Hostage (18 page)

Wren

So a month later, I’m back in college, leaving my History of the Civil War class and heading to my car, on my way to have lunch with my dad.

I have a little bit of notoriety, since my kidnapping and the subsequent self-defense killing of a bank robber had made the national news for a week.

The media has moved on now to new things, and I’m not constantly having to be interviewed
ad nauseam
by the police and the FBI, so I have time to do things like go to class again.

In a way, I’m glad to get back to a normal schedule. It reminds me that life goes on, no matter how much trauma you live through. But, in another way, I don’t feel anything like the girl I used to be.

It’s strange that a week can change your life so completely. But it can.

It can.

“Did you get the stuff he was saying about Lee’s letter,” asks a girl who sits a few seats away from me. She falls in step beside me as we leave.

“Yeah, I think so. He was kind of muttering.”

“I know. I missed a lot of it.” Nora is one of those students who always gets A’s, but she’s not obnoxious about it, so I’ve never had negative thoughts about her. I’ve never actually thought about her much at all, except to wish I could focus as much in class as she always does. “Do you think I could check my notes with yours to see if I missed anything?”

“Sure. I think I need to go to the library tonight to get sources for the research paper. He says three of them have to be books. Just text me or something, and we’ll touch base.”

Nora smiles in a friendly way, and we exchange numbers before she heads off in a different direction on the paths through campus.

She seems nice enough. Sincere, which I appreciate. I haven’t spent much time with my old friends in the last month. They all seem so fake and superficial—like they’re going through the motions, while secretly thinking bad thoughts about me.

I don’t want friends like that anymore.

I’ve known what it feels like to be understood for real, to be loved for who I am.

I may have lost that love, but I’m not going to settle for a pitiful caricature of friendship. That’s all I used to have, but I don’t want it anymore.

Another thing I don’t want is running to catch up with me. Philip falls in step with me as I make my way to my car.

“I haven’t seen much of you lately,” he says, giving me a smile that’s supposed to be charming.

I suppose it is charming. I’m just not charmed. And if he’s hoping to fuck me in the backseat of the car like he did before, he’s going to be sadly out of luck.

“I just haven’t felt like going out much,” I say, making sure not to sound rude or pathetic. The last thing I want people think is I’m in a downward spiral after my hostage experience.

I’m not in a downward spiral. I’m sad. I cry myself to sleep a lot. But then I wake up in the morning and try to make a better life for myself.

That’s all anyone can hope for—in the long run.

“I could take you somewhere quiet. Just the two of us, if that would be easier.”

Maybe it’s a considerate comment, but I can’t help but think that he’s still looking for sex. And that’s just never going to happen. “No,” I say with a smile. “Sorry.”

He waits for more, for an explanation or excuse for why I’m telling him “no,” but he doesn’t get one.

So the “no” lingers in the air as the final word.

“Okay. Just let me know if you change your mind,” he says. I can tell he wants to get away now, so I just smile again and give him a little wave as he leaves.

I’m happier when he’s gone.

I’m not really happy without Code, but I’m a lot better than I was before him.

***

I’m meeting my dad at a little bistro near the bank, and he’s already there when I arrive. He hasn’t been late for any of our lunches since the kidnapping. I’m sure that pattern won’t last forever, but it’s kind of sweet while it lasts.

He’s going through email on his phone. He’s got business on the brain for nearly every minute of the day, but he puts it away when I sit down across from him.

“How was class?” he asks, waving the server over to take my drink order.

“It was okay. Taking about Robert E. Lee. Not real exciting, but not as boring as it could be.”

“Anything else going on today?”

He’s trying. I can see he’s trying. We don’t have a lot of practice at having heart-to-hearts, but he’s doing what he can to connect with me. I’m not going to throw it back in his face, just because he’s been busy with work for most of my life.

I remember very well how he looked when he arrived in Laredo a month ago, after I called the police about the body in the motel room.

It looked like he hadn’t slept in the whole week I’d been gone. He looked broken with relief when he saw me. And he was amazing in protecting me from too much interrogation and getting me the best lawyer money could buy.

No charges were pressed against me, although I occasionally caught some skepticism from a couple of the people questioning me.

The story I told them held up enough for them to accept it. No one is looking for Code in Mexico. They think the guy who had me is dead.

“I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Johnson this afternoon,” I say, since I know he’ll ask about it if I don’t mention it.

“Good. That’s going okay?”

Dr. Johnson is a new therapist. She seems pretty decent so far. I haven’t told her about Code.

I haven’t told anyone about him.

“Yeah. It’s fine.” When I see his eyes searching my face anxiously, I smile again and say, “I really am okay, Dad.”

“Are you sure? After something like that happens to you—“

“I know. But it’s not what you’re thinking. It wasn’t…” I want to tell him it wasn’t all bad, but I’m not sure how to say that without talking about Code.

“It wasn’t what?” It seems like he really wants to know.

“Before,” I begin, swallowing hard since I’m trying to tell him as much of the truth as I can, “I felt like I was trapped by what other people wanted. So I let them take it. No matter what it was.”

His face twists briefly. “I know, sweetheart. I should have—“

“I’m not blaming.” My dad didn’t know anything about what my stepdad was doing to me until my mother killed him and then killed herself. “I’m trying to explain. Before, I felt trapped, so I couldn’t ever say ‘no.’ But, after what happened, I know I can. In a strange way, I think it made me stronger. Like I know that what I want actually matters.”

A different kind of emotion reflected on his face. “Really?”

I nod, seeing how much this means to him and feeling emotion tightening in my throat. “Really. I think I’m going to be okay.”

***

Just so you know, I do think I’m going to be okay. I can’t imagine being really happy—not with the gaping void that Code has left in my heart—but I think I’ll be okay.

I hope he’s okay too. I hope he’s found some sort of quiet spot where he can get some peace, where he isn’t always running from his demons. I do hope he’s missing me a little, but I hope he’s mostly okay.

Like me.

I want both of us to be okay.

Code

Three months.

Three months, eleven days, five hours and seventeen minutes.

That’s how long it’s been since I last saw Wren.

I watched the news coverage of her story as it was unfolding for about a week. The media used pictures of her from before the kidnapping, and it was nice to see her as she truly was. Is. Who she is meant to be.

She’s beautiful. I mean, I always knew that she was, but I hadn’t realized how much stress I had put on her until I saw her as she was before the bank robbery.

Mexico isn’t really that bad. My hair color has grown out, and I’ve got a tan. I’m eating regularly, and I haven’t had anything stronger than a Coke in over three months. When I look in the mirror, I almost don’t even recognize myself.

I look a little bit like me—the old me—the me before I left home, with just a hint of the rebel that I spent so fucking much time being.

I’ve gained a little weight, and I actually feel better than I have in a long time. Like I might be human again and not a fucking sewer rat.

The news on the incident died down pretty fast, and it seems like forever since I’ve seen Wren’s face. I see it every night when I close my eyes, but it’s not enough.

It will never be enough.

I made it all the way down to Mexico City when I finally decided to stop running. I’ve settled in here. I was doing a bunch of odd jobs for a while—janitor, bus boy in a restaurant, that sort of thing for a while. Then, one day while I was working at the restaurant, a senior citizen tour group came in to eat. They were all American, and I found myself giving them a little extra attention and just hanging out and talking to a bunch of them, even after my shift.

I didn’t think anyone was paying much attention, but the next day I was approached by a guy who works for a company that does tours like this—specializing in catering to the over sixty-five group. He asked if I’d be interested in coming to work for him—doing parts of the tours and organizing activities.

“You mean like some sort of camp counselor?” I asked, and he laughed.

“Something like that,” he said. “We have groups coming through daily. I would need you to work with my team to coordinate some parts of the trip, find new and different activities and basically just treat them like you really like them.”

I nodded. I do like them. I hadn’t really taken the time to think about it ever before, but after doing part of the tour with seniors and Wren, I found that I kind of liked the geriatric set. They were far more interesting to be around than people my own age, and they didn’t want anything from me except a little of my time—and friendship.

I could do that.

So I took the job. I’ve been at it for about two months now. The money is good, and some of the things that we do as a group are things that I’m doing for the first time. That makes it a little more fun—like we’re all going through it together.

Shit, not only do I look normal now, but I’m acting it too. Only, it’s not an act. This is me.

It’s late tonight. I’m sitting outside of my apartment on my little balcony and looking up at the stars. Some nights I wonder if Wren is looking up at the stars too, and then I have to stop myself and try and stay focused on myself and getting my shit together.

I kind of think I have.

I’m gainfully employed, the cops aren’t looking for me, and I finally feel like I’m in a good place. I’m comfortable in my own skin for the first time in years—maybe in my entire life.

The only part of my life that is lacking—if we’re being honest—is my sex life. Maybe someday I’ll get laid again, but for now, it’s just not worth it. I’ve had plenty of offers, believe me, but I don’t want any other woman.

I want Wren.

Only Wren.

I sigh and look at the sky. It’s a clear night, and I realize that I can keep sitting here and saying that I’ve got my shit together all night long, but the fact still remains that I’m hiding in Mexico.

Walking back inside, I look around my tiny apartment. It’s basically a studio, but the rent is good, and the place is bright and clean. I had lived in the fucking dark for so long that it was a little hard to get used to. But I am now.

So what’s next?

What’s the next chapter of my life supposed to be?

Home.

The word comes to mind before I can stop it, and it’s not nearly as scary or has distasteful as it once was.

Home.

Do I even know what that is anymore?

Do I even have one anymore?

Only one way to find out.

I know it’s late, and that it’s been years. I can only hope that maybe the time that I’ve been gone has given my folks the chance to see that life shouldn’t be taken for granted. Maybe they’ve learned to see other people for who they really are.

Maybe they’ll finally see me for who I really am and accept me for it.

I don’t want to just hop a bus or a plane and show up on their doorstep. I don’t think I could handle a face-to-face rejection. So I decide to call them and let them know where I am and leave the ball in their court.

And hope that they don’t hang up on me.

I dial the number that I know by heart and wait for someone to answer. Like I said, it’s late, and last I remember, they were typically in bed by eleven on a week night. The phone rings and rings and finally goes to voicemail.

It’s the first time I’ve heard my mother’s voice in years, and my chest aches at the sound. The little boy in me remembers it—even if we never shared bedtime stories or a lot of pleasant memories, it’s still the voice of my mom and it washes over me.

“…leave a message after the tone,” she says.

Beep.

“Hi…mom, dad, it’s me. Cody.” I take a deep breath. “I know it’s been a while and…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have stayed away so long. I’m down in Mexico City and…I don’t know…I just wanted to say hello and see how you were both doing.” I leave my number. “Anyway…I love you guys and…I’m sorry.”

I hang up and feel like another giant weight has been lifted. They may not call me back, hell, they may never speak to me again, but at least I know that I tried. I extended the olive branch and that’s all I can do.

My conscience is clear.

****

A week later I’m painting pottery with today’s senior group. I’m listening to old Joe talk about his plumbing business and he’s keeping everyone entertained. I look down at what I’ve been messing with and feel slightly amused.

I’m painting flowers on a vase.

Who the hell am I?

I break out laughing and everyone turns to look at me. I hold up my vase. “I think my man-card should be revoked after this,” I say with a smile and all of the ladies tell me how adorable I am and what a romantic I must be.

Yeah, right. I’m a regular fucking Casanova.

An hour later we wrap up and one of the other employees of the company takes over to take the group to dinner. I wish everyone a good night and stay behind to help the owner of art studio clean up.

The sun is starting to go down as I make my way home. There’s a nice breeze tonight and I’m thinking that I’ll grill something on my little charcoal grill that I have on my balcony. Nothing fancy. Maybe a burger.

I turn the corner and wave to some of my neighbors and make my way up the street to my building. There are a couple of people standing out in the courtyard with my landlord, Juan. They don’t look familiar and as I keep walking I wonder if we’re getting some new tenants in the building.

I stop as I see Juan point to me and the couple turns around.

It’s my parents.

Holy shit!

Do I run?

Do I walk?

I can’t move. Seriously, my legs refuse to move and I suddenly feel completely unprepared. I know I called them, but they never called back. I figured they’d washed their hands of me and that was that.

My dad starts to walk toward me and still I can’t move.

Next thing I know we’re face to face. He’s gotten older. He’s a lot grayer than I remember and his face looks different—sadder—than I remember. I can tell that he’s just about to say something when my mother comes running up and wraps her arms around me.

She’s never done that.

She’s also never run, but that’s another story. Pulling back, she cups my face in her hands as tears stream down her face. She suddenly smiles and says my name.

“Cody…”

And then both she and my dad hug me.

That’s all it took and I felt like I was finally home. Like everything was going to be all right.