Traffick (34 page)

Hey, maybe you could fly out next

week. I've got enough cash for a ticket,

and I'd love for you to see where I

come from. Even if it is covered in snow.”

He smiles wistfully.
Maybe one day.

But I have to work next week. Besides,

if I go back there, it won't be in winter.

I had the chance to relocate in the Midwest,

but this California boy hates deep-freeze

cold. Why do you think I moved to Vegas?

I shrug. “So you could find a cute

boy, fall in love, and settle down?”

You sound like Mom. Hey, better go.

Those cabbies are giving me dirty looks.

Long kiss goodbye, dirty looks

from cabbies be damned. One

more promise to see him in

a few days. One more plea for

him to consider sharing a place

when I get back. One very large

stab of pain when he drives off

without looking back, just a small

wave over his shoulder. I wander

over to curbside check-in, get in line,

and suddenly it hits me that I could

go home and never return to Vegas.

Would Micah even miss me?

Would he ask me to return?

Someone behind me taps my

shoulder.
Line's moving, dude.

“Sorry,” I mutter, shuffling

forward and digging in my pocket

for my wallet and ID. As I approach

the counter, I notice the sign:

TIPS APPRECIATED
. The baggage

guy is an older man, grizzled and slightly

bent, but he lifts my duffel easily,

assures me it will reach my flight in

plenty of time, and when I slip him

a ten, his eyes go wide. “Merry Christmas.”

Kind is as kind does, my mom used to say,

and that seems to be the case because

when I make a few missteps at security,

the TSA people calmly remind me

to remove
everything
from my pockets.

I reach the correct gate in plenty of

time, only to find my flight's delayed

due to the Midwest weather. While

I wait I should charge my phone,

and that reminds me I need to make

a couple of calls—one to YouCenter

to let them know I won't be in, and

the other to Pippa. “Hey. I'm heading

home for a couple of days. You okay?”

Never better,
she jokes.
But are you

really going back to Indiana?

“As long as the weather gods allow

it. My dad's in the hospital.” I omit

the deathbed part, but Pippa intuits

it anyway.
Oh, wow. Sorry. The Grim

Reaper does love the holidays. Seth?

I was thinking about community.

It's the next best thing to family,

isn't it? Will you help me find mine?

“I'll do the best I can. Meanwhile,

you heal up and get out of there.”

And find a cheap plastic surgeon.

Can't go around looking like this.

“You'll always be beautiful, Pippa.

Oh. Just called my flight. See you soon.”

Hey. One thing before you go. Try

to forgive your dad. Easy to say,

hard to do, I know. But if you don't,

you'll beat yourself up forever. Be safe.

“You, too. Have a happy Christmas.”

Who the hell made her so wise?

At the very back of the plane, not

much to do for three and a half hours,

I entertain myself with my laptop

for a while, but after the drink service

and two Jack Daniel's, I put it away

and sink into an alcohol-enhanced stupor.

I close my eyes, wishing back-row

seats reclined and wondering if

someone might be joining the Mile

High Club in the lavatory behind me,

or if people ever pay random strangers

for the experience. I will myself to nap.

Floating. Floating. Someone taps

my arm and I straighten, ready to let

my seatmate out to go to the bathroom.

Except he's sleeping, and the seat on

the aisle is empty. So why does it seem

occupied? I extend my hand into

the space, and for just a second, I feel

him there. “Dad?” The barest hint

of fingertips brush my cheek

before vanishing, and I know.

He didn't wait for me. Was that by

design, or did he try to hang on?

“No.” It's not even a whisper. “Why?”

Why did you leave without saying

goodbye? Except, you did, didn't you?

Does this mean you've forgiven me?

“I forgive you, too.” It's important

I say those words out loud, to steep

them in meaning. The man beside me

stirs, and I swallow the sound of my tears.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it was only

a by-product of my buzz. Yeah, that's it.

So why do I shiver at the skin pluck

of goose bumps? I close my eyes again,

am vaguely aware when the aisle seat

refills with a flesh-and-blood human.

Window-seat man begins to snore.

I want another drink. But now the captain

informs us we're on our final descent

into Detroit, where the temperature

is five degrees Fahrenheit, under

a light snowfall. The flight attendant

adds an apology for our late start,

reminds us many connections have

also been delayed. Mine was hours

away and even if the Evansville

flight is on time, I'll have to wait

at least an hour to board it, which

proves to be the case. When we touch

down, out come the cell phones. That

includes mine. The expected message

from Aunt Kate has not yet appeared,

so I text her first.
DAD DIDN'T MAKE IT.

The forty-one rows in front of me

deplane first, and I am most of the way

to my connecting gate before the bell

on my phone sounds, signaling her

response:
I'M SO SORRY, SETH. HIS

PASSING WAS PEACEFUL. BUT HOW

DID YOU KNOW?
How did I know, indeed?

If I tell her, she'll think I'm crazy.

“Gay” is probably bad enough.

Keeps surfacing on the ninety-

minute flight to Evansville: lost.

So many things lost to me, and

much too soon. My mother, claimed

by cancer before I could ever even

try to make her understand the “me”

of me. My identity, through the early

years of my childhood, not because

I couldn't see it, but because of what

was expected of me. My faith, stolen

by one who claimed to stand fast

representing it. One deviated priest,

and my God was taken from me.

And Dad, who deserted this world

in favor of the next where, he believed,

the love of his life awaits him in

eternity. But where lies the key

to heaven's gate? In dogma or ancient

scripture? Or might it be found within

the creeds of love and forgiveness?

Would be easy. The Lady

would make it a gentle ride.

So why has it taken me this

long to recognize that fact?

What's the point of

fighting

to hold on to solid

footing, when slipping

toward darkness

requires almost no

effort and the struggle

to live

a routine existence

is an uphill battle?

Anyway, how can “average”

be a goal for someone

like me, who is

tempted

by the extraordinary

and drawn toward

the unexpected?

It must be better

to die

a quick death

than to stare at the clock,

as the hours drag you toward

the very same inevitable

conclusion.

After everything I managed

to live through—barely—before,

eking out a slender escape

from the hands of death, knotted

around my throat, how can

I invite the demon king

back into my life?

I. Am. An. Addict.

There is zero doubt of that,

and not only am I addicted to

the sensuous dance with the poppy,

but I am one hundred percent hooked

on the son of a bitch sleeping

beside me. Why did I call Bryn?

In less than five minutes,

he convinced me to leave

the relative safety of the mall

and take a drive to the beach,

despite the fact I understood

there was treachery in his motive.

I'd asked for the heroin,

that wasn't his fault, and he didn't

need to twist my arm to make me

take a whiff. Oh, I wanted to visit

the Lady, and she was everything

I remembered. One tiny taste,

every drop of fear melted like candle

wax tongued by flame.

Then Bryn kissed me. Things

are a little hazy this morning,

but I think I asked him to.

I haven't wanted a man near

me in a very long time,

but Bryn is the man who taught

me what it means to be a woman

(if not a lady), and his practiced

touch rekindled the passion

I'd truly believed died in Vegas.

He laid me back on a pillow

of sand, and though it was cool,

the billowing heat of my body

warmed it soon enough. I closed

my eyes, and didn't move,

just let him take me all the way

there, listening to the serenade

of surf beneath the steady,

building beat of my heart.

And when he said he loved me,

I stupidly confessed, “Oh God,

I love you, too.” And that was all

I needed for him to convince me

to leave Santa Cruz behind again.

He is a masterful player.

And I have been played.

And I know I've been played.

And I invited the game.

Do I really want to keep playing,

knowing this game allows no

winners? I slip out from under

the covers, tiptoe into the little

bathroom, sit on the cracked

toilet seat, pee into the rust-stained

porcelain bowl. The experience

carries me straight back to Vegas,

a place I vowed never to return to.

We're halfway there now, in

a seedy motel, all Bryn could find

off the freeway, two nights

before Christmas. Or maybe all

he could afford. I go to the sink

to wash my hands and can't avoid

looking at the girl in the mirror.

She stares back at me with mascara-

stained eyes, still holding vestiges

of the H inside them, and she insists,

You're better than this. He says

he won't lock you back in his stable,

that when you were taken from him

he realized that you were the only

girl he loved. But you know it's a lie.

She's right. He lies, and the Lady

is a liar, too, but last night, held

in her arms, I finally felt right.

To go back into the other

room for that little plastic

bag of powdered courage.

Snort myself brave.

Chase the dragon, and

smoke myself fearless.

Send Bryn into a drug-

store for clean needles.

Shoot myself heroic.

How many heroes require

such encouragement

to face their enemies,

conquer them—or not?

Dope or no, you'll never

be a hero,
says Girl-in-

the-Mirror,
and your past

is the enemy. Tomorrow

embraces hope. Yesterday

holds despair. It's not too

late to turn back around.

“Shut up,” I tell her, then

turn the shower faucet

as hot as I can get it, do

my best to steam away

the lingering tendrils of H,

and scrub the scent

of Bryn from my skin.

I put on yesterday's, then

reach into my purse, past

the plastic bag, to find my

hairbrush. On its way out,

it bumps my cell, which

I've tried to avoid, knowing

there'll be messages from Mom.

I go ahead and check them

as I wrangle the snarls from

my hair. As expected,

she's left quite a few.

I'M HERE TO PICK YOU UP.

WHERE ARE YOU?

WHITNEY? I'M HERE.

WHERE ARE YOU?

WHITNEY, ARE YOU OKAY?

WHERE ARE YOU?

WHITNEY?

WHERE ARE YOU?

There are voice mails, too,

including one from Dad:

Whitney, your mother called.

She's worried sick. Where are you?

There's even one from James.

Hey, Whitney. I was hoping

to see you today. Where are you?

Good question.