Designed to Love (16 page)

***

With nowhere to go or nothing else to do in
downtown Billings, I enter a bar for the first time in my life. I
am shocked by the dinginess of the place and wonder how people with
normal eyesight see anything. There are less than a dozen patrons
and most of them are sitting on barstools at the bar. Only a few
seem to be engaged in any type of conversation. The rest are
hunched over their drinks, staring absently at nothing in
particular. I take a seat on a barstool near an older gentleman
that I suspect is a lot younger than he looks. He doesn't even
glance up when I sit down. The woman behind the bar appears to be
in her early forties and she immediately perks up when she sees
me.

"Hi, my name's Stella. Watcha gonna have?"
she says, smacking on a piece of gum, as she slides a square napkin
in front of me. She glances at the ring on my left hand and asks if
I am waiting for someone else, then looks pleased when I reply,
"Nope, just passing through." I couldn't be any less in the mood to
engage in idle chatter or have a forty-year old woman hit on me, so
I avoid looking at her and instead pretend to study the hundred or
so bottles of liquor that line the wall behind her. As expected,
she doesn't question my age or ask for ID, likely assuming like
everyone else that I am well in my twenties.

I could count on one hand the number of
times I observed my parents drinking alcohol, and having skipped
out on the high school partying scene, I have no idea what someone
my age would want, so I turn to the gentleman sitting next to me
and say, "I've never had a drink in my life, what do you
recommend?"

"I recommend you don't start," he says
bluntly, without looking up.

"That's probably pretty good advice. I'll
have whatever he's having and get one for him, too," I say,
slapping a hundred dollar bill on the counter. I discovered a long
time ago the effects money has on other people, so it doesn't
surprise me at all when they both look at the bill on the counter
with envy. "You better be careful flashing money around here, a kid
like you makes an easy target, if you know what I mean," Stella
cautions, glancing sideways at a group of rowdy looking biker dudes
walking through the door. I smirk at her suggestion and make no
effort to conceal the money lying on the counter. Being a victim of
crime is the least of my concerns.

RONAN

I'm well aware of the effects alcohol can
have on a person the morning after consuming it, so I only have
myself to blame for not making different choices last night. I have
a splitting headache and fight wave after wave of nausea until
eventually I hang my head over the toilet and reacquaint myself
with last night's dinner. I take solace in the fact that I received
immunity from the tormenting grief that's been keeping me awake at
night. It was more effective at dulling my senses than the
sedatives given to me by Jason, and I now understand the meaning
behind the detached behavior of most of the customers in the bar
last night.

Instead of checking out of the hotel and
heading north like originally planned, I pay for the next three
nights and spend the rest of the morning lying in bed,
intermittently watching the developing story of Tom Porter and
Kayla Munson, giving my body a chance to recover from the poisonous
effects of the alcohol. Every time they show the clip of me, I
become more irritated. Now they even have experts analyzing my
actions to determine if it is possible for someone to exert enough
force to snap the bones of a grown man in half, using just bare
hands. "It is if you have gorilla DNA in you," I growl at the
reporter, before flipping off the TV in a gesture that's meant to
somehow offend her. Less than a minute later Alisha calls me on our
mental radio.

"Ronan, I need to talk to you. Answer me
please," she begs after her more demanding, threatening calls go
unanswered.

"All right Ali, what is it?" I sigh.

"How are you?" she says gingerly, taking me
by complete surprise.

"In what way?" I ask cautiously, not quite
certain how to interpret her concern.

Ignoring my question she says, "Bernie is
working on getting the media to pull the segment of you from the
Munson story. She isn't too happy about your face being exposed on
every major network, especially with the focus being on
supernatural abilities. Maybe you should think about coming home
and lying low for a while."

There is a long pause of silence as I
consider how to tell her that I wasn't sure I could ever go back to
the Freeman house.

"Claire says that all she wants for
Christmas is to have you back home," Ali quickly adds, as if
anticipating such a response.

I didn't think I could endure the pain of
spending Christmas there without Cat, and secretly felt Claire
would be better off if I just stayed away. But saying so would
likely lead to an argument, so I simply reply, "We'll see."

Alisha doesn't pursue it any further, and
instead proceeds to tell me about how they found the perfect
Christmas tree and decorated it with the McCullough's family
ornaments as I had requested.

***

Hovering over a deserted unplowed street, I
search for any sign of human life. There are rows and rows of
dilapidated houses, condos and apartment buildings lining the dozen
or so streets that make up the small town. I have no idea where I
am or why I felt compelled to remote travel to such an eerie place,
but nonetheless, here I am in what appears to be an abandoned ghost
town, drifting up and down the streets like a ghost myself. It's
difficult to remote travel to a place I've never been before and
view it with much clarity, but everything from the chipped paint on
the siding of the houses to the letters painted above a boarded up
business, is visible to me. Even the deer tracks in the snow
capture my attention. There is something about this place that
makes me feel uneasy, and I try to redirect my attention to travel
somewhere less depressing, but for some reason, I can't leave. I am
eventually rewarded for sticking around when I find an unexpected
light on in a house at the very end of one of the abandoned
streets. It's not as if I have a specific need to find a person,
but I feel relieved to think that I might.

The house is small and every window is
covered with drawn shades or blinds. It backs up to a twelve foot
chain-link fence that has signs strictly warning against
trespassing and threatens surveillance security. I want desperately
to go inside the house to see what type of person would homestead
in such a desolate place, but my mind can't pass through the walls
and I am left lurking outside going from window to window to try
and get a glimpse of the inside. Although the driveway had been
recently plowed, there are no shoe prints in the snow around the
property.

Beyond the chain-link fence are large
buildings that are similar to the ones I saw while hanging out at
the airport with Cat—airport hangars. It is while suspended over
this abandoned airport that I first hear her voice.

"Ronan, I need you."

Although it's faint, barely even a whisper
in my mind. I can tell right away that it's Cat, and the hole in my
heart expands.

"I'm here Cat. I will always be here," I say
hoarsely. I know she's just in my imagination, but I am helpless
not to answer.

"Keep looking for me, I'm not gone," her
voice fades so that even I have to strain to catch the last
words.

"Tell me where, Cat. Tell me where to look."
I cry, floating around the buildings, searching as if there's a
possibility that she might be here. "TELL ME WHERE!" I scream at
the cold, empty night. The gentle
hoo
hoo
, of an owl is the only response I get.

My heart is beating so fast, that I struggle
to catch my breath. I want so badly to be with her that I welcome
the onset of chest pain, encouraging God to cease the beating of my
heart once and for all.

***

Initially I don't recognize the plain
furnishings of the hotel room, and the blackout curtains leave me
guessing the time of day. I wake up drenched in sweat from head to
foot, shivering even though the temperature in the room is set at a
comfortable 68 degrees. I am still gasping for air, but much to my
dismay the pain in my chest has subsided to a mere ache. The dream
seems as real to me as any other remote travel experience, and yet
I knew I had been asleep, because four hours had past, since I last
connected with Alisha.

"Keep looking, I'm not gone...I'm not
gone...I'm not gone." The echo of Cat's voice torments me
repeatedly, and I first turn the shower water to scalding hot, then
ice cold in an attempt to distract myself into thinking about
something else. It's not quite dusk when I walk out of my hotel
room, and I have to control the speed of my sprint as I dodge
people and traffic, running towards the outskirts of town. I don't
have a particular destination in mind. I just need to keep moving.
The near freezing temperatures and icy roads don't keep me from
running faster than most of the moving vehicles, and when I walk
into the seedy Rainbow bar on the edge of town, there is frost
clinging to my hair. Unlike the patrons of last night's
establishment, these people seem interested and suspicious of me
right away, as I walk up to the bar. Ignoring Stella's warning for
a second time, I toss another hundred dollar bill on the counter
and, like an experienced alcoholic, order the top line of tequila
on the rocks and down it before the bartender returns with my
change. Three drinks later, Cat's soft haunting voice, starts to
fade and a feeling of warmth washes over me as the effects of the
alcohol kick in.

***

Billiards expert Bobby Hickman didn't really
know what he was getting himself into when he challenged me to a
game of pool. Three drinks ago, I might have been able to recall
which of the fifty-six strands of animal DNA were possibly
responsible for my precise ability to execute a perfect shot each
time. Even slight intoxication didn't dull the reflexes that
governed these abilities. Apparently, Bobby hasn't lost a game of
pool in five years, and it's a title that he has nothing better to
do than to defend. Al, the bartender says Bobby and his brothers
spend five nights a week practicing and warns me, "Losing a game of
pool to you could have dangerous consequences. The Hickman boys are
a rough crowd and you don't want to give them a reason to dislike
you. Do you understand?"

I smile politely in response, and slap
another hundred dollar bill down, ordering a round of drinks for
the two dozen customers in the bar, which include my rivals.

The only similarities that the Hickman
brothers share are beady eyes and a big gut. Other than that, they
look nothing alike. Bobby is the tallest of the three and I still
tower over him by a good six inches. What he lacks in height
though, he makes up in musculature. His arms look like tree
trunks—tree trunks with tattoos of naked women, references to white
supremacy, and other unflattering things covering them. The fact
that he is capable of using a cue stick with such a gentle,
delicate touch is unexpected. When he bends over the pool table,
the veins bulge on the top of his bald scalp and he has a habit of
poking his tongue into the side of his cheek as he concentrates on
a play. His brothers stand off to the side analyzing his every move
and after every play, they huddle together discussing speed,
angles, and spin of the ball. They are ignorant to the fact that I
can hear their whispers in spite of the noise in the bar, and I
benefit from their analysis as much as my opponent.

I can feel the Hickmans' mood darken with
each play I make. When I call a complex combination shot, "13 into
the 6, into the 11, and into the corner," then make it, Bobby
hisses and cusses under his breath. The fact that I am the only
real competition Bobby has had in years draws an audience and when
they start making bets on the outcome, the owner, Al, becomes
increasingly nervous.

Unlike Bobby, whose life is completely
wrapped up in the outcome of this billiards game, for me it's
merely an effective distraction and for this reason alone, I
consider letting him win. Cat would consider it a noble act even
though she had a competitive side to her. Aside from the enjoyment
I was getting out of provoking the temper in the three of them,
there was no real benefit to me in winning. I was starting to get a
buzz from the effects of the alcohol anyway, and figured I had
enough in me to ward off the loneliness and pain long enough to
give me a few hours of sleep. My decision to let him win is
finalized when the three women glued to my side start making bets
of a different kind—a bet that involved me.

"10 into the 8, and into the left corner
pocket," Bobby mutters while he positions himself for the shot.

Just as he pulls back on the cue stick, the
loud crash of breaking glass shatters the silence and Bobby jerks
just enough that the tip of his stick bumps the 10 ball moving it
several inches, causing him to lose the game. The crowded room
parts and all eyes are on the young waitress whose face turns
several shades of red, for different reasons than Bobby's. She
mumbles an apology and quickly kneels down to pick up the pieces of
glass.

"You stupid bitch! How could you be such a
klutz? Bobby shouts angrily, throwing the cue stick at her. Had she
not leaned to the left, it would have struck her in the head.

Before I have a chance to warn him to keep
his mouth shut, he turns on me. "What's wrong with your eyes, Wolf
Boy?" he sneers, tilting his head back, howling. "Or maybe you've
just been pissing out of..."

The words barely leave his lips before I
have him in a headlock dragging him towards the door, his brothers
trailing close behind, armed with cue sticks. I refrain from
snapping his neck right on the spot, even though it would save me
the trouble of dealing with all three of them. "Call an ambulance,"
I holler over my shoulder to Al, as he shakes his head and mutters,
"Stupid kid," anticipating that it's me who will be carried away in
it.