The Assigned (9 page)

It’s days like this that make me wonder why I even put up with Supersize Sandy. “We’ll talk about it later, Sandy,” I defer. “I think I’m leaving a little early today. I need some fresh air—”

“Hey, that sounds great! I was thinking the same thing! We could get a little shopping done—ooh I saw these grrreeeeaaat shoes at Melodies. They would go great with my tan jumper …”

My mind zones her out, a feat not hard to accomplish. It drifts to one of my favorite spots, Lincoln Memorial. The sprawling park never fails in clearing my mind. In fact, it seems like I’ve been getting by there nearly every other day lately. No A’ma. No Sandy. No Arnie. Nothing but me, my music, and the trail.

“… or maybe I’ll get those red six-inch. They’ve been dyyyinnnggg for me to buy them.”

Wow, she’s still going. “Every time I walk in they’re just like,
heeeeeyyyy Sandy. Buy me. Pleaaaassssseee …”

Yeah,
definitely
a Lincoln day.

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Maybe it’s me, but I don’t remember the park ever being this crowded. People are everywhere; playing, jogging, riding bikes. It’s the warmest it’s been in about a month and looks like everyone’s taking advantage.

Lincoln Park is huge. Six or seven basketball courts, miles and miles of trails, a track, three playgrounds to choose from. They have some of the best swings in the city and Christina loves it, so I bite the bullet and blend in with the rest of the sappy population. Actually, I stick out in my Road Hogs leather fatigues as some kid embarrasses his mom by pointing to my tattoos, saying,
“mommie why does he have those pictures on his arms?”

She gives a nervous, anxious grin before whisking the kid away. The comment actually makes me smile. Heard a lot worse.

Christina bubbles with anticipation. It’s been a long time since she’s had a day like this. Seeing the look on her face has made everything worth it … already.

I hold her hand tightly as we navigate through the large crowd. Still, it doesn’t take long for the white ice cream truck sitting off in the distance to catch her attention.

“Daddy, ice cream! Ice cream!” she shouts. “Can I have some please?!”

“Don’t you wanna play for a while?” I ask, as if her young mind will be persuaded by the option.

“Daddy, please! Ice Cream! Ice Cream!”

Right. No chance.

Chrissy jumps up and down, full of life, like every five year-old should be. How can I possibly refuse her after all she’s been through? “Sure baby,” I say. “But only one popsicle. You don’t wanna mess up your tummy before we ride the swings.”

With the ice cream truck sitting about 30 yards away, we cross a narrow asphalt path, cutting across the grass. Several kids circle the truck like birds circling their prey. As we near the adolescent chaos, I clutch Christina’s hand even tighter.

Some of the children make faces at Christina as they run around, free from their parent’s grasp. Chrissy mimics the children as she tries to break free from my hand.

“Whada you doing?” I say firmly.

Christina points to the other children who scurry about as their parents order their favorite treats.
Couldn’t be more than ten feet
, I think to myself. A few more visits from those eyes and I eventually let go. Christina bolts like a stallion from the barn, showing the other kids what
she
can do. Wearing forest green shorts, an orange pullover, and socks pulled up over her calfs, Christina plays her heart out. So what if she looks like a single father dressed her, she’s happy. Standing just five or six large steps away, she waves to me. I wave back of course, just as proud as the rest of the parents that congregate on the beautiful Saturday morning.

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What happened? Must … have … been … dropping in and out of consciousness. Sirens howl in the distance. And everything—everything is upside down.

“Sir, don’t move,” says a voice to my left. “We’ve called 911.”

Why has someone called 911? And why am I upside down? Warm liquid runs down my chin. Am I crying? I—I don’t think so.

“What’s going on?” I ask, hoping the voice will hear me.

“Sir, you’ve been in an accident. You should just lie still.”

I try to focus but my eye, it won’t open. And that liquid—it’s blood—my blood.

Struggling with the seat belt, panic sets in. A white object in front of me makes it hard to—the air bag. My remaining good eye begins to make sense of the funny shapes. The truck, it’s upside down and now my brain is sending signals to my nerve endings as pain begins to erupt in my body.

“Oh God! Somebody help me!” I shout. “Please!”

“Sir, lie still, you’re in shock,” says the voice to the left. “Paramedics are on the way.”

Blood and lacerations cover my arms. I reach for my face but I can’t feel anything. It’s swollen. From the contorted view, I watch as feet surround the truck. I can hear their voices, though no one tries to help me—why won’t they help me?!?!

My breathing becomes difficult as my mangled cage closes in. Will somebody just help! Not sure how much longer I can …

Something’s happening. Is someone helping on my right? Can’t see but my leg feels better. Now my eye. What? No …

My eye opens just in time for me to see blood trickle back inside a deep gash in my arm. The wound closes, like it was never there. A crackling sound discharges from my body. Is that … bone? Whatever it is makes breathing a lot easier. In fact, I feel … great. My entire body feels brand new. I can now see I’m pinned under my airbag, my truck on its roof. Looks like I really did it this time.

EMT arrive on the scene. “Sir, don’t move. Are you alright?”

For some strange reason …

I am.

“Whada it be, sir?” asks the ice cream attendant.

“Uhhh, let me see …” I take one more glance at Christina before ordering. She talks to another young child standing beside her. “I’ll take a—”

The pain I felt earlier rings though my head. Blurry images fly past my eyes as I try my best to shake it off. After what feels like a few moments, it stops.

“… sir, sir? You’re holding up my line. What’s with this guy?”

“Hunh?” I say as my mind scrambles. What is going on with my body? What was I doing? Oh yeah, ice cream—Christina. “Hey Chrissy baby, what was it you said—”

I turn around to ask Christina what she wants, but she’s not there. My eyes pan through dozens of children playing around the ice cream truck. It takes a moment, but none of them are Christina. It’s not like her to run off, but maybe this small taste of freedom has overwhelmed her. We will definitely have a long talk about this. But first I have to find her.

“Christina?” I call. So many people, it’s hard to focus on anything past 20 feet. The nearest playground is about 40 yards away. That has to be where she went.

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Paramedics roll me into the ER. They refuse to let me up even though I keep trying to tell them I’m fine. Now
how
that’s possible is another story in itself.

“Sir, relax!” they shout, rushing my gurney around corridors.

“Look, I’m fine,” I say. “Really.”

“Sir, you were just in a major accident. You’re in shock.” The two men confer with one another. “He is
in shock right?”

“It’s the alcohol talking,” says the other. “You can smell it on him a mile away. We’ve got to call this one in.”

That’s definitely not what I needed to hear. I can’t afford a DUI on my record. Not now. Can’t give the Jags any reason to cut me. This injury has got me on thin ice already.

The techs place my gurney alongside a wall. They instruct me to rest as they drop off paperwork. Carts, wheelchairs, and portable beds line the wall, all filled with sick or injured people. Most are totally oblivious to the happenings around them, their ailments drowning out their surroundings. Being completely
fine
makes it all the more noticeable.

With the tech’s backs turned, I ease my way off the gurney. Slowly, I crouch backwards, sneaking towards the exit. Nearly there, before a misstep lands me into the cart of an injured man. Good going, Tre. Quickly I lighten his load by jumping to my feet.

“Sorry,” I smile. He looks up with an annoyed glare. Blood stains seep through pasty colored bandaging covering his entire right forearm. I apologize again, lightly placing my hand on the dressing. Why, I don’t know. That should be the last thing I touch, although I do it almost instinctively. As I refocus my attention on a way out, I see a stairwell about 50 yards away. Walking briskly to the exit, I hear a voice beckoning for someone’s attention. Carefully I turn, only to get a glimpse of the man with the bloodied arm waving wildly towards me. His face jumps with delight as he moves his arm up and down. His …
right arm
. Albeit I’ve moved a ways down from him now—call me crazy, but I don’t see any stains in his dressing. Did I—nah. Slipping the man a wave and nod of the head, I duck into the stairwell.

That accident must’ve really done something to my head. That, or I’m still a little buzzed. I’m really beginning to lose it. Whatever the case, I’ve got to get out of here—get my story straight. “Damn! My phone!” Probably still in the wreckage. My wallet, too.

The stairwell leads me to a basement exit. I take a few cautious moments to make sure no one has followed me. Then I make a run for the hill, leading me back to the ground level. Hopefully I’ll find someone at the corner, use their phone. Of course, no one’s around. I look both ways, but nothing.

“No phone. No money. Great.”

“Is there someone you need to contact?”“What the—!”

The voice frightens me half out my skin. “Where did you come—it’s … YOU.”

Out of nowhere stands the mysterious silver haired woman. Wearing an overly elegant bronze colored caped pantsuit, she definitely was not standing there just seconds ago. Perfectly pressed platinum colored hair hangs long around her face. Piercing light brown eyes almost glow red in the sunlight. The woman, somewhat attractive for someone that age, has to be in her late fifties or sixties.

“Who—who are you lady?”

“A friend,” says a proper, crisp voice.

“More like a stalker to me.”

“I mean you no harm, William. Do you have any injuries from your accident?”

“Hunh?” I grimace. “First off—”

“First off, stop calling you William. You go by Tre. And how do I know you were in a collision? And how did I know you would be at this very corner at this very minute?”

My frown is replaced by confusion. “Uhh … yeah.”

The woman’s eyes, like before, penetrate my skin. “That is what I do. That is who I am. I KNOW things. Have you ever felt you were destined for something great, William Turner, III? Something grander than sports? Almost as if a force much greater than your own was beckoning you—calling you to greater things?”

The delivery of her words nearly draw me in before common sense gets the better of me. “Okay lady. Did my mom put you up to this? What are you a counselor or something? Look, I’ll be fine. Just need—”

Stepping closer, her pristine voice rises as she cuts me off. “I know NOT of your parents, William Turner, III! I DO know of your reoccurring nightmares, your bouts of depression, your alcoholism, and your guilt over your brother’s death! I also know you were just involved in an accident that should have taken your life, at the least critically injured you. Yet you sustained not one broken bone or scratch. I know at this present time, you shall shun me. But as things continue to manifest, you will seek me out.”

I stare at the clearly loony woman. Her clothes, her voice, that speech. She’s off her rocker. “… oh finished?” I mouth off. “Okay, listen. I don’t know who you are and I don’t want to. And what’s up with the Old English? You got King James on speed dial or somethin’?!”

I look around before taking my chances going west. Eventually, I should run into someone sane. Before I can get five steps, the nut job behind me speaks up. “That way leads to the authorities you flee.”

I continue on, ignoring the batty woman. A police car suddenly pulls into the hospital’s parking lot. Inconspicuous, I immediately turn back the other way glancing at
Ms. Lucky
before passing.

“At the very least, take my card, please?” she pleads. I pretend to not hear. “I just gave you a forewarning, did I not? All I ask is that—”

“Okay, lady!” I shout. Can’t have her following me home. “Fine!” I snatch the card, stuffing it in my pocket before setting off east.

A few blocks away is the back entrance to Lincoln Memorial Park. Several of my old high school teammates play ball there. There’s got to be somebody there I know.

“Shortcut.”

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Although busy, the park is peaceful on this wonderful Saturday afternoon. Birds chirp as sunlight cuts through openings in the towering trees. Taking in all of nature, I stretch on the park bench in front of me. Looks like I made a great decision in cutting out of the station early. Arnie may bark about it on Tuesday, but right now, Tuesday feels like eons away.

Lincoln is great for running this time of year. I plug my ears with headphones as I take off down the five mile trail. The only thing I hear while running is … whatever
I
want. No A’ma, no Sandy, no Deacon Nichols. Nope. Only the song that corresponds with the button I select. Here, I have complete control over the soundtrack of my life.

With my music in place, I dash down the winding trail. Beats rip through my headphones, pushing my pace. With the volume on full blast, another sound somehow manages to cut through. I slow down to survey the trail. Not a person in sight. The sound grows stronger … a voice. It grows increasingly loud while keeping its child-like character. Finally, I come to a dead halt.

“I want my daddy.”

Okay, I know I’m not going crazy. Removing the headphones, I listen. The voice continues to grow stronger by the second.

“I want my daddy.”

Immediately my body tingles with energy as the hairs on my arm rise.

“Daddy!”

I feel …
power
. The same power that has eluded me for nearly seven days. It reassures me that what happened last week was not a dream. Things are
not
back to normal. Not in the least. The voice I hear is not in normal hearing distance. I just know. The feeling consumes me as I burst into an all-out sprint.

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I search the entire playground and still no sign of Christina. I even circle back around to the ice cream truck. No longer calm, I shout my daughter’s name at the top of my lungs.

“Have you seen a little girl? She’s five, brown hair, about this tall—she’s got on green shorts—”

People stare, but none offer help. I can’t believe this is happening. Not now. Sure I look intimidating standing at the family park with a leather vest and tattoos fluttered across my arms, but forget all that. Why won’t they just listen to me? I’m a father and I need help! My baby, Christina is missing and these people do nothing but stare at me!

How can my little girl go from near death to full of life, only to go missing at some stupid park? The emotions of the past seven days rise up in me like flood waters. Feelings of helplessness, grief … and again, guilt.

Adrenaline also surges through my veins as I scour the park. I have to find her. As I run through the trails, another feeling begins to overtake me. Not sure—it’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I feel …
fast
. Alert. More than just the heightened anxiety of searching for a lost child. There’s a distinct change all over my body and it’s giving me …
power.

Images flash before my eyes. No longer accompanied by pain, the visions are clearer than before. I see a white vehicle.
The ice cream truck!
Now, a balding man with glasses—there’s Christina!
Finally, a wooded trail. The images are trying to lead me to her. I’m not sure how, but I now know exactly where to go to find my baby.