Stealing Heaven (19 page)

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"I'm going to need you to get out of the car now, ma'am. And
you too, miss," the cop says loudly. It changes everything. I can tell
because I see Mom's hand, still resting lightly against the window, twitch
once. Her hands have always been steady before.

We get out of the car. The cop asks Mom for identification. She
smiles, all charm. "I seem to have left my license at home. I'm so sorry.
Is that what this is about? I think it's a good thing that you're cracking down
on this, I do, and I swear, normally I always carry my license with me but
today I was in such a rush-"

"Miss?" the cop says, turning away from Mom like she
hasn't spoken at all. I watch her smile fade. "Do you have any
identification on you?"

I shake my head. I have nothing on me and haven't since I tossed
my phone this morning. Mom will have mailed the few things we'll need wherever
we end up to our fence, who'll hold it for us. Everything else--all the
clothes, all the food, her phone, everything--has all been disposed of. We have
nothing now except for what's in the trunk.

The cop clears his throat. "I'm going to have to search your
car."

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No. No no no no no no. I was careful, so careful, kept my gloves
on the whole time, but the silver is in the trunk and there's not going to be a
way to explain it, not going to be a way--

"No," my mother says, and her voice is soft but steel
strong. "I don't give you permission to search my car. In fact, I'd like
to know why you pulled us over in the first place. I mean, since when is just
driving suspicious?"

The cop ignores her and looks through the car. He's methodical
about it and keeps pausing to look at us, watching our faces.

His radio crackles. He goes back to his car for a second and says
something into it, then comes back and reaches into our car, popping open the
trunk. When he does that, Mom smiles.

I don't get it. How can she smile?

The cop pulls out the bag. He says, "What's this." It's
not a question. He knows he's found something. Mom is still smiling.

"Mom?" I whisper, and then she turns that smile toward
me. It doesn't reach her eyes, which are warning me to keep quiet. I close my
mouth and watch as she turns away, still smiling. I watch the cop unzip

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the bag, see his eyes widen as he looks inside.

"Well," he says. "Don't suppose you have a receipt
for all this?" When neither of us say anything he nods, smiling like he's
won the lottery. "Looks like I'm going to have to take you both in."

Mom laughs. It's the happiest I've heard her sound in ages and I
realize she's enjoying this. I watch her and know that no matter what she says,
no matter what I do, I will never truly be like her. I'll never want anything
like this. I'll never enjoy it. This--it could never make me happy. Not ever.

"My daughter and I both want a lawyer," she says,
putting an arm around me. "We have one, and I'm going to need to contact
him right away."

The cop's smile fades. "Sure, though I have to warn you, I
don't think anyone will be able to explain this away. Maybe you'd like to say
something now, help me--"

"I'm sorry," Mom says. "I guess I wasn't clear
enough. I wish to contact our attorney immediately."

The cop shrugs and then he is saying things like "Do you
understand?" This can't be real, I think, but then he says, "felony
burglary" loudly and I know it is.

"Are you ladies ready?" the cop asks when we're

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cuffed and in his car. My mother laughs again, shaking her head so
that her hair falls perfectly around her face. I stare at the floor, and as we
start to move I feel sick. I scoot as close to her as I can, wanting to be near
her, wanting her to tell me everything will be all right.

She doesn't look at me. She's talking easily, so beautiful and so
charming.' I hear the cop tell her his name is Joe and that he's got three
kids, all boys.

"Always wanted a daughter," he says. "How long have
you two lived here?"

My mother smiles and asks about his boys. She looks so calm and I
can tell, by the way she is sitting, legs lightly crossed and head turned so
the sun catches and shows the dark brilliance of her hair, that she is. She is
sure everything will be fine.

I am hunched forward, conscious of every car we pass, of every
rattle the bag makes as it shifts in the front seat. I watch the cop's eyes
flicker toward it once, twice. I watch him smile.

I'm not sure of anything.

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25

I start to shake when we reach town, when the police station gets
closer and closer, becoming all I can see. The cop parks and gets out of the
car. He picks up the bag, and I hear the silver shift inside.

"Keep quiet and everything will be fine," Mom whispers,
comfort and warning in her voice. I press my hands back into the circle of
metal that holds them, do it over and over until the skin around my wrists
starts to hurt.

Mom's taken out of the car first. I start shaking more. Even my
teeth are doing it now, chattering like I'm caught in a snowstorm. It sounds
weird. No one seems to hear it but I press my teeth together anyway, so hard I
hear them click.

Mom doesn't look back as she's led away. I'm helped out of the car
next. My legs don't give out

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on me even though I'm sure they will. I stare at the back of Mom's
head, not wanting to see who is steering me inside, when it occurs to me,
suddenly, that it could be Greg. My stomach lurches and I quickly look over.

It isn't him.

I'm sure I'll see him though. I'm sure he'll look at me and see
who I am, who I really am, and the strange thing between us will turn into
something I know. It will become nothing but a look like the ones I'm getting
from everyone we pass.

Inside the station I see stairs, which I'm not taken up, and a
hallway, which I'm led down. I don't see Mom anymore.

"You asked for a lawyer?" a man says as soon as I'm led
into a room, his voice loud and fast and disbelieving. When I don't respond he
moves in closer, so close all I see are his bloodshot eyes. "You asked for
a lawyer? First thing? You sure about that?"

I take a step back and shake my head. The man talking to me is
pissed off, red-faced to match his eyes. His voice is even louder when he
speaks again.

"So is that a yes? A no?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

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More staring, some muttering, and then the start of what I can
tell is a frequently given "warning" about
"wet-behind-the-ears" public defenders. The cop who brought Mom in
comes by and says something. Not to me, of course, but the man stops his speech
midsentence and I'm led into another room.

Mom once told me that being arrested was a lot like waiting in
line. I thought that was a strange thing to say but she's right. Getting
arrested is--past the initial part, the part where I stood and watched that cop
lift up the bag and felt everything inside me shatter--boring.

First, I'm searched by a female cop who says nothing except,
"The duffel that came in with you--that's yours, right? You want me to add
it to the list of your possessions?"

How stupid does she think I am?

The kind of stupid that tosses a bag loaded with silver into the
back of a car, I guess. But still, that's the kind of question I knew not to
answer from the time I was old enough to talk. I pretend to be fascinated by my
shoes. Eventually she realizes I'm not going to answer and I'm led back out
into the hallway.

Next is forms and fingerprinting and then more

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forms and photos. There's a lot of waiting around during each of
these things, a lot of time where nothing much seems to happen and whoever I'm
with looks at me like I'm supposed to say something. The questions I know I can
answer I do, and the others I ignore.

Finally, after being asked, "Is there anything you want to
say? You sure? Nothing you want to talk about?" about a million times, I'm
taken into a room. It's awful: no windows, industrial green walls, and the only
furniture is a battered table and chairs. It also smells terrible, like sweat,
and it's hot. I'm told to sit down and then I'm left alone.

There's no clock, so I have no idea what time it is or how long I
sit for. Sweat gathers under the armpits of my polyester nightmare yellow
dress, behind the backs of my knees. Eventually it gathers behind my shoulder
blades and drips down my back. I shift in the chair. It makes a sad groaning
noise. Eventually another cop comes in and offers me a sandwich and something
to drink "if I want."

I shake my head no and am left alone again.

The sandwich-offering cop comes back after I've counted the number
of scratches on the table four

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times. (Two hundred and twelve. Two hundred and thirteen if you
count the "one, that branches off as two.) He's carrying a coffee mug. I
can smell the coffee in it, see it slosh against the rim when he sits down across
from me.

"So ..." A pause, and I press my hands together,
waiting. "I guess you know this isn't the first time your mother has been
arrested."

I nod.

"And your father? Heard from him recently?"

I'm silent, force myself to sit perfectly still, to not show any
reaction at all.

"Right," the cop says, after taking a sip from his mug.
"Sorry about that. Guess it's just you two then. You like it around
here?"

I shrug, and the cop leans toward me. I can smell the coffee on
his breath. "Here's the thing. You're eighteen now and--"

"And since I am I can be charged as an adult, but guess what?
If I know something, you could help me out."

"You're young. You got caught up in something you had no
control over. You don't owe your mother anything--"

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I laugh, watch the cop's coffee mug pause midway to his mouth.
"I owe her everything."

"You misunderstand me," the cop says, and puts the mug
down, leaning in toward me again. "No one's blaming you here. No one's
saying you were a part of anything. Your mother--well, she's a very persuasive
woman and..."

I stare at him, silent. A frown creases his forehead and he leans
back in his chair. We look at each other for a moment and then he smiles at me.

"I guess you also know your mother recently had all her
assets placed under your name, right? And since she's done that, now that
you're an adult, should anything illegal or improper ever show up--"

I try really hard not to look surprised but know I fail. I knew
Mom had some stuff set aside in case of an emergency, but why would she put it
in my name?

"Think about it," the cop says. "She decides to put
everything in your name and now you're here? Maybe-"

"Maybe what?"

The cop shrugs.

"She loves me. She would never hurt me."

"What do you call this?" The cop gestures around

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the room, at himself and. then at me. "You think this is what
people who love their kids want for them? You think getting caught with--"
There's a knock on the door and the cop breaks off.

"Look, if you want to talk about what happened
earlier--" Another knock on the door and he throws up his hands and
leaves, biting off, "Think about what I said," before he goes.

After he's gone I count the scratches on the table again. I know
for a fact Mom doesn't believe in love. But she's kept me with her, kept me
even when Dad decided I was old enough to be on my own, that I was a burden he
didn't want--not even for a little while--anymore.

What the cop just told me--Mom has a reason for it, I know it. She
may not believe in love, but she's shown it. My whole life, she's the only one
who has. And that wouldn't end now. It won't.

At some point--my guess is after the night shift starts--I finally
say yes to the offer of a sandwich. It arrives in a crumpled bag resting in
Greg's hands. I was starving but as soon as I see him--and the look on his
face--my stomach shrivels up. I look down at

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the table, watch the bag come to rest in front of me.

"Did anyone get you a soda?" I can't tell anything from
his voice. I am used to hearing it full of laughter or exasperation or
something I could never quite name, but now it's flattened out, gone official.
I think about the day we went to Edge Island, of what I said to him, of what he
said to me. He knew something was going on with me. I thought--I don't know
what I thought. I wouldn't let myself think about it, would I? But he knew I
was hiding something, and now I have to wonder if he's been waiting for this
moment.

I look at him.

He looks tired, his face and hair washed out by the shitty
lighting. He looks ... sad.

"I don't need one," I tell him. "I'm fine."