What a Girl Needs (17 page)

“You’ve been arrested before,” he says, scanning his computer. “Resisting arrest with violence? Violence against an officer?”

“That was a long time ago, and it was a big misunderstanding. I wasn’t thinking straight and—”

“Mrs. Novak, you hit an officer with your handbag.”

“It was a Prada,” I tell him, and I can see he’s not impressed. “I was really, really tired from jetlag. At the time, I worked for Gainnet, and my boss turned out to be dealing in cocaine. I think I’d just come back from Korea.” It dawns on me that there’s a reason there’s a fifth amendment. “I’ll shut up now, but seriously, the Prada store is right across the way. Go see how much they cost; the leather’s like butter. I didn’t hurt him. I realize you can’t wield handbags at police officers now. Trust me, you’re safe.”

“This is not a joke, Mrs. Novak. The bomb squad will discover the origin of that package, so if you have anything to tell me about your friend’s involvement, or your own, it would be best to tell me now. If you’re holding back any information at all, you need to come forward.”

“We were there to buy my friend Kay an engagement ring. There’s nothing more to tell. He picked a gaudy ring. I fixed it, and then, this happened.”

“You saw the package before your friend did?”

“I think we saw it at the same time. He thought it might be dangerous, I guess. It never dawned on me that it could be.”

“Why would he think it was suspicious?”

“You’d have to ask him. When I reached for the package on the floor, he jumped me and threw me on the ground outside the store.” Sudden recognition hits me like a delivery truck. “Matt Callaway…” I sputter. “Matt saved my life.”

“It appears that may be the case. He saved a lot of people by acting the way he did.”

“Then why are you suspicious of him? That makes no sense.”

“The way he reacted was not conventional. That’s why we need to know if you’d seen that package before with your friend.”

“Matt saved my life. Matt hates me.”

“Hate is a strong word.”

“I know. That’s why I used it. Matt dislikes me greatly. He only asked me to the jewelry store because he doesn’t want to blow it with Kay. And he was totally going to blow it. You should have seen the giant ring he picked for her. My friend Kay, she’s really conservative and she would have—”

The cop’s expression warns me to stop talking. And I do.

“Does Matt hate a lot of people?”

“What?” I stammer to correct myself rather than commit slander. “No, no. I don’t know. He’s just a jerk. You know, a fellow lawyer. We both like to be right.”

“Can we confirm that you’re staying with this Kay individual and that you haven’t been with Matt for the entire day?”

“You can confirm it with my best friend Brea. I was with her this morning. Oh, and with Matt’s business partner. He offered me a job.” I give him Brea’s information. “I’ll have to send you Thomas’s information. I don’t remember his last name.”

Another officer appears, and short stuff introduces him. “This is Officer Gray. He’s going to take you to Valley Med and get that wrist checked out. If we have further questions, we’ll be in touch.”

Officer Gray gives me a half-smile—not knowing if I’m victim or perp.

“He really doesn’t need to take me to the hospital.”

“Procedure, Mrs. Novak.”

Procedure. Forget procedure! I’m on vacation!

‡

H
ours pass in
the turbulent emergency room—if hospitals billed by the hour as lawyers do, triage would happen in a much timelier fashion. Officer Gray allowed me to make my “one” phone call—as I’m not under arrest, this annoys me, but after the Prada incident on my record, I simply call my mother without complaint. Kay was out of the question, since I’d have to explain why I was at Tiffany’s, Kevin’s in surgery, and Brea is probably still trying to explain to her mother why her boys came home in different outfits. That left Mom—my only friend, because she obviously has no choice. She gave birth to me.

The local news blares out over the waiting room, hoping to divert attention from patients’ long wait. I see myself on the screen.
Strike that.
I see my hair. A little boy at his mother’s knee points at me. “Look Mommy, it’s that clown lady on the TV.”

I try to hide behind my hand. I am making a hair appointment before the day is over.

A voice booms from the news, and it’s the man in jeans with the sport coat. “Channel 14 has learned that one of the women shopping in the store at the time of the break-in was also involved in an unrelated altercation in a local Korean restaurant earlier in the day. The owners recognized the woman from our earlier broadcast, and called the studio to offer this footage.

“Really?” I say to Officer Gray.

My eyes slide shut briefly, as I silently pray there’s another person involved in the mall explosion and a Korean restaurant.
It could happen
. I open my eyes and see the grainy, black-and-white surveillance video of Brea and me fishing Miles out of the aquarium. I should mention, it’s not grainy enough. The footage is followed by blown-out shots of the jewelry store and my flaming hair in full, obnoxious color against the remnants of the pale, Tiffany-blue glass wall.

How symbolic.

When I was single, I thought I was unlucky in love. Now I know better. I’m just unlucky. I’m basically God’s sitcom.

My mother walks in through the emergency room’s automatic doors. “It’s my mother,” I say to Officer Gray. He nods and snaps his newspaper.

“Mom!” I grab her and hug her as if she’s been gone for years.

“Ashley!” She swallows me in a hug, and I just start to sob.

“Mom, I’m so glad you’re here.”

She stiffens for a minute. “Just a minute, Ashley.” She marches over to Officer Gray. “Is my daughter under arrest?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then, I can handle things from here. You’re excused.”

“Ashley Novak!” A nurse calls my name.

“Mom, wait for me, will you? Here’s my purse.” I hand her my things and follow the nurse into the hospital’s inner sanctum.
Maybe my unemployment was more about keeping the world safe from me.

*     *     *

I emerge from
the ER with my wrist in a splint and my arm in a sling. My mother is waiting with my handbag on her lap. She’s wearing a baby blue butterfly shirt, and once again, I contemplate how we can be related. Mom is always dressed like a grown-up toddler in matching, soft Garanimals-type wear.

“It’s not broken?” she asks.

“It is,” I tell her. “Hairline fracture. But they have to wait until the swelling goes down to put a cast on.” I look around the still-chaotic waiting room. “Where’s Officer Gray?”
AKA, my stalker.

“He had other duties to attend to,” my mom announces. Just the way she says it, I know she summarily dismissed the officer. The law is no match for my mother. She’s easy-going and as flexible as Gumby, until someone messes with her kids. My mom’s gentle spirit has a way of getting her whatever she wants—especially if you mess with her children. I often wonder why I didn’t inherit that trait, rather than my steamroller version of speaking. If you catch more flies with honey…

“Did Officer Gray say anything? Did they figure out who did this?”

“They don’t seem to know anything. At least nothing they’re sharing. He did ask that you not leave the state until the investigation is over.” My mom smiles subtlety.

“Mom!”

“Well, pardon me if I enjoy having my daughter back home where she belongs. There are some items apparently missing from the jewelry store. I think it had to be an inside job.”

“Do you?” I grin.

“That officer wanted to go through your handbag, but knowing how your last police run-in involved a handbag, I knew you wouldn’t be comfortable with that, so I told him he’d need a search warrant. I watch 20/20.”

“Well, how long do they expect me to stay?” I ask. “I don’t live in this state. Did you explain it to him?” I’m already feeling homeless here.

“Oh honey, he’s just reading off a script. You’ll cross that bridge when you come to it. Let’s get you home. I have to start the roast.”

I let Mom envelop me in a hug, and wish I’d gone straight to my mom’s house and stayed alongside her houseguests. If I never have to see Matt Callaway again, it will be too soon.

“Clearly, I got my disdain for authority from someone.”

“Now Ashley, I believe in following the law—but that’s just stupid. You were shopping and the place got robbed. That makes you a witness, not a suspect, and I didn’t care for them treating you as such. You’re a lawyer for crying out loud.” My mom cinches her fanny pack tighter around her waist. “Imagine bringing you here to the hospital in a patrol car. No wonder this state is broke. Such a waste—why didn’t they allow you to call me from the mall? I’m going to write them a letter and give them a piece of my mind.”

“Let me get home first, will you? I don’t want Kevin to disown me.” She hands my purse back to me. “You haven’t said anything about my hair.”

“If you don’t have anything nice to say…what on earth were you doing with that Matt character? I thought you didn’t care for him.”

Is it wrong to admit that I had hope in him?
It makes me remember I had hope in Seth, and that my hope is woefully misplaced. “Can we talk about something else?” Then, I defy my own words and go right back to the subject at hand. “What if I know for a fact he’s bad news? He’s proposing to Kay, and I went with him to pick out the ring. It’s like my stamp of approval.”

“Well.” Mom shrugs. “Kay never did think much of your stamp of approval, anyway.”

“Mom, I know something about him. Do I tell her?”

“Tell Kay, your old roommate? Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” My mom’s eyebrows rise. “Hmm.”

“Hmm, what?” I want to hear her say that this is an impossible couple, and I must do whatever I can to separate the two of them.

“I never really thought Kay was interested in men. She always seemed above the simple things like falling in love. She was too serious for it.”

“Mother!”

“Well, I didn’t. She always had her nose in that itinerary of hers. If anything…well—” My mother halts. “Kay just never struck me as the kind of woman who could make compromises. Maybe I had the wrong impression of her all along if she’s wanting to get married now—after all these years.”

Or she might be making one too many compromises.

“Well, you may as well tell me, what on earth did you do to your hair this time?” My mom runs her fingers through my locks. “Ashley, God gave you a beautiful crown, why must you always mess with it? It looks like you let a kindergartner finger paint on your head.”

“I get bored. Do you mind stopping at a salon on the way home? You don’t have to wait with me, I can take a taxi home. I just need to think—and obviously, fix my hair.”

“I’ll take you, but dinner will be late if we stop. You’ll have to explain things to your father.”

My father would starve if dinner weren’t served to him at exactly 5:30 p.m. on a warmed plate. Dad assumes this is standard/mandatory wifely behavior. I used to expect my mother to say, “Ward, I’m worried about the Beaver.”

“I’ll explain things to Dad. Can I also explain that as a grown man, he should be able to feed himself?”

“You may not, Missy.” She grasps her saggy purse with both hands and leads me out of the hospital. “If they get home from the rod and gun show early, he’ll probably be attached to the news.”

My stomach plunges, and then I remember we’re talking about my father. “I doubt he’d notice it was me. My hair’s different.”

“You don’t think he’d notice his daughter and her best friend yanking a little boy out of a fish tank?”

I cringe. “Honestly? No. He’s known Brea since preschool and he still can’t remember her name.”

“Well, it is an unusual name.”

“Mom, it would be an unusual name if you hadn’t heard it for nearly thirty years.”

“You can hardly blame the restaurant owner for making the most of her fifteen minutes when she saw you on the telly. I mean, all publicity is good, right? That’s a nice fish tank. People will like seeing that—it will probably bring them a lot of business.”