Grounded (4 page)

“Uh, sir? Sir?” She stepped closer to the agent instructing people stepping into the scanner. “I … I don't want to go through that machine. Is there an alternative? My plane is going to leave in less than half an hour—”

“Opt out!” he called out loudly. “We have an opt out here!” He unhooked the retractable belt divider and beckoned to her to step around the scanner.

Relieved, Grace hurried around the machine. But her relief was short-lived when another agent met her and motioned toward a glass enclosure. “Excuse me, miss. Step this way, please.” The voice was gravelly, no nonsense.

Grace looked up into small gray eyes and a reddish face. The TSA agent was big and burly, the buttons straining on the shirt that covered his belly. “What … what is this?”

“Standard procedure. You opt out, we need to do a physical check.” The man took her arm and firmly led her toward a glass enclosure.

“But … my purse, my shoes …” Grace twisted her head and pointed back toward the scanner, which had burped out the two plastic bins with her things in them, along with the bags and bins of the people who'd been behind her.

“Someone will hold them for you. This way, please.”

His grip was firm on her arm until she'd stepped inside the glass enclosure, then he left her alone. Glancing anxiously through the walls of the small enclosure, Grace saw another agent pawing through her suitcase—and a moment later he held up a pair of small scissors. “Sharp instrument,” he called out before tossing them into a bin with other confiscated items.

Was that
it
? Samantha always brought a whole kit of miscellaneous items for every little emergency on tour: scissors, tweezers, nail clippers, bandages, foot pads, needles, thread, safety pins, markers, sticky notes, even matches—which, she supposed, her assistant usually packed in the checked luggage. Grace had thrown
the kit in the carry-on that morning, “just in case” she needed something, not thinking about security restrictions.

She stepped toward the opening of the glass enclosure. “I can ex—”

“Lady, you need to wait.” The burly agent appeared from somewhere and planted himself in her way. “Stand on those footprints.”

“But—”

“On the yellow footprints, miss. And don't move. Someone will be with you shortly.”

What? How dare they treat anyone like this! And for what silly reason? She felt like shouting,
“Just take the kit! Whatever! I don't care! Just let me go so I can make my plane!”

Did she dare look at her watch? She was afraid to move. But out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a large wall clock. Fifteen minutes! She'd never make it now!

“Body search in Unit Two!” the man yelled. “Female opt out!”

Body search?
Were they talking about her? What did they mean?
O God, O God, I don't like this
.

“But … I'm going to miss my plane,” she protested weakly to the man outside the enclosure.

“Look. You gotta wait for a female agent. Sorry.”

“How long will that take?”

“No idea.”

“But my flight's about to leave!”

She looked around, but no one else seemed to be coming. The man made a show of looking around too. Then he gave her a look that lingered a bit long.

“Fine. I'll get you to your plane on time.” The man reached for a box and removed a pair of latex gloves, pulling them on with a snap.

But she winced as he stepped into the glass enclosure. Too close, too close.

“Okay, Miss, I'm going to pat down the breast area, then—”

“My breasts?” Grace felt heat rise to her face. “That's … that's not necessary.”

“You want to make your plane? No talking. Now …”

Grace felt a firm hand on one shoulder, and then the other running fingers around first one breast, then the other. “Arms out to the side!” the agent said. Grace obeyed, but her breath was coming hard and fast. An old memory resurrected in her mind … that unwanted touch … panic bubbled in her chest.

She turned her head away—and saw people in the line staring at her. No one had a right to touch her like that! Not then … not now! She'd made a vow …

The agent's hands ran down her sides from armpit to waist, then around to her back, down her spine, along her ribs.

“Spread your legs,” the man commanded from behind her.

Grace started to shake. She squeezed her eyes shut. Hot tears gathered behind her lids.
No, no!
This couldn't be happening! She never should have allowed this!

Just then she heard another voice. “Walker!
Stop
.”

Female. Grace cracked her eyelids. A black woman, hair pulled back tight into a knot at the nape of her neck, stood in the doorway of the enclosure, hands on her hips.

“Lady said she was in a hurry, has to catch her plane.” The gravelly voice.

“Are you serious, Walker? Do you know how much trouble you're in right now?” the woman snapped. “I'll take over now.”

The man shrugged, and eased his gut out of the doorway, and the woman stepped in. “Sorry about that, miss.”

But it was too late. By now Grace was shaking almost uncontrollably. Hot tears blurred her vision. She put out a hand, feeling for the glass wall, trying to steady herself as the woman completed the pat down, up and down her legs, even her hips and crotch area.

“You may step out,” the woman said.

Grace felt faint. The tears spilled down her cheeks. The glass wall seemed to tilt. She tried to take a step, but the next moment she crumpled to the floor, right on top of the yellow footprints, gasping for breath as loud, uncontrolled sobs shook her whole body.

Never! Never!
She'd made a vow she'd never let anyone touch her like that … ever again!

The taxi headlights shone momentarily on the sign that said No Outlet as it turned into the darkened residential street on Chicago's north side, then crept slowly down the block and pulled to the curb in front of a tidy brick bungalow. “This it, missy?” asked the driver in a heavy accent—Indian or Pakistani or something—peering at the numbers under the porch light.

Grace croaked something she hoped sounded like yes and struggled to open the backseat door. She was so tired she could hardly function. A limo driver would have hopped to and opened it for her, but by the time her standby flight had finally landed at O'Hare, well after midnight, the car Samantha had arranged from Lincoln Limo Service had long been deployed elsewhere. A week earlier, Grace would've called Roger to come pick her up, to hold her in his arms while she poured out the humiliation she'd suffered at the hands of the TSA … but she couldn't very well do that now.

Her brother in Arlington Heights, a suburb northwest of the airport, might've picked her up if she'd begged, but he drove for UPS and had to be at work by six a.m. It would really be out of his way to take her all the way to her neighborhood in north Chicago and back home again. Besides, he had a wife and two kids. Why ruin the night for him too?

When she finally managed to get out of the taxi, the driver had her bags out of the trunk and was dragging them up the short walk through two inches of snow. Grace followed, stepping carefully in her high-heeled boots, hoping there were no icy spots lurking
beneath the unshoveled walk. That's just what she needed, a nasty spill only a few yards from her front door.

Fumbling with her key ring, Grace got the door open and the man pulled the bags inside, snowy wheels and all, right over the mail that had accumulated on the floor beneath the mail slot. Almost in a stupor, she handed him her business credit card but he shook his head. “Don't take credit. You got cash?”

Gritting her teeth, Grace pulled the last two twenties from her wallet. The man grunted and headed out to his cab. She shut the door and locked it, sliding the safety chain into place, then turned and leaned against it with a moan, as if making sure it stayed shut, keeping everything and everybody out.

O Lord, O Lord … what am I going to do?

The antique schoolhouse clock on the living room wall had stopped weeks ago, but her cell phone said 2:10. She needed sleep, though her stomach pinched with hunger. All she'd had to eat at the airport was a banana muffin and a large paper cup of tea while waiting long hours for her name to be called. Traveling standby, she'd had to ride in economy. They didn't even call it “coach” anymore. No perks. No hot meal. Not even peanuts.

Pushing away from the front door, Grace shrugged out of her wool coat, dropped it on the piano bench, and dragged the carry-on down the hall to her bedroom, half-hoping to see her black-and-white cat curled up on the end of the bed. But Oreo was still at Meeow Chicago, the premier boarding home for cats—the only place she ever left Oreo after that fiasco boarding him at the vet, where they'd basically kept him in a cage for six weeks. Never again!

Never, never again …

Never set foot in an airport again, either, that was for sure. In fact,
never
sounded like manna from heaven. Never make a fool of herself like she'd done Saturday night, hyping her purity message, telling hormone-crazy teenagers “you're worth waiting for,” when obviously, Roger had decided
she
wasn't worth waiting for.

Maybe she should quit singing.

Never do another tour.

Why not? That was Roger's beef, wasn't it? That she was gone so much? At least, that was what he'd said. But was there more … things not said? Things she'd never talked about, but maybe—

Stop it, Grace
. Couldn't think about that. Her throat was sore, her head ached. She was so tired …

Pushing aside the temptation to just crawl into bed, clothes and all, Grace stumbled into the bathroom. A hot shower … that's what she needed. Wash away the dirty feeling she'd had ever since that … that awful man had touched her. Places even Roger had never touched her.

The tears started once more.

Standing in the shower, breathing in the steam and letting hot water run over her head, plastering the long, thick strands of hair to her back, Grace felt her muscles start to relax for the first time in two days. She lathered her hair, then her whole body. But for some reason she kept her eyes closed, as if afraid to see herself naked … as if she were still standing in that glass cage, being stared at like an animal in a zoo.

She turned off the water, toweled herself dry, covered herself quickly in her cozy fleece robe, and padded to the kitchen to make a mug of lemon tea with honey to soothe her throat.

Finally crawling exhausted between the sheets under her mother's heirloom quilt, the mug of tea and honey only half drunk on the bedside table, Grace stared into the darkness. The silence of coming home alone was loud in her ears. No fans clamoring for her attention, wanting to share their life stories or asking for her autograph. No Samantha to check on her, making sure she had everything she needed. No call from Roger, whispering sweet nothings into her ear. Not even the comforting weight of Oreo, curled up on her feet.

She had never felt so utterly alone.

Music … what? Don't want music … want to sleep …

The muscular notes of “All Hail the Power of Jesus' Name” finally throbbed into Grace's consciousness …
uhhh
. Her cell phone
ringtone. Eyes still closed, she fumbled for the offending noise, pressed the Off button, and burrowed deeper under the quilt.

Hugging her pillow, she willed herself into oblivion again, but sleep didn't come. Her mouth felt dry and her throat was still sore. The room was light in spite of the closed venetian blinds. Rising up on one elbow, she blinked blearily at the digital alarm clock. 2:13. Two in the
afternoon
? Grace sat up. Oh no. She'd slept right around the clock! But she had to go get Oreo or it'd be another day before she could pick him up.

Sliding out of bed, Grace wearily pulled on her robe and slippers, shuffled out to the kitchen—stopping just long enough in the living room to wind the schoolhouse clock—and started coffee. She peeked over the café curtains covering half the kitchen window at the thermometer just outside. Twenty-two degrees and cloudy. She shivered in spite of herself and glanced up and down the street. No one about.
Monday
… Kids still in school. Everybody else at work.

Oh, wait … there was the old woman who lived in the two-flat across the street and one house down, strewing rock salt on her icy walk. Grace shook her head. The woman was too old to be doing that. She needed a yard-care service or something. The woman used to have somebody living on the second floor, but Grace hadn't seen anyone but the woman—what was her name? Polish-sounding something—for months. Maybe longer. For a while it'd looked as if somebody was renovating the second floor, but even that activity had stopped.

A
ding
behind her turned her from the window. Coffee. She probably should've made more lemon-and-honey tea, but she needed a jolt of caffeine. Pouring herself a fragrant cup, Grace wrapped both hands around it and walked back toward the bedroom to get her phone. Someone had called earlier. Better not be Roger. She didn't want to talk to him. Not yet anyway. The alert said she had voice mail. She clicked the button and held the phone to her ear …