Body and Bone (3 page)

He touched his thumb to his chest, fingers extended. ASL for “fine.”

Dr. Blatter looked at the file folder the nurse had left for her and said, “What are we seeing you about today?”

“Well, I thought we could do a lead poisoning test,” Nessa said, embarrassed but determined. This was her latest pathetic attempt at turning the blame away from herself for Daltrey's muteness.

“How long have you been in the house?” Dr. Blatter said.

“Nine months.”

“We can do that, but I really don't think that's what's—­”

“And another hearing test, if you don't mind,” Nessa said.

“I doubt his hearing has changed since the last one—­when was it? Three months ago?”

“I know, but—­”

“There's nothing wrong with his hearing, and I really doubt he has lead poisoning. Didn't you say the inspector tested for lead in the house and it was clean?”

“Yes, but—­”

Dr. Blatter sat down on her rolling stool. “Mrs. Donati, Einstein didn't speak until he was five. He was too busy thinking to talk.”

“That's a myth,” Nessa said. Today the folksy country doctor bit was irritating the shit out of her.

“Are you sure? I've read that a lot of places.”

This comment annoyed and alarmed Nessa. Had Dr. Blatter also gotten her medical degree from the Urban Legends page on About.com?

“I'm glad you're continuing to use ASL with him so he can communicate until he has something to say.”

Nessa wanted to laugh at this—­what was he doing with ASL if he wasn't “saying” things? She'd taken a class over at the university in American Sign Language, and any time she couldn't come up with the proper word, she could always find what she wanted on YouTube, which was stocked with thousands of short videos demonstrating ASL words and phrases.

“Yes,” Nessa said. “But I'm concerned it's delaying his speech further.”

“No,” Dr. Blatter said cheerfully. No explanation, no evidence to back it up.

Even if Einstein didn't talk until he was almost five, neither did countless developmentally delayed, disabled, and low-­IQ kids. But could those kids use ASL, facial expressions, and body language with such nuance and eloquence at three years of age?

“Please just do the lead test?” Nessa said, hating the pleading tone of her own voice.

Dr. Blatter sighed. “I'll send the nurse in. Okay? I'll see you in four months for his four-­year checkup, and I'll bet he'll be talking then.”

Nessa laid her hand on Dr. Blatter's arm as she rose to leave the examining room. “Can I talk to you out in the hall for a second?”

“All right,” the doctor said.

“Mama and Dr. B are going out in the hall for a minute, Daltrey,” Nessa said to him. “I'll be right back.”

He nodded without looking away from the toy.

Nessa followed Dr. Blatter out and closed the door behind them.

“I just thought you ought to know,” Nessa said, lowering her voice, afraid Daltrey would hear through the door. “Daltrey's dad and I are getting a divorce.”

Dr. Blatter opened up Daltrey's file again, clicked her ballpoint pen, and wrote something. “Thank you for letting me know.”

“Daltrey's dad is bipolar, you see, and he—­well, he self-­medicates.”

The doctor nodded, her eyes still on the file folder.

“I just couldn't keep hoping his dad would get his act together—­I didn't think it was good for Daltrey. You know what I mean?”

Dr. Blatter nodded again, her silence somehow compelling Nessa to continue talking.

“You don't think . . . maybe Daltrey kind of senses something's out of whack? And that—­well, it's another thing delaying his speech?”

Dr. Blatter finally shifted her inscrutable gaze to Nessa, who went on babbling.

“John was diagnosed less than five years ago. I thought once he got on the psych meds, the need for . . . the other would go away. But it kind of had the opposite effect. He said they flattened him out. He missed his mania. You know what I mean?”

Of course the doctor knew what she meant. Nessa despised the fact that the situation had changed her into the kind of woman who asked for affirmation after every spoken sentence.

“I'm so sorry,” the doctor said, her breezy, dismissive attitude broken through at last. “Has Daltrey regressed in any way since his dad left home? Has he started to wet the bed? Have his sleep patterns changed? Has he lost interest in the things he loves, books and that sort of thing?”

Nessa shook her head.

“If his development slows down or even goes backward, or any of those other things start to happen, then you bring him back in. We'll give you a counseling referral. But kids are pretty resilient. He's a strong little boy.”

Nessa wanted to hug her but restrained herself.

“The nurse will be right in to take some blood.” The doctor turned away but Nessa touched her arm again.

“Bipolar is genetic,” Nessa said. “Isn't it.”

Dr. Blatter tucked the file folder under her arm and took both of Nessa's hands in her own. “Listen. Yes. There's a ten to fifteen percent chance Daltrey will develop the condition. But here's the thing. We know what to look for. The fact that John wasn't diagnosed until he was in his thirties means it had altered his brain already. We will keep an eye on Daltrey. If we notice the symptoms, we will manage it. All right?”

Nessa wiped her eyes. “Thank you,” she said.

“Take care of yourself, Mrs. Donati.”

“You too.”

The doctor walked away and Nessa went back into the examining room, where she gathered her son into her lap to wait for another unnecessary needle that would simultaneously assuage her guilt and amplify it.

 

Chapter Five

W
HEN THEY RETURNED
home, a panel truck stood out front, decorated with a golden key, emblazoned with
L
OCK IT UP
! and a phone number.

How had Nessa ever gotten by without Isabeau?

Daltrey held her hand as they walked toward the house, hanging back a little when he saw a kid in a work shirt with long dirty-­blond hair kneeling next to the front door, removing the doorknob.

“Hi,” Nessa said.

“Hi,” the kid said. His name tag read “Brady.” “I'll be done in a jiff,” he said. “Already got the back door done.”

“I'll get you a check,” Nessa said, and led Daltrey into the house. He ran for the kitchen, presumably to find Isabeau.

“This is a great house,” Brady the locksmith said.

“Thanks,” Nessa said.

The kid stood. “Hey, your babysitter or whatever told me you're the Nessa of
Unknown Legends
.”

“That's me,” she said. She really didn't want to have a conversation with this guy, but she didn't want to be impolite either.

“You're not how I pictured you at all,” he said, looking her up and down.

“We never are,” she said. She tried to convey with body language that she had many important tasks to attend to, but he ignored this.

“Hearing you on the radio. I never would have pictured you as a soccer mom.”

But somehow
I
could have imagined
you
as a locksmith's part-­time employee
.

“I figured you were like a riot grrrl type, you know—­covered in tattoos, piercings, that kind of thing.”

She almost said,
Oh, I've got piercings, all right. I just don't put anything in them anymore, other than tasteful rings in my lobes.

And tattoos? Oh, she'd had her some tattoos, all right. An entire sleeve on her left arm, which had taken two years, thousands of dollars, and a lot of pain to remove. Of course, the yellows and greens were nearly impossible to laser off because of those ink colors' reflective properties, so you could still see some parts, which was why Nessa wore long sleeves in every season, even the sweltering, humid, miserable Kansas summers. Too much identifying information.

The only one she couldn't bear to have removed was
The Glimmer Twins
on the soft underside of that arm, which in appearance and location had perfectly matched her high school best friend's.

Candy, her twin, her last real friend. Her soul sister.

Oh, no. Nessa was going to cry in front of this kid. She turned away.

“And you have that blog too, right?” Brady said. “It's pretty good.”

“I need to fix lunch for my kid,” she said, her sinuses backing up, her eyes filling. “I'll go get your check.”

“Okay,” he said. “Good talking to you.”

Nessa went into the kitchen and leaned over the sink, afraid she was going to vomit.

Every day. Every day it was a struggle not to think about Candy.

Shit. Now Nessa would have to write about Candy in her AA personal inventory blog tonight.

Under “Regrets.”

Under “Harms or Hurts.”

6/1 part 2

Confession: I judged the locksmith kid. Who the hell do I think I am anyway? Oh, yes, I'm a star, baby. The star my mom always wanted to be, but the irony is no one I ever knew in my old life knows I'm a star.

But that's not what I need to inventory today.

For the first time in a while, I'm going to talk about Candy. It's hard to cry and type at the same time, so I need to cry for a while first.

Okay. When I first saw Candy freshman year of high school, it was like walking toward a full-­length mirror. Candy had my exact haircut—­short and dark with blond spikes (it was the early '00s, remember), brown eyes like me, same face shape, same general body type. We hated each other immediately.

We went to one of the worst-­performing high schools in the US, which I'm not going to name, because who cares? Metal detectors at the doors, security guards everywhere, lots of gang stuff. I'd already been in trouble for shoplifting at this point, had a solid D average, had been smoking pot and drinking since I was twelve, lost my virginity at thirteen. (Sounds like every cliché bad-­kid ever. Pathetic.) Because Mom was rarely home—­she was out hustling. I have to give her props. She was always looking for an “opportunity,” a way to make lemonade with the lemons life was always handing us. She schemed harder than anyone I've ever met—­constantly coming up with crazy get-­rich-­quick ideas, some of which actually worked out. Getting a job, though, was for ordinary ­people. Why she thought she wasn't ordinary is a mystery.

She also went on auditions and got a few bit parts here and there. Whenever the movie
Death Book
plays on late-­night cable, I watch it until the scene where Mom's behind the counter at the DMV and gets a pair of scissors in the ear.

But every once in a while, she'd get a job—­receptionist, or cocktail waitress, or temp worker, until she inevitably got fired.

So anyway, when I found out that Candy was a harlee, what used to be called a goody-­two-­shoes, I made it my mission to corrupt her. Mostly because I couldn't have her wrecking my street cred with the Latina girls, with her good grades and her . . . okay, I'm going to cry some more now.

So, what made us real friends? Brandon, during a rare extended period of good health, took me to a Queens of the Stone Age show at the Troubadour in West Hollywood, since none of my girls were interested in “white-­boy rock.” After the opening band, Brandon went to the bathroom and when he came back he told me he'd seen me out in the hall. It was Candy, of course. What was this spaz bunny doing at a QOTSA show?

I ran out there to find her all by herself, looking completely comfortable alone. That struck me—­I needed a gallon of beer and some chronic to get my balls up, but here was this girl, who I thought was a total suck-­up, just into the music.

“Hey,” she said when she saw me, delight in her eyes, even though we were sworn enemies. Maybe it was because we weren't surrounded by our posses—­she hung out with the good black girls. I found out she partied too, but she said something I'll never forget: “You know, you can have a good time without ruining your life. You can party without making it your whole identity. You can do well in school at the same time. You can do both.”

“Maybe
you
can,” I said.

“You have to decide what you are. Are you a stoner slut? Or are you a Queens of the Stone Age fan and a writer and—­”

“A writer?” I said, incredulous.

“You read some of your poetry in comp class, remember?” She smiled at me. “You never miss comp class. You've got some talent. And I'll bet you read a lot too. You can't be a good writer without reading.”

She was right, about the reading part anyway. I know I don't have any great talent at writing. I'm ser­viceable—­that's about it.

After that, we became inseparable, as the saying goes. We called ourselves the Glimmer Twins.

I can't do any more tonight, but I will force myself to write my second-­biggest regret regarding Candy.

That we ever met.

 

Chapter Six

Thursday, June 2

N
E
S
S
A
H
A
D
A
N
O
T
H
E
R
nightmare about John. They were on the Big Blue River in the canoe, fishing.

“You know I hate to fish,” Nessa said in the dream, but even as she said it, she looked around at the early-­morning light, the spring-­green banks, and felt happy.

“But we're going to catch something really special this time,” he said, and cranked on his reel. He pulled up what she thought was a supermarket frozen turkey at first, but then Nessa realized it was a baby.

A dead baby.

He turned to her with a ghoulish smile.

She woke up with her heart battering her chest wall, sweating, out of breath as if she'd climbed five flights of stairs.

Damn you, John.

Nessa's dreams were often so obvious they could be used in a psych textbook. Her relationship with John was like a tiny, helpless baby. And like a baby, if you didn't feed the relationship, if you gave it drugs, it would die.

What we have on our hands is a dead baby.

It took her a few moments to realize she'd been awakened from her dream by the front doorbell. Nessa rolled over and saw it was only eight-­thirty
A
.
M
.
She heard the dead bolt slide, the door open, and a male voice. She listened.

“No,” Isabeau said. “He's not here.”

A muffled voice saying words she couldn't make out.

“She's asleep,” Isabeau said.

More words.

“Well, okay. Would you mind waiting out there?”

Nessa groaned. She suspected siding sales, The Watchtower Bible and Tract Society, or some other equally irritating intrusion. A large No Soliciting sign hung by the doorbell, but the folks who were able to actually find this property eight miles south of Manhattan, Kansas, surrounded by dense woods always suddenly lost their ability to read when they finally made it.

She heard Isabeau take the steps two at a time and then knock on Nessa's bedroom door.

“Nessa?”

“Yeah,” she called. She rolled out of bed and pulled on some shorts and a long-­sleeved T-­shirt.

“There's someone here to see you.”

Nessa opened the door and whispered, “Is it a salesman?”

“It's a cop.”

This made Nessa's heart pound. She stepped into her sandals and followed Isabeau down the stairs. As she descended, more of the stranger was revealed. Cowboy boots and jeans. Plaid shirt, sport coat. No tie. Dark, cropped hair, full eyebrows, large forehead.

“Mrs. Donati?” the man said through the screen door.

“Yes,” she said.

The man pulled a shiny gold badge from his pocket and held it up Iron Man–style, as if ready to blast a hole through her chest.

“I'm Detective Rob Treloar with the Riley County Police Department.”

Oh, shit. John must be in jail.

It was times like these when Nessa was grateful that nowadays she reminded ­people of a Mormon missionary. It typically made law enforcement relax, speak courteously, and look for a reason to apologize for one thing or another. Her childlike, high-­register voice only added to the effect, causing ­people to pause and make a mental adjustment before continuing. But currently, she was speechless.

Nessa closed her mouth, staring at the badge, which confirmed his name and title, and added another piece of information: he was with the general investigations unit. Not vice. Which confused her. She turned to Isabeau, who stood right behind her looking concerned, and said, “Could you take Daltrey upstairs?”

Isabeau nodded and walked away.

Nessa unlocked and pushed open the screen door, then held out her hand so the detective could clasp the tips of her fingers. “I'm Nessa Donati,” she said, smiling brightly, trying to relax her jaw.

“Sorry to bother you at home so early,” the detective said. “May I come in?”

Again, missionary: gracious, hospitable, warm. That was Nessa Donati. “Of course.” She flung her arm wide as if welcoming him onto a cruise ship.

The detective stepped inside, then let his eyes wander to the crown molding and hammered tin ceiling tiles. “Wow. This place is great. How long you lived here?”

“Thank you, Mr.—­Detective, uh—­why did you say you were here?”

He finally smiled. “Oh, right, sorry. This is just a really nice—­I've always wanted one of these old farm properties. You've done a great job on it.”

“Thanks,” she said cautiously.

“What year was it built?”

“Eighteen ninety-­five,” she said, trying not to sound impatient.

“And no problems with plumbing or anything?”

“Not yet,” she said.

Nessa's
paranoia du police
was probably more acute than most ­people's, but she couldn't think about that now, couldn't let it show on her face. Somehow, the detective would know.

So she put on her shiniest hostess face as camouflage, ushered him in like a treasured guest, and pointed him to the couch in the living room. Isabeau scooped up Daltrey, who had been playing with Legos on the floor. He buried his face in her neck, shy of the stranger.

Isabeau raised her eyebrows at Nessa before mounting the stairs, carrying Daltrey.

“Can I offer you some coffee, lemonade, water?” Nessa said to Detective Treloar.

“No, thank you,” the detective said, unbuttoning his sport coat and seating himself.

Nessa sat at the other end of the couch.

“Is Mr. Donati at home?”

“No,” she said.

Detective Treloar had a nice face, but she could tell he didn't brook any nonsense.

“Do you expect him soon?”

“No,” she said. “He doesn't live here anymore. We're divorcing.”

He cleared his throat into his fist. “Ah. Well.” He pulled a miniature notebook from his coat pocket, looked at a page, and said, “Does Mr. Donati drive a 1997 Chevy half-­ton pickup, license plate IFL 157?”

“Yes,” she said, wary.
DUI? Hit-­and-­run?
With crackhead John, life was like felony bingo. “But it's in both our names.” Then she added, “I think,” as if any misinformation, intentional or otherwise, would get
her
thrown in jail.

“The truck was reported to the Park Ser­vice,” he said. “Abandoned.”

“When?” Nessa said, annoyed. What was John up to? Was he living in his truck? But that didn't make any sense, if he'd parked it on some street and left it there. Maybe in his stupor he'd forgotten where he left it.

“It was reported yesterday,” Detective Treloar said, looking at his notepad, then at her. “Do you have a phone number for Mr. Donati? Maybe an address where he's living or staying, a post office box?”

You could try all the crack houses in Manhattan or Junction City. Chances are good he's spending a lot of time in one or all of those. Keeping the economy going on three hundred dollars a day.

Under normal circumstances, Nessa would think he'd want to notify the owner of the truck's impoundment. But because it was John, she suspected there was an outstanding warrant. “Is John in trouble, Detective?”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

His question and failure to answer hers irked Nessa. But she guessed it was really none of her business now whether John was in trouble. He wasn't her problem anymore.

“A ­couple of weeks ago,” she said.

“And you haven't heard from him at all during that time? Phone call? Text?”

“No,” she said. “We didn't exactly part on friendly terms.”

“Oh?” the detective said, his pen poised above the paper, at the ready to take down the lurid details.

She considered. Why not tell him? “John's a crack addict. I threw him out after I caught him using in the house.”

Treloar shook his head. “Ah,” he said.

Nessa couldn't stop the humiliation from rising like heat through her body, which reacted as if the detective's benign acknowledgment were actually an indictment of her and her failure to keep John clean. As if she wasn't woman enough to keep his interest at home and away from drugs. Nessa shuddered at this pathetic impulse.

The detective fished a business card out of his inner jacket pocket, stood, and handed it to her. “If you hear from Mr. Donati,” he said, “please give me a call.”

“Wait,” Nessa said as she took the card. She didn't want to let him go without getting a few answers of her own. “Where exactly was the truck abandoned?”

The detective straightened. “A half mile north of Tuttle Creek Lake in the parking area by the river slip off Yeti Drive.”

She frowned. The river slip? An image from her fishing dream floated before her mind's eye, and another attached itself to it: drug-­crazed John parking his truck, walking down to the rain-­swollen river, and wading into the water with no intention of coming out again.

Nessa gasped and her heart convulsed, her hands rising to her chest as if to catch it. “You said it was reported yesterday,” she said, breathless. “How long has the truck been there?”

“The caller said it had been there for over a week.”

“Over a week?” Nessa echoed stupidly. “But John was just here over the weekend.”

Now Treloar reseated himself and fixed her with a mock-­confused gaze. “But you said you hadn't seen him in a ­couple of weeks.”

Impatient, Nessa said, “I called the police the other night because John broke into the boathouse out back while my son and I were camping. He would have needed his truck to drive out here.” She plucked at her chin. How
did
John get here without his truck? Maybe the person who called in his abandoned truck was mistaken about the timeframe.

Or maybe whoever had broken into the boathouse wasn't John.

Treloar's eyes never left her face, and she couldn't discern what he was thinking, but she was pretty sure he thought she was lying.

“You can look it up,” she said, her voice quavering. “The cops who came out here were—­” What were their names again? “Watt and . . . I don't remember the other's name. But you can look it up.”

He nodded slowly. “All right,” he said. He stood again and pointed at his business card, which Nessa had placed on the coffee table. “Please call if he gets in touch.”

Nessa rose to walk him out. “I will,” she said.

Detective Treloar paused at the door. “When I mentioned the river slip,” he said, “it looked like you knew what I was talking about. Do you fish?”

“I don't,” Nessa said. “But John does. Did. Whatever. He used to put his canoe in the water in that spot.”

“So he's a fisherman,” Treloar said, nodding. He turned away from the door. “Is he a hunter too?”

“No,” she said.

He nodded again and opened the door. “I'll be in touch,” he said.

6/2

I have to do this before I go to the radio station tonight, or I won't be able to concentrate. It's obviously more important than ever that I have a steady income.

Hi, my name is Nessa, and I'm an alcoholic. I've been sober for six years, four months and fourteen days.

Today I will concentrate on my Fear (“Wrong Believing” according to the AA Big Book), which are “feelings of anxiety, agitation, uneasiness, apprehension, etc.” Here are Fears that have been realized: Fear of abandonment, being alone, change, failure . . . the list is too long. I feel like Charlie Brown in the Christmas special when Lucy asks him if he has pantophobia, which is the fear of everything.
That's it!

My fear that I'll never be loved (Daltrey doesn't count because he doesn't know enough not to love me) has come true because John didn't love me enough to stay away from drugs. No one could love me enough. Only God can love me the way I want to be loved, unconditionally, no matter what I do.

I hate even writing this next part, because it shames me. Because it was my mother who taught me that love is always conditional. She knew something that not everyone does—­the most effective punishment, the most effective way to keep kids in line, is to let them know you will stop loving them if they step out of line. Joyce knew that better than anyone I've ever met. Each time I did something she didn't like, she let me know she loved me a little bit less. Just a little. But the message was clear: someday the sand in the top of the hourglass would run out, and there would be nothing left.

I learned Joyce's lesson all too well. Each time John relapsed, a little more of my love for him drained away. Please forgive me for being such a good student. But not a perfect student, because my love for John will never completely disappear. Never. Even if he is dead.

At the same time, I know there isn't enough love in the world to stop someone else from being an addict.

Before John, Brandon was the only one who always loved me. Sure, he got mad at me, but we'd fight, and then he'd get over it. He was so easygoing that way. Knew that nothing was so serious between us it was worth severing our relationship. The only thing that could come in between us was—­surprise, surprise—­Mom. If it was a choice between standing up for me and losing Mom's love, Brandon would jump ship in a heartbeat. I didn't blame him. I was the same way. It was every man for himself where Mom was concerned.

Because of his diabetes, Mom wouldn't let him go out for sports, so he became a role-­playing game freak, mostly
Dungeons and Dragons
. I made so much fun of him, but he loved it. I actually got kind of worried because he was so completely immersed in these fantasy scenarios that he'd talk about them as if they were more real than the real world.