Black, White, and Gray by Dave Hines

Miranda felt the anxiety in her neck as she walked into her kitchen. Her leather bound sketch book, the one she never wanted anyone to see, not even her husband Gary, was among the sketch pads and pencils scattered across the table. Her twins must have found it in the basement. Miranda forgot it was there and wished she had burned it years ago. She heard the kids playing on the second floor. Her father-in-law, Stephen, was babysitting and walked into the kitchen before she even thought of grabbing the sketch book.

“Sorry,” Stephen said. “I didn’t expect you for another hour and would’ve had all this packed away by then. Everything alright?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Miranda said. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Someone came in early, so lucky me.”

“Gary told me you were an artist, but I never imagine how good. All I can say is: wow.”

Miranda shrugged her shoulders. What was she to say? The sketches in the book certainly weren’t landscapes or still life. Miranda didn’t have a great day at the hospital. Three new admissions put the ICU at capacity and the nursing director wouldn’t authorize a float to the unit. Miranda was in no mood for an interview. She just wanted to relax.

“The kids didn’t see it, did they?” Miranda said.

“Are you kidding?”

Miranda’s parents lived outside New England and were still working. If it hadn’t been for Gary’s parents helping with the five grandchildren, Miranda and Gary would never been able to work full time. Since his retirement, Stephen had been around a lot more, but it was awkward for Miranda. Stephen spent twenty-five years in the state police, fifteen of those years as a major crimes detective and back then, it seemed he was hardly around to get to know and when he was, she felt like he was scrutinizing her, like he was now.

“When did you make those sketches?” Stephen said.

“Ah,” Miranda said. She didn’t want to get into it. “Before I met Gary.”

“Oh, right. The pages are dated.”

Miranda put her hands on her hips and wondered why he had asked if he already knew. Stephen went over to the table and picked up the sketch book.

“Tell me about these drawings,” Stephen said.

Her face felt hot as she folded her arms across her chest. Stephen stared expressionless, his eyes scanning her face. He was physically imposing and she should be afraid of him; he was family. She held empathy for the people he had interrogated during his career. He blinked and breathed; watching and waiting. The quiet was claustrophobic and felt she had to say something or she would explode.

“What’s there to tell?” Miranda said. Her arm twitched and for a second she thought she was going to snatch the book from Stephen. “They’re just some sketches I made years ago.”

“Then why are you getting so upset?”

“I was going through a really bad time then,” Miranda said loudly. “It was therapeutic to draw about it.”

“Take it easy, Miranda.” Stephen opened the book and flipped it around towards her. “I was just curious about the cop. There must be fifty different drawings of him.” Stephen flipped through the pages. “And who are the other figures in these scenes? Miranda, these are violent drawings. Who are these people?”

She was looking at her sketch of the police officer who had saved her life. It had been a long time since she had seen it, but she recognized him right away. How could she forget? She wished Stephen hadn’t asked. She wasn’t ready to relive that night and felt her eyes swell with moisture. She tried to speak, but choked. Stephen’s hand on her shoulder felt foreign.

“Holy shit, Miranda,” he said. “What the hell’s wrong? Why’re getting so upset?”

Miranda told him the story. She had been out one summer night drinking with co-workers and somehow managed the drive to her apartment building. Two men suddenly appeared behind her as she opened the door. They walked in behind her. One of them put a knife to her throat and the next thing she knew she was on her back in a dark part of the basement. Her skirt was being pushed up when a light came on. A police officer fought the two men. Miranda closed her eyes and when she opened them, the officer was at her side, escorted her to her apartment and left.

“What was his name?” Stephen said.

“That’s the frustrating part. I don’t know and when I went to the station there was no record of it. The desk officer thought I was crazy and I started thinking I was too. Maybe it never happened. Drawing it helped get the images out of my head. Once I put it behind me I stopped drawing. I should’ve tossed everything away after that.” Miranda wiped tears from her eyes. “I never told anyone, not even Gary.”

“When and where did that happen?”

“It was in ninety-four when I lived in King’s Beach at the Kingsley Apartments. Why?”

“I think I knew that cop,” Stephen said and looked away. “He was killed in eighty-nine, so it couldn’t have been him.”

“What?” Miranda felt lightheaded, like she was spinning. “What does…?”  Stephen cut her off.

“Listen to me,” He was looking her right in the eyes. “When I was a road trooper, I worked the mid shift. One morning, must’ve been about three, a guy came out of nowhere and stepped in front of my cruiser. The brakes locked up and I skid off onto the shoulder. I’m thinking I killed someone, but when I get out there’s nothing, not a mark on my cruiser. No blood. Nothing. At the speed I was going it was impossible to avoid him and my cruiser would’ve been crunched, right? I got back in my cruiser, drove away and told myself to forget about it. Working those hours really screws you up. A couple of years later I meet this retired trooper and we get talking about assignments. He told me about a call he responded to on the same highway. A guy had killed himself by stepping in front of a tractor trailer. I pulled the case file and it’s not like I got a good look at him, but the clothing seemed similar.”

“Do you think I imagined what happened to me?”

“No,” Stephen said. “Do you think I did? Sure as hell seemed real to me and I can’t explain it. I’ve kept it to myself all this time, but I gotta tell you, it feels good finally telling someone.”

Miranda felt an agreement before she thought it. She felt grounded for the first time in a long time. Stephen was no longer a familiar stranger to her. It seemed like the look in his eyes had shifted; what she had thought had been mistrust or skepticism was actually an understanding.

“What should I do with that?” Miranda was pointing to the sketch book.

“Keep it or throw it away, it doesn’t matter. You should pick your pencils up again though. You’re clearly talented and I think it would be a waste not to.”