Traffick (14 page)

From Vince. He told me everything,

at least everything he knew, and

the police, too. That guy, Chris,

was at the poker game, remember?

He followed you to that hotel room.

Killed his girlfriend, and the other

man. They said you were lucky

you didn't die, too. He definitely meant

to kill you. Oh. I'm not sure you know,

but the other guys at the game were

all called in as witnesses. It wasn't hard

to track Chris down. When the cops

knocked on his door, he went out

a window. There was a high speed

chase out into the desert near Red Rock.

Finally the dude ended up stuck

in the sand. He jumped out of his car,

shooting. The cops took him down.

“He's dead?” Her nod brings

relief, and also elicits a small sense

of satisfaction. Extremely small.

But you couldn't exactly call it

an eye for an eye. It was a two-

for-one deal, and that doesn't touch

what he did to me.

I hope it hurt.

I hope he screamed.

Most of all,

I hope he didn't die

quickly. I close my eyes,

picture him lying

on a bed of hot sand,

bleeding out slowly,

listening to the cops

discuss the relative merits

of glazed versus jelly

doughnuts while a dozen

buzzards circle above him,

edging lower and lower as the cops

move into the shade to wait

for the coroner, who's sitting

in an air-conditioned office—

Ronnie's gentle urging elevates

me out of my trance. “Oh. Sorry.

I was just thinking about . . . him.”

Let's talk about you and me instead.

I'll admit I had a pretty tough time

when I found out about the stuff

you were doing. But then I started

thinking about me, and where I was

then—getting high, cutting school,

hanging out on the strip with my

friends, and fighting with my parents

when they called me on it. Who knows

how far I might have gone if I'd kept

down the same path? Not to say

I'm perfect now, but it was a wake-up

call, and one I seriously needed.

I love you, Cody. I should've seen

you were in trouble. Should've asked.

You probably wouldn't have admitted

it. Forthrightness (that's a word, yeah?)

isn't your best thing. That has to change.

Is she really going to stay with me,

despite my treachery, not to mention

my disability? “Does this mean you'll

give me another chance? That you

forgive me?” I can't believe she'll jump

right in and agree, and she doesn't.

In fact, she sits for way too long,

silently studying my face. Finally,

she says,
I'm not sure forgiveness

is possible, Cody. Trust is the core

of commitment, and my faith in you

has been shattered. Whether or not

it's repairable will take time for me

to decide. But if I walk away now,

I'll never know for sure, will I?

She, at least, could walk away.

Which kind of brings me back to,

“What are you, some kind of saint?”

Ronnie spits laughter.
You know

me better than that.
Now she turns

serious.
What I am is in love with you.

What I've learned is just how resilient

love can be. You can beat it, pound it

into pulp, but killing it is hard to do.

Little flickers of hope sizzle

like sparklers inside me. Can it really

be possible to move forward from here,

finish school, build a career, with

a girl as perfect as Ronnie by my side?

Can love even survive, let alone thrive,

immersed in the dreary details

of living with someone like me?

“But what about . . . about . . . ?”

I don't know, Cody. I've never

considered myself especially strong,

and I'll have to be, won't I? This

isn't just a storm. It's a freaking

tornado, and it's doing its best

to blow our world apart. I guess

the question is, do we kneel down

and let it wipe us out, or hang on

tight and work our asses off to rebuild

what we can and start again?
She stops

to draw breath, and I'm struck by

the way the curves of her breasts expand

and contract, expand and contract.

Hey. What are you staring at? Good

to know your eyes work okay, I guess.

But other things don't work at all,

and the truth is, sex with Ronnie

was an important part of who “we” were.

“I so want to believe it's possible

to have some kind of future with you.

But you have to understand that

my legs aren't the only things

that might be lost to me. I mean . . .”

I take a couple of deep breaths.

“My favorite memories are lying

in bed with you, holding you close,

touching you, and you teasing me,

making me hard, but making me wait

so it would last a very long time.

And then, being inside you, God!

You are just so incredible, all I want

is to make you feel half as good as

I feel, remembering. What if I can't?”

She has listened patiently, those

pretty eyes never veering away

from mine. Now she says,
I liked

that, too. But it isn't what made me

love you. Besides . . .
She grins.

Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder.

Warm. Soothing. Remembered.

And that invites another kiss.

Honeyed. Luscious. Reinvented.

She puts on the brakes too soon.
Better

stop before someone takes a picture.

Besides, we've got work to do.

Déjà vu. “Uh-oh. I don't think

I like the sound of that. That's what

Federico says every time I see him.”

I know. And he swears you refuse

to cooperate. Just to be clear, with

me you have no choice, and from

what I hear the PTs at the rehab

hospital don't take crap from patients,

so you'd better be prepared to give

it your all. I've been doing some

research, and I want to share a few

videos with you.
She reaches into

her backpack, extracts a tablet, and

turns it on.
First, there's a website

you should check out. It's got a ton

of interviews with people with spinal

cord injuries, both paraplegia and

tetraplegia—that's the new word for

quadriplegia, did you know that?

Apparently she thinks I haven't heard

anything these people keep telling me.

Mom hustles back into the room

just as Ronnie starts touring the site.

She pauses to show us several short clips

of SCI patients, doctors and therapists.

Visiting hours officially end during

the marathon, but apparently my team

thinks this is more important than

rules. Maybe they're right. My biggest

takeaway from the session is knowing

I'm not alone with either my injury

or my reaction to it. It's normal

to feel like a freak when that is, in

fact, what you've become. Still,

every single one of them insists

it's possible to move on and create

a fulfilling future. It's a regular

SCI house party. Wonder how much

is bullshit. Hey. Wait. What if

they're all ringers, not paralyzed

at all, just paid to say they are, and

no worries because hey, it gets better?

Okay, considering that website

is an SCI resource clearinghouse,

they're probably mostly legit.

I've bookmarked that site for you,

but now I want you to watch this

video. It's by this amazing woman. . . .

It's a long glimpse into the rebound

of a lady who broke her neck in a car

crash. They told her she'd never so

much as move her fingers again,

but by sheer strength of will, and

forcing herself to tap into her muscle

memory, she managed not only that,

but using swim therapy, taught herself

to walk unassisted in water, where gravity

can't interfere. Ronnie holds my hand

until it's over. “That's incredible.

Only problem is, I'm not that strong.”

Don't say that. You are, and I'll be

here to help you.
She places the tablet

on the table next to the bed, stands

and pulls back the sheet, not even

wincing at the too-obvious tube.
First

things first. It's time for you to sit up.

Who'd have thought this

simple thing would become

an impossible chore?

I'm

very sure I managed it

while in my crib,

when my bones were still

pliable, my muscles soft.

Yet here I am today,

not

able to prop myself upright

for more than an hour at

a time. I'm only thirty-four

and being tugged toward

a distant doorway I'm not

ready

to enter. My mother

won't say it to my face, but

I notice the blame in her eyes,

know when Ginger comes

home I'll see it in her, too, only

magnified, and I will carry that

to

the cold sandy pit

they'll lower me into

without forgiveness when I

die.

About Iris dying, withering

into the dried-up flower she's always

aspired to be. I keep thinking

I need to manufacture the tiniest

spoonful of sympathy—elixir

for me. No amount of medicine

can help her now, and I don't feel

the slightest bit bad about that.

Instead, I keep wishing she'd go

ahead and take that long, scary walk

before Gram can manage to pick

me up. Gram tells me it's a matter

of days now, that the final paperwork

giving my grandmother custody

of all of Iris's children will arrive

any time. Does our mother have any

regrets, other than doing the guy

who infected her, obviously without

protection? Considering the state

of her deterioration, that had to have

happened seven or eight years ago,

probably soon after Porter was born.

Baby Sandy was carried in her HIV-

infected womb. Luckily, the stats

were in his favor, at least that's what

Gram told me when I asked why

he wasn't born positive.
Only one

in four babies will pick up the virus

in utero if the mother goes untreated,

Gram said. Iris didn't even suspect it.

Ob-gyns don't test for HIV as standard

procedure, but even if they did,

Iris wouldn't have known because

she never was one for prenatal care.

I remember her whining when she

was twin-carrying Honey and Pepper:

All those tedious office visits,

and the outcome will always be

the same. It's just a way to take

money from people who don't have

enough to start with. You're healthy,

right?
Somehow, all six of us

mostly were, despite the fact that

Iris smoked at least a pack a day.

Well, healthy except for Mary Ann's

asthma and Porter's heart murmur

and my ridiculous attraction to the very

substances I hated to smell on Iris.

I'm sure. She loved smoking.

Needed to drink. But what

about any of the rest? Does

she realize Sandy might have

come into this world cursed

with a shortened life span?

Does it bother her at all?

What about leaving her kids

behind when she heads on

down to the brimstone-heated

whorehouse? Oh, and how

does she feel about putting me

up for sale? Does she carry