Lisa Gardner - Love You More

Juliana had an eleven-year-old brother, Thomas, who was a real “pain in the ass.” She also had fifteen cousins and tons of aunts and uncles. On the really hot days, her whole family would gather at her grandma’s house by the South Shore and they would go to the beach. Sometimes, she got to ride the carousel, and Juliana considered herself an expert on grabbing the brass ring, though she hadn’t actually gotten it yet-but she was close.

I didn’t have cousins, or aunts and uncles or a grandmother near the South Shore. Instead, I told Juliana how my parents had made a baby when I was four years old. Except the baby was born blue and the doctors had to bury him in the ground, and my mother had to come home from the hospital and move into her bedroom. Sometimes, she cried in the middle of the day. Sometimes, she cried in the middle of the night.

My father told me I was not to talk about it, but one day, I’d found a shoe box tucked behind my father’s bowling ball in the hall closet. In the box had been a little blue cap and a little blue blanket and a pair of little blue booties. There was also a picture of a perfectly white newborn baby boy with bright red lips. At the bottom of the picture, someone had written Joseph Andrew Leoni .

So I guess I had a little brother Joey, but he had died and my father had been working and my mother had been crying ever since.

Juliana thought about this. She decided we should have a proper mass for baby Joey, so she got out her rosary beads. She showed me how to loop the dark green beads around my fingers and say a little prayer. Next, we needed to sing a song, so we sang “Away in the Manger,” because it was about a baby and we sort of knew the words. Then it was time for the eulogy.

Juliana did the honors. She’d heard one before, at her grandfather’s funeral. She thanked the Lord for taking care of baby Joey. She said it was good he did not suffer. She said she was sure he was having a great time playing poker in heaven, and looking down upon us all.

Then, she took both of my hands in her own, and told me she was very sorry for my loss.

I started to cry, big noisy sobs that horrified me. But Juliana just patted my back. There, there, she said. Then she cried with me, and her mom came up to check on us because we were making such a racket. I thought Juliana would tell her mother everything. Instead, Juliana announced that we needed emergency chocolate chip cookies. So her mother went downstairs and made us a batch.

Juliana Sophia Howe was that kind of friend. You could cry on her shoulder and trust her to keep your secrets. You could play in her yard and count on her to give you her best toys. You could stay in her house and depend on her to share her family.

When I went into labor all alone, I pictured Juliana holding my hand. And when I finally held my daughter for the first time, I named her in honor of my childhood friend.

Juliana, unfortunately, doesn’t know any of these things.

She has not spoken to me in over ten years.

For while Juliana Sophia Howe was the best thing that ever happened to me, turned out, I was the worst thing that ever happened to her.

Sometimes, love is like that.

In the back of the ambulance, the female EMT administered intravenous fluids. She had produced a pan just in time for me to vomit again.

My cheek burned. My sinus cavities had filled with blood. I needed to hold it together. Mostly, I wanted to close my eyes and let the world slip away. The light hurt my eyes. The memories seared my brain.

“Tell me your name,” the EMT instructed, forcing me back to attention.

I opened my mouth. No words came out.

She offered me a sip of water, helped clean my cracked lips.

“Tessa Leoni,” I finally managed.

“What is today’s date, Tessa?”

For a second, I couldn’t answer. No numbers appeared in my head and I started to panic. All I could picture was Sophie’s empty bed.

“March thirteen,” I finally whispered.

“Two plus two?”

Another pause. “Four.”

Marla grunted, adjusting the line carrying clear fluids to the back of my hand. “Nice shiner,” she remarked.

I didn’t answer.

“Almost as pretty as the bruise covering half your ass. Husband like steel-toed boots?”

I didn’t answer, just pictured my daughter’s smiling face.

The ambulance slowed, maybe ready to turn into the emergency room. I could only hope.

Marla studied me a second longer. “I don’t get it,” she said abruptly. “You’re a cop. You’ve received special training, you’ve handled these kinds of calls yourself. Surely you of all people oughtta know…” She seemed to catch herself. “Well, guess that’s the way these things go, right? Domestic violence happens across all social groups. Even those who should know better.”

The ambulance came to a stop. Thirty seconds later, the back doors flew open and I rolled into daylight.

I didn’t look at Marla anymore. I kept my eyes on the gray March sky rushing past overhead.

Inside the hospital, there was a lot of activity at once. An emergency room nurse charged forward to meet us, ushering us into an exam room. There was paperwork to be filled out, including the omnipresent HEPA form advising me of my right to privacy. As the nurse assured me, my doctor would not discuss my case with anyone, not even other members of law enforcement, as that would violate doctor-patient confidentiality. What she did not say, but I already knew, was that my medical charts were considered neutral and could be subpoenaed by the DA. Meaning any statements I made to the doctor, which were recorded in those charts…

Always a loophole somewhere. Just ask a cop.

Paperwork completed, the nurse turned to the next matter at hand.

Last night, I had spent fifteen minutes donning my uniform. First, basic black panties, then a black sports bra, then a silk undershirt to keep the next layer-heavy body armor-from chafing my skin. I’d rolled on black dress socks, then my navy blue trousers with their electric blue accent stripes. Next I’d laced up my boots, because I’d already learned the hard way I couldn’t reach my feet once I’d donned my vest. So socks, trousers, boots, then back to the top half, adding my bulky vest, which I covered with a state police turtleneck in deference to the weather, then topped with my official light blue blouse. I had to adjust the vest under my turtleneck, then work to get three layers-silk undershirt, turtleneck, and blouse-tucked into my pants. Next I belted my slacks with a broad black belt to hold them in place. Then I got my gear.

Twenty pound black leather duty belt, which I wrapped over my pants belt, and attached with four Velcro keepers. Next taking my Sig Sauer semiauto from the gun safe in the bedroom closet and inserting it into the holster on my right hip. Clipping my cellphone to the front of my duty belt, then attaching my police pager to the clip on my right shoulder. Checking my radio on my left hip, inspecting my two extra ammo clips, the steel baton, pepper spray, one pair of cuffs, and Taser. Then slipping three ink pens into the sewn inserts on my left shirtsleeve.

Finally, the pièce de résistance, my official state trooper hat.

I always paused to study my reflection in the mirror. A state trooper’s uniform is not just a look, but a feel. The weight of my duty belt pulling at my hips. The bulk of my body armor, flattening out my chest, broadening my shoulders. The tight band of my hat, pulled down low onto my forehead and casting an impenetrable shadow across my eyes.

Command presence. Never let them see you sweat, baby.

The nurse stripped my uniform from me. She removed my light blue blouse, my turtleneck, body armor, undershirt, bra. She pulled off my boots, unrolled my socks, unclasped my belt, and tugged my trousers down my legs, before doing the same with my underwear.