It’s no consolation that someone else was as easily duped as I was.
I thank Casey for looking out for me, then climb out of the car. Last week when we turned over the six grand Adam gave me to the police as evidence, she made sure I was identified as a victim of his crime. “The police will hold it until they close the case, which could take years, but then you could get it back,” she explained.
I don’t want the money, but maybe I’ll feel differently when I’m still struggling to pay rent and car insurance on minimum wage and tips.
When I get inside the shelter, Taysha’s setting up. She said she’d help out the first day of Christmas holiday camp, but she’s come back every morning since.
This week, she’s been in charge of the tweens, while I’ve wrangled fifteen first- through fifth-graders. We started with colored pencils, then watercolors, and now papier-mâché masks. Every day, I’ve had to rush home from the shelter to scrape off paint and glue before my afternoon shift at Artsy.
Tay thinks I’m hiding out by coming here, and she’s partly right. Here I get to focus on keeping these little guys from destroying the place, and I forget about my own drama. It’s been a week since I saw Kevin, and he went home to Kansas without even a text.
Florence opens the doors and the kids rush in. Taysha sits at the end of the table, surrounded by giggly tweens. I teased her that she’s got a sweatshop going, because the girls have spent whole mornings making earrings for their friends. Rolled paper beads, Sculpey, origami.
I walk around the table, tapping the balloons the kids covered with papier-mâché, checking that the gluey news-paper strips are dry so we can paint.
Yesterday we started by blowing up balloons, which quickly turned into a balloon fight with flying, farting balloons before Florence appeared and restored order. Today the kids are painting their masks. The girls have grabbed the pink and yellow paint, declaring they want to be princesses or super-heroes, while the boys slap on bright red and blue slashes and argue over who gets to be which top Mexican wrestler.
I park myself next to Raymond, whose big ears, buzzed hair, and pointy little chin make him look like a Christmas elf. Raymond leans over his mask, his tongue sticking out in concentration. He’s stolen my heart the way he makes sure he knows where I am at all times. All week, I’ve caught him looking up, checking if I’m there. And each time I smile at him. See, I’m still here.
I know what it’s like to need a touch point, someone or something solid when everything else has crumbled. If I can do that for Raymond this week, it makes every minute of the wrangling and noise and cleanup of putting on these art lessons worth it.
Florence strolls by the table. “I thought you’d like to know: Julie got off okay.”
Florence and I were worried Julie would refuse to get in her sister’s car when she drove out from Phoenix to take her back. “Did you meet her sister? Is she nice?”
“Nice and…relieved. She’d been looking for Julie for eight years.”
Florence and I share a smile. It’s not a perfect ending. Julie’s still sick, but at least now she’s with someone who cares about her.
Florence sets a sheet of paper by my elbow. “What’s this?” I say, picking up what looks like a page copied from a career guide, because it’s titled “Art Therapist.”
“It’s a little something to think about.”
I scan the description. “You need a master’s degree, and I don’t even have a bachelor’s, plus I’ve never taken a single psych class.”
“Yet.”
She looks so damn sure of herself. “I don’t know if I even want to go to college anymore.”
Florence frowns at me like I’m being ridiculous. “You know, I have not always worked in Social Services. For years, I ran a very successful business.”
I’m stunned. Florence never reveals anything personal. “I didn’t know that.”
“I loved running a business, until I stopped loving it, because it did not satisfy this,” she says, and raps her heart with her fist. “The fact that you are here suggests that you, too, need this.”
“Miss Sabine, look!” Raymond says, grabbing the arm I was leaning on, and I fall forward, catching myself right before I face-plant in El Diablo.
“Whoa, Raymond!”
“Do you like it? Do you like my mask, Miss Sabine?”
“I’ll let you go,” Florence murmurs, and wanders off. I fold up the paper and take a second look at the name and phone number Florence wrote on the bottom. Underlined next to it she’s written: Career counselor at Pasadena City College.
It feels too soon to think about my future, since I’m still dealing with my past. Casey’s optimistic I’ll come out of this ordeal okay, but if I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that I can’t take anything for granted.
Taysha pops by my table. “You’re still coming for Christmas, right? Because my moms want to know if you have any food allergies.”
Mrs. Mednikov has barely spoken to me since I confessed, so it was a huge relief when Taysha’s family invited me for the holidays. “No food allergies. I’ll eat anything they serve and I’ll do cleanup after.”
I flip through the photographs Tara sent me, landing on a three-quarter shot of Iona in the black Valentino dress. Iona’s smile and stance are practiced as she poses for the press. Chin up, hand on hip, one leg forward, she owns the red carpet. The lace drapes, exposes, suggests, and conceals her curves, so her body appears tall and slim. No wonder she loved that dress.
This shot may be the best, I think, but then I flip to the next: a candid taken in the limo moments before Iona stepped out to greet the crowd. She looks out the window, and the expression on her face is somewhere between fear and doubt, as if she isn’t sure she should be there.
Iona wouldn’t want anyone to see this, and I wonder why Tara sent it. I lean in, studying this person who I lived with for years but never really saw, and a memory hurtles back from a fall day when I was ten.
I went looking for Mom in the Taylors’ house. It was time to leave for school and I was careful not to make noise as I padded down their stairs. Someone was crying quietly in the kitchen, and Mom was soothing whoever it was. I peeked around the corner and Iona was holding on to Mom, her head on Mom’s shoulder, while Mom patted her back. I had never seen Iona act this way, and I retreated to our apartment over the garage. When Mom reappeared I remember asking if Mrs. Taylor was okay. “Everybody has tough times, baby. So it’s important to be kind.”
I turn back to the shot of Iona on the red carpet. This time I will be kind.
The street into the hills above Altadena is a straight shot north for several miles, but then it narrows and begins to wind. Stuck to my dashboard is a Post-it with a man’s address and his assistant’s phone number, but not his name.
Maybe Mona was screwing with me by pretending she didn’t know it. When I saw CALINVA pop up on my phone a few days ago, I almost didn’t answer, and Mona’s hello was so icy, I considered hanging up. But then she told me a woman was trying to track me down for an interview.
“I don’t do interviews,” I replied, thinking this was about the scandal.