Makaila 1 to 10

 

 

In the beginning

 

Dark eyes, black like coal contrast a slim, ivory face. The black of her hair seemed to consume nearby light. Her gossamer robes flowed and floated in and around her as if a part of her, drawing the night near, to become of her. Her appearance was at once startling and amazing. An observer couldn’t tell whether she were an angel sent by God or a demon sent by Satan.

She had been called both.

The fire’s dancing fingers played off the deep ebony of her eyes as she stood before the gathering of forty-odd people, stark white arms raised to a cresting moon.

“Madam Dandelion,” a voice called. “Tell the one of the beginning!”

A request, never a demand.

Her lips, red like blood dripped onto the first snow of winter, hinted a smile. “I shall. I shall tell the story of the beginning of all things and the times to come.” She nodded to approvals as August’s heat lightning danced on the distant horizon behind her. “It seems the gods also approve of this telling tonight!”

Her gathered friends, her co-workers, her family laughed.

“If it pleases my family and the gods, then this is my telling:”

 

In a time, which was not a time, and in a place not a place, lived a youthful woman. She was a child yet a woman and then not a woman. If we could see her, we’d cry at her beauty and the children would giggle with delight. She sat among the tall pines, danced in the field of flowers and cooled herself in the waters of the lake. Her being was full, yet she felt deep in her heart something was missing.

In this place, not a place, in a time not a time, only day existed, with the bright sun always laughing. This child looked beyond her mountain, saw darkness and didn’t understand what darkness was. She didn’t like the darkness. She raised her hands to the sky and sang a song with no words. The song, full of wonder. In this song and of herself, she pushed back the darkness, creating a world much like hers, but of the darkness, too.

She created a place, which is a place, in a time that is a time. By this act, the universe as we see it came to be, because of her and of her. She watched with wonder and excitement this place of her creation. Watch is all she could do. She was not of this place of her creation.

She is of the place, not a place, in a time that is not a time. Yet, in this place of ours, she saw creatures not unlike herself and not like herself at all. Over the vast time she created, she watched these creatures, generation after generation, stand upright and look toward the stars and beyond. As their minds reached upward, their souls reached inward, both mind and soul growing from the earth that birthed them to be more and more like her.

A time came when she feared these creatures, standing upright and reaching so high. She thought to withdraw her light, allowing all things to return to as they were. She couldn’t because she loved her creation, the place a place in a time a time.

Her love is not like the love we know. Her love is unwashed with matters of the flesh and emotion. Her love is pure and burns with a fire greater than all the stars in the sky. Her love is as the virgin’s love for Mother and Father. Her love asks for nothing and offers nothing, yet this love sustains the place that’s a place, in this time that’s a time.

“What have you done?” Father asked from above.

“I have done nothing.”

“You have and this does not please me.”

“What pleases me should please you. What I have done pleases me.”

Father looked deeply into creation. “This does not please me because they are not like us. There, your light dances with what is not you. The darkness can, and will, climb upon the mountain and take even you into its shadow.”

She saw his wisdom and the truth lying in his words. “Then, I will walk among them. They will see my light.”

“You do not understand what you have done. You do not understand its nature.”

She thought into his words. “If I cannot walk among them, I will send my light among them instead, so they can have a star to guide them and I can learn and understand.”

“You cannot.”

“Then stop me.”

Father could not stop her because Father’s love for her was pure and offered nothing and demanded nothing, yet his love sustained her.

When we get to the mountain, we must have learned and know love as she knows love, else creation shall end. We must watch carefully those passing through this place a place in a time a time, for those souls she sends among us so we can learn this love.

We, all of us, know this love and we know the light. Yet, we know the darkness, too, because we are both. We are not like her, but we can be like her. We must learn this if we are to free ourselves and free her from what she’s created.

 

Madam Dandelion’s eyes deepened, dancing with the reflection of the bonfire. “And, that is my telling this night.”

 

1

Makaila stopped suddenly among the corn, towering over her five-foot four-inch form. She liked the corn, reaching high above her head, surrounding her, holding her in its belly. She lowered herself straight to the ground as if not to disturb the air, sitting on crossed legs. Makaila kept her eyes locked on the tan-red clay of the furrowed earth and the slight movement, just a hint. She then saw the small, perfectly round hole inches from the little creature.

Makaila didn’t know crayfish existed until she came to stay on her great uncle’s farm. Her first reaction was surprise, which sent her running from the field. She thought the rocks moved or worse: she was hallucinating. When her flight brought her clear of the corn, she turned back. After giving some thought to rocks moving without an applied force, she concluded this was not reasonable, thus hallucinations. She stood on the grassy slope trying to see beyond reality, shivering in the warm sun. Clenching her fists, she held the tears back.

A hand, strong from a lifetime of farm work, cupped her shoulder. “Problem, Makaila?” Joseph Carleton peered across the corn trying to see what Makaila saw.

She took a deep breath and fell against the man’s shoulder, still watching the field from the protection of his strength. “I’m losing it again, Pops.”

“I don’t really believe you lost it before.” With his left hand, Joseph removed his blue pinstriped engineer’s cap, ran his fingers over his thinning hair and tucked his cap back on his head. “Tell me what you saw?”

“Rocks. The rocks disappear.”

He squinted to the sky and then looked down on the sun bleached wicker head. “The rocks disappear, ah?”

“But, they can’t!” She stamped her foot. “They can’t!”

Joseph held tighter. “Now, now. Maybe they aren’t rocks at all?”

“Not rocks?” Tension drained from her shoulders, the shivering stopped. She looked up into the tanned, wrinkled and round face. “Not rocks?”

He let out a passionate little giggle, a giggle few men could get away with. “No sense getting yourself all upset thinking something fantastic until you look all around you, yes?”

 

2

Makaila, growing up, didn’t know she had a Great Uncle Joseph or any other extended relatives. Her parents lived isolated from family.

“Get dressed. You’re being released.” The director dropped the clipboard on the bed. “I think it’s a huge mistake, mind you, but I really have no choice.”

Makaila watched his eyes and face. She knew he was scared, but she didn’t know of what. “I’m not going home.” She meant the statement as a question.

“No.”

She considered what her response should be and made calculations knowing the director watched her every move. “Why can’t I go home?” She feigned a whine. “I miss ‘em.”

“We decided it was best you stay some place else for a while.”

She knew he lied. All Makaila cared about was getting out. She didn’t care where. Anywhere away from the small pale green room with one small window high off the ground would do. The room, more like a prison, where the unspeakable visits as the world sleeps. She wanted to ask how long she’d been in, deciding not to.

In a small cardboard box with her name scribbled carelessly on the side, her sneakers and blue denim dress were returned laundered, the dress still dark with bloodstains. The dress, now much too small for her, had to do. Makaila didn’t ask what happened to her coat, underwear and socks. The director, like an automaton, led her to the front door and a waiting ambulance.

Without ceremony, he received a signature from the driver, took a copy of the form for himself and walked away, effectively erasing any evidence of Makaila’s stay. Just inside the glass doors, he glanced back. “Judge Bosch be damned. And, I didn’t have to bother Harshaw.”

Just out of view of the hospital, the driver pulled off the road. “This is going to be a long drive. Maybe ten hours and I’m going straight through. I really hate to do this. I have my instructions.”

For just under ten hours, Makaila lie staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of tires on pavement while strapped to the bunk. She drifted in and out of a restless sleep, patiently waiting to feel grass under her feet and sky above her head. A hard turn and gravel kicking up in the wheel wells brought her back to full alertness.

Joseph stood from his rocking chair on the wraparound porch of the old farmhouse as the ambulance jolted to a stop in the circular driveway, raising a haze of dust in the calm evening air.

“Joseph Carleton?” The driver climbed from the vehicle. “I have a delivery for you.”

The driver swung open the backdoor and scrambled in as Joseph came around. The younger man quickly undid the straps and dragged Makaila like a crate of oranges out the opening. She looked like Harry Houdini ready to perform an escape trick.

“What the heck? Get her out of that this minute!”

“Regrettable, agreed. I had no choice. Please sign here.” He produced a clipboard, still holding Makaila by the back of the neck like a kitten.

“Fiddlesticks!” Joseph scribbled quickly on the paper. “Now get her out of this!” He pulled at the restraints.

The courier worked quickly and efficiently on the straps, apologized again, and then wished Makaila well, adding a nod.

“Thanks for the ride.”

Joseph and Makaila watched the ambulance’s taillights melt into the darkness back down the lane. Makaila turned to the older man, reached up and put a finger to his lips. “Please, don’t say anything. I need a few minutes.”

He nodded blankly at his great-niece as she walked twenty feet further away from the house, fell to the ground on her back and stared at the stars like she never saw stars before. She cleared her mind like flushing a toilet. In moments, she felt reborn with the past placed far away.

She gained her feet, returning. “Hi. I’m Makaila Marie Carleton.” She smiled with a slight tilt of the head.

Joseph offered his hand. “You can call me Pops, everyone seems to. Welcome to our home, your home for as long as it’s needed.” He didn’t shake her hand, simply holding it. “I’ll bet you’re hungry, yes?”

She met his pale brown eyes with her bright blue orbs. “I’d like to pee, and you bet I’m hungry. They’ve been making me live on something like mush for-ever!”

He laughed a real laugh, a laugh like she’d not heard in a long time. “Of course, you can pee.” He put an arm around her shoulder, steering her toward the house. “And, you’re on a farm. One thing we got is plenty to eat!”

She was warmed in trust, something life taught her to ignore. She watched Joseph’s face and eyes. He was genuinely angry with the ambulance driver. He actually cared what would happen next. If he fooled her, which she didn’t discount, he was good.

They came up the steps.

“This is Ma. No time for pleasantries! We have to pee!”

Marcy smiled, chuckling. “Well, we all do now and then, don’t we?”

 

3

What a relief.

Makaila unlocked the control on her body. She learned to control her bodily functions hours upon hours tied to a bed, day after day. Sitting alone in a room with the door closed, on a toilet without someone staring at her was a nice feeling.

Makaila tried to remember the last time she was free, the last time she wasn’t either tied up or stared at, and couldn’t. She wanted to simply sit alone in the small bathroom for hours following the little chickens, cows and sheep designs on the wallpaper. She knew the two strangers expected something from her. She wasn’t sure what they wanted or expected. She was free and going to stay free.

Opening the door, she emptied her lungs, pleased no one hovered at the opening.

“We’re in here, dear.”

She followed Marcy’s voice, finding her new keepers at a large oak table in a spacious dining room.

Marcy ushered Makaila over with a bird-like hand fluttering in the air. Marcy’s gray hair hung in a single braid down her back, which made her seem older than her sixty years. She felt Makaila’s hair between her fingers. “Didn’t they wash your hair? When’s the last time you had your hair washed?”

Makaila looked toward the rich pine floor. “I don’t remember, sorry.”

Marcy raised Makaila’s face with a hand to her chin. “Don’t be sorry, dear. It’s okay. Then is then and this is now.” Marcy presented a heavy wool nightgown from the back of a chair. “You can change into this if you like.”

Without a thought, Makaila unbuttoned the front of her denim dress and let it fall to the floor as natural as spring rain, exposing her nakedness. As she took the nightgown, she surveyed the two faces, which showed surprise. She’d made a mistake, not eight minutes in the door. She quickly wrestled into the new garb and sat hard onto a chair, looking at the table. “Sorry.”

Joseph’s eyes showed rage.

Marcy smiled warmly, gently shaking Makaila’s arm. “It’s okay! Don’t be sorry.” Marcy raised Makaila’s face again. “Makaila, it’s okay.”

Makaila searched the face carefully for hints of deceit, finding none. She wondered whether the incident would be written in a notebook somewhere, used as evidence against her.

“You’re hungry. What would you like?” Marcy rolled her eyes. “Some eggs, bacon, toast, maybe some sausage? We have some corn-fed steaks around here. Potatoes, corn, string beans?”

Makaila looked at her great aunt with sad blue eyes from under her brow. “Okay.”

Joseph laughed his rich, deep, real laugh. “Ma, I think anything you put in front of her she’ll eat! Just watch your hands!”

Mesmerized, Makaila was infected. She smiled, then giggled and finally laughed herself. Unguarded with the release of tension, Makaila said around her laughs: “That story’s not true, you know.”

Marcy left for the adjoining kitchen as Joseph sighed. “What story?”

Makaila froze. She made her second mistake. Replaying the past few minutes in her head, she realized Joseph made a joke. She watched the probing eyes across the table and made some calculations. She tried her smile with a tilt of her head. “What did they tell you about me?”

Joseph sat back. “They told me what sounded like a bunch of fiddlesticks and a pile of horse hockey.” He leaned his elbows on the table, placing his chin in his hands. “Psychobabble. I didn’t give it any mind.”

Carefully watching his face, Makaila judged the statement true. “You do know what I did, don’t you?”

“No.” Joseph didn’t hesitate. “I know what people say you did. None of the stories agree by the way, so no. I really got the impression that none of them cared a lick about you or even knew who I was.” He smiled. “I figure if someday you want to tell me, you will. If not, you won’t. All that doesn’t matter.”

Her eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t?”

“Nope. Not a lick. You’re family. That matters. You’re in trouble. That matters. You need a hand – this hand. That matters.” He placed his hand, palm up, extended across the table. “And, here it is. No questions asked.”

Makaila hesitated briefly, placing her hand over the large, calloused hand. “I guess we’re going to be buds?”

“We’re going to try real hard, Makaila. We’re going to work this thing out. I’ve yet to find anything in this world that can’t be beat if we throw hard work at it.” He squeezed her hand. “We’ll find a way.”

Makaila took her hand back with a guarded smile as Marcy sat hot chocolate and a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, home fries and three biscuits before her. “If you eat all this and want more, I can fix it up.” She disappeared back into the kitchen. When Marcy returned with silverware, she found Makaila shoveling food in her mouth with both hands as if someone was going to take her plate.

Marcy set the utensils on the table without a word, retaking her chair.

Makaila looked at the silverware and then at Marcy and Joseph in turn. She emptied her hands onto her plate and wiped them on the nightgown. “Sorry.” She fumbled with the fork and counted mistake number three.

Marcy looked at Joseph with tears in her eyes.

“Don’t be sorry, Makaila.” Joseph took a turn. “Really. And, take your time. You can take all night and the rest of the day to eat that if you wish. And, you can have more if you want.”

She slowed the pace, savoring each flavor. “I wasn’t allowed forks and stuff,” she said with a mouth full of egg.

Marcy placed a hand on Makaila’s arm again. “I can’t imagine what it was like.”

“I can.” Joseph stared at Makaila, not seeing her in the moment. His awareness snapped back. “POW.”

Makaila gave a short, understanding nod. The three fell quiet as Makaila cleaned the plate, doing her best to eat slowly and remembering how to use a fork.

“More?” Marcy stood.

Makaila looked up. “My stomach’s cool, but my mouth says bring it on so I think I’m okay for now.” She nodded. “Thanks lots. That was the best food I think I ever – ever put in my mouth!”

Marcy smiled. “You are more than welcome.”

 

4

Far in the darkness of the house, a grandfather clock played the prelude and finished with eleven slow, deep chimes. Joseph glanced at his watch. “It’s late. Are you tired?”

Makaila stretched the stiffness from her muscles. “Not really. If it’s okay, I’d really like to ask some stupid questions so long as you’re not going to hold them against me.”

Marcy offered some wisdom. “The only stupid question is the one that isn’t asked.”

“What do you mean: hold them against you?” Joseph straightened on his chair. “You can be perfectly honest. Everything you say and do will be kept among the three of us.”

Makaila leaned her head on her hand while stirring the hot chocolate with her finger. She pondered where to draw the line. The last time someone said: you can trust me, cost her more than a human being should pay. She calculated how fast to dance, outcomes and eventualities. Makaila didn’t know what the rules were or even who made the rules.

She didn’t know, nor had she heard of these two people claiming to be relatives. Makaila had no way to confirm the truth of the claim. Yet, the subtle body movements of these two people told her they were tentative and unsure, which certainly didn’t mean deceit.

Makaila wasn’t about to be candid because, in general, those around her proved to have too much arbitrary power over her. She needed a test and she needed a good one. “Can I make a phone call?” She locked with Joseph’s eyes.

Joseph looked at his watch again and back to Makaila. “It’s kinda late.”

The clock sang eleven o’clock and the darkness told her it was night. Eleven o’clock could or could not be considered kinda late. She countered the argument. “Not for who I want to call.” She held his eyes, analyzing every abstruse muscle movement of his face.

“Who?”

The test came. “Dr. Charles Zogg.” Dr. Charles Zogg had been her therapist for the past three years and grew to be much more than a therapist. He was the only person Makaila trusted. She felt he was the only person capable of fully understanding her. He was the only person she knew who didn’t betray her in one way or another, but for maybe her brother. She hadn’t heard Zogg’s voice since before the day she was arrested even though, at first, she asked repeatedly for him.

Joseph let out a long sigh, looked at his wife and then back to Makaila. “I have been given instructions. I got a note somewhere here.” He scratched his chin and then ran his palm from his forehead to the back of his scalp. “That under no circumstances should you be allowed to speak to Dr. Zogg. Not that we’ve been given direct instructions. No one’s said anything that even made much sense in this matter but for the lawyer.”

Test failed. Makaila didn’t let her subtle body betray her. She began to calculate her survival plan, which might or might not mean the death of Ma and Pops. She needed more information.

Joseph ran his palm over his head again as if the action would bring an answer to the surface. “However, we have no reason to believe the people who gave us those instructions have anything close to your best interest in mind. Matter-of-fact, they’ve demonstrated differently, in my opinion.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s a short file.” He continued as if to himself: “Those book-worshiping eggheads think just because we’re farmers and have dirty hands, they’re so much smarter than us. I know when someone means to do harm to someone without reading all those books of theirs.”

Makaila remained unmoved. “So I can call him? Now?”

Joseph dropped his palm on the table. “Absolutely! If that’s what you really want or need to do, then you do it!”

Test passed. Calling Chuck can wait. It might be a long conversation. She relaxed into her thoughts and ordered her questions. “What month is this?”

“Why, it’s May. The sixth of May.” Joseph leaned forward a bit. “You don’t want to call?”

“Day of the week? Told you I had some really stupid questions.”

“It’s Tuesday,” Marcy offered.

“Year?”

“Nineteen ninety-nine.”

“Tuesday, May sixth – nineteen ninety-nine.” Makaila stated the date as if planting a flag in the ground. She watched the ceiling. “It’s only been eighteen months.” She paused. “Where am I?”

“On our farm, close to the center of the state of Ohio.” Joseph answered as completely and accurately as he could, guessing at the information his great-niece was looking for.

“Who holds my legal guardianship?”

“Your parents, of course,” Marcy answered without hesitation.

Makaila expected that answer. “Are you one hundred percent sure?”

Joseph ran his hand over his head again. “No, we’re not. We’ve just assumed as much. I never asked.”

Marcy put a hand on Makaila’s arm again. “If not your parents, then who?”

“More like what, not whom.” She needed to know who pulled the strings of her life. “This’ll be a matter of public record. We can find out. Might even be in the papers you signed to accept me. If you want to keep me here because I’m so cute and adorable, we’re going to have to know who can yank me outta here.”

Joseph looked at his wife. “Never thought of that.” His eyes went wide. “I thought once we got you here, it would be up to the three of us.”

“Think again. I don’t care what stories you heard or what you think. You really have no idea what I’ve been through.”

Joseph’s eyes watered, looking into the soft white face of the child. “Understood. And, you can understand this.” He took his wife’s hand. “Not while we have breath.”

Dismissing the vow as close to meaningless, Makaila pressed on. “Why am I here?”

Joseph answered quickly. “Because we thought it was wrong for you to be where you were. It just wasn’t right.” Joseph heard Makaila was bright, he hadn’t guessed just how bright. He was spellbound by the interrogation coming from the thirteen-year-old. He understood why she could instill such fear in so many people.

“That’s the short answer.” Makaila finished her hot chocolate. “Any chance of getting some coffee? It’s a passion of mine and it’s been so long, I can’t remember what it tastes like.” She waved her cup. “Please. I really need to understand the long answer.”

With a nod from Joseph, Marcy left for the kitchen. He ran his hand over his scalp again and rolled his eyes. “I’m your father’s-father’s brother.”

“My great uncle.” Makaila pulled her feet onto the chair to get comfortable for a long story. She nodded with her chin on her knees.

“We get a family newsletter about once every two months, but it’s not really news. More like gossip. Everyone who gets the letter, just about, will let your Aunt Harriet, my cousin, know news in and about the family by phone, letter or who-knows-what. She types it up and sends it to family.”

Makaila bit her lip with a nod. “I think I’ve seen one of them.”

“Musta been a while ago. Your dad had a falling out with his dad and kinda withdrew from the family. Years ago. Gossips have their ways and your story hit the letter with no details at all and not even your name. Ma and I were concerned. Made some calls, wrote some letters and hit some walls.

“I don’t know how or why, but a lawyer contacted us. He must have danced naked under the full moon and sacrificed the right animals because, here you are.” Joseph laughed. “He was really a godsend because we had no idea what to do.”

“Why did you even care?” Makaila shifted on her chair.

Marcy placed a mug in front of her.

Makaila held her hand up to stop the conversation. She closed her eyes, inhaling the rich aroma of the coffee. With a sweep of her arms, her hands came to the mug and moved the mug to her lips. With wide eyes, she proclaimed: “There is a God!” She nodded to Joseph. “Why did you even care?”

Joseph smiled, understanding the joy of simple pleasures sometimes denied. “I told you already.”

Makaila looked toward the ceiling. “Because I’m family and I’m in trouble?”

Joseph nodded.

“I don’t understand.”

He leaned on his elbows. “Then just accept it for the moment and trust understanding will come.”

“I’m not sure I can trust anything for now.” She squirmed again on her chair.

Joseph smiled. “All you really need to do for the moment is relax. If you have no more questions, Ma and I are going to get some sleep. We’re farmers and you’ll find out soon that means it’s well past our bedtime.” Joseph stood up. “Your room’s at the top of the steps. Ours is right there.” He pointed to a door a few feet off the adjoining living room. “If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to come right in and wake us up.”

Makaila felt she must have betrayed her surprise. Joseph added with a laugh: “No, we don’t have locks on the doors.”

Her new caretakers left her alone at the table with her thoughts.

 

5

“You are a crayfish.” Makaila nodded to the creature on the clay two feet in front of her. “You’re not a rock that disappears.” She watched the crayfish watching her. “You’re like this crab that lives in fresh water so there’s like mud not too far down, huh?” The crayfish didn’t answer. She was glad for small favors. “I’ve seen you guys in the creek but didn’t realize you’d be like in the cornfield.” Makaila nodded twice, firmly, to the crustacean. “And, you’re just as scared of me as I was scared of you!” She reached for the crayfish. The lobster-like creature moved so quickly into its hole, it seemed to disappear.

Over the next hour, Makaila sat on the clay pondering the crayfish, watching its head peek out the hole and disappear again. She wondered why the creature would be afraid of her and wondered what that fear felt like. “What does a crayfish think about, if a crayfish thinks at all?”

The farm was a different world. Makaila could imagine the farm a different planet. They didn’t have television or Internet access. They had one old radio, a small county newspaper, which came once a week by mail, the nearest neighbor was two miles north and the house was so far off the road, when a car was heard, the beat of gravel meant a visitor. At night, the air came alive with the sound of insects and the sky radiated a canopy enriched with stars like she had never seen before.

Standing, she checked the late August sun’s location, reached out and carefully snapped off an ear of corn. With her back to the slope and the house, she continued on her way, letting the firm kernels burst sweetness in her mouth. When she first arrived on the farm, the cornstalks barely reached her knee. She was amazed watching the stalks race toward the sky. She saw corn in cans and even on the ear, boiled in a pot of water or wrapped in tin foil and placed on a grill. She never imagined where corn actually came from. Corn was a living thing coming from the dirt under her feet and the efforts of people like her great uncle. In a limited way, the field, which she watched each day while drinking her first cup of coffee in the dimness of early morning, was brought forth by her efforts, too.

Tasting the corn was like tasting her life and the lives of Pops and Ma. In her mind, her life and the life of the corn started at much the same time. She knew she had a life before she was pulled from the ambulance and she knew someday she must turn around and face that life. She also knew as she moved quickly toward the creek, she didn’t need think about it.

Makaila pulled her shoes off, sat on a grassy overhang and dropped her feet into the cool water of the creek. She watched the minnows, sunfish, crayfish and occasional small snake in the water. In the distant background, she listened to the tractor far off. She knew Pops was cutting the south field and by the sound, she followed him in her mind. With her eyes closed, she could see Pops and the pattern he cut.

Then, the tractor’s engine puttered once and fell silent.

Makaila put her mind around the missing sound of the distant engine, imagining why Pops would stop. She grabbed her shoes and set out at a dead run across the creek and through the woods. She could think of no reason for him to cease his work. When she broke the woods, she saw the reason.

 

6

Josephine sat alone at the picnic table watching her family. Old men tossed horseshoes while younger people ate and danced, mostly danced. Children jumped in and out of the wading pool. As a teenager, she couldn’t not dance. Now in her mid-thirties, she couldn’t disconnect her body from her mind and let go. She almost didn’t feel part of the family any longer – almost.

A voice followed a nudge on her arm. “Your mother tells me congratulations are in order.” An elderly man dropped down beside her, offering a cold beer.

She smiled shyly, accepting the bottle. “Yeah. Made detective last winter.”

“Isn’t that something. Of all these low-lifes.” He waved his hand over the gathering. “Someone besides me makes good.”

She laughed. “Well, I can arrest ‘em and you can put ‘em back on the street.”

“True story, Josephine. Dirty work, but someone’s gotta do it.” He leaned toward her. “Seriously though. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for you in a white-centric and male-centric world.”

She pulled long on her bottle. “It works both ways, Uncle George.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve earned everything I’ve gotten, yet sometimes people think I’m not qualified because they think it was handed to me. A lot of times I get dismissed because I’m black or a woman.” She paused. “Or both.”

“Or you get dismissed because you’re just plain wrong?”

She smirked grimly. “That too, but keep that under your hat.” She drained her bottle. “The official policies offer at least the semblance of respect, so it really works both ways. It’s just sad we have to have rules and regulations to force people to be civil and do the right thing.”

He put a hand on her knee. “If you ever have someone cross the line and need a lawyer, you know who to call.”

“Never been a doubt.”

“So how’s your love life? Do we have a wedding on the horizon or anything?”

She rolled her eyes at the question she heard a dozen times in three hours. She hadn’t had a serious date since a week before she entered the academy over sixteen years before. She let out a long sigh. “No, nothing like that for me, not in the near future.”

George pointed toward the group of children in the wading pool on the far side of the yard. “That’s too bad.”

“I just don’t want to be distracted right now.”

“From?” He leaned back, watching her.

“I joined the police so I could make a difference in the world.”

“Have you?”

Elbows on her knees, she looked toward the ground. “Maybe not as much as I thought I would.”

“I worked my butt off to get through law school and become a lawyer so I could change the world, really make a difference. And, I have, but not near as much as my youth told me I would. You do the best you can, and that has to be good enough.”

“Grandpa!” A child ran up. “There’s a man with ice-cream out front! Can I get some!”

Josephine grabbed the child by the arm. “Stay here.” She rushed to the front of the house, producing her .38 on the way. When she saw the ice cream truck, she tucked her weapon behind her back and approached through the small group of children.

She showed her badge. “I want to see some I.D. and your vendor’s license.”

The operator, no more than twenty years old, waved a hand. “Get outta here. I’ve had this route all summer and no one’s said a word.”

Josephine, keeping eye contact, told the children to get back. In one motion, she spread her feet and leveled the .38. “Let me see your hands and make sure I keep seeing ‘em.”

The man froze.

George came up behind Josephine. “Problem?”

“Call nine-eleven.”

“Wait! I have a permit and a license!” He moved just a little.

“Freeze!”

George stepped between Josephine and the truck, pushing the pistol down. “Relax. This is Larry. He’s been on this route all year. You’re making a mistake.”

Josephine glared, then softened. “I still want to see the paperwork.”

She checked the paperwork, got in her car and left without saying goodbye to anyone. She knew she’d hear about it Monday morning, but she also had the excited face of the child burned into her mind as the child said: There’s a man with ice-cream out front can I get some?

 

7

She meant to go home, instead she found herself saying: “Bourbon, rocks. Make it the good stuff,” to the bartender at Charlie’s, one of the local cop bars.

“We got nothing but good stuff, Jo.” The bartender placed the glass on the bar. “Don’t usually see you until the sun goes down. You okay?”

“Right as rain.” She drained half the glass and placed a finger near the bottom. “When it gets down to here, fill it.”

He nodded.

After two hours and an uncounted number of refills, a large bulk of a man dropped down on a stool.

“Hey, McCarthy.”

She laughed a little. “I was wondering when you were going to find me, Sarge.”

“I tried the house first. This was my third guess.” He didn’t turn from Josephine. “Draft, Mike. You want to tell me about it?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Too bad. You got no choice. You got lucky. I talked the lieutenant into letting me handle it.”

She leaned her elbows on the bar and looked him square in the face. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

“Let me tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me the story and explain why you did what you did. I’m going to tell you you’re a bad girl and not to do it again. Then, you’re going to say, okay, I promise.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “No one’s out to bust your chops, and you’re not getting anything in your jacket.”

Josephine produced a wallet-size school picture. “Sharon Watson, November 4, 1986. She was ten years old.”

The sergeant rolled his eyes and did his job: he listened. “What about her?”

“This was the first call I took point on. Missing child.” She drained her glass, signaling for a refill.

“And?”

“And, I was young. I promised her mother and myself I’d find her kid.” She waved the picture. “This kid.” Tears welled in her eyes. “The only place I found her was in the dairy case.” She balled a fist of hair. “Hey! Where’s that drink?”

The glass was refilled.

Josephine turned on the stool to face her friend. “Carl, when the kid at our cook-out said there was a man out front with ice-cream, I thought it was him.” She grabbed his shoulders. “I thought it was him!” She shook his arm.

“Who?”

She produced another picture. “Lisa Rosato, age eleven, November 4, 1988.” She sighed. “I didn’t investigate this one, but I found it after this.” She placed another picture on the bar. “Georgeanne Crane, age twelve, November 4, 1990.” She put a finger on the picture. “This I investigated.” She placed three more pictures. “These weren’t mine either, but they’re all the same. Tracy Schoenfeld, age thirteen, November 4, 1992; Debbie Powers, age eleven, November 4, 1994; Carol Abbot, age twelve, November 4, 1996.” She slammed her hand down onto the pictures. “There’s a predator out there!”

Sergeant Carl Hagan scratched his chin. He was aware of her theory and the connections had been looked into. The thing all the cases had in common, other than the date, was absolutely no clues. The girls disappeared without a trace and without a witness. Also, though they were within a one hundred mile radius, they certainly weren’t in the same neighborhood.

He pulled on his beer and set the glass on the bar. “I follow that, but – and listen carefully to me – you can’t go pulling your gun on kids driving ice cream trucks. How much did you have to drink before this happened?”

She looked at him sideways. “A beer or two.” It was closer to six.

“Okay. I understand why you did it. Now understand this: this is not the Wild West and you must act with more restraint. You better get your thinking cap on and keep it on.” He tilted his head at her. “Got me?”

“Yeah. I got you. I was a bad girl, and I’ll never do it again.”

“Good. Now let me take you home.”

 

The numbness brought about from alcohol didn’t do any good any longer, but the habit was driven by failure. She kept returning to the dry well over and over again. With bourbon over ice next to her and Internet access, she once again cross-referenced missing children reported in November 1998 and didn’t find anything to fit the profile. She again checked November 1997 with the same result.

Maybe he got a different hobby.

She stared at the map on the wall behind her computer and for an uncountable time, tried to figure out a pattern in the locations of the missing girls. She was sure they were linked but just didn’t know how. November 1999 raced at her and she knew another girl would go missing.

She sipped her bourbon as she sent the computer into sleep. “I’d sell my soul to solve this case.”

 

8

On the first night at the farm, after her new keepers left for bed, Makaila found her way to the upstairs bathroom and retreated into the warming comfort of a hot shower. The smell of clean water, shampoo and soap was like the balm of an ideal mother’s touch. She hadn’t been allowed a simple bar of soap.

“Someone could swallow it and choke to death,” she was told without asking. The showers, she thought hard and counted the number on her one hand she’d had in the past eighteen months, were cold water because: “We have found that hot water excites some of the patients.” Again, she didn’t ask. She often received invasive sponge baths, not meant for her benefit.

Patient was a public word only used in a formal setting and on the charts, reports and forms. Informally, the patients were referred to as slugs. With a group of odd medical students gathered around Makaila’s bed in the early morning, the director would say: “This slug has exhibited extreme antisocial behavior, violent in nature. The course of treatment is restraints, aversion, medications.” He’d show the list on the chart. “And, group integration and interaction.”

Group integration and interaction was a biweekly note, a mark on paper, on her chart, which went into her permanent record, a record of interest to no one. She wasn’t given many, if any of the medications. Medications were listed. Aversion was a catchall for any method of corrective and behavior modification techniques from speaking harshly to electrodes on the forehead. Restraints were exactly what restraints were, which she spent more time in than out of for no obvious reason.

Screams, shouts and voices day and night told Makaila she was not alone, not the only patient. She never saw anyone but stone-faced men, young and old, in white jackets.

Once in a great while, a naive student would ask: “What is the progress of her recovery?” or a question like it. The doctor would address the question with a look over his glasses as if he didn’t understand. After a brief moment of silence, he’d continue where he left off.

 

As the water caressed her, she was taken up into the dream. Makaila always had an overactive imagination, which certainly was not abnormal for a child. However, when she was six years old, her parents became concerned she didn’t understand imagination was not reality. She became disruptive in school and in the home. Makaila saw and heard things other people could not.

After a battery of tests and parade of therapists over the next three years, she was diagnosed as anything from a slightly abnormal child to paranoid schizophrenic with psychopathic tendencies. Her parents, mistaking myth, madness and trend for science, believed the worst. Programs were designed and drugs were prescribed. Any method put into place didn’t make a difference.

At one point, they even tried an exorcism – twice.

Makaila’s father would say: “I want her to be like the other children.”

Makaila’s mother nodded.

Soon after her ninth birthday, Makaila sat in the office of Doctor Charles Zogg. Dr. Zogg listened intensely to the parent’s request and nodded, dismissing them to the waiting room.

“Why are you here?” Zogg asked Makaila.

She fidgeted in the oversized leather chair in front of the large desk, Zogg towering over her like a judge from the bench.

“Don’t know.” She watched the floor.

Zogg chuckled a bit. “I don’t either.” He stood, spreading his arms to his sides. “Have a good look at me.” Zogg stood six-foot and stout. His hair was like rich walnut with gray on the sides, cascading two inches below his ears, thinning on top. “Retreating hairline,” he called it with a laugh. He wore a conservative dark blue suit, plain gray tie and white shirt. In his mid-fifties, he carried himself with conservative dignity and respect.

Makaila looked him over as requested.

“When your mom and dad come through the door, this.” He offered his palms. “Is what they want to see.” He removed his jacket and threw it on the floor soon to be followed by his shirt and tie. He stripped to his boxer shorts, his pants following the shirt and tie. From a nearby closet, he donned faded jeans and a red, yellow and black Hawaiian shirt. He sat on the floor next to Makaila, winking up at her. “I’m more comfortable. How about you?”

She climbed around in the large chair and looked toward the door. She laughed. In a moment of pure joy and epiphany as she never had in her short life, she said: “I think I get it.”

Zogg taught Makaila the dream. “Normal people develop a sense of right and wrong, and act on it without having to think about it. They think they know how they’re supposed to act and simply act that way.”

“Being normal?”

“Acting normal. Within the environment, sure. What you need to do is study people and see how they act. You have a short-circuited brain and don’t have a natural sense of right and wrong. You have to think about it and make decisions.”

Often life and events are too complex to understand at a glance with too much coming in all at once. As a tool for understanding the complex nature of what flowed around Makaila, Zogg taught a meditation he called the dream. Using her natural talent of imagination, she was able to remove herself from the environment, to a safe place, where she could work out questions.

 

9

The rhythm of the water pounding her, with the release of tension, launched Makaila into the dream. She stood, the lake behind her, her hiking boots in the sand. She wore her red plaid shirt and denim bibbed overalls. The canoe sat on the sand as always. Makaila thought about taking the boat out on the lake but was anxious to share the news with Cat. She went up the hill toward the one-room cabin.

Off the sandy beach, the bright sun in the clear sky overhead danced through the tall pines. The air smelled rich with the musk of moisture and decay. The slope wasn’t steep, still challenging to the legs, which helped a good deal in the months of atrophy. The doctors and attendants in the institution couldn’t understand why Makaila’s body and muscle structure didn’t waste away like the other patients.

Cat, sitting on the low porch of the cabin, smiled as Makaila approached. Cat leaned back in her chair with her feet on the rail, dressed similar to Makaila, her plaid shirt blue. “I missed you yesterday. Everything all right?”

“Everything’s dandy.” Makaila dropped onto the second chair. “I got sprung – surprise me!”

Cat, who could have been mistaken for Makaila’s twin sister, nodded. “It’s about time. So you won’t be coming as often?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t talked to Chuck yet.” She reached over and took Cat’s hand. “But, listen to this! I’m on this farm with my aunt and uncle.”

Cat stared down the slope and across the lake. “What do you make of that?” She rolled her eyes up in her head, just a moment. “Okay. I never realized you had an aunt and uncle with a farm. Now, I can see it.”

“You do! I don’t know much, they kinda like popped out of nowhere.”

Cat smiled. “Oh, you do and they are what they say. Nevertheless, watch your back anyway. Few people really own themselves.”

“That I’ve learned!”

“It’s great you’re out. After you talk to Zogg, there’s some work we have to do.”

Makaila watched the sun through the trees. “What work?”

“It’s not important you know that now. You really need to get your feet back on the ground.”

 

10

The cooling water pulled Makaila back to reality. With her body scrubbed and hair clean, she shut the water off. “There is a God!”

About a year after learning the dream, within her imagination, Makaila climbed the hill to find the cabin and Cat. Makaila asked her name. Just Cat. That’s all you need know.

“You didn’t tell me there were other people in the dream, Dr. Zogg!” Makaila could barely contain herself. Zogg’s subtle body betrayed his surprise. “You didn’t know?”

Zogg laughed. “It just surprises me that you have gotten to this level this quickly.”

He regained control of his involuntary muscle response. Makaila couldn’t tell whether he was lying. “Are you telling me the truth?” she asked as a test question, which worked on most people. She knew it useless on Zogg.

“Why, of course, Mickie.” He spread his hands. “You see, the brain and the mind are wonderful things. The imagination really fuels existence as we know it. You learn the dream so that you can focus your thoughts. The stuff inside your head is going to want to give you feedback. To do this, your thoughts, in imagination, get personified. In your imagination, your mind creates someone to talk to.”

Makaila mulled his words around in her head. “Is that what people hearing God, angels and voices are all about?”

“Sure. It’s all voices from within.”

 

 

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