Cristina

  CRISTINA

  By

  Jake Parent

  Cristina

  Copyright © 2016 by Jake Parent

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First Printing, 2016

  ISBN: 978-0-9909036-2-8

  Modern Minimalist Press

  http://www.jakedparent.com

  Author: jake@jakedparent.com

  Press: press@jakedparent.com

  Bulk ordering: info@jakedparent.com

  Cover art and design by Riley James Milhem:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For all the single mothers in the world.

  PLEASURE POINT

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  TRUST

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  LOSS

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  Like This Book?

  About the Author

  PLEASURE POINT

  1

  It had been four years since the little girl’s body was found, mutilated and buried in a quarry near her home in Pleasure Point, California.

  The same home Cristina Rodriguez now wanted to buy.

  Elbows propped on a towel, lying on her back, Cristina wiggled her feet into the warm sand. The sun toasted her light-brown skin. She closed her eyes, inhaled a deep breath of salty air, and listened to the waves crash onto shore.

  Thankfully, she’d remembered to grab her bathing suit before leaving her grandmother’s place that morning. A bikini, red with white polka dots, the tight material stretched around her youthful curves like a second sheet of skin.

  After going by to see the house, she pulled over at the first beach she could find. It turned out to be a secluded paradise. Of the few people there, most were surfers, either going into or coming out of the water.

  Cristina’s thick, black hair, normally hanging in waves down to her breasts, was now tied up in a red bandanna. Her almond eyes hid behind sunglasses set on high cheekbones. She dug a tube of Carmex from a canvas bag and rubbed it onto plump lips.

  One hand protected a file folder against the breeze. She used the other to put away her lip balm, and then to light a cigarette.

  The folder held a stack of photocopied news articles the real estate agent had given her. Each clipping told a part of the gruesome story.

  But the beach is only ten minutes away, Cristina reminded herself. You can literally see the water from the front yard.

  The agent had tried to be brief about what happened. Actually, all she would really say was that a “tragedy” occurred in the home, and that Cristina could get all the details by reading the collection of articles. That, of course, seemed more like the lady’s tactful way of not discussing it any more than she had to.

  From what Cristina was reading, the official account was that the stepfather basically went crazy one day, secretly kidnapping his wife’s daughter, Annie. He then hid her away somewhere for several weeks, before murdering her and burying her body in a quarry up in the mountains.

  Police only discovered he was the one who did it because he wrote out a confession letter before taking his own life. Prior to that, he’d successfully fooled everyone into thinking he had nothing to do with the crime.

  Things only got worse from there. Annie’s mother was so grief-stricken by her loss, she too took her own life, hanging herself in the home’s downstairs closet.

  The story touched a particularly strong nerve with Cristina, who herself had a young daughter. At five, Anise was only a year older than the murdered girl had been at the time of her death.

  Even their names are similar.

  With all that had happened to Cristina over the past year, Anise was now everything. Her entire world. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose her.

  She smothered her Lucky Strike in the sand and slid another one from the package. She was supposed to be quitting, but lit up anyway before going back to the articles.

  Skimming, but unable to really bring herself to read closely, most of what she saw concerned events immediately surrounding the girl’s disappearance. There was surprisingly little about what, if any, evidence had been uncovered later on.

  One article talked about the initial massive search of the woods around the house, and even included a quote from the stepfather.

  “We’re so worried and just pray every day that our little girl comes home.”

  What a scumbag.

  Cristina flipped onto her stomach, hot with anger.

  She flicked an ash and kept reading, still not putting full effort into it. Not wanting to. Somehow her mind couldn’t bring itself to believe that something so awful could ever have happened in such a perfect house.

  There was, however, one headline that caught her attention, just before she closed the folder.

  FBI Questions PPPD Findings in Killing of Local Girl

  But she couldn’t read anymore. No matter what had happened, it was in the past. It had nothing to do with her. And none of it changed the fact that Pleasure Point was an absolute paradise.

  Finishing her second smoke, she unceremoniously removed her bikini bottom from her butt crack, examining her backside and legs as she did.

  Cristina had always thought of her thick, round booty as her best physical feature. And still did, despite the numerous scars now covering it – part of a dense network of healed wounds that ranged from her knees to the small of her back.

  She then peeked down at her chest. It wasn’t too bad either. Big for her small frame. Full. And despite having had a baby, her breasts still managed to defy the will of gravity, even when she was naked.

  Rubbing lotion onto her arms, she fingered the slightly raised edges of her tattoos. A thick bush of red roses completely covered her left arm, beginning at the wrist and extending just past the curve of her shoulder. The flowers popped so vibrantly, sometimes she could almost smell them. The spaces in between the blooms were filled with dark-green leaves and thorned stems.

  Her right arm was a mix of individual pieces she’d been compiling since she was a teenager. A music note on her shoulder. The California flag on her forearm
. A calligraphy of her daughter’s name on her inner bicep. And a few other more random ones that had seemed like good ideas at the time.

  Her chest, stomach, back, and legs were all inkless. Many times in the past year, she’d thought about getting something done to cover her scars, but could never decide on anything in particular. And, lately, she’d come to accept them as a part of who she was. A visible reminder of her journey.

  Continuing to rub in the lotion, she smiled at the spongy elasticity of her skin. It felt so alive and vibrant, and she remembered a time, not so long ago, when that hadn’t been the case.

  She slipped the bottle of Banana Boat back into her bag, watching as two blond surfers with dark tans walked by carrying boards. Each wore shades, and open wetsuits pulled down to the waist, showing off ridged abs.

  Cristina watched them and smiled.

  Both returned smooth grins.

  One of them lost track of where he was going. His foot caught on a mound of sand, lurching him forward. But he managed to hang onto his board and recover impressively.

  She held in a laugh.

  Staring off toward the blue horizon, her mind continued contemplating the beauty of the house and the area, allowing the perfectness of it all to cancel out her uncertainty about the disturbing events that had taken place there.

  Ten minutes from the beach, she told herself again. Ten minutes.

  2

  Cristina wanted to hit a 12-step meeting while she was in town.

  She’d recently collected her one-year sobriety chip. To commemorate the occasion, her sponsor, Michelle, suggested she renew a commitment to recovery by going to 90 meeting in 90 days.

  It seemed kind of ridiculous. Like something only a person fresh-on-the-wagon should have to do. But Cristina had learned to trust Michelle – a feisty, black lesbian, ex-crackhead, originally from South Central LA, whom Cristina credited with having saved her life.

  For that reason, if nothing else, she dutifully drove her 12-year-old red Honda Civic around the big white church’s neighborhood, looking for a place to park.

  Her hometown was only about 50 miles away, but its vast urban sprawl, filled with more than a million residents, was a separate universe from Pleasure Point.

  The beach town had a little more than 50,000 people living in it. Big enough that a person could more-or-less stay anonymous if she wanted to, but small enough to find a sense of community, too. A perfect balance. At least, that’s what Cristina hoped.

  As disturbing as the story behind the house might have been, every second she was in Pleasure Point, the town strengthened its pull, beckoning her toward paradise with its carefree vibe and quaint, tree-lined streets.

  She finally found a place to park and walked into the meeting five minutes late. Everyone in the room looked up at her. With an apologetic smile, she found a seat in the back of the musty room that smelled like her grandmother’s closet.

  Just as she sat down, the guy running the meeting asked if anyone was new to the group.

  She hesitated, but then said, “Hi, I’m Cristina. I’m an alcoholic and an addict. First time at this meeting. Thinking of moving to the area. Thanks for having me.”

  “Hi Cristina,” came the well-practiced response.

  Sitting again, she scanned her surroundings.

  Most of the people there were around her age. Mid- to late-twenties. Some a little older. A lot of them were white, but not all. There were a few other brown faces in the room, too. One lady kept mean-mugging her, presumably because of the interruption. But the overall vibe was pretty casual. Everyone seemed to know each other and acted comfortable in the space they occupied.

  Cristina felt completely out of place.

  About halfway through, all she wanted to do was get up and leave. But when she started to stand, Michelle’s loving, forceful, voice popped into her head, repeating annoying 12-step sayings.

  “Meeting makers make it, honey.”

  “It only works if you work it.”

  Cristina pulled her lips into a grin. She glanced at the woman who’d been staring, and who was now visibly frustrated with the fact that the stranger in the room was happy. Cristina smiled wider.

  The clock ticked slowly away, reminding her of junior high. The way time slowed down near the end of a period. She even once had class in a room where she swore the minute hand sometimes moved backward.

  Mercifully, the meeting eventually ended.

  The group stood, joined hands, and said the Lord’s Prayer.

  “Keep coming back, it works!” they collectively added in semi-unison.

  Cristina almost tripped over someone’s dog as she rushed toward the door. Without stopping, she apologized to no one in particular, moving out into the sunlight and the fresh, salty air.

  The minute she was outside, she lit a cigarette, trying to remember which direction her car was in.

  Before she could be on her way, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She glanced in that direction. No one was there. She turned the other way. Nothing. So she continued in a complete circle, until her eyes caught someone crouching, trying to quickly move around her.

  His presence revealed, the man straightened his legs and jumped into the air.

  “Hi!” he let out, kicking his legs out like a hair-metal guitarist.

  Judging from his smell, he was obviously homeless, but appeared to be sober.

  He extended his hand.

  “I’m Danny Dee,” he said. “Just want to welcome a fellow traveler to town.”

  “Hi,” she responded, taking his hand out of politeness.

  When she tried to let go, he pulled her hand toward his mouth, where he gently pressed his lips into her soft skin.

  His scruffy beard felt coated in grease.

  She was about to reach for the knife she kept in the back pocket of her jeans, when he finally released his grip.

  He bowed like some kind of knight and then backed away, at which point she got a better look at him. He was a lot taller than her, but that wasn’t unusual. Most people were. Other than that, she thought he looked like your typical burnout. A skinny white dude sporting a Pearl Jam shirt with a red and grey flannel tied around his waist. Gross, old blue jeans. Long, oily hair. And, of course, the beard.

  His smell – sour sweat with a slight hint of dried piss – made Cristina want to throw up.

  “Hey, Danny, leave the newbie alone,” a flat voice said from behind her. “Didn’t you hear the lady? She’s thinking about moving here. You want to scare away such an attractive woman?”

  Oh God, another one, Cristina thought.

  When she turned around, Cristina was surprised to see how much the ambiguity of the voice’s tone matched that of the speaker’s gender. The person standing before her was wearing a plain, buttoned-up shirt that completely masked any curves (or lack thereof). The hair was cropped and combed neatly forward. Thick eyeglasses magnified a pair of eyes that looked like tiny olives.

  The person smiled and said plainly, “Hi.”

  “Hi,” Cristina returned.

  All she got back was a blank stare.

  Cristina tossed her finished cigarette into the gutter. The guy with the beard dove toward it, actually throwing himself onto the ground. When he bounced up again, the smoldering butt was hanging from his nose. He puffed it that way, as casually as if it were in his mouth.

  Cristina looked at him, then back at the other person. She laughed and walked toward her car, waving to the duo behind her without looking back.

  3

  After a weekend of consideration, and a couple of deep conversations with Michelle, Cristina decided to take the place in Pleasure Point.

  Since she had the entire purchase price in cash, she was allowed to move in as soon as she wanted.

  The decision meant that, for the first time during her sobriety, she would be away from Michelle and the support network of strong women she’d built up over the past year. But, thankfully, it also meant she would be a lot farther awa
y from her ex-husband. And, best of all, she and Anise would, for the first time, have their very own place.

  Cristina would be forever grateful to her grandmother and uncle, who’d taken turns letting she and Anise stay in their respective one-bedroom apartments over the past year. But neither of those places felt like home. After all, it’s hard to settle in when you have to sleep curled up on the couch together, even for someone as petite as Cristina.

  So she couldn’t help but let out a whoop of joy and relief as she drove her Civic up the steep, gravel driveway and into the dirt courtyard, parking in front of their new home.

  From the backseat, Anise tried to make the same sound, ending up instead with a shrieky wail that made Cristina laugh.

  “You tell ‘em, chica,” she said, reaching her hand back so they could high-five.

  “Ok, baby,” Cristina added, watching in the rearview mirror as her daughter undid herself from the car seat. “You ready to see our new house?”

  Anise’s forehead creased.

  “Mamma, why do we have to live by ourselves? Why can’t Aba come stay with us?”

  “Don’t worry, she’ll come visit. We can’t sleep on her couch forever though.”

  Anise didn’t seem convinced. “I think it’s fun.”

  Outside the car, Cristina bent down and kissed her daughter’s forehead. She felt washed over by a warm feeling of contentment, one she’d only ever known in Anise’s presence. It felt like they were the only two people in the world, together in search of all life had to offer.

  Their house sat atop a foothill overlooking the ocean, among two other similar places, the collection of which was spread out in a triangle around a dusty courtyard. A sort of dirt cul-de-sac.

  Of the three houses, theirs was the smallest. It wasn’t much, actually. Not compared to some of the giant Victorian homes Cristina had seen while driving through downtown Pleasure Point. Their new house was simple. Two stories. Plain wood. Light-brown with dark-brown trim. Some of the paint peeling at the corners. A dense rose bush under the front window, one that made Cristina unconsciously run her fingers along her tattooed arm.