Hate (18 page)

“Your marriage to dad hasn’t been that much work,” I reasoned, desperate to find a way out of this. It’s not like I didn’t have a job or responsibilities.

True, I didn’t have kids or a man who loved me, but my life still mattered.

No really. It did.

I was a counselor at Jersey Central Hospital and moonlighted at the local women’s shelter. I liked to specialize in grief and loss. It was amazing how many people were struggling with the loss of someone or something, whether it was 30 minutes or 30 years ago.

The intensity of grief may fade over time, but it never goes away.

I’d had thirteen years to learn that lesson all for myself.

Those girls counted on me. And I didn’t have it in me to let them down.

“Send her to me, then,” I countered, hoping that if Gram wanted to spend her time with me, she could at the very least come here instead of expecting me to go to Florida.

“You’re welcome to have her live up there with you if you’re willing to take that on, but you’ve got to come get her and bring her back yourself. Your father and I leave for the cruise on the fifteenth. You can take her for the week as a trial period.”

“She’s not software, Mom. She’s your mother. A trial period?”

“Trust me,” she said through a deep breath. “Don’t overcommit before you know what you’re dealing with.”

I knew it was tough. I could understand what my parents were going through, but Gram had done a lot for me during some of the toughest times of my life.

Now it was my turn to be there through hers.

“I’ll come get her before your cruise. Just give me a couple of days to arrange it with work and get on a flight.”

“Sounds good to me. It’ll be good to see you. It’s been too long.”

That was a thinly veiled guilt trip. She didn’t lay it on thick, but the spread was there all the same.

“I know. I’ve been busy, but it’ll be good to see you.”

“If we can’t have grandkids, at the very least we can see you every once in a while,” she added nonchalantly.

And there was the rest of the guilt.

Like I wanted to be single and searching at thirty. Like I didn’t dream of having kids of my own and someone warm and strong to come home to.

Like I didn’t wish there was someone around who was tall enough to change the freaking lightbulbs.

It was time to end this delightful call.

“Right. I’ll let you know when I have a flight. Bye, mom.”

Cloaking her words in another deep breath, she gave in. “Alright. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

“WHAT’S UP?” THE SECRETARY IN my administrative section of the hospital, Gwen, asked as she watched me pack up some of the important things off of my desk at the end of the day.

“I’m taking a few weeks off,” I explained. “I’m flying down to my parents to get my grandmother and bring her back with me. Her health is starting to deteriorate, and I’m the only member of our family who can really stand her.”

“Really?” she asked, her eyes wide, surprised I’d make a comment like that to someone I wasn’t close with.

“Not really,” I said on a smile. “She’s just got a special brand of honesty. I, personally, either find it refreshing or annoying as fuck.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Whether she’s being honest with me or someone else,” I said on a laugh, giving her a wave as I walked past her and out the door. I still wanted to go by the shelter and check in, explain why they weren’t going to see me for at least the next week. I’d try to get in after that, but I had no idea how involved Gram’s care would end up being.

Chances were it was going to take even more adjustment than I was planning on.

Hustling, I rode the elevator down to the first floor, power walked through the lobby, and straight out the doors. The lights flashed as I bleeped the unlock button on my much newer Jeep Grand Cherokee, jumped in, started it up, and took off for the other side of town.

The drive didn’t take long despite the heavier than normal traffic, and before I knew it, I was pulling into the Women’s Shelter parking lot. As I climbed out I paid attention, looking to see how long the waiting line was of women looking for a place to stay for the night.

It was gratifyingly shorter than normal, only a couple of women standing outside the door along the outside of the building. Upon closer inspection I realized it was Shareena and her daughter, Maddie, who I’d talked to several times in the past.

Shareena’s son had been shot and murdered in Camden earlier this year, and the cost of his funeral combined with the loss of his addition to their family income had left them destitute and without a roof over their heads. Shareena’s grief made me wonder about the DePlunzios, the commonality they found in losing a child troubling but undeniable.

It goes against the natural order, robbing a parent of their child before they transition to the afterlife themselves. But it happens all too often, and sometimes, like in Shareena and Maddie’s case, it has a cascading effect that’s totally unexpected.

“Hey, Shareena. Maddie,” I greeted, wrapping my empty arm around each of them as I did.

They hugged me back as I commented, “I thought you got in at that apartment complex over on Nineteenth Street that Mr. Humar owns.”

“We did,” Shareena explained, “But the city cited him for a couple of things, and he had to shut down the building until he can afford to fix it.”

“Ugh,” I griped, referencing the local government. “Sometimes I don’t know if they’re working with or against us.”

Shareena smiled, setting a good example for Maddie by taking it all in stride. “We’ll find another place in no time. In the meantime, hopefully they’ll have the space for us here.”

“I’ll go check,” I told her, opening the door and heading straight to Roger’s office. He was the man with the information, and he’d be able to tell me if we had empty beds tonight.

Two sharp raps on the wooden frame of the door brought his head up as I said, “Hey, Rog.”

The casualness with which I used his nickname was as personal as our relationship went. Mostly, I was just a pain in his ass.

“Hey, Whitney,” he responded, keenly cutting to the chase. “What can I do for you?”

“We have a couple of beds for Shareena and Maddie?”

He shuffled the papers on his desk to the side and looked. “Yeah, they’re yours.”

“Great,” I said cheerily. “While you’re feeling so helpful—”

“I’m not feeling helpful.”

“—I figured I’d tell you that I’m not gonna be around for at least the next week. I’ve got family stuff.”

“Whitney—”

“You want to look out for Shareena and Maddie for me? That’s so sweet of you to offer,” I manipulated, not feeling even the least bit guilty.

“Fuck. I’m a sucker.”

“Thanks, Roger!” I cheered, and this time I meant it. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Don’t rush,” he muttered under his breath, a little sensitive to the fact that whenever he saw me, he normally ended up with more work.

I laughed long and hard before leaving, making sure to rub it in so he’d remember it was always easier to help me. If he tried to get out of it, I’d undoubtedly make it worse for him.

The hall was quiet as I made my way to my desk, entering the necessary information into my computer to guarantee that Shareena and Maddie had what they needed for the night, scheduled myself as out for the next three weeks, and then headed out to give them the wristbands they’d need to wear while inside.

With a quick hug from each of them, I was gone again, on my way home to pack for my trip.

I couldn’t help but think that I loved when I could use my bullshitting skills for good instead of evil.

I FUCKING
HATED
TERRORISTS.

As I struggled to heft my brick of a bag up onto the scale at the check-in counter of Philadelphia International Airport, I realized that terrorism had done more than kill people and instill fear in others.

Sure, those things were
major
. And I still thought about them from time to time. But as the years had passed, the reality of how horrible it had been had started to lessen. If I’d allowed the memories to remain open, I probably wouldn’t feel this way.

But my box was sealed shut with an industrial strength glue, duck taped, and anchored to the bottom of the ocean.

I didn’t forget, and I sure as hell didn’t forgive, but I had moved on.

At least, I had tried.

But in addition to all the obvious wrongs terrorism perpetrated, it had also killed the shit out of chivalry. Seriously, there were at least fifty men in my immediate vicinity and not one of them offered to help me with my unnecessarily large bag. Everyone was too scared that I had packed my favorite bombs today and didn’t want to have the swirly imprints of their fingers left behind when Uncle Sam came looking for the culprit.

I mean, I hated the bastards for all of the obvious reasons too, but now my hate ran even deeper.

To a place where it actually affected me on a day to day basis.

You know how it is when you’re an outsider, dancing on the periphery with a good deal of sympathy, but not a whole lot of true understanding.

I used to feel like I understood. Like I truly
felt
what Blane must have felt or how any of the other families felt now that they were a member short.

But the more I tried to distance myself from my would-have-been love story, the more I felt like I never really understood at all.

But this—not having someone to do the heavy lifting for me—I understood perfectly.

You may get used to doing things for yourself, but some stupid guy had spoiled me with someone to count on for too long to totally forget.

And I was tired of it.

Sure, my problems were pretty pathetic, but they directly affected
me
.

This meant war.

Next time I ran into a terrorist I was going to put a death squeeze on his balls, stab him in the eye with a pencil, and then kill him.

Or maybe something even more creative.

Eh. Something to think on. I would probably have plenty of time to finalize my plans before it came time to put them into action.

The ticket agent gave me the perfunctory comments and a few you’re-annoying-me-even-though-this-is-my-job nods, and I pulled my bag back down and thought about everything I had packed.

All I really needed were a couple of day to day outfits, but the over-packer in me wouldn’t let it end there.

No, a couple pairs of heels, a dress, and a few extra layers made their way in there too.

Because you never know when I might need my overcoat in Florida. In July.

Whatever.

Thirty years in, I probably wasn’t going to change.

Approaching the extra screening area, I wheeled my bag just under the edge of the divider tape, waited for the TSA worker to take it from my possession, accepted his surly attempt at a passing pleasantry, and then turned to head for security.

I had never minded flying, even post-September eleventh, but I always made sure to wear travel appropriate clothes.

I needed to be able to strip down to the bare minimum in a matter of seconds, and preferably one handed. That’s why I stuck to flip flops, a basic pair of jeans that required no belt, and a low cut t-shirt or tank top, with a sweater stowed accessibly in my carry-on.

Chivalry was dead, but every once in a while a low cut top could rouse a favor out of a boob man. And I wasn’t above using whatever resources with which I was equipped.

As I took the escalator up to security, I noticed that it seemed really crowded. Even more so than usual. I was just about to let my wondering come to the surface, when the agent nearest to me shouted out an explanation.

“All terminals, all gates. This is the only security checkpoint today. Terminals A, B, C, D, F, and E. All gates.”

Well.

“She almost got it right,” I thought aloud with a shrug. She only got one letter out of order. That wasn’t too bad considering she was one of the people in charge of making sure our flight stayed safe.

Right.

No need to worry.

Having no other option, I got in line and chewed my bottom lip to pass the time. The skin of my lip paid the price, but in the grand scheme of things, I figured a little scar tissue was the least of mine or anyone else’s worries.