Watching Trin by Freya Barker
Chapter 2
Trin
I boot up my laptop and open the column I’m working on for a monthly women’s magazine.
It’s my bread and butter in between the freelance investigative articles I write but unfortunately comes with a deadline. Not easy to adhere to when Pops’s days are difficult to predict, but my editor at HerWorld is adamant about timely submissions.
I met Franka Schneider two years ago, after the magazine bought a piece I wrote on women in law enforcement from the press syndicate I’m listed with. The article pulled a great deal of attention and then Franka wanted a sit-down with my agent and me to discuss an exclusive column for their monthly publication.
I’d always preferred to stay in control of my own time, which had worked well for me being the single mom of a young boy, but with Tuck hitting double digits I started thinking more about the future. It wouldn’t be that long before there’d be talk about things like college and I had been so focused on getting through today, I never really planned for tomorrow.
Their offer was interesting and provided me with a secure income for our day-to-day living, but still allowed me to earn extra selling some freelance work. The extra income is funneled straight into a college fund for Tuck and a 401K for me.
Up until moving to Durango, my columns had centered mostly on the life of a single mom. Now I no longer just have a young boy in my care but am also—at least in part—responsible for my father’s well-being, which slightly shifted my focus. Franka had been on board adding the care for an elderly parent to my columns, agreeing that in this day and age it was something a lot of people—women in particular—would be able to relate to as well.
This is my first column that includes Pops and I’m struggling a little putting my experience to words.
Vic took Pops upstairs to put him down for a nap, while she sleeps for a few hours after her shift, giving me an hour or two to write. We’re still trying to establish a new routine since Vic’s return to work last week. She works twenty-four-hour shifts—with a day in between—and two full days off after the third shift, which means her work days jump from week to week. Tucker is in school during the week of course, and we drop Pops at a seniors’ program three mornings a week. It’s supposed to be good for him to socialize and he seems to enjoy it. The only one not on a steady schedule is me, except of course for this damn column.
“Margaret!”
I’ve been picking away at my keyboard for maybe forty-five minutes when I hear Pops hollering from his room. I dart up the stairs, hoping I can quiet him down before he wakes up my sister.
I find him in his bathroom, his pants around his ankles, looking confused.
“Hey, Pops, do you need to pee?”
He looks at me as I gently steer him toward the toilet. Muscle memory seems to kick in and I quickly turn my back as he relieves himself. I’m determined to give him whatever dignity remains, although I suspect these kinds of uncomfortable incidents affect me more than they do him.
Not easy, seeing the once larger-than-life father you revered as a superhero reduced to this vulnerable bag of bones. It’s not that Pops doesn’t know how to take care of himself, it’s he forgets to. I shiver at the thought, one day, Tucker might be the one needing to wipe my behind.
When I hear the faucet run, I turn around and am relieved to find him with his pants pulled back up.
“Are you still tired or do you want me to find you a Clint Eastwood movie?”
He grins at the mention of his favorite actor of all time, and for a moment he looks like I remember him.
“Movie,” he confirms and I lead him downstairs.
He must’ve watched every one of Clint’s eighty-some movies at least a few times already, but he enjoys each rerun as if it was his first time seeing it. I guess that’s one benefit of losing the last forty or so years of your life to dementia, everything is new all the time.
I have even more respect for my sister looking after him these past years. I’d offered help a few times before, but each time she’d remind me how I already did my part taking care of her and Pops after Mom died. Even at the tender age of ten I’d felt that responsibility.
“I’m counting on you to look after your father and sister, Katrina,”she’d said in that breathless voice as the cancer was slowly filling her lungs.
And I did, for eleven years. Never grudgingly, I was proud I could do something for my family, and it helped prepare me for single motherhood. That’s why I didn’t argue too much when Vic initially insisted she be the one to take care of our father, because as heavy as that burden may be, it is equally rewarding.
I just have Pops installed in front of the TV—the opening credits for A Fistful of Dollars on the screen—when my phone rings.
“Is this Mrs. Paige?” the slightly nasal voice on the other side asks.
“Miss,” I correct him. “Who am I speaking with?”
“Oh, it’s George Sanders, I’m the vice principal at Durango High School. Ms. Paige, it’s about your son, Tucker.”
My heart starts beating faster as the first tendrils of anxiety hit me. Last time I received a call like this was from the principal at his elementary school in San Antonio, and it had not been good news.
“Is there a problem?”
“You could say that. Ms. Paige, Tucker got into a fight with another student. Your son punched him.”
“A fight?”
My son may have an attitude and lip off from time to time, but he’s never gotten into a fight before. Of course a year ago, I would’ve said the same about skipping class, but I can’t see Tuck hitting anyone. He’s too much of a tender heart for that.
“I’m afraid so. He’s in my office.”
“Is he okay? I mean, did he get hurt?”
I can hear the man scrape his throat.
“Tucker seems to be unscathed, but unfortunately the other boy wasn’t so lucky. He’s with the school nurse. I would like you to come to my office.”
My stomach drops as I grapple to come to terms with what he’s telling me.
“Yes, of course.” I look over at my father, who is engrossed in Clint’s performance. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
It means I’ll have to wake up Vic to keep an eye on Pops, but that can’t be helped.
“See you shortly.”
I dart upstairs and knock on my sister’s door, explaining in as few words as possible what is going on.
“Go. I’ve got things here,” she says sleepily, as she swings her legs over the edge of the bed.
“I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you,” I promise, feeling guilty.
“Go!”
She waves me out with her hand and I run back downstairs, grab my bag and keys, kiss Pops on the top of his head, and hustle out the door.
Tucker is sitting on a chair in the hallway outside the vice principal’s office when I get there. I crouch down in front of him and try to make eye contact, but he is determinedly staring at some spot on the floor.
“What happened?”
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
“Not exactly nothing, Tucker Paige,” I tell him in my sternest mom-voice. “As I understand it, a kid was hurt? By you? What is going on?”
Just then the office door opens.
“Ahh, Ms. Paige.”
I surge to my feet and come eye to eye with a man about my age wearing a wrinkled suit, holding out his hand.
“Mr. Sanders,” I greet him as calmly as I can manage.
“Please, come into my office. Tucker can wait out here.”
My son shoots the man a glare before turning pleading eyes on me. I was ready to step into the office but something about the way my kid looks at me has me stop in my tracks.
“Actually, I’d prefer to speak to my son first,” I announce, clearly surprising the vice principal.
“As you wish,” he grudgingly agrees after a pregnant pause. “Knock when you’re ready.”
I wait until he closes the door behind him before crouching down by Tuck.
“Talk to me.”
“Kevin is an idiot.”
I assume Kevin is the kid who got hurt.
“Since when is being an idiot cause to punch someone?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“No? Then explain it to me,” I snap, getting angry with him.
He looks at me with an expression on his face I can’t quite place—it appears to go from disappointment to resignation—before dropping his eyes back to the floor.
“Never mind,” he mumbles.
I straighten up and look down at my son’s bent head.
“Last chance.”
When he doesn’t respond I turn and knock on the door.
* * *
Bodhi
“It’s gonna be a little longer than we thought. Maybe a few more weeks.”
My head snaps around to the landlord walking into my apartment.
He’s been avoiding my calls all week so I came to see the progress for myself, except there isn’t any. The place is still a disaster.
“That’s just great,” I grumble.
“Turns out the plumbing is outdated and needs to be replaced,” he says with a shrug.
“Any word from the insurance company?”
He was supposed to check if they would cover temporary housing while work was being done. My tenant policy doesn’t seem to cover anything. I’ve been bouncing around my friends’ places, crashing on different couches, and it’s getting old. Or maybe it’s just me who’s getting old. Coming up on forty my frat days are far behind me, as the persistent ache in my back confirms. I need a proper bed and my own damn bathroom.
“Yeah. Adjuster was in a few days ago, but no luck on the hotel room. But…” he adds quickly.
“I have another property, it’s on the river. Old tenants just moved out and the new ones don’t move in until November, so it’s vacant. You’re welcome to crash there.”
I put a call into the station to let Cap know it might be closer to nine before I get there. He assures me it’s quiet and even if a call should come in, they can handle it. I suspect my crew will be just as happy as I am to find digs of my own.
The property turns out to be a trailer home on the east side of the river. Not exactly the kind of ‘property’ he made it sound like, but the place is clean and has an adequate bathroom I wouldn’t have to share. I just need to move some of my shit in here so it’s livable, but I’m sure some of the guys at the station will give me a hand.
Of course I could crash at my parents’ house but as much as I love them, they’d drive me nuts within twenty-four hours. They live fifteen minutes north of town in Hermosa, where I grew up. Mom is a bookkeeper for a few small businesses and works from home, and my dad just retired from the US Postal Service. Tension is already ratcheting up with Dad now constantly in Mom’s space, and I don’t think it would help if I added myself to the mix.
There’s also my sister, Anika, but she lives in a small apartment over her hair salon downtown. Barely big enough for her.
No, even though it’ll be a pain in the ass to haul stuff over here for the few weeks it’ll take to get my apartment back in order, it’s probably the best option.
By the time I get to the station—the key to the trailer in my pocket—my crew is out on a call, just the chief’s vehicle is sitting in the otherwise empty bay. He is just coming out of his office as I walk in.
“Three-vehicle crash up by the high school. I have a meeting at city hall to get to.” He grimaces. “Some more new policy bullshit designed by pencil pushers, who have no idea how things work in the real world. Jesus, this part of the job gives me heartburn.”
I make some sympathetic noises, not envying the man. Paperwork and politics would give me heartburn too. One of the reasons why I’m perfectly happy right where I am in the hierarchy of the firehouse.
I head upstairs to see if there’s any breakfast left, but I have to contend with a bowl of Cheerios to feed the gnawing beast in my stomach. There’s still half a pot of coffee though, and I’m just about to pop my second cup in the microwave to heat it up when I hear footsteps in the bay below.
The equipment and gear rooms are on one side of the vehicle bays, the offices and workout room on the other, and our living quarters are upstairs at the rear with an open view of the bays. I glance over the railing and see a woman with reddish hair below.
“Anyone here?”
Her voice sounds panicked.
“Can I help you?”
Her head snaps back and I find myself looking down into a pair of the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
“I’m looking for Vic? I tried calling her but she’s not answering. It’s an emergency,” she rattles, clearly shaken.
“Hold on. Let me get down there.”
I jog down the stairs and she’s already waiting at the bottom step, wringing her hands in front of her body. She’s short, even compared to my meager five eleven. I’m the shortest guy on the team, but I try to make up for it by working out twice as hard as the others. She’s also attractive, windblown strawberry blonde hair framing a striking face with full lips and those almost unnaturally pale eyes.
“Vic is out on a call. That’s probably why she’s not answering. What’s the emergency?”
She looks a little unsure at first but seems to come to a decision.
“It’s my dad. He’s missing.”