Leaving Yesterday (5 page)

Caroline jumped up and down in front of me, mouthing the words, “Is it him? Is it him?”

I turned my back so I could give my full attention to the phone.

“Alisa, it’s Marsha. I was wondering if you want to get together for dinner tomorrow night. I thought I’d call Carleigh, Tasha, and Sarah, too.” Marsha and gang had made a point of being supportive since Rick and I had separated. Normally, nothing would please me more than the thought of an evening out with my friends. This morning, I forced myself to focus on the mundane conversation, trying not to let my disappointment spill over onto Marsha. “Dinner? Sure, sounds great.”

Caroline had come around and was once again bouncing in front of me. I petted her softly on the head and shook my head no. It wasn’t him.

Over the course of the next days and weeks, the same scene played out over and over again until despair had begun to take root in all of us. He wasn’t going to call.

One Tuesday afternoon I answered the phone yet again and stood looking at Caroline’s hopeful, bouncing self. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Stewart, this is Ray Brooks. Do you remember me?”

I gave the usual disappointed headshake to Caroline, whose shoulders slumped a little as she walked back to her homework on the kitchen table. I turned my attention back to Ray Brooks. The name sounded familiar, and I tried to search through the memories of names and faces that each increasing year seemed to fade a little more. Something deep inside me ached at the sound of his name, and I knew he’d had something to do with one of my sons. “Your name is so familiar. Please remind me.”

“I was Kurt’s soccer coach back when he was in junior high.”

How could I have forgotten? His face came into my memory in vivid detail. A good twenty years older than the average soccer coach, Ray Brooks continued to coach long after his own children had grown up and moved away, simply because of his love for kids and for the game. “Sure, I remember now. Kurt loved that team.”

“I’m not sure if you know it or not, but Kurt had been living in a little workman’s cabin at one of our orchards.” I had a vague recollection that the Brooks family owned a large chunk of the avocado farms in and around Santa Barbara.

“No, I didn’t know. We … lost touch during the last few years.” How would this man, who dedicated so many years of his life taking care of kids who weren’t even his own, feel about a mother who lost track of her son? The embarrassment at this admission had its usual effect on me—I chattered. “I did talk to him just a couple of weeks ago, though. He’s in rehab and turning his life around.” I felt the panic build in my stomach. Was Ray Brooks calling to tell me that Kurt had left rehab, was back in town and causing trouble? Did he want him off his property?

“Yes, so I’ve heard. I’m really happy for him, and for you. Hey, the reason I’m calling is that our family has sold the lower orchards. The new owner plans to begin work on the property immediately, and first on his list is to demolish the little cabin Kurt was living in. I assume that he will be looking for something a little nicer when he gets out of rehab and gets a full-time job anyway, so I hope that it won’t be a problem for him.”

“No, he’ll probably want to stay with us while he gets on his feet again.” At least, that’s what I hoped for and what I had planned. I couldn’t bear thinking that Kurt would want something different. Rick might vent and rage a little about making him earn his own way back, but this was the last time I would take a call from a former soccer coach that had taken better care of my son than I had. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll be sure to give Kurt a heads-up when I talk to him next.”

“Well, the thing is, he still has some of his belongings at the cabin. I think he took some clothes with him when he went in for treatment, but there are still a few things, photos and such, some clothes, that he left behind. I was wondering if you would want me to bring those things by your house? I’ve got an appointment in Santa Barbara tomorrow afternoon. It’s not too much. The kid traveled light.”

The tone in his voice said those words like it was a good thing, and I appreciated him for it. The unspoken fact was that a kid who’d spent every single penny he earned, and then some, buying drugs could only afford to travel light. Still, I thanked him. I couldn’t have Kurt yet, but this would be a start.

When I got home from work the next day, an old green pick-up truck sat backed into my driveway. Ray Brooks climbed out as I pulled in, and by the time I parked my car in the garage and got out, he’d lowered the tailgate and picked up the first box. “Where would you like me to put these?”

My plan was to put the things in the back of our storage shed with my Christmas stuff. But there was no need to further inconvenience Ray Brooks, so I said, “Let’s just put them on the back porch. I’ll take it from there.” I stepped toward the truck. “I’ll help you unload.” It didn’t take long before we were finished and Ray Brooks had waved good-bye.

Three boxes. Just three boxes. The sum total of my son’s life possessions. The hope for a future now tempered my despair at the past, and I decided right then and there that after these boxes were emptied, I would save them. In a few years I would bring them out and say something like, “Kurt, remember when every one of your possessions fit in these three boxes? Now, look how far you’ve come.” I pictured him graduating from college, getting a nice job, maybe even working with troubled youth in his extra time. He would be exactly the role model those kids needed. Someone who had been there, had gone through the darkness and managed to dig his way out to the light again. I smiled with my dreams as I moved the boxes into the storage shed.

In fact, I was still smiling when I started dinner a half hour later. The doorbell rang, and it seemed to chime in harmony with the tune I’d started humming. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but unexpected visits were both common and welcomed around here. I opened the door, wondering which of the neighborhood kids was selling coffee or candy or wrapping paper this week. Instead, I found Detective Thompson.

“Sorry to bother you again, Mrs. Stewart, but I’m still trying to get a line on Kurt. No one on the streets seems to have seen him for a while.”

I looked at him with smug satisfaction. I knew exactly what he was thinking—that my son’s absence was perhaps a sign of his guilt, like maybe he had killed and then left town. It was time to put an end to all of this. “You would be right about that. No one on the street has seen him in a while because my son is in a residential rehab. He has been for several weeks now.”

He looked surprised by this, then nodded and smiled. “Good for him. I’ve met Kurt on a few occasions, never did think he was a bad kid, just mixed up in the wrong things.”

“Well, now he is getting unmixed.” I lifted my chin just a little.

He pulled a pen and paper from his pocket and scribbled some sort of note using the palm of his left hand as a desk. “Which rehab is he in?”

It was just a simple question, which should have had an easy answer. Except that I had no answer to give. “I don’t know.”

He looked up from his writing at this. “Don’t know?”

I ran my hand along the doorframe. “It’s in Orange County somewhere, but that’s as much as I know. He called me to tell me what he was doing, but before I had time to get the name of the place or the phone number, he had to get off the phone. I haven’t heard from him since.” I’m no policewoman, but it doesn’t take a trained investigator to realize that this might sound like a mother trying to cover for her son. But that’s not what this was. I was telling the truth and I wanted him to know it. “He should be calling back soon.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and leaned his head from side to side. “Mrs. Stewart, I don’t want to be the one to squash your joy here—really I don’t—but you’re the one who told me you couldn’t afford to be blindsided.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe your son is in rehab and getting all better and life will soon be wonderful. For your sake and Kurt’s, I sure hope that’s the case. It’s just that I’ve seen a little too much of the other side of this world not to consider a couple of uglier possibilities.”

“Such as?”

“Maybe he’s lying to you about being in rehab, thinking that’s what you’re going to tell us, and hoping it might make us hold off looking for him for a few weeks. Or maybe he’s in rehab because of a guilty conscience.”

I opened my mouth to tell him that he was wrong, that I knew he was wrong. I started to say that I had Kurt’s earthly possessions in my storage barn if he wanted to see them, then he could just look through them and be done with it. “I’ve got …” The words shrunk back inside me and I didn’t make an effort to retrieve them. Not because of doubt, really. I knew Kurt hadn’t killed anyone. But perhaps because the protective maternal instinct had been so extreme over the last few weeks, I just couldn’t say it.

“You’ve got what?”

“To, uh, turn off my stove before my dinner burns.”

“Sorry to disturb you. I’ll be off.” He started down the front porch stairs, then turned as if he’d had an afterthought. Somehow, I knew it was more than that. “Do me a favor. When Kurt checks in next, give me a call with the name of the rehab center. I’m sure it would do us both good if I close his file.”

“Sure.” I watched Detective Thompson walk to his car, having no idea whether he believed me or was just waiting for me to slip up.

Seven

Between worrying about Kurt, caring for Caroline, praying over the book I’d been asked to think through, and just the day-to-day stress of work, my commutes to and from the church were the only quiet moments I’d had in recent weeks. And most of the time my brain just shifted into autopilot. I’d even managed to pull into my driveway before realizing a truck had been following me for the last few minutes and had pulled up right behind me. For a worrying second I thought it might be the detective again, but then Kevin Marshall stepped out of his car, offering an uncomfortable smile.

“Uh, hi. I was passing through town today, and Chris asked me to bring something by.”

He ducked back quickly into his car and reappeared with a small grocery sack. He walked toward me holding it out, and even from a few feet away I noticed his blue eyes—the kind they write romance novels about.

“Chris was, uh, cleaning out some files the other day, and, uh, he found several photos of Nick. We thought you would want to have them.” His face turned red, and I realized that right about then he was doubting the wisdom of that decision.

“I’d love to have them.” Our hands touched as I reached out and took the bag from him. For just a moment we looked each other in the eye, a lifetime’s worth of sorrow communicating between us. “Do you want to come in for some coffee?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got to get back.”

I also thought his eyes held just a hint of guilt. Was it because he had the son who survived? Or maybe it wasn’t guilt at all. Maybe it was my own envy I saw reflected. I pulled the bag away, careful not to look at the contents. “How is Chris coming along?”

“Oh, he’s doing fine. Still limps, of course—will for the rest of his life—but he’s able to get around and do all the things he needs to do.”

“I’m glad.” And I was. I’d only met Chris on a few occasions before the tragedy, but he’d been one of Nick’s best friends at USC, and one of the two surviving members of the Mardi Gras attack. I wanted him to live the life that Nick was no longer able to.

Kevin nodded and turned. I followed him toward his truck and swung the bag. “Thank Chris for me.”

“I will.” He cleared his throat. “Just to warn you, I think there are a few pictures from New Orleans in there. We spent a while talking about whether or not we should get rid of those, but Sheila argued that a mother would want to have pictures taken of her son the day before he died. I don’t know, but I figured women understood these things better than Chris or I.”

“She’s right.” And she was, but I wondered how I would ever get the courage to open this bag and look into it.

He nodded toward my Ford Escape. “Hey, I noticed as you pulled in, your passenger side brake light is out.”

“Yeah, it has been for a few weeks now. I just can’t seem to get my act together to take it in and get it fixed.”

“That’s easy enough to fix. Rick could do that in a minute or two. Tell him to give me a call if he has any questions.”

“We’re, uh …” I looked at the car, then back at Kevin, “separated.”

His hand fell from the handle of his truck and he shook his head. “I was trying so hard not to say anything stupid, and now look at what I’ve done. I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. We’ve been separated a couple of months. Between Nick’s death and Kurt’s addiction, things just got a little too hard to take around here, you know what I mean?”

“I understand it better than you can imagine.” His face was sad as he shook his head, and I remembered Nick telling me about Chris’s mom. She’d been somewhat of a plastic surgery addict, until a botched operation left her in constant pain. After that, she’d begun fueling her life with booze and prescription drugs. In Kevin Marshall’s face, I could see that nothing had changed for the better in the last few years.