Chapter Text
Manhattan, New York
October 27th, 1996
It stings – her tender, bitten-at nail bed.
Isabela Anderson rubs away a new sliver of blood from the cuticle she’s gnawed at. She scrapes it over the ironed cotton edges of her knee-skirt, unsurprised to discover a twisting thread that juts from frayed and knotted hitches: a petite spiral in impoverished material. Hand-me-down. It used to be her mom's.
She feels absent in her body, in her bones and muscles. Just narrow marrow and dial-up wires, senses clouded by the ticking time of the morning hour.
Bela wraps her pinkie around the string again and again, and again and again, until it catches like a noose, and she yanks on it carelessly. Her pointy teenage teeth snap into her bottom lip as friction heat indents a pink pattern across the flesh of her fingertip.
She pulls, pulls harder –
– the thread snaps.
She studies her blood under her skin, turning her flesh lilac purple above the tourniquet. The pressure cuts off circulation. She wiggles it.
It doesn’t hurt her. It doesn’t hurt. Until it does...
"Bela – stop that!" Chides an accented voice. Her lungs squeeze below her ribcage, caught!
The old, yet feminine, sun-spotted hand of Mrs. Giselle Platzeck swats at Bela’s self-inflicted experimentation. Her finger slips free from constriction, and the young girl glares something sharp, like staples and paperclips, at her uninterested, sinus-ill guardian.
Her escort is an older lady, a foster parent, who brings with her a chorus of snot sounds and a gruff last name from Germany that Bela still finds herself incapable of pronouncing right, no matter how often she sounds it out in private. She has as many wisdom wrinkles on her face as the current children she hopes to place in better homes.
She smells weird, in a way Bela was getting used to now that she was old enough to notice. She was trying to understand that this woman by her side was a Beta.
(When she was a freshman, the other girls in her second-period class had whispered tiny secrets in her ear. / "Did your Dad…tell you yet? About…mating?", in which she had shaken her head ‘no’.)
That friend had been kind and snuck her a book wrapped in an inconspicuous pillowcase the next day.
Bela’s unsure fingers had learned the shape of the smallest glands underneath the flesh of her body, hot spots hidden all over her, as she sat in the shower and found out what made her unique.
Giselle smells like the crisp itch in the tip of her nose after sniffing an old candle, like burnt espresso beans and stale, tan tweed from the back of a closet. She has on fresh but cheap pantyhose already ruined by a run, lenses an inch thick as she flips lazily through a magazine from the supermarket.
(She remembers another time and place, something heavy beating against the front door’s lock over and over until it busts apart, brass hooks and knob skittering across the ground like mice. Rubber boots squelch on the granite as they barge into her home. She doesn’t care. / “Isabela? Are you here, honey? This is Captain Todd...we’re here to help you!”)
“Hmph, spare me such miserable looks, little girl. You are ‘lucky one,’ yes? Few end up with anyone to take them home. Now lose your attitude – it is not lady-like."
Bela grimaces and says nothing in reply. She sinks, like that poster of a painting in her art class. She melts away like the time, deflates. She wonders if she could un-stitch herself like clothing if she stretched hard enough, becoming a limp pile of string and fabric?
Can she torque each shaking limb off with a pop! and hide every piece like a doll? Her stuffing was coming out in giant puffs, she thinks, glossy and round plastic eyes that don’t want to blink.
Bela doesn’t want to be seen, but today, everything is about her.
(Brush bristles over her sore gums. / Passport paper cuts on her fingers. / Too many smells, too many, “We’re so sorry for your loss, Bela. Your father was a great cop.” / Tear-streaked, private genuflects, a mental health pamphlet. / It doesn’t hurt her, it doesn’t hurt, until it does.)
"Yo, Platzeck! Was told to retrieve you for chambers – the girl’s uncle finally got here – attorneys are ready to talk business." The rounded-out, cleanly-shaven officer who finds them snaps in their direction.
He frowns at their state, resting a hand on his utility belt impatiently as the pair collect what belongings they had come to the courthouse with: a starchy vanilla folder and barrette-clamped documents within it, a sable backpack stuffed to the brim with her clothing, and half-eaten Bethmännchen in crinkling plastic wrap, a blue coffee mug.
She wants to apologize; she doesn’t want to be a burden, but her heart's tempo keeps her silent.
Bela’s toes curl in her last pair of stockings that bunch up under the petrified squeeze, shriveling in dress flats.
The girl’s uncle finally got here.
She didn’t have an uncle, not that she knew of, not that she could remember. Could she be that lucky?
The girl’s uncle finally got here.
As they approach the court, she is forced to the front of their trio like a display hog. The elder woman’s knife-like nails dig crescents into the scruff of Bela’s neck as a reminder for good behavior, to not run, like a mother cat directing her young.
Six pairs of eyes are on her as they enter the cold and stale, brightly lit room. It reeks of stale ammonia, or bleach, and poorly vacuumed carpets. The wood is shiny – no, glassy, threatening to droplet tears from her sockets.
Overstimulated, the lights above pierce straight through to the back of her skull like an arrowhead, and it throbs, white as snow, leaving nothing shrouded in shadow.
She feels exposed.
Bela expected it to be a much larger gathering, with people in the pews or a jury, like the one she used to see on the living room television over her dad’s shoulder when she did homework.
Instead, it is more like last year’s algebra classroom, without onlookers, prints on equations or stained whiteboards, no plastic chairs or chalk powder.
Boys don’t pull on her braid between classes; there are no friends to chatter at, and a bell doesn’t ring.
She hasn’t been back to school since he died. She feels childish and grown up.
(“It's foster care, Bela, but don’t worry, alright? It's just temporary.” / Captain Todd sits across from her. She eats the fast food he bought for her impolitely, starving. It's been days, and they both know it. His head shakes slowly as he watches her, like seeing the aftermath of a train derailing. / “We just gotta find someone to take care of you is all.”)
The girl’s uncle finally got here.
Behind rows of systematically placed green benches, she notices the judge first. He regards her with a plain gesture, a nod, not unlike the woman with pointy glasses sitting below him, who waits with her fingers hovering over large keys, a pianist at the concert’s climax. The sternographer.
Bela wonders how she can type without a monitor as the bailiff presents her and her case to the proceeding judge, but a subtle shift in someone’s stance scuffs against buffed tile like an alarm and steals her thoughts –
(Boot rubber on a broken door. / (“Isabela? Are you in here, honey?”)
– and Bela unintentionally locks eyes with him instead. She recognizes him immediately and notices that he’s older now, but still just the same.
The girl’s uncle finally got here.
It doesn’t hurt her. It doesn’t hurt. Until it does.
“Good morning, Bela!” Her attorney coos, coy and child-like as they trot down the center aisle, furthering the hammering pulse point jumping out below Bela’s jaw as she and Dylan reacquaint one another with an unsure stare.
She is surrounded by a happy expression in a black pantsuit, a thin body of deep amber skin, and a bindi in the junction between her eyebrows. This woman smells like sea glass and authority, and sweat, but it is not unpleasant. It just is. Alpha.
She takes Bela away from her escort’s talons, held up by a scoop around her shoulders, and pretty, manicured nails weave through the wool material of the young girl’s smoke-gray sweater as they walk together.
A fist. She couldn’t run if she tried, and she has.
“Today is going to be a great day! We have good news for you.”
The attorney –
(It was several weeks ago, but it felt like eons: “Hi there, Isabela. My name is Kerani Collins, and I work for a department called the ‘I-A-B’. Do you know what that means?” / “No.” / “Well, that’s okay, my friends here work for me – they’re detectives, and they’re going to ask you some questions about your dad, Miss Maria, and about what was happening at home before…yesterday. Is that okay?”)
– lights up like a firework, an array of beautifully straight teeth beaming down at her. Expensive.
She is dragged closer to the others on the right side of the room, even when her heels dig in as if there were pockets of carpet akin to wet sand.
“Bela, do you remember Mr. Parker?” Queries Miss Collins, sugary tone meant to settle the worry overtaking her, but it doesn’t. “Dylan remembers you.”
He watches her watch him without giving much away: a dark beard that blends into his neatly cut, sandy brown hair, trimmed but full, with bushy eyebrows and green eyes that blink at her emotionlessly. He was handsome, in a way she didn’t remember from before.
The girl’s uncle finally got here.
He was so large, more so than before he left for Russia, all the great big lines of his body sharp and puffy. He was intense as a statue underneath a black long-sleeved button-up and dark, washed-out jeans. He is so tall that she is forced to look up to maintain his line of sight.
She remembers it.
He had left in a camouflaged uniform, a bag full of gear and a plane ticket, and Velcro, the smudge of war paint, before boarding a flight to somewhere she’d never know for duty. (The screen door slams behind him. He hasn’t returned to New York City until now.)
As she studies him head to heel, her pupils move from his still face to the weave of laces in his boots. Unlike the vain brands she sees often throughout the city, his are made differently, and massive, leathery, unkempt, and dirty, covered in something like dust or soot.
Where have you been? When did you get back? And why are you here?
Something unwavering around the edges of his gaze melts away when she looks up at him from under dew-lashes. Crumbled resolve. She was scared.
“Hey, kid.” Like a bullet, baritone and warm and shot straight through her chest, an echo of it, country-accent, then his head tilts. “I know it’s been’a while.”
The stand-off of two maybe-strangers dissolves into a last memory –
("Uh, hey, kid, Merry Christmas – didn’t mean to scare you – is your dad here? S’important." / "Da-ad, Uncle Dylan is here!")
– and Bela nods. She didn’t understand why her father’s old friend, Mr. Parker, of all people, was here, until she did: he was here for her.
Bela inhales quickly, harshly, taking oxygen from the space in front of her as her eyes pan to saucers, and then she smells him. The corner of her jaw aches, like something has jammed in between the molars.
It doesn’t hurt her. It doesn’t hurt. Until it does.
Manhattan, New York
September 2nd, 1996
LAST WILL & TESTAMENT OF
William Franklin Anderson
I.
I, signed: BILL F. ANDERSON resident of the state of NEW YORK
being of sound mind, not acting under duress or undue influence,
and fully understanding the nature and extent of all my property and of this disposition thereof,
do hereby make, publish, and declare this document to be my Last Will and Testament,
and hereby revoke any and all other wills and codicils heretofore made by me.
When Bela finds her father's will, the loose paper has two beer bottle rings and smells like his favorite brand of red-pack cigarettes.
It was taped to the underside of his sock drawer, next to three hundred dollars in twenties, his first NYPD badge, a worn leather belt, condoms, some girl’s panties decorated in tiny strawberries, and his registered 9-mil.
She remembers crying lamely as she handed it all over to the police, sad and embarrassed, in the days following his suicide, when she stuffed the few things left for her to keep into a large, old suitcase, her house an active crime scene.
IV.
In the event that I shall die as the sole parent to minor children, I appoint DYLAN J. PARKER as guardian of said minor. If the named guardian is unavailable or unwilling to serve, then I appoint THE STATE OF NEW YORK
Manhattan, New York
November 1st, 1996
"...and we ask that you please remember, Mr. Parker, that the Courts will continue to do drop-ins and home visits with no warning for the next few months, at the very least, especially out in Montana, in which you are expected to have maintained your residence to be fit to handle a minor – mm, Miss Anderson."
Bela mumbles to herself over the lip of her water cup, something about her getting closer and closer to seventeen, and something that sounded very close to insulting Dylan's bald attorney, forcing hin to crack an unexpected, amused smile that gets muffled by the rub of his palm at his chin.
“You can save the spiel. My ranch ain't goin’ anywhere anytime soon, and certainly not downhill in the capability of housing a teenager,” he fixes his expression, “and I understand the responsibility, or we wouldn’t have gotten this far into the legal process to begin with. I don’t waste time.”
“Of course. I don’t mean to insinuate that, Lieutenant.” His lawyer laughs, though when he looks in Bela’s direction, there’s a glint in his glare that doesn't sit well with her, as if she were the problem.
“There’s one more thing.”
Kerani slides another stapled document to match the many others towards Dylan, and at the first few words typed across the top in bold print, the calm, leisurely grip he’d maintained on the left and right bicep clenches up as if he’d been tased at chest-height, knuckles turning white.
Saliva unintentionally dribbles into his mouth, from under his tongue, so he swallows downn greedily and sits forward. The tip of his tongue runs against his incisors like jail bars. He tries not to let instinct cloud his logic.
OFFICES OF HERNANDEZ / MD. — MEDICAL ASSESMENT
NAME: ANDERSON, ISABELA A.
DOB: 02-01-1980
HEIGHT: 5'1
DESIGNATION: N/A / PENDING
(doc. note 01.03.95 : late to present, shows signs of O tendencies
no treatment per parent, no prescription per parent, see patient in 6m for reeval x DRN)
“As I am sure you are aware, as her legal guardian, you are responsible for medical care and treatment now and into the future, starting from our release into your custody. As uncomfortable as it is, this is the part where we discuss Miss Anderson and the probability of her presenting.”
Bela hears ‘presenting’ and begins to sit up from her uninterested slouch, catching Dylan’s attention. Her eyes are on the paperwork that he had begun to leaf through. Splotches of red pattern up her swan-neck from under the lip of her sweater, matching the flushed, nervous hue painted one ear to the other.
He waits, as if he waits for an animal in his scope to move.
“You’ll need to find her a primary care physician within thirty days and report it to either me or your own lawyer…"
Kerani meets Bela’s horrified facial features with an attempt at a soothing smile, but the girl was more pale than Dylan thinks he’s ever seen her be.
“...that being said, when she does show signs of presenting, you or the P.C.P. can contact us, and we will do an immediate reassessment of the situation. Since you are registered as an Alpha, and it seems there's a potential for an Omega designation, the new Designation laws mean the court system just needs to make sure that there would be no chance of the two of you, uhm, well – mating –”
“– you,” Bela sputters, blonde eyebrows pinching, cutting her attorney off. The shrill in her discomfort is uncontained, “you can’t – that’s private – do we have to – to talk about that? Can we stop? Please?”
“Yes, Bela,” Dylan is speaking before he is sure if he’s allowed to stop the discussion, “of course, we can stop.”
Blackwater Springs, Montana
September 2nd, 1996
The rope holding her back snaps, and hell breaks loose – the Clydesdale bucks two mighty hind legs back. It would have broken every bone in Dylan’s chest if he hadn’t scooted back by just a few inches.
He scrambles over a haystack, steel toes digging into wood, surging to the top of the nearest dividing pen fence with a holler.
A crack of thunder lingering from summer’s end spooks the great mare further, and all the while, the lanky ranch hand holding the lead lets go and hops the lower stable door, missing his own kick to the back of the head by seconds.
“Fuckin’ animal, she is!” Whistles Kurt Mahone, snatching the brimmed hat from where it had flown off his head, dusting off debris.
Dylan makes a rotten, snorting sound, studying the horse as it attempts to calm down, fooled into being left alone to struggle in the storm once more.
“One beast to another, she’ll kill us both if given the chance. Never been so hated by a horse.”
Dylan wants to tell him that it would take more training, more time, to break her into wearing the harness, for her own senile, arthritic good. Kurt was too new to the ranch to understand that some things were inevitable.
He goes to say as much, but –
“– Dylan!” Comes Gina Parker’s high-pitched drawl, drilling into his adrenaline headache driven into both temples.
He rolls his head in her direction, unimpressed with his sister, as she shimmies down the stable aisle, hand raised in his direction with the black Motorola he left abandoned on the corner of his desk – hates the thing, hates when it rings, worse when it was brought to him out here.
“Whadd’ya want, Gina? I'm busy.” He hops down, using the rag tucked into the back of his starchy jeans to wipe filth and grime from his sweaty palms.
She gives him a foul look and shoves the device against his chest.
“Answer your fuckin’ phone, asshole. I'm tired of hearin' it ring.” She bites back, placing both hands on her gigantic stomach.
Dylan frowns.
His sister's last few months of pregnancy made her meaner to him than usual, he decides, glaring in Kurt’s direction.
“And both of you, quit screwing with the horse and come inside for dinner. We drive back to Florida in the morning, so we need to get some rest – right, Kurt?”
Kurt smiles so hard it looks like it hurts him. Maybe it does. Dylan pities him.
“Yes, dear.”
“Uh, hello?” Dylan gives the man a break, stepping aside to figure out what was so important his sister had to trot across the first acre of property to get him. The StarTAC bleats against his earlobe.
“Is this Lieutenant Dylan Parker?”
“Yes, ma’am.” His back straightens. Business, then.
“Sorry to call so late into the evening. My name is Kerani Collins, and I am an attorney with the Internal Affairs Bureau based out of Manhattan. Unfortunately, what I’m reaching out to you for couldn’t wait until morning.”
The thunderstorm grows nearer, winds whistling through the wood rafters above, smelling of petrichor and chopped farm grass, soiled pens and rubber.
“There’s not exactly room for a preamble. I need to inquire if you were made aware of Sergeant William Anderson’s passing this last Tuesday night? His location of residence was here in –”
“– in New York City.” Dylan takes a seat on a neat stack of hay, bundled by twine and pulled bands. “I...uh, hadn’t heard that. Been a few years since we’ve spoken, honestly, had’a bit of a falling out before I was redeployed to Moscow.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Lieutenant.”
“What happened?” And then, like a swift stab into his liver. “Wait, what about his daughter, Isabela? Is…are they both –”
“– actually,” a pause, the clack of fingernails on a keyboard, “Bela is why I am contacting you tonight. My call was to inquire about how quickly you could make it to Manhattan for a meeting with me. It says here that you’re currently living in Montana, yes, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“As I was saying, there needs to be a conversation between you, me, the police, and the Offices of Family and Children Services over the future well-being of Isabela. She is alive and in the custody of temporary foster care as the investigation into her father’s death wraps up, but she will need placement, and there was a discovery made in Mr. Anderson’s Will and Testament that pertains to you, in particular.”
“What...exactly do you mean? What did he do?”
“It would seem in the event of his death, William has asked to leave sole custody of his daughter, Isabela, to you. Yet with this new information, if you were unfit or unwilling to take on her guardianship, there are other options for us to explore."
Another considering pause.
"In the meantime, she would be placed in permanent foster care, and due to her age, I imagine she would likely ride out the system until her eighteenth birthday, versus finding a family willing for late-age adoption. Not exactly the stepping stones for success.”
“I…”
Bill had been the first friend he’d made at boot camp. An asshole, but a fine shot, and they’d chewed their way up the ranks of their infantry, a team, earning epaulettes and honor.
“...what happened? To Anderson?”
“Suicide. Swallowed lead.” Unprofessional, but true. She sounds as bereft of emotion saying it as he feels hearing it. “Sad story – come to find out, Isabela was there almost two days before we were tipped off she was still at home, alone, with the body.”
“I’ll call a booking agent and will be on the next plane to New York.” Dylan takes a big inhale, using his massive palm to press off the hay. He sees the shape of his sister waddling back towards the barn with an umbrella and determination in her step.
If he didn’t hustle, she’d hit him with it.
“I can give this number a call when I land in the city, and we can reconvene from there.”
“That’s fine by me. I would recommend contacting your own attorney. I am working the case with social services through the night into tomorrow as we continue to investigate, so we’ll be in touch.”
The line cuts.
“Dylan Jackson Parker – what on God’s green earth could be so important that you’re going to let the brisket I simmered for six hours get cold? Don’t you want to see Kurt, the baby, and me before we leave?” Accuses his sister, sharp teeth glinting in the overhead lights of the barn.
Dylan snaps the phone shut.
“Don’t be a bitch, G – Bill...killed himself,” he blinks, something angry and dark clawing behind his ribcage, “and he left me custody of Bela. What the fuck was he thinking?”
“I…” She pales, both hands falling on her big baby bump. Something inside of her cracks, a mother’s sadness, less inclined to yell, “oh my God.”