All Brenda could do was stare with glazed eyes. Without saying a word, her tear ducts filled and coursed over her lids and dropped wherever they fell, like the rushing waters of Niagara Falls. Brenda grabbed Asia and pulled her into her bosom, holding her in a tight embrace as if that would cause the hurt and pain to go away.
“Hello,” said the voice from below.
Brenda pulled back and looked into Asia’s eyes, pleading with her silently…that the information she just delivered was all a mistake.
“Police officers,” Asia whimpered, “they want to talk with you. I’ll stay here until you come back.”
Wracked with pain, Brenda looked at her daughter and then turned and walked slowly down the stairs. Her soul was ripped apart, and now she had to face the men who would confirm everything Asia had said.
Now at the bottom of the stairs, Brenda continued her slow walk through the foyer and to the large double doors that stood ajar. Stone-faced, she pulled her robe tightly around her and faced the two officers that looked about as unhappy to be on her front porch as she was to see them. She waved them into the foyer, closed the door, and listened.
“Mrs. Christianson?” the officer asked.
“Yes.” She didn’t recognize the two officers.
“I’m Officer Lacy and this is Officer Carter. Umm, I guess you’re already aware that we’re the bearers of not-so-good news.”
Brenda was in a daze, looking well beyond where the officers stood.
“What happened? What happened to Victor?” she finally asked in a low monotone voice, directing her question at Lacy.
“Ma’am, a couple on their way home from church found Mr. Christianson bleeding and non-responsive near a set of railroad tracks in east Durham. He was probably already dead. Someone shot him, and when EMS arrived, he was pronounced dead. Looks as if he may have been dumped at that location.”
Brenda cringed and hunched up her shoulders. A sudden chill rolled through her like an unexpected avalanche that made her tighten her grip on her body. A dull sadness shone in her eyes, but the tears refused to drop anymore.
“Thank you, Officer Lacy.”
“We’re sorry for your loss, ma’am. The body…uh, uh Mr. Christianson’s body, was taken to Duke University Medical Center. If you need anything, please let us know.”
With downcast eyes, Brenda held the door open as the officers left. She watched as they retreated and ambled down the walkway, got in their patrol car, and drove away. Dead! It wasn’t possible that Victor had departed this life without her getting her last say. Good and bad memories joined together as she fought back tears sifting through the last twenty years of her and Victor’s life.
Brenda closed the door and sighed. She shook her head. “It can’t be true; he’s still alive. No, he isn’t dead.”
“Mother?”
Brenda walked through the foyer and stood at the base of the stairs and stared up at Asia. “He’s dead, Asia. Your father is dead.”
Asia stood at the top of the stairs, rocking back and forth. “I hate Nikki.”
52
Sheila stumbled into her office and plopped down at her desk anchored by the weight of the devastating news that found its way into her mailbox on yesterday. Unable to rid herself of the funk that engulfed her like a cyclone that swooped her up into its inner core, she continued to sit, unmoved by the ringing of the phone or the voices of her co-workers who drifted past, offering a word of salutation. They were invisible to her, as the dread of her ill-fated disease ate at her like cancer.
She pulled her head from the sand and looked up as the noise from the object landing on the counter disturbed her daydream. Fresh spring flowers—lilies, iris, carnations in purples, pinks, and bright yellow—stuck in a beautiful vase full of water met her eyes as a middle-aged, white gentleman dressed in a khaki short-sleeved shirt, his hair parted and slicked to the side, stood behind them.
“I’m looking for a Sheila Atkins,” the delivery man said, his hand still clutched around the neck of the vase, poised to pick it up in the event there was a need to do so in order that he might take them to their rightful owner.
“I’m Sheila,” she said half-heartedly. “I wonder who sent me flowers?” she asked absently, reaching for the card that was stuck on the plastic pitchfork in the midst of the beautiful arrangement.
“They must be from someone special,” the deliveryman said. Taking