Hidden

He’d like to think so.

And feared not.

“You don’t trust me.” Trust could be freely given—at least the kind of trust where you could tell someone your secret and know it would be safe.

“I don’t trust anyone.”

He sat up, too, leaning against the headboard, taking the sheet with him. “It’s pretty obvious someone’s hurt you. Badly.” He was trespassing and knew it. The terror he’d felt that morning on the beach, when he’d known she was gone and had no idea where to begin searching, no idea if she was in danger or if she’d ever done anything like that before, drove him on.

“I’m guessing it had something to do with Taylor’s biological father.”

Her silence gave him nothing. It could indicate agreement. Or a refusal to be drawn into a conversation she’d asked not to have.

“But that doesn’t have anything to do with me. You’ve been here almost two years, Trish. I responded to your overtures of friendship in a bar, in spite of the fact that you were obviously pregnant and every other guy there was ignoring you. I brought you home and offered you a place to stay, no strings attached, no sex required. And when you let me know you wanted sex, that you needed a new experience to replace the memory of the baby’s conception, I was very careful. Hell, we birthed that baby together! I would think you’d know by now that you can trust me.”

When she turned her head, Scott could see the sheen of moisture in her eyes, reflected by a ray from the moon shining in the opposite window.

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” she whispered. “It’s me. And because I can’t trust myself, I can’t trust anyone else.”

He didn’t understand.

“I…made…choices. Bad ones. Really bad ones.”

Skin growing hot, Scott remained still. This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? To know?

“They affected not only my life, but others as well, and I never saw it coming. I had so much confidence, so much blind trust in my ability to make good decisions, that I almost died. Worse, I could have caused someone else’s death.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen her cry. And two of them had been within the past couple of days.

“That would be murder, Scott. And all because I trusted my judgment where other people were concerned.” She slid back down, pulling the covers up to her chin as she blinked away any hint of emotion. “I don’t anymore.”

She must, at least a little. Even if she wasn’t ready to acknowledge it to herself. She was here, wasn’t she?

And so was Taylor.

Tricia tried to sleep. She closed her eyes. Went to the safe place inside where, no matter what was happening on the surface of her life, things were exactly as she wanted them to be.

The place was always the same. A meadow. With cool grass, a light breeze blowing. The sun always shone in her meadow, no matter what time of day she went there. It kept her warm, but wasn’t hot. A brook trickled nearby. Birds sang there sometimes. Other times heavenly music played. It had to be heavenly because there were no electronics in her meadow—not even beneath the white canopy that had netted sides to keep out any bugs and a down floor upon which she could lie.

Tonight the meadow was elusive. She could get there, but kept popping back out, to an inexpensive mattress in a modest home in San Diego, lying next to a man who, in her meadow, would’ve been a fairy tale prince. But who, in real life, presented as much danger as he did safety. The biggest danger of all was making her want things she couldn’t have. Things that could endanger her life. Or Taylor’s. She couldn’t afford to become too soft. Or trusting. She couldn’t afford to feel secure.

That was when runaways got caught.

Still, she did want things. She wanted him.

He was still lying half-propped against the headboard and she knew he was awake.

Sliding one hand from beneath the covers, Tricia entwined her fingers with his. Many nights she’d fallen asleep with their hands interlocked.

“I want to stay.”

He didn’t react until, several seconds later, she felt the pressure of a light squeeze against her fingers. He slid down slowly, his body touching hers all the way down.

“I want you to stay,” he replied, just before his mouth covered hers.

And, really, that was it for them. Another bout of incredible lovemaking. Another moment when, injured as they were, they could each connect with another human being. Another moment of forgetting.

A brief moment of perfection in a life that wasn’t perfect at all.

6

San Francisco Gazette

Sunday, April 10, 2005

Tricia quickly checked the date above the headline as she stared at the newspaper box on the corner of Redwood and 30th Streets, a short mile down the road from Scott’s house in South Park. Seeing that today’s issue had replaced yesterday’s, she slid her quarters into the slot, pulled open the front and grabbed the double-thick Sunday edition. Scott was at work, Taylor asleep in his stroller.

The sweet scent of roses and carnations coming from the flower stand nearby reminded her of home—of fresh-cut flowers on the table. Color everywhere. Sunshine and blue skies.

Paper resting on the stroller’s canopy, Tricia pushed her small son toward Fern Street and the crossover to North Park. With the paper growing heavier with every step she took, Tricia knew she had to calm herself. Her hands were shaking, her knees weak, threatening to give out on her.

Balboa Park, San Diego’s pride and joy, had acres and acres of parkland, flower gardens, museums and even the zoo. It would be a good place to go. Its elegance—and sheer size—its buildings and businesses would provide her with the company she needed to alleviate her panic while still affording the privacy that had become a necessity. And when Taylor woke up, they could play on the swings. He loved that.

The thought of her son’s laughter as she held him on her lap and pushed them both as high in the air as she dared chased away some of the fear that seemed such a natural part of her these days.

Past pink hibiscus, pine trees, down streets with two-foot-high beige walls surrounding grassy front yards, Tricia slowly pushed the stroller, concentrating on the rhythm of the wheels crossing cracks in the sidewalk, on the soft April air, on the mustards and browns of Southern California homes and plants.

Whatever was in that paper would still be there in half an hour, when she was in a better state to comprehend it. Yesterday’s scare with the man in dress pants watching her on the beach had taken its toll. Or maybe it had been her immediate reaction—the way she’d walked off without a word, leaving her son playing with her lover in the sand—that was unsettling her so completely. Had she really changed that much? Hardened that much? Hurt so much that something vital inside her had snapped, allowing her to shut herself off and simply go?

Or was she just stronger now? Better prepared? Able to do whatever she had to in order to protect her son?

Had there really been someone watching her? Or was she becoming paranoid?

At the park, she pushed the stroller toward the yellow metal swing set just off a cemented common area, stopping at a stone picnic table beneath the shade of a palm tree. Brushing back damp hair from Taylor’s flushed cheeks, she adjusted the canopy above him, loosened the straps on his denim coverall and slid the brown sweater down over his chubby little arms. He didn’t stir.

Smiling, Tricia watched her son, followed the even cadence of his breath, and knew another perfect moment—a second when everything in her world was just as it should be. As it was meant to be. The love she felt for Taylor, the joy he brought to her life in ordinary moments—these things were larger than any evil that might lie in wait. That joy was worth any inconvenience, any pain she had to go through.

For now and for always. To have had these moments, raising the innocent little person who was such an integral part of her, made everything else worthwhile.

Satisfied that Taylor was fine for another few minutes, Tricia slid onto one end of the bench, setting the paper in front of her. There was no one around that early on a Sunday morning, so she didn’t have the peripheral protection of the crowds that would appear later, drawn by the museums, restaurants and shops. Still, she was out.

And alive.

There was nothing on the front page. Not even a teaser. Nothing in the whole first section. Which didn’t necessarily mean anything other than that Thomas Whitehead—or someone equally influential—was paying to have the news hidden somewhere inside the paper. Money couldn’t stop freedom of the press, but it sure had a way of making some stories less visible.

Pages shaking as she held them up, gaze moving more rapidly across each sheet as her heart rate sped up, Tricia turned a page. And then another.

Panic rose in her throat. Another day with nothing couldn’t be good.