Something in the Water

by Phyllis R. Dixon

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Buried secrets, environmental disaster, and a legacy of corruption hit too close to home when a California native and her family make a fresh start in small-town Texas—and find trouble just beneath the promising surface in this powerful novel for readers of Terry McMillan, Tracy Brown, ReShonda Tate, and Elsie Bryant.

As director of an award-winning investigative news radio show, Billie Jordan is used to helping others fight trouble. But she faces her own when the radio station is sold and she’s unable to find another job. Their savings dwindle as she and her husband struggle to help their son overcome an opioid addiction. When her husband gets a professorship at an HBCU in his hometown, they relocate to get a fresh start. Billie slowly adjusts to a cubicle workspace, sweltering heat, and accepting “y’all” as a word. All is well until severe storms cause massive destruction and contaminate the town’s water supply—making it unsafe to drink.

Billie learns water woes and boil water notices have existed for years. In her new job at a local bank, she finds connections between money, power, and family, are as dirty as the water. Warned to mind her own business, she remains persistent and discovers a shocking cover-up. Even more shocking is who is involved—and the extent to which they’ll go to protect their interests.

Billie has always advocated for the people over the powerful. But when her son gets in trouble, her silence can make it go away. With her son’s freedom at stake and mounting tensions threatening her marriage, she’ll need all her resources and skills to save her family and expose the corruption . . . if a conspiracy doesn’t drown her first.

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

“This is BJ your DJ and that’s it for another fun day on KBLK, the local station you love and the station that loves you back. This has been another edition of Relationship Radio. Stay tuned for the afternoon drive show and remember to keep listening for your chance to win Golden State Warriors tickets.”

Billie Jordan had just spent the last three hours hosting a relationship call-in show. She had been a fixture of Oakland, California, radio for twenty years, starting as an intern at the small, family-owned station, and now headlining the weekday morning drive show, serving as News Director—jobs she loved in a city she loved. She had interviewed everyone from Kevin Durant to Zendaya and even former Vice President Kamala Harris when she was San Francisco District Attorney. Her show had been integral to galvanizing support for Black Lives Matter protests and hosting local election candidate forums. Her show Let’s Talk About It, had run a series titled, Get the Lead Out, which publicized findings of lead in the water of several area schools and had earned the station a Braddy Award nomination for broadcast radio in the large urban news category market.

Last year, she was asked, more like told, to take over the Relationship Radio show, when the long-time host retired. Rather than replace him, station management divided his assignments, giving her the relationship show and cancelling her news and issues show. Billie offered to do both, but the station manager said the relationship show brought in more commercial revenue, and the news show didn’t break even. She was not a sympathetic host and never understood baby mama drama, or why people stayed in bad relationships. Her no-nonsense approach was a hit with listeners and the show’s ratings doubled. Today’s dilemma had been a young woman who was cheating on her husband with his sister—a long way from the hard-hitting news she thought she’d be reporting when she majored in journalism at the University of California, Berkeley.

After hearing the trials of so many of her listeners, she knew she shouldn’t complain. Her bills were paid, and her family was healthy. Her daughter, Kendra, was a Navy petty officer, stationed in Virginia. Her son, Dylan, was a high school junior and already had multiple college scholarship offers, both academic and for the swim team. Billie and her husband Cole would soon be empty nesters, and she was collecting ideas from her favorite HGTV shows to update their three-bedroom house to reflect the next stage of their life. Cole, a college professor, had recently completed his Ph.D. and was being considered for tenure. Their twenty-year marriage wasn’t perfect, but he still had his sexy Texas drawl and was as good-looking and attentive as he had been when they met in college. She had been looking forward to their date this afternoon, but two hours into her shift, she’d received a text from Cole that they needed to go to Bradford to meet with their son’s counselor.

Nothing today had gone as planned. Billie rose early and packed sandwiches, apple slices, cookies, and their favorite merlot wine, for the date she and her husband planned to have at Alameda Beach. But on her drive in, she heard the beach was closed due to a red tide alert. Then, the machine at Starbucks wasn’t working, and she couldn’t get her daily oat milk vanilla espresso. And when she got to the station, she learned the traffic announcer had called in sick, and Billie would have to do traffic and her regular duties. The raggedy phone system kept dropping calls during her show, and, she had gotten her second period this month, something that was happening more often now that she was forty.

Since they couldn’t go to the beach, she and Cole planned to meet at Ricky’s, a pizza restaurant they’d been going to since college. They met when she was a junior and Cole was a graduate student. Cole came to California to pursue a master’s degree in economics and play baseball, using his last year of eligibility after graduating from Calder State College, an HBCU in his hometown of Calderville, Texas. He was the teaching assistant for her public finance course. She got a ‘B’ in the class, and even better, she got Cole. He was amazed that they could go get pizza at three in the morning and he loved the beach. She thought his naiveté and wonder at living in a large city were cute. “This campus has more people than my whole hometown,” he’d said. He was intrigued by her outgoing personality and what he called worldliness. He called her his city girl. Her mother thought it was endearing when he called her ma’am, and her sister Maya liked him because she said he had cute fraternity brothers.

They dated, then lived together, and eventually married at Cole’s insistence when she became pregnant with their daughter. They had endured many ups and down since then, but remained committed to each other.

Dylan had gotten in some trouble a few months earlier. Billie attributed the trouble to the injury he sustained, which prevented him from going to swimming practice and left him with too much time on his hands. Now that his rotator cuff had healed, he could rejoin his team. Billie was looking forward to a favorable report from the Bradford counselor on her son’s progress, and that he could return to his regular school.

She removed her headphones, fluffed her locs, then headed out the door. If she’d known she was going to Bradford, she would’ve worn something other than leggings and a “Say Her Name Sandra Bland” sweatshirt. An accident caused traffic to crawl, but she viewed it as an opportunity to revel in the cornflower blue sky and budding magnolias. Spring was her favorite season, and spring in Oakland was breathtaking. She had been born and raised here. Even with the outrageous cost of living, relentless wildfires and stinky red tide, there was no place she’d rather be. Most outsiders revered Oakland’s larger, more glamorous neighbor to the west, San Francisco. But locals were proud of Oakland’s underdog spirit and soul which had birthed everything from the Black Panthers to Raider Nation. Her position at KBLK kept her on the pulse of the city.

Cole was in the counselor’s office when she arrived. “So sorry I’m late,” Billie said as she entered. “Traffic on the interstate was backed up—even more than usual.”

“I appreciate you coming on such short notice. This is something we need to address right away. Your husband and I were discussing your son’s test results,” the counselor said, as she handed Billie two sheets of paper.

Billie scanned them, then slowly said, “I don’t understand. This report says Dylan is—”

“Pregnant,” Cole said, shaking his head.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Billie said.

“Obviously, this isn’t your son’s urine.”

“Looks like someone on your staff mixed up the specimens,” Billie said, as she handed the paper back to the counselor.

“Mrs. Jordan, we have a rigorous testing process. This isn’t a staff error.”

“So what happened?” Billie asked.

“He got someone to do it for him,” Cole said, while drumming his fingers on the table.

“Your rigorous testing process doesn’t seem to be working very well,” Billie said. “I thought Bradford was one of the best drug treatment centers in the state.”

“This isn’t jail,” the counselor said. “If someone is determined, they can find a way around any rule. I’m sorry Dylan didn’t put this much effort into our program.”

“When can we see him? My husband and I will get to the bottom of this.”

“Dylan is packing. This is your son’s third infraction, and—”

“You’re kicking him out? What sense does that make?” Billie asked. “He needs your help, not punishment.”

“We reviewed the rules with you both and your son when he was admitted. We can only help people who are ready to be helped. Dylan isn’t ready to end his addiction.”

“We registered Dylan for forty-five days,” Cole said. “It hasn’t even been a month.”

“It may be time for a longer, more immersive program. There are several programs more appropriate for your son, that work with your insurance company. I discussed those options with him. Pathways in Vermont and Oasis outside Boulder, Colorado are highly recommended. Dylan pretended to ignore me, but he showed interest when I told him several NBA players had gone to these facilities.”

“If they’re so good, why were we even wasting our time here. Plus, we’ve already paid you,” Cole said.

“The contract requires your son to adhere to the rules and specifies that there are no guarantees. We are willing to accept Dylan at a reduced rate when he decides to pursue his sobriety. And we are still available for counseling for you and your wife. Addiction affects the whole family and—”

Billie didn’t hear anything else the counselor said. She was well informed about addiction, and knew people from all walks of life were susceptible. So many people were impacted, addiction stories could be featured every week on her radio show, if she wanted. Her uncle had been on crack for decades. The first guy her mother dated after leaving her dad turned out to be a functioning alcoholic. The station owner’s youngest daughter had died from a heroin overdose, while at their Palm Springs condo. Billie had even experimented while in college, but thankfully, she didn’t like the way weed made her clothes smell and cocaine made her jittery.

Since she knew all this, she had been intentional about knowing what was going on with her children. They stayed involved in extra-curricular activities. Billie was frequently team mom, and couldn’t count the games, recitals, and swim meets she and Cole had attended. She met their friends’ parents, monitored their classwork, and had their phone and computer passwords. She had even endured Girl Scouts, charm school, and make-up classes—girlie stuff she didn’t care for, but Kendra loved. Occasionally they tested their boundaries, but overall her children had never given her a moment’s concern.

Cole coached Dylan’s peewee baseball team, and worked out with him so he could play on his middle school team. Swimming had come about by accident. Dylan had been born seven weeks premature with underdeveloped lungs. Billie had read that swimming increased lung capacity, so she got her younger sister, Maya, to teach her to swim, then enrolled Dylan in tadpole swimming classes when he was eight months old. San Solano High School had an Olympic size pool, and all students were required to take swimming. It was the only ‘C’ that Kendra got—she didn’t want to get her hair wet. However, when the coach observed Dylan racing his friends, he invited him to try out for the swim team, and Dylan made the team.

Swimming conflicted with baseball, so he dropped it altogether. Cole never said so, but Billie knew he missed that time with his son. As first place medals and ribbons accumulated and scholarship offers began pouring in, Cole accepted his role in the stands with Billie. Dylan was the only Black kid on the team and shattering school records brought him attention, which he loved. With his good looks and fun-loving personality, he was popular at school. He didn’t make the grades Kendra had made, but he managed to stay within striking distance of a ‘B’ average.

His carefree demeanor changed when he tore his rotator cuff during a swim meet. After Dylan’s swimming injury, he was in such pain, all Billie cared about was making him feel better. Tylenol and Advil weren’t working and when the doctor prescribed Exalgo, she was grateful they found something that worked. His pain was alleviated, but his shoulder wasn’t healing, and physical therapy didn’t seem to be working. Surgery was the next alternative.

Her mother, Zuri Russell, a nurse, raised the alarm when visiting her grandson after surgery. Dylan was groggy and had fallen back asleep, so Billie and her mother went to the cafeteria for coffee.

“Dylan’s pain medication will need to be monitored. Those medicines have fancy names, but they’re all opioids and there are a lot of side-affects. Get them to try something that doesn’t have him so out of it.”

“Mom, he just had surgery. You expect him to be laughing and cracking jokes?”

“I’m not dismissing his pain. Males are babies anyway. But they barely let you stay in the hospital twenty-four hours after having a baby, and all they give you is Tylenol. Shoulder surgery can’t be any worse.”

“I’m sure they know what they’re doing and don’t need advice from Dr. Zuri.”

It was advice she wished they had taken. But regret wouldn’t help Dylan now. She remembered the words of the counselor who was a frequent guest on her shows about addiction, “You didn’t cause it, you can’t control it, you can’t cure it.” She knew that, but had hoped Bradford could cure it.

“I know I screwed up, so can we skip the lecture?” Dylan asked as his parents entered his room.

“No, we can’t,” Cole replied. “I can tolerate a lot of things, but not stupidity. This stunt you pulled is costing us thousands of dollars.”

“He needs help, not a lecture,” Billie said.

“And how is coddling him and ignoring reality helping him? We tried it your way and we see how that has turned out.”

“So, all this is my fault?” Billie asked.

“I didn’t say that, but we are where we are. Obviously, what we’ve been doing hasn’t worked and we need to try something else.”

“That’s what the counselor was saying. It’s not up to us. It’s up to him.”

“But he’s not the one paying the bills,” Cole said.

“Feel free to continue your conversation,” Dylan said, as he grabbed his backpack and walked toward the door. “My Uber is here.”

“Boy, if you walk out of here—” Cole said.

“What?” Dylan asked with his hand on the doorknob.

“If you walk out of here, you’re on your own. That’s what.”

“Let’s go home, relax and talk later when we’ve all calmed down,” Billie interrupted, as their son walked out the door. “Dylan, wait,” she said, rushing after him.

“Mom, go home. I’ll be fine,” Dylan said as he got in the backseat.

“You can’t leave. Where are you going?” Billie cried running behind the car until it reached the end of the circular driveway and turned onto the street.

“Let’s go, honey,” Cole said, while putting his arm around her.

“Don’t touch me,” she said, jerking away from him. “How could you let him leave? You practically sent him off. That tough love crap sounds good on TV, when it’s someone else’s child. He’s not street smart. If something happens to my son, I will never forgive you.”

“He’s my son too. Don’t you think I’m heartbroken to see him hurting and you too? But we can’t lock him up and we can’t want his sobriety more than he does.”

“I’ll send Narcan home with you,” the counselor stated, handing them each a small box and a brochure.

“Isn’t that the spray used to counteract an overdose?” Billie asked.

“Yes. It’s available over the counter, and I suggest you get several. Keep the spray in different parts of the house, in the car and in your purse. You never know. Time is your enemy when someone overdoses.”

“You’re talking like Dylan is a hardcore addict, nodding off with a needle in his arm.”

“We know Dylan has a problem, but I think you’re overreacting,” Cole said. “It’s only pills, not heroin or meth.”

“Most opioid abusers eventually move from pills to smoking or needles. There are now more drug deaths from smoking opioids than injecting. Fentanyl is often the next step for opioid abusers who start with prescription meds. It’s fifty times stronger than heroin and one hundred times more potent than morphine. You should also remove any alcohol in the house.”

“We occasionally have a glass of good wine, but we don’t have hard liquor at home,” Billie said.

“It doesn’t matter. People with substance abuse issues often substitute one drug for another. You need to be prepared. I also suggest you both attend Nar-Anon meetings. These meetings are helpful for families impacted by addiction.”

“This is the treatment plan we paid for—a lecture, a brochure, and an overdose antidote?” Cole asked. “I thought the objective was to keep him from overdosing, not treat the overdose. Let’s go.”

They walked across a courtyard to the parking lot, and passed a few groups huddled around picnic tables and patio chairs. If you didn’t know this was a drug rehab center, you’d think you were on a college campus or in a park. Billie dumped the brochure and box in her purse and grabbed her keys, then asked, “Since you and the counselor have all the answers, now what?”

“I wish I knew,” Cole said.

She rolled her eyes with disgust, then got in her Prius and drove off.

Billie heard the pings on her phone, but she ignored them. It wasn’t either of her children’s ringtone, and she figured anyone else could wait. Cole, who’d slept like a hibernating bear all night, didn’t budge. She had gone to bed at her usual ten o’clock but hadn’t fallen asleep until after midnight. A news report about the rise in opioid deaths kept playing repeatedly in her head. Dylan said he was staying with friends, although he wouldn’t tell her who or where. Whenever he called, she tried to follow the counselor’s advice and not nag or cry, but yesterday had been hard. His classmates were attending junior prom, a date that had been circled on their calendar for months. It was a milestone her son was missing and another reminder of the detour their lives had taken. Even watching back-to-back episodes of Martin didn’t lift her spirits. When the opioid story came on, she sunk into a deeper funk.

She had just drifted off to sleep when she heard her phone. Who sends a group text at four o’clock in the morning? she thought, seeing she had thirty-seven minutes until the alarm went off. Thirty-seven minutes and two snooze button slams later, Billie stumbled out of bed, trying to get to the toilet before the first of the day, bloody gush came. She knew about fibroids, or at least thought she did, but no one prepared her for the never-ending period.

One of her most popular radio show guests was an herbalist, and Billie had tried dandelion root and nettle to shrink her fibroids. Her mother had urged her to get a hysterectomy. But Billie’s doctors wanted to try medication first and if that didn’t help, fibroid embolization. Her insurance wouldn’t pay for surgery until less invasive methods had been tried. Not that she planned to have more children, but she was always in favor of avoiding surgery.

The phone pinged again, and this time Billie answered. Kelly, her coworker, had forwarded the announcement that KBLK had been sold, effective in thirty days on June first. There was also a text from the station manager informing them of an employee meeting at eight-thirty.

When Mr. McNeal died last year, rumors circulated for months that his family was looking to sell the station. But Mrs. McNeal said too much of her husband’s blood, sweat and tears were tied up in the station and she would never sell it. However, she died six months ago, and apparently her children didn’t share the same devotion. They had sold the station to Love Media Group, a company that owned five hundred stations of all formats across the country.

Billie shouldn’t have been surprised. KBLK was one of a dwindling number of independently owned radio stations and an even smaller group of Black-owned radio stations. The business had changed dramatically since her start twenty years ago as a college intern, answering phones and working with the promotions department. When she graduated, she was hired as a Program Assistant, a fancy term for grunt work and meant she filled in wherever needed.

As the youngest employee at the station, Billie introduced them to the music of new artists like Rihanna and Ne-Yo. The owner noticed her enthusiasm and when the on-air 11:00 PM to 5:00 AM time slot became available, she was selected. She had enjoyed curating her own playlist, discovering new bands, and giving them exposure. When she started, the FCC required stations to be staffed any time they were on the air t. . .