Chapter Twenty-Nine

January 30, 2017— continued

Fat and fluffy snowflakes hung in the air before drifting to the ground and melting. Carmen stood at the front door of the Cascade City Municipal Court, looking out. R’Shawna teetered up the walkway, a cane in one hand and a white plastic bag in the other.

“Hello, darlin’. It’s a big day for you. Here,” R’Shawna said, holding out the bag. “I brought ya this. It was the best I could do under the circumstances.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Carmen said. “I’m sure I’ll love it.”

They found their way into a poorly lit bathroom where Carmen could change out of her clothes and into the long white dress R’Shawna found at a secondhand store.

****

Jerry stood in the doorway of Julia’s hospital room, the flash drive from Julia’s purse in his hand. He promised to listen to the Booth-Mathis-Paloma conversations and call her later.

“I hope Paloma’s okay,” he told her. “I love you, honey girl. Take care of yourself. And enjoy the ice cream—solo. I can’t believe I’m letting you have it all to yourself.”

Julia pushed the red “call nurse” button clipped to the bed. The second shift nurse arrived within minutes.

“How can I help you, love?” he asked, his accent distinctly Carribean.

“Can I go see my mother?”

“Your mother?”

“Paloma Navarro. Why is she here?”

“Oh, that is your mother? I am not at liberty to share health information unless she give permission. She do not like the yellow hospital gown we put her in. No, no.” He shook his finger. “She say it make her look sickly, which make me laugh because people who come to the hospital is sick. The laundry looks for blue gown, which your mother say would be all right, although she is not too pleased about that either. She tell me if she have to stay long, she will order something prettier from Palmer’s Department Store.”

“Will she have to stay here long?”

“I cannot say this to you.”

“Oh, right. Damn confidentiality. Well, can I go to her room? I had no idea she was here.”

“Of course, let me help you get out of bed. You must be careful. The infection seems to respond to the antibiotic, but you may still be weak and unsteady. Take it slow, my love.”

Charlie looked on. “Do you want me to go with you, hon?”

“Uh-huh. I’ll probably need moral support. Why in the world is Mamá here? She’s had bladder infections in the past. That’s probably it—she probably let one go on too long. Those can wreak havoc on a person’s system. Or her cold got into her lungs. That cough of hers has been awful.”

Julia pushed the IV pole toward room two-o-six, wearing green anti-slip hospital socks with sticky little pads on the bottom and two hospital gowns, one covering the front and the other covering the back.

“Thanks for the second gown,” she told the nurse. “Nobody’s going to see my hairy lower back today. It’s a jungle back there.”

****

Paloma lay still with closed eyes. Tubes ran to and from her nose, arm, and under the bedsheet. A catheter led to a urine bag hanging off the bed. A lima-bean-shaped plastic tub half-filled with bloody sputum sat on the table.

“What in the hell?” Julia squeaked. “Mamá? It’s me. Can you hear me? What’s wrong? Is it pneumonia?”

Charlie stared at the whiteboard on the wall.

Today is: Monday, January 30, 2017

Name: Paloma Martín Navarro

Room #: Two-o-six

Age: Forty-four

Allergies: none

Care Team: Dr. Shelley Lewis – Oncology, Nurse: Ajani Lawrence, Hospice Social Worker: Trina Albertsen, Minister: Paolo Shapiro

Activity Goals: N/A

Food Restrictions: clear liquids as tolerated

Julia walked into the private bathroom, sat on the toilet lid, grabbed some toilet paper, and blew her nose. “She has an oncologist?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Charlie said. “Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems.”

“It says ‘Hospice’ on the board, Charlie.”

“Carlos?” Paloma mumbled. “Get me a diet soda. In a glass. Plenty of ice.”

Julia jumped off the toilet seat, IV pole and all. “Mamá. Why are you here?”

“Julia? Why are you hooked up to that thing? You look awful in that color. People with olive skin should never wear green or yellow. Ever. You could pass for an underripe banana in the best of times but more so in that gown.”

“I have an infection, Mamá, but I’ll be fine.”

“Are those stitches in your head?”

Charlie pushed a chair next to Paloma’s bed for Julia to sit.

“Never mind the stitches. What’s wrong with you? The whiteboard says you’re in hospice care.”

“Oh. That. I have cancer. Would you or Carlos stop by The Beachcomber and get my makeup bag? I must look like something the Bigfoot dragged in, and I simply won’t have it. I will not look like a worn-out old baglady, even in here.”

“Mamá, forget about the makeup. What kind of cancer?”

“Breast, stage four.” She sucked a few rumbly breaths in and out. “The first time was in 2012.”

“The first time?”

“I didn’t want to worry you. What would’ve been the point? It went into remission and came back. It happens, Mija. I did plan to tell you. It’s why I came here in the first place.”

Julia pressed her fingertips to the center of her forehead. “What the fuck?”

“Aye, Mija. I’d tell you to stop with the thug language, but what’s the use? I can’t change you. Please bring Raúlito when you can. I want to see my handsome grandson as much as I can before…” Paloma coughed foamy blood into the lima bean. “I never thought I would spit like a baseball player, yet here I am. Some of them even rearrange their private parts. On TV, no less. Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she clicked her tongue. “Apparently, all the money in the world can’t turn an overpaid lowbrow into a gentleman. What kind of mother raises her son to touch his privates for all the world to see?”

“Have the doctors said how long—how long…”

“To live? Not long, Mija. It’s all over my body—lungs, bones, brain. There’s nothing you or anyone else can do. I told them to stop the chemo.”

Julia’s heart thundered. “This can’t be happening.”

“I assure you it is. I’ve made mistakes in my past—plenty of them, and now I’m paying the price. I’m not a good person, Mija. Anything good in you came from your papá.”

The buzz of a thousand tiny electrical currents bounced around inside Julia’s head.

A woman from the housecleaning staff came and went.

Teardrops rolled off Julia’s cheeks, splatting on the shiny waxed floor beneath her feet.

“Mamá?”

“Mmm?”

“A minute ago, you said you couldn’t change me.”

“Mmm.”

“Why do you want to change me? Why have you always wanted to change me?” Julia rocked back and forth. Heel, toe, heel, toe. “I mean, what is so wrong with me?”

Paloma stared out the window. “How can it be forty and cloudy in Seattle and seventy with clear skies in Dallas at the same time?” She fiddled with the edges of the thin hospital blanket. “Some things are hard to understand and harder to explain.” She took a deep breath and coughed so hard it sounded like her innards might come out with it.

“Can I get you anything? You should put the oxygen mask back on,” Julia said.

Paloma held her hand in the stop position. “Take my friend, Olga,” she said, ignoring the oxygen mask suggestion. “Her great-grandmother drank like a fish, smoked like a chimney, and lived to the age of ninety-six. She had five husbands and sixteen children, none of whom she treated with a lick of kindness. Beat every one of them to within an inch of their lives. She went to bed one night and never woke up—the perfect death.

“And do you remember Miguel Vargas, our next-door neighbor in Laredo?”

Julia nodded. “He was my first older man crush—before Mr. Sanchez, my chemistry teacher.”

“Miguel avoided fried foods, sweets, salt.” Paloma held up a finger and bowed her head. “Give me a minute. My chest—hurts.”

“We don’t have to talk about this now.”

The nurse poked his head into the room. Julia pointed to an imaginary wristwatch and held up five fingers. “Five minutes,” she mouthed. The nurse nodded in understanding.

“We do have to talk about this now, Julia,” Paloma said. “I’m running out of time.”

Julia’s temperature had returned to normal, but she felt clammy nonetheless. Where is she going with this conversation, and what does it have to do with wanting to change me?

“Now, where was I?” Paloma continued. “Oh, yes. Miguel ran marathons, went to church, volunteered at the food bank, didn’t smoke, got early onset dementia, and died at forty-eight, leaving behind an adoring wife and two sons. By the end, he wore diapers and couldn’t remember his children’s names or how to tie his shoes. Why?”

Julia shrugged, unable to speak with tears running down her throat.

“The point is that sometimes there are no easy answers. I’ve never been one for introspection, Mija. It upsets me too much. But I’m sorry if I ever made you feel less-than. You’ve been a wonderful daughter, and you’re so accomplished. You are your father’s child. I was not there for you as a mother—I admit it. Children are messy and imperfect, and I wanted perfect. It was wrong of me.”

Should I tell her how much hurt she’s caused me? While there’s still time? “It’s okay, Mamá. You raised me right, and there was love behind everything you did. Despite our differences, I’ve always known that.”

The nurse checked the numbers on the monitor.

“She said her chest hurts,” Julia told him.

“De doctor approved morphine ta calm your breathing, Miss Navarro,” he said in a volume somewhere between talking and shouting. “It’ll help with the discomfort. I’ll add it to your IV. I be right back, okay? I gotta get the medicine.” He looked at Julia with a hint of pity on his face and left the room.

“Dios mío! I’m dying, not deaf,” Paloma said with a frown. “Julia, I’m very tired. I’m going to close my eyes for a while. I shouldn’t croak in the next few hours. I have much to tell you still. Will you turn off the light?” She turned on her side, grabbed the plastic tub, and set it by her head.

****

Jerry plugged the flash drive into his laptop and played and replayed the audio recordings between Booth and Mathis at the restaurant on Friday and Paloma and Mathis at the same booth on Saturday. He could barely believe his ears—Julia and Paloma’s plan to record conversations at Mamá Mendoza’s restaurant won the day. Mathis and Booth admitted to trafficking women and holding them in deplorable conditions with threats of violence to keep them in place. Mathis alluded to raping the woman, Magdalena—and who knew if Booth had done the same to Consuelo? That would be a question for her at a later time.

And the following night at Mamá Mendoza’s, Paloma asked Mathis if he lived alone.

“I have live-in help,” he explained. “The Bible says, ‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as it is fit in the Lord,’ and you can’t argue with the Lord. Lena resisted the idea after I brought her here, but she’s come to enjoy the arrangement. As one who believes in God’s word, I’m sure you understand.”

“Lena is your wife, then?” Paloma asked after a coughing fit.

“No.” Mathis chuckled. “She’s the maid, but I treat her well, and she’s thankful for the opportunities afforded her in the U.S.”

“Where is she from?”

“Central America—one of those shithole countries.”

“Does she want to go back?”

“Why would she? Now, let’s talk about St. Luke’s. What questions can I answer for you?”

“If I donate enough to fund a theatre on school grounds, would I have naming rights? I’d require that stipulation in writing.”

“What name do you have in mind?”

“The Paloma Theatre.”

“That’s lovely, Carol. Why that name?”

“Because Paloma means dove, and doves symbolize peace.”

Jerry stopped the recording. “Oh, Paloma. You are such a treasure,” he said to himself. “The Paloma Theatre. That’s a good one.”

With the new explosive, nail-in-the-coffin information from the recordings, Jerry sent Julia a text: “It’s time to get the police involved. We’ve got all we need to haul their asses to jail, and Juan Carlos has an attorney lined up for the women.”

Julia texted back: “Can the police meet us at the hospital? I want to be part of the conversation, but I’m not leaving my mother.”

****

January 31, 2017

The Cascade City Chronicle

“Shoving Matches Injure Two at Department Store Half-Off Undergarments Sale”

Julia and Jerry sat side by side on the neatly made bed in room three-twelve, an unused space the charge nurse on the third floor offered up for their meeting. With his laptop perched on the rolling metal bedside table, Jerry wrapped his arm around Julia for reassurance.

“I’m scared,” Julia said. “We could have a happy ending here or…”

“Things could go down the shitter real quick.” Jerry gave Julia’s shoulder a little squeeze. “But they won’t. Okay? They won’t. We’re going to have to trust the police.”

Assistant Chief Kermit Harrelson, a portly man with an uncanny resemblance to Santa Claus, and Sargeant Marcia Christiansen, a middle-aged woman with slicked-back bleached-blonde hair and a spray-on orange tan, entered the room and sat in chairs by a little round table near the window.

“What’s this all about?” Harrelson asked. “It better be good because parking was a bitch, and Sargeant Christiansen and I have a lot of important work to do.”

Julia glanced at her lined yellow notepad, where she’d carefully written a list of points she wanted to make. “We have proof that two prominent Cascade City residents, Percy Booth and Emerson Mathis, have engaged in human trafficking and domestic slavery for nineteen and twenty years, respectively. Captive women are in their homes as we speak. Is that enough to make that bitch of a parking situation worth your while?”

Sargeant Christiansen choked on her coffee. “You what?”

Harrelson stood up and put his fleshy hands on his hips. “Is this a joke?”

“We’re serious as a heart attack,” Jerry replied.

Julia reached over and touched Jerry’s knee. “Or cancer.”

Jerry leaned over and pecked her cheek. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“What kind of proof you got?” Sargeant Christiansen asked.

“Let me lay it all out for you,” Julia said, consulting her neatly written notes.

Fifteen minutes later, Harrelson stood and hiked his pants farther up his belly. “Get Chief Drake on the line. Pronto,” he told Christiansen.