Southbound Surrender (23 page)

Did they make it? This guy’s treating these boxes like his own kid just wheeled out of heart transplant surgery.

“I think–” I start, but I bite my tongue warding off my Tourette Syndrome of my conscience.

“Yes,” Officer Singh finishes for me.

“Good.” Lopez turns to face me. He points a stubby finger in my chest. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today. I’ll consider this on-time. I’ll call your boss later today.”

“Thank you,” I nod even though I really want to punch him with my already throbbing hand. I clench my fist instead and inhale deeply. I’ve got to get this punching thing under control. Punching the cowboy was like opening up Pandora’s Box.

Officer Singh doesn’t offer any words, but just nods and turns to walk out the door. I follow him, and we meet Piper on the bottom of the steps. She’s leaning against the railing with her hands on her chin.

“So?” she asks, popping up.

“He’s taking it,” I say with my arms wide open. She crashes into them, and I squeeze her tight. We’re rocking back and forth in celebration when Officer Singh clears his throat.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I need your statements,” he says as he pulls out his notepad and pen.

“Of course,” I reply. “But let me call my boss first.”

Officer Singh sighs and pulls down his notepad again. “Make it quick.”

The conversation with Viv goes something like this:

Viv: Cash, it’s after noon. Please tell me…

Me: It’s there. He’s accepting the delivery as on-time and will call you later today about your continued relationship.

Viv: HOT DAMN! (She yelled into the phone so loudly that I had to pull it away from my ear).

Me: And we got hijacked.

Viv: WHAT?! (I held the phone a few inches from my ear the rest of the conversation.)

Me: I’ll tell you more about it when we get back, but they didn’t make off with anything. They did, however, cut the locks and part of the handle on the back of the trailer. I’m going to need to get those fixed before I come back.

Viv: WHAT?!

Me: Everything’s fine, Viv. Just relax.

Viv: HIJACKED? Jesus Christ…

Me: I’ll call you after I get the truck fixed.

Viv: You said “we.” You still have that honey with you?

Me: Yes, Viv, and I’d like you to meet her when we get back.

Viv: I’ll be damned…

Silence.

Viv: Take an extra day, Cash Money.

Click.

We give our statements to Officer Singh in the parking lot of the warehouse, detailing the play-by-play of how the woman crossed the street and then spilled her bag across the street, how Piper got out to help her, and how I got out to help Piper. I tell him about punching the guy with the knife. Officer Singh raises his eyebrows at me before smiling. Piper tells him about how one of the thugs grabbed her hair and ripped it out. She provides a reenactment for Officer Singh even though he didn’t ask for one. And then we both thank him and the team for coming to our rescue.

“That’s our job,” he says with a serious face. “To keep the streets of Miami safe. As for your repairs, I recommend heading to Joe’s Locks. It’s just a mile down the street. He can rig something up to keep the doors shut until you get a more permanent fix back in Wisconsin.”

“Well, if that’s it…” I say, turning my attention back to an empty Cash Money.

“One more thing,” Officer Singh says. “You did the right thing back there. Never let this girl out of your sight. Don’t let anything come between you.”

“I hear you, loud and clear,” I reply with my eyes on Piper as I grab hold of her hand. “I won’t ever let her out of my sight.”

***

We drop Cash Money off at Joe’s Locks, which is in a neighborhood without security grilles and boarded up windows on every storefront. It’s actually kind of quaint with colorful awnings over each of the shops. Joe promises to have a solution for the doors in an hour. Then he tells us that the beach is only a half mile away. Piper tells him to take his time.

We grab a few things from the truck, including the pink and white striped sweater that Piper pulls over her head, and make our way east toward the Atlantic Ocean.

“Are you sure you just don’t want to wait at the shop and get out of here the second we can after everything that just happened? I know I’m still a little rattled,” I say as I turn toward her. “I can only imagine what you feel like.”

“I’m fine. You know, immersion is supposed to be the best kind of therapy anyway when it comes to fear.”

“Getting attacked and almost getting robbed isn’t exactly like having arachnophobia,” I reply.

She shrugs her shoulders. “It’s fine. You ever see the Atlantic Ocean before?” she asks, grabbing my hand and letting it swing gently back and forth with hers.

“Yeah, when I was at school at Princeton.”

“Ugh, that is going to haunt me forever,” she groans. “I really do feel bad about that.”

“You shouldn’t. I chose to go there on my own. I chased after the shadow of a girl I barely knew, but I don’t regret it. It taught me some things about life and about myself that I probably wouldn’t have experienced anywhere else. Plus, I got to see the Atlantic for the first time.”

“That was a thirty thousand dollar visit to the ocean,” Piper says. “This better be one helluva an ocean. What did you learn about yourself when you were there?”

“For starters, I learned that even the people in the upper echelons shit just like me. Just because they have pedigrees and a long history of doctorates and money and famous relatives doesn’t mean they’re any better than me. I saw a ton of people get stressed over tests and making sure they got into so and so’s class and elite programs. And I realized that none of that stuff really matters. We can’t take it with us when we die. I mean, what’s the whole point of life anyway? I think it’s noble to make an impact on society and everything, but at what cost? All that really matters when you strip everything away are two things: happiness and the people you love. Those two things, that’s it.” I pause here, realizing that I’ve gone on for a good majority of a block.

“You’re right,” she says, pausing before we cross the street. “You’re completely right.”

We’re silent for the rest of the block as we near the beach. The smell of salt filters into my nostrils as we connect with a sidewalk running along the white sand. The ocean’s blue hue stretches across the horizon, glittering in the bright rays of the afternoon. To the right is a dock with the makings of a carnival, including a Ferris wheel and a red and white striped tent. A huge crew of people and trucks are assembling and setting up various smaller rides and stands.

“Maybe if we stay here long enough, we can go for a spin on the Ferris Wheel,” I say, nodding to the carnival. “I can spend a hundred dollars trying to win you an oversized stuffed teddy bear.”

“Maybe,” she says coyly. “How long you plan on staying here?”

“I don’t know. Do you really have to get back for school?” I circle my arms around her and her head falls on my shoulder. “I could stay here forever.”

“I wish I didn’t have to go back,” she says.

“Me either.”

“So, what makes you happy, Cash Rowland?” she asks as she bends down to take off her shoes.

“Well, for starters, you,” I reply as I let go of her and take off my shoes. I tuck them inside my elbow as she cocks her head and tries not to smile.

“What else?”

“Besides the obvious answers of great cinema and science textbooks, I would say hanging with Hudson and Big Dave. I love the open road. I like knowing that I can do a good job and make other people happy,” I reply before adding, “How about you?”

“I like knowing that one day I’m going to help people who are sick. While school can suck at times, it makes me happy that it is providing a means to my happy ending,” she says. “And oh yeah. You. You make me happy.”

“I’m glad you snuck that in there,” I reply with a laugh as we walk onto the beach. The warm sand sinks beneath my feet and squishes between my toes.

“This is so much better than thirty degree weather in Wisconsin,” she says, dancing her feet into the sand. She kicks a large sweep up in front of her and points to a sign with red lettering that reads ‘Swim at your Own Risk. Shark Sightings.’

“Want to go swimming?” she asks.

“No,” I shake my head as she laughs. “The weather is better than Wisconsin, but I’m happy to say that we don’t have to worry about man-eating ocean creatures.”

“Come on,” she teases. “Live a little.”

“I hope you’re kidding…” I say.

She shrugs her shoulders and smiles.

“What did you think about Officer Singh? He was our last stop, so I was hoping for something a little more enlightening. Like where the fountain of youth is located or the secret to setting the new World Record in hot dog eating or who really shot JFK. You know, the important stuff.”

She suddenly stops in the sand and releases my hand. “I think I know what it is.”

“What?” I ask, trying to edge off the nervousness I feel from her letting go of my hand. It’s now hanging lonely in the air.

“You know how he was talking about his last name? The legacy his grandfather or whoever left him.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s what it was. It was about our ancestors leaving us with something to deal with, whether we like it or not,” she says slowly.

“What is it?” I ask, not comprehending the magnitude of my question or the possibilities of the answer. Had I known what she was going to say, I would have never asked the question. I wouldn’t have asked it like this, and I wouldn’t have asked it here, on the beach with ocean waves crashing on day three of our journey.

But the universe doesn’t tell you these things. She doesn’t wrap things up in a neat little package with a big red bow. She slices you open when you’re least expecting it in a way that makes you beg for mercy.

“I never wanted to tell you,” she says. “It’s why I left Appleton without leaving you any contact information.”

“Tell me. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter,” I say, still not knowing. I’ll look back on this moment and wish I would have done it differently. I wish I would have taken more time to think it through and prepare for what she is about to tell me. But I don’t, and her words cut me like a knife.

“My dad killed your mom.”

The universe, my friends, is one cruel bitch.

Chapter 15

They say that when you experience emotional trauma, your body goes into non-medical shock. It releases adrenaline into the bloodstream and carries the same characteristics of real shock after a traumatic and serious injury. Clammy hands, racing heart, anxiety, rapid-breathing, nausea, and dizziness. I’m experiencing all of these.

My body is trying to comprehend the information, but it can’t.

“We should sit down,” she says, but I don’t hear her. All I hear is the crash of the waves, and all I see are Luella’s eyes – eyes as blue as the tranquil sea – just like Big Dave used to say. My heart putters inside my chest like the sound of a car that’s about to give out.

My dad killed your mom? The words don’t sound right coming from her mouth, and they definitely don’t sound right in my head.

“Your dad killed my mom?” I ask. They sure as hell don’t sound right coming out my mouth. She nods her head even though I’m hoping she won’t. She sits on the sand and wraps her arms around her legs.

I stand there for a second longer, first putting my hands on the back of my head, and then I move them to my knees. My lungs are constricting¸ refusing to let oxygen in and out freely. I close my eyes and concentrate, just like Big Dave taught me. In through my nose, out through my mouth. I repeat. Over and over.

“Your dad, Dr. Sullivan, killed Luella Rowland, my mother?” I try to control the anger in my voice, but I feel it rising in my chest, threatening to bubble over. I want to scream, kick and flip the universe off. But instead, I hang my head over my knees and say, “How? How did he kill her?”

And then all I can hear is Piper’s whispers, “I’m sorry. I should have told you. I’m sorry. I should have told you. I’m sorry…” She’s repeating it somewhere below me, but I can’t find the courage to say anything else.

I’m still bent over, my hands shaking as I attempt to control the questions that swirl in my head, when a sweep of sand kicks in front of me. The small shoes of a child appear in front of me and then stop. I follow the shoes up to the little stick legs with knobby knees and then to khaki shorts and then to a miniature plaid shirt that’s buttoned up to his neck. A string is hovering in the air, his hand clenched tight to carry a pink balloon. His wide eyes are an espresso brown, framed with thick lashes that flutter slowly. He’s maybe four or five.

“Hey, mister, are you okay?” he asks. His voice has the slightest lisp that’s going to cause a world of hurt later if he doesn’t outgrow it. “You don’t look too good. You look like my papa when his heart gave out.”

That’s what it feels like. My heart is giving out. But I don’t want to worry this kid. I take a deep breath and clear my throat.

“Hey, buddy. I’m fine. It’s nice that you asked though,” I reply.

“How about her?” He points to Piper who’s looking up at him with teary eyes. “My mom told me it’s important to be a concerned zitizen.” He straightens his back up.

“A citizen, yeah. She’s right, it’s important to be a concerned citizen,” I say as a woman in a dress flutters up next to him and grabs his balloon-less hand.

“I’m sorry,” she says to me before she turns to the little boy with a voice that sounds like it’s supposed to be a scold, but it falls short. “Cole, remember I told you not to talk to strangers.”

He nods his head obediently and turns his body to follow her lead. He whispers to Piper, “Do you want my balloon? Will that make you feel better? I don’t really like pink anyway. It’s a girl color.”

But all Piper can do is shake her head no and let a tear fall down her cheek.

“Thanks, buddy, for being a concerned citizen,” I whisper before his mom whisks him away. The pink balloon bobs in the air, following the tugs of the boy like a shadow.

“I wish I was that balloon and that the little boy would unclench his fist and let me float away,” Piper whispers. “I can’t do this, Cash. I just don’t know how to deal with this. I just -”