Designed to Love (17 page)

Bobby gets the first punch in, swinging
around and catching me in the gut. I won't say it didn't get my
attention, but when I bring his head down hard against my leg and
hear his jaw crack, I'm almost certain he regrets it. He staggers
into the arms of one of his brothers whose face turns red with
anger, and comes at me swinging the cue stick like a fly swatter. I
dive for his legs, launching him high in the air, and everyone's
eyes turn skyward. He somersaults and lands with a loud thump
almost twenty feet away. The uttered word knife catches my
attention and I instinctively whip around catching the blade across
my forearm. I deliver such a powerful kick to this attacker that he
wipes out a crowd of bystanders when he hits them. I'm sort of
disappointed when it's all over in a matter of minutes.

I wondered if Bernie would be interested to
know that I could still win a fighting match under the influence of
alcohol. Granted, I'm sure my moves weren't quite as smooth and
precise as during our fight at Area 51, but nonetheless, I feel
good about my performance and three of my four assailants would
likely be taken away by ambulance. I half expected to take on the
whole bar, the way locals stick together, but there was only one
other dumb enough to challenge me after the Hickman brothers went
down, and that was only because he was armed with a knife, which he
managed to use on me, inflicting a nice stab wound to my arm.

There is a hush over the room, when I walk
back in to the bar and I distinctly hear a woman on the other side
of the room, whisper to her companion, "He's the one they're
looking for in the Porter case." I am already silently cussing
myself out for being here tonight when Alisha screams, "Damn it
Ronan, can't you stay out of trouble for one night!" causing me to
wince.

With a little coaxing, I am able to convince
Al to trade me a bar towel for a hundred dollar bill and I allow
one of the sympathetic customers to secure it around my arm to stop
the bleeding. Half drunk, with a stab wound to my arm, and already
being dubbed, "Superman," by the three women clamoring even harder
for my attention, I abort the idea of calling a cab and hightail it
out the back door, just as the sound of sirens can be heard in the
distance.

RONAN

Most of the kids at Montgomery High School
eased into their experimentation with drugs and alcohol over the
course of a school year or more. I jumped right in head first,
fully immersing myself into a seedy lifestyle that includes daily
visits to the local bar, where not only Stella knows me by first
name, but now so do most of the regulars. My drinking binge is the
only effective means I have of sealing the vacuum in my heart that
threatens to swallow me whole. Nothing else subdues the deep,
crippling pain that overwhelms me every time a thought, image, or
memory of Cat slips into my consciousness. I know that something
deep inside me is slowly changing but I can't say for sure what it
is. My telepathic communication with the others is becoming
erratic, with static interruptions, like a bad cell phone
connection. I have lost my ability to make any outgoing mental
connections, and rely solely on the others' united energy to
connect with me if we want to talk in our nonconventional way.

At just past noon on Christmas Eve, I am
sitting in my familiar seat at the far end of the Best Western Bar.
Stella doesn't bother asking for my order. She just brings a shot
glass with a bottle of tequila and sets it down on the counter in
front of me, picking up the $100 bill with an appreciative smile.
She'll bring me my change, but already knows that it will be left
as a tip for her when I leave. In exchange, she keeps other patrons
from pestering me, expertly intervening when I am approached by
interested females looking for a hook-up and squelching any gossip
about my superhuman strength that has made its way around the bar
circuit. Stella has no idea that from where I sit, I can hear her
conversations at the other end of the bar, and know about her
struggles to support her three young children on a single mother's
salary. She tells the people at the bar that my tips have allowed
her to give her kids the "first real Christmas they've ever had." I
wonder if God would find this deed redeeming enough to forgive me
for some of my recent actions. I hoped so, there wasn't much else I
could feel good about right now. The Best Western bar was the type
of establishment that drew the same people day after day. Stella
says, "Some people have been coming here for years." It's not a
crowd of high energy partying twenty-one year olds, out to have a
good time. The middle-aged and older occupants in here are like me,
escaping some aspect of their lives that seem impossible to
face.

My stomach tightens at the thought of
tomorrow morning. One of my last conversations with Claire, two
days ago, was over me being home for Christmas. She begged me to
come back and when I told her no, she cried and called me some
well-deserved names. I am profoundly ashamed at my cowardly,
spineless behavior, but feel helpless to change my course right
now. So I slowly sip the smooth liquor, waiting for the stupor to
settle over me, so that when I return to my hotel room, it won't
seem so cold and lonely, the empty, meaninglessness of my life, not
so obvious.

***

I am a third of the way into the bottle of
tequila and half asleep, not fully paying attention to the
activities in the now somewhat crowded bar, when the ever so faint
sound of Cat's voice pushes through the murky barriers of my brain.
There's a protective part of me that wants to immediately block her
and another part of me that desperately fights to hear more of
her.

"Ronan, I'm here. You have to find me."

Her voice sounds pleading and urgent and an
unintentional sob escapes my throat, drawing curious looks from the
people a few stools down from me. I close my eyes and try to
coordinate my thoughts enough to respond. Ever since the dream, her
voice has been finding its way to me regardless of whether or not I
am asleep or awake. The message is always the same, "I'm not gone.
Come find me," and I always answer with, "Tell me where."
Logically, I know it's my mind playing cruel, punishing, tricks on
me, but even now I whisper out loud, over and over again, "Tell me
where. Tell me where. Tell me where."

***

I can't see the front door from where I am
sitting, but I can tell by the pause in the noise level at the Best
Western bar, that whoever just walked in is unrecognizable to
Stella or the rest of the regulars sitting at the bar. I am able to
determine about how many are in their group and an approximate age
level based on the sound of their footsteps alone. Older people
walk slower and shuffle their feet. The three newcomers making
their way to the back of the bar walk briskly and purposefully.
They are likely making a beeline for the restroom in the back,
which will annoy the hell out of Stella if they don't stay for a
drink. Of course, if I really wanted to know without looking up, I
could just remote view, but I rarely bother doing this anymore. It
takes too much mental effort when I am under the influence of
alcohol.

"Ahem," the female behind me clears her
throat in an attempt to get my attention. I just continue to stare
down at my glass and wait for Stella to intervene.

"The party's over cowboy. Get your things
we're taking you home," Alisha says in her no nonsense way.

I whip around to find Alisha, Burke,
Brandon, and Claire standing there with their arms stubbornly
folded across their chest. I stare at them speechless, a mixture of
emotions stirring inside of me.

Alisha doesn't waste any time getting right
to the point. "Ronan, you can cooperate and come with us, or we
will carry your ass out of here—the choice is yours." Nobody's
smiling when she says this. She rakes me over with her intense blue
eyes, before crinkling her nose in disgust. "Ew, you smell as bad
as you look. When's the last time you showered and shaved?" Before
I have a chance to reply, she says impatiently, "Never mind, let's
just get out of here," no doubt expecting me to jump right up.

Claire is studying me with such intensity
that I squirm in my seat. In the few short weeks that I've been
gone, she looks like she's grown a foot taller and her face has
lost some of the childlike innocence. There is a mixture of wisdom
and sadness in her eyes as she silently stares at me. Of course,
the first thing I think is just how much she looks just like
Cataryn, and my heart twists in a tight knot, making it difficult
to breathe or talk.

I reach for the shot glass in front of me
and Alisha places her hand on my arm. "You're done Ronan. Get your
coat and let's go."

"I'm not going anywhere Ali. You wasted your
time by coming here," I reply, hating that my speech is
slurred.

This time it's Claire who responds. "That
stuff is changing your color Ronan. You are barely even orange
now."

Her words send a chill down my spine, but it
doesn't stop me for reaching for the glass again. She mentally
slides it to the left, out of my reach, and when I try to retrieve
it, she tips it over, spilling tequila all over the counter.

"Claire, knock it off," I say quietly,
unable to look her in the eye. Stella hurries over to wipe up the
mess, glancing first at me, then at them. Being a bartender for
almost twenty years, I'm sure she's gotten pretty good at reading
people and situations, but I can see it in her eyes that she has no
idea what to make of us.

"It's killing your energy," Claire half sobs
after Stella walks away. When I don't acknowledge her, she boldly
climbs up in my lap and twists my head around, demanding that I
look in her eyes.

"Ronan, you can't do this. It's turning you
dark," she says more urgently, her eyes filling with tears. She
looks around the bar and continues, "All of these people are dark.
You're turning into one of them. This stuff is poisonous and it
steals energy from people."

"She's right, Ronan. We've been trying to
connect with you the past few days and we can't get through. You
are no longer vibrating on our frequency," Burke says, patting my
shoulder sympathetically.

Ignoring all of their warnings, I reach for
the bottle of tequila to pour myself another shot.

This time the bottle of tequila is launched
through the air like a torpedo, directed at the counter behind the
bar, hitting the bottles lined up and knocking three or four over
like bowling pins. Stella immediately bustles towards us, her face
flashing with anger, assuming it was intentional. "Not in my bar.
You guys take it outside now," she hollers. She no sooner reaches
us, when the loud crash at the other end of the bar distracts her
and one bottle after another starts toppling over in a domino
effect. An elderly lady at the other end of the bar yells,
"Earthquake," and some people start to run for the door, while
others try to climb under the tables. Brandon chuckles at an
elderly lady who has the upper half of her body lodged under the
table while the lower half is sticking high in the air, obstructing
the path of customers trying to get to the door. Alisha gives him a
warning look.

"Damn it Claire, stop!" I hiss, grabbing her
by the shoulders, in a more aggressive way than intended. The
action causes Burke to protectively move to her side and place his
hand on my arm, giving me a non-verbal warning. More bottles crash
from behind the counter as a frantic Stella desperately tries to
secure them. There is a state of panic and chaos in the bar, as
people's drinks spill in their laps and finally I give up. Cussing,
I grab my coat, and stagger my way through the crowd towards the
front door, the others trailing close behind. No sooner are we out
the front door when the sound of shattering glass subsides.

***

No one says a word when I fill one barf bag
after another with vomit, on the plane ride home to Canada. I
argued to stay one more night in Billings, giving time for the
alcohol to wear off, but they refused and more a less loaded me
into Brandon's airplane against my will. The combination of being
drunk, not eating, and getting tossed around in Brandon's airplane,
has my insides protesting violently. Normally someone would take
the co-pilot seat next to Brandon, but tonight the three of them
sit in the back with me, Claire by my side, and Burke and Alisha
sitting across from us. They watch me silently, and I can tell by
the way their eyes flash between each other that they are engaged
in their own mental conversation, which no matter how hard I try,
I'm unable to join in.

"Are you purposefully blocking me from the
conversation?" I challenge.

Alisha and Burke shake their head "no" and
deep down inside, I know that they are telling the truth. The
reality that I may have done permanent damage with the alcohol hits
me hard, and for the first time since taking the initial sip, I
regret my actions.

***

Two hours into the plane ride, I can't
decide if Claire has forgiven me, or if she's just tired of
watching me puke, but finally, after what seems like an eternity of
miserable retching, she slips her hand in mine and closes her eyes
shut, inhaling deeply. Immediately I feel a surge of warmth
throughout my body and the queasiness begins to subside. A few
minutes later, the vice like pain around my head starts to ease and
I am able to open my eyes for the first time since taking off. I
squeeze her hand as a way of saying thank you, and see a faint
smile play at the corner of her mouth. Instead of releasing my
hand, she cups both her hands around mine, resting it in her lap,
and closes her eyes. A couple of seconds go by before I close mine
too, and fall sound asleep.

***

This time I know directly where to go and
float right over the abandoned row of dark houses, heading directly
for the one at the end, near the airport. The scene is virtually
unchanged since the last time I remote traveled to the small ghost
town, with the exception of the small Toyota pickup in the driveway
of the only house with a potential occupant. There are no tire
tracks in the snow indicating the coming and going of the vehicle
and there doesn't appear to be fresh snow on the ground explaining
the reason for this. Just like before, the inside to the house is
concealed with heavy window coverings and all attempts to remote
travel inside the house are in vain. A faint glow of light is
barely noticeable and it is the only indicator that someone might
be occupying the residence. Something inside of me longs to get
inside, but I can't be sure if it's just a nosey curiosity, or if
there is some significance to the desire.