“Whoa, hey now. Don’t cry. It’ll be ok,” worry flashes over his dark features as his eyes flicker over my swollen lip. “Are you in danger? I can call the police if you want?” His velvety voice wraps around me like a soothing hug.
“No!” I yelp. “Please, no police,” I wave my hand frantically.
“Ok, ok,” he answers. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out together. Do you have any friends you can go to?”
I solemnly shake my head from side to side as tears choke off my words.
“Ok, how about family. Surely you have a mother and father? Right?” He prods.
“I can’t see them. I haven’t talked to them in five years. I don’t think they ever want to see me again anyway,” I whimper.
“Hold up. Listen to me young lady,” his thick Jamaican accent rolls his words, “I am a father of three girls,” he holds up his fingers at me to clarify. “I wouldn’t care if I hadn’t heard from them in fifty years, if they called me, I’d take that call. You don’t know a parent’s love for a child. You can trust that.” His kind eyes are comforting.
“I don’t have a way to call them,” I explain. “I have money for this trip, but I didn’t take anything else when I ran… I mean, when I left.” I try to keep the details to myself.
The cab driver nods slowly, digesting my words. “Listen, young lady, that’s no problem. You can call your folks on my phone. No charge. Just call them. I promise you, they’ll want to help you.”
He hands his cellphone back to me and I stare at it blankly. It’s been so long since I left. Since I walked away from the confusion, hurt and despair I caused them. Will they be happy to hear from me? After what I did? After this much time?
“Please, as a father, I beg you. Call them.” He repeats.
Breathing in deeply, I dial the number I grew up with. A number I haven’t pressed into any phone for years. My shaking hand holds the cell to my ear as a broad smile flashes over the cab driver’s face.
Br-ring! Br-ring!
“Hello?” My father’s voice cuts through the years of silence. I can’t speak. I can picture him so clearly, as his voice tethers me to reality. “Hello?” He repeats.
“Daddy,” my voice cracks as my tears flow freely now.
“Holly? Oh my God! Holly, is that you?” His voice is strained with desperation.
“Yes. Dad? I need help.”
5|Holly
The yellow cab lazily lumbers into my parents’ driveway like we’re traveling underwater. Time comes to a standstill as I manage to separate four sweaty hundred dollar bills from my bra and hand them over.
“This is too much,” the driver gently corrects me.
“I owe you much more than that,” I answer. The hour and a half drive might have come to just over two hundred, but I am more than grateful for the kindness this stranger has shown me. Besides, I have no problem spending cash from a man who earned it keeping people like me addicted to drugs.
“Thank you,” his teeth flash a brilliant white as he smiles.
I open the door and step out onto wobbly legs. My knees threaten to buckle beneath me, like a newborn fawn standing for the first time. Exhaustion battles with my nervousness, making my head spin with the terrible concoction.
I slam the door to the cab shut behind me and pull a deep breath of fresh air into my lungs. This is it. I haven’t seen my parents in five years. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what to say. I don’t…
“Holly!” My father explodes from the front door in his tattered, brown slippers and his robe flapping behind his flannel pajamas like the superman cape I used to imagine he secretly wore under his clothes when I was a child.
Suddenly, the world speeds up as Dad runs down the front steps and over to me. It’s a blur as he throws his arms around me, tears cascading down my face as I tuck my head into my father’s chest.
“Daddy,” I croak the word. My emotions are a cyclone of confusion. In a way, it feels like it was only yesterday that I left without looking back. In many more ways, it feels like it was a lifetime ago.
My father grabs my shoulders and locks his brown eyes on mine. “Where did you go? Why did you leave? Are you ok? What happened to your mouth? Oh my God, I’m so happy to see you!” He rattles off his questions in rapid fire. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. You’re home now. That’s the main thing,” he folds me into him, holding me in another tight bearhug. “Let’s get you inside,” he steps back.
I follow his lead toward the house and watch as the cab driver pulls back out of the driveway and onto the suburban street. The darkness obscures my view of him, but he changes gears under the streetlight and I can see the sweet smile spread across his face as he drives away.
I step inside my parents’ house and nothing has changed. The living room furniture with the worn navy blue stripes is in the same place as when I left. On the wall are the same photos, encapsulating our family in a moment we probably all wish we could go back to. A moment where we looked genuinely happy. A moment when Heather, my twin, was still alive.
The only thing that has changed is that I don’t see my mother anywhere. I scan the room, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Her shoes are still in the front hall and her knitting is sitting half-finished on the coffee table. I know she’s still living here.
“Where’s Mom?” I turn my face toward my father. His deep wrinkles burrow into his skin as he frowns. “She’s here, honey. She went to bed. She just needs time, ok?” He explains so softly, his voice is like a summer breeze. Yet the words smack me in the face as hard as the back of Knox’s hand.
She doesn’t want me here. She doesn’t want to see me. I never should’ve come home.
“Here, you can wear this,” Dad slides his tattered robe off his arms and onto my shoulders. I remember that Heather and I gave him this housecoat for Father’s Day when we were nine. I can’t believe he’s hung onto it for thirteen years. I slip my arms inside and glance up at my father’s face. His eyes are clouded with tears as he gazes down over my skin-tight, short dress.
Shame floods me as I pull on the robe and wrap myself in it, like a protective blanket, trying to hide what only hours ago felt like perfectly acceptable clothes. I can see the disappointment in my father’s face as he tries to piece together my disappearance. As he tries to make sense of all of this.
“Holly, are you in trouble? Do you… are you…? Well, are you running from someone? A pimp?” His voice trembles.
A pimp?
I don’t know what to say. Is the truth any better? I may not have been working the streets, but Knox always took everything from me when he wanted it. It didn’t start out that way. It never used to be shelter and coke in exchange for sex. At least, that’s what I told myself when he first took me in. Of course, to a seventeen-year-old runaway, a twenty-seven-year-old with money and power was alluring. Add the idea of him loving me to the mix and I never had a chance.
“No, I’m not a prostitute. I swear.” The relief washing over my father’s aging face breaks my heart.
“What happened to you? Where did you go?” He leads me over to the couch and I curl my feet up under me as I sit down on it. The warmth of the house, his housecoat, knowing for the first time in almost half a decade that I’m safe, it’s all making my eyelids heavy.
“I ended up in Miami,” I confess, my voice thick with exhaustion. “I ended up with a man. A really bad man. Dad?” I somehow manage to pry my eyes open to look up at my father. His nose looks bigger than the last time I saw him. His ears too. My eyes start to travel over his face, lined deep with worry. Aged beyond his years. He’s lost most of his hair, too. The thin, salt and pepper clinging to the sides of his head and combed over his shiny bald spot is fooling no one.
“Are you in danger now? What can I do to help you?” Dad prods.
“I am, Dad, he is a drug smuggler. One of the biggest on the East Coast. If he finds me, he’s gonna kill me. I swear, he’s terrible. I need to get clean and I need to get help. I want to st
art over. I want to get off the drugs and start a new life. He doesn’t know where I am, I never told him where I came from. Plus, I parked his car at an airport to make him think I flew somewhere. He won’t look for me here. But, I still can’t stay here. Daddy,” fat tears stream down my face and drip off my chin, blotting on his robe, “I need to get real help. For drugs. I need to get clean.” I repeat and I see the realization of what I’m telling him takes hold of my father’s face.
Five years ago, if I would’ve admitted to using cocaine, hell, even pot, my Dad probably would’ve kicked me out to the very streets I ran away to. Now, I can see the years have softened him. I suppose losing not only one, but both of your children will do that. Guilt floods through me, coursing through my veins as I realize for the first time the pain and suffering I’ve put him through. I’ve put them both through.
“Ok, we’ll get you into rehab. There’s plenty of good programs out there, we’ll do some research and find the right one.” Dad nods and throws his shoulders back with determination.
“I can help pay. I have money,” I reach inside the robe and pull the wads of bills out, lying them on the couch between us.
“Where the hell did you get all of this?” Dad’s eyes flash with suspicion, no doubt questioning if I have been working the streets after all.
“I took it from him. He was beating me, Dad. He… he hurt me all the time. I couldn’t take it anymore so I left.” I start explaining.
Dad holds up his hands and I fall silent. “Ok, enough. It’s late, it’s been a crazy day. I’m sure you’re tired.”
I nod.
“So am I,” his voice grows weary as his face falls. “Tomorrow, we’ll figure this all out. We’ll get you into rehab. We’ll make a plan. For tonight, I think the best thing any of us can do is get a good night’s sleep. Ok?” His tone tells me he isn’t really asking, he’s telling me. That’s fine with me.
“Sure.” I mumble.
“Your room is still how you left it, Holly. You can sleep in there.” He instructs me.
I stand up and shuffle over to the stairs. I try not to limp on my bad ankle. I don’t want to worry my father any more than I already have. As I approach the stairs, I hear my mother scurry from the top back to her room and shut the door.
She was listening the whole time.
I make my way to my room. Dad was right; it hasn’t changed a bit. The bedding looks fresh on the single sized bed, but other than that it looks like a time capsule in here. My collection of cheap perfumes is still lined up on my dresser and my poster of Channing Tatum is still tacked to the wall. I slump into my bed and yank the covers over me, still fully dressed. Sleep quickly begins to overtake me as I relax back against my pillow.
My mother’s voice makes me startle. I can hear her getting louder as my father tries to hush her. Is she yelling? I tilt my head toward my bedroom door and listen. No, she’s crying. My heart sinks.
“It won’t change anything,” she sobs. “You can send her to rehab, you can do everything you can, but it won’t change a damned thing!” Her voice is shrill.
She’s never forgiven me. She still hates me. Blames me as much as she did six years ago, when it happened.
The day my sister died.
6|Jake
April 1st. What a day to be sent off to rehab. I guess that makes me the April fool. More like fuck-up. I watch the massive cedars slide by the window of the taxi. On the other side of the highway, the Pacific Ocean quietly laps at the shoreline. I’m not sure why the brass decided to send me to British Columbia, Canada, of all places. The United States probably has more top-notch rehabilitation centers than any other country on earth.
I watch the calm, green waves of the Pacific, mesmerized. I’ve lived and sailed on the Atlantic my entire career. I’ve grown to love her wild, uncontrollable swells and her craggy shorelines. The Pacific seems more refined, her gentle rolls hypnotically grazing the sandy beach. They’re like twin sisters, separated at birth. One reckless and free, the other reserved and shy.
I might not be drawn to the water in the same way, but it’s hard to argue that there’s a tranquility in this landscape that soothes the soul. The softly sloping mountains in the distance, the giant evergreens stretching toward the overcast sky. I feel like I’m driving through a Bob Ross painting. Now we just need to turn my mistakes into ‘happy little accidents’ and I’ll be all set.
The driver pulls into the long, curved driveway and up to the front door. I hand him the fare in American and he smiles brightly.
“You want me to figure out the exchange on that?” He nods his sallow face down to the bills in his hand.
“Nah, I’m good. Thanks, man.” I pop open the door and hop out, glancing up at the sprawling brown building with the green roof in front of me.
It looks like the architect took his cue from the nature surrounding the building and made the facility the same color as the trees it’s nestled in. I grab my bags from the trunk and slowly walk toward the front doors.
What am I doing here? I don’t belong here. I’m not some crackhead or junkie. I just did coke to feel better. To stop the slow motion replay of that night. It helps me forget.
I give my head a shake and throw my shoulders back. I’m here because this is the only way I get to stay with the SEALs. It’s just like every other training they’ve sent me on or tested me with. I just need to play the game, get through it and move on.
I pause at the door, my eye caught by the shiny black plaque on the wall. ‘For Those Alumni who have lost their lives to chemical dependency’ it reads. There must be at least a hundred names on there, and room for more. Not exactly a strong testament to the program I’m about to enter.
I sigh and push open the door. Let’s get this over with. The reception area has a pint-sized smiling woman greeting me as soon as I pass the threshold.
“Hello! Welcome to Edgewood. Are you a new patient?” Her grey eyes dart down to my bags.
“Yeah, I’m Petty Officer Armstrong. I was told you’d be expecting me to check in today.”
“Certainly!” Her words are too cheerful. Her smile looks painful. I can’t look at her, it makes me uncomfortable. “If you could just take a seat here and fill out these forms, I’ll have a counselor come out to get you checked in.
Checked in. Like I’m taking a vacation at an all-inclusive. I grab the forms and scan the room as I make my way to the expensive looking leather chairs lining the wall. The place does look like a resort or some kind of spa. The floor-to-ceiling windows allow me to get a glimpse of the facility past this reception area. Cathedral glass ceilings and beautiful red cedar wood lumber draw my attention. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. I wonder if they have a pool.
I take a seat and fill out the information. I don’t notice the short, slim man with a crooked smile who quietly sits in the chair next to me until he clears his throat and I look up.
“Hi, I’m John. I’ll help you get settled in here, and show you around.” His eyes blink quickly, like he has a tic he can’t control.
“Uh, great. Sounds good,” I stand up and hand off the paperwork to the woman with the pasted on smile. My fingers wrap around the handle of my suitcase when John holds up his hand.
“No, just leave those.”
“What? I need them,” I frown.
“They’ll be delivered to your room, after they’ve been searched.” He answers quietly but firmly.
“Searched. Seriously?”
“It’s mandatory.”
Another sigh escapes my lips and I let go of the handle with a shrug. “Fine. Whatever.”
John swipes his ID card and the inside door clicks loudly as it unlocks for us. He opens it and holds it for me, his hand extended as an invite for me to pass through. Damned Canadians and their manners. It feels awkward to have a little man hold the door for me like we’re on a date, but I push the feeling aside and enter.
John shuffles up next to me, showing different parts of the common ar
eas. “Over there is the dining hall,” he points vaguely toward the vacant cafeteria. “That is the nurses’ station and medication dispensary. It’s where you pick up your meds in the morning, if you need them,” he nods to the sprawling wood desk ahead of us.
“I won’t need any,” I try to answer politely, but the words come out with a razor’s edge.
I look around, where is everyone?
As if reading my thoughts, John answers my unasked question, “The other patients and counselors are in the auditorium for the morning lesson.”
Lesson? Ok then. I don’t bother asking what that’s about. I’m sure in two months, I’ll be getting more than my fill of the routine here.
All of a sudden, the eerie silence crashes around us as a huge group of people come from the hallways on either side of the desk and flood into the space. Their combined voices sound like a flock of angry seagulls fighting for scraps of food at the beach. People are mulling around with binders in their arms, like they’re in school.
I’m surprised how many of them look normal. I mean, I guess I expected people to be more disheveled and have less teeth, generally. John is saying something, but I can’t hear him. I can’t even hear the grating caws of the bustling crowd anymore. My feet stop moving and my eyes lock down.
She’s striking. Not like some photoshopped super model, perfectly made up with smoky eyes and red lips. She’s a natural beauty. I’m transfixed by her plump lips. I’m hypnotized by her perky breasts and the curve of her ass. It’s easy to see from the sparkle in her baby blue eyes that she has a wild streak I’d love to explore. In a way, she reminds me of the Atlantic Ocean I was missing before. Untamed and mysterious. I want to wrap my hands in her long, wavy brown hair. I want to kiss every inch of her milky skin. Her eyes quickly find mine and I can see she feels it too. My heart pounds as I try to stop staring.
I can’t.
I watch as the cute freckles on her pale skin crinkle up and her eyebrows knit together. She looks away from me, toward the tall, built man that is standing too close to her and talking too loudly. My fists clench and my teeth set on edge as I watch her pull her binder up over her perfect tits, like a shield. A move I’ve seen tons of women do, and never when they’re comfortable with the guy bothering them. She steps back from the obnoxious dude towering over her and he lumbers forward, refilling the empty space. Anger flashes through me and I step forward, just as John grabs my shoulder.
Tinder Ella: A Modern Day Single Dad Fairy-Tale Page 45
