November 15, 2011
The cold had a way of finding me, no matter where I ran. Southern California weather had turned unseasonably chilly. It felt more like the Midwest—gray, raw, sharp. Gusty winds kicked up, piercing every layer as I put the bags of groceries into my car. When I pulled into the driveway, I found the garage wide open, again. I was already annoyed about the grueling grocery run Dad sent me on; he ordered me to shop at three different stores, and it took me forever to find everything he scribbled on his list. We had always shopped together. But this time, he sent me out alone. Dad had been unusually distracted, absent-minded even.
I put away the groceries and worked up an appetite. Cold and hungry, I opened the fridge and eyed last night’s chicken. Pitching it crossed my mind, but food was so expensive that wasting anything felt like a sin. Wondering how to stretch the leftovers, I looked at the vegetables in the crisper. Inspiration struck. That’s it—chicken soup—something warm, something simple, to drive out the cold.
As I juggled my chicken and veggies, I set the pot on the stove. A bitter draft whistled in from the garage and sent the grocery receipts fluttering onto the floor. Dad and I were locked in a silent war over the garage door. He insisted that it stay open for convenience, and he liked the “fresh air” too, even on rainy days. It irked me to no end, because that would let in the cold, and possibly anyone else who wandered off the streets. Dad was stubborn, and I was already in a huff. I clenched my jaw; still, I dared not close it this time. The last thing I wanted was an argument.
The house was strangely quiet except for my knife thumping. I peeled and chopped the last of the carrots. Dad was upstairs, and I wondered what he was up to. It must be something important because he didn’t help me with dinner either. Usually, Dad hovered in the kitchen, critiqued my cooking, or told me that I should have bought a different brand of peas. His doctor had recently discontinued his psych meds, and that had put him in a fog of emotional turbulence.
I threw the soup together and brought it to a boil. Dad’s footsteps echoed down the hall above me. He tramped down the stairs and walked into the kitchen. I noticed that he had changed his clothes, and it was not his usual attire; he was wearing a light blue outfit: a long-sleeved western shirt with matching jeans. His new clothes made me wonder what was going on. Was he going somewhere? Maybe he was just feeling the cold.
Dad stood beside me with a clouded face. He stared silently out the kitchen window as if he were searching for something out there. After a minute, he leaned over and peered into the pot.
“Whatcha making?” He asked.
“Chicken soup,” I replied.
“Chicken soup. Good for what ails you, huh?” His voice quivered, off-kilter.
“Yeah, I guess, that’s what they say. What’s wrong, Dad?” I glanced toward him, but he had abruptly spun on his heel and skedaddled out of the kitchen. That was rare. It was not like him to turn away without giving me an answer. Something was definitely wrong. I felt it strongly when I woke up—a heavy feeling and a buzzing inside my head—one I couldn’t quite shake. His actions had raised a red flag. Dad was distant. He was here, but he wasn’t present. Puzzled by his behavior, I kept an eye on him as he stood in the dining room and glared at the family pictures hanging on the wall.
“Have you heard from James? How’s he getting along?”
His question caught me off guard, and I couldn’t speak. James, my brother, his name hung heavy. My mind flashed back to another chilly night: November 15, 1984. That one was painful; it belonged to James. I had put that hurt away years ago, but those memories hit me hard, unexpectedly.
“He’s all right, I guess. Haven’t seen him for a while, but I heard he was doing better,” I muttered.
I put the knife down, my hands unsteady, and envisioned James’ face like it was yesterday. He smiled confidently with his toothy grin, and a spark still shone in his blue eyes. But that was decades ago, before his life unraveled. James had been in a bar, just another night, just another beer. The smoky haze, the clinking glasses, his yearning for connection- but found violence instead. A scream in the dark, his wallet demanded, then sirens and rescue. The cold of that night stayed with him—the terror of fear; his life nearly taken.
“Cheryl,” Dad paused, then raised his voice, “I asked how James is doing.”
He must not have heard me.
“No, Dad, I haven’t heard from him. I guess he is doing better,” I hollered back.
The past echoed in my mind—violence, the secrets, the silence between us. Trauma seeped through generations. The reality of what happened that night was heart-wrenching and weighed heavily on Dad. He struggled with the impact of that life-shattering violence. I pondered how life would have turned out for James if that tragedy had not happened. Dad tried to shield us from the harsh realities of life. Yet he was powerless against its relentless forces.
While I stirred the soup, I watched him over my shoulder. He mumbled, scratched his head, then briskly rubbed his hands together. His voice sounded strangled as he kept trying to clear the frog stuck in his throat.
“It’s kind of chilly in the house.”
His voice strangled again.
“I’d better go out and close the garage door. Maybe that will help make it warmer.”
Well, that was new—not like him to want the garage closed. Well, all of my nagging had finally paid off!
“That would be great,” I replied, delighted. Then, instantly, his comment seemed fishy. Dad disappeared down the hallway and stepped into the garage. He closed the door behind him with a click. That was weird. Why not just press the button on the wall? The groaning of the garage door stopped. A long minute passed. The soup boiled; the house was eerily quiet. I felt a shift in the atmosphere, and an uneasy tension crept over me. I had better go out and check on him.
I turned down the flame to simmer the soup. I moved briskly toward the garage. Dad’s little doggies, Flash and Pepe, were camped out in the middle of the hallway, waiting on him—tails wagging. Then, just as I stepped over them—KA-BOOM!—a deafening crack, a gunshot, slammed through the quiet. Flash leaped straight up, a foot off the ground, and caught my leg in mid-stride. The sudden hit sent me hurtling sideways into the bathroom. I threw out my arms and braced for impact. Oof! My wrist slammed hard into the corner of the vanity and crumbled under my weight, while my head crashed into the mirror. Blinding pain shot straight up my arm.
“Ooowww, dammit. What the hell,” I screamed.
After a second, I wiggled my wrist—and thankfully it wasn’t broken. Suddenly, a deafening “whoosh” filled my ears—my mind entered another dimension. A white noise tunnel, with a loud static hiss—like a radio station that had lost its connection.
My hand reached out to open the door—but a powerful presence created a force field and stopped me dead in my tracks—I stood there paralyzed, frozen in fear.
This is not just a rescue. This is not your ordinary rescue story — because I had to battle so many things, on so many fronts. Total betrayal.I was the little parent, the family savior. I tried to rescue my brother, and she turned against me for doing that, and ruined our case. Can you imagine a mother doing that to her own children?It wasn’t just the rescue. It was everything she caused after that, and everything I had already gotten through before that. That is what makes this story so powerful — and why it needs light.He escaped twice, and was captured twice. That is the truth behind the claims that he could come and go.
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