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Petra Gillies sat in an uncomfortable molded plastic chair next to a bed. The bed was very nicely made up, you could almost forget it was a hospital bed. The woman in it was breathing shallowly, paper-thin eyelids restless as she dozed. Margaret’s hand was frail and bony in Petra’s. The old lady was dying, and it was Petra’s job, her privilege, to help her pass over.
Margaret didn’t have any children. Her siblings and friends had already gone over to the other side, so when she asked Petra to be her companion, her death doula, the younger woman happily agreed. It wasn’t her usual job, Petra worked as a yoga instructor in a bustling local studio, but people had a way of knowing about her special talents, the ones she didn’t talk about.
There were a few more minutes until it was Margaret’s time. Petra felt it in her core, she was near, but not quite there.
She had first noticed she wasn’t like other people when she knew her mother was hiding an illness. It was as though there was a big angry red circle over her abdomen for weeks until Mary admitted she had a stomach ulcer that needed treatment.
Petra was only ten at the time, but after that she kept an eye out for unusual things she noticed that others didn’t. When her grandmother died, Petra was in high school, and she could see her time running out clearly. It wasn’t exactly seeing, more like she just knew. When her grandmother’s time was nearly up, Petra took her hand, and whispered in her ear:
“It’s okay, Nanna. There’s nothing to fear on the other side, it’s just like falling asleep.” She had looked into her grandmother’s pale blue eyes and watched the fear slip away as her last breath left her body. For a few moments afterwards, it was as though time was suspended, then a sudden silence, like someone had turned off a buzzing light.
Petra thought it must have been the sound of her grandmother’s soul going out of the world. Now, every time she sat with someone in their final moments, she whispered reassuring words, different each time, as though the right words for the person were suddenly in her mouth without her thinking about it, followed by that silence after their soul had gone.
She was here with Margaret because the staff in the hospice knew she was good with the dying. They wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone how they knew, or what Petra did. Most people in San Destino learned not to ask too many questions when strange things happened, even if they didn’t have special talents of their own.
Margaret would go in her sleep. It was clear now the energy in her body was folding itself up, pulling up the stakes, turning off the lights, ready to go for the last time. Petra started to hum, a tune that didn’t have a name, maybe Margaret’s favorite song from when she was young, or maybe the song on the radio when her lover had kissed her back in the sixties. Strange things often happened when Petra did her death watch.
Fifteen minutes later, time had gone back to its normal pace and a special silence had fallen over the room. Petra stood up, placed Margaret’s hand back on her chest, and kissed her cheek.
“Goodbye, my love.” They weren’t her words, but they seemed to fit.
When she passed the nurses’ station, on her way out, one of the staff looked up.
“Is she gone?”
“Yes, all finished.”
“I hope it was easy. She’d had a rough time of it these last few weeks.”
“Oh yes, she just slipped away to sail across the still waters into Death’s waiting arms. Nothing to it.” Petra blinked. “I didn’t know I was going to say that.” She laughed.
“Very poetic. Margaret loved poetry,” the nurse said.
“It must have been for her then.” Petra smiled and walked to the elevators. The after effects of a death lingered for different periods of time. Maybe it had something to do with the strength of a soul, or how much influence they had on their surroundings, she didn’t know. Petra always stayed alone until she returned to her usual bubbly self after her death duties. Other people tended not to understand why she acted out of character.
***
“Central to four-Mary-five,” a voice crackled over Riley Holmes’s radio.
“Four-Mary-five, go ahead,” she replied.
“There’s an accident up on the Destiny Bridge, all lanes blocked. We need you to get out there and help with directing traffic.”
“Copy, in route.” Riley put the mic back onto its cradle and turned over the engine of her police issue motorcycle.
It’s far too early for this. Sergeant Riley Holmes had hoped for a quiet day watching traffic after being up half the previous night with her mother, Georgina. Georgina had developed a worrying cough in addition to her long list of chronic ailments and needed her eldest daughter to help with her care.
San Destino Bridge, or Destiny Bridge as the locals called it, was the main connecting arterial from San Destino to the mainland, and a blockage on it would create havoc. Especially if the inbound and outbound lanes were both affected.
Riley saw the obstruction coming along Bridge Road past the towering Sentinel building. Vehicles had already backed up, almost to the gateway onto the mainland, and onto the island behind her, by the time she arrived. Being on her bike had its benefits; she could work her way to the front and assist.
Two lanes in each direction, the single span bridge had been built in the late forties to replace the ferry when it sank. A large white postal van was completely blocking the outbound lanes. It had crushed the back end of a bright florist’s van, which now cut off the inbound lanes. Besides the two vans, there was debris everywhere—shattered glass, letters, flowers, and parcels spilled all over the road.
Behind the collision on her side, three cars that hadn’t been able to get out of the way of whatever had happened and had rear-ended one another adding to the general confusion on the bridge. On the mainland side, inbound to San Destino, the drivers seemed to have stopped in time for the most part.
Riley was the first officer on scene. Over the wind, more sirens sounded behind her—probably an ambulance trying to get through. She would need to keep the inbound side of the road clear for emergency service vehicles, though cars on both sides of the bridge had already started to turn around and drive back the way they had come.
“Four-Mary-Five to Central.”
“Come in Four-Mary-Five,” a voice replied.
“We’re gonna need a roadblock established at the entrance to Destiny Bridge on both sides. Postal van has crashed, all four lanes are completely impassable. Unclear if there are serious injuries as yet.” Riley scanned the vehicles she could see on the island side, looking into the windows of the three cars that had piled up.
Strong, cold winds blew across Starfall Bay, swirling handfuls of letters and flowers off the bridge and into the water. The hairs on the back of her neck and arms stood up, an ominous feeling gripping her body, but Riley pulled her attention back to the task at hand—triaging the injuries while the paramedics were making their way to her position. She pulled out her first aid kit.
The back car, the first Riley came to, was a ridiculous pink Volvo. Inside, a woman in her forties and a teen girl, both with bleached blonde hair, probably mother and daughter, sat in what appeared to be shock. Riley peered into the driver’s side window and pulled on her blue disposable gloves.
“Are you okay in there?” She attempted to open the door.
“I think so. Just a little shook up.” The female driver had some cuts on her face that were bleeding heavily but didn’t seem too serious.
“Don’t try to move. Best to stay still in case you have an injury you’re not aware of,” Riley said, handing the woman a square gauze pad. “Hold that on your cheek. Paramedics are on their way, okay?”
“Sure, Officer,” the woman said, nodding her head a little, then wincing as she pushed the gauze into one of the larger cuts. Riley turned to check the progress of the ambulance, and now a fire truck also approached the entrance of the bridge. Both blaring sirens, though the roadblock hadn’t been set up yet; drivers were still trying to turn onto the bridge.
In the second car, a two-door blue Toyota hatchback, Riley found a man in his late sixties looking very pale and unmoving.
“Sir, can you hear me?” She tried the door. This time it didn’t pull open as the woman’s car had. Had he locked the door for safety, or was it the result of the collision?
She knocked on the window and called out again, but the man remained still, his head at a strange angle, his eyes closed, though his chest moving up and down as he breathed. She tried the door one more time, then looked into the car that had collided with the postal van.
Check it, then come back and try to open this guy’s door. Riley went to the front car, a green Suburban, its nose crumbled into the side of the postal van, windshield smashed. When she tried the door, it opened easily. Inside, a wealthy looking man in his forties, his shirt and tie streaked with blood, sat stunned.
“Sir, are you okay?”
He flickered his eyes to her. “I think so. No need to worry about me, Sergeant.”
Riley glanced around the cabin. “Are you on the job, sir?”
He laughed, then winced. “Retired. Check the other fellow. He’s not moving. I’m alright here till paramedics arrive.”
The postal van was empty. Marge, the driver, sat on the curb while a civilian attended to her.
Riley returned to the blue hatchback. The old man inside hadn’t moved. She didn’t carry a slim jim in her tool kit, the bike had limited space, and she regretted not having one today. Riley went around to the other side of the hatchback, back past the mother and daughter, who looked pale, but stable.
The passenger side of the hatchback was a little less banged up than the driver’s side door. Riley tried the door again, and this time it pulled open with a squeak. Just as she was about to get into the car, the ambulance finally made it to their position.
“First and last cars seem to be minor injuries, and fairly stable. This guy I’m worried about,” she yelled to the two paramedics who went straight into action. “I’ll see if I can get the door open from inside.” She ducked her head into the car, checking for dangerous objects before leaning over toward the driver. “Sir? Are you with us?”
Riley prodded his arm gently, but he didn’t respond. His breathing was shallow and labored.
“I’m going to try to open the door to let the paramedics in,” she said, in case he could hear her. “No need to worry. We’ll have you sorted out shortly.”
The door was unlocked, and when she pulled the handle, nothing happened. Riley crawled a little further inside and tried again, this time with a firm shove for good measure, but it was stuck. The one thing she liked about older style cars in these situations was the hand crank windows. She started to turn the handle to give the paramedics room.
“Door’s stuck,” she said, though it was obvious.
“I’ll come ‘round,” the shorter of the paramedics said, then scooted over the hood of the car behind on his butt. “If you don’t mind, Officer...”
Riley backed out of the car to allow access. “Holmes. Riley Holmes,” she replied.
“Thanks, Riley. We’ve got it from here.”
Riley turned away from the scene, allowing the medicos to do their jobs. “Four-Mary-five to central,” she said over the radio.
“Central, go ahead four-Mary-five.”
“Paramedics in place on this side. Have we got that roadblock up yet?”
“Yes, roadblock is in place. We have units coming to you to help direct traffic away from the collision site.”
“Copy.” Riley wanted to go to the other side of the crash, but the road was unsafe to do so, even on foot. She moved to get a better vantage point. An ambulance had arrived on the far side as well as police vehicles. It seemed the mainland side had been able to send people more efficiently. She was still waiting for another unit to back her up.
Those caught behind the line of cars in the crash continued to try and turn around.
I need to do something. The first uninjured car in the line had rolled down their driver’s side window and the woman leaned her head out as though to catch Riley’s attention.
“Are you hurt, ma’am?” Riley jogged toward the car.
“No, we’re not hurt. I can see the cars behind turning around. Are we okay to go?”
“Did you see what happened?”
“No, not really,” the woman replied. “One minute we were driving along no worries, and the next there was a flash of something over the road, a screech of tires, and the postal van started swerving all over the road. Then I think it must have hit the wall on the other side, and at some point it rolled over. It was hard to see.”
Riley pulled out her small notepad and took down what the woman said. “Okay, then what happened?”
“The cars in front couldn’t stop in time, although I braked as soon as the van started swerving.”
“You said a flash of something. What do you mean by that?”
“An animal on the road, I think. Sort of tan and brown spots, maybe a dog, I didn’t really see.”
“Strange, I’ll make a note. Can I get your name and details for the report? We may need to interview you more thoroughly at a later time.”
“Yes, of course.” The woman gave Riley her details.
“Here’s my business card. It’s got my name—Sergeant Riley Holmes. If you think of anything else, please get in touch with me directly, or call the San Destino Police Department and they’ll be able to help you. You can turn around and head back to the island, slowly.”
Riley waved the car behind forward and repeated the same question. The driver of that car had seen even less. Even so, she got his details, handed him her card, and sent him away.
The third car was a familiar late model silver Porsche 911. The top was down, and the driver nodded to her, removing his aviator sunglasses as he approached.
“Mike,” Riley said, nodding acknowledgment to her friend Petra’s fiancé, Mike Schwartz.
“Sherlock,” he replied. She grimaced. He knew she hated the nickname, and she suspected he continued to use it for that reason.
“Did you see what happened?” Riley looked over the interior of the car, taking in the long legs and short skirt of the very attractive young blonde woman in the passenger seat.
“No, there was some commotion and I saw the van go into the bridge barrier, flip, and then several cars rear-end one another. I was a ways back and stopped with plenty of room.”
“Right. And you didn’t see what caused the van to veer out of control?”
“No—”
“I didn’t see anything either, except the stupid dog or whatever running over the road,” the blonde added. Her voice was high-pitched and saccharine. Riley didn’t know who she was, but she epitomized the sort of woman she found hard to respect, a woman who made herself small to be attractive to men.
“And what’s your name, ma’am?”
“Cindy Cartwright,” she said, then spelled both names so Riley could write them down.
“And you said there was a dog on the road?”
“Yes, I didn’t see where it came from, but suddenly it was there in the middle of the road. I think the postal van tried to avoid it and then crashed.”
“Can you describe the dog?”
“Not really, light brown maybe, very fast, jumping all over the place.”
“Okay. And what is your relationship to Mister Schwartz?”
“He’s my boyfriend,” she said. Mike glared at her and started to talk over her.
“We work together, Sherlock, nothing exciting.”
“Sorry, yes, Mike is my boss, Officer.” Cindy blushed, her neck and cheeks turning a vivid shade of blotchy pink.
Riley couldn’t help the eyebrow that arched up. “I see.” She had always thought Mike was a conniving finance-bro who was hiding something, but had never had any evidence. Now she had him in a car with a woman who claimed he was her boyfriend.
“Petra doesn’t need to know about this. Cindy’s a colleague. We work together.”
“And what is your purpose for being on the bridge at this time? In the middle of a workday.”
“We had a client meeting on the mainland,” Mike said. “We called to cancel when the van blocked the road.”
“I hope you used the handsfree to make that call.”
“No, I called,” Cindy said, before Mike turned back to glare at her again.
He must behave differently with Petra. If he was like this around her, she would kick him to the curb in three seconds flat.
“Here’s my business card.” Riley handed one to both Mike and Cindy. “You may need to give a formal statement later, depending on how the investigation gets on. You can turn the car around and head back to the island. I expect the road will be blocked for some time until they can clear all this up.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Holmes,” Mike said. Riley waved him away.
You can use my name when you’re sucking up then. Riley was incensed, not only that Mike had proven to be a lying piece of garbage—as much as she hadn’t liked him, it was different now that her friend was being hurt—but also that he expected her not to tell Petra. On the other hand, Petra knew Riley didn’t like Mike, and she worried that telling her about the interaction would make her seem petty.
Riley shook herself and brought her mind back to the job, canvassing the drivers before they all left the scene.
***
Petra arrived home to her cold and empty apartment. She lived alone. Mike would stay over a few nights a week, but they’d agreed not to move in together until after the wedding.
Not that he’ll agree on a date. Petra sighed. A nice hot shower might help rejuvenate her. After spending time with Margaret to ease her passing, Petra felt drained and agitated.
Once showered, she flopped onto her bed, wearing only a purple towel, and stared at the ceiling. Her phone buzzed and she grabbed it.
I had a hectic day at work; just got off a twelve-hour shift. I’m making my famous mac and cheese for dinner if you want to join us.
It was from Riley, her best friend’s sister, motorcycle cop by day, and accomplished cook by night. It would be nice to be around people she felt totally at ease with.
You’re a lifesaver. That sounds awesome. Just gotta change, be there in fifteen minutes.
Petra’s parents moved away from San Destino ten years ago, when she was only seventeen. She’d lived on her own ever since. Her parents had helped pay the rent for a couple of years, maybe to relieve some of the guilt of living off the island and refusing to visit her.
During those early years, Petra had spent most of her time with Maddy, Riley’s younger sister, and had become a de facto part of their family. Riley was the eldest and took care of everyone, especially after their mom’s stroke five years ago.
Petra’s apartment was only a couple of blocks away from the Holmes’ and she usually walked there. Petra’s place wasn’t in the best neighborhood, and she could afford to look for somewhere a bit fancier now she had started working in a couple of good jobs, but she still preferred having her chosen family close in case of days like today when their comfort would help restore her energy.
She approached the Holmes’ place—a two-story Edwardian terrace house, with a protruding bay window and a tiny porch with a swinging chair. It had definitely seen better days, the mauve paint peeling, the swing upholstery worn, but all three kids stayed there with their mom.
Riley moved back in after their dad died, then Maddy came back, while Jen had never left and played up being the baby of the family.
“Hey, you made it just in time,” Riley said, her usually vibrant eyes shadowed by dark, purple-tinged rings, her posture more hunched.
“I would never pass up your cooking,” Petra said, stepping forward to hug her. Riley gave some of the best hugs around, something about her strong arms, and gruff exterior made the tenderness of her hugs even better.
“Pets!” Maddy yelled, galumphing down the stairs in her gigantic shoes as always. There was very little subtlety to the middle Holmes girl. She wore very tight jeans, and all her shirts had tasteful holes cut in them. The style wasn’t quite punk, but punk adjacent. Whereas Riley had a more refined style, preferring fitted trousers and button-down shirts, though today her shirt was wrinkled, perhaps a testament to her hectic shift.
Petra extricated herself from Maddy’s hug. “Tell me about your day, Riley.”
“Why? What happened today?” Maddy examined her nails.
“Let me get dinner out and I’ll tell you both.” Riley served out four portions. She would need to feed her mother, Georgina, later on, since she couldn’t eat on her own.
Georgina had lost a lot of functions in recent years and needed help getting around. They’d moved her bed into the living room too, so she didn’t have to do so many stairs. The stroke had taken most of her language and movement, but Georgina’s mind was intact.
Petra would often sit with her, sometimes helping her eat, or just holding her hand and talking to her in her mind. She hadn’t told any of the Holmes girls she had this talent. They’d probably tell her she was a weirdo, so it was just a secret between her and Georgina, her second mother.
“Smells amazing. Thanks for cooking, Riley,” Petra said.
“Any time.” Riley smiled and turned away. If Petra didn’t know any better, she would have thought Riley was blushing.
Once the other plates were on the table, and everyone had sat down, Riley sighed.
“What happened at work?” Petra asked.
“Did you hear about the accident on the bridge?”
“There was an accident?” Maddy said.
“Yeah, the postal van overturned. Full blockage of four lanes right in the middle of peak hour. I was the first on scene. There weren’t too many injuries, but it was a real shit show—debris, letters, and flowers. A florist’s van got busted up too, stuff all over the place. I had to hang around for ages while they cleaned it up to manage traffic.”
“I thought you were home late today,” Maddy said.
“Yeah, it’s good overtime though.” Riley smiled, but it didn’t lift the fatigue on her face.
“Did something else happen?” The feeling of quiet despair coming off Riley didn’t seem to match the description she’d just given.
Riley’s fork paused half-way to her mouth. “Mike was on the bridge.”
“Oh my god, is he okay? Was he injured?”
“No, he’s fine, didn’t even ding the Porsche.” Again, that joyless smile.
“But?” Maddy prompted.
“I shouldn’t say anything,” Riley replied.
“About what? You can’t stop there,” Maddy said.
Riley put her fork down and scrubbed her hands over her face, then through her hair. “He was in the car with Cindy, from his office.”
“I know Cindy,” Petra said, a cold ball of fear forming in her belly. “She seems nice.” For a vacuous secretarial type.
“Isn’t she the blonde you said you got weird vibes off?” Maddy asked.
“Yeah. When I dropped something to Mike at the office a couple of months ago. She was nice enough, but it felt like she pitied me, said that she would put in a good word for me if I wanted a real job, as if I’d want to work in an office all day.”
“What does she do there?” Riley asked.
I don’t know where this is going, and I don’t like it. “She’s a clerk of some sort, or maybe admin. Is that important?”
“I don’t know. They said they were going to see a client on the mainland.”
“That’s probably true. I don’t know what he does most of the time. He’s told me what his job involves, but it sounds very dull.”
“You don’t think it was a client meeting, do you?” Maddy said, her eyebrows raised in question.
“I...” Riley trailed off.
“What aren’t you saying?” Petra stared hard at Riley.
“When I asked how Cindy knew Mike, she said he was her boyfriend.”
“You’re making that up.”
“Why would she be making that up? When has Riley ever lied to you?” Maddy’s voice rose with anger.
“I knew you were jealous of my engagement, Ri, but this is low. I thought you were better than this.” Petra dropped her fork, which clattered against the plate. She stood, grabbed her bag, and stormed out of the house without another word.
She marched all the way back to her apartment building, but was still so angry that she kept walking, not paying attention to where she was going. It was dark, but the weather was mild. The stars looked down on her emotional turmoil indifferent.
If Riley was right, and Cindy and Mike were—she couldn’t bear to even think it—more than friends, her life was built on a lie. She’d been with him since they met in college. He’d pursued her, he’d been the one making big decisions, and she’d gone with the flow.
When he asked her to marry him on their fourth anniversary, she said yes. Not because she had always dreamed of being a wife, she didn’t care about a piece of paper or a big ceremony, but because she knew it meant something to him. He needed the piece of paper, he wanted the big wedding, and she wanted him to be happy.
But what if he was cheating with some young blonde from his office? He did spend a lot of time there, and he never liked sleeping over, but that was because he had restless leg syndrome. It was the most cliched thing he could have done, and he hadn’t even turned thirty yet. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be.
She reached the houseboats around Kismet Bay, a mile or so from her building. Petra’s skin prickled as the wind off the water caught her.
What if Riley was the one lying? She’d known her since they were kids. The Holmes were more like her family than her own parents.
Yes, Riley had been a bit weird a few times. Petra had started to think maybe her best friend’s sister had feelings for her, but she must know Petra didn’t think of her like that.
Why would she lie? Being the bearer of such devastating news, especially if it wasn’t true, would ruin their friendship, and push Petra away perhaps forever. She wouldn’t risk that. No way. So maybe Riley was mistaken.
Yes, that must be it. She’d misunderstood what was happening, and trying to be a good friend, had told Petra. She would have a chat with Mike about it, clear the air, and explain it all to Riley.
Petra looked at her watch—already after nine o’clock and she was still sitting by the water, getting cold. After a long day, a patient death, and an interrupted dinner, Petra wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and sleep for at least two days. Too bad she had to work again tomorrow.
Better get home. She turned and started back up the hill, her aching feet protesting.