Traffick (36 page)

to come inside, out of the cold.

Andrew takes my hand, and Sheila

leads the way into my soon-to-be home.

Is almost overwhelming,

everyone yammering happily

and simply expecting I will

join in because they accept

me as one of them already.

The house is as I remember

it—hardwood and leather,

refurbished antiques—only

prettified with the season's

decorations, including a tree

that touches the ceiling. We

gather in the kitchen, basking

in the oven's warmth, not to

mention its perfumes—prime

rib, sweet potatoes, and apple

pie. Andrew's mom comes

over, lifts my left hand.
I knew

it would fit you, don't ask me

how. It looks beautiful, too.

I'm so happy for you and Andrew.

“I love it. Thank you. And thank

you for encouraging Andrew's faith

in me. I promise to make you proud

of me.” Somehow, I believe her

when she says I already have.

I assume Andrew has told

everyone why I'm here, so I

don't go into it. In fact, I try

hard to avoid thinking about it

mid-celebration. Dinner is even

better than last night's five-star

Vegas experience, and that much

I do relate, along with the details

of my coming emancipation.

“My counselor is looking into

transferring jurisdiction to Idaho.

The requirements are similar—

school, the ability to support myself,

a place to live. I've got those in Vegas.

What I don't have there is Andrew.”

Between the three of us, we've

got plenty of connections here,

says Andrew's mom, who now

insists I call her Victoria.
We'll

work it out. Andrew needs you.

She's right,
agrees Andrew.

I absolutely need you here

close to me.
He takes my hand,

infusing me with his strength.

Good. I'm going to need it.

About whether to wait until

tomorrow to go to my parents',

but by the time we finish our

pie, I feel bolstered by the love

I've absorbed for the past three

hours. “Hopefully they'll have

a little Christmas spirit left

and will let me come in,” I tell

Andrew on the way over.

He parks on the street in front

of the house that will never be

my home again, but when he starts

to get out, I stop him. “I know they

won't let
you
in. Last thing you

need is a trespassing charge.”

Are you sure you want to do

this alone?
There are lights on

inside, and movement beyond

the windows, and it would be

easy, in this moment, to change

my mind. But then I think about

Eve, alone in the cold on this

Christmas night, and I discover

my courage again. “Just don't go

anywhere, in case I come running.”

Toward heaven as I approach

the door, ring the bell. The weight

of the footsteps tells me Mama

will answer, and she does. “Hello,

Mama. Merry Christmas.”

She startles.
What are you doing

here?
Then she notices Andrew's

truck beneath the streetlight.
Of

course. I should have guessed.

Papa moves into place behind her.

“May I come inside for a few

minutes, Mama? When I saw you

in Las Vegas, you never gave me

the chance to tell you about Tears

of Zion. There's stuff you should know.”

She starts to say no, but Papa

rests his hand on her shoulder.

It's Christmas, Joan. Show some

compassion. Maybe what she has

to say is important.
Papa as the voice

of reason? Maybe Somebody's

whispering into his ear. For

whatever reason, my parents

step back, let me inside, where

it's even more sterile than I recall.

I start the conversation as if

they're totally ignorant of Samuel

Ruenhaven's tactics. “I'm not sure

how much of this you're aware of,

but . . .” I tell them everything,

watching their expressions change

from haughty to something like

horrified. I wait for Mama to call

me a liar. Instead, she shakes

her head slowly, disbelieving.

No. Samuel wouldn't approve

of such things. He's a man of God.

I've known him for years, or I'd

never have sent you girls to him.

You're wrong. You must be.

“Mama. I was there.” I let that

sink in. “And now Eve's there.”

I start to tell her I'm planning to

talk to the Elko DA, but change

my mind. One call from Mama

to Tears of Zion, the place might

fold up and vanish into oblivion.

“Will you help me get her out

of there? Please?” They can't

possibly say no. Can they?

To my angel.

I'd give her the universe

if it was in my power,

and it would be

nothing

compared to what

she's given me.

Whenever she's close

she makes me feel

like

I can accomplish

anything, all she has

to do is offer a word

of encouragement.

The thought of losing

her

sears hotter than

phantom bolts of pain,

those unappreciated

interruptions

in

almost every one of

my days. But she swears

she'll stay, and that some-

day we'll travel

the world

together, damn

the disability, and she

makes me believe it's true.

Take Christmas for granted.

Family. Friends. Decorations.

Gifts. Food. A little alcohol.

Always in the past I figured

there would be another Christmas.

Maybe even a better Christmas

than the one I was celebrating.

Mom was central to every holiday

gathering, and for most of my life,

my brother was there, too. In recent

memory, Jack looms large, singing

carols in his brilliant baritone,

and cracking ridiculous jokes that

never failed to make us laugh.

If someone would have told me last

year that Jack wouldn't be here today,

or that Cory would be fresh out of

lockup, while Mom toiled her butt

off at a miserable job just to make

ends meet, I would've called him a liar.

And if he'd insisted I'd soon gamble

away most of our money, then

try to earn it back by turning

tricks, often with men, I would

have spit in his face. And if he

somehow could have convinced

me the choices I'd make would

result in my becoming a T12

incomplete paraplegic, and

wheelchair-bound for the rest

of my life, I would've spiked

my eggnog with a lethal dose

of strychnine and happily taken

that long, dark walk into eternity

before having to witness any

of that, let alone accept the facts

of my future. Yet, here I am, alive

if not exactly kicking, and holding

my own in a staring match with

tomorrow. So, yeah, it's Christmas.

And if I can't have my legs back,

all I really want for it is Ronnie.

Christmas is a day for family,

and I told her I'd be grateful

for any time she could spare.

She'll be here after dinner.

Mom shows up right before,

and she brings me a present.

Cory shuffles into the room,

eyes on the ground, and I know

he must be struggling with more

than the hospital stink. No, he

can't quite bring himself to look

at me. Fuck that. Get used to it.

“Cory! Dude! Jesus, you look like

shit. But I don't care. Come over

here and give me a hug, man.”

I'm chilling in bed, on top of

the blankets because they keep

the temp hovering well over seventy

and I'm dressed to go to dinner.

As I use my hands to help my legs

swing over the bed, Cory chances

a glance, wincing as he watches

my well-rehearsed protocol. “What?

It took work to figure this out.

Now, if you don't come give me

a hug, I swear I'll flop out of bed,

onto the floor and crawl over to you.”

No! Holy shit. I don't want to

see that.
He looks ready to bolt.

Instead, he takes a deep breath,

forces himself to cross the room.

His hug, however, is lukewarm.

“Hope you're not worried about

hurting me. In case you haven't

noticed, I'm almost bulletproof.

In fact, I'm immune to anything

except a real bullet.” It's lame,

and Cory doesn't find it funny.

He backs away like I'm on fire.

Shut the fuck up. How can

you joke about being so messed

up?
He looks over at our mom

for support, but she just shrugs.

“Hey, Mom, can you let us talk

privately for a couple of minutes?”

I wait for her to clear the door

before I jump all over my little

brother. “Listen. What happened

to me sucks. But I'm mostly to blame

for the hand I was dealt, and now

I have no choice but to play it.

Actually, that's wrong. I could choose

to lie here feeling sorry for myself,

and I've done a fair amount of that already,

but it won't help Mom dig out of this

mess. She needs me, and she needs

you, so grow the fuck up now.”

He bristles, pulls himself straight

and tall as he's able. But what comes

out of his mouth is,
I'm scared.

“
You're
scared? I'm scared, dude,

and pissed, too. I want to fuck

my girlfriend. I want to go skating.

Hell, I just want to stand up and

walk but that won't happen without

commitment. Will you help me try?”

His expression morphs to horrified.

Me? Now? Don't you need, like,

crutches or something?
That busts

me up. “No. In the future. Like maybe

after dinner? I'm kidding, Cory. I just

want to be able to count on you.”

But it's hardly a foregone conclusion.

Still, it's a step (so to speak) in

the right direction. He and Mom walk

me to the dining room. “Sure you

won't stay? I hear it's turkey potpie,

and probably good. Cook's a genius.”

Mom shakes her head.
I promised

Cory we'd go to Red Lobster.

Saved up two paychecks, even.

Cory responds to my “really?”

look.
Hey, they don't serve seafood

in jail, you know, except for some

fried supposed-to-be-shrimp.

So many times I got a craving

for that damn Ultimate Feast.

It's the only thing he wanted for

Christmas. But don't worry. He

got socks and underwear, too.

That makes us all laugh. Mom,

being a practical woman, always

put such necessities under the tree

so there were more gifts to unwrap

than the few toys she could afford.

I guess some things never change.

The leftover turkey finally got

the gravy it needed. The company

is fine, but I find myself wishing

I was at Red Lobster with Mom

and Cory. How long it will take her

to feel comfortable including me?

Oh, well. After dinner, some guys

are playing cards and invite me to join

them. I decline gently. Not only do

I need to leave any form of gambling

deep in my wake, but my girl will

be here any time, and nothing

is as important as being with her.

I wheel back to my room, anxious

to share time with her tonight.

It's a short wait, and she's a vision,

in a short red skirt and white angora

sweater. “Mm. You look yummy.”

I expect her to go gooey. Instead,

she's all business, and excited.

We'll get to the kissing and stuff

in a minute. But first, don't you

want your present? Oh, almost

forgot. Merry Christmas, Cody.

“Merry Christmas to you, but

I don't see any presents. Wait.

Are they under your clothes?”

Stop. No. Listen. You've never

really asked about my parents.