Body and Bone (23 page)

Nessa tried to wrench the bungie cord from around her chest, tried to slide free, but it held firm.

Joyce turned back toward Nessa with a victorious smile, the hypo in her hand, blood dripping from her torn scalp. Nessa flailed, trying to grab hold of Joyce's arm to knock the syringe loose, but Joyce was intent on seeing it all through.

She bulldozed the chair with Nessa in it and knelt over her, panting, triumphant, holding the needle high over her head.

And part of Nessa yearned to let Joyce plunge it in. Would welcome it. Nessa closed her eyes and surrendered.

Then she heard heavy, quick footsteps come down the stairs.

“Mom!” Brandon said.

Nessa's eyes flew open as Joyce's head turned. Without thinking about it, Nessa got hold of her mother's arm, the one holding the needle aloft. But Joyce threw all of her body weight behind it, trying to stab downward. Self-­preservation overrode Nessa's desire for heroin, and she clawed at Joyce's face with her other hand.

Joyce shouted, “Brandon, shoot him! Go shoot him! Now!”

The sound of running feet echoed away from Nessa. She couldn't see Brandon but knew he was headed to Daltrey's room.

“Brandon, no!” Nessa howled. “Don't do it!”

A sound like an envelope tearing sliced through the air.

Joyce screamed and jumped up, running from Nessa, who was left strapped to the chair. She heard a heavy thump, then a sharper thump, and Joyce wailing, “You killed my boy! You killed my son!”

Then Isabeau was crouching over Nessa, cutting the bungee cords with one of her purple knives. Her hair was bloody and matted to her face, her eyes glazed. But she was alive.

Joyce tackled Isabeau, simultaneously trying to get the knife away from her and stab her with the syringe.

Nessa ran to the stairs where Brandon lay crumpled at the bottom, one of Isabeau's throwing knives in his back. Nessa picked up Brandon's dropped gun and ran for the living room.

“Let her go, Mom,” Nessa said. She cocked the pistol and aimed it at her mother's head.

Joyce kept trying to stab the weakened Isabeau.

“Go ahead, Mom, just give me
one more
excuse to pull this trigger.”

Joyce stopped fighting, and Isabeau disentangled herself before yanking the syringe from Joyce's hand.

It was then that Nessa heard the sirens.

Isabeau sat on the couch, holding her head, and Joyce ran to Brandon's side. “Oh, my son,” she said. She pressed her fingers against his neck. She turned to Isabeau. “You're lucky that my son is still alive, but you're still going to prison.”

“You first,” Isabeau said.

“And you,” Joyce said to Nessa. “You're nothing. I did everything for you, and this is the thanks I get.”

“Shut up,” Nessa said, her voice and hands shaking with rage. “Say another word and I will kill you. Now go sit on the couch. Now. Do it.”

Joyce did, reluctantly, and Nessa handed the gun to Isabeau, who pointed it at Joyce. Nessa ran up the stairs, terrified of what she would find in Daltrey's room.

There he was, lying on the bed, his breathing shallow, and Nessa feared they'd overdosed him with the Nyquil. She carried him downstairs, breathing him in, crying and shaking, wanting to never let go of him again.

A loud banging sounded on the door. “Mrs. Donati? Police. Please open the door.”

Nessa ran to the door and opened it.

Joyce began shrieking, “She stabbed my son! That girl over there stabbed him! Arrest her!”

Two uniformed police officers looked at each other. “Mrs. Donati?” one of them said.

“Yes,” Nessa said. “There are two ­people in my house who drugged my son, held me hostage, and tried to kill my nanny.” She pointed to Isabeau, who waved.

“That girl,” Joyce yelled, “threw a knife at my son!”

Two EMTs arrived at the door, and Nessa beckoned them inside. “We've got three ­people who are going to need to go to the hospital,” she said. Then to the officers, she said, “Can you get Detectives Treloar and Dirksen out here? I think they might be interested in what happened here tonight.”

One of the uniforms got on his radio and called the station.

It was chaos as the EMTs loaded Brandon and Isabeau onto stretchers. Nessa went to Brandon's side and put her hand on his face. “It really is me,” she said. “It's Rosie.”

“I know,” he said behind the oxygen mask. “I'm sorry.” A paramedic rolled Brandon out the door to a waiting ambulance, followed by Isabeau on her stretcher.

“I tried to stop them, boss,” she said. “I was in the kitchen and the next thing I knew I was on the floor. I was only out for a second, but I figured out what was going on and pretended to be dead until I could get to my knives.” She touched her head. “It looks a lot worse than it is, I think.”

“Let's let the doctors decide that,” Nessa said. She took hold of Isabeau's hand and walked alongside the rolling stretcher until they got to the doorway.

“I wish I could come to the hospital with you,” Nessa said.

“You need to stay here with that boy,” Isabeau said.

“Who can I call for you?”

“My phone's in my purse. Just call the one marked Emergency.” They wheeled her out to the waiting ambulance.

One of the EMTs examined Daltrey, who woke up during the examination and started to cry.

Amid all the flurry of activity, standing in the front doorway, Nessa saw a pale and shaky Marlon, frantically scanning the crowd until his eyes met hers. He lurched toward her and crushed her to himself.

“I read your suicide blog and I tried to call you,” he said, “but it went to voicemail. So I called the cops and then came right over.”

“Thank you,” she said, and slid her arms around him. He didn't say anything else, just held her tight. He only let go when the EMT handed her Daltrey, who was rubbing his eyes and looking around bewildered at all the ­people in the house.

Joyce chattered away through all this activity, her wrists in handcuffs behind her back.

“This is a mistake,” she said. “Candy's the one who should be arrested. She killed my daughter seven years ago. You should be thanking me. I did your job for you. Found her after all this time. You're welcome.”

Everything that came out of her mouth sounded like TV drama dialogue. She couldn't help herself.

Forty minutes later, Treloar and Dirksen appeared, disheveled after being pulled out of bed in the middle of the night.

“That's my troll,” Nessa said to Detective Treloar. “She also happens to be my mother. Say hello, Mom.”

“I am not her mother,” Joyce said.

Treloar and Dirksen glanced at each other.

“And my brother, who also took part, is on his way to the hospital,” Nessa said.

“Wait,” Treloar said. “Can you start at the beginning?”

“I hope you don't think I'm going to apologize,” Dirksen said. “ 'Cause it ain't going to happen.”

 

Chapter Twenty-­Six

Tuesday, July 5

N
ESSA WA
S FINISHING
up an email to her sponsors explaining that she'd be using guest bloggers for the next few weeks due to a family emergency when her phone rang.

“Mrs. Donati, this is Detective Rob Treloar. I wanted to give you an update on a ­couple of things. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Sure,” she said, going to sit on the couch.

“We took Mrs. Gereben's statement and Brandon's statement.”

“All right,” Nessa said, steeling herself.

“To be honest with you, Mrs. Gereben's story was pretty hard to follow, but what they're both saying is that they found Mr. Donati hanging in the boathouse. The autopsy indicates that he died of asphyxiation, not gunshot wounds. When we were out there, I took samples of the beam in the boathouse and found rope fibers embedded in it, so I'm inclined to believe what they say.”

This filled Nessa with nothing but sadness. John had been so tortured by the drugs that he couldn't go on. She knew exactly how he'd felt. Had felt it herself.

“The fact is,” Treloar said, “what we have here is not a murder, but a suicide and the criminal desecration of a corpse. And of course, your mom and brother will be charged with kidnapping, attempted murder, criminal trespass, and a few other things. You can call the district attorney to find out the whole list.”

“Thank you for everything, Detective,” Nessa said. “Would you say ‘I told you so' to Detective Dirksen for me?”

“Probably not,” he said.

“Just as well,” she said.

Wednesday, July 20

N
ESSA
HAD SPENT
the last few weeks trying to decide what to do, but her mind kept circling back to “Do the next right thing.” She just couldn't seem to escape it.

She sat in the scalding heat of evening and called Marlon. “I've come to a decision,” she said.

“And?”

“I'm going to turn myself in. We're going to LA, and I've already got an appointment with the LA County district attorney. I think part of absolute honesty has to include owning up to everything I've done. Wouldn't you agree?”

Marlon said nothing for a moment. He sighed. “I have a grudging admiration for this kind of pointless self-­sacrifice.”

She smiled.

“When are you leaving?” he said.

“We're flying out day after tomorrow. Once I make up my mind to do something, I want it done right then. You know what I mean?”

“Yes,” he said. “But I'm conflicted because though I know it's the right thing to do, on the other hand, doing the right thing is often more appealing in theory than in fact. This is one of those times.”

“It is,” she said.

“You're prepared to go to prison, if it comes to that?”

“Is anyone ever?”

“I suppose not. Who's going to take care of Daltrey if you have to go away?”

“John's folks will take him.” Still, anytime she thought of being away from Daltrey, she cried. She cried now.

“Well, if your mind's made up.”

“It is.”

“I'll be praying.”

“Thank you, Marlon.”

“Call me when it's over. Remember to expect the miracle.”

“I'll remember.”

Friday, July 22

N
ESSA,
I
SABEAU, AND
Daltrey checked into the Super 8 on Sunset Boulevard, just a mile and a half from the DA's office and three and a half miles from the Seventh Street Bridge.

The three of them spent the day at Disneyland, and it was bittersweet watching Daltrey on the rides and the look of wonder on his face when he came face-­to-­face with his Disney heroes. They stayed until closing, full of hot dogs and cotton candy. The next morning she woke up and got ready to go, then she called Isabeau, who was already up and came over to their room.

“Daltrey,” Nessa said, “Mommy has an appointment, so you and Isabeau are going to stay here until I get back. Okay? But first Isabeau and I are going outside for a minute to talk about grown-­up stuff. Can you stay in here and color?”

He nodded and pulled his coloring book and crayons from his Bing Bong backpack.

Nessa and Isabeau went outside.

Tears stood in Isabeau's eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Listen,” Nessa said. “Joyce is no doubt at this moment telling her public defender what to say to the
National Enquirer
. One way or another it's going to come out, and it should come from me.”

The tears spilled over, and Isabeau cried. She hugged Nessa tight and sobbed. “Love you, Ness.”

“Love you too. Now let's get ourselves together. You can drop me at the courthouse.”

Nessa carried Daltrey to the rental car, squeezing him until he squirmed, holding on to the feel of him and his scent. She strapped him into his car seat and got in the front passenger seat.

Nessa entered the address into Google Maps, and Isabeau drove them toward Nessa's destiny. When they pulled into the courthouse parking lot, she got out and leaned into the backseat for one last hug from Daltrey.

“I'll call you as soon as I know anything,” she said to Isabeau, who stared straight ahead, her chin quivering, tears shimmering in her eyes.

Isabeau drove away. Nessa watched until the car disappeared around a corner.

Nessa couldn't seem to quiet her thumping heart. The seemingly endless supply of sharp adrenaline felt like ocean waves pounding through her system, making her twitch and jerk. Her mind was quiet, but her body was having none of it. She thought about touching up her lipstick but knew her shaking hands would make her look like a slasher victim instead of a contrite offender.

She was walking toward the entrance of the courthouse when “I'm Stuck in a Condo (with Marlon Brando)” began playing on her phone.

“What are you driving?” Marlon said after she said hello.

“Is that like your old-­guy equivalent of ‘What are you wearing?' ”

He ignored this. “Let me guess. White Camry.”

“Your mental powers never cease to astonish me,” she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice, and happy for a distraction before the event that would change her life forever.

“Okay, and what are you wearing? Is it the black suit?”

“Two for two,” she said, pausing at the end of the parking lot.

“Look to your left,” he said.

She did. There stood Marlon with his phone pressed to his ear, in a coat and tie, hair neatly combed, next to an identical white Toyota.

True astonishment made her mouth drop open and she almost dropped her phone.

He walked toward her, his phone still pressed against his face.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“I haven't been able to sleep, thinking about you,” he said. “Are you absolutely certain you want to do this?”

“Marlon,” she said, hanging up. “Why are you here?”

He looked away and pocketed his phone. “I feel responsible.”

“You're responsible for the effort, not the outcome,” she said, quoting one of his favorite AA aphorisms.

He smirked at her.

“Haven't you suffered enough?” Marlon said. “I feel like you've made amends and then some.”

“Since when do you feel anything, Mr. Freeze?”

He just smiled at her and reached for her hand. “I got another call from that reporter at the campus newspaper.”

Nessa held her breath. “And what did she say?”

“She said as a professional courtesy she wasn't going to run the story. She said that my friend who works for Altair called and lobbied on my behalf.”

“Those tickets to the Adele concert probably didn't hurt,” Nessa said.

“Probably not. You are something else.”

As she grasped his hand, she felt a thrill go up her spine and spiral into her stomach, but she tried to finesse it. “Aw,” she said. “You like me. You really, really like me.”

But she heard the trembling in her own voice.

“Don't do that,” he said, almost growling. “Don't play it off like it's a joke. It's not a joke. It's a meeting of the minds. We speak the same language, you and I. We're from the same tribe. We fit. If you don't see it that way, I understand. But I came to LA to tell you this. It's that important to me.”

She tried to swallow but couldn't, looking up at him. “Marlon, you're just—­”

“I'm not
just
anything. You're all I think about, and that's very inconvenient for me. I need to settle this so I can go back to thinking about myself all the time.”

She laughed.

“I know I'm ten years older than you, but—­”

“Eleven.”

He ignored this and went on. “I further know you need time to grieve your husband.”

“And I might be going to prison,” she said. “You don't have to wait for me.”

“I've waited for four years,” he said. “A ­couple more won't matter. You just need to know that I'm coming for you. No matter what happens today, I'm coming for you.”

“You don't have to come for me,” she said. “I'll meet you in the middle.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him like she'd wanted to since the night she'd told him everything.

He squeezed her one last time, then took her hand and led her toward the building that held her fate.

“You ready for this?”

“I believe I am,” she said.

They walked inside.

UNKNOWN LEGENDS

Monday, August 1

For those of you following the saga that was my life over the summer, here is the rest of the story.

D said his first words the other day, and you'll be happy to know they were “More milk, please.” You can imagine how relieved I feel, and how surprised Isabeau and I were when he said it.

And not to bury the lead, but the LA County judge gave me three years' probation, which is much less than I deserve. But I'm grateful to my Higher Power, and to the judge, and even, in a bizarre way, to my mom. She's the one who finally forced me to come out of the shadows.

And speaking of my monkey-­house-­crazy mother. She and my poor brother are awaiting trial on multiple charges, but you can bet her public defender will pull an insanity defense. My brother won't be so lucky, I'm afraid. You may think that crazy runs in the family, but I'm looking into hiring a real lawyer for him. He was her victim as much as her co-­conspirator. We were both her victims, nearly from birth. The only difference was that I escaped, and my friend Candy helped me do that.

Unfortunately, my contract with Altair Satellite Radio was not renewed. Instead, dear readers, I'm going to revive the show as a podcast. Stay tuned to the blog for the upcoming schedule. I already have a pretty exciting list of interviewees lined up, many indie artists you simply must get to know, many who are sympathetic to (not to mention outraged at) my unceremonious ousting from Altair. I also have some brand-­new sponsors who'd appreciate your patronage.

In the wake of all this media attention, I've decided to use my notoriety for good instead of evil. So if you're out there feeling so lost or alone or confused that you feel like drugs are the only place you can turn, then I want you to turn to me. I'm no longer anonymous, but I'll respect your anonymity. I only want to help you get or stay sober.

Remember, my friends, we're only as sick as our secrets. Step out of the shadows and into the light with me. I promise you it's a lot warmer out here.

And now comes another new start for me. I'm no longer Rosie, but I'm not Vanessa either. I'm both. So let me introduce myself.

Hi. I'm Nessa. I'm a heroin addict. I've been sober for six years, six months, and twelve days, and I have laid my past to rest where it belongs, under a bridge.