Traffick (20 page)

happy to kill you the rest of the way.

One thing about Vince, he's blunt. Cool.

I'll return the favor. “Even in the midst

of all the bullshit, I never stopped loving

Ronnie. Truthfully, one of the
only
things

I feel guilty about is letting her down.

I won't hurt her again. Not if I can help it.”

Looking for hints of dishonesty,

ready to call my bluff. But this is

a solid bet. I mean every word.

Well, that's good, then. Because if

I think for one moment you're playing

her, just so she'll hang around until

you get whatever support you can

wring out of her, then decide to dump

her . . . I told you what would happen.

“Look, Vince. I never asked for her

help. In fact, I gave her every reason

to make a graceful exit from my life,

including coming totally clean

about the sewer I'd been swimming

in. I don't want her here because

she thinks it's the right thing to do.

I don't want her pity. I want her love,

something I don't deserve. But if

she's willing to give it, wants to invest

time and effort into what's left of me, I will

love her back, with all my heart. I can't

say what that means as far as the future.

I have to take it one day at a time, but every

day is a million times better with Ronnie in it.”

Is lopsided. Is it the first time

I've seen him smile, other than

his big-ass leer when he claims

a giant pot at the poker table?

That's good to hear because

it means I can offer my help, too.

One, I have a friend who customizes

autos, and he's willing to look at

your car and see what he can do

to make it work for you. I know

buying another one is probably

out of the question financially.

Leon is talented. He'll get you on

the road. Two, I don't know what

your house is like, but I'm sure it'll

need some alterations for accessibility.

One of our cousins is a damn good

handyman, and he'll work for cheap.

I hear you're moving to a rehab

hospital soon. How long will you be

there? Do you know? Maybe he can

have everything finished before

you go home. And three, anytime

you need to talk, man, call me.

Just happened? We went

from murderous threats

to offers of help in less

than five minutes. “Jesus,

Vince. I have no idea what

to say, or how to thank you.”

Keep your mouth shut and

stay good to my sister, we can

be friends. I treat my friends right.

My eyes sting suddenly.

Can't cry in front of Vince,

or he'll change his mind.

No one needs a friend who

spontaneously bursts into

tears. But that's exactly

what I do, and he looks

petrified. “S-sorry. It's just,

no one except maybe Jack,

my stepdad, has ever been

so kind to me. Not even Mom,

and that's supposed to be her job.”

Yeah, well, don't let it get

around. I've got a reputation

to uphold, and “kind” isn't it.

Okay, then. One question,

though. “This isn't because

you feel sorry for me, is it?

'Cause I don't want pity

from you, either. I'd be happy

to accept your respect, though,

and I'm more than willing to

earn that, whatever it takes.”

He's quiet, thinking it over.

Finally, he says,
Since we're friends

now, here's a story I don't tell

many people. My high school

sweetheart was this amazing

girl. Smart. Gorgeous. Going

places. A week after graduation,

a semi hit her car. She survived,

but lost a leg, and her face wasn't

ever going to be as beautiful

again. I did everything I could

to persuade her life was still

worth living, but she killed herself

that summer. You want respect?

Get your ass up out of that bed

and onto your feet again. You can.

To my cheer squad. Weird.

So goddamn weird. “Sucks

about your girlfriend, dude.”

It was a tragedy. What about you?

You've thought about suicide,

yeah?
He looks at me intently.

“Strangely, no. I mean, I did

ask the Great Squash to please

haul my ass home to the pumpkin

patch in the sky, but he ignored

me, and I'm way too much

of a coward to do the deed myself.”

He laughs, but then grows

serious.
But . . . All right, I know

this is really personal, but any

chance you can have children?

Not that you need a dozen

next month or anything, but

historically the Carinos are big

on offspring—you know, like

populating the planet with Italians.

“I don't need a dozen, ever,

and I'm not sure I'll even want

one or two. But I felt that way

before this, and if I change

my mind, apparently the semen

factory is still functioning. It's

the delivery method that's in

doubt. Anyway, you're not saying

you want me to knock Ronnie up?”

His amusement grows.
You do,

and I'll kick your ass. Unless

that's what she wants one day.

“Just so you know, my ass can't

feel a thing, so kicking it would be

irrelevant.” Am I really joking

about this? “As for the rest,

I guess it's one step at a time

(figuratively, of course) for now.

Tomorrow is a long way away.

The challenge is figuring out

how to get through today.”

Fair enough. Listen. I'm happy

to get hold of your mom about

your car and the house renovation.

But would you please let her know

I'm going to call, so she doesn't think

I'm out to scam her or something?

And Vince says goodbye, and as

I watch his retreat an odd sensation

settles over me: contentment.

Not at my condition, or the things

that led me here, but at the vague

possibility of a meaningful future.

The first step is acceptance, that's what

they keep telling me, and I understand

that my only real choices are to accept

or take the quick way out, like Vince's

girlfriend. My seventeenth birthday

is still a month away, three days after

the current year melts into the next.

I should be thinking about football.

Junior prom. Geometry, chemistry,

and American history. Psychology.

I should be worrying about Christmas

and what to buy for Mom and Ronnie.

Those things are lost to me, but what

remains is more important, and vital

to my struggle to, as Vince said,

get my ass up out of bed and onto

my feet again. I've got love. Support.

And at least a couple of friends.

Funny, but I never really thought

about my friends—or lack of them.

I had lots back in Kansas, and I

probably would have qualified

some of the people I knew from

school here in Vegas as buddies,

but no, not really. And of the girls

I went out with, only Ronnie

qualified. As for Vince, I saw him

as a means to an end. I had it all

bass-ackwards, and in hindsight

I see everything I did, every damn

goal I set, revolved totally around

me. Why did it take something like

this to clear my vision, shine

a spotlight on what's truly important—

not money or dope or winning a bet,

but treasuring the people who love

you? Figuring that out is the upside.

The downside is I didn't get it while

Jack was still around, or before I could

step in and stop Cory's downslide.

But any chance of that has evaporated.

Ditto the happiness I felt moments ago.

Zaps my spine, electric pain

just south of my disconnection.

“Jesus!” I fling the word toward

the wall, and it bounces back, too

loud in the hospital silence.

The effort sends another bolt

down, where I have no feeling

to speak of. How is it possible?

My finger starts working the call

button again and again. Overkill,

and I know it, but I want relief now!

Footsteps come pounding and Nurse

Carolyn hustles in.
What's wrong?

She hurries to the side of the bed.

Pain? What kind, and where?

I'm familiar enough with the vocab

to tell her, “Lumbar region, neuropathic.”

The kind initiated by my short-circuited

nerves, rather than musculoskeletal,

which is muscle or joint discomfort,

caused by overloading them. This is not

overwork. “It's bad. Real bad. Please,

can you give me something?” She nods

and goes to get permission while I sit

here wondering if the source of this

searing static isn't my stressed-out

brain informing my body that I

deserve to hurt. Maybe I should

keep my appointment with the shrink—

the one I've been avoiding, as if I

don't need a psyche adjustment.

Carolyn returns with both meds

and my mom in tow. Mom watches

me swallow a dose of relief, and

waits for the nurse to go.
I need

to talk to you about the house—

“Hey. Ronnie's brother, Vince,

stopped by. He says he has a cousin

who can help with the alterations. . . .”

Another sharp stab in my lower

back makes me wince, and Mom's face

creases with concern. “Don't worry.

I'll be okay as soon as this pill

kicks in. Anyway, Vince says maybe

he could have it done by . . . what?”

She pulls a chair over close to me.

Takes my hand.
I didn't want to worry

you about anything outside of here, but . . .

To worry about, starting with Mom

hasn't been able to put in very many

hours at her already low-paying job.

She's behind on bills, chief among

them the mortgage. Jack's life

insurance kept her head above water

for several months, but she can't see

a way to satisfy the bank. She's thinking

about letting the house go to a short sale,

which means we'll have to live

somewhere else.
Uncle Vern will

let us move in for a while. There isn't

a rehab hospital close by, but there's

a gym not far away. Hopefully we can

find a decent physical therapist.

“Go back to Kansas? No fucking way!

What will I do there? I can't farm. I can't

fix tractors. Hey, I know. Maybe I can

find work as a scarecrow.” Anger carves

into me, a white-hot blade. “No, Mom.

I won't leave Ronnie or give up on my rehab.

I'll figure something out.” Where can I

find a big wad of cash? Is there a market

for sex with a guy in a wheelchair?

That lovely name

is what I was called

in elementary school.

All it took was one

vile

boy informing everyone

on the playground

that my clothes were Goodwill,

and my face was

ugly

enough to scare

crows dead off a high

wire, and the other kids'

laughter

inspired a whole line

of barnyard jokes. It took

years to understand how that

defined

the way I looked at myself

and perhaps explained

why I changed myself so

drastically. I became one of

the painted

women I saw on TV,

and that inspired

all the wrong people to steal

piece after piece of

me.

And then Ginger came along.

To spend with Brielle has totally

been a challenge. You're not

supposed to hook up with other

residents here, and since we're all

girls, that isn't a problem for most.

At first, it wasn't an issue for us, either.