Every Time I Think of You Read online

  EVERY TIME

  I THINK OF YOU

  TRACEY GARVIS GRAVES

  For Agnes Garvis and Margaret Parker

  Because no two greater grandmothers ever existed, at least not in my world.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER BOOKS BY TRACEY GARVIS GRAVES

  CHAPTER 1

  Three-year-old Elliott DiStefano hid underneath his mother’s bed when the shouting started. He didn’t understand what the raised voices coming from the living room meant, but instinct told him to hide.

  No one ever yelled in his house. Sometimes they used a different tone with him, firmer. “Stop climbing everything, you little monkey,” his mama would say, or “It’s time to pick up your toys and get ready for bed,” Nana would announce. Most of the time he would do what they said, although sometimes they had to ask him twice, especially if what he’d rather do was play a little longer. But they never spoke to him in such a harsh way, and they never told him to shut up like the man in the living room just did to Nana.

  Elliott clutched his favorite green army man tightly in his hand. His nana had given him a bath after their early dinner at five and asked if he was ready to put on his pajamas. “I can do it myself,” he’d told her, and she’d smiled and walked out of the bedroom he shared with Mama, closing the door behind her. She’d promised they could watch a movie and that Elliott could have one of the cookies they’d baked earlier that day for his bedtime snack. But then someone knocked on the door and now there was yelling and no movie and no cookie.

  The man’s voice was scary and mean. Nana sounded like she was crying, and as Elliott’s fear grew, he began to tremble. The yelling got a little louder, followed by a crash and a thud. Then nothing. Was the bad man still there? What if he’d left but planned to come back? Elliott could no longer hear Nana’s voice, and he wondered where she was. Did she leave? Did she go with the man? He curled himself into a tight ball and began to cry silent tears.

  He had no way of knowing how much time had passed. It was dark under the bed and the crying had tired him out, so he rubbed his stinging eyes and took a little nap. When he woke up, he desperately needed to go to the bathroom. His mama and Nana had been so proud of him when he stopped wearing diapers, and he hardly ever had accidents, but he couldn’t risk leaving the safety he’d found under the bed. The minutes ticked by, and though he tried his best to hold it, he peed in his pajamas, soaking himself from the waist down. He started to shiver.

  It was quiet for a long time, and then someone banged on the door and shouted something, but Elliott didn’t know if that was bad or good. He heard voices in the living room, not yelling, just talking, but he remained hidden. Mama would be home soon, and she’d know what to do. Elliott decided to wait for her under the bed.

  More voices, drawing closer. The door to the bedroom opened. Elliott froze, wondering if it was the bad man coming to get him. He didn’t make a sound as a pair of legs wearing dark blue pants with a stripe down the side came into view. If he didn’t say a word or make any noise, maybe the person would leave.

  No one would have known he was there if he hadn’t coughed at that very moment. It was a bit dusty underneath the bed, and Elliott already felt a little wheezy, like he might need another dose of his medicine. The legs bent as someone crouched down to look under the bed and Elliott squeezed his eyes shut, terrified of what he might see.

  “It’s okay,” the man said, speaking softly. “I’m a policeman. I’m here to help. Can you come out from under there?”

  Heart pounding, Elliott didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

  More footsteps. More dark blue legs. Elliott stayed put. No one was yelling, but Elliott’s heart was still beating fast, and his body felt like Jell-O.

  A lady wearing a dark blue uniform lay down on the floor next to the bed. “What’s your name?”

  She sounded a little like his mama. Her smile was nice like Mama’s, too. He didn’t think a bad person would smile at him, so he answered her.

  “Ewiott,” he whispered.

  “My name is Officer Ochoa, but you can call me Regina, okay?”

  He nodded.

  “How old are you, Elliott?”

  Using the hand not clutching the army man, he held up three fingers.

  “Three, huh? That’s a good age. I want you to know that you’re safe and no one will hurt you. Can you come out from under there? Here, take my hand.”

  She stretched out her hand to him, and he hesitated but finally touched her palm with his fingers. She urged him gently toward her. Once he was close enough, she reached in and grabbed him by his pajama top, pulling him the rest of the way out.

  Elliott blinked and let his eyes adjust to the light. One of the officers noticed his wet pajamas and his shivering, and they wrapped his Thomas the Tank Engine comforter around him, speaking in low, soothing tones.

  “I want Nana and Mama,” he said.

  They could barely hear him.

  “What is your mama’s name?” they asked.

  “Daisy.” He knew this was true because it was the name other people called her when they said hello. And it was easy to remember because it was the name of a flower, and he liked flowers.

  “Do you know your last name?”

  He nodded. He and Mama had practiced saying it. “DiStefano,” Elliott said. Maybe it didn’t come out as clearly as it sounded to him, because they repeated it back like a question and he nodded.

  The officers exchanged a glance and one of them said, “Got it.” The officer who spoke scribbled something on a pad of paper and left the room.

  “We’re going to take you to the police station, and we’ll call your mom so she can come get you,” Officer Ochoa said. “Okay?”

  He wanted his mama more than anything, so he said okay, and when she bent down and scooped him up, comforter and all, he put his arms around her neck. She hurried down the hallway, and just before they got to the door, when he would have tried to look for Nana to make sure she was coming too, Officer Ochoa pulled Elliott’s head down to her chest and all he could see was the dark blue o
f her uniform.

  CHAPTER 2

  DAISY

  The Santa Ana winds were howling in from the desert the day my grandmother died. Looking back, I can’t help but wonder if this was an omen of sorts. A harbinger, if you will. My parents and older sister had died on the same kind of day: hot, arid, unforgiving. At least that’s what my grandmother told me when I was old enough to hear the details of their demise.

  I left the hospital around seven fifteen that evening. As I walked toward the parking garage, the blast-furnace wind sent the hair that had come loose from my ponytail swirling into my eyes. Blinking, I bent my head and quickened my step.

  I should be used to the weather by now. I’m thirty years old and I’ve lived in Southern California my whole life, in the dying desert town of Fenton, located near the halfway point between Los Angeles and Las Vegas. My first six months were spent in a medium-size, split-level home. I’ve seen pictures of it: the light blue paint with white trim and shutters, the colorful flowerbeds, the well-tended patch of Bermuda grass out front. When my parents and sister died, my grandmother took me in, becoming both a mother and a father to me. For the longest time, it was the only family dynamic I’d ever known. Elliott and I moved back in with my grandmother about a year ago, to the same small apartment where she raised me. It’s where we fled when my marriage went south, and Nana welcomed us with open arms. The house Scott and I had been living in before I left him was only a rental, but I’d worked hard to make it a home for us, especially after Elliott came along.

  I tried not to think about the fact that the only two times I’ve ever lived in a house, things ended very badly.

  Hopefully that was just an unfortunate coincidence.

  The parking garage stood adjacent to the hospital, and upon reaching the shelter of the concrete structure, I hurried up two flights of stairs to my Camry. Once inside, I cranked the engine and turned the air conditioner on high. While I waited for the air to blow cold, I punched buttons on the radio until I found an upbeat pop song. My twelve-hour shift had been emotionally draining, and I needed something to lift my spirits. One of my patients—a young man in his early twenties—was in the late and final stage of kidney failure. I’d spent several hours that day preparing the family for what was coming. This was the part of being a nurse that I hated, and in the eight years I’d worked at the hospital, I’d never been able to overcome the feeling of hopelessness that surrounds an impending death, never been able to compartmentalize it as just part of the job the way some of my fellow nurses could. In some ways, I hoped I never would.

  Traffic was light as I drove home. I didn’t stop at the grocery store or the Thai restaurant to pick up a takeout order even though I’d worked through lunch and my stomach was growling. The gas gauge on my car hovered near a quarter of a tank, but I didn’t stop to refuel either. Elliott was in good hands with Nana, but if I hurried I could make it home in time to read him a book before his eight-o’clock bedtime. I could look into Elliott’s blue eyes, cuddle him in my arms, and shake off the blues that clung to me like the world’s saddest perfume.

  The flashing lights caught my eye when I neared the entrance of our apartment complex. Widowed at forty-nine, Nana had traded her home for an apartment shortly after my grandfather died because she didn’t want the hassle of taking care of a yard and no longer needed so much space. There were a few times growing up when I’d longed for grass and a swing set and a sandbox like some of my friends had. But my grandmother had taken me to the park frequently, and I was doing the same with Elliott.

  As I drove closer, I registered the emergency vehicles with only mild worry. Many of the building’s residents were elderly, and the presence of an ambulance was, unfortunately, not that rare. But then I noticed not just one police car but several. Yellow crime tape. Barricades, and behind them people huddled together at one end of the parking lot. Agnes Beardsley had her arm around Margaret Parker. Margaret was our across-the-hall neighbor and one of my grandmother’s closest friends. She looked like she was crying.

  I scanned the onlookers for my grandmother and Elliott and felt the first stab of fear when I didn’t spot them. Pulling up to the curb, I parked haphazardly and jumped out. My heart beat faster, fluttering in my chest like the wings of a tiny hummingbird as I tried to figure out why my grandmother and Elliott weren’t standing outside with the others. I set my sights on the entrance of the building where a policeman stood and rushed forward.

  “Ma’am! You’ll have to stay back.”

  When I tried to go around him, he put out his hands to block me.

  “I need to find my son. I need to find my grandmother.” My frantic voice caught the attention of the onlookers, and heads turned in our direction. “This is my building,” I said. “I live here!”

  “Ma’am, no one is being permitted inside. Please go over there,” he said, motioning to the far end of the parking lot where the others stood.

  There had to be a reason why my grandmother and Elliott weren’t standing outside with everyone else. Maybe they were still inside? But even I knew that wasn’t the case. It looked like every resident of the building was standing in the parking lot.

  Except for my grandmother and Elliott.

  I tried to calm myself by taking a deep breath, but instead I gasped and gulped at the air like a goldfish that had flopped out of its bowl. This must be what Elliott felt like when his asthma flared up. My pulse raced and I shivered despite the scorching wind. I didn’t walk toward the others, afraid of what they might tell me. If there was bad news coming, and I felt deep down in my bones that there was, I was still on the good side of it. The side that allowed me to hope that my grandmother and Elliott weren’t a part of whatever had happened.

  Then why aren’t they standing in the parking lot with everyone else?

  Trapped in limbo, the uncertainty flooded my body with adrenaline, and my shivering turned to shaking. Panic, swift and dark, threatened to overcome me. I needed answers. If this involved my family, I had a right to know.

  Before I could approach the officer again, a man exited the building. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but he was followed by a policewoman who was holding something in her arms. They walked quickly toward a waiting ambulance and disappeared inside.

  It’s doubtful that many of the onlookers would have known what she was carrying, but I spotted that Thomas the Tank Engine comforter and my whole world shifted. The relief I felt was incomprehensible, immeasurable, bottomless. For a split second I stood there and simply reveled in the sheer joy of knowing where my child was, and then I took off at a run.

  This time, before anyone could stop me, I pushed my way through the people gathered at the back of the ambulance, tears streaming down my face. “That’s my child!”

  Elliott wriggled free and leapt into my arms. “Mama, Mama!”

  I’d never seen Elliott cry so hard, not even when he was nine months old and fell off the kitchen chair after he climbed it when my back was turned.

  He clung to me and I held him tight, sobbing uncontrollably, which was the wrong thing to do because it probably scared him even more, but I couldn’t help it.

  “Are you okay?” I let go long enough to assess him. “Let me see you. Does anything hurt?” Before he could answer, I drew him near again, muffling his hiccupping cries with my shirt.

  “Ma’am? Are you Daisy DiStefano?” someone asked.

  I looked up. They know my name. “Yes.” It hit me then, suddenly: my grandmother was missing. Not Elliott and my grandmother. Just her. “Is it my grandmother?”

  “Yes,” one of them said. “I’m very sorry.”

  Elliott had raised his head and was listening.

  “Is she… gone?” I whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “We don’t know yet, ma’am. The detectives are upstairs now. We need you to come down to the station and give a statement. I’m sorry. You won’t be able to return to your apartment tonight.”


  Why in the world would they bring in detectives? Why would they need a statement? Nana was eighty-four years old, and there had been some setbacks in her health recently. Some heart trouble that had me worried. Dizzy spells that seemed to be increasing in frequency. She’d fallen and broken her wrist six months ago, and it still pained her. I feared it was only the beginning, and I’d begun preparing myself for what lay ahead. My grandmother’s passing, while devastating to me, wasn’t a complete surprise. “I don’t understand.”

  The officer glanced at Elliott. “This was not the result of… natural causes.”

  My eyes went wide when the meaning of his words finally sank in. Someone had killed my grandmother? Is that what they were telling me? That someone committed murder in our apartment while I was at work? It was so far outside my realm of comprehension that my brain had simply failed to connect the dots. “Where did you find my son?” I asked, barely able to form the words.

  “He was hiding under a bed. We didn’t realize anyone else was in the apartment at first. He shows no sign of injury, but we want the medics to give him a quick once-over, okay? Then we’ll take you down to the station.”

  I couldn’t get the image of Elliott, alone and hiding and terrified by whatever was happening, out of my head.

  The officer put his hand on my shoulder. “Ma’am? Are you okay?”

  No, I am not okay.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Is there anything you need from the apartment?”

  “My son has asthma. I need his medicine and nebulizer. They’re on the kitchen counter.”

  The female officer, the one who had carried Elliott outside, smiled and said, “I’ll get it. I’ll grab some dry pajamas, too.”

  She gave me a knowing look and I instantly comprehended what that meant. Poor Elliott.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I waited anxiously as the EMT listened to Elliott’s heart and took his blood pressure with a child-size cuff. He looked into Elliott’s eyes and asked him to follow a light from side to side.

  “Is your hand okay?” the paramedic asked when he saw that Elliott was holding his left hand around his tightly clenched right fist. “Can I take a look?”