Demanding Ransom (19 page)

Without
hesitation, I take the envelope from Dad and shred it open, yanking out the
piece of paper inside. A check.
A $2,376
check
. The numbers stare up at me like they’re big, red flashing lights,
but I just gaze down at them blankly.

“Hoping
for more?” Dad infers from my perceptible pause.

“No.” I shake
my head and run my fingers over the total written on the parchment. “No. It’s
just weird to see everything that happened with the accident summed up in one
figure on a piece of paper.”

At first
Dad looks at me with empathy, then something crosses over his face that
resembles anger. “Maggie Girl, I’m just so grateful this is all that’s left of
it.” He takes the check from my hands and waves it like a paper flag in front
of my face and I feel the breeze it creates, chilling my skin. “I’m grateful
your injuries were minimal. I’m grateful we don’t have to spend hours at the
courthouse pleading your case. I’m grateful for all the witnesses that were
there and that it was open and shut—”

“That’s
because he died, Dad.” It’s the first time I’ve said it, the first time I’ve
acknowledged it, really, but physically pushing the words out of me feels like
vomiting. “The case was easy because the drunk who hit me
died
.”

Dad’s
mouth straightens. “He ran a red light, Maggie. He slammed into your car, you
flipped, and then he careened into four other vehicles before wrapping himself
around a pole. He didn’t stand a chance.”

But he
did have a chance. For a month he occupied a hospital bed and machines did his
breathing for him. He very nearly survived. Then something happened—some
kind of issue with his heart—and the man that brought Ran and I together
ceased to exist. Just like that. He was gone. And now all that is left is this
payment from my insurance company. Some sort of morbid consolation prize.

“I don’t
know.” I pull the check from his hands. “Something about this feels wrong. Like
I’m benefiting from it somehow.”

“That’s
not what this is. This is getting what you’re due. Don’t look at it as blood
money, Mags. You can’t look at it that way.” Dad tosses the rest of the mail into
the trashcan under the sink and walks back around the breakfast bar toward me,
placing his rough-skinned hands on my shoulders. “You don’t have to spend it if
you don’t want to, but I really think your life would be easier if you had a
reliable mode of transportation.”

I nod
because he’s right. It would be nice to have a car again. It might not
necessarily make my life easier, but maybe more manageable. I just don’t know
if I’ll physically be able to spend this check that dangles between my fingers.

“I don’t
want to go car shopping,” I offer weakly as an out. Mikey leaps from the couch,
practically tosses Sadie to the ground, and rips the money out of my hands.
“Let me do it! I’m a great haggler. I can get you a sweet deal on a new ride.”

“Fair
enough.” I take the check back, grab a pen from a cup of pens and pencils near
the telephone, and flip the paper over to scribble my autograph on the back.
“Just don’t get me some old convertible or anything totally impractical.”

“Got
it.” Mikey bounces on the balls of his feet like a giddy child, tugging at each
corner of the check so it slacks and then tightens over and over in between his
hands. “No motorcycles, either?”

Dad’s
eyes go wide. “Maggie would never ride a motorcycle, Mikey.”

“Yeah,
but her boyfriend does.”

As if
Dad’s eyes weren’t big enough already, they nearly pop from their sockets with
that one. “Maggie? A boyfriend?”

I fire
the harshest glare I can engineer toward Mikey, hoping he literally feels the
switchblades I intended to shoot from my eyes. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“No, you
just want to lick him or something gross.” He turns toward Dad. “It’s that
paramedic, Ran. The one that brought her to the hospital and the guy that took
me last time. They’re hot and heavy or something.”

Dad
raises both hands up and backs away from us. “I don’t think I want to hear any
more.”

“Just go
get me a car, will you Mikey?” I shove him in the chest, but he doesn’t flinch,
though he’s still losing weight at a consistent rate from his chemo treatments.
“And the sooner the better.”

***

“I like,
I like.” Cora nods approvingly, running her hands across the tailgate of the
royal blue 1998 Ford Ranger pickup parked next to her car just outside our
dorm. “Mikey did good.”

“Yeah,”
I say, tugging the handle on the driver’s side door. “I don’t know. I didn’t
think I was much of a truck girl and it’s kinda old, but it works.”

“It’s
perfect, Maggie. Just imagine all the stuff you can haul around in that bed.”
She slips into the passenger seat next to me and scrunches up her nose. The cab
has a weird funk to it—a mix of peanut butter and mothballs—and
I’ve
Febrezed
it four times already, but can’t get it
out. Could be worse, I suppose. “Let’s go pick out a tree!”

I get
the truck in gear, even though the handle sticks a little, and slip out of the
parking lot onto the main country road that connects our campus to the
outskirts just beyond. “You sure you want to hang around here for the break,
Cora? You don’t want to go home?”

She
shakes her head and her blonde curls bounce along her shoulders. “No. Chris is
still deployed and Mom and Dad plan to go to Aunt Jenny’s. Believe me, it will
be much more relaxing to hang out here than to go to her house for the
holidays.”

“I
thought Jenny was single and doesn’t have any kids?”

“Yeah, she
is, but she’s got like 25 cats and I’m crazy allergic. I can think of many
other ways I’d rather spend the break than stocking up on Kleenex and lint
rollers. Plus, there are a few others on our floor that are hanging back, so
we’re planning our own pepperoni pizza Christmas feast.” Cora twirls her hot
pink gum around her finger three times and then slurps it back into her mouth.
“You sure you don’t want to stay with us? It’ll be fun.”

“No.
Thanks though.”

We drive
for about five more minutes until I see the turn off for the tree farm up
ahead.

Cora
angles toward me as I make a hand over hand right turn. “Isn’t your dad
working? What about Mikey—what will he do?”

“He’ll
be with Sadie’s family.” I see the lot of trees about ten yards up ahead, and
an enormous, inflatable Santa Claus with an overly large midsection bobs in the
wind just outside the entrance.

“I bet
they are
so
relieved she’s not
knocked up.” The truck breezes past Santa and the rush of it nearly pushes him
completely backward like he’s doing the limbo. Once we’re out of range, he pops
back up and continues billowing in the wind. “That would have been a messy
situation.”

To say
the least. When Sadie’s period came two days after Mikey’s confession, I’d
never seen him more relieved about anything in his entire life. Even when the
doctors originally told him his tumor removal was mostly a success—that
look on his face was nothing compared to the sheer relief he displayed knowing
that he wasn’t going to become a father before he was ready. I just hope he
remembers that emotion—the feeling of being off the hook, of being given
another chance—and doesn’t do anything to screw it up. I love Sadie and
all, but motherhood is not something she’s prepared for. It’s strange how that
seems to be the case for a lot of the mothers I know.

“I
measured and we’ve got about this much to work with.” Cora holds out her hands
with the small stretch of space between them indicating the size of tree we can
accommodate in our dorm room.

“That’s
not much, Cora.” I fit the truck into a spot in the dirt lot, but have to back
up and re-park it twice before I’m certain I won’t sideswipe the vehicles next
to me. Becoming familiar with the size and shape of the truck is going to take
some getting used to.

The
truck finally fits snuggly in its place, so I crack open the door and head
toward the entrance. A family with two young children squeezes past us, and a
twenty-something guy wearing a red and white striped scarf follows on their
heels with an impressively large evergreen slung over his shoulder.

He lifts
his chin our direction. “I’ll be right with you ladies as soon as I get this
dropped off.” The guy flashes Cora and me a dimpled grin and the blond curls of
his hair escape from under a snug, knit beanie. Like watching a slow motion
replay, Cora’s head cranes all the way around in owl-like fashion to follow him
to the parking lot.

“Um…
hello
,” she breathes, still walking
forward, and slams into an elaborately decorated display tree at the mouth of
the entrance. Five or six from the hundreds of red crystal ornaments rattle off
their branches and Cora attempts to catch them all like she’s juggling, but one
crashes loudly to the gravel floor. “Crap.”

“Hey.” The
blond boy jogs up to us, pine needles covering the flannel on his right
shoulder. “I can get that for you.” He bends down to scoop up the shards of red
glass that litter the walkway and bumps heads with Cora at the same time.
Dazed, she lifts her head up to him and I can’t help but laugh because it looks
like a scene straight out of a romantic comedy movie. “Hi,” he mouths,
fulfilling that leading-man role to a T.

“Hey,”
Cora whispers, locking her gaze with his. She wobbles on her legs as they both
straighten up slowly in unison. “Hey,” she says again.

Well
this is ridiculous. I audibly clear my throat. “So.” I pull the glass remains
from Cora’s hand and deposit them in a nearby trashcan. “Can you help us find a
tree for our dorm? It can’t be bigger than three feet in diameter.”

“Yeah,
of course,” he nods, not looking at me at all though. He’s still staring at
Cora like she’s the only person in the lot full of trees, even though there are
at least twenty others coiling in and out of the rows of greenery. “Let’s see
what we can find.”

The
trees gradually get larger the further into the depths of the lot, so I stay
close to the front and start perusing their inventory here. Cora and the tree
lot worker hang back, and he’s busy describing something about the variations
in plant species in a silly attempt to impress her, I guess, so decide to leave
them to their conversation. Looks like Cora might have found her flavor of the
week with this one.

“How
about this?” I call over my shoulder. The tree standing before me is modest,
not too Charlie Brown-ish, and should fit well in the limited amount of space
we have available. “Cora?”

The echo
of her flirtatious laugh bounces off the wall of trees surrounding us, and I
notice her press a bold hand onto the workers chest right where his scarf
drapes. “I never knew trees could be so fascinating,” I catch her say. Geez.
She’s really laying it on thick.
 

I decide
to abandon them and slip out into another row of Christmas trees to further
continue the quest for the perfect one. I peel off several needles from a few
and try to break them in half, assuming if they bend rather than split that
it’s a good selection. But I don’t know the slightest thing about trees, so I’m
sure I look absurd as I pace up and down the gravel aisles, de-needling the
trees as I go. Maybe I should have paid attention to tree-boy’s spiel but the
unabashed flirting is a little nauseating.

Then I
see it. It’s not too tall, not too short, and bows out perfectly at the bottom,
tapering to a beautiful point at the top. In my mind, it’s the perfect tree.

“Found
one!” I hear Cora yell across the lot.

I pop my
head out toward the sound. “Me too!”

“Mine’s
better!”

Well,
we’ll just see about that. I hike up my sleeves and roll the cuffs, preparing
my arms to do some heavy lifting. I assess the tree to figure out the best way
to get it from its current home to the back of my truck, and while I’m
vacillating—wondering whether to drag it by its trunk or the
point—another worker sidles up to my side. He has to be the other guy’s
twin, because he’s the spitting image of him, only he has a plaid red and white
scarf as opposed to a striped one.

“Can I
help you with that?” he asks, those same dimples replicated on his cheeks. He
has charming green eyes that smile just as much as his mouth, and when he
reaches out toward the tree, my fingers unintentionally brush his skin.

“No,” I
reply. “I’ve got it taken care of.”

His
mouth opens like he’s about to challenge me, and then thinks better of it after
seeing how prepared I am, sleeves rolled up and all.

“Thank you,
though,” I stammer, feeling a little like I might have insulted him.

He
wrings the back of his neck with his hand and gives me a low chuckle. “Okay. So
when you come to the front claiming that this tree attacked you and that your
arms are butchered, don’t say I didn’t offer to help. Dad will get upset if he
thinks we’re not doing our jobs.”

I look
down at my bare arms and then to his fully covered ones and realize just how
stupid I must appear. Christmas trees aren’t necessarily the friendliest of plants
out there. Why on earth didn’t it occur to me the amount of gashes I’d sustain
by trying to wrangle it sleeveless?