Glass - 02 (33 page)

We have no plans to come back.

No plans to pay up. No plans

to stay in this place. The only

place I’ve ever known as home.

An ending.

But we won’t head east. We’ll

go west, to California, where

meth was first invented and

remains the drug of choice. Is this

a beginning?

I wish I could feel. Or maybe

not. If I could, I would feel loss.

Hunter. Mom. Jake. Leigh. Even

Scott, who has always been there

for me.

They say meth affects the brain.

Destroys the pleasure center.

Could it smash the pain center too?

Would feeling pain be better than

feeling numb?

Out of Nevada, we touch down

in California. Unsure of where to go

from here, we decide we need food.

McD’s okay? We should

probably eat cheap for a while.

We’re on a downswing.

Sleepy. Hungry. Empty. “Cheap

is good, as long as there’s a lot of it.”

Ronald would be proud.

Big Macs and fries, times two?

“Times two, twice.” Fuck it.

I can invest a few calories. Not

like I’ve eaten a whole lot lately.

Okay. But you know I’m not

real fond of Two-Ton-Tessies.

“Love me fat, love me skinny.

Just keep loving me. Hey,

sounds like a song. Love me—”

You might want to work on it

before you try out for
American Idol.

We locate a McDonald’s off

the freeway, go inside to pee,

order our fifteen-dollar feast.

Let’s eat in the car. Looks like

they’re getting ready to close.

It is pretty late. Trey pulls

the Mustang back into a dark

corner of the parking lot.

No one will bother us here.

Oh, man, this shit tastes great.

He’s right. It does. And as

my belly fills with greasy

food, my eyes grow heavy.

We shouldn’t swing for a room.

Let’s sleep in the car, okay?

It’s not the comfiest bed. But

it is free. And we don’t dare

drive anywhere this tired.

We’ll make L.A. tomorrow.

We can bunk with a buddy then.

Cool. Whatever. Meanwhile

I’m just going to close my

eyes, slip into Dreamville.

Tapping on the glass. Glass?

Where am I? And who’s knocking?

Come on. Wake up!

Car. I’m in a car. Trey’s car.

And he’s here too, arms around

me, trying to wake up, just like I am.

I don’t want to. I want to sleep.

Hello? Open the window!

Just a minute. Just a freaking

minute. I manage to open my eyes.

The guy outside the window, the one

who’s been knocking, wears a uniform.

His flashlight parts the darkness,

seeks immediate information.

Good evening. May I see some ID?

Trey politely offers his license.

Something wrong, Officer?

Don’t you know you can’t sleep here?

Sorry. We had no idea. It’s just

that we got off the freeway…

The cop shines his light in our eyes.

Then he speaks directly to me.

How ’bout you, miss? ID?

The cop takes our licenses back

to his car. I’m getting a very bad

feeling. Trey notices.
Don’t panic.

Eventually, the uniform returns.

Please step out of the vehicle.

Holy shit. There can’t be an APB

out for me already, can there?

Someone would have had to identify

me, right? Could it happen this fast?

You say you’re just passing through?

Okay, maybe it isn’t an all points

bulletin. Maybe he’s just being nosy—

doing his job. “That’s right.” I give him

my best smile. “We can just be on our way….”

Mind if I take a quick look inside?

He wants to search the Mustang.

The meth is in the lockbox, under

the front seat. It would take a warrant

to unlock that. Maybe he won’t bother.

Maybe he won’t even see it. Trey

must be thinking the same thing.

He looks over at me, gives a small

shrug. “Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

Joins the party as Cop

Number One leans inside

the Mustang, flashlight

at the ready. It takes

about two seconds for

him to find the lockbox,

extract it, place it on the seat.

Surprise! It isn’t locked.

And talk about surprised.

One of Sacramento’s finest

has just discovered a half

pound of 90 percent pure

crystal methamphetamine.

You should see the look

on his face. He’ll be the talk

of the locker room for days.

No surprise. We’re fucked.

Do keep an eye on things.

But they don’t exactly

come rushing to my rescue.

Don’t worry. You’ll survive,

says one, a woman about

the size of a steer.

Frigging tweakers are all

alike. Whiners. Sweat that

shit out of your system,

you’ll be good as new, ’cept

for lacking a few brain cells.

You wanna see ugly, watch

a wino in lockup, fighting

d.t.’s. Oh, mama, now that

is some scary shit.

I’ve heard hard-core alkies

can die without booze. That

they bring ’em fixes, so they

don’t croak in custody. I call

that out-and-out prejudice.

Injustice. Maybe I should sue.

Until the arraignment.

We share the defendants’ table,

the public defender who stands

with us. Share a “not guilty” plea

to several charges, including

possession of and trafficking

methamphetamine, importing

it across the state line.

The only other thing we’ll

share for quite a while is our

fate. Already indexed

in that mostly unwritten

book is extradition.

Nevada wants us also.

Serious charges there, too.

No longer will Trey and I share

an apartment, a car, a bed. Won’t

share a pipe. A cigarette. A kiss.

Won’t share promises.

Dreams.

Vows.

We will, however, share one

very special thing, in the not-

too-distant future. A baby. All

that poking, prodding, and analysis,

in search of AIDS or Hep C, netted

that information. Guess it’s too

late to make that appointment

with Planned Parenthood.

I only hope I’m out of jail

before that big day comes.

Can shorten my stay.

It’s not only distasteful

but dangerous. Maybe

even life-threatening.

My public defender,

a rat-faced little man

with a squeaky voice,

brings me the offer.

The Feds want to disrupt

the flow of Mexican meth

into the continental U.S. If

you’ll turn state’s evidence…

I don’t really hear all

the details, through

the whir in my brain.

But the message comes

across loud and clear:

Turn in Cesar, pull

a lot less time. Some

thing to think about.

We will have to convince

courts in two states that

your cooperation will

benefit society at large.

Now, there’s something

to put down on a future

résumé. Right after

“felony convictions.”

Behind home-state bars,

I have a ton to think about

while awaiting sentencing.

Hopefully,

the Feds won’t rescind their

offer. I’ll only have to spend

six months in jail. Not so long.

Hopefully,

they will arrest Cesar, put him

away for much longer than that.

I’ll have to testify against him,

but I won’t have to pay him.

Hopefully,

his people will tuck tail, sprint

back across the border. If not,

they shouldn’t be able

to get me in here.

Hopefully

the Department of Corrections

can safeguard me—and those

I love—against La Eme–style

retribution.

Hopefully,

Trey and I will hook up again

after we get out. Hook up and

raise our baby together,

or at least share the parenting.

Hopefully,

he’ll write me. If not, Quade

has promised to. And I believe

him.
You’re a complete mess,

he said.
So why do I love you?

Hopefully,

one day I’ll be worthy of his

love. Anyone’s love. Trey’s.

Our baby’s. Hunter’s. Mom’s.

Hopefully,

she can forgive me for

betraying her trust. She knows

about everything. She saw the bank

photo too. Turned me in.

Hopefully,

my dance with the monster hasn’t

caused irreparable harm to me,

or to my just-forming baby.

Hopefully,

it will be a girl, a beautiful

perfect daughter, with hair

like Trey’s, eyes like mine.

Hopefully,

I will love every hour of being

her mother, even late-night

feedings, diaper changings,

the whole experience.

Hopefully,

most hopefully of all, by

the time I get out of here,

the monster will be nothing

more than a distant memory.

An unforgettable nightmare.

I realize that’s an awful

lot of hoping. But hey,

I’ve always been

an optimist…

…don’t ask me why.