Second Hand Heart (14 page)

The guy was about fifty, and had black hair with a big round patch of bald scalp in the back, facing me. His name was Lawrence. I know that because it said it on his license, which was up on the dashboard where I could see it. I guess it has to be.

“Where to, miss?” he asked me while he started to drive.

I told him I wanted to go to a hotel. He wanted to know which one.

I said I wanted it to be one that was close to the bay, so I could look right out my window and see water. I’ve never looked right out my window and seen water before. I told him that.

By now he was pulled over to the curb again, but I wasn’t sure why.

“You don’t know what hotel you want to go to?”

“I was hoping you might be able to recommend one.”

“Depends on how much you want to spend, I guess. Right down on the water, you’re probably looking at three to four hundred a night.”

“Dollars?”

Yeah, I know. That was an extra stupid thing to say. But that whole moment caught me off-guard.

“Unless you went on Expedia, or something like that online, and got one of those nice deals on rooms. But it’s summer. So I don’t think they’re exactly giving ’em away.”

There was a partition between us, like Plexiglass, and he didn’t turn around when he talked. It felt weird to be talking to a bald spot through a barrier.

“I don’t suppose they give a discount for cash.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Not really.”

“I don’t even think they take cash.”

“How can anybody not take cash?”

“You’re not from around here, are you? Where’re you from?”

“I grew up here.”

“Where’ve you been?”

“I was always sick.”

“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to get personal. I thought you just landed here from some foreign country or something, except you don’t have an accent. Didn’t mean to pry. In the old days if you checked into a hotel with cash, they’d make you pay up front. So you couldn’t skip out on the bill. These days, they got phones you can use to make long-distance calls … well, I guess they could lock the phone. But also they got a minibar, and even if they don’t give you the key to the minibar, they have all these snacks sitting out, and you can eat in the restaurant or order room service and it goes right on the bill. I guess there’s some kind of arrangement they can make if you only have cash. But it’ll be weird. I bet you’ll end up feeling like some kind of second-class citizen. You know the meter’s running, right? You OK with that?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I said.

I already owed him more than eight dollars. And we hadn’t gone much of anywhere yet. But I was getting an education, so I figured it was worth it.

“How ’bout I take you to a store where you can buy a pre-paid credit card? You just give ’em your cash. There’s a fee, I’m sure, but then they give you a card that looks just like a Mastercard or a Visa but it has a limit. The limit is just whatever you paid for.”

“That would be good.”

So he took me there. Which felt like we were making better progress. Because, so long as the meter was running, we might as well go someplace.

While I was inside getting a card with $500 of my life savings, turns out Lawrence was looking on Expedia. When I got back to the cab, he had a thin little laptop computer on the seat beside him, and he was clicking around online. I couldn’t figure out what he was hooked up to. Must have been a Wifi zone. I have no idea how much of the city is a Wifi zone, because I never took my computer out of the house. Even taking myself out of the house is pretty new.

“What do you think of this?” he asked me.

He held the computer up so I could see it through the partition.

He’d found one room in one nice hotel near the water, and it was going for only $115 a night on Expedia.

“You want it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Read me your card number. I won’t memorize it or anything.”

“No. I know you won’t.”

I don’t know why or how I knew that, but I did. He was a stranger. The fact that I would even say what I said must’ve sounded like another one of those things. You know. Those things that made me sound like I’d just arrived in the country. If not on the planet. I wasn’t stupid. I know you can’t just automatically trust any cab driver. I just trusted Lawrence. My gut just said I could.

After we were done making the reservation, I owed Lawrence about sixty dollars so far for the cab ride. But since he saved me a couple hundred dollars a night for the hotel, I didn’t feel like I was getting a bad deal.

“At least we know where we’re going now,” he said when he pulled back out into traffic. “That’s gotta be some kind of progress.”

“I’m worried,” I said. A few blocks later.

“About what?”

“I only have a little over sixty-seven dollars left in cash. And I don’t think that’ll be enough to pay you.”

He smiled at me in the rear-view mirror. “Lucky thing I take credit cards. That way you’ll have money left over for a tip.”

“A tip?”

“You don’t know about tips? Wow. You really did just fall off the turnip truck, didn’t ya?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Doesn’t matter. Look, you’re on your way to a hotel. So you need to know this stuff. Anybody helps you with that bag, you gotta give ’em at least two or three dollars. If not five. If you order room service, the tip is already added, but if you really wanta make ’em happy, write down a couple dollars more. It’s not required. They can’t make you tip ’em. But you want good service. Right? So this way they’ll like you. And they’ll treat you real good.”

By now we were at the hotel, and a door man was opening the cab door for me, but I had to stay inside while Lawrence was running my credit card. So the door man got my suitcase out of the trunk instead.

“What about cab drivers?” I asked.

“What about ’em?”

“How much do you tip cab drivers?”

Yeah, I know. Sounds too trusting. All he had to do was say fifty per cent. But I knew he wouldn’t.

“Ten per cent’s a good rule of thumb. Some give more. Up to you.”

Ten per cent would have been seven dollars and some change. Closer to eight, really. So I gave him ten.

Then I thought better of it. “Wait. Lawrence.”

“Larry,” he said. “What?”

“Give me back that ten, OK?”

He looked over his shoulder at me. For pretty much the first time. He looked disappointed. Actually, he looked like I’d just stabbed him or something. But he handed back the ten. Stuck it through the little window in the Plexiglass like it hurt him to even hold it.

“Thanks,” I said, and gave him a twenty instead. “I decided the education was worth something, too. Boy. There’s so much to know. I had no idea how much there was to know.”

I remembered something my father said once. To his friend Moe from work, when he was over at our house playing cards. He said, “Moe, buddy, you don’t know what you don’t know.” It’s a statement that makes a lot of sense in a weird sort of way.

But, back to what I was saying to Larry. “So thanks.” I watched his eyes get soft.

“You don’t have to pay me for that, and you don’t have to thank me, either. The meter was running the whole time.”

“I know. Can I pay you and thank you anyway?”

He reached his hand through the partition. I shook it.

“That’s very generous, miss. You got anybody looking after you? You seem a little lost.”

“Yes and no. I’ll be OK.”

“I got a daughter about your age. But you seem like maybe you need a little extra looking after.”

By this time the door man was back, and waiting to help me out.

“He’s got it covered,” I told Larry, pointing to the door man.

“I wish you the best, miss.”

Like last words or something. Like I was about to jump off a cliff. But I felt like I was fine.

I’m Fine

I
’m not sure what everybody was so worried about.

I stayed for three days, and it was really nice. I could see the bay right out my window. I could pick up the phone and order food and somebody would bring it up. I could watch TV without my mom yelling at me to turn down the volume.

But that’s not why it was nice. Here’s why it was nice. Because it was the world.

I was not at home. I was out in the world. This was life. And I was in it. I was doing everything totally by myself. I was not relying on anyone. I was not attached to anyone. No supervision. No assistance.

Nobody even knew where I was, except Larry, and he didn’t know who I was, so that doesn’t count.

It was such an amazing feeling.

If it hadn’t been for the enormous sea of brown plastic prescription bottles on the nightstand, I would’ve sworn I was just a normal person, free.

But then, after three days, I figured I should leave. While I still had plenty of money left for a cab ride home. Or a cab ride somewhere, anyway. I guess my plans were not what you’d call firmly nailed down.

Also, another reason why it started feeling like maybe time to go: even though it was beautiful and comfortable, and even though it was the world, it was also a little bit boring.

No, wait. Maybe boring isn’t the right word. What’s the word I’m wanting here?

Lonely. That’s it.

It was a little bit lonely.

Being Uncharacteristically Sneaky

I
s sneaking around anything like lying?

I don’t think so. Anyway, I sure hope not. I hate to think I’m spoiling my (almost) perfect record on that.

Still. I waited until it was dark to go up the stairs to Esther’s. I also wore a knit scarf over my head. In the middle of summer. Right. Like nobody’s going to wonder about that. And I kept to the side of the stairs that’s hardest to see from our window.

It sounds terrible, I know. But I just needed more time to be on my own, and to think about things. And if my mom had seen me, she would have marched up the stairs and dragged me out, or refused to leave, and then the whole world would have been about making things right with her, which I will in time, but which I just didn’t have the energy for right at that moment.

I hope that makes sense.

I rang Esther’s doorbell, because I know you can only hear the doorbell from inside Esther’s house. A knock you can more or less hear everywhere.

After a second I heard her call out, “Who is it?”

But I couldn’t exactly yell back, ‘It’s me, Vida!’ Could I, now? So I just rang the bell again and waited.

She had to know I’d gone missing. My mom had to have told her. I mean, where would my mom look for me first thing? Richard’s. And Esther’s. So I figured she’d get the idea in a minute. Figure out who it was. Or at least who it might be.

A minute later I heard Esther’s special sound. The sound she makes when she sits down in her chair, or gets up out of it. That sort of groaning elderly-lady complaint.

“Who’s there?” she asked again, this time from right on the other side of the door.

I put my face right up near the crack of the door and said, “Vida.” Kind of quiet but forceful. Like I could will my voice to go forward, nice and strong into her house, but not leak over, or make any turns, or go anywhere else.

Nothing happened. So I figured she didn’t hear me. Being in her nineties, Esther doesn’t have the very best hearing of anybody in the world.

After a minute I heard the sliding chain go on, and then the door opened about three inches, and I saw her beautiful face.

Well. I think it’s beautiful, anyway. Especially right then, when I needed it most.

“Oh,” she said. “Vida.”

And I said, “Shhhh.”

The door closed again, I heard the chain slide, and then she opened wide and I slipped in.

We stood there in her bare living room, looking at each other.

“So,” she said. “The prodigal daughter returneth.”

“OK,” I said. “I have no idea what that means.”

“It’s biblical.”

“Which would explain why I have no idea what it means.”

“It’s not important. Where were you? Your mother is frantic.”

I told Esther all about how I went to a hotel, and how I got there and why and all. I told her I knew my mom would check here first thing. (Here and also Richard’s, which is nice, because then he would know I was gone. But let me not get off track.) Anyway, I explained how I didn’t come to her house right away because I was waiting for my mom to ask her where I was, and for her to say she didn’t know. I wanted her to be telling the truth.