Sweet Karoline by Catherine Astolfo Page B

police car. Its roof light languidly painted the night red. I sat staring straight ahead, listening to garbled messages on the radio. Up front the two policemen whispered to each other, spoke into a microphone and waited. Within a few minutes, an unmarked car pulled up and the officers got out. After a brief conference I was transferred to another vehicle.
    " No problem, sir," the young male policeman responded to someone outside as he opened my door and helped me out.
    He was speaking to Ethan, who reached for my hand and gently tucked me into the front seat of his car. The warmth inside, the soft silk of the leather seats, the scent of his aftershave, made me hunch over in tears.
    When he got behind the wheel, he placed an enormous yet gentle hand on my shoulder.
    " It's all right, Ms. Williams," he said. "I'm glad you asked for me."
    I have no memory of asking for him, but something inside me responded to the comforting tones in his voice. I folded into his side. He put his arm around me and let me cry.
    We reached my apartment some time later. The moment I opened the door, I was embarrassed by the odor of mustiness and disuse. This apartment that was so accustomed to laughter, discussion and song lay dusty and ignored.
    I led him into my bedroom. He lay down beside me as though this was a natural position that we'd experienced with one another a hundred times before. I told Ethan everything about Karoline and me. From our meeting in childhood to our life in L.A. I told him everything except the end. He used the word suicide, the official word for her death, and commiserated about that terrible experience.
    That first night he left me sleeping, but reappeared the next morning armed with muffins and coffee.
    " I want you to know that I've never done this before," he said. "I mean, become friends with someone involved in one of my investigations. If you are uncomfortable with my being your friend, just tell me."
    But I didn't feel uncomfortable. I felt the opposite. His use of the word friend filled me with a feeling that I recognized as hope.
    Later that morning I reluctantly called Joseph and Vicki to ask about a leave of absence.
    " I know you've been…struggling since Karoline died," Joseph said. "We've been worried, as you know."
    Had I known? Had I seen myself, this fourth-dimensional shimmering of the previous me, at first behaving just slightly off balance, then seeping more fully into the other world? The day Karoline died, the life I knew, the 'me' I knew, went over that balcony with her. I no longer got up from bed eager to start the day. Ultimately, I might no longer have a job.
    Slowly I chased away my parents and most of my acquaintances. My looking glass, heretofore the perfect Magic Mirror, reflected a dazed uncertain face. I stumbled in a fog, unwilling to admit that I was lost. Not until I'd wrecked my car. Not until I'd been publicly humiliated and frightened by my own loss of control.
    " But you're our family, kiddo." This time it was Vicki's soothing voice, thick with emotions that I'd never before heard displayed. "You take as long as you need. Your job will always be here."
    " We'll come see you when you're ready." Joseph had taken the receiver again.
    All I could do in response was weep, a sound they'd never heard from me, the calm and steady one, the fixer, now unable to fix myself.
    Thanks to Karoline's management skills I saved a great deal of money and invested wisely. I now owned the apartment outright, in large part because of Boosha. In a move that both shocked me and compiled my guilt, Karoline bequeathed the place to me in her will. I knew I could live at least a year without working, but I was comforted by the fact that Grace Productions would welcome me back.
     
    These days I feel as though I am traipsing unprepared through a foreign country. I haven't packed. I don't know the language. I don't have the appropriate skills or any of the requisite equipment, but I'm on the journey