Traffick (7 page)

or at least tell me where you are so

I can come find you. I promise, no

matter what has happened, we'll make

things right again. I don't care what

your parents think. All my love, Andrew.

Beautiful words. I want to believe

them, need to trust in him. But how?

The love we shared ran marrow deep,

but the Eden he knew died behind

the walls of Tears of Zion. “Ruthie”

is who I am here in Vegas. Walk

Straight needed to call me something,

so I offered my middle name, Ruth.

Sarah added the “ie” to make it feel

“friendlier.” Less biblical, for sure.

But I don't want to be Ruthie

anymore. She represents a short

chapter of my life I'm determined

to edit out. And if I'm no longer Eden,

who'll I be if I return to Idaho?

I think about how to respond.

At some point, I'll have to break

down and tell him the truth. Not

possible to construct a solid future

on a foundation of dishonesties.

Doing it this way would give him

time to consider the implications

and change his mind about wanting

me back in his life. He wouldn't

even have to write a reply to say

goodbye, he could simply excise

me from his life with his silence. Plus,

I don't have to look into his eyes,

absorb the hurt and anger that will

surface there if I admit the ugliness

face-to-face. I'm a coward. Too

cowardly, in fact, to come clean

right now. To keep moving forward,

I have to maintain at least a minimal

amount of hope that Andrew and I

can be together again. Still, I need

to give him something, so maybe

a bare-bones explanation of why

I simply evaporated one day.

The story begins with Mama.

That's where I take him, not so

far back, not really though

it feels like years ago, and what

has transpired between then and

now has aged me more than months.

“Dearest Andrew. I am safe, for

now, in a shelter in Las Vegas.

I do hope to return to Boise, but

I'm not sure when, because I told

them my parents were dead,

something I plan to rectify today.

I won't tell you everything now,

but want to confide some of it.

Remember the last time I saw you?

My family was at church, at least

I thought so. But when I got home,

Mama was there, and I was sure

she'd beat me again. Instead she brought

me into the kitchen, made tea laced

with sleeping pills, and as I passed

out, she blamed Satan for me falling

in love with you. I woke up eleven

hours later, out in the middle of

the Nevada desert, at a rehab

center called Tears of Zion. . . .”

My routine, the lack of sustenance

and human company. Underline

the hopelessness I felt when I learned

my time there had no set termination

point. Now comes the hard part,

but without it there's no explanation

for how I got here. “All I could think

about was finding a way to escape,

to get back to you. One of the orderlies

had a crush on me. God forgive me,

but I promised he could be my boyfriend

if he helped me get away.” I won't give

Andrew the disgusting details; he can assume

them or not. “It worked. When we stopped

for gas, I hid from him. A nice rancher

gave me a ride and I wound up in Vegas.

I tried to call you, but your phone was

disconnected. I didn't know my parents

had you arrested until your mom told

me. I'm so sorry. For everything.”

I spend a few minutes stressing over

how to sign off. “Love” isn't strong

enough, and he used the preface “All my.”

I choose, “I'll never stop loving you,”

hit send before I change my mind.

Of life in hard-core juvenile

lockup don't really need

to be repeated. My brother

Cody would never let me

live it down. I won't argue

the system got it wrong, that

I'm

not qualified to be here.

Break into a home,

then whup the owner's

ass until she's lying

still

on the ground,

they'll put you away

if they catch you. Problem

is, there isn't

a kid

in this place

who won't walk away

tougher, meaner, calloused,

no hint of child left

inside.

I thought a lot about being locked up

when they first sent my little brother

to jail. Not saying Cory didn't deserve

it, or that it didn't maybe save his life.

The path he was headed down

could have ended with him slamming

face-first into a brick wall. But it made

me a little crazy to consider the day-

to-day of containment in a little cement

room, only let out for meals, classroom

bullshit (like anyone there gives a fuck

about school), and an hour of exercise.

Yeah, that pretty much seemed like hell

to me. But, with luck and good behavior,

Cory will be released one day. He didn't

manage to kill the woman he knocked

senseless, and since she recovered, he'll only

be incarcerated until he turns eighteen.

The cost of my indiscretions, which

should've resulted in nothing but pleasure,

was life, in prison in a useless body.

Into the next, a huge brown smear

of hospital shit. There's nothing to do

but watch TV, hour upon tedious hour.

The food sucks, but even if it was gourmet

I'd avoid it because eating only means

someone's gloved finger massaging

my anus to make me take a dump. Not

that I can feel it, but knowing that's what's

going on is more than enough to drop

me into a cavern of depression, a place

I fall into regularly, with or without

a latex-sheathed pointer exploring my ass.

Mom brings me books, and the unread

pile continues to grow, along with a stack

of magazines.
Sports Illustrated. People.

National Geographic.
No
Hustler
, not that

it would do anything but remind me

what a worthless excuse for a man I've become.

No, my life will never be the same,

and worse, my future as a complete human

being was stolen by that low-life fucker, Chris.

Federico would tell me to shut the hell

up, cancel the pity party and get to work.

His idea of work? Learning to sit up.

That's another word for balance,

and apparently I've got a problem

with that. First of all, I've been lying

here for weeks, rolled side to side

from time to time so I don't get these

nasty things called pressure sores—

.

wounds caused by staying in one

position for so long your bones

poke through your hide. I've seen

pictures. Disgusting. The worst thing

is, since I can't feel the wear and tear,

they could get infected before I even

realize my skin is rotting away.

But there's more. To keep from falling

over, your eyes, ears, and proprioceptors

have to work together. Proprioceptors

are sensors that tell you where your limbs

are positioned in space. Like, your right

arm is over your head, or your left foot

is two inches off the ground. And since

my legs don't have a clue where they are,

things get a little tricky. Federico insists

it gets easier with practice. Too bad

sitting up isn't on my to-do list at all.

That's what he said, and I do

believe he meant it. Best of luck

with that, old buddy. He's yanked

the sheets back, exposing most

of my uselessness, slack and pale

as the Cream of Wheat they tried

to make me eat for breakfast.

Okay now. The process is fairly

simple. Put your elbows flat

on the bed beside you and push

down, bending your head and

shoulders forward.
He stands there,

waiting, but I don't bother to try

and move. What's the point?

“Don't feel like it. Maybe tomorrow.”

His expression is priceless.

Look, Cody. Time keeps ticking

forward, and the rest of the world

isn't on hold waiting for you to

get on board. You're not going

to die, and the quality of your future

living is entirely up to you. I believe

you want to get up on your feet

again, and I also believe we can

absolutely make that happen.

Scratch that.
You
can make that

happen. People with worse injuries

than yours
have
made that happen.

But it takes heart and courage.

Out of breath with the effort of not

convincing me to budge an inch,

he lingers there, hands on hips,

with such genuine bewilderment

on his face I almost feel sorry

for him. But not anywhere near

as sorry as I feel for myself.

“Look, dude. I'm lying here with

a tube hanging out of my dick, leaking

piss into a plastic bag. That dick,

by the way, is totally useless for

anything worth getting excited about.

Yeah, yeah, Dr. Harrison told me

ninety percent of men with incomplete

injuries, T12 and lower, get it up, and some

higher than that, too. But that's not the real

problem, is it? Not like I want to go

above and beyond, just to whack off.

How many girls go looking for cripples?”

Half-annoyed, that's how

he looks now, like he needs

to dig for words of wisdom

but the shovel needs sharpening.

It's “disabled,” not “crippled,” and

so you know, there are millions

of couples living with disability.

Not only that, but there are plenty

of perfectly healthy partners who

don't have sex regularly.
He winks

conspiratorially.
You could ask

my wife, but she'd probably lie.

That actually makes me smile,

and I almost consider rewarding

him with the behavior he's seeking.

But then he has to go and ruin

the moment.
So, do you have

a girlfriend? Someone special?

With a stunning burst of memory,

the face of an angel materializes

from the ether. “Not anymore.”

He's gone too far, and backpedals

quickly.
You don't know that, do

you? Have you talked to her?

That's what I want to ask him,

quite loudly, but yelling is too

much effort. “Not since before . . .”

Look, at the very least, let's work

on mobility. You don't have to do

anything but roll onto your side.

I'll handle the heavy lifting, and

while I do, why don't you tell me

about your girl? What's her name?

“Ronnie,” I answer without

even thinking. “Well, Veronica,

but everyone calls her Ronnie.”

Federico rolls me onto my left

side, begins manipulating my right

leg. This isn't new, but I sense more

movement than before.
Ronnie.

Is she pretty? Bet she is.
Bend.

Lift. Backward. Forward. As

he continues the routine, I find

myself describing the girl who

still possesses my heart. “She's not

pretty. She's beautiful. Her hair

is the color of obsidian, and shiny

like it, too. And her body. Man,

it's amazing. You've never seen . . .”

I skid to a halt before I mention

her glorious tits. “But there's so

much more to her than that.

She's—was—my rock.” My rock,

when my stepfather, Jack, got sick

and died. My rock when Cory melted

all the way down into a puddle

of booze-inspired anger. My rock.

And then I went and fucked it all

up with drugs and gambling and

financing those by offering myself

up for sale. Invincible, that's what

I believed I was. Untouchable.

Such conceit! And now, look at me.

Hard to maintain an air of vanity

while being posed like a nude mannequin—

bend, lift, backward, forward, flip,

and repeat. Federico finishes each

side by massaging my legs and feet,