Traffick (30 page)

myself go down until I land, hard,

in a pile of brown glass. I do hear

myself scream. The sound echoes

along the walls of an invisible tunnel.

Whitney.
The voice finds me

in the tunnel.
Let me help you up.

James reaches out, and the hand

that finds mine is familiar. I was

just . . . holding it? Yes, that's right.

He pulls me up and into his arms,

and I let myself stay there until

the trembling stops. “I'm sorry.

I'm a fucking freak.” Passersby

stop to see what's going on, and

someone comes out of the store

we're in front of to investigate

the crashing noise. James handles

everything, but refuses to let go

of me. Eventually, explanations

made, we walk back to his car.

Again, James opens the door

for me and I fold into the soft

leather seat. He comes around,

settles in beneath the steering

wheel, where he rests his hands.

I have to tell him something.

Just not the whole truth.

“I . . . I . . . what happened

in Vegas is that I was sexually

assaulted, and more than once.

You can take me home now.”

He doesn't move.
Thank you

for telling me. I know that's hard

to admit. It wasn't your fault,

Whitney. Stop blaming yourself.

And you're not a fucking freak.

If I were to guess, I'd say you

have PTSD—post-traumatic

stress disorder. My dad has it,

too, though it was war-induced,

and it manifests differently.

Dad's disorder-fueled rages

drove my sister to the boyfriend

who destroyed her, and pushed

me toward self-medication. Yeah,

I get addiction because I was right

there, too. I fought my way through

rehab two years ago. It does get

easier, but only with support.

For understanding. For offering

his support. Still, the fact remains

that, PTSD or whatever you call

it, I'm abnormal. Freakish. Crazy.

He drives me home, walks me to

the door. It's comforting to know

he does these things, despite

understanding enough of what

I experienced to drive most guys

far, far away. I could never tell

him the rest. Never admit it to

anyone, ever. Not even my parents.

Under the yellowish porch light,

we say goodbye, and I accept

his kiss, knowing in my heart

he'll never call again. Why would

he? Why would anyone as sweet

as James want to spend a single

second more with disgusting me?

I go inside to find everyone gone.

A note informs me they went out

to dinner and will be home by nine.

That gives me two hours alone

to find a way to fill the hollow space

inside my shell. Music, yes, but

I don't want to think. I want to fly,

and I find my magic carpet inside

a bottle in Dad's medicine cabinet.

As if someone taking it needs

to know, the label says to take

one tablet immediately before

bed, but only if you have a firm

seven to eight hours to sleep,

and to expect dizziness in

the morning. It comes with

a stiff warning:
Do not exceed

recommended dose.
I've never

been real good at following

directions. Let's see. I have no-

where to be tomorrow but here.

It will be eight o'clock before it

kicks in, and I can sleep till noon

if I want to. That gives me sixteen

hours. So yeah, I'll take two. I do,

then replace the bottle exactly

where I found it before going

to my room. Screw it. What good

is staying clean? Your brain has

too much time to work. Mine

needs a vacation, especially from

these lilac walls. What was Mom

thinking? I strip off my clothes,

and the air hits my skin, cool.

I dig through my drawers for

some warm, comfy clothes,

choose some soft PJ pants and

an old favorite sweatshirt.

About the time I slip beneath

the covers, plug headphones

into my phone and turn on

my music, the Ambien kicks

in, and hard. My head spins,

hopefully quickly toward sleep

because I'm also feeling a bit

nauseous. Don't want to throw

them back up. I close my eyes,

lie back, thinking about many

trips to the bathroom in that

stinking Vegas apartment,

happily puking and crapping

right before crawling back

to the other room to nod off

into the land of oblivion. Talk

about a love/hate relationship.

As I turn onto my side, there's

a crinkling noise. Something in

my sweatshirt pocket. I reach

in and my hand closes around

a small piece of heavy paper.

A business card? Through thick,

drooping eyes, I read:
Perfect

Poses Photography.
Bryn.

Remembering the day he gave

me this makes me smile. How

quickly I fell in love with him.

He was the only one who ever

made me feel beautiful. Those

days, shooting gorgeous photos

on the beach. Photos of me. Me!

This amazing warmth creeps up

my spine, and on a total whim I dial

his number. Will he answer? Will—

Hello? Is this really you, Whitney?

Oh, girl, I'm so happy you called.

He remembers me. “Hey, Bryn?

I can't talk very long . . . kinda messed

up. Gonna sleep soon. Jus' wan' you

to know I miss you. It's crazy, cuz,

I mean, you fucked me up good.

But I do miss you. 'Member the beach?”

Sliding in and out now, still I hear,

I'll never forget the beach, Whit.

God, you were stunning, all long

brown legs in that white skirt.

“Hey, Bryn? I don' wan' back

in the life. But could you maybe

bring me a li'l taste of the Lady?

Jus' a li'l. I could meet you. . . .”

Jus' wanna see his face

one more time.

By the time I ascend from

a deep pit of sleep, head

pounding and disoriented.

What did I do again? Guys.

Right. The movie. James.

Thump-thump.
Agh! Make

it stop. Thinking hurts. Why?

Now it all whirls back.

The truck. The beer bottle.

A nice kiss or two. Ambien.

Bryn. Bryn? Oh my God, did

I talk to Bryn? Did I ask him

to score some H for me, or

was that only a dream? No.

Not a dream. We're supposed

to meet up tomorrow. What

the fuck have I done? I pull

myself from bed. As soon as I

stand, the room somersaults.

I barely make it to the bathroom

on time and as I empty bile

into the toilet, stink sweating

and skull beating pain, a trill

of excitement trembles through

my veins. I'm going to see

Bryn again! And visit the Lady.

I just have to fake my way

through this day first.

Gives me the perfect excuse

to do two things—go shopping

alone, and take money out of

my bank account. Do I feel

guilty? Yeah, a little. But I'll

be careful with the H, no needles

or pipes, just a whiff now and then,

when the crazy shit takes over.

Mom drops me at the mall

midmorning, promises to pick

me up in three hours. As I watch

her drive away, regret plucks.

Still, I go inside, and the moment

I see Bryn, smiling exactly the way

he did the first day we met, every

last bit of guilt vanishes. He doesn't

wait for me to reach him, but rushes

straight toward me and for one

ridiculous instant, I'm scared.

But his hug is friendly. Loving.

Wow. You look great. So happy

you called. I never thought

I'd see you again. Hey, I've got

the stuff. Let's take a drive.

When I start to protest, he kisses

me silent.
We can't do this here.

Just a quick stop at the beach?

How can I say no?

To my child—tell her

she can't come home,

she doesn't belong

here—my flesh and

blood

daughter? When you

give your full measure

of love to the Lord, it

isn't

permissible to sidestep

his laws, no matter what

your heart whispers. Eden has

always

been willful, and when she met

her punishments with stonewall

stares, I wondered if she was

thicker

than most. Spare the rod,

spoil the child, as God would

have. That's how I was raised,

and I knew no better way

than

that to bring my girls up right.

Some might think I could have

been kinder, a cool drink of

water

to soothe their thirsting souls.

I say it takes a scalding tap

to scrub sin away.

Is the most precious thing

in the world. God's forgiveness

tends to be expected by believers.

Taken for granted, really.

I knew God had forgiven me

the moment I heard him speak

through the priest who'd heard

of this place and sent me here.

A Bible story is embedded in

my brain: A woman, caught

in the act of adultery, was brought

before Jesus by the Pharisees,

who told him Moses would have

had her stoned to death. What

would he do? This was a test,

of course, but rather than interfere

with their laws, Jesus said,
He that

is without sin among you, let him

first cast a stone at her.
Instead,

they left, one by one, leaving her

there alone with Jesus, who told

her he did not condemn her, only

she was to
go and sin no more.

I never feared God's condemnation.

It was Andrew's that terrified me.

I've had a long time to think

about a partial confession.

But keeping secrets from Andrew

would be the same as lying

to him, and that I can never do.

Some of what I said stung.

A powerful hurt reflected in

his eyes. He listened without

comment until the very end,

hanging his head once in a while.

But I didn't stop until every

ugly truth gurgled out, bubbles

in a cauldron, and I really thought

he'd tell me, “Sorry for your trouble.

Been nice knowing you.” But no.

Instead, he kneeled in front

of me, laid his chin on my knees,

and I understood his pain was

for himself.
Oh, Eden. If I'd had

any idea your mother was capable

of such cruelty, I would've risked

prison and taken you away

in a heartbeat. Now all I can do

is try and make it up to you.

Can you ever forgive me?

To forgive him. I was stunned.

Still am. His heart is huge, and

he swears it belongs to me forever,

no matter what. We just have to

figure out where we go from here.

The notarized, signed emancipation

papers arrived. We filed them

right away and got a court date

after the first of the year. Now the

hearing notice has to be served

on my parents. Shouldn't be hard.

Papa—no, Pastor Streit—is well

known in Boise. I haven't heard

back from Marlene about Elko

County. Sarah warned me that

the wheels of bureaucracy turn

slowly, but tomorrow is Christmas.

I can't imagine spending it locked

up at Tears of Zion. Oh, and Eve

must be so cold! Those rooms

were like ovens in the summer.

They must be like freezers when snow's

on the ground. Thinking about

it makes me so angry! I wish

there was something I could do.

Spending Christmas at a place

like Walk Straight, either. Much

like Thanksgiving, most of the girls

don't have wonderful holiday

memories, but I do have a few.

With Papa being a pastor,

Christmas took on even deeper

meaning, and we did it in style

when I was little. Not that we had

a lot of gifts. My parents didn't

believe in them.
This is Jesus's

birthday, not yours,
Mama told

us. Still, we always had a lovely