“Mitchell Siegel,” Naomi said, jotting down the name as she heard a beep through her earpiece. Caller ID told her it was Scotty. “I’ll run him ASAP.”
“Think what you want, Naomi,” Ocala added, “but I’m telling you right now, Cal Harper isn’t the demon in this.”
“A dirty badge is a dirty badge—you know that. Besides, if he’s such an angel, why doesn’t he at least come in and talk with us?”
“Maybe he’s worried that instead of listening to reason, you’ll just spout silly catchphrases like ‘A dirty badge is a dirty badge.’ ”
“I appreciate your help,” Naomi said to Ocala as she clicked to the other line.
“Nomi, I think I found Cal,” Scotty blurted. “I need to double-check, but on that airport list of who paid in cash, there were a few tickets bought this morning—at least three headed to Cleveland.”
Naomi was about to re-enter the loop for departures when a high-pitched bloop whistled from her GPS device. Ellis’s tracer—the bright crimson triangle—was back in place and once again moving.
It took a moment to read the streets and orient herself, but as the crimson triangle turned onto NE 23rd Court . . .
Naomi’s eyes went wide. No. That can’t—
Oh, God.
“Nomi, you okay?”
“He’s there, Scotty.”
“Where? What’re you talking about?”
“Twenty-third Court. Ellis . . . he’s . . . I think Ellis is at my house.”
39
Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned off the Fasten Seat Belt sign—you may now move freely about the cabin,” the flight attendant announces as I stare through the egg-shaped window and watch Florida disappear beneath the cotton candy clouds.
All around me, seats are empty. Still, all three of us sit separately, just to keep it safe.
Checking over my shoulder, I peer ten rows back at my dad, who’s fast asleep with his head sagging forward. After everything we’ve been through, he needs some rest. So do I. Across from him, I look for Serena, but her seat’s empty. I glance back at my dad. Don’t tell me she snuck over to—
“Calvin,” a female voice interrupts, “would you mind if I joined you?”
In the aisle, Serena stands over me, her back leaning on the edge of the seat behind her, as if she’s trying to steer clear of my personal space. I’m tempted to keep her there, but I can’t risk letting anyone overhear.
She slides into the aisle seat, with the empty middle seat between us, then crosses her legs Indian style. It’s then that I see she’s barefoot. “I appreciate the kindness,” she says.
“I didn’t offer any.”
“You were about to, Calvin. Your eyes said so.”
I’m ready to vomit right there. “Listen, Serena—I don’t know you very well, and I don’t know Lloyd much better. But when I look at his expensive silk shirts . . . or his unscuffed shoes—I know my dad has a big need to impress. And as I know from my clients, desperate men are the most easily mesmerized by new-agey, yoga-filled nonsense—especially when it comes from younger, sexed-up women who lock pinkies with them in hopes of getting whatever it is they think those men can get for them. Now I realize this isn’t a complex analogy, so to stay with that theme: Go flap your lashes somewhere else.”
She looks at me in silence for what seems like a full minute. “I’m sorry I made you angry.”
“No, angry’s what you get when someone dings your car. This is the cold bitter rage that comes when someone kicks around in your personal crisis.”
“Calvin—”
“Cal,” I growl at her.
She’s still unfazed. “Cal, I’m not sleeping with your father.”
“Then what’s with the pinkies and the hand-holding?”
“He was shaking, Cal. In all your anger, did you not see that? I was trying to calm him—refocus his energy.”
“His energy? Oh, Lord. Listen, even as a stranger, I can tell he’s clearly in love with you.”
“And I love him, but as I’ve told him, it’s solely as a teacher. When we first started doing meditation—”
“Whoa ho ho—my father couldn’t meditate if—”
“He’s doing it right now,” she says, calm as ever.
I turn back to my dad, whose head is still down. His eyes are closed. I thought he was sleeping, but the way he’s swaying forward and back . . .
“The key is breathing through your nose,” Serena adds. “Each breath needs to reach down to your diaphragm.”
I stare at her across the empty middle seat. She nods and smiles.
“Serena, why’re you really here? And please don’t insult me by saying you came all the way to the airport and potentially risked your life just to wave good-bye and teach my dad how to breathe and realign his energy.”
Most people turn away when you ask them a hard question. Serena continues to look straight at me, and her yellow blue eyes . . . I hate to say it . . . there’s a real depth to her stare.
“He helped my brother. Andrew,” she finally says.
“Who? My dad?”
“You almost had it right before, Cal. Your dad—he’s Andrew’s sponsor,” she explains. “And my brother—been in AA for years—always relapsing. A few months ago, the judge sent him back, and your dad—it wasn’t anything heroic—but your dad was nice to him. They connected. Really connected. Whatever they had in common, Andrew was Andrew again.”
“So all this—coming to help my dad—it’s just a thank-you?”
“Oh, no. I’m not just helping your dad. I’m helping myself,” she says as easily as if she’s telling me her shoe size. Reading my confusion, she adds, “Two weeks ago, they found Andrew’s body in the sea grapes grove—near Holiday Park. But it was your dad who helped us locate him—he knew Andrew’s old hiding spots. He knew my brother. And even though I think you have a hard time with things like this—being near your dad . . . somehow I’m still connected with Andrew.”
“Can I offer you a snack?” a flight attendant interrupts, approaching just behind Serena and holding out a tiny bag of pretzels.
“No peanuts?” Serena asks.
“Sorry, just pretzels,” the attendant says.
“Then I’m meant to have pretzels,” Serena decides, smiling as she pops open the little bag and turns back to me. “Your dad tried to save my brother, Cal. And by helping Andrew—with that strength your dad shows, like in the airport—your father helped me. He’s still helping me. And I’m helping him. Do you not see that? That’s what being family is—that’s the best part—it’s not tit for tat or who owes more, it’s simply—when one hurts, so does the other; when one finds good, you share in that, too. That’s family.” But as Serena continues to stare my way . . . “This is making you uncomfortable, isn’t it?” she asks.
I shake my head, trying to convince her she’s wrong.
She goes silent, her stare digging even deeper. She’s not upset. She’s excited. “I was wrong before. This is why I’m here, isn’t it?” she blurts, not the least bit concerned that we brought her on this plane to save her life. “Not just for what your father and I share . . . the lessons are for you, too, for all three of us. Oh, I didn’t see it before. I mean, until you showed up, I didn’t even think he had family.”
“He did have family! He just—” I catch myself, clenching the fuse that’s lit in my chest and digging my feet into the airplane’s thin carpet. “He has a family,” I say quietly. “He just chose to ignore me.”
“You sure about that?” She tugs on her ankles, tightening her Indian-style position and reaching for a pretzel.