Fear

“Peggy, get out of there now!” Patrick yelled at me through the phone.

My heart raced. I’d never heard Patrick’s voice raised with anything but hilarity. But he wasn’t being funny. Laughs had been hard to come by since Joan’s murder the week before.

“Why?” I asked, gripping the phone as I wrapped my arm tightly around my waist.

“Sue and I just talked to a psychic. Peg — please just do it. You need to get out of your house now. Call me from somewhere else.”

“Okay.” Never one to question my brother Patrick’s wisdom, I fumbled to put the phone back on its receiver, grabbed my purse and ran down the stairs from my condo to the carport. I looked around — no one was there. I flung open my car door and drove to a phone booth a few miles away in front of a supermarket. People were walking to and from their cars. Had anyone followed me?

I quickly dialed Pat’s number. “Peg?” Pat asked as he picked up.

“It’s me. What in the world did the psychic say?”

“Honey — I’m sorry to scare you but I didn’t want to take any chances. We brought Joan’s necklace to this woman that had been recommended to Sue in Oakland. She described Joan without us telling her anything. She nailed everything — her house, her dogs… she even knew where Joan was killed and how. Honey I don’t want to scare you but she said it’s going to happen again. She described a wooden second story unit with a sliding glass door and deck. She mentioned a big tree…”

Holy shit — the oak tree in front of of my condo!

“…and Peg — she said the next victim would look just like Joan.”

Outta the Park

“Take my car,” Paul’s dad, Stan, said when Paul broke the news of Joan’s murder. “You’ll need a lot of room to take the family to the funeral.” Cars didn’t come much bigger than his Caddie. Lovingly nicknamed the Pimpmobile by Paul and his brothers, the sleek convertible sported smacking red interior.

“We may need it for as much as a week, Dad,” Paul replied.

“Take it.”

By the time we left San Leandro for Susanville the day after we learned of Joan’s death, our team had grown from the “now there are 6” of our immediate family to “now there are 12” including Paul; Sue’s current partner Dee; her ex partner and bona fide family member Anita; Glenn’s friend and sometimes partner Phoebe who had once walked around naked in the kitchen of the house she shared with Patrick and friends in Santa Cruz while Paul and I stared at the bowls of berries we’d just picked from the garden; Joan’s ex boyfriend Larry who was now Joseph and out of the closet; and Mom’s friend Frances, an incessant talker who had appointed herself our trip’s documentarian.

Mom and Dad drove in their white Grenada with Glenn, Sue, Dee and Anita; the rest of us swayed down the freeway in style on those luscious red seats. Aside from a funny comment here or a witty comeback there, we were a sad solemn group.

We arrived in Susanville that late afternoon to be greeted by Dan and his parents, who stood bleekly in front of the motel where they had arranged for us to stay. Our hugs, though heartfelt, were hollowed by the stark absence of Joan.

It was too early for dinner and our appointment with the mortuary wasn’t until the next morning. What to do? Some of Dan and Joan’s friends were gathering at a friend’s house. One of them asked if we’d like to join them. Devoid of the will to do anything but numbly follow, we all ended up in someone’s dirt backyard in lawn chairs watching a couple of guys hitting baseballs.

Patrick, who’d been sitting by himself smoking, turned to face me.
“You’re up, Peg.”

“What?” I asked, willfully pulling myself out of the scene I’d replayed dozens of times in the last 24 hours since Dan’s call: Joan and I were sitting in my living room sharing a bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough laughing as my cat, who was cleaning himself, leaned too far backwards and fell off the couch. If only we could laugh again.

“It’s your turn at bat.” Pat said.

Shocked by the suggestion, I laughed. “Me?” I was lousy at hitting.
What was he thinking?

“Yeah — show them how to hit the ball.”

Never one to say no to Patrick, I shook my head, stood up and walked over to the guys playing ball. “Can I hit one?” I asked, smiling meekly.

The guy with the bat shrugged and handed me the bat.
“Pitch it easy,” he called to his friend.

I missed the first pitch, and the second. By the third, everyone’s eyes were on me. I was gripping the bat and cursing under my breath. “Goddamn it, Patrick.”

The pitch seemed to come in slow motion as I swung. Finally connecting, the ball flew over the far fence and into the neighbor’s yard. Everyone in my family stood and cheered.

I jumped up and down, hands high.
The rest of the folks seemed genuinely baffled by all the hoopla over one hit.
But our team really needed a win.

The Blue Bible

I’m opening up the hardcover journaling book that I bought a few days after I returned from Joan’s funeral. The slim keepsake — blue with gold Persian-style interwoven flowers and crests — is the bible of my rebirth through grief that began that June morning after Dan’s call. Typing paper with scribbled sentences and neatly written notes on yellow legal pad are folded and crammed between the cover and first page, remnants of burning thoughts and late night messages occurring too far from where the book happened to lie.

My desk is awash in tearful “Dear Joan” letters and I haven’t even opened the book to the first page. I thumb through the gold leaf pages, afraid to feel the raw emotion of those crossed out days and months where July became August and Saturday became Friday night. Who knew what day or time it was? Who cared? Joan was gone. No amount of crying or writing could bring her back. But still I tried.

Tucked carefully between the last two pages, leaves, brown, but still hinting at their original purple hue, is a pressed iris — Joan’s favorite flower. Touching its petals makes me feel closer to her than all of my writing combined.

Call Back

I’m flying to Reno then driving to Susanville in a couple of weeks to meet with the detective on Joan’s case and see what information I can get from her file. I’ve debated about calling her husband to see if we can meet to talk while I’m there.

Thinking of calling Dan brings me back to that warm June morning 31 years ago when, without thinking, I’d chosen black pants and a black top from my closet. I shook my head as I hung them back up. What was I thinking? All black was hardly the festive outfit to wear for the birthday breakfast I was preparing for my neighbor Joanne that morning!

I clicked on the Mr. Coffee. The aroma of the rich brew filled the air as I neatly laid out the pastries on my prettiest tray. The phone rang as I was setting the table. I assumed it was Joanne. “Hey Birthday Girl!” I chirped.

“Uh, Peg, it’s me…Dan.”

If we could pick one moment in our lives where we could wind back and take a different road, that would be mine. Having recently shared with Joan that I’d had a dream that Dan had called to tell me she died, I thought the call was a joke. But even a seasoned prankster like Dan couldn’t fake such a somber tone. Hearing it, I tried to scramble back up that road. “I’m asleep,” I thought. “I’ll wake up and Joan will be fine.” But the coffee kept brewing.

“Peg…Joan’s dead.”

Now the road was warping and rolling and I was on the ground. I fell and pulled my legs and arms into the fetal position, hoping against hope that I had never been born. That would be preferable to the pain beginning to seep in all around.

That call to Dan is just going to have to wait.

Connecting the Detective

After 3 weeks of trying, I finally connected with the detective at the Susanville Police Dept. that was recently assigned to Joan’s case. He admitted he hadn’t yet reviewed her file, but said he would soon.

“I know it’s been 31 years but I’m at a point in my life where I’d like to do everything I can to help you solve my sister’s case,” I said. “I think I’m finally emotionally detached enough that I’m willing to provide whatever insights I can bring to bear on the evidence that you already have and work on my own to dig up more information.”

“Considering the gravity of the case, I’m not sure how much I’ll actually be able to share with you from the file,” he replied.

“I’m willing to work with whatever you have,” I said, hoping he noted my pragmatic tone: surely the last thing he would want would be to hold someone’s hand as they relived their sibling’s murder. But that was the furthest thing from my mind.

For decades, I’d stayed as far away as possible from any details of Joan’s case. Suddenly, I had to get into that file.

Dog days of writing

Somehow I forgot how tough it is to write when the kids are out of school and what’s left of the long spring grass beckons from the hills.
I like seeing my fourteen year old son and his friends, somewhere between not liking girls and having a girlfriend, sit in a circle joking on the trampoline oblivious as the girls they’ve invited over, eyes covered in makeup, walk past to get their attention. One day soon, maybe even by the end of summer, the boys will break from their circle to follow, but not yet.
It’s early — only the cat, dog and I are awake — but already so warm that I’ve drawn all the shades. The dog pushes her face into my thigh to get me moving. The sun is rising and soon, the heat of the day will move us indoors. But for now, the tall green grass awaits.

Let’s Go Back

Let’s go back to when Joan and I were 12 and 9, halfway to ten. A boy from school — kind of a thug who was bigger than the rest of the boys in Joan’s class because he’d been held back — had a crush on her and followed her home from school. Although Joan could hold her own around girls, exhibiting a devil-may-care attitude that made them envious, boys — especially big boys with loud voices like this one — made Joan watchful and quiet.

I watched from the living room window as Joan avoided the boy around the spherical juniper bush until he grabbed her sleeve and pulled her close to kiss her. When she screamed, I dashed out the front door and rammed head first into the boy’s side.

He turned, enraged. “Who do you think you are, you little twit?” he asked derisively. Joan wiped away a tear.

“Leave my sister alone!” I screamed, face flushed, taking s step back as I raised my fists. Joan laughed.

“You’re both crazy like your mom,” he sneered before spitting into the juniper and sauntering away.

Although Joan put her hand over her mouth as we walked toward the front porch, I could see the smile beneath it.

Now let’s move forward.

Why Now?

Joan at my wedding

Why, 30 years after Joan’s murder, have I decided that it’s time to step up and see if I can figure out who killed her?
To be honest, I’m not sure. Could be that the grueling emotional dive of writing my family’s story, Approaching Neverland, prepared me to plumb deeper into scarier waters. Or maybe sharing our story has tied all the sadness and joy, shame and exhilaration of being in our family into a more manageable package that can be tucked neatly under my arm as I descend into the quiet darkness.
It’s cooler down here. Come with me if you like. I’ll take your hand. Let me know if you see something that I don’t. It’s time now.

She would have done it for me

I’ve been putting off writing this post because I know it’s the first step on a very rocky path. But the encouragement and insights provided by some of the amazing new friends that I’ve met over the past few months through book clubs in discussions of Approaching Neverland is spurring me on. Those of you who have read Approaching Neverland know that my sister Joan was murdered thirty one years ago this month. Her killer still hasn’t been found. So I’ve decided to blog my way into figuring out what happened. Your comments, thoughts and insights will help me see what happened to Joan in a different light, which I believe will be crucial in solving her murder. I have to admit I’m scared of where this might take me. But she would have done it for me.

Joyce Cooling’s Moving NAMI Tribute

Loved meeting Joyce Cooling

Saturday’s SF Bay Area NAMIWalk was a huge success, raising hundreds of thousands of dollars to provide free services to families dealing with mental illness throughout the SF Bay Area. Kickoff Speaker Joyce Cooling, the fabulous jazz guitarist whose brother has struggled for years with mental illness, gave an incredibly moving tribute to her brother, her mother, and the folks at NAMI, who she said were a godsend to her mother during her struggle to help her son. Major kudos to Joyce for her tremendous support, to Laurie Williams, NAMIWalk Director, for putting on a fabulous event, and to all the NAMI volunteers who work hard every day to make life easier for families struggling with mental illness. The Approaching Neverland Team, comprised of many wonderful book club friends, was proud to have participated! More information about SF Bay Area NAMI can be found at http://namiwalksfbay.org/