by C. B. Day
“Thank you,” I said, reaching across the table to press the number into Maria’s hand. “If there is anything I can do, or if you ever need someone to talk to, call me.”
She looked at the slip of paper with amusement. “Hope,” she said. “You are just what I need now,” she whispered, closing her tiny fist around the scrap. “Hope.”
The locks began turning and the door swung open. When it closed again on Maria, alone, she was still sitting in the chair, clutching the paper.
Chapter 6 – Just a Dream?
I shuffled toward my locker, trying to stifle a yawn. Our interview with Maria had ignited a sense of urgency in me. I’d pored over Internet sites until early morning, absorbing all the information I could about her hometown and the trafficking business. Like a teller at the DMV, I mindlessly processed photo after photo, statistic after statistic, using the rote activity to keep my mind, and my emotions, at bay until I collapsed into my bed in exhaustion. But in my dreams, it was not as easy to push aside the questions that I did not want to answer. Was my father right in being so protective? Did I run from what I thought was a prison only to find I had run right into a trap? And what would have happened to me, if Michael had not killed my kidnapper all those years ago?
Michael. The thought of him brought a complicated set of emotions right to the surface. Gratitude, surely. But resentment, too – resentment of the need to be watched, resentment of his lies, resentment and even fear of what his presence implied. And more. I blushed, not wanting to think about those other feelings.
I lifted my head and there he was, stationed at my locker. A casual observer would guess he was lounging, but I could see the taut look of his eyes and the way his muscles seemed coiled for action. I flushed again, more deeply, as I took in his sleek body and thought of the warmth that had surged through my own at his touch, and remembered the glimpse of physical perfection I’d had when he’d revealed himself to me.
Could it have really happened? Or was it all part of the hazy nightmares that had plagued me last night?
I smiled, nerves on edge as I began to spin my combination.
He leaned toward me, nonchalantly, but his tone when he spoke was demanding. “Where were you last night?”
I remembered the neat stack of messages my mother had left on the kitchen counter and felt a surge of guilt, like a child who has been caught playing in her mother’s makeup drawer.
“I was busy.”
“Where?” he pressed. “You weren’t at Tabitha’s, I checked.”
Indignation swelled within me and I fumbled my combination. Frustrated I turned to him. “You’re not my father. I don’t need you checking up on me.”
“But it seems you do,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he closed the distance between us to mere inches. “You were at home but you didn’t want to be disturbed. What was so important you couldn’t talk to me, Hope?”
His stern eyes were shot through with anger. I looked away, but he gently took my chin in his fingers, forcing me to meet his gaze. “What are you hiding? Or are you just hiding from me?”
The bell rang for first period and I jerked away, startled, but not before a wave of warmth had spread from his hands, enveloping me.
My laugh sounded hollow. “I’m not hiding from you. I was just busy.” I tried my lock again with mechanical stiffness, willing him to look away. My locker door opened and I studiously examined its contents, waiting.
Eventually, I heard him sigh. When I turned from my locker, he was gone. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lucas and his friends approaching. Hurriedly, I closed my own locker and headed for Art.
Why hadn’t I just told Michael? As I worked over my pinch pot in art class, I turned the question over and over in my mind. Was it because I didn’t want a watchdog on my tail every minute of the day? Or was I trying to build a wall to keep some distance from the one person who knew my deepest secret, and knew it even better than I did? Maybe I was hiding from him, after all. Or maybe I was just scared.
Frustrated, I squashed the pot with my fist. Whatever complicated reasons I had, it was going to be hard to avoid him. Our blissfully comingled schedules now loomed ahead of me like a series of traps.
The day exhausted me. Every class I diligently avoided Michael’s probing eyes, pretending I could not feel them watching my every move. I hung on each teacher’s word and found endlessly fascinating tidbits of information in the footnotes of my textbooks. And I took every excuse I had to leave, running notes to the office and staying through lunch period for extra help. But through it all I was acutely aware of the closeness of his body.
So I was on already on edge when Michael approached Tabitha and me during Contemporary Issues.
“Can I join your group? I was absent when we chose topics and need to catch up.”
Tabitha smiled a smug, self-satisfied smile, taking her time as she stacked her notebooks and folders neatly on top of each other. She crossed her hands carefully on top of the pile, examining her long black nails with feigned intensity. The new coldness between me and Michael had not been lost on her, and she was relishing putting Michael on the spot.
“It’s fine with me, but you have to ask Hope.”
With that she sank back into her chair, her rows of bracelets jingling as she folded her arms behind her head and rested her feet on the desk. She grinned even more widely, getting ready for the anticipated fireworks.
Though my mind was screaming, No! No! No! I couldn’t bring myself to let him know how he’d gotten under my skin, how much things had changed…how scared I really was.
“Sure,” I shrugged, deliberately doodling on my notebook to underscore how little I cared. “Suit yourself.”
Tabitha’s brow wrinkled. This was not what she’d expected. She dropped her feet to the ground and sulked. “You can’t change our topic,” she stated flatly, challenging Michael. “We’re already too far into it.”
Michael held up his hands in protest, his eyes twinkling. “Of course not. It wouldn’t help me catch up if we had to start from scratch, would it?” He pulled his desk over to ours and straddled his chair. I noticed the ripple of his thighs and felt myself weaken.
“What are we writing about?” Michael asked.
“Human trafficking,” Tabitha said, pushing some papers toward him. “Here’s our outline and some notes I made from our interview yesterday.”
Michael peered at the pages, swiftly turning them as he scanned with machinelike speed.
“You talked with an actual victim?” He lifted his head and fixed me with his gaze, boring his eyes into mine. I squirmed in my seat.
Tabitha answered for me. “She’d been kidnapped and sold as a sex slave. Her sister is still out there somewhere, probably in Atlanta.”
Michael drew his lips tightly together, never breaking his gaze. “I see,” he said softly. “So this is what you were doing last night – you were doing more research, weren’t you?”
Tabitha didn’t notice that this admission seemed significant to Michael. Instead, she squealed with glee and dove into my stack of papers. “You did more research, Hope? Let me see!”
In her enthusiasm, Tabitha kept up a running monologue, only pausing momentarily to get our agreement to her latest plans. We gave it automatically, our eyes locked on one another’s, knowing that our conversation was not over.
*****
“Don’t you think it’s a little funny?” He demanded, slamming the car door shut behind him with a hollow metallic thud. He didn’t wait for my answer. “Of all the topics in the world, you picked the one that would dredge up your own past?”
Michael’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his anger barely in control. The car lurched forward as he put it into gear. I shrank into my seat, wishing – not for the first time – for the reassurance of a seatbelt.
My chin lifted defiantly. “Tabitha picked the topic. It’s just a coincidence. Besides, what happened to Maria isn’t at all like what happened to me.”
“Is that so?” he demanded, darting me a glance. “Then why wouldn’t you tell me about it?”
I blushed, knowing he’d pinpointed the source of my own confusion. “I don’t know.”
“You do know!” he shouted, slamming his hand on the wheel. “You know it feels wrong, is wrong. With everything that is going on, the last thing you need to be doing is putting yourself in more danger!”
“Maybe I just need to understand what could have happened if…”
“If what?” he interrupted tersely. “If I’d not been there to stop that man? Do you really need to put yourself through that?”
I wheeled on him, straining to keep the shakiness out of my voice.
“It’s easy for you to say – you wiped him out and then put me from your mind for over eleven years. Did you ever stop to think what it was like for me, all those years? It broke up my parents’ marriage, Michael. More than anything else, it defined my identity, and I can’t even remember it!”
My words hung in the air.
“I didn’t,” he whispered gruffly, breaking the stillness.
“Didn’t what?”
“Push you from my mind. Not ever.”
I sucked my breath in, not sure what to say.
We rode the rest of the way home in silence, the only sound the occasional tick-tock of Michael’s blinker. When he’d pulled into my driveway, he put the car into park and shook his head as if to clear it.
“Understanding this other girl won’t help you remember, Hope. It won’t change what happened,” Michael finally spoke, his voice weary.
“I…” I fumbled for the right words, all my anger gone. “I know it won’t. But maybe if I can tell her story, it will help me put aside mine.”
He leaned his head back and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t like it.”
I felt a flicker of annoyance. “Why, Michael? Why? Because you have some ‘feeling’ that I am in danger? But from what, God only knows. God doesn’t even want you here to protect me, you said it yourself. Henri has been totally silent – you know he wouldn’t do that if I was in trouble.”
Michael scoffed at my logic. “Henri’s behavior means nothing. He’s just pouting, trying to prove a point.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” I pressed on. “And you know it. Even my father said he feels I am meant to be here.”
“You spoke with your father?” he asked, bolting upright and looking at me in surprise.
I nodded, trying to bury the sense of unease and inevitability that my father’s admission had created in me. I ventured a smile, trying to soothe Michael’s concerns – and my own fears -- away. “You see, it makes no sense. I have nothing to be afraid of,” I argued as much for my benefit as for his.
“I know,” he said, sagging back into his seat and closing his eyes. He was as still as a statue, worry etching sharp lines into his face.
Emboldened by his admission, I unbuckled my seat belt and turned to him, brushing my fingers against his. “You don’t have to protect me from my own emotions. And a research paper isn’t going to put me in any physical danger,” I cajoled. “I’m not saying I have to, but even if I go back to the Center, it’s like Fort Knox. Nothing could get me there.”
He took my hand in his and sighed. I felt a thrill. Whether it was from knowing I was winning the argument, or from the sheer pleasure of his touch, I wasn’t sure.
“Promise me you won’t go back there,” he said quietly. “At least not without me. That’s the only thing I ask.”
As the warmth of his touch spread from my fingers, I gave his hand a squeeze. “I promise.”
He opened his eyes then and looked at me. “That’s all I can ask,” he smiled, a sad, peculiar smile coming to his full lips. Squeezing my hand back, he released me.
*****
My mother was waiting for me when I came through the door. She eyed the clock as she carefully wiped a dish.
“Seems you two had an awful lot to talk about,” she said with studied indifference.
I chose my words carefully as I plopped my backpack on a counter stool. “He missed a lot of school last week. I needed to catch him up.”
“Is that why he called you last night?” she asked, pointedly staring at the pile of messages still on the counter.
I swept them up and threw them in the trash, shrugging. “I guess so.”
She tried to hide her grin. “He never struck me as the studious type.”
I blushed. Why was I blushing all the time whenever the topic of Michael came up? Just asking the question made me blush even more deeply.
“It’s not like that,” I protested, the words feeling wrong on my lips, choosing that moment to dive back into my backpack.
“Like what?” flashed Mom, whom I could still see out of the corner of my eye, her grin ever-widening. Then, she seemed to take pity on me, changing the subject.
“You never told me how your interview went,” she opened.
I pulled out my agenda and perched myself on a stool. She continued to wipe and put away dishes, waiting for my answer.
“It went well, Mom,” I said, reaching for a pear out of the fruit bowl. “Thanks for setting it up.”
“That’s not why I’m asking, Hope, and you know it,” she said, her watchful eyes on me even while staying in perpetual motion. “How are you feeling?” She asked, sending out one cautious probe into my emotional state.
I rolled my eyes. “Not you, too.” I didn’t even bother trying to hide my exasperation as I rolled the pear around in my hands.
She stopped in her tracks, arching one brow in surprise. “You told Michael?”
Oops. I clamped my mouth shut and simply shrugged.
She skewered me with her stare. “When did this happen?”
“I dunno,” I mumbled.
I could see the wheels turning in her mind as she reappraised the situation. Slowly, she nodded. “That’s what you were talking about in the driveway.” It was a statement, not a question.
I nodded dumbly. Her face was a mask as I waited for her reaction.
Slowly, she nodded. “That’s good,” she said, approvingly. She started rubbing at a dirty spot on a dish and I sighed with relief, thinking I was off the hook, when she spoke again.
“You still haven’t answered my original question.”
“I’m fine,” I said tersely, choosing that moment to bite into the pear. “I’m tired of talking about it. It’s just a research paper,” I continued, my mouth full.
The pear was juicy, and I slurped just enough to annoy Mom with my bad manners. She playfully swatted at me with her dishtowel.
“Stop that,” she said, crossing her arms against my attempt at distraction. She skewered me with one of her patented hairy eyeball stares, refusing to give up the issue.
“Do your clients run away screaming in fear when you stare at them like that?” I demanded.
Frustrated, she sighed. “You’re impossible. Well, I expect you to talk with me if it raises any issues,” she commanded.
“Sheesh, between you and Michael I might as well give up on my education and lock myself away for the rest of my life,” I shot back, keeping the tone light. I took one last bite of the pear before tossing the core into the bin. “I’m going up to study now.” I jumped off the stool and kissed her on the cheek.
She wiped the sloppy kiss off with a look of dismay and rubbed her hands on the dishtowel. “I guess I have more in common with that boy than I thought. Off with you, then. But I mean it, missy.” She shook the towel at me as she spoke. “Any flash backs, any nightmares, anything at all, you tell me. Got it?”
“Got it,” I called over my shoulder as I climbed the stairs, relieved that she would never know the truth.
I hurried to my room and closed the door firmly behind me. I leaned against it and slid down until I was sitting huddled on the floor. Would it change anything, if Michael and Mom knew about my nightmare?
I turned the question over in my mind.
&nb
sp; Last night’s dream had been confused. But it was just a dream – I was sure of it. It was full of images from Maria’s story, some of them things I had never even seen for myself, some of them pictures I recognized from my Internet searches. Hungry children with big brown eyes, crowding me on the streets of Reynosa. A hot, stifling truck, the air heavy with fear. Maria, lined up to be inspected by a bunch of thugs, her sister clinging to her and then, brutally, torn away. Maria, chained to a wall. And then me, in her place.
But that had never happened. And nothing in my dream – nothing – seemed like a buried memory clawing its way back to the surface.
It was just a dream, I said, looking at my shaking hands, willing them to stop. Just a dream.
*****
I kept telling myself that in the weeks that followed, because the dream never stopped. Every night I found myself riding beside Maria on her fearsome journey from Mexico. And every night, something new and insidious wove itself into the fabric of the dream until the line between Maria and me, the difference between her story and mine, became tenuous.
As the truck pulled away from Reynosa and she leaned outside to wave goodbye to her hopeful father, I saw my father.
When her little sister turned her up her face, sobbing with grief as the men pulled her away, it was my face.
As the crowd of men pressed against her, inspecting her like cattle, I recognized their eyes. I just could not place them. And then they would dissolve, in a rush of wings and wind. I would feel myself flying, and begin to believe that I was free, only to falter, plunging faster and faster toward the ground until I woke up in a sweat.
Night after night, I could not escape her story, and my fear that something was terribly wrong, that somehow our fates were interwoven, began to mount.
I mostly escaped my mother’s vigilant eyes – she had begun traveling again, and was preoccupied with a big merger project. But I could not hide the shadows under my eyes from Michael, nor from Tabitha.
“Someone’s been burning the midnight oil again,” she commented as I stumbled into class and sat down next to her. Our appearances were a study in contrasts. I’d barely managed to crawl out of my bed, throwing on sweats and wrapping a long scarf around my neck. My hair was lank, its ends tucked into the scarf, carefully hiding the symbol on my neck. She, on the other hand, had carefully swept her hair into a spiky fauxhawk, complete with hot pink extensions down her back, which she had matched to her fingernails, eye shadow and shoes. The pink stood out against her dark skin, drawing even more attention to her get-up. It was ridiculously awe-inspiring.
