How do you come back to life after almost dying?

CHAPTER 1 A GIRL WALKS INTO A COFFEEHOUSE

It was my routine ever since I went on medical leave. I woke exhausted after another night tormented by nightmares, meditated to calm myself, forced my body through a full series of asanas and exercises designed to help me move again, showered, pulled on clean jeans, a t-shirt, and a blazer, grabbed my backpack full of art supplies and slowly walked from my place to Phil'z Coffee, on a bright early summer morning, for a cup of what had been described, and proven, as the sign over the door proclaimed, 'San Francisco's Best Handmade Coffee'.

Phil'z is a San Francisco institution, occupying the corner of 24th and Folsom, taking up a three-story brick building designed to tightly hug the corner like a ship's prow. In addition to the banner brag over the door, there was another one hanging down under the signboard next to the bus stop. Recently, Phil's son, Jacob, upgraded the place, adding live music on evenings and weekends, painting the outside trim a bright green, making the ceiling to floor windows look even larger, put some thrift shop tables, chairs, and potted plants outside, and hung local artwork on the bare brick inside walls, selling it for the artists when he could. The coffee was roasted and ground in-house now, drenching the place in a heavy perfume of Arabica, Sumatran, Columbian, and other exotic coffee countries, but Jake had left "them" alone, "them", being his dad's recipes for coffees.

When I was a kid, we came here every week after Mass for coffee, pastries, and gossip, before going home for dinner. My father preferred a thick, square, highball glass of Irish whiskey with a cold Anchor Stream long neck while watching the game over at the Napper Tandy down the street, on Sundays, he dutifully made the walk to Phil'z with us from St Peter's. The conversation would fly fast and furious in English and Spanish, becoming louder and more animated as we were joined by my mother's Peña and Muñoz relatives. My father eventually leaving our table to stand behind the counter next to his friend Phil, holding a mug of strong Irish tea, talking about the Giants or 'Niner's, depending on the season, while waiting for "Maggie", as he called mom, to let him go down to Napper's, while Phil, wearing his trademark fedora, frothed milk, and made espressos, lattes, cappuccinos, cinnamon, and chile-spiked Mexican chocolates, pour overs, French presses, and teas, all the time keeping up conversations in English, and Spanish, while behind the two large glass bakery cases, his helpers selected pastries and cookies to go with the beverages. Phil was my godfather and the only one now who called me either by birth name or nickname.

I sat in my usual spot, a table near the window and closest to the right- side wall, where the morning light was best, so I could sketch if I wanted to and pulled that morning's Chronicle out of my bag, beginning my reading with the Arts section. There was a review of Mitsu Yoshikawa's photography exhibit at Gallery 4. I'd gone last week. His black and white pictures had a Zen-like quality but had been taken at Stow Lake at Golden Gate Park in the middle of a glorious late autumn Saturday a year earlier. I met him a year ago one Sunday while he was photographing Coit Tower. He told me how children were fascinated by his Hasselblad V camera that day in the park. He let them take pictures with it, carefully writing their names and addresses in a notebook. When the exhibit opened, he invited them to attend. To their surprise, their pictures had been mounted as part of the exhibit he called, The Future. He became a mentor to me, providing me with an introduction to the San Francisco art scene and letting me try my own luck with the Hasselblad from time to time. As I read, happy that the Chronicle agreed with my assessment of the exhibit; I smelled coffee at the table.

"One Mocha Tesoro Grande, with cardamom, extra sugar, and a chocolate croissant for the lady". Phil announced as he set down on the table the white stoneware plate and mug he gave his regulars. "You're late this morning Paquita. You feelin' ok?"

I smiled. "Good morning to you too, padrino. I'm fine, really. I didn't get much sleep is all. Stayed up too late."

"Uh-huh. He sat down opposite me. "So, Maria Francesca. What's on your agenda for today?"

"Nothing in particular; some sketching, maybe a walk? Why are you so interested?"

"You have a lot of nothing in particulars recently. Next time the Chief comes in for coffee, he and I are gonna chat about your nothing's."

"He doesn't have any control over my nothing's and neither do you, as a matter of fact. I'm on medical leave, remember."

"When do you go back to the doctor?"

"Not soon enough for you, it seems. I thought you liked having me here, especially when you're short-staffed."

"You're a damned good cop and you need to be doing that again. What would your pop think about this an' those guys you work with? Mark and Ed, they're your partners, your friends, I thought."

I said nothing. I could feel the sadness I constantly held deep down inside trying to rise. I didn't want Phil or anyone else to know I didn't trust myself after almost being killed four months ago. If I didn't trust myself, how could I have the backs of my partners?

Phil got up and walked back behind the counter. "So, you can work for Dina this afternoon, right? She called in a half-hour ago. Kid's got the crap"

"No problem; I can cover".

"By the way, someone's been looking for you".

"Me? Who? Why? They say anything?"

"A lady. Really classy. A snob hiller type, but nice. She was in couple days ago an' then yesterday afternoon, when you weren't here. Checked out your stuff on the wall. I think she might want to buy some. I told her you might be in today."

"Hey Phil!" a customer shouted. "Whaddabout my double espresso?"

"Hold on buddy. The sign says one cup at a time, and it's not time for yours yet. If Ironside calls me, Pacqui, I'm gonna tell him you wanna go back to work." He got up and walked back to the counter.

"He'll know you're lying," I replied.

I finished reading the section while eating the croissant, licking buttery flakes off my fingertips. My mother always hated that, my licking my fingertips after eating something like a croissant.

"Mija, una verdadera dama no se comportaría de esa manera."

A real lady would never do that, she told me repeatedly, about any number of things, especially after I got into fights with the neighborhood boys. I was a tomboy, my dad's kid, I'd tell her, but being both Mexican and American, I was an outsider, an Oreo, dark on the outside, white inside. Our family wasn't like the others in the Mission neighborhood. Papi' was police. Mamita taught English at Mission Dolores High School. "No podía ayudarme." I couldn't help myself, I'd reply.

Her response was always the same, to hug me tightly and whisper, "Se hicieron dificultades que hay que superar." Difficulties were made to be overcome.

Only Father Ben at St Peter's knew why I fought. I fought to uphold my family's honor; avenge the names and lies that neighborhood kids tossed around so callously about my parents and me. Each week in Confession, I told him all of that and more. I must have said thousands of 'Our Father's' and 'Hail Mary's' in my life. Absently I brushed the remnants of pastry flakes off my jeans while thinking about that, and what I'd told, rather what I didn't tell, my godfather. I still had four months of medical leave left and I wasn't sure if I wanted to go back. If I were to leave the Department, I wasn't sure what I'd do next. What would my mother be telling me now if she were still alive? Most likely the same comment. Difficulties were made to be overcome. I wasn't sure if these difficulties could be overcome. I let my mind wander to the other comment Phil had made. Someone was looking for me. Who and why? I sipped coffee and thought about it more.

'Let it go' I told myself. I opened my book and began a sketch of the coffeehouse interior complete with the grumpy double espresso guy. Maybe I could go into cartooning.

As the sketch took shape. I smelled a very expensive perfume, Klein, Chanel maybe. Looking up, I saw a woman walking towards me. From her scent to her makeup and clothes, everything about her said money. I knew who she was even before she spoke. She'd let her hair grow long; it was darker too, a more natural blonde, no longer the glacial white it had once been. She'd aged a few years, but it was her eyes that gave her away. The same intense shade of blue with an equally piercing, direct look, just like in all the pictures I'd seen in the office of the Chief, Mark, Ed, and her. Extending a manicured hand, she spoke, her voice honeyed.

"Hello, I'm Eve Dwyer. I've wanted to meet you for quite some time. May I buy you a coffee?