Damaged Goods

By Jodi Blase

Karen Sherburne is a hardworking single mom and social worker. Hoping to make more time for her daughter, Meg, she commits to cutting back on her fifty-hour workweek. Not long after this decision, Meg is murderedand no suspect can be found. In her grief, Karen becomes obsessed with one goal: find the killer; kill the killer.

When she returns to work, Karen is assigned a new case: fifteen-year-old Frankie Ortiz, an abuse victim. Through adoption, Karen hopes to save Frankie as she could not save her own daughter.

Meanwhile, Kendra Bruno uses witchcraft in an attempt to discover the parents who abandoned her. Instead of finding her parents, a figure appears in Kendra's bedroom mirror: a figure belonging to the ghost of Karen's daughter, Meg.

As the lives of Karen, Frankie, and Kendra intersect, secrets are revealed from an unforeseen source. Meg has a messagenot only for her motherbut for Kendra, tooand Karen might be the only person who can save Frankie from a horrific fate. When Karen finally discovers her daughter's killer, will she be able to stick to her vow of vengeance, or will her newfound relationships shake her resolve?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475952087

Jodi Blase

Jodi Blase is a freelance writer, correspondent, and columnist. Her first book, My Big Fat Head, was published in 2000. Blase lives in New England with her husband and three children; she divides herself between work, sporting events, and writing. Visit her online at http://jodiblase.com/jodiblog.

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Copyright © 2012 by Jodi Blase.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-5207-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5209-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5208-7 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 10/05/2012

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

THE DECISION

SIXTEEN ODD YEARS AGO

PART 1  THE COLLECTIVE PAST

MEG

KAREN’S PAST, IN BRIEF

KENDRA AND AUGUST, 1980

JULY, 1980

FRANKIE

KENDRA AND MEG’S BRIEF, LIFE CHANGING ENCOUNTER

MEG’S LAST DAY

MEG

FRANKIE

WAITING FOR MEG

MEG

WHERE ARE YOU, MEG?

MEG

FRANKIE’S COUNTDOWN

THE SPELL THAT WENT WRONG

FRANKIE’S PAST, IN BRIEF

AN ALTERNATE REALITY

PART 2  THE SHIFT

MEG, SOMEWHERE IN LIMBO

THUGS

MEG’S SECRET

GRANDMA VICKI, AS TOLD BY MEG

KAREN, 1980

MEG AND ROBERTO

DECEMBER, 1980

JANUARY, 1981

LIFE WITH THE O’MALLEYS

LETTERS TO MEG, SPRING OF 1981

PART 3  NEW BEGINNINGS

A FRESH START

LETTERS TO MEG

BLESS ME, FATHER

KAREN AND FRANKIE

KENDRA

CAROUSELS AND GINGERBREAD HOUSES

MEG’S OASIS

MIRROR, MIRROR

LETTERS TO MEG

SUMMER, 1982

FALL INTO SPRING, 1982-’83

SPRING, 1983

KENDRA

FRANKIE

LETTERS TO MEG

FAMILY AT LAST

PART 4  CONVERGENCE

FRANKIE AND KENDRA

AUGUST’S PAST, IN BRIEF

FALL, 1984

AUGUST

SHERI’S SECRET LOVE

LETTERS TO MEG

KENDRA

SPRING, 1987

LETTERS TO MEG

ON THE ROAD

FALL, 1989

LETTERS TO MEG, 1990

THE NAMESAKE

TRANSITIONS

PART 5  KILL THE KILLER

THE SLIPPERY SLOPE

RELIVING THE LAST

LETTERS TO MEG

LASSO OF TRUTH

TRUE NORTH

SCENTS OF MEG

THE COSMIC COLLISION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Dedicated to the world’s best grandparents:

Anthony & Marie Bruno, Billy & Edna Cogan

PROLOGUE

THE DECISION

Karen Sherburne sat on her worn out leather couch, mindlessly swirling a glass of scotch. She had been waiting for this moment since September 12th, 1980. For the past sixteen years, she had lived in a depersonalized state, divorced from reality. On particularly challenging days, the world around her sounded as if it was under water. Voices echoed Charlie Brown’s gurgly teacher, Wah wah wah wah wah, and she struggled to translate the garbled language. Had it not been for the sound of her heartbeat, she could easily have thought herself dead.

When Karen first lost Meg, she had hoped that she would be fortunate enough to die from heartache. And when it didn’t happen, the rage came, and Karen willingly let it course through her. Over the years it died down, residing just below the surface of her skin. Anna the psychic had been right about Karen having been around the killer for a long time, but she was wrong about Karen’s rage.

Rage was good. It was a two-handed death grip necessity.

If it weren’t for her pent up rage, she’d have lived in a constant state of grief, which was too much to bear. Now, with the discovery of Meg’s killer, the dormant rage bubbled to the surface and Karen welcomed it like an old friend. It encouraged her to act quickly, before she could change her mind, before a coherent thought could interrupt and make her question her motives. Karen was right to stay toxic because if she hadn’t, she wouldn’t be able to do what she was about to do.

She was about to plot a murder.

She took a sip of scotch and giggled.

This must be what it feels like to go insane.

Her life had turned into a tsunami of events that included ghosts and abuse and gingerbread houses.

SIXTEEN ODD YEARS AGO

It was during the height of her career that Karen began to feel like a walking contradiction. A highly regarded social worker known for her determination and resourcefulness, her number one priority was ensuring kids be placed out of harm’s way and into safe environments. Her dedication to her work came at the expense of her own daughter, Meg, who had spent a good chunk of her childhood as a latchkey kid.

As a single mother of an only child, Karen justified Meg’s long stretches of unstructured time by telling herself that she was a professional in her field who was fully aware of her family’s needs. And she had no trouble expressing this confidence, however misguided, to anyone who challenged it.

You’re a workaholic.

I’m a single mother, Dad.

What’s that got to do with working fifty hours a week? Have Meg take the bus to my house where she’ll at least have company. The kid sits alone all afternoon, her father, Carl, would complain.

Meg’s welfare had become a frequent topic between the two, with Carl adopting an edgy, judgmental tone parents use when they disagree with their children. Karen took her father’s attitude in stride; after all, this was a man who once believed a woman’s place was in the kitchen. Carl was ten years behind the times. How could she blame him for not understanding today’s world? There was nothing wrong with what she was doing. And she wasn’t about to hurt her father’s feelings by disclosing that Meg had declared she would rather stick needles in her eyes than spend afternoons at her grandfather’s house.

Are you kidding me? No way am I going to Grandpa’s every afternoon. Capital B for boring! she’d told her.

She’s perfectly fine, Dad. I know exactly what I’m doing.

When Meg entered the tumultuous teen years, Karen admitted defeat and resigned to clean up the dysfunction that had become her life. She promised herself that her latest client, a very troubled Frankie Ortiz, was going to be the last case she’d accept on her already burdensome workload. The upcoming months would be devoted to quality time with Meg and finding a work/life balance.

This was a decision that Karen made a bit too late.

Because not long after, while Karen was at work, Meg was murdered.

Talk about corset-constricting mother’s guilt.

To be exact, she experienced furious surges of rage and despair that caged her lungs like a metal vest, gripped her soul, and slowly squeezed her essence so that the breath felt like it was gone from her.

The hunt for Meg’s killer was short lived, and Karen blamed sloppy data gathering for the lack of evidence in her daughter’s investigation. She hired a private detective who promised her results, but who came up empty. In desperation, she visited a section of town where should-be condemned houses were inhabited by sketchy characters. She found herself standing on the walkway of a tiny white ranch. Carefully negotiating her way through the creaky planks of the rotted out landing beneath her, she made a fist and knocked on the front door.

A small, squat woman in her mid thirties greeted her with a suspicious, What do you want?

Her eyes searched behind Karen for signs of… what . . . the police, drug dealers, bill collectors… Karen couldn’t say.

Someone told me you were the best psychic in town, Karen replied, opening her still clenched fist to reveal a fifty dollar bill.

The woman stepped aside and allowed Karen entry into a tiny room, lit only by a table lamp covered with a tan colored silk scarf. She led Karen to a small circular table, its centerpiece a crystal ball. Motioning toward a beat up wooden chair with missing back spindles, she said, Have a seat.

Karen sat in the rickety chair. Hoping it would hold her weight, she cursed herself for listening to Sarah’s suggestion that she come here.

What’s your question? she asked, staring directly into Karen’s eyes. The woman had a square jaw, raven hair fashioned after Stevie Nicks, and sleepy gray eyes.

An avid non believer, Karen decided to test this lady’s skills. I want to know about my job.

It was a blanket statement that didn’t leak any information about her. She leaned back, crossed her arms, and waited for the so-called psychic to make a fool of herself.

Well, you’ve had a rough few months, that’s for sure, she said, in a strong Boston accent. Your job is draining and quite frankly, you think it sucks. If you don’t find a hobby to keep you busy, you’re gonna disintegrate, she cautioned, nodding toward an ashtray beside her, like the ashes of a cigarette.

Was she really paying for this crap?

Ashes of a cigarette? Who speaks like that?

Karen rolled her eyes and slowly shook her head from side to side, indicating to this woman that every word that came out of her mouth was a total crock of B.S.

This seemed to amuse her and she smiled, showing off small yellow teeth accented by full lips and deep dimples.

What’s so funny? Karen asked defensively.

What’d you expect? You lied to me.

Her cheeks flushed with a heat of embarrassment, and Karen lied about her lie.

I did no such thing.

Oh, pah-leasse. Lady, you didn’t come here to talk shop.

Then what did I come here for? Karen challenged.

To find your daughter’s killer.

Holy sweaty palms, queasy stomach, lightheadedness, floating out of her body, muscle twitching people who see things.

What’s your name? Karen asked, swallowing over a hard lump that had formed in her throat.

Anna, but, she winked, I don’t need to know yours. I know it begins with a K, so I’ll just call you Kay.

Please, Anna, do you know who murdered my Meg?

And how did I know that was coming next? sighed Anna. Truth is, I can’t see who murdered your kid. What I can tell you is that the killer is male, he lives nearby, and that you’ll be seeing him again. Anna paused, and with a baffled expression said, Huh, that’s odd.

What’s odd? Karen asked hopefully.

You’ll see him more than once over the course of quite a few years. You won’t know it’s him right away, but when you do find out, oh boy, Anna whistled, Oh honey, it’s gonna be a hot mess.

So, you can’t even give me a name, a first initial like you just gave me? Can you at least describe him? Where will I see him? How will I know?

Anna looked at Karen with pity and shrugged.

"I only know what I know. The best way I can describe it is that I see this puzzle with pieces everywhere. Some of them ain’t even turned over. A lot of it doesn’t make sense. Must mean you’re not meant to know right now, maybe you’re not ready to know."

Right here is when Karen felt the inclination to grab Anna’s five dollar crystal ball and beat her over the head with it until the puzzle pieces did fall into place.

Stop thinkin’ of hatin’ on me, said Anna. It’s so awkward and uncomfortable.

Karen’s mouth dropped open.

I do have one more thing, she offered.

If you can’t tell me who the killer is, we’re done here, said Karen, sliding her chair back.

Anna leaned in and gently grabbed Karen’s wrist. I gotta warn you of something first. You’re full of disease.

Disease?

Yeah, the disease of revenge. If you don’t watch it, it’s gonna destroy you.

Karen tried to control her voice, which was steadily rising.

"You’re kidding me, right? Let me make sure I’ve got this straight; you’re concerned about my rage destroying me?"

That’s right, nodded Anna.

"Well, let me tell you something. If the image of my daughter’s body lying slack on a cold metal slab at the morgue didn’t destroy me, nothing will. So if the best you’ve got is a warning for me not to be pissed off, Karen giggled cynically, I’ll be on my way."

When the time comes, and I promise you the time will come, don’t do it.

Do what? Karen huffed.

I’m a psychic, Kay. You’re lying again, Anna scolded. In the end, it won’t just be his blood; it will be your blood as well.

Then my blood it is, spat Karen.

She stood, tossed the money on the table, and headed toward the door.

Kay, wait! Listen to me, you’ve gotta let it go. It will eat you alive, said Anna, following Karen.

Save it, Anna. Let’s both agree that I don’t need a psychic to know this is one story that’s going to end badly, Karen said, waving her off with her hand and storming out of the small, dark room.

In her abrupt exit, Karen missed Anna’s reply. Anna pocketed the money and grabbed a cigarette from the box in front of her. She walked over to the window and watched Karen peel out of the parking space, leaving skid marks in her wake. Lady Kay, Anna said somberly, bad doesn’t begin to describe how your story’s gonna end.

PART 1

The Collective Past

MEG

Two Months before the murder

I said no, Meg.

Why not? Meg shouted.

Because I’m not going to allow you to turn into one of those kids who gets whatever they want. You’ll grow up aspiring to be nothing. You’ll end up lazy, turn to drugs for relief, have no ambition, and eventually kill yourself because you won’t be able to cope with failure. Then I’ll blame myself for giving you too much.

Karen stood firm, arms crossed.

That’s such a load of crap, Mom! Tell me you’re shitting me, Meg said, in a duh tone.

I shit you not, potty mouth. I’m imposing limits on you for your own good, and that’s that, Karen nodded triumphantly.

You’re off your rocker, spat Meg, I don’t see why I can’t have an Atari.

Because you don’t need an Atari. It will rot your brain.

Rot my brain?

Yeah, Pac Man will rot your brain.

Oh, please, you loved playing Pong at the arcade.

That’s because it’s like an exciting tennis match.

Exciting? It’s snoresville!

Anyway, that was at an arcade for fun. Not in your own home.

Well, what do you suggest I do while you’re at work?

Clean your room.

For like, ten hours?

By the time you wake up it’s noon. Clean your room, read a book, take a walk, call a friend, watch TV for a small amount of time, do a jigsaw puzzle. And hey, feel free to cook dinner. That should bring you pretty close to six o’clock.

Yeah, except for when you’re home by seven or eight or nine.

How about spending one day a week at Charlene’s house?

And do what?

Whatever it is you kids do these days, Meg.

We shoot up.

Well, make sure you don’t share needles.

Meg looked at Karen and squinted her eyes just enough to make it a judgment.

Oh, I see. I’m a bad mother for working. Well, guess what? This is the deck we’ve been dealt. I have to work. You know that.

Not obsessively.

I do the best I can, Meg.

An Atari would ease the blow of being here all alone.

You’re making the choice to be alone. Grandpa would love to have you every day. He even offered to pick you up.

Oh, there’s a fun filled afternoon.

Karen huffed and threw her arms in the air.

What do you want from me?

An Atari.

Forget about it.

Meg walked casually over to the coffee table and started to shuffle through the stack of magazines until she found the one that said, How to Say No to your Child.

Aha! I knew it! she shouted, shaking the magazine in the air. This is bullshit! I’m not one of your nut cases.

It’s okay to be angry with me, but it won’t change my mind. You’ll thank me later when you’re compassionate, kind, and non-materialistic. So it’s no, for sure.

Fine. I’ll just ask Grandpa to buy it for me.

Karen put her hands on her hips. She wished someone would inform her who replaced the old easy going Meg with this fresh-mouthed teen she barely recognized.

Oh, really, Little Miss Smart Ass? We’ll see about that. Now, come on, she said, waving Meg into the kitchen. I wash, you dry.

You ever hear of a dishwasher?

I have one named Meg.

What if I washed and dried for a month? Would that earn me an Atari?

You’re wearing me down, Meg. I’m going grayer by the minute.

After the kitchen was cleaned, Karen had one appointment, but promised to be back within the hour. Meg watched the station wagon drive down the street before opening the window and lighting a Parliament. She leaned onto her elbows and blew smoke rings into the cool, crisp evening air. She took a few puffs then put the cigarette between her thumb and pointer finger and flicked it out onto the street. She closed the window and marched toward the phone. It was time for a business call.

Hi, Grandpa.

Hey, Meg, how’s my girl!

I’m good, she replied, in her best sullen voice.

Is something wrong?

Nothing. Just bored, she sighed.

Is your mom home?

No, she’s out as usual.

She is, is she?

Yep. Apparently, some head case is more important than me, huffed Meg.

We both know that’s not true, Megan.

Uh-oh. Grandpa used her real name. Better change tactics.

"It’s just that summer days can be long and I’m finding myself bored. I think too much TV is tacky, don’t you? Sometimes I wish I had a game to play. Something like, uh, I don’t know, an Atari?"

I see, said Carl.

Yeah. And in case you don’t know, it’s a video game system for the television. Atari. Mom likes to play, too. She loves Pong on Atari, added Meg enthusiastically.

Let’s see now. I do have some housework that’s been neglected and there is always yard work to be done.

Look no further. I’m your girl!

I never had to bribe your mother to do chores.

Times change.

How about I pick you up tomorrow and we go and get this Atari. What’s your mother’s late night?

It varies, but usually Tuesdays.

Okay then, as payment, you can come over every Tuesday for a month to do whatever chores I need. Then we’ll eat dinner together. Deal?

Deal!

Meg hung up the phone and jumped around. She knew her grandfather all too well; he’d make her do one day of solid labor and then call them even. She grabbed another cigarette and did a victory dance toward the window.

Atari, Atari, I’m going to get an A-t-a-r-i!

KAREN’S PAST, IN BRIEF

Whether it was genetics or shit poor luck, Karen was an unfortunate combination of her good looking parents. Although she would never have admitted it, it disturbed Vicki that her daughter didn’t inherit her good looks. Karen surmised her mother felt this way from statements such as: Are you going out in public with your hair like that, honey? I can fix it up if you’d like, or, Tuck in your shirt to show off that tiny waist of yours, and, You’ll grow breasts someday, dear! as well as, Let me show you how to pluck that one eyebrow into two separate ones.

Karen sometimes felt she was God’s joke on Vicki, because although she didn’t care if she had the figure of a boy, one eyebrow, and untamed frizzy hair, these physical traits seemed to cause her mother mental anguish. None of what Vicki said was meant to be cruel, nor was it an indication of how much she loved her daughter. In fact, Karen didn’t think it possible that any mother could love her daughter more than Vicki loved her. Her mother’s egotistical remarks, Karen knew, were fear based and carried over from her own childhood. Every night until she was twelve, when Karen felt too old and gently began refusing her mother, Vicki read Karen a bedtime story. After she closed the book, she’d wrap her arms around Karen and cuddle her close.

Look at those deep brown eyes, so brown I almost can’t see your pupils. Who has better eyes than you? Vicki would say proudly

Your eyes are pretty too, Mamma, Karen would tell her.

But your eyes carry this awareness of something that I can’t quite put my finger on, Karen. You see, I’m not so very bright, Vicki meekly admitted.

But you’re pretty, Karen said, feeling pity for her mother, a woman for whom the Pope would resign his post to marry.

It’s okay, honey. You don’t need to feel bad for me. I’m happy in my own skin. I just want you to be happy in yours. Are you?

I guess so, Karen said, wondering if this were a test and she should have said I need thinner eyebrows.

Of course you are, Vicki smiled warmly. And you know what? I have a feeling that someday you’ll be someone very special, she said, lightly tapping the tip of Karen’s nose.

The most influential adult during Karen’s teen years was her tenth grade social studies teacher, Mrs. O’Hara. Listen up kids, she told them, there are only two types of people in the world . . . movers and shakers, and do-nothings. Do-nothings are like malignant tumors. They sit around and complain about the state of the world and do nothing to change it. Movers and shakers are influential individuals who take action to change social and/or economic situations for the betterment of society. Karen swore Mrs. O’Hara looked directly into her eyes when she said, Which will you choose to be?

I’m going to be a social worker, Karen announced at dinnertime.

Why not a schoolteacher? asked Carl.

I don’t want to be a schoolteacher. What’s wrong with being a social worker?

Nothing’s wrong with it, said Carl, taking a bite out of a pork chop. But it’s not the cleanest occupation.

Clean? Karen questioned.

It can get a bit dirty. Now a teacher, there’s a proper, fitting job for a woman.

You mean more traditional? asked Karen, a bit sarcastically.

Exactly, said Carl, pointing his fork at her.

Don’t you care about social consciousness, Daddy?

"Social what?"

Karen looked at her mother for support, who raised both hands in surrender and said, You’re talking over my head, honey.

But isn’t helping others the main reason we’re here? asked a confused Karen.

The reason we’re where? asked Carl.

Here, on earth. The reason we’re born.

Where did that harebrained idea come from?

Carl, interrupted Vicki. She is not a harebrain. Our Karen is a smart girl.

I didn’t say she wasn’t smart, Victoria, I said the idea was harebrained. Now don’t you two go ganging up on me, he said, defensively.

An infantry man for three years, Carl was wounded at the Battle of the Bulge. The shrapnel that hit his right leg left him with a slight, but permanent limp. His main focus was, and always would be, on his family. Everyone else, as far as he was concerned, was on their own.

Daddy, we have to think about others.

Karen, I do think about others. I think about you and your mother and how I’m going to stay middle class American. I can’t be worrying about everyone else’s problems.

Well, can I be a social worker, or what?

You can be whatever you want, honey. Isn’t that right, Carl?

Carl looked at his wife. She had been the number one support in his life; agreeable, submissive Vicki had never challenged her husband. Carl knew this was a lioness protecting her cub situation and that he, although king of his den, better think twice about his answer. He met his beautiful wife’s stare. Her sharp, blue eyes beseeched him to listen to his daughter.

Carl stuck a piece of meat in his mouth and, without taking his eyes off of Vicki said, Karen, you can pick whatever profession your little heart desires.

You mean whatever profession her big heart desires, grinned Vicki, who bowed her head slightly at her husband before picking up her fork.

Thanks, Daddy! Karen smiled. Now, can we talk colleges?

Gee whiz, Carl sighed. I can’t do it all in one night, Karen.

Karen shrugged and said, It’s okay. We’ll talk later.

By nine o’clock, Carl had fallen asleep on the couch. Vicki was perched on the loveseat with a TV tray in front of her that held rollers, bobby pins, and a comb. She wedged a bobby pin between her front teeth and picked up the comb.

Hand me a medium roller, will you honey? she asked, the bobby pin stable between her teeth.

So, said Karen, sitting on the edge of the loveseat, You think I’ll be a good social worker?

Are you kidding? How could you not be? What better profession is there for a socially conscious girl such as yourself?

I can’t think of anything else, grinned Karen.

So, we’re agreed?

Agreed, Karen nodded, squeezing herself in the small space between the arm rest and Vicki so that she could rest her head on her mother’s shoulder.

On May 2, 1964, while at Simmons College, Karen hopped into the back of a friend’s hunter green VW and drove to Times Square to participate in the first major student demonstration against the Vietnam War. On the ride to New York, she envisioned marching through the Square to the United Nations. She smiled widely to herself and thought, I am going to help change the world! What Karen forgot was that she was direction challenged. Upon arrival, the group merged into the crowd and Karen somehow managed to lose sight of every one of her friends. She ended up near tears in front of an ancient coffee shop called Big Ed’s Black Brew.

You waiting for anyone in particular? a warm voice asked her.

I’m all set, thank you very much, she said shyly, trying to recall if she had recently taken the time to pluck her one eyebrow into two.

If you’re all set, why do you look lost?

Wanting to appear confident in her light brown peasant shirt, bell-bottoms, and a tie-dye headscarf, Karen looked him square in the eye, intending to say something clever or pompous, or both.

Look, she began, rather firmly.

At what? he questioned, looking around.

What?

What?

No, what to you, she repeated.

"What, what to me?" he smiled.

Go away. You’re bothersome, she told him, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

Yeah, well, you’re annoying.

Then why are you still here?

He leaned in and whispered, You look lost. I feel bad.

Karen’s defenses fell slightly. He smelled delicious, a combination of cinnamon and the first day of spring.

So? he questioned.

So, what?

So, are you lost?

Only kind of lost, Karen answered.

Define kind of.

Okay, yeah, I’m pretty lost, she admitted, tossing her hands in the air.

He held his hand out and said, I’m Michael Humble.

For the first time in her life, Karen wished she had her mother’s beauty. Michael had steel gray eyes, a perfect nose, square chin, slightly crooked smile, and reddish blonde hair that seemed to alternate in color by every other strand.

Karen Sherburne, she said, extending her hand to meet his.

Care for a cup of joe? he smiled.

Just a quick cup, she smiled back. I’ve got to find my friends.

A quick cup lasted three hours, and Karen learned that Michael was just finishing his teaching degree at Boston College. He told Karen he was an only child and that both his parents