Sammy Keyes and the Kiss Goodbye (15 page)

Blackmail.

“Here’s the deal, Leon,” he said quietly to Mr. Pratt. “We’ve got some very damning evidence against you. I’m going to keep this clip on file. I’m going to document everything that happened here. And I’m going to alert the school to watch out for signs of physical trauma where your son is concerned. I can’t be here twenty-four-seven, but these kids are good friends and they’re not about to let this continue. So if you
don’t
want to wind up in jail, if you
don’t
want social services to remove your kid from your home, you will change your ways. Are we clear?”

Leon Pratt stood in the wide-open doorway, visibly feeling cornered. And knowing that a cornered man is a desperate (and often violent) man, Sergeant Borsch gave him an out. “You want to be a good dad, right? You don’t want to have this kind of relationship with your kid, right? And Billy doesn’t want it either. Look how he covered for you! So get some help figuring it out. The county has people who can help. It won’t cost you anything but a little time.”

Mr. Pratt looked down, and a long silence ensued before he heaved a sigh. And then (in a moment of unexpected candor) he said, “His mom’s been tellin’ me the same thing.”

“Does she live here?” Sergeant Borsch asked.

Leon Pratt nodded. “She’ll be home shortly.”

“So talk it over with her tonight,” Sergeant Borsch said.

“And just to give you and your son a little space and time, what do you think about Billy spending the night with one of his friends?”

“He can stay with me,” Casey offered.

Mr. Pratt nodded again, then looked at Billy. “That’d be all right.”

Very quietly Billy told his dad, “Sorry I snuck out this morning. Sorry I ditched school. Sorry my phone was off. Sorry I didn’t tell you about Sammy.”

Mr. Pratt perked up. “
Sammy
’s the one in a coma?”

Billy nodded.

Leon Pratt stared at his son a moment. “I know how much you like her.” Then he let out a heavy sigh and said, “I’m sorry about … everything. Get your things and go be with your friends. We’ll talk more tomorrow. Just
please
leave your phone on, okay?”

Billy nodded, and while he was scurrying around the apartment, stuffing overnight things (including his favorite blanket) into a pillowcase, Sergeant Borsch quietly handed Leon Pratt a social-services business card, pointing out a number he could call for family counseling.

When the door was closed again and the entourage of teens and cops was headed back toward the street, one of the backup officers walked beside Sergeant Borsch and said, “I’ve been out on a lot of domestic-dispute calls, sir, but I have never seen one resolved like that.” He looked at the Borschman with awe. “That was incredible.”

Gil Borsch frowned. “Not entirely by the book …”

“Maybe not,” the other officer said, “but it’s exactly what was needed.”

Which (aside from the satisfaction of a job well done) was, for the Borschman, payday enough. He hadn’t always had the respect of his colleagues. There was a time (like when he’d been dumped by his horse in the Christmas Parade) that’d he’d been the station’s bona fide laughingstock. During this same time, minor infractions (like, oh, jaywalking or spitting on the sidewalk) had seemed justifiably cite-worthy.

So what had transformed him from a citation-happy, horse-bucked, blustery cop into one who could defuse a domestic dispute?

Not that there was any guarantee that Leon Pratt would follow through, but still.

How had he become a cop who commanded the awe of officers coming up the ranks?

In his heart of hearts Gil Borsch knew that it wasn’t just another season on the force, and it wasn’t merely the passing of time. It was learning how to listen. Finally learning how to listen. (Something both his ex-wives had begged him repeatedly to do.)

And the person who had taught him to listen?

Sammy.

Somehow, with her long, maddening asides and wild, rambling stories, she’d taught him to take a deep breath and just listen. And somehow, after years of hating teenagers, he’d learned to like, even love, a teenager.

And now here he was, surrounded by a little herd of teenagers who turned to him for help.

Maybe even
liked
him.

“Officer Borsch?” a voice was saying.

“Huh?” the lawman said.

“Did you find out who threw Sammy off the fire escape?”

It was Marissa asking, and after a quick refocus on the here and now, Sergeant Borsch shook his head. “No. Sorry. Not yet.”

“Well, here,” Marissa said, handing over the list they’d made. “We’re hoping this will help.”

The backup officers had kept walking and were now calling, “See you back at the station.”

“Ten-four,” Sergeant Borsch responded, then turned again to Marissa. “What is this?”

“It’s a list of the people who might want to take revenge on Sammy.” And after Sergeant Borsch had studied it a moment, she asked, “Can you find out which ones are in jail and which ones are out?”

He nodded, then shook the page and said, “Thank you. I was starting a list myself, but I’ve had … interruptions.”

“Sorry,” Billy said, clearly feeling guilty for the distraction his situation had caused.

“You, son, shouldn’t feel guilty about anything.” Then Sergeant Borsch frowned and said, “Actually, I was waylaid by the Nightie-Napper.”

“The Nightie-Napper?” the teens cried. “What happened? Did you catch him?”

But before he could answer, Cricket and Heather asked, “What’s a nightie-napper?”

Casey gave them the condensed version and then turned to Sergeant Borsch and asked, “What happened?”

So Sergeant Borsch gave his own condensed version (to cries of “Mr.
Garnucci
is the Nightie-Napper?!”) and ended his story with, “So he’s locked up, and once his lawyer’s present, we’ll also question him about last night.”

“Wait,” Marissa said. “You think
he
might have thrown Sammy off the stairs?”

Gil Borsch sucked on a tooth, visualizing the manager dressed as a granny. It didn’t seem too likely, but Garnucci
had
attacked him with a bike. “I’ll add him to your list,” he said. “But not to the top of it.” Then he said, “Why don’t you kids go back to the hospital while I do some checking on the list.”

This seemed to be the perfect line with which to make an exit, but instead of heading toward his squad car, Gil Borsch just stood there, studying Sammy’s friends, sucking quietly on his tooth.

“What?” Casey finally asked after the look and the lack of movement had gotten awkward.

Gil Borsch frowned.

He knew that what he was thinking was rash.

Maybe even stupid.

These were teenagers!

And Heather had been an unbelievable thorn in his side.

Not to mention Sammy’s!

But she did seem to be trying.

And she’d sure come through with that video.…

So, looking around at all the kids’ expectant faces, Gilbert Borsch took a deep breath and decided. “Take out your phones,” he said. “I’m going to give you my cell number.”

After a moment of stunned silence, all at once all available phones were produced.

And after Sergeant Borsch had relayed the number, he looked around the group and said, “Do not share it with anyone. It is only for you, got it?” And after a round of
got-it
s were returned, he said, “So here’s what I want you to do with it: Call me if you’re in trouble, call me if you need help”—he took another deep breath—“and if you hear any news about Sammy, call me about that, too.”

Then he headed to his squad car, wondering what in the world had gotten into him.

As the world outside was buzzing with news crews and list making, Lana sat alone in Sammy’s hospital room, looking at her daughter. Like haunting calls into a canyon of regret, thoughts bounced farther and farther into the distance, carrying Lana’s heart along as they drifted back in time.

“I remember when you were born,” the actress whispered to her daughter. And after a long moment of silence, she said, “That seems like a lifetime ago … and also like yesterday.”

The monitors silently tracked Sammy’s vitals as she lay bandaged and unmoving but for the steady rise and fall, rise and fall of her chest.

“I wasn’t always a bad mom,” Lana whispered. “You may not remember, but I really, really tried.” She slipped her hand over Sammy’s. “Maybe I should have waited a few more years to pursue my dream. No, I
know
I should have waited. But thirty freaked me out. I went from being a teenager, to being a mother, to waitressing at Big Daddy’s, to being thirty. It felt like my life was over and I’d never really had a chance to
do
anything.

“Oh, there was my short-lived move to Hollywood
after high school. I was so naïve, auditioning for parts during the day, waitressing at a diner on Sunset at night. My eyes were so full of stars!” She thought a moment as if grappling with how much to share, then said, “That’s where I met your father—has he told you that? He and the band would come into the diner after doing a showcase. He was so charming and Marko was so funny. Marko had amazing hair back then, too. Full and shaggy … it’s still strange to see him bald.

“Anyway, it’s not like they didn’t warn me, right? They were the Troublemakers! But I fell so hard for your dad. And then”—she heaved a sigh—“well, things fell apart, and I was left with you and a bunch of shattered dreams.

“That didn’t mean I didn’t love you. But I was back in Santa Martina, and it didn’t take long for me to feel old and trapped and like such an embarrassing failure. Plus, I was working at a truck stop! The tips were good, but you have no idea how demeaning it was to work there! Your grandmother wanted me to take night classes so I could get on to something better, but I couldn’t seem to find the time. Besides, accounting, or nursing, or secretarial skills … it was not where my heart was. And I was tired a lot!”

Lana paused for a moment, and then the words seemed to want to gush out. Like they’d been waiting for years to be set free. “You were not an easy child, Samantha. I know it wasn’t your fault. You’re like your father—curious and energetic … and a magnet for trouble! Nowhere was safe with you in it. Not the grocery store, not the mall, not the playground … You always managed to knock something
over, or get a leg caught, or
tackle
someone. Why did you need to chase other kids? Why did you need to
tackle
them? Your grandmother said you were just trying to make friends, but what kind of way is that to make friends? I needed a helmet and a leash for you!” She shook her head. “You were just exhausting.”

Lana was quiet for a long time. It was as if she’d arrived at a fork on a distant road and was not quite sure which way to go, and when she did at last begin again, her voice was just a whisper. “Do you remember that little one-bedroom place we rented on Hill Street after my dad left us and Mom lost the house? The three of us were crammed into what was supposedly a duplex, but it was really just half of a tiny house where the water heater was in the kitchen and the refrigerator partly blocked the doorway into the bedroom. The neighbor in the other half would be up all night playing loud music, and sometimes it’d be Darren Cole and the Troublemakers, which was really, really hard for me to take. I would be next to you in bed, trying to be quiet while I sobbed, but you would sometimes wake up anyway and ask me what was wrong and wipe my tears away with your little hands and then kiss me and tell me you loved me.” She took a deep, choppy breath, then choked out, “I’m sorry about those nights. I’m sorry for making you worry. I’m sorry I let you see how depressed I was.”

After another long silence, Lana began again. “Your grandmother was the one who used to sleep on the couch. Do you remember that? It’s pretty funny, now that I think about it. And sometimes the two of you would sleep on that couch together. It wasn’t big, but I’d come home
from my shift, and there you’d be, burrowed into each other with a book dropped to the side. And when I’d try to get you to move into the bed, you’d cling to her for dear life and tell me, ‘No!’ ”

Lana studied her daughter a moment, then said, “I think I was probably a little jealous, even back then. You and she were always such buddies. With me she was a disciplinarian. With you she was easy. And affectionate. I don’t remember my mom hugging me very much when I was a kid, but you came along and suddenly she was all arms.

“And then she got into the Highrise and you were in school and getting so independent, and I … I was going nowhere.” Lana stroked her daughter’s hand. And after several minutes she said, “It was your grandmother’s idea, you know. To have you stay with her in the Highrise? She was the first one to suggest it, and she did it in front of you! So of course you thought it was a big adventure.” She let out a sigh. “And I thought it was only going to last a month or two. Or through the end of sixth grade at the most! I definitely thought I’d be settled and you’d be with me in Los Angeles by the time junior high started. That was my deadline. The beginning of seventh grade. You’d be starting a new school anyway, right? It made complete sense!

“But … it didn’t work out that way.” She frowned. “I know I should have called more. I know I should have come to visit more. I know I shouldn’t have gotten so wrapped up in myself and what I was doing. But I did
not
abandon you to become the Gas-Away lady! I cannot believe you ever thought that, let alone said it! It was
embarrassing
to
be the Gas-Away lady! I still cringe about it! But sometimes you have to swallow your pride to get your foot in the door … especially if you have a child you’re supposed to be taking care of!”

Lana sat staring at her daughter, absorbing her in a way she hadn’t since Samantha had been a toddler sleeping at her side.

Who was this girl?

This … young lady.

How had this … any of this … happened?

“Sometimes I have trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that you’re
my
daughter,” she whispered. “How did you become so brave? So resourceful? When I think about the things that you’ve gotten yourself into …” The actress shuddered. “I’ve heard, you know. In bits and pieces over time, I’ve heard. And I can see
acting
those scenes, but living them? Oooo. You know how I get around rodents and blood—imagine how I’d be around corpses! Or trapped in a basement with poisonous spiders!” She fluttered a hand as if fanning away a panic attack. “I would have
died
. Or needed serious counseling! Or something! But you just went on about your life like nothing had happened. You never even mentioned it to me!”