Traffick (19 page)

She opens a file to check her notes.

Oh yes, Samuel Ruenhaven. Unless

he was personally involved, he could

simply fire whoever was accused,

and it would probably be business

as usual. That said, there were prior

allegations of neglect against him,

though in Idaho, not Nevada.

First, because she believes

me enough to dig deeper.

Second, because maybe there

is a solid answer. “Really?

Against Father? What happened?”

I rethink the question before

she can answer it. Nothing

happened.
He settled out of

court, then dismantled his

Idaho operation and moved

to Nevada, where his name

hadn't been blasted all over

the media. This was years ago,

of course, before the Internet

made finding information so easy.

Hope abates. “So no one

will take me seriously

if I come forward?” Beyond

my personal fate, Father and

his disciples need to be stopped.

I wouldn't say that, Eden.

For all we know, someone

else might find the courage

if you go first. Or maybe

someone else already has.

Just cueing in law enforcement

would be a good thing, and

if the media gets hold of it,

at the very least there will be

public scrutiny, something

I'm sure Mr. Ruenhaven would

not appreciate. But he'll have

to change the way he conducts

his business. The question is,

do you want a spotlight on you?

Okay, I hadn't considered

that. I won't be publicly outed,

will I? I'd have to give

details about Jerome, and

the things I accepted, even

encouraged, to escape Tears

of Zion. And I'm sure, should

I accuse my mother of spiking

my tea, she'd be more than happy

to tell the world about her daughter,

who is not only incorrigible,

but also a harlot, in every sense

of the word. I don't know

if that's necessary yet. “I'll think

about it.” And decide tomorrow.

I start to leave, but she gestures

for me to stay.
Are you sure?

Urgency shades her voice.
When

I see. Okay, I'll ask around.

was she supposed to be there?

She replaces the handset.
Have

you seen Shayleece? She had

a dentist appointment, but never

showed.
Worry creases her face.

Do you remember if she was at lunch?

“Actually, I haven't seen her

since yesterday. But she planned

to go to the dentist. She was excited

about getting that hole in her front

tooth filled. She hated it.”

That's what I thought. Maybe

the bus broke down? But then

she would have called, right?

Will you help me poll the others?

Maybe someone saw her go.

A half hour later, all we know

is the last person who talked to

her was her roommate, Rhonda.

That was last night. She was

going outside to have a smoke.

Before Shayleece came back

in.
If
Shayleece came back in.

No one has seen her since.

Sarah goes to call the police

and report her missing.

A few of us volunteer to canvass

the neighborhood. We go in two-

person teams, in four directions.

I partner with Hana. We head east.

It's afternoon, post-school, and

we pass parents walking with

their children. A few older people

are walking their dogs, and there

are bunches of kids sitting

on car hoods or stoops, smoking

or making out. We ask every

person we come across if they've

seen our friend, with little luck.

It's starting to get frustrating.

It's starting to get worrisome.

One elderly woman asks for a

description, nodding her head.

I think I might have seen her

just a few minutes ago. She got

in a car with some other youngsters.

Hana and I look at each other.

A few minutes ago? Couldn't

have been her. Still, I ask, “Do

you remember what kind of

car, or what color it was?”

The lady scratches her thin hair.

I was all the way over on the far

side of my grass, and I don't see

so good anymore. But it was a big

car, and I'm sure it was gray. Or blue.

We thank the woman and, as soon

as we're down the block, bust up

laughing.
Probably didn't need

to worry,
hiccups Hana.
Bet her

hearing isn't so good, either.

But now the heavy gravity of

the situation sinks back in.

“Shayleece wouldn't run off.

Where would she go? Besides,

she likes it at Walk Straight.”

We keep going until the light

begins to pale, then circle back,

the chances of finding out anything

useful fading with the sun. Dinner

this evening is unusually quiet.

Playing tag with worry

about what the morning

will bring. Usually, I fall

straight into dreams but

an odd slant of moonlight

through the blinds disturbs

the darkness, and the silence

is punctuated by Hana's gentle

snoring. I haven't noticed it

before. Now I can't not hear

it, even with a pillow over

my ears. It reminds me

of my sister. I've thought

about Eve a lot lately, and

now, with Mama coming

tomorrow, a collection of

images mash together in

my head: Eve and me giggling

together in church; Papa

halting his sermon to chastise

us; Mama glaring, Mama

accusing, Mama handing

me a cup of tea; Mama's

face smearing, blurring;

the face of Father Samuel

Ruenhaven swimming

into view; Father staring,

Father chastising, Father

forcing me to pray; Jerome

leering; Jerome coaxing;

the luscious taste of ripe

strawberries; calloused

greedy hands touching

places meant for no one

but the boy whose face

I cannot find. I sit up,

lean back against the wall.

Something's wrong.

Really wrong. Every

nerve in my body tingles,

on full alert. I don't know

what this means, except

there'll be no sleep at all

tonight. Quietly, I slip out

of bed, search for clothes

in the dark, take them down

the hall to the bathroom,

and get dressed. The entire

building is asleep, so I tiptoe

to the rec room, wait for morning.

My intuition is shouting a warning,

but can't give me details. I skip

breakfast. Can't possibly eat. When

Mama finally shows her face,

I look every bit as ragged as I feel,

and the door to Sarah's office barely

closes behind us before she attacks.

Look at you. Hmph. Ended up exactly

as I predicted. You were determined

to prove me right, weren't you?

The old Eden would find an excuse,

even knowing she wouldn't be believed.

The new Eden has nothing to lose.

“
You
are responsible for my being here.

I didn't deserve what you did to me.”

Of course you'd try to blame me.

God will punish you for that, too.

I had to see for myself just how far

you fell. One thing's for certain, you

can't come crawling back home. Stay

among the filth, where you belong.

It will probably please you to know

you infected your sister with your

disease, but Samuel will reform her,

and she won't escape the way you did.

Is a bullshit game,

and I'm a world-class

expert at gaming.

Some

are easy, some not so much,

but you need rules to play

competently, and one of the

things

you learn very quickly

about the blame game

is there

are

no guidelines, no

predetermined directions

to an exit strategy. What's

worse

is when the guilt

that evolves continues

to grow longer and deeper

than

the original stab

of remorse. Had I been

responsible for Cody's

death

I'd probably be over it

by now. But this will haunt

me until I go to my own grave.

Sitting up is something easily done,

and for most people, from the time

they're six or seven months old, it is.

Learning the skill is baby's play.

Relearning it has been one of the hardest

things I've ever attempted, not only

because I'm mostly numb from the waist

down, but also because my muscles

are seriously considering atrophy.

The most I've accomplished in some

twelve weeks is pushing the buttons

that call for the nurse or raise the bed,

and lifting silverware to my mouth,

when I feel like eating, which isn't all

that often. Federico's manipulations

keep me limber, but nothing close to

toned, let alone strong. We've mostly

managed to avoid bedsores, a plus.

But when Ronnie tried to help me

sit the first time, I couldn't. She enlisted

Federico, who showed me the ropes.

After several days of practice,

I can bring myself upright, unaided,

and move myself to the edge of the bed,

use my hands to swing my legs over

the side and stay there, mostly balanced,

for several minutes. I can't believe

such a little thing can give me such

a huge sense of accomplishment.

The determination to succeed doesn't

spark inside of me, however. Without,

as Ronnie calls them, my personal

cheerleading squad, I'd still be prone.

But between her, my mom, Federico,

and Nurse Carolyn, my free will has

been compromised, and truthfully,

sans Veronica Carino, the team would

not have near the influence as they do

with her spearheading my therapy.

She is a force to be reckoned with.

I just wish I knew why she's still by

my side after everything I've done.

Of everything I've done walks

in the door this morning,

in the hulking form of Vince Carino.

Not sure why, considering his sister

is here practically every day, but

I never thought I'd see him again.

His approach is tentative, almost wary,

and so is my reaction to it—up come

my hackles. I feel like a caged coyote,

though the reason is watery. Vince never

did anything bad to me, except get

the best of me in poker on a regular basis,

and use me for my dope connections.

But I did exactly the same thing to him.

“Uh . . . Hey, Vince. What's up?”

He glances at the wheelchair parked

beside the bed. It obviously makes him

uncomfortable. Same for me, dude.

I thought I should drop by and have

a conversation that's overdue.

First, I'm sorry about what happened.

Not that it's my fault or anything.

Assholes like Chris are a dime a dozen,

and he got no more than what he had coming.

“Hey, you know, I don't blame you.

In the end, I'm the only responsible

person, not that I felt that way at first.

At first, I blamed everyone—Misty,

Lydia, my mom, my dead stepdad, and

even you, I guess. But when you wake

up to your life, changed forever in this

way, blame is easy. Figuring out what

to do next is the hard fucking thing.”

He nods as if he can relate, which is,

of course, impossible.
Ronnie tells us

she wants to help you, that she's willing

to forget all the shitty stuff you did

to her, and in spite of her being a very

special girl. I want you to know that,

two-legged, one-legged or legless, if

you hurt my sister again, I will be