Page 7 of Claimed By my Father's Enemies
Mrs. Delvecchio is watching me. I realize my grip on the chickweed has tightened past the point of pulling and into the territory of strangling. I let go. Brush the loose soil from my fingers.
"Long morning," I say.
She makes a sound that could be sympathy or amusement and goes back to her section of the bed.
I settle into the rhythm again. Pull, shake, discard. The repetition helps. It always does. The scent of damp mulch and fertilizer grounds me, rich and mineral, the opposite of gardenia perfume and recycled air.
I was twelve when my father told me he was getting married again. I remember standing in the kitchen, feeling something I hadn't felt in for years. Hope. Small and fragile.
Maybe someone would see what was happening. Maybe someone would care. Maybe someone would intervene.
Paula was twenty-two. She moved into the house, redecorated the guest room for herself, and never once asked me a question or gave me attention. When my father's rages came, she left the room. When the bruises showed, she didn't look. She wasn't cruel the way he was cruel. She was absent. And that was worse. Absence is a choice when you're standing close enough to do something.
I don't think about this often. I'm thinking about it now because that conference room put me back in proximity to people who carry his name, spend his money, and tell his version of the story like it's the only one that exists.
I pull another weed. The roots come up tangled with the ones beside it, and I separate them carefully, keeping the soil structure intact.
"I didn't do anything, officer. I swear."
The voice comes from behind me, loud and theatrical. Alfred is sitting in his wheelchair near the stone bench, both hands raised, grinning at someone approaching from the parking lot.
I look over my shoulder and see Charlie, in her police uniform, walking across the grass with her shoulders squared and her belt heavy with equipment.
The tension in my chest releases into something warm.
"Alfred." I pitch my voice loud enough for Charlie to hear. "You might want to hide your stash."
"It's medicinal," Alfred says, without missing a beat.
Charlie reaches us and points at Alfred. "That's what they all say. I've got my eye on you, sir."
Alfred clutches his chest. "I'm innocent, I swear."
Charlie grins, and then she's beside me, pulling me into a hug that smells like body armor and the vanilla lotion she's used since high school. I hold on a second longer than I usually would. I need it today.
"Thanks for coming all the way out here." I step back, brushing soil off my arms. "I wanted to get your suit back to you today."
"You didn't have to rush." Charlie looks me over, takes in the cargo pants, the dirt, the loose t-shirt. "This is more you anyway."
"Significantly more me. Thank you, again, for letting me borrow it. I owe you."
"You owe me nothing, Sienna." Charlie's voice shifts. The teasing falls away, and what replaces it is steady, direct, weighted with something she doesn't say often but never lets me forget.
"The suit's in the truck. Walk with me?"
We cross the lawn toward the small parking lot. The garden stretches out on either side of the path, raised beds and container plantings I designed six months ago, the lavender thick and blooming now, purple spikes catching the afternoon sun. I notice the rosemary needs pruning. I'll do it Thursday.
"Charlie!"
We both turn. Leonor is walking toward us from the side entrance, small and bright-eyed, her cardigan buttoned wrong.
"Look at you." Leonor takes Charlie's hands. "So grown up. In a uniform. Your father must be so proud. How is he?"
The air between us shifts to something thin and careful.
"He is," Charlie says. Her voice doesn't waver. "He's doing well."
"You tell him hello from me, yes? Tell him Leonor says hello."
