Traffick (37 page)

Like, who my dad is or anything.

Hm. I guess I haven't. “Is he a serial

killer or president or a lion tamer?”

Oops. She's irritated. “Sorry. I'll shut up.”

Good. You should. My father happens

to be the CEO of a big gaming tech

company. He also deals in investment

properties, and has purchased quite

a few short sales. I asked if he'd be

interested in buying your mom's house

and renting it back to her. He said

he'd look into it, and as you know,

I can be very persuasive.
She winks.

“You're serious.” She is a bottomless

well of surprises. Emotions—relief,

joy, disbelief, and most of all, love—

upwell inside me. How can I possibly

be this lucky? I reach for her, thinking

Santa Claus must be real after all.

That's what my little

brother said when he saw

the tree this Christmas

morning.

How did Gram manage

it? Two presents for each

of us, not extravagant,

but for the love they came

wrapped in. The memory

of little Sandy's face

brings

joy, hours later.

I've forgotten the concept

of finding happiness

in little things. Coming

home makes everything

new

and I never want to leave,

though I know one day

I'll have to find a more

positive way out into

the bigger world, enticed by

possibilities.

The concept is still foreign,

though Gram's is the closest

I've come to a place I can always

return to. One thing's for sure.

I'll never go back to Las Vegas,

not even for “fun” because, though

most Sin City tourists either

don't know, or don't care, Vegas

fun is carried on the backs of people

who clean toilets or sweep streets

or turn tricks, not to get rich, but to

squeeze some semblance of living

from the fight to exist. Only CEOs

and pimps prosper, and sometimes

they are one and the same. No,

people go to Vegas in search

of dreams, but rarely notice

the living, breathing nightmares

right under their noses. Unless,

of course, that's what their dreams

consist of. It hurts to think about

the girls I've left behind there—Alex,

who'll probably never leave. And

Brielle, who'll move on without me.

But there's plenty here,

surrounding me like a force

field. The kids love in the way

children do, with pure devotion.

When they asked where

I've been, I detoured around

everything prior to House

of Hope, and told them

I've been living with some

girls who were in need of

help, which was one hundred

percent accurate. I failed

to mention the fact that

I was one of those girls,

or exactly what kind of

help we needed. Only

Mary Ann is old enough

to understand there were

words to be read between

the lines. Before, I would

have believed she was too

young to hear my story.

But now I see the importance

of telling her everything,

so she'll understand what's

at stake within the realm

of choices—those we make,

and those others try to take

from us, especially as young

women. I want her to be

informed, so she can make

smart decisions. I also want

her to be afraid, or at least

cautious. There are predators

everywhere, and sometimes

they look totally harmless.

And there are people who

offer up prey to feed those

carnivores—people like

Miranda's brother, Ricardo,

who traded in his sister on

his dope debt. People like our

mother, who I'm struggling

to find compassion for.

When I got home yesterday,

my prodigal return caused

way too much commotion

to even consider attempting

some sort of conversation

with Iris. She was in the living

room, sitting in the old recliner,

specter-pale and quivering

as she watched an old black-

and-white holiday movie on TV.

She squinted at me when I came

in, managed a little wave,

and I acknowledged that with

a curt nod before taking my stuff

into the bedroom I'll share again

with the girls. Nothing has changed

while I was gone except the art,

hung with Scotch tape, proof

of Honey's and Pepper's slight

improvement as watercolorists.

The kids swirled around me,

then jumped on the beds,

chattering like monkeys, and

the noise and sharp motion

was almost too much. I flopped

down anyway, absorbing

their energy, and tried to remember

being that young, if I ever was.

Is something I'll always remember.

Dinner was Gram's enchiladas,

and afterward the kids brought out

their surprises—tie-dyed T-shirts,

one short-sleeved, in orange, yellow,

and red, the other long, in turquoise

and purple. “Wow! These are amazing,”

I gushed, and though I'd never in a million

years pick them out in a store, I'll wear

them and make them look good.

Then we watched
A Christmas Story

and
Elf
on TV, until Gram finally said

enough and insisted the young ones go

to bed or Santa wouldn't come. Iris sat

in the same chair, droopy-eyed, sharing

space but not the experience, and I couldn't

help but steal glances. She is dying.

I've never been this close to death.

I can feel it, hovering near, waiting

to tap her on the shoulder. She'll

survive this Christmas Day, probably

even see the New Year, but not

a lot of it. She deserves pity.

But is she worthy of forgiveness?

Baking and decorating Christmas

cookies with Gram. Iris is in her

usual place, quietly drinking wine.

I sit on the corner of the sofa

closest to her, and she looks at

me with inquisitive eyes.
Glad

you came home. We missed you

around here. 'Specially Mary Ann.

An' now I can't work, would

be good for you to. Your gram

could use some help paying

the bills. Lots of bills. Too many.

How much do I say? Is now

even the right time? Screw it.

“Do you know why I left, Iris?”

Something changes in her eyes,

which seem to shroud black.

I think I know,
she snarls.
What

do you want from me? An apology?

At least she doesn't deny it.
Because . . .

Now the dark veil lifts and tears

trickle.
Goddamn it, I'm sorry.

So fucking sorry. I'm a crap mother

and always have been, and now

it's too late to fix it. I really wish

I could, but I can't take any of it

back, and I'm just so goddamn sorry.

I wasted my life. I could've been

somebody. But here's the thing. . . .

She wipes the snot dripping from

her nose with the back of her hand.

You can still be somebody. I won't

be here to see it, and that makes

me sad. Listen to me, Ginger girl.

The past will influence your future,

but it doesn't have to destroy it.

Holy shit. Iris as philosopher?

I hand her a box of tissues, refill

her glass from the bottle on the end

table. “Merry Christmas, Iris. I need

a cookie.” I don't know if that was

enough to help me forgive her. Maybe,

with time, and that's more than I could

have said only five minutes ago.

He'll forgive me,

that's what I kept telling

myself, repeating it in

my head like a mantra. With

time

he'll come to accept

me for who I am,

the way I was born,

how the good Lord

exactly created me. Dad

was

only forty-eight, not old

enough for his heart

to fail in such spectacular

fashion. This event was

not

in my game plan. How

on God's good green earth

could he just up and die

on

me? Why couldn't

he hold on a couple more

hours? I was almost there,

Dad, and we could have said

our

goodbyes. My Christmas

dinner: a heaping plate

of sadness with a giant bowl

of regret on the

side.

The fields are empty. Dad managed

to harvest the corn before he got sick.

Aunt Kate says it was a good crop

this year, and that gives me a lick

of pride. Lick. Yeah. I figure I'll go

ahead and indulge the Indiana farm

boy in me by de-culturing his voice

for a while. It's damn cold today,

Christmas Day, but I'm walking

the Parnell land in a big old down

jacket, stocking cap, and winter-weight

gloves, all of them Dad's. I inhale

the scent of him clinging to his clothes,

exhale streams of warm breath into

the snow-frosted air. Our hunting

hound, Ralph, stays close by my side.

Aunt Kate brought him to her place

when Dad went into the hospital,

and when we got there last night,

Ralph practically knocked me over,

he was so happy to see me. I reach

down and stroke his head now.

“At least someone around here missed

me. What are we going to do with you

when I go back to Vegas?” It won't

be for a while. The funeral is set

for next week, and then there's legal

stuff to deal with. Dad didn't have

a whole lot, just the farm and equipment,

a decent Ford truck, and a small bank

account. Aunt Kate says she hasn't seen

Dad's will, but she's sure he left everything

to me. Ralph and I circle around to

the barn. Dad kept a few chickens

and they're all inside, along with

Matilda and Jane, the goats who manage

weed control. Aunt Kate's been feeding

them, but she lives in town, fifteen minutes

away, so I told her I'd care for the critters

while I'm here. I toss hay to the goats

and scratch to the chickens, just like

when I was a kid. Nostalgia hits hard,

carried in the perfume of oats and seed,

motor oil and manure; and in the cluck

of hens and the munching of the nannies

and the creak of old rafters in the wind.

It presses me down to the ground, where

I sit, surrounded by ghosts. “Why?”

It escapes, a wail of mourning. “How

could you die and leave me without

a friendly word between us? Damn

you, Dad!” Ralph creeps over, lays

his head in my lap, telling me I'm not

totally alone, here in the barn, here on

my farm, here where I worked and played

and hid from myself. Here at home.

All the fear and rage I've kept bottled

inside spills out of me now in a flood

of tears. “Why, Ralph? Why did I wait

so long to come home? I could have

made him listen. Could have made him

change his mind, and now I'll never

get the chance. I should have tried

harder!” I give myself permission

to cry for a good, long time. Once

I'm mostly finished, I get to my feet.

“Come on, Ralph, let's go.” He follows

me to the house, and that is empty,

too. Not of furnishings—those are all

here, exactly the way they were the day

Dad sent me away. I'm slightly gratified

to see he didn't change my room.

There are dishes in the sink. I wash them,

put them away in their proper place in

the cupboard. After Mom died, Dad and I

made sure to keep her kitchen organized

the way she liked it, in her honor. I pay

tribute in the same way now, neatening

the house and making Dad's bed,

which I've never seen tousled before.

Dad must have been feeling really

bad to leave the place like this.

And what will I do with it now?

I click the heat lower. I'll be back

later, but I'm supposed to share

Christmas dinner with Aunt Kate

and the clan. I load Ralph into Dad's

Ford, drive slowly along the vacant

road, the route to town so familiar

I can drive it with my eyes closed,