Traffick (33 page)

the worry I put you through,

and for not being there to help

when you needed me. I never told

you what happened, but meant

to, and then I got sucked into—”

We don't have to talk about it

now. Or ever, if you don't want

to. I know you wouldn't have

run off like that without a reason.

“No, I wouldn't have. But I do want

to talk about it. It's important to me

that you know.” I tell her everything,

start to finish, going back all the way

to Walt, the first of my so-called

mother's men who paid to have

a little fun with her daughter or,

as Iris put it, “to make me a real

girl” by ripping me apart. I don't

try to remember all the others

I've invested so much effort into

trying to forget. I just tell Gram

Walt wasn't the only one, finishing

the bulk of my confession with

the man who forced my hand that

day, convinced me running away

was my only option. “Also, so you

know, not that it matters I guess,

Alex and I did strip for money

in Vegas, but I never let a man

touch me, and I probably never

will in the future.” I keep the part

about sleeping with girls to myself

for the time being. What I just shared

is more than enough. She gives

it some time to sink in, and I keep

my mouth shut while she does,

staring out the window at desert.

It isn't a beautiful landscape,

and it won't improve by the time

we reach Barstow. Someday I'll live

in the forest or near the ocean, or

maybe find a place where I can have

both. Northern California or Maine.

West Coast or East, makes no difference,

as long as there are trees and water.

Finally, Gram takes a deep breath,

releases it in a low whistle.
I never

even suspected anything like that,

Ginger. Why didn't you tell me?

“I'm not sure,” I admit. “I was

hurt. Embarrassed. Scared. But

mostly I was pissed at Iris. I couldn't

stand to look at her. Couldn't take

a chance on her doing something

like that again, and she would have.

I'll never forgive her. I hate her.”

My voice has risen in volume and

pitch, building toward a wail before

total breakdown. “I'm s-sor-ry.” It

escapes as huge sobs. “But I don't care

that she's dying. Is that wrong?”

For a very, very long time.

Is she angry? Disappointed?

Have I managed to smother

every hint of good cheer?

Finally, she opens her mouth.

I'm going to tell you something

I haven't talked about in many

years. I never thought it was

proper to share this, but now

I think you should know. I told

you Iris's childhood was no walk

in the park. Military brats never

have it easy, but what happened

to her at Fort Irwin was beyond

terrible.
She falls quiet again,

gathering her thoughts.
I believed

the neighborhood was safe, and

I let her outside to ride her bike

all the time. Turned out I was naive.

Not every soldier is a good guy,

and one evening as she rode home

one of the not-good ones got hold

of her. She was only seven. That

man raped her, almost killed her,

and would have, except Mark—your

grandfather—heard Iris screaming.

He beat that bastard within an inch

of his life, but the damage to your

mother was already irreversible.

I will forever carry a heap of guilt.

It's why I've continued to support

her, and even apologized for her

behavior, despite the awful choices

she's made, including how she earns

a living. Now I'm not claiming

the incident in any way pardons

the things she allowed done to you,

but it does explain, to some extent,

why she went the direction she did.

I can't tell you it's best to forgive her,

but what I can say with certainty is

holding on to resentment won't make

you any happier, and banking hatred

inside will eat your soul alive.

No! I don't want there to be a reason

for what she did. I want to hate her.

Forgive her? I've never forgiven anyone.

I have no clue what the word even means.

That's what it is,

like having a bucket

of ice water splashed

into my face, and as

chilling. I have never

offered forgiveness

to a single living person.

Or to a dead one, either.

Even after his death,

I never pardoned my father

for deserting Mary Ann

and me, leaving us at

the mercy of Iris's whims.

Instead, I've choked back

a giant grudge, held it in.

Pointless, really. As for

people still breathing,

the men whose scars

I'll always wear aren't

worthy of clemency.

But Gram is totally right.

Stowing hatred for them

does nothing but deny me

any chance at happiness.

The problem, of course,

is how to free myself of

the rage, welded into

the iron jaws of memory.

And then, there's Alex.

In some ways, she hurt

me more than the others

because I gifted her with

trust, something I don't

own much of. And while

she claimed to love me,

slowly, slowly, she excised

me from her life, declared

my devotion dependency.

Unnecessary, when in my

eyes it was affirmation that

I could, in fact, experience

such depth of emotion.

That wound still bleeds.

Will forgiveness suture it?

Finally, Iris. Mother. Traitor.

How do I reach beyond my own

pain, tap into hers, and find

a measure of sympathy?

Has never looked so welcoming,

and that's before we go inside,

where my family is waiting.

Gram pulls the minivan into

the driveway.
Welcome home,

Ginger. It hasn't changed much,

I'm afraid. Maybe one day I'll

hit the lotto and we can remodel.

I like the sound of “we,” and yet,

a sudden attack of nerves makes

me hesitate. The kids have always

looked up to me, and I am so not

a role model. Doesn't matter.

The front door opens, and out

spills the pack of my siblings,

running toward me, to a rousing

chorus:
Ginger! Ginger! Ginger!

Missed you. Where you been?

Wait till you see the Christmas tree!

Wait till you see your presents!

Now four pairs of arms wrap

around me—all except Mary Ann,

who stands back slightly, observing.

“Okay, okay, let me look at you.

Wow. I can't believe how big

you all are!” I barely recognize

them. How can so little time apart

make such a difference, or did I

somehow forget the way they

looked before? No, they've changed.

Honey and Pepper have grown

their hair to below their shoulders.

Porter is two inches taller at least,

and his cheeks have lost baby fat.

Sandy looks more boy than toddler

now, and that has everything to do

with the scars the accident left on

his face. Mary Ann has changed

the most. Not only does she look

older, but she also seems more . . .

worldly, I guess. Is it her makeup,

something she never wore before

I left here? Or is it something

else? Something more sinister?

Whatever it is, I wade through

the kids clamoring at my feet, go

straight to her side and open my

arms, inviting her hug. “Hey.”

She rewards my effort with

a reluctant embrace, pulls back

immediately. Everything is not

okay, but I refuse to believe

the worst until I hear it from

her mouth. “We've got a lot

to talk about, yeah? I know

I've got plenty to tell you.”

She nods, and her shoulders

relax a notch or two.
Just so

you know, I'm glad you're home,

but I'm still mad at you for leaving.

“I don't blame you,” I say, but

she's already walking away.

Honey and Pepper scramble

inside behind her, followed by

Gram and Porter, who carries

my small suitcase. Sandy slides

his little hand into mine, tugs gently.

Hey, Ginguh. Where ya been?

I reach down, scoop him up—

he's not too big for me to manage

that yet. “That's a very long story.

Think I'll save it for another day.”

We always believe

we'll have another day

to make things right,

but the concept of future

reconciliation

is a pencil sketch.

Erasable by circumstances

beyond our power to foresee,

and what remains

isn't

predictable. The longer

you wait, the wider

the rift becomes,

and it isn't

always

possible to manage

the crossing before

continental drift carries

you too far apart. It's

a

sad fact of life

that distance weakens

bonds, and reconnection

is simply not a

given.

On such short notice was a nightmare.

I finally managed to book one into

Evansville, but the layover in Detroit

is impossible, and the price tag was

out of sight. Still, I'm going, and

I'm scared as hell, and not just because

I've only ever flown one other time—

when I left Louisville with Carl—and

the weather looks to be an ugly mess

of blizzarding snow. No, I'm terrified

that Dad will turn me away, even as

weak as I hear he is, tell me he can't

bear to look at me, his blood-born

abomination. It's almost enough

to make me forget the whole idea,

stay here where I feel safe, though

that right there is a ridiculous notion.

Look at me. “That right there.” “Notion.”

I'm thinking in Indiana vernacular,

something I've tried to culture away

for close to a year now, ever since

I first hooked up with Loren back

in Louisville, escaping field work

for cultivation of a whole different

kind. Loren. Wonder what he's up

to now. Preaching? Partnered?

Partnered and preaching? Funny,

though they look nothing alike,

Micah's soft-spoken determination

reminds me of Loren. Both, in fact,

are a bit too determined to succeed

in their chosen careers, no matter

what it takes, even if that means

love taking a backseat to their dreams.

Even if that means me, unfortunately,

taking a backseat to their dreams.

I think I can still convince Micah

to move in with me, but not until

I return from this trip. This sad, lonely

journey to say a final goodbye to Dad.

Aunt Kate, she gave it to me straight.

Despite decades of hard work, all that

sausage and gravy was not good for

Dad's heart. By the time he actually

decided something was wrong and

went in to see a doctor, hard-core

measures were necessary.
They sent

him by ambulance straight to St. Mary's

in Evansville,
she told me.
They performed

a quadruple bypass, but apparently there

was also extensive damage to the heart

itself. He was terribly sick already, and

has had complications. He's in intensive

care and the prognosis isn't good. Try

your best to get here right away. Sorry

to do this to you at Christmastime.

She never asked where I've been,

or what happened to make me go.

Dad must have told her something,

but it was not part of the discussion.

I suppose at some point it needs to

be. I won't hide who I am anymore.

Micah drops me off at the airport,

and I kiss him goodbye in full view

of a throng of Christmas Eve travelers.

“I wish you could come with me.