Traffick, page 25
for that.” Recognition flickers
in his eyes and, looking at
Andrew, a hint of surprise.
You are most welcome.
It’s good to see how well
you’re doing. Our heavenly
father is merciful, yes?
Merry Christmas to you.
“He is, indeed, Father, and
Merry Christmas to you as
well.” We shake hands all
around, and Andrew and I
are on our way, blessed.
The Plan
Is for Andrew to take me out
to a nice dinner. I had no idea
it would be to celebrate our
engagement. Can this really
be happening? He reserved
a table at Hugo’s Cellar, a cool
old mafia-themed steakhouse on
Fremont, well away from the strip.
On the way in, the hostess hands
me a rose. (Every lady gets one,
but still I feel special.) We
Idahoans are skeptical about
seafood, but all about the beef.
Andrew and I both order steaks
and are waiting for our tableside
salad to appear before I even try
to talk. “Andrew, I’ve been thinking. . . .”
He looks concerned, so I hurry,
“Don’t worry. I haven’t changed
my mind. In fact, what I want
to say is, you’re right. I don’t know
if the direct route will turn out
to be the best route, but I do
believe it’s the only way to deal
with Mama, and not only her,
but Samuel Ruenhaven, too.
I want to go to Elko and talk
to the district attorney. But I
should confront my parents first.
Boise is my home—our home.
I won’t be afraid to walk down
the street or bump into people
I happen to know. If you don’t care
about ugly gossip, how can I?
As for my family, I don’t need
a relationship, except with Eve.
The support of your mom and
sister is more than enough. We’ll
have to work out some logistics.
But I’m sure Sarah will help us.”
Andrew sneaks his hand under
the table, rests it on my knee.
Not long ago, I would’ve flinched.
You’re a brave girl, Eden, but you
don’t have to do this alone. I love you.
“I know. And I love you, too.”
Our waiter interrupts, wheeling
a salad cart to the table. It’s the start
of an excellent meal, capping off
a memorable Christmas Eve.
A Poem by Cody Bennett
A Memorable Christmas Eve Eve
Never thought about
the holidays with regard
to hospitals and patients.
I always assumed a shopping
mall was the only place to see
Santa
and sit on his lap for a pic.
Who knew the Jolly Old Elf
straps on his gear,
hops in his sleigh, and
comes
calling on the bedridden,
wheelchair jockeys, and
caregivers who draw short
straws, condemning them
to
spend their holiday
emptying bedpans and
collection bags, inserting
catheters, and going to
town
on overcooked turkey,
soggy stuffing, weepy
cranberry sauce, and some
pretty damn good pumpkin pie?
Cody
Santa Did Come to Call
On us patients here at Mojave Palms Rehab
Hospital. He dropped by yesterday, Christmas
Eve Eve. Guess that’s the best he could do
during this busy holiday season. Hey, not
complaining. The dude brought gifts—
comfy plaid flannel pajamas and matching
robes, the key word being “matching.” This
morning, we were a matched set of patients.
Last night, we had an okay not-quite-Christmas
dinner, with Santa carving the turkey, which
was dry, and in need of gravy. Yeah, so the food
here isn’t exactly like Mom’s home cooking.
It might be marginally better than at the last
hospital, but that’s a narrow margin. Still, I like
it here. My roommate, Craig, is pretty cool.
He’s a T4 complete, much further into his rehab
than I, and quite the cheerleader. He got to go
home for Christmas, and without his rather large
presence, the room feels empty. He’s given me
all kinds of advice, and actual interaction with
someone who’s worked through the initial stages
of mobility grief and come out swinging has been
a blessing. As for the staff, they’ve been great.
The caregivers are kind. Well, except for the PTs,
who give the requisite amount of physical therapist
crap. They’re drill sergeants, forcing us to be the best
we can be with our limited skills. I’ve only been here
a week, with one day off to detour muscle strain,
but I already feel stronger. Mandy is, in fact, hot,
and she’s not above flaunting her assets (just a small
tease) to encourage correct behaviors like on-time
arrival for scheduled workouts and giving one
hundred and ten percent every time we meet.
Right now, the work is all about balance, core and
upper-body strength. One day at a time, one skill set
at a time. But this place has the latest, greatest
equipment, and before I leave here, I’ll be on
my feet again. Not without help. Not without
braces or crutches or a walker. But I will stand
upright, and once that happens, losing those aids
will be totally up to me. I’ll never be what I was,
but come to think of it, that Cody wasn’t such
a great guy anyway. What I’ve lost physically
to injury I’ve gained in strength of will. At least
on good days, and not every day is one of those.
Last Night
My brain vacationed in Dreamland.
At first it is a nice place to be. I am
home for Christmas, and Jack is there,
too, and we are drinking eggnog in front
of the fireplace. Christmas stockings,
embroidered with our names, hang from
the mantel, which is a little strange,
because our fireplace is gas and doesn’t
have a mantel, but you know how dreams
go. Now Mom turns on her personal
iTunes Christmas playlist, which is
traditional carols jazzed up by a trio
of greats—Frank Sinatra, Elvis, and
John Lennon, backed by Mötley Cruë—
and yeah, absolutely that’s weird, but
dreams often are. From weird to
completely whacked, for no real
reason Cory starts shouting at Jack,
Why the fuck didn’t you tell me
you’re dead? Dead people drink
eggnog. You’re totally messed up.
That makes Jack laugh like a crazy
man. Well duh. Dead is shorthand
for messed up. You’ll know all about
that soon enough. You’re halfway
to hell already. In fact, I’ll take you
back there with me right now.
Jack reaches out with a rotting
zombie hand and shuffles forward
in slo-mo, singing “So This Is
Christmas” in decent harmony
with John Lennon. Cory screams
and the next thing we know, he throws
his ankle monitor bracelet at Jack
and goes running out the door.
“Come back, Cory!” I yell, and
I’m on my feet, running after him,
trying to catch him before the cops
do. The little shit is fast, but I’m
faster. I always have been. Cory
could never beat me in a footrace
and I’m starting to catch up, when BAM . . .
My legs worked fine in my dream,
but when I woke up and tried to jump
out of bed, they didn’t remember how.
Bad Start to the Day
And it hasn’t improved since. Fall
out of bed before breakfast, your appetite
vanishes along with the nightmare.
PT on an empty stomach might work
fine as a weight-loss gimmick, but
halfway through rolling forward and
back over a medicine ball, gravity
trumps form. Abuse your body
long enough, despite lack of feeling,
pain takes center stage. Hard to get,
unless the experience belongs to you.
It belongs to me, and I still don’t get it.
So when Mom and Ronnie both show
up midafternoon to visit, I’m not
in the best of moods. At least now
I don’t have to be prone and pissed off.
I’d rather be in my chair for Mom’s news,
which her scowl tells me isn’t good.
Ronnie asks if she should leave, but
Mom says, No. You’re practically
family, aren’t you? You might as well
hear this. Cory had a huge meltdown
last night. He found out about the house,
so he went on a tear and started smashing
furniture against the walls, screaming,
“They want our house? How will they
like it now?” He actually threw a chair
at the sliding glass door. Luckily, it
didn’t break. It would be hugely expensive
to replace. I called a handyman about
patching the holes and repainting. His
estimate is eight hundred dollars.
If I could, I’d make Cory do it, but . . .
“What the hell is wrong with him?
That kid needs serious help.
He hasn’t been drinking, has he?”
Mom shakes her head. There’s no
alcohol in the cupboards, except maybe
in cold medicine or something.
Actually, I never thought about that.
No, I think he’s just scared, Cody.
But he won’t even talk about it.
I’m frustrated. She needs me at home,
at least as long as we have one,
but I can’t even get in and out of
the doors in my chair. “Tell Cory
either he comes here to see me or I’m
coming to him, one way or another.”
I’ll do my best to convince him,
but I don’t think he’ll visit. I’d better
get home before he burns it down.
I watch her go, hunched over as if
she’s sixty instead of forty-two.
When I’m positive she’s out of earshot,
I tell Ronnie, “Every time I see her
she looks older. I don’t know what I
can do to help her. I’m not even sure
which one of us is the most responsible.
Probably me, but maybe not. She has
to deal with Cory the most, and what
he did last night . . . How could he?”
Ronnie looks every bit as confused
as I feel, and almost afraid to say
anything. Finally, she hugs me. I’m
so, so sorry. Your mom’s definitely
been through a lot. But she’s strong.
“Staying strong takes a toll, doesn’t
it? First Cory. Then Jack. Then me.
And now, the house. It fucking sucks.”
She’s quiet for a minute, but now
she asks, Why didn’t you mention
there was a problem with your house?
“Ah, you know. It wasn’t like I was
trying to hide it from you or anything.
It just didn’t seem like something
you needed to worry about. You’ve
done enough stressing over me
without tossing that into the mix.”
Cody, I love you. Even if things
were one hundred percent okay,
I’d worry about you, just because.
So, why don’t you tell me what’s up
with your house? Other than
the newly decorated walls, that is.
I give her the lowdown. “If not
for Cory’s intensive supervision
program, we’d probably be on our
way back to Kansas by now. Uncle
Vern said we could stay with him
for a while. Scared the crap out of me.
But if Mom has to sell on a short sale,
she won’t have money to invest, and
her income won’t qualify her for a loan.
So we’d be renting, and in this city
pretty sure whatever she could afford
wouldn’t be in the best neighborhood.”
I’m Actually Very Sure
About that. Mom’s done some
scouting, without much success.
And as far as anything accessible,
just, no. “Don’t suppose we could
crowdsource enough money for
a house suitable for the disabled,
could we? Yeah, probably a long shot.”
I rotate my chair until I’m facing
Ronnie straight on, knees touching
knees. Today she’s wearing bright
green contacts and her eyes remind
me of emeralds. “You are incredible,
know that? Hey, think you could flirt
a little with Cory and maybe convince
him to visit me for Christmas?”
She smiles. Persuasion is my middle
name. I’ll stop by your house on
my way home. But first, let’s make out.
Ronnie takes control, and ten
seconds into this very hot kiss,
my day begins to improve.
When she lifts my hands to
the luscious, full rounds of her
breasts, encourages me to explore
the suede skin beneath her sweater,
the bad of this day sizzles away
like water dripped on a hot skillet.
If it wasn’t for the float of voices
somewhere beyond the door,
I’d be tempted to see how far
my messed-up body would let me
take her, and just how far it might
follow. I rest my forehead against
the taut muscles of her abdomen.
“I have no clue why you’re still
here, after the god-awful shit
I’ve done, and I’m pretty sure
you’ll get sick of me eventually,
but I’m damn sure going to cherish
every single minute together with
you. By the way, you smell amazing.”
She wears her perfume like she wears
her hair—in gentle wisps. The thought
initiates a rush of pleasure, static.
Ronnie lowers her hand and though
I can’t feel it, I believe her when
she whispers, Look what woke up.
Is that what’s called muscle memory?
Tomorrow Is Christmas
And that is the best gift I can imagine—
the knowledge that I might actually
be able to give Ronnie pleasure, and not
just with my hands and mouth, but
the way an intact man does, and maybe
even come myself. “Thank you, baby.”
Baby, she purrs. I like that. But what
are you thanking me for? Those
gemstone eyes lock onto mine.
“For keeping my hope alive. Seriously,
Ronnie, without you, I would have
given up already. You make me want
to get better. I want to be strong for you.
Will you come see me tomorrow?
It’s Christmas, so if you can’t, it’s okay.”
Baby, she repeats, redirecting the word.
Would I miss spending Christmas with
you? Anyway, don’t you want your present?
We agree that I do, of course I do,
and she kisses me goodbye, flits
from the room, a beautiful hummingbird.
A Poem by Ginger Cordell
Brielle kisses Me Goodbye
And though our hearts
say this isn’t forever,
our brains insist that’s
a misrepresentation, as
time
will keep shuffling
forward, wearing us on
its shoulders. Our love
is
young, and perhaps
that’s good, because
well-seasoned connection
would sever more
painfully,
scar deeper. We promise
to keep in touch, knowing
our separate journeys
make it unlikely, that the
impatient
erosion of affection
is hurried with distance.
Ginger
Saying Goodbye Sucks
I’m not sure which was harder,
kissing Brielle goodbye, promising
it wasn’t the end of us, but knowing
it probably was; or finally, completely
giving up on the hope of Alex and
me together again and happy.
There’s a lesson here, and that is
I have to find happiness inside
myself before I try to partner again.
But knowing there’s a lesson and
learning it are two different things.
Right now I am torn between the need
to leave and the desire to stay where
I’ve come to feel safe for the first
time in my life, and where seedling
love took root in my heart, though
