Traffick (17 page)

go. You've got my number.” I head

on inside to say goodbye to everyone,

then call for David's driver to pick

me up around the corner. No one here

knows where I live, or with whom.

Once we're on our way home—scratch

that, back to David's house—I call

Micah, careful not to say too much

within earshot of Percy. “Hey. Hope

you've had a great Thanksgiving.

Would love to hear from you. Please

call me later.” Way to be ambiguous

when what I really want to be is in

his face, followed by him in mine.

And what I wish is I was on my way

back to a home Micah and I share.

I check the time. Six p.m. here in the Pacific

zone, two hours later in Indiana. Dad will

probably still be awake. Hands shaking,

I dial the number I committed to memory

years ago. One ring. Two. Three. On four,

a machine answers.
Can't answer the phone

right now. Please leave a message.
Dad's

voice. Strong. Clear. Loved. Now, the beep.

“Hi, Dad. Happy Thanksgiving. Hope you

spent it with Aunt Kate or someone. Sure

do miss you. How did the harvest go?

So you know, I'm thinking about going

back to school. Maybe getting a degree

in culinary arts. Las Vegas is in dire need

of decent venison sausage. Love you.” Huh.

Aunt Kate. Dad's sister. Haven't thought

about her in a while, but she always was

decent. Kind. Wonder if she'd talk to me.

As we pull into the driveway, I make a

note to track down a way to reconnect.

How do you glue

back together

a relationship torn into

scraps like paper?

Where do you find

trust

buried in a stinking heap

of epic past failure?

Losing a child

to illness or accident

is

a bitter tonic to swallow,

but losing one

to personal indifference

would be too

hard

to reconcile, and I've come

much too close—

within the width

of an eyelash—

to

doing exactly that.

I've been given a second

chance with my Whitney.

But how do I

rebuild

her faith in me?

How do I prove my love?

From the confines of rehab, and

scared through and through

to be without overseers, unless

you count my family. Yeah,

and how did that work out

last time? Okay, they're doing

a good job of pretending

to care about how I'm feeling.

Well, Mom and Dad are, anyway.

Kyra acts like I'm a dark cloud—

something to draw the blinds

against. She's probably said

two dozen words to me over

the past two days, and those

she barked.
Don't talk

with your mouth full.

Get out of the bathroom.

Put some decent clothes on.

God, look at your arms.

How could you?

Except for that, nothing.

I'm glad she's flying back

to Vassar on Sunday.

Long-distance silence

is preferable to

the in-your-face kind.

With long silver scars—damage

from shooting up over and over

in the same general location, once

I forgot to care about hiding it.

What did I know? Not like drug

programs teach you how
not
to inject,

when they're warning you about

using at all. Not like I thought

I'd ignore that advice and go walking

with the Lady. She calls to me,

and I'm terrified. I'm weak.

I didn't take that second oxy

back in rehab, not because I

tried to be strong, but because

I lost it somewhere, and figured

that must have been a sign.

It made me take a long look

at myself, and I hated the view.

Once a junkie, always a junkie,

that's what I keep hearing.

But the dope doesn't have to win.

And I can reclaim my body,

abused and broken as it might

be, I can take ownership of it.

Dana thought it was hers for

the price of two pills—pharms

that would slide me back into

the arms of the Lady. Instead,

I pulled away. That time.

Being back in my room.

My room, but not like I left

it. Apparently, Mom thought

I needed a fresh start, so she had

it painted a pale lilac with purple-

and-crimson paisley borders.

It's pretty enough, but not

something I'd choose. Given

free rein, I'd likely pick black,

to match my mood. It's hard

to come home, be confronted

with rules, most of them meant

to keep me from making the same

mistakes that almost killed me.

I understand the need for them,

but they're suffocating me, and

I've only been here a few days.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving.

Talk about strange.

Mom did do the cooking,

and did ask for help from

my sister and me. Way back

when I was just a little kid

we worked in the kitchen together.

But it's been years, and since

then holiday meals have either

been prepared by hired help

or, more often, eaten out.

The dressing was bland.

And the rolls were underdone.

The best thing was the pies,

apple and pumpkin,

and they came in a box from

our favorite bakery—

Dad's contribution.

Hey, at least he was here,

not hiding out in San Francisco,

his Turkey Day habit

for the past couple of years.

He was even nice at dinner,

and managed the entire meal

with only two glasses of wine.

Mom needed three, but

stayed pleasant enough.

It's like my parents decided

the only way to save me

was to save themselves.

Not that I'm at all sure

it's possible for their marriage

to be resurrected. It was dead

and buried before I left.

Sobering thought.

Maybe that's how

they should've left

it. If it all nose-dives

again, will that be on me?

A day when any sane person

stays holed up at home, or goes

to the gym to work off a few

calories. But not the Lang clan!

We're going to the mall, and

calling it an adventure.

At least, that's what Mom's

calling it. Dad, who's driving,

says,
You realize this is insanity?

Look at this parking lot. How

far are you ladies willing to walk?

Kyra (speaking to the family

in general, not to me specifically)

claims,
This is a total nightmare.

I bet Coach is already sold out.

Me? I'm just going along

for the ride, and because

they're scared to leave me

alone in the house, not

that I blame them.

The stores opened early,

but none of us is the type

to rise before dawn so we

can stand in mega-lines,

just to fight the inevitable

crowd, which might actually

thin out later in the day.

We did skip breakfast

instead of working out

to make up for calories

consumed yesterday. Fueled

only by coffee, we hit the mall

a little after ten, including

a six-minute walk in from

the far edge of the parking lot.

Dad was right. This is insane.

The sheer number of people,

all in one place, threatens

to overwhelm me. It's like Vegas

on steroids, only for all its nasty

underbelly, Sin City's facade

is beautiful. Nothing particularly

attractive about Capitola Mall

even without all the jostling.

A guy walking by turns to stare

with eyes that don't quite track

and suddenly I'm carried back

to another day here. I came with

Paige, and we went on a weirdo

watch—that's what we called it—

and ran into one hot creeper

loitering outside the Gap, looking

for stupid girls like me to recruit

into his stable. Wonder how many

pimps are hanging out here today.

As we push and shove

our way into the throng,

a determined Kyra carving

a path to Coach, I'm pulling

in air as if through a pillow.

“Mom,” I try, but it's a weak

attempt, and she can't hear it

above the clamor. “Mom!”

It's Dad who falls back,

takes a long look at me.

What's the matter?
Now

he grabs my hand, and his

skin is hot and I can't stand

the touch of a man—any man,

really, but especially not this Vegas

wolf, who rushes me and I feel his grasp

at my throat, and he's telling

me that he doesn't pay for sex

and now he's cursing,

Fight, you goddamn whore!

Fight or I'll kill you.

“Leave me alone!” I scream,

and even above the din,

people hear. People stare.

People think Dad is hurting

me. Dad. The realization

of what just occurred punches

me and I fall to my knees.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so

sorry.” It's a chant. “I didn't

mean it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

Finally, I chance looking up.

People are still staring, but

they've pushed away,

forming a wide circle, giving

me space. And now I see

Dad encouraging the crowd

to
please move back. Can't

you see she needs air?
His

mask is calm, assertive, but

his voice trembles, denying

the disguise.
Are you okay?

he asks, and I know he wants

to help, but he's definitely scared

to touch me again, so I stretch

my hand toward his. “Please?”

Still, I have to reach deep inside

for the courage not to recoil

when his fingers close around

my wrist and gently pry me

up from the dirty tile floor.

Once I'm on my feet, he lets

go of me immediately.
What

just happened, Whitney? Do

you want to talk about it?

A security guard wades in

between us.
Is this man

bothering you, young lady?

“No, sir. This is my father.

I just had a bit of a panic

attack, that's all. Sorry for

causing a scene.” The guy

looks unconvinced, but nods

and returns to patrolling for

shoplifters, dine-and-dashers,

and maybe the odd flasher.

Now that I'm so obviously

safe, the crowd goes back to

scouring stores for bargains,

despite the fact that most of

the good ones are long gone.

Which reminds me, “Kyra

must have found something

good at Coach after all. She

and Mom have been gone

a while.” Thank God Kyra

didn't witness my little scene.

Don't change the subject,
says

Dad.
Was that a panic attack?

Have you had them before?

You about gave me a heart

attack, Whitney. Are you okay?

Is he going to ask me that?

Maybe until I answer?

“Yeah, Dad, I'm okay.”

Sure I am. For the moment.

“It's just when you grabbed

my hand, it reminded me of

something that happened in

Vegas.” I've been mostly silent

about the stuff that went on

while I was working for Bryn.

The focus has been the H, and

fighting addiction. My parents

know I'd been lured into the life

by a panderer—Vegas Vice was

clear about that. But no one's

asked for the details, and I sure

haven't volunteered them.

“I think it was a panic attack.

First, I couldn't breathe. It was

all the people, all the noise.

And then . . . I don't know.

No, I haven't had one before.

I think maybe I just need fresh

air. Is it okay if I go outside?”

I'll go with you if you want.

And anytime you need to talk,

please know you've got my ear.

In a very long time.

I wouldn't have any idea

what to say to him now.

Would he want to know

that I met Bryn, the phony

“fashion photographer”

who convinced me to run

away so he could pimp me out,

right here in this very mall?

No, probably not. I attempt

a joke to lighten things