“Elizabeth Bailey?”
“Yes?” I said, using the back of my damp hand to push my hair from my forehead.
“This is Detective Salvatore Revello with the Austin Police Department.”
“Yes?” I managed a third time. I forced myself to take a deep breath. If I had known this call was a fuse, and my response like a match—countdown to explosion—would I have cut the line?
“Am I speaking with Elizabeth Bailey?”
“You are,” I said quietly.
“Mrs. Bailey, I’m on my way to interview your son, Charlie Bailey, at his place of employment, the Rosewood Park and Pool. This is just a routine interview but I wanted to give you a courtesy call, since he’s only fifteen.”
This was happening. This was real. A cop was going to interview my son. How could I make this stop? How could I make this go away?
“Mrs. Bailey?” said the detective.
I began moving quickly, putting the brisket back in the fridge, turning off my stove top burners, and tossing my Target purse over my shoulder. “No. I don’t give permission,” I said. This was happening too fast, and after Whitney had left, promising to text me my new lawyer’s name immediately, I had been biting my fingernails to the quick.
Whitney had not texted a lawyer’s name immediately. She had not texted at all. I considered googling lawyers, but didn’t want to make a mistake. Why should I hire some janky, affordable guy if Whitney was going to come through with a winner? Was Whitney going to come through? Jesus, I hated asking favors of people, of her. I knew it was time to find a way to get free of my dependence on Whitney. But how?
There was a pause, and then the detective said, “Is there a problem, Mrs. Bailey?”
“No,” I said quietly. Of course there was a problem. Fear reared up inside me: if Charlie was arrested and his photo—or God forbid, my photo—was in the paper, Patrick might see it. My mother might see it, or Darla. Everything I’d run from could find us here. Even the thought of Charlie seeing Patrick in whatever state he was in now…Charlie taking in the fact that his roots led back to tattooed, chain-smoking Cape Cod people…it made me want to run.
But I’d made us a home here. Where could we go?
I should have been thinking of the woman. Of what had befallen her, and if my son had been a part of it. I should have been thinking of Charlie, what he had experienced and how to help him through it. But I was not.
I was thinking, Run.
Searching frantically for shoes, I found one pink flip-flop by the front door and a silver-colored one under the couch. I slipped them on and went outside into the 94-degree morning. “No reason…I just…” I stammered, jamming my key in the Mazda 5 ignition. “I’ll bring him in. I’ll bring him to you,” I said. “Would that be OK?”
He sighed. “That’s fine. When can we expect you?”
“Right away,” I said.
“OK,” said Detective Revello. “Do you need the address? I’ll text you my information.”
“Thank you.” I hung up, feeling crazed. I called Whitney again, and she didn’t answer.
I parked and slogged through the heat to reach Rosewood Pool. There he was, my adorable son, leaning against a guard stand holding a red flotation device. He was smiling up at the willowy brunette in the chair.
Oh, how I loved this boy in the red shorts I’d bought for him when he’d forgotten to buy his own pair at the end of the six-week Lifeguard Training sessions! His knees. His hair. The hair on his knees. Charlie’s brilliant blue eyes—they were Patrick’s eyes, I’d give his father that.
“Mom?” said Charlie, spotting me. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi, hon,” I said. “Can I talk to you a sec?”
“Um, OK,” said Charlie, sending a look to the girl that made her laugh. I knew I was being made fun of for some reason, which made me self-conscious.
“See you later, Charles,” said the girl.
“See you later, Kelsey,” said my son. （Of course her name was Kelsey.） She ran a hand underneath a curtain of hair and swung it over one shoulder like a horse’s mane. Ray-Ban sunglasses covered half her face, but I could still see her smirk. Why a smirk?
“What’s up, Mama Bear?” said Charlie as we walked toward the shaded entrance. （I loved this nickname, and the confident way he strode across the pool deck. His lifeguard swagger! It was different from the way he acted at home, deferential and quiet. I swelled with pride seeing my son so confident and self-assured.） “A detective from the Austin Police Department called,” I said.
“Oh,” said Charlie. His demeanor changed immediately, and he looked terrified. My heart sank, his reaction confirming my fears.
“He says it’s a routine interview,” I said, the hope in my voice sounding a lot like desperation.
“I need to check my phone,” said Charlie. “They make us lock it up while we’re on duty.”
“I think you better tell your boss you’re going home.”
“Now?” said Charlie.
I bit my tongue. Sometimes, Charlie seemed a bit na?ve, or maybe self-centered was a better way to put it. I was glad I’d raised him to feel invincible, but had I made him think the rules didn’t apply to him? That his lifeguard shift should take precedence over a police investigation?
My anxiety spun out. Was I one of the mothers I saw on TV who excused their sons’ heinous acts? Who said, “One event shouldn’t ruin my son and his precious future”？
“Yes, now,” I said.
“I’m supposed to work till three,” he whined.
“A woman is dead,” I said.
“But how do they know I—” he said, stopped himself. There was a long pause. His words hung in the air. I found it hard to breathe.
“Let’s go, Charlie,” I said, almost choking on the words.
He nodded.
In the Aquatics Office, we found John, a middle-aged guy who was probably younger than me with gray hair and a pot belly that hadn’t kept him from taking his shirt off. He was halfway through a breakfast taco, which he held suspended in midair when we appeared in his office. “Charlie!” he cried. “My man! What up?” He lifted the hand not holding a chorizo-and-cheese and gave my son a high-five.
“Um, this is my mom,” said Charlie.
“Hi, Charlie’s mom,” said John, smiling.
“Hi,” I said. “We have a family…situation…and I’m going to need to bring Charlie home for an hour, or maybe a few hours.”