Alane Ferguson - The Circle of Blood

Realizing she hadn’t had a thing to eat or drink all day long, she bought a hot chocolate from a vendor and gulped it down. She needed to be alone, away from the prying eyes of her father and grandmother, so she set her path for the library, one block up on Reese Street. Lit from within, Silverton’s public library glowed yellow, its light reflecting on snow in rectangular patches. After kicking the snow off her boots, Cameryn made her way up the cement steps.

A small brick building, the library had been built with funds from Andrew Carnegie in 1906. The metal letters over the door were distinct, although the U in the word PUBLIC was shaped instead like a V. Beyond the small antechamber was a second door, this one inset with windowpanes and topped by a glass transom.

A tiny bell jingled as Cameryn stepped inside. Just as she had hoped, no one was there except the librarian, who stood behind a heavy wooden counter. “Cameryn Mahoney, I thought you’d be at the festivities!” Jackie Kerwin exclaimed. Dark-eyed and slender, Jackie was an outdoorswoman who would hike to the top of Kendall Mountain and then, while there, read an entire book. Like many in Silverton, Jackie was a marriage of opposites.

“I’ve got a paper due and I thought I’d get a head start,” Cameryn lied. “I just need the Internet.”

“Well, aren’t you the dedicated student. You’ve certainly come at the right time.” Jackie swept her arm toward the empty room, palm up. “You’ve got no competition today. I was about to do inventory in the back, so”-she looked at Cameryn-“unless you need help…”

“No,” Cameryn answered, relieved she would be completely alone. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good. Just give a holler if you need me.” With that, Jackie disappeared into a back room.

The interior of the library had been decorated like a home. Thick oriental rugs were tossed about on polished wooden floors, while padded rocking chairs filled every corner. A small fir tree decorated with paper snowflakes blinked lights near the front door. In the window Jackie had placed a Hanukkah menorah. Dried lavender and pinecones, in honor of Winter Solstice, stood next to a Kwanzaa unity cup. Cameryn detected the smell of cinnamon, from the candles, maybe.

But it was the computers she wanted. Two sat atop a long wooden desk, cursors blinking. She headed toward the bright blue screens and, after a backward glance, sat down on one of the swivel chairs. Part of her wanted to get the facts about her mother, while another part of her was against the idea. In the end, the scientific part won out. It was best to know what she was dealing with.

Concentrating, she tried to remember the name of the drug her mother had said she used. As she shut her eyes, she rewound the conversation in her mind. Tregetol. Wasn’t that what her mother had mentioned? She hesitated only a moment before typing Tregetol into the search bar, chewing her fingernail as she stared at the screen. The message Did you mean Tegretol? popped onto it. When she hit that word, hundreds of sites appeared.

Tegretol was the brand name of carbamazepine, a drug used to treat mania and bipolar disorders. Although she’d heard of mood disorders before, Cameryn had no idea what a diagnosis could mean, and so she carefully typed Mood Disorders. This time a tsunami of information washed upon the screen. She scrolled past Mental Illness Ranked Second in Terms of Causing Disability to the Diagnose Yourself link. From there, she found the MyTherapy Features, clicking onto Mood Disorders. Following that trail, she found Bipolar Disorder and Tegretol. Leaning close to the screen, she read:

Bipolar Disorder is a psychiatric condition defined by extreme, often inappropriate and sometimes unpredictable moods. These moods can occur on a spectrum ranging from debilitating depression to unbridled mania. Individuals suffering bipolar disorder generally experience fluid states of mania, hypomania, or what is referred to as a mixed state in concert with clinical depression…

There she stopped. Fear stabbed her as she read the definition a second, then a third time through. Medication promised relief but patients were always subject to relapse. Stressful events, one article stated, were a kind of “kindling” that, when lit, could start a manic fire. Scrolling farther, she read, A diagnosis means treatment and treatment means control. The compassion of family and friends is critical to a patient’s well-being.

Overhead, chandeliers threw out soft light through glass bells. A stuffed teddy bear looked on from the children’s corner. Cameryn didn’t know whether to retreat or advance, yet she forced herself to read on. In the comments section, a person with the initials A.B. had written: “Letting someone in on the truth is the most fearful thing I ever do. Some people look at me like I could hurt them, when the reality is the only one I want to harm is myself.” Another wrote, “I’m abandoned to swim against the riptide of prejudice.” A woman from Texas added, “For those of you who choose to love people like me, I promise sweet reward. It is a lonely road we walk. The faithful allow us to go on.”

Cameryn’s eyes filled, making the print swim. Turning away from the screen, she sat in silence. Is that how Hannah had felt? It’s a lonely road we walk. Was her father counting on Cameryn to turn away when she learned the truth about Hannah? She loved her father, and yet she needed her mother, too. She’d rather have this broken woman than no mother at all. The faithful allow us to go on. Cameryn knew she could help Hannah while remaining her father’s daughter. She could love both her parents, separately, equally. Love meant she didn’t have to divide them in her heart.

Time dissolved as she sat thinking, feeling protective. The roles of mother/daughter had reversed: Cameryn would protect Hannah. She would help her mother and keep her well. Now that she understood, everything would be all right.

When her BlackBerry rang she almost didn’t pull it from her pocket. It startled her to see that almost two hours had passed. Outside, unseen, the sky had darkened.

“Hello,” she whispered.

“Cammie?” It was her father. His voice sounded strangely tight. “Where are you?”

“In the library. I was-looking things up. What’s wrong?”

“We’ve got another one.”

She didn’t need him to say more. This was an official call. A coroner call.

“Who?”

“They don’t know yet. The body’s in a lane off of Greene Street. Listen, I know what I said about your mammaw not wanting you to see any more death, but I think I’m going to need you on this one. The sheriff is really thrown. I guess the victim looks pretty young. Are you up for it?”

“Of course.”

He sounded relieved. “Okay, then-I need you to go home and get the station wagon. The gurney’s still in the back, but I put everything else away in the garage. Grab a fresh body bag. The death kit’s right above them on the shelf. The camera is inside on the counter. Gather up everything, then head out as fast as you can.”

“Where am I going?”

“The body’s in that passageway between the Carriage House and the Highlander Apartment Building. Jacobs said they need a coroner, pronto. You’ll beat me to the scene.”

Twisting in her seat, she began to pull on her coat. “It won’t take me long. I left my car at the Grand, but I’m only a few blocks away. I’ll hurry home and load up. Where are you now?”

“I was going to Ouray. I’ve already turned around.”

Ouray. That meant her father had been on his way to see Judge Amy Green. But there was no time to entertain thoughts of the other woman in her father’s life. Someone had died, and this time her father had asked for her.