Vicious Cycle (3 page)

He looked up at her. “What place?”

“That place where your sister is.”

Lance caught his breath and got up. “Sure. They know me. I can get you in.” He hoped it was true, that they wouldn’t make her wait for a bed the way Emily had had to wait. If they did, she might change her mind. “We could go by there and you could talk to them. I could get my mom to take us today. She’s picking me up after school.”

That afternoon, he and his mother took Jordan for a tour of New Day. When they told her she could check in without paying a dime, she worked up the courage and agreed. Her mother, who needed treatment herself, had reluctantly signed the papers, probably glad to dump her on someone else.

Up until now, Lance had considered this one of his great personal accomplishments. He saw Jordan every Saturday when he came to visit Emily, and he’d watched her progress with pride.

Now she was gone, without a word of warning, without giving him a chance to talk her out of it.

He stepped to the edge of the water, picked up a rock, and threw it to the center of the pond. It dropped with a plunk, ripples spreading. He thought about Jordan’s few visits from her abusive mother and brother, visits that always left her in tears. Why would she go back to that?

Emily put her hand on his back. “You okay?”

“Why did she leave?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “She didn’t talk to any of us about it. But I don’t think her mom really wanted her to get well.”

“I know why she left,” someone behind him said.

Lance turned to see Amanda, one of Emily’s roommates. “Why?”

“She was fiending for dope, that’s why.”

He hoped not. She’d begun to care about the baby she was carrying, but using meth while she was pregnant could seriously hurt it. “Do you think she went home?”

“Probably,” Emily said. “But it’s terrible there. And she’s due any day.”

Lance had felt the baby kick and had been amazed by the ultrasound picture Jordan carried in her purse. What if she had gone back to drugs?

“Maybe I could try to call her,” he said. “See if I could talk some sense into her.”

Emily swept her blonde hair behind her ears and studied him for a minute. “It’s worth a try. Tell her we miss her.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “If I find her, I’ll talk her into coming back. I got her here the first time. She listens to me.”

B
arbara hated working on Saturdays, but that was the day furniture stores made most of their money. She should be grateful just to have a job.

Last year, she’d had her own interior design business, with an assistant and a construction crew. She’d been among the designers considered to renovate the governor’s mansion. But a crisis with Emily had forced her to prioritize, and she’d wound up losing the opportunity. As a result, she had to lay off her staff and give up her studio. She’d taken this job to keep her head above water while she did design work on the side. Though she still got an occasional client, she hadn’t yet built back her business enough to warrant quitting this job.

She walked among the dining room tables, clipboard in hand, looking for browsers. Working on commission was tough, especially when the economy was bad. But her
background and experience gave her an edge. Last week she’d helped a family whose house had burned. They were rebuilding and needed to furnish every room. The commission had been a blessing from God. They’d said
she
was the blessing, since buying from her was like having their own interior decorator.

Even with that commission, things would be tight when Emily came home. Barbara would have to resume paying Emily’s car insurance, buy her some clothes, pay tuition for the college classes she’d be taking in January. She hoped she could manage it all. Ever since her husband died five years ago, keeping her family financially afloat had been her responsibility. She would make it work somehow. She always had.

Her phone vibrated, and she pulled it out of her pocket and saw that she had a voicemail. She’d noticed it vibrating earlier when she’d been with a customer, but she’d ignored it. Now she listened to the message and smiled as she heard Kent Harlan’s voice.

“Hey, Barb. Sorry I missed you. I was just … thinking that maybe I could take a day or two off and come to Emily’s graduation Monday. Don’t know if you want me there or not.” There was a long pause. “If you think it would be better for Emily if I weren’t there, no problem. I want her to have a really good day.” Again, he hesitated, as if some unspoken question hung between them. “I want you to have a good day too. Hope you’re having a good day today.”

The awkward message made her smile again. For a tough homicide cop, there was something very vulnerable about Kent.

She thought of calling him back but didn’t know what to tell him. Should he come, or shouldn’t he? For the last year, they’d talked on the phone a lot, and he’d found excuses to come to Jefferson City a couple of times to see
her. But distance made it difficult to pursue a serious relationship. Focusing on her children was the most important thing.

Emily had been so troubled after her father’s death. Barbara feared doing anything now that could revive those feelings. Depression and grief could trigger a relapse. Besides, she wanted graduation day to be about Emily, and if Kent were there, Barbara’s attention would be divided. Emily’s victory after committing a year to her healing was too important to diminish in any way.

Still … Barbara would really love to see him.

“Barbara!”

She turned and saw Lily, one of her co-workers, coming toward her with a disturbed look on her face. She waited as Lily crossed two rows of recliners. “That homeless guy is back,” she whispered.

Barbara looked over Lily’s shoulder. The scruffy man was sitting in a Lane recliner, his feet up and his jaw hanging open. He was sound asleep.

“I’m going to call the police,” Lily said. “We can’t have him in here scaring the customers.”

Barbara touched Lily’s arm. “Just wait, please. I’ll take care of it.”

Lily looked back at him. “Okay, ten minutes. If he’s not out of here by then, and completely off the premises, including the parking lot, I’m having him arrested.”

It wouldn’t be the first time. Barbara walked up the row of La-Z-Boys to the Lane section and sat down in the chair next to the man. Touching his arm, she said, “J.B., wake up.”

The man stirred, and his eyes opened — bloodshot, as usual. His breath smelled rancid, and red, inflamed skin showed through his sparse, unkempt beard. His ski cap was
threadbare and filthy, as if he’d found it in a garbage bin. “Hey,” he said, groggy.

“J.B., I told you, you can’t hang out in here.”

“It’s cold out,” he said. “Jus’ needed a place to get warm for a while.”

“You have to do it somewhere else. You know that.” She glanced toward the desk, aware that her co-workers watched. “I talked to your mom.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Aw, no.”

“She’s really worried about you.”

“Then why won’t she let me come home?”

“Because last time you were there, things didn’t go so well.” There was no point in mentioning that he’d given his father a black eye and pawned his mother’s jewelry.

“I won’t stay here long.”

“You can’t stay at all. They’re going to call the police. They gave me ten minutes to run you out.”

Sighing, he reached for the lever to lower the footrest but couldn’t find it. She helped him lower it, and he sat up straighter. “All right, I’m going.”

“Come to my car with me,” she said softly. “Your mom sent me some things for you. A warm coat and some gloves.”

He rubbed his neglected beard. The corners of his mouth trembled, and he covered his eyes with a filthy hand.

“J.B., your mom said the offer is still open for you to go to treatment. She’ll come and get you and take you herself.”

“I don’t need treatment,” he slurred. “I don’t have a problem.” He pushed himself up with great effort and took a few steps, wobbling. “Haven’t eaten all day,” he said. “Got a few bucks?”

She took his arm and walked him toward the door. “I can’t give you any money, J.B. But I have some food in the car.”

As the glass doors slid open, the cold air blasted her. Sorrow crushed her heart at the thought of him being exiled into this weather. She wanted to take him home with her, but if his own parents couldn’t trust him, neither could she. Six months ago, after he’d beaten up his father, his mother had joined Barbara’s support group for parents of prodigal children. When she’d shown Barbara a picture, Barbara had recognized him as one of the homeless men who wandered into the furniture store now and then to escape the summer heat and the winter chill.

He had choices, she reminded herself. He didn’t have to live on the streets. He could go to a shelter or a treatment center. If he worked, he could get his own place. He could even go home if he would just stop using.

But J.B. wasn’t able or wasn’t willing to do what it took to live a functional life. She felt him shivering as they crossed the parking lot. She pulled her keys out of her pocket and popped open the trunk.

The bag J.B.’s mother had sent sat next to the box of crackers and jar of peanut butter Barbara had bought for him the last time she went to the grocery store. “Here’s something to eat,” she said.

He took the box of crackers but didn’t look that interested.

She handed him the bag, and he pulled out a brand new parka with a warm hood. The one he had on wasn’t warm enough, and it didn’t look like it fit. She wondered where he’d gotten it.

“Won’t be able to keep this long,” he said as he pulled it on over his other one.

“Why not?”

“Somebody’ll take it.” His breath steamed on the frosty air as he dug into the bag and pulled out some gloves, a scarf, and a new knit cap.

Charlotte was mothering him the best she could. But Barbara couldn’t escape the irony — that her friend was dressing her son to survive, homeless, on the cold streets.

What else could she do?

Barbara had watched Charlotte, who had become one of her dearest friends, scurry around the house finding things she thought might help J.B. Charlotte was fighting her own battle with cancer. But that crisis was secondary to her worries about her only son.

Even Charlotte’s “tough love” in leaving him on the streets was more for his benefit than for hers. Her hope was that the temporary homelessness would make him hit bottom. That he’d somehow come to his senses, check himself into treatment, and do what was necessary to change his life.

But there was no sign of that happening yet.

He zipped up the coat and wrapped the scarf around his neck, then dropped the crackers back into her trunk. “I’m not hungry.”

“J.B., you said you hadn’t eaten. Take them. Eat.”

“I just need a few bucks.”

“I’m not giving you money. Is there anything you want me to tell your mom?”

He thought for a moment, tears rimming his eyes. Then he turned and staggered away.

She closed the trunk and chafed her arms, watching as he made his way off the parking lot. From the back, he looked like a stooped, eighty-year-old man.

He was only twenty-three.

“J.B.,” she called out.

He kept walking.

“J.B., go to the shelter. It’s going to get really cold tonight.”

“Hate that place,” he said.

When he was off the premises, she swallowed the lump in her throat and headed back inside. Lily waited at the glass doors as Barbara went in. “Did you tell him not to come back?”

“He knows. He’s just cold.”

“We can’t have homeless people hanging around here.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t feed him. It makes him come back.”

“He’s not a stray dog, Lily. He’s my friend’s only son.” She hurried into the bathroom, grabbed a tissue off the sink, and dabbed at her eyes.

She would have to call Charlotte later and tell her J.B. had gotten the coat. But today was a chemo day. Charlotte had it on Saturdays, since she worked during the week. Maybe she should wait until tomorrow.

Barbara studied her reflection in the mirror. Kent said she looked like Michelle Pfeiffer, but the movie star didn’t have deep lines around her mouth or grief lines between her brows. Family problems had aged her, as it had her friends.

Had she done the right thing for Charlotte’s son? Maybe she should have let Lily have him arrested. At least he’d be warm tonight, and relatively safe.

It was so hard to know what to do.

Her phone vibrated again, and she looked down at the readout. Lance. She clicked it on. “Hey, sweetie. What’s up?”

“Nothin’,” he said. “I was thinking about Jordan. Mom, do you know her mother’s name? I want to get their number from Information.”

She pictured Jordan’s mother, who looked like she’d been using drugs for decades. Though she was probably much younger than Barbara, she looked three times older. “It’s Maureen. So you’re going to call Jordan?”

“Probably. She needs to go back to treatment. Using drugs while she’s pregnant has got to be really, really bad for her kid.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to call her. I’m sure she’d appreciate that you care.”

He sighed. “It’s just that if she’s using, she probably won’t talk to me. She won’t want me to know.”

“All you can do is try. Just understand that you can’t make her do anything. Her mother can, since Jordan’s a minor, but knowing her, it’s not likely that she will.”

“Maybe I should talk to her mother too.”

“Just remember, the choice is Jordan’s. If she doesn’t want your help, you can’t force her to accept it, and you’ll have to leave it alone.”

“But, Mom, the baby …”

“I know, honey. That baby needs a hero.” Silence hung heavy over the line. “Listen, I have to get back to work.”

“Yeah, okay.”

When Barbara hung up, she prayed a silent prayer for J.B. and Jordan—and for the innocent baby about to enter a chaotic world. Dabbing her eyes again, she left the bathroom and walked to the front door just as a family approached from the parking lot. There were two teens with them. That was a good sign. When a family came with adolescent children, it usually meant they were planning to make a purchase.