Fly Away (29 page)

This is ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous. I just can’t get ahold of myself. Still,
I have made a plan. Today is Christmas Eve. A day of family and forgiveness.

I release my breath—how long have I been holding it in?—and walk resolutely toward
the elevator. All the way there—fifteen feet of marble floor—my heart is skipping
beats in my chest, stopping and starting.

The elevator ride to the parking garage is a test of my will. It feels heroic to make
it to my car, to get in the driver’s seat, to start the engine.

Outside, the streets of Seattle are dusted white with snow. Holiday decorations fill
the windows on either side of the street. It is four o’clock on Christmas Eve. The
only shoppers I see out are men in heavy coats, their faces hunched into flipped-up
collars, shopping at the last possible moment.

I turn right on Columbia. It feels canyonlike in the snow, this hidden street, huddled
as it is beneath the aging concrete viaduct overhead. Here, there are no people out
and about in the falling snow. It is like driving through a black-and-white painting;
my headlights are the only color I see.

I drive onto the ferry and park, deciding to stay in my car for the crossing. The
movement of the ferry, the idle chugging, the occasional blaring of the foghorn, lull
me into a kind of trance. I stare through the boat’s open end at the snow falling
in front of us; flakes disappear into the flat gray Sound.

I am going to apologize. I will throw myself to my knees if I have to, beg Johnny
to forgive me.

“I’m sorry, Johnny,” I say aloud, hearing the way my voice trembles. I want this so
much. Need it. I can’t go on the way I’ve been. The loneliness is unbearable, as is
the guilt.

Kate would not forgive you
.

On Bainbridge Island, I drive slowly off the ferry. The few blocks of downtown Winslow
are dressed up for the holiday; white lights flicker in storefronts and wind up streetlamps.
A red neon star hangs above Main Street. It looks like a Norman Rockwell painting,
especially with the snow falling, sticking.

I drive down a road that is as familiar as my own hand but feels exotic in the snow.
The nearer I get to their driveway, the looser my hold on panic becomes. At the last
turn, my heart starts skipping beats again. I turn into the driveway and stop.

I take another Xanax. When did I take the last one? I can’t remember.

I see a white Ford sedan in the driveway. That must be Bud and Margie’s rental car.

I put the car in drive and inch forward. Through the curtain of falling snow, I see
the Christmas lights strung along the eaves and the rectangular golden glow of the
windows. Inside, the tree is lit up; shadowy people are gathered around it.

I park, turn off my lights and imagine it. I will go to the house, knock on the door
and Johnny will answer.

I am so sorry,
I will say.
Forgive me
.

No.

It hits me like a slap, so hard I snap back. He will not forgive me. Why should he?
His daughter is gone. Gone. She has run away with a dangerous young man and disappeared
because of me.

He will leave me standing there with my presents.

I can’t do it, can’t reach out and be smacked down again. I am barely holding myself
together as it is.

I back out of the driveway, go back down to the ferry. In less than an hour, I am
downtown again. Now the streets are really quiet; no one is walking on the slick sidewalks.
The stores are closed. The roads are icy, and I slow down, just to be extra careful.

Then I am crying. I don’t feel it coming on, this sadness, don’t see it circling me,
but suddenly I am sobbing even as my heart is racing and a hot flash sweeps through
me in pins and needles. I try to wipe my eyes and to calm down, but I can’t. My body
is heavy, lethargic.

How many Xanax did I take?

This is the thing on my mind when the red lights flash behind me.

“Shit.”

I put on my turn signal and pull off to the side of the road.

The police cruiser pulls up behind me. That damn red light blinks and flares and then
stills.

The officer comes to my window and taps on the glass. It occurs to me a second too
late that I should have lowered the window.

Smiling too brightly, I hit the button and the window slides soundlessly downward.
“Hello, Officer,” I say, waiting for recognition.
Oh, Ms. Hart. My wife-sister-daughter-mother loves your show.

“License and registration, please,” he says.

Oh. Right. Those days are over. I bolster my smile. “You sure you need my ID, Officer?
I’m Tully Hart.”

“License and registration, please.”

I lean over to my purse and fish my license out of my wallet and retrieve the registration
documents from my visor. I can see that my hand is trembling as I offer him what he’s
asked for.

He shines a flashlight onto my license, and then turns the light on me. I can’t imagine
I look good in that harsh light and it worries me. He stares into my eyes.

“Have you been drinking, Ms. Hart?”

“No. None,” I say, and I think it’s true. Isn’t it? Have I had any wine tonight?

“Step out of the vehicle, please.”

He takes a few steps back, moves to the rear of my car.

Now my hands are really shaking. My heart starts that wild samba beat again and my
mouth goes dry.
Stay calm
.

I get out of my car and stand on the side of the road with my hands clasped tightly
together.

“I’d like you to walk forty feet along this line, Ms. Hart. Heel to toe.”

I want to do as he asks, quickly and easily, but I can’t keep my balance. I keep taking
too big a step and laughing nervously. “I’ve never been very coordinate … d,” I say.
Is that the right word? I’m so nervous I can’t think straight, and I wish I hadn’t
taken those last two Xanax. My movements and thoughts are sluggish.

“Okay. You can stop. Stand here, in front of me. Tilt your head back and spread your
arms out and touch your nose with one finger.”

I fling my arms out and immediately lose my balance and stumble sideways. He catches
me before I fall off the sidewalk. I try again, with all my will pulled in.

I poke myself in the eye.

He shoves a Breathalyzer at me and says, “Blow.”

I am pretty sure I haven’t been drinking, but honestly, I don’t trust myself. My thoughts
are too fuzzy, and I know I shouldn’t blow into this thing if I have been drinking.
“No,” I say quietly, staring up at him. “I’m not drunk. I have panic attacks. I have
a prescription—”

He pulls my arms together and puts me in handcuffs.

Handcuffs!

“Wait a second,” I cry out, trying to think how I might explain this, but he isn’t
listening to me. He maneuvers me back to his cruiser.

“I have a prescription,” I say in a small, scared voice. “For panic attacks.”

He reads me my rights and tells me I’m under arrest and then pulls out my driver’s
license and punches a hole in it and forces me into the backseat of the cruiser.

“Come on,” I plead when he slides into the driver’s seat. “Don’t do this. Please.
It’s Christmas Eve.”

He doesn’t say a word as we drive away.

At the police station, he helps me out of the cruiser and leads me by the elbow into
the building.

There aren’t a lot of people here on this snowy holiday night, and I’m glad of that.
My shame is blossoming, widening. How could I have been so stupid? A woman built like
a brick takes me into a room and searches me from head to toe, patting me down as
if I am a terrorist.

They take my jewelry and all my belongings and then book and fingerprint me. Then
they take my picture.

I feel the start of tears, and I know they’re useless—raindrops on the desert floor—gone
almost before they fall.

*   *   *

Christmas Eve in a jail cell. A new low.

I sit on the painted concrete bench in some holding area, alone, huddled beneath a
single glaring light fixture. Anything is better than looking at the bars. In the
office on the other side of my cell, a few tired-looking men and women in uniform
are seated at desks dotted with Styrofoam coffee cups and family photos and Christmas
decorations, doing paperwork and talking to one another.

It is nearing eleven o’clock—these are the longest few hours of my life—when the brick-shaped
woman comes to the cell door and unlocks it. “We’ve impounded your car. You can go
if someone will pick you up.”

“Can I take a cab?”

“Sorry, no. We haven’t got your tox report back yet. We can’t simply release you.
There must be someone you can call.”

Suddenly the floor I have been standing on gives way, and I realize that this whole
thing has just gotten worse.

I will sit in jail overnight before I will call Margie on Christmas Eve and ask her
to bail me out of jail.

I look up into the woman’s lined, tired face. I can tell that she is a kind woman,
but it is Christmas Eve and she is here and there is somewhere she’d rather be. “Do
you have a family?” I ask.

She looks surprised by my question. “Yes,” she says, after clearing her throat.

“It must be hard, to work tonight.”

“I’m lucky to have a job.”

“Yeah,” I say with a sigh.

I can only think of one person to call, and I don’t even know why his name comes to
me. “Desmond Grant,” I say. “He’s an emergency room doctor at Sacred Heart. He might
come. I have his number in my purse.”

The woman nods. “Come on, then.”

I get up slowly, feeling as worn down and dull as a piece of old chalk. We walk down
the medicinal-green-painted hallway to a room full of empty desks.

The woman hands me my purse. I dig through it, ignoring the shaking in my hands (I
could really use a Xanax now), and find both the phone number and my phone.

Under the woman’s watchful eye, I punch in the number and wait, my breath held.

“Hello?”

“Desmond?” I can barely get any volume in my voice. I am already regretting this call.
He won’t help me; why should he?

“Tully?”

I don’t want to say anything.

“Tully?” he says again, sounding concerned. “Are you okay?”

Tears gather in my eyes, sting. “I’m in the King County jail,” I say softly. “DUI.
But I didn’t drink anything. It’s a misunderstanding. They won’t let me leave unless
someone will be responsible for me. I know it’s Christmas Eve and—”

“I’ll be right there,” he says, and I feel hot tears slide down my cheeks.

“Thanks.”

I clear my throat and hang up.

“This way,” the woman says. She prods me a little, just to remind me that I need to
move. I follow her to another room; this one is big and busy, even on this holiday
night.

I sit in a chair by the wall, ignoring the stream of drunks and hookers and street
kids who are brought in every few minutes.

Finally the door opens and I see Desmond walk in; snow swirls in behind him. His long
hair is grayed by melting snowflakes, his shoulders are blotched with moisture, and
his sharp nose is red.

I stand, unsteady on my feet, feeling vulnerable and stupid and ashamed.

He crosses the room toward me, his long black coat flapping open like wings at the
movement of his strides. “Are you okay?”

I look up. “I’ve been better. I’m sorry to call you so late. And on Christmas Eve.
And for this.” Shame tightens my throat until I can barely swallow.

“My shift ended in ten minutes anyway.”

“You were working?”

“I cover for people who have families,” he says. “Where can I take you?”

“Home,” I say. All I want is to be in my own bed. I want to fall into a sleep so deep
I forget about this entire night.

He takes me by the arm and leads me to his car, which is illegally parked out front.
I tell him the address and we drive the few blocks to my building in silence.

He pulls up in front of the building. A liveried valet appears almost instantly at
his door.

Desmond turns to me.

I see the question in his gaze when he looks at me. The truth is that I don’t want
to invite him up. I don’t want to have to smile and make small talk and pretend to
be fine, but how can I turn him away now, after he came for me?

“Would you like to come up for a drink?”

His gaze is questioning; unnerving. “Okay,” he says at last.

I open my car door and get out so fast I almost fall. The doorman is there in an instant
to steady me. “Thanks,” I mutter, pulling away. Without waiting for Desmond, I walk
across the lobby, my heels clicking on the stone floor, and press the up button at
the elevator. In more silence, we ride up together, our images thrown back at us by
the mirrored walls.

At my condo, I open the door and let him inside. He follows me down the hallway to
the living room, with its outstanding view of the city at night, snow falling from
the black sky, flakes turned colors by the muted city lights. “Wine?”

“How about some coffee for both of us?”

Do I hate him for the reminder of my night? Yes, a little, I do.

I go into the kitchen and make coffee. While it’s brewing, I excuse myself. In the
bathroom, I am appalled by my appearance—hair flattened and frizzed by the snow, face
pale and tired, no makeup.

Good God.

I open the medicine cabinet, find my Xanax, and take one. Then I return to the living
room. He has found my CD player and put on Christmas music.

“I’m surprised you called me,” he says.

The answer to that is so pathetic, I remain quiet. I sit on my sofa, kind of collapse.
The full impact of this night is hitting me now; I am not strong enough to stand.
The Xanax isn’t working. I feel panic coming on. “Desmond Grant,” I say. Anything
to break the silence. “I slept with a guy named Grant for a few years.”

“Wow.” He comes over to me, sits down. He is so close I can smell the faintly metallic
scent of melting snow on wool, and the aroma of coffee on his breath.