Episode 019
Mercy searches 'high' and low for Cindy, only to be ridiculed and betrayed.
Despite her oncologist's repeated admonitions to never skip a chemo treatment, the bathroom in an outpatient cancer clinic didn't exactly put Mercy in a prayerful mood. Torrey Pines State beach did. She could always reschedule in a day or two.
Since it was a chilly Monday in October, she actually found a free parking space facing the water. The view wasn't any better down on the beach, just sandier, so Mercy was content to watch the ocean from the warmth and relative privacy of her car. She needed the privacy nearly as much as she needed the mantra-like rhythm of the waves. She liked to close her eyes when she prayed, but preferred to keep them open whenever she was in public. Even here, there were just enough potential wackos like Henry walking around for her to lose sight of her surroundings. She cracked the window to let in the breeze and the sound of the surf, but made sure the doors were locked.
This should be easier. The swells first rising then cresting the crashing into a rushing white foam; a soothing timelessness; the epitome of God's patient work. But Mercy felt more distant from Him than she had in a long time.
She got as far as Dear Lord/>Lord… three times, but further words stuck on her tongue like salt water taffy.
This wasn't, she knew, a sign of an immature faith. Too many believers confused a good night's sleep with grace, and caffeine withdrawal with heaven's indifference. Mercy wasn't among them. Rather the distance she felt-the separation… It was really confusion. Cindy being taken from her like that after all the answered prayers it took to see her past the abuse, the drugs, the damaged self esteem. It didn't make sense. She wasn't the kind to believe that God was behind every good parking spot, every green light, or every good table at a restaurant. Like He didn't have better things to do with ethnic cleansings in Darfur, or Chinese immigrants suffocating in container ships. But when evidence of His will leaked around the edges of bleak lives, like it had for Cindy, when only His grace could explain a new hope where before none existed, those times, Mercy believed, gratitude was the only sane response.
And it was hard to say ‘thank-you' for something, and then to have it stolen. It made her angry. At God. Which made her feel guilty. But there it was.
"I'm sorry Lord. You didn't take her and I'm sure You'll bring her back. I should have more faith. Please forgive me. Please..." but she trailed off again, knowing her words were just something she ‘ought' to say, when in reality, she was pissed, and God knew it, and that was that.
The beach wasn't cutting it. Instead of the surf eroding her anger and her anxiety like it had the sandstone cliffs which stood sentry over this unique stretch of ocean, every crash of waves seemed to fuel her angst. Her doctor had prescribed medical marijuana to treat the nausea which accompanied her chemo treatments. Mercy knew it would work better than a Xanax for her mood.
Three tokes later, and eight miles south in Ocean beach, she'd finally calmed down enough to do something constructive to find Cindy. There was a tiny sports bar across the street from Cindy's apartment on Voltaire called the Tilted Stick. A pool table, a couple TVs, a surfboard suspended from the ceiling. Local microbrews on tap. That kind of place. Cindy used to come here to watch the Chargers play since she didn't own a TV. Mercy figured the bartender would remember her, and that maybe Cindy popped in the night she disappeared.
She ordered a Ballast Point lager and sat at the bar. In her business-casual attire she didn't exactly fit in. But she was at least half as stoned as the handful of regulars, so that was a start.
"If you're looking for Cindy, I haven't seen her," the bartender said and put the bottle down in front of her. He stood there for a second, as if he were expecting her to launch into a litany of question for which he'd have a similar curt response. But when she didn't say anything back, he went on as Mercy took a long swig of beer. "I recognize you from the news. I'm sorry."
"Thanks," Mercy said, and took another sip of the lager. The pot made it taste like a used coffee filter, but it would get better the more she drank.
"A cop came by earlier asking about her." He paused, then, "Just so you know they're still trying. But like I told him, she hasn't come in the bar for quite awhile."
"Well, thanks for that, anyway."
She took another sip. Sure enough, the Ballast Point began to taste better. No more bitter than it always tasted.
"For what it's worth, I woulda lied about her age, too. That was smart."
Mercy nodded in that almost imperceptible way that suggests contemplation rather than outright agreement. "We'll see. I'll feel smart after they find her." She tipped back the bottle and quenched her cotton mouth.
"Need another?"
"Sure."
"It's on the house." He fetched another beer and then changed the channel on the TV to FOX 6 on his way back. "In case there's another update," he said, and gave her the beer.
Mercy left a five on the bar and thanked him and moved over to an empty booth opposite the TV. She drank the second Ballast just as quickly as the first one, adding to her buzz considerably. She started to sag in the booth, suddenly exhausted, but Eileen Sepe's super-model-ish mug interrupted what might have been a rare catnap.
"This just in: The beautiful Cindy Hernandez is alive and well! And as she told police just minutes ago...engaged! to Henry Whitmore, the man previously wanted for questioning regarding her falsely reported disappearance.
"Viewers will recall that La Jolla based therapist, Mercy Anne, lied about Hernandez's age and also claimed, falsely, that she was her daughter when Ms. Anne reported Hernandez missing to police yesterday.
"Authorities have now learned that Ms. Anne harbored a quote, ‘unhealthy obsession,' with Hernandez's personal life, and had been interfering and harassing Hernandez ever she started dating Mr. Whitmore.
"The two have filed a restraining order against Ms. Anne, and told police they will elope and honeymoon at an undisclosed location in Mexico for the next several weeks.
"Both Whitmore and Hernandez have declined to press charges. No word yet from Distric Attorney Wiman on whether the city will pursue charges against Ms. Anne for misleading authorities. In other news..."
Mercy didn't hear the rest. She felt herself mouth the words uncomfortably numb and she stood, more than a little wobbly. The door seemed eternally distant, a portal to heaven made to taunt the damned. She couldn't feel her footsteps, but the disgusted glares of the other patrons pushed her away from them, toward the exit.
She made it outside. Then she heard it:
"Don't come back you psycho bitch!"
She about-faced. Before she knew what was happening, she was back inside, gripping a pool cue two-fisted from the skinny end, marching toward the bar keep.
"Did you just call me a psycho bitch?"
The bartender took a step back and froze. Eyes the size of dartboards.
"Uhhh...look. I'm sorry. Shouldn't a said that to you."
Mercy cocked back the stick, beat-off-a-mugger-style, then dropped it. It popped like the shot from a .22 against the painted black concrete floor. Someone sprayed beer trying to hold back a laugh.
"Who's the bitch now?"
Rhetorical. She left the bar.
"Yeah. Jesus would do that."
Author: Jeremy James
Shelved In: Episodes
Main Topic: restraining order
Keywords: Lord • Ballast Point • bartender • beach • bitch • Chapter 19 • chemo • Cindy • cop • damned • Darfur • Distric Attorney • Eileen Sepe • faith • FOX 6 • God • heaven • Henry • Hernandez • Jesus • Lord • Mercy • ocean • Ocean beach • October • police • Tilted Stick • Torrey Pines • TV • Voltaire • Whitmore •
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