Jeanne Stein - Blood Drive

Her face reddens. “Maybe I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d have the same contemptuous look on your face that you do right now.”

When I don’t respond, she continues with a huffy sigh. “Yes. Trish has run away before. But there was a reason. I was involved with someone she didn’t get along with.”

I flash on No-neck. “The guy I just saw leaving?”

“No, not him. I live here alone now. I mean, alone with Trish. That’s why I’m so worried about her. Something really bad must have happened to make her leave like this. I may not be the best mother, but I always provided a home for Trish. Made sure she had food and clothes and a roof over her head.”

“And supplied her with drugs?”

Carolyn looks genuinely taken aback. “Why on Earth would you ask that?”

“Come on, Carolyn,” I snap. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out that you’ve been busted for possession?”

“I wasn’t charged,” she says. “And the drugs weren’t mine. They belonged to that guy I told you about. The one Trish didn’t like. I kicked him out right after that. For Christ sake, I didn’t know I was carrying drugs. He’d slipped them into my purse.”

It’s not lost on me that she’s changing her story. She kicked the guy out because he got her in trouble, not because of Trish. There’s enough conviction in her reply, however, that I grudgingly concede her that point, especially since David confirmed the case was dropped. “What about the DUI’s?”

I can see the wheels turning as she decides whether to confirm or deny. I make the decision for her.

“Tell me the truth. A case may not get to court, but there’s always a paper trail. I’ll find out one way or the other.”

She shrugs. “I used to have a drinking problem.”

“Used to?”

“I got help. Through the hospital. I completed a rehab program and my record was expunged.” She shoots me a resentful look. “Or at least it was supposed to be.”

“How have you managed to keep your nursing job through all this?”

Her eyes skitter away and then slide back. “I’m a good worker,” she says.

Another glance around the room and my skin starts to crawl at the thought that this woman renders care to the sick. I shake the disgust away and pull my thoughts back. “I’d like to see Trish’s room.”

A defensive look creeps into her eyes. “Why?”

“Because I might be able to find something that would give us a clue as to where she’s gone. Or why.”

“There’s nothing to find,” she says sharply. “I’ve looked.”

“Yeah, well I want to look, too.” I don’t give her a chance to argue, but turn toward the short hall that leads from the living room, assuming it’s the way to the bedrooms.

She’s right on my heels. I put a hand on the first door and she stops me. “That’s my room,” she snaps.

I don’t tell her how happy I am that I don’t have to see the horror that must be her bedroom. I step instead to the next door. The knob has been removed from the door, leaving only a large, round hole. “What happened here?”

She rolls her shoulders. “Trish leaves her room locked. When she disappeared, I had to get inside. That was the only way I could think of to do it.”

I open the door. There are also two deadbolts that lock from the inside. Trish felt she needed to deadbolt her bedroom? I know teenagers value their privacy, but most don’t resort to deadbolts. I wonder who she was trying to keep out.

I push the door back and move inside. Carolyn doesn’t follow me, a flush creeping into her cheeks. When I look around, I understand why. She should be embarrassed. This room belongs in another house. The bed is made, the furniture clutter and dirt free. Schoolbooks are stacked with neat precision. There is a bulletin board with a few pictures, but only of Trish and whom I must assume are school friends, no family photos. The things in her dresser drawers are folded. The closet yields shoes lined up in a row, clothes clean and pressed and hung up by category: shirts, skirts, pants, coats.

Hardly the room of a teenaged doper. Her wardrobe is meager, and somehow that makes me sadder than anything else I’ve seen so far.

But I don’t find anything that gives me a clue as to where she might have gone. No diary. No notebooks with scrawled notes on the covers.

I close the door respectfully behind me and turn again to Carolyn. “When Trish ran away before, where did she go?”

Carolyn’s shoulders hunch a little. “What does that matter?”

“You’re kidding right?”

She frowns and purses her lips. “Where she went before doesn’t matter. She’s not there now. I checked.”

“Not where, Carolyn? I want an answer.”

She strikes a defensive pose. “She went to my parents, okay? But she’s not there now.”

I feel my jaw muscles clench. “I thought you said last night your parents didn’t want anything to do with you or Trish?” But the truth strikes me as I say it. “It’s not Trish they don’t want anything to do with, is it? It’s you.”

Carolyn glares at me with reproachful eyes. “What do you want me to say? That my mom and step dad are disappointed in me? That my life didn’t turn out the way any of us had hoped? Okay. I’ve said it. Now what are you doing to find Trish?”

“You’re sure she’s not with them?”

Reproach veers to anger. “Yes. I called them. Now they have something else to blame me for. My mother is on her way here right now to make sure I don’t screw anything else up.”

“On her way from where?”

Rancor colors her face and words. “Where she lives with her rich husband,” she replies. “Boston.”

“Did you know that’s where Daniel Frey is from? And the Franco’s as well?”

She flicks at a wisp of hair. “Should I? Boston is a big place. There are lots of people from Boston. It’s a coincidence.”

Maybe.

Maybe not.

That’s the last thing Carolyn says to me before she shuts down. When she reaches for a pack of cigarettes, it’s my signal to leave. I don’t see any point in our getting together again this evening. I tell her on my way out that I’ll make her excuses to my folks. I wonder just how much I’ll tell them about the mother of their only grandchild.

Probably not much.

On the way back to school I mull over the recurring theme-the Franco’s, Daniel Frey, and Carolyn’s parents-all from Boston. Carolyn says it’s a coincidence. She may be right. David found no connection between them. Nevertheless, I’ve never put much stock in coincidences.

It’s a little after twelve when I pull in at the school. Mom is holding a press conference on the steps in front of her office. Chief Williams is beside her. A crowd of students gather to the side, some weeping and some talking in low voices. The TV news cameras swarm in to catch it all.

I drive around back and park in the same lot as this morning. Most of the teachers must have left for the day because there are far fewer cars. When I get to Daniel Frey’s classroom, however, he is there with a half dozen students. He detects my presence immediately. He wraps up his conversation and the students drift out. No one pays the least bit of attention to me, though they make their way around me like a wake around the bow of a ship.

He joins me at the doorway. “I need a ride home. Why don’t you take me.” He doesn’t ask it like a question.

I raise an eyebrow. “And why would I want to take you home?”

An impatient frown tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Look, we both know you plan to follow me. I let my driver go. Will you take me or not?”

“Fine. I’ll take you home. But I want to stop by the office first.”