Traffick (35 page)

Where the fuck am I?

Of feeling right dissolves

completely. James. Damn.

I might have had an actual

shot at something like a normal

relationship. That's gone now.

Bryn stirs in bed, rolls

over and into awareness.

It takes him a minute to

realize where he is and who

he's with.
Whitney. Right.

Morning, babe.
He smiles,

lifts back the covers.

How about a little lovin'?

Once upon a time, I would

have been tempted. Instead,

I'm sort of creeped out, and

shake my head. “Not right

now. I already showered.”

Hey, that's okay. I've got

nothing against a clean

woman, although raunchy

is usually better.
He laughs

at his own stupid joke,

very much resembling a hyena.

I've a made a huge mistake.

But how do I rectify that?

Is the only way. “Hey, Bryn.

I've been thinking. As much

as I've missed you, I can't go

back to Vegas. I really don't

want to be in the life again

and I know that's where I'll

end up. I'm so, so sorry, but

will you please take me home?”

All signs of humor vanish

from his face. He sits up,

swings his feet over the side

of the bed to the floor.
Home?

I do hope you're kidding, bitch.

His voice drips menace like

venom.
Surely you wouldn't

have asked me to drive all

the way to Santa Cruz just to

deliver some dope, would you?

Every nerve in my body

jumps to attention. This

is a royal fuckup. “I . . .

uh . . . okay, listen. You

don't have to take me back.

I'll call my parents to come

pick me up or I'll take a bus

or something. Look. I was

in a bad place, and you came

to mind, and I just wanted

to hear your voice, and—”

And you called and begged

me to come to you.
He stands,

starts toward me.
Because

you can't forget how good

I was to you, and you know

you'll never find anyone else

who'll love you the way I do.

I watch his approach, half

hypnotized by his confident

motion, not to mention

the way he can make me

believe that he really does

love me. But now that he's

close enough to look into

his eyes, the predator rises,

and I understand that I'm

in major trouble unless I

play this hand well. “I know

you love me, Bryn, and I

love you, too. I always will.”

I take a small backward

step, and Bryn counters,

reaching out for me. “Stop.”

Stop? Oh, I can't stop now,

pretty Whitney. You're mine,

and that means I can do whatever

I please with you, whore.

I manage to sidestep, but

he's between me and the door,

no way out but past him.

“Please, Bryn. I won't bother

you again.” I try to circle

him, but he lunges for me

again. This time he catches

hold of my shirt, jerks and

I am in his grasp.
I'll never

let you go again. The first

thing I'm going to do is fuck

you dirty. I actually hate clean.

He pushes me facedown

on the bed, ignoring my weak

plea to leave me alone. Just

as he starts to rip at my clothes,

there's pounding on the door.

What the fuck? Who is it?

Bryn yells, then he hisses

at me,
Keep your mouth shut

or I'll kick your ass, hear?

      
Police. Open the door.

“Help me!” I scream, ready

for Bryn's blows. Unbelievably,

he chooses defeat, backs away,

and I have, once again, been rescued.

This Christmas Eve—the one

I spend in custody of the Kern

County Sheriff's Office

waiting for my parents to come

pick me up. Bryn was arrested,

charged with rape and kidnapping

with the intent of trafficking

a child under the age of seventeen.

With all the crazy commotion,

I managed to sneak the heroin

out of my purse and toss it

under a car in the parking lot

without being spotted. I swear

I will never touch that shit

again. This time I'll work

the programs, choose a sponsor,

quit relying on substances

to see me through tough times.

Probably. I hope. I have to.

The cops are nice. After all,

it's Christmas Eve and I'm a heisted

teenager who was on her way

to market. I don't confess

that I called the alleged broker,

invited his advances, though

surely my mom and dad suspect

that's the way it went down.

Neither do I ask how they found me.

The two, together, as if they

actually need each other to lean on.

So weird. After wading through

the paperwork, it's late afternoon

by the time we start the four-hour

drive home. The first sixty or

so miles are mostly silent. Finally,

I say, “I know you're pissed, and

I don't blame you. I'm really, truly

sorry. Guess I'm not fixed yet, but

I want to be, and I need your help.”

Now comes the barrage:

Who is he? Where did you meet

him? When?
And most of all,
Why?

I answer them fairly honestly,

right up until the last one

because I don't know why.

“I was really scared I'd never

see you again. I tried to get

away, but he was too strong.

Please, Mom. Please, Dad.

I want to get well, I want

to be normal, or something

close to it. I swear I'll work

hard to get there. But I can't

do it without your support.”

Down drops the curtain

of silence again. We all

have some thinking to do.

God smiled on me,

and sent him my way,

this uncomplicated

gentle man whose

love

threads my veins, pulses

within my heart, and

fortifies me, sustenance

for my hungry soul. Hope

flickers

within me, when not so

very long ago I was lost,

wandering the shadows,

a

weary traveler on a winding

track to nowhere.

But then, like the Magi,

I caught sight of a

star

to guide my way out

of the wintry desert,

toward meadows green

with spring, and planted

in

them, countless possibilities.

The sun rose within me,

light blossoming from

the darkness.

On this Christmas morning,

and the spirit of the day blooms

inside of me. I'm up at first light,

and waiting for Andrew, who

will pick me up at seven for

the very long drive—nine hours,

with luck—to Boise. I didn't want

to wait, once determination set

in. That and the message I truly

believe God delivered through

Andrew. I have to go home. Today.

With the proper paperwork already

in place, I'm safe enough from

my parents' grasp to risk an in-person

dialogue. I don't belong to them

anymore. When I called Sarah last

night to let her know I'm leaving

Walk Straight, she counseled me

to return, at least long enough to

appear in court on my scheduled date.

I promised I would, and asked

for sanctioned leave from my job

here until I can make it back.

A deal is a deal, and Andrew says

he can live with whatever it takes

to move us one step closer to

spending the rest of our lives

together. I glance down at my

left hand, as I've done dozens

of times in the few hours since

Andrew gave me his mother's

ring. The diamonds glimmer in

the muted early light. Can there

be a luckier girl in the whole

universe? Lucky. The word

makes me think about the girls

here, safely off the streets

this Christmas. A wave of sadness

splashes into me, for Shayleece,

forever sleeping in the ground,

and for the walking dead who

must spend today in backseats

and alleys and cheap motels,

servicing customers. If I could

help them, I would. Wait . . .

Maybe I can't do much to help

them now, but with the right

focus, I can one day. And with

sudden clarity I understand

what God is calling me to do.

It being Christmas, the girls

are allowed to sleep in, and

few are stirring as I pick up

my small bag and slip out

the door. He greets me with

the sweetest kiss and his eyes

shine with love when he says,

Merry Christmas, my lady.

Ready to go?
Since I'm seated

shotgun and belted in, the answer

should be obvious, but I agree,

“Ready as I'll ever be.” I suffer

a bit of déjà vu riding in his

Tundra. It starts to fade several

miles in, but I expect it to resurface

in full force as we get closer to

Boise. The highway is mostly

deserted, and we make excellent

time, stopping only to eat and use

the restroom. We listen to music

and talk about the scenery, or lack

of it, and I tell Andrew that I've

decided to go into social work,

without mentioning the God factor.

That's between me and him.

At one point, Andrew starts

to look a little road weary.

“I wish I could help you

drive, but I don't know how.

Promise you'll teach me?”

He smiles.
I think you're old

enough, and out on the ranch

is the perfect place to learn.

Dad taught me to drive his

pickup when I was eleven.

Speaking of the ranch, Mom

and Mariah are expecting us

to stop by for dinner before

we go to your parents' house.

Hope that's okay with you.

“I'll need fortification, and

I can't think of a better place

to find it. Thank you for sharing

your family with me. I wish

I had presents for them.”

Don't worry. I did a little Vegas

souvenir shopping. Fuzzy dice

for Mariah, who will probably burn

them, and for Mom, a photo of Elvis,

signed by the King himself, they said.

But when we get to the ranch,

I discover he wasn't kidding.

I'm pretty sure Elvis's signature

is a fake, especially since Andrew

tells me the picture only cost

five dollars. We bump up the long

dirt driveway, and now the déjà vu

slams into me like a semi. This

time of year, there's no alfalfa

to smell. The fields are winter-

bare and shimmer beneath a thin

layer of ice. But the memory of

that afternoon carries the green

scent with it, and nerves attack

in the same way—what will happen

next? I remember the feeling—

like standing at the very edge

of a cliff, the wind in my face—

knowing Andrew and I were about

to make love, each of us gifting

the other with our virginity.

I carried the beauty of that with

me through all the ugliness that

soon followed, and it's entrenched

in me now. “I love you, Andrew.”

The words slip out so easily

and his reply comes as quickly.

And I love you. But what was

that for?
He puts the Tundra

into park in front of the house.

“Nothing. Everything. Just

thinking about the last time

I was here. It's all I thought

about at Tears of Zion, and it's

the only reason I'm halfway sane.”

Before he can respond, the front

door opens, and out bounds

a bluetick hound. “You're right.

She's not a puppy anymore.”

Sheila sniffs around the truck,

looking for Andrew, who jumps

out to scratch her head hello.

When I exit the cab, her attention

shifts to me, and she comes over,

tail stump wagging recognition.

Now Andrew's mom and Mariah

materialize on the porch, signaling