Traffick

  my head vehemently. “Listen to me!

  It’s not just because of my legs.”

  I pause to gather the courage

  to continue the sordid confession,

  and Ronnie actually sits there

  patiently, not saying a word,

  eyes glistening. “Please don’t cry,

  or I’ll never be able to do this.

  Look, it isn’t just my ‘condition.’

  it’s the stuff I was doing that

  resulted in my being here. I told

  you things that weren’t true, and

  didn’t tell you things that were true,

  and all I did for months was lie to you.

  I didn’t mean for any of it to happen,

  but I was gambling, and couldn’t stop,

  and when I tried to dig myself out,

  the only way I could come up with

  was . . .” Goddamn it, how can I tell

  her this? Fuck it. Just go for it. Push

  her totally away. “The only way I could

  come up with was working for an escort

  service. That’s what I was doing when . . .”

  I let my voice trail off, certain I’ve said

  more than enough to make her run.

  Instead, she looks me in the eye. I know.

  Okay, I Did Not Expect That

  Her acknowledgment is a complete

  surprise, as is her calm acceptance.

  “How?” Does Mom know, too?

  From Vince. He told me everything,

  at least everything he knew, and

  the police, too. That guy, Chris,

  was at the poker game, remember?

  He followed you to that hotel room.

  Killed his girlfriend, and the other

  man. They said you were lucky

  you didn’t die, too. He definitely meant

  to kill you. Oh. I’m not sure you know,

  but the other guys at the game were

  all called in as witnesses. It wasn’t hard

  to track Chris down. When the cops

  knocked on his door, he went out

  a window. There was a high speed

  chase out into the desert near Red Rock.

  Finally the dude ended up stuck

  in the sand. He jumped out of his car,

  shooting. The cops took him down.

  “He’s dead?” Her nod brings

  relief, and also elicits a small sense

  of satisfaction. Extremely small.

  He Got What He Deserved

  But you couldn’t exactly call it

  an eye for an eye. It was a two-

  for-one deal, and that doesn’t touch

  what he did to me.

  I hope it hurt.

  I hope he screamed.

  Most of all,

  I hope he didn’t die

  quickly. I close my eyes,

  picture him lying

  on a bed of hot sand,

  bleeding out slowly,

  listening to the cops

  discuss the relative merits

  of glazed versus jelly

  doughnuts while a dozen

  buzzards circle above him,

  edging lower and lower as the cops

  move into the shade to wait

  for the coroner, who’s sitting

  in an air-conditioned office—

  Earth to Cody

  Ronnie’s gentle urging elevates

  me out of my trance. “Oh. Sorry.

  I was just thinking about . . . him.”

  Let’s talk about you and me instead.

  I’ll admit I had a pretty tough time

  when I found out about the stuff

  you were doing. But then I started

  thinking about me, and where I was

  then—getting high, cutting school,

  hanging out on the strip with my

  friends, and fighting with my parents

  when they called me on it. Who knows

  how far I might have gone if I’d kept

  down the same path? Not to say

  I’m perfect now, but it was a wake-up

  call, and one I seriously needed.

  I love you, Cody. I should’ve seen

  you were in trouble. Should’ve asked.

  You probably wouldn’t have admitted

  it. Forthrightness (that’s a word, yeah?)

  isn’t your best thing. That has to change.

  I’m Speechless

  Is she really going to stay with me,

  despite my treachery, not to mention

  my disability? “Does this mean you’ll

  give me another chance? That you

  forgive me?” I can’t believe she’ll jump

  right in and agree, and she doesn’t.

  In fact, she sits for way too long,

  silently studying my face. Finally,

  she says, I’m not sure forgiveness

  is possible, Cody. Trust is the core

  of commitment, and my faith in you

  has been shattered. Whether or not

  it’s repairable will take time for me

  to decide. But if I walk away now,

  I’ll never know for sure, will I?

  She, at least, could walk away.

  Which kind of brings me back to,

  “What are you, some kind of saint?”

  Ronnie spits laughter. You know

  me better than that. Now she turns

  serious. What I am is in love with you.

  What I’ve learned is just how resilient

  love can be. You can beat it, pound it

  into pulp, but killing it is hard to do.

  Little flickers of hope sizzle

  like sparklers inside me. Can it really

  be possible to move forward from here,

  finish school, build a career, with

  a girl as perfect as Ronnie by my side?

  Can love even survive, let alone thrive,

  immersed in the dreary details

  of living with someone like me?

  “But what about . . . about . . . ?”

  I don’t know, Cody. I’ve never

  considered myself especially strong,

  and I’ll have to be, won’t I? This

  isn’t just a storm. It’s a freaking

  tornado, and it’s doing its best

  to blow our world apart. I guess

  the question is, do we kneel down

  and let it wipe us out, or hang on

  tight and work our asses off to rebuild

  what we can and start again? She stops

  to draw breath, and I’m struck by

  the way the curves of her breasts expand

  and contract, expand and contract.

  Hey. What are you staring at? Good

  to know your eyes work okay, I guess.

  Yeah, My Eyes Work Fine

  But other things don’t work at all,

  and the truth is, sex with Ronnie

  was an important part of who “we” were.

  “I so want to believe it’s possible

  to have some kind of future with you.

  But you have to understand that

  my legs aren’t the only things

  that might be lost to me. I mean . . .”

  I take a couple of deep breaths.

  “My favorite memories are lying

  in bed with you, holding you close,

  touching you, and you teasing me,

  making me hard, but making me wait

  so it would last a very long time.

  And then, being inside you, God!

  You are just so incredible, all I want

  is to make you feel half as good as

  I feel, remembering. What if I can’t?”

  She has listened patiently, those

  pretty eyes never veering away

  from mine. Now she says, I liked

  that, too. Bu
t it isn’t what made me

  love you. Besides . . . She grins.

  Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder.

  We Laugh Together

  Warm. Soothing. Remembered.

  And that invites another kiss.

  Honeyed. Luscious. Reinvented.

  She puts on the brakes too soon. Better

  stop before someone takes a picture.

  Besides, we’ve got work to do.

  Déjà vu. “Uh-oh. I don’t think

  I like the sound of that. That’s what

  Federico says every time I see him.”

  I know. And he swears you refuse

  to cooperate. Just to be clear, with

  me you have no choice, and from

  what I hear the PTs at the rehab

  hospital don’t take crap from patients,

  so you’d better be prepared to give

  it your all. I’ve been doing some

  research, and I want to share a few

  videos with you. She reaches into

  her backpack, extracts a tablet, and

  turns it on. First, there’s a website

  you should check out. It’s got a ton

  of interviews with people with spinal

  cord injuries, both paraplegia and

  tetraplegia—that’s the new word for

  quadriplegia, did you know that?

  Apparently she thinks I haven’t heard

  anything these people keep telling me.

  Mom hustles back into the room

  just as Ronnie starts touring the site.

  She pauses to show us several short clips

  of SCI patients, doctors and therapists.

  Visiting hours officially end during

  the marathon, but apparently my team

  thinks this is more important than

  rules. Maybe they’re right. My biggest

  takeaway from the session is knowing

  I’m not alone with either my injury

  or my reaction to it. It’s normal

  to feel like a freak when that is, in

  fact, what you’ve become. Still,

  every single one of them insists

  it’s possible to move on and create

  a fulfilling future. It’s a regular

  SCI house party. Wonder how much

  is bullshit. Hey. Wait. What if

  they’re all ringers, not paralyzed

  at all, just paid to say they are, and

  no worries because hey, it gets better?

  Go Ahead, Label Me Cynical

  Okay, considering that website

  is an SCI resource clearinghouse,

  they’re probably mostly legit.

  I’ve bookmarked that site for you,

  but now I want you to watch this

  video. It’s by this amazing woman. . . .

  It’s a long glimpse into the rebound

  of a lady who broke her neck in a car

  crash. They told her she’d never so

  much as move her fingers again,

  but by sheer strength of will, and

  forcing herself to tap into her muscle

  memory, she managed not only that,

  but using swim therapy, taught herself

  to walk unassisted in water, where gravity

  can’t interfere. Ronnie holds my hand

  until it’s over. “That’s incredible.

  Only problem is, I’m not that strong.”

  Don’t say that. You are, and I’ll be

  here to help you. She places the tablet

  on the table next to the bed, stands

  and pulls back the sheet, not even

  wincing at the too-obvious tube. First

  things first. It’s time for you to sit up.

  A Poem by Iris Belcher

  Sitting Up

  Who’d have thought this

  simple thing would become

  an impossible chore?

  I’m

  very sure I managed it

  while in my crib,

  when my bones were still

  pliable, my muscles soft.

  Yet here I am today,

  not

  able to prop myself upright

  for more than an hour at

  a time. I’m only thirty-four

  and being tugged toward

  a distant doorway I’m not

  ready

  to enter. My mother

  won’t say it to my face, but

  I notice the blame in her eyes,

  know when Ginger comes

  home I’ll see it in her, too, only

  magnified, and I will carry that

  to

  the cold sandy pit

  they’ll lower me into

  without forgiveness when I

  die.

  Ginger

  I Keep Thinking

  About Iris dying, withering

  into the dried-up flower she’s always

  aspired to be. I keep thinking

  I need to manufacture the tiniest

  spoonful of sympathy—elixir

  for me. No amount of medicine

  can help her now, and I don’t feel

  the slightest bit bad about that.

  Instead, I keep wishing she’d go

  ahead and take that long, scary walk

  before Gram can manage to pick

  me up. Gram tells me it’s a matter

  of days now, that the final paperwork

  giving my grandmother custody

  of all of Iris’s children will arrive

  any time. Does our mother have any

  regrets, other than doing the guy

  who infected her, obviously without

  protection? Considering the state

  of her deterioration, that had to have

  happened seven or eight years ago,

  probably soon after Porter was born.

  Baby Sandy was carried in her HIV-

  infected womb. Luckily, the stats

  were in his favor, at least that’s what

  Gram told me when I asked why

  he wasn’t born positive. Only one

  in four babies will pick up the virus

  in utero if the mother goes untreated,

  Gram said. Iris didn’t even suspect it.

  Ob-gyns don’t test for HIV as standard

  procedure, but even if they did,

  Iris wouldn’t have known because

  she never was one for prenatal care.

  I remember her whining when she

  was twin-carrying Honey and Pepper:

  All those tedious office visits,

  and the outcome will always be

  the same. It’s just a way to take

  money from people who don’t have

  enough to start with. You’re healthy,

  right? Somehow, all six of us

  mostly were, despite the fact that

  Iris smoked at least a pack a day.

  Well, healthy except for Mary Ann’s

  asthma and Porter’s heart murmur

  and my ridiculous attraction to the very

  substances I hated to smell on Iris.

  Iris Has No Regrets There

  I’m sure. She loved smoking.

  Needed to drink. But what

  about any of the rest? Does

  she realize Sandy might have

  come into this world cursed

  with a shortened life span?

  Does it bother her at all?

  What about leaving her kids

  behind when she heads on

  down to the brimstone-heated

  whorehouse? Oh, and how

  does she feel about putting me

  up for sale? Does she carry

  even the smallest thimbleful

  of remorse for that at all?

  My guess is the only thing

  she’s sorry about is having

  cut her life in half. I suppose


  it’s a little sad that she’ll die

  before her thirty-fifth birthday.

  Wonder if the kids even know

  she’s dying. Wonder if they’ll miss

  the mother who’s been nothing

  but a negative presence in their lives.

  I Only Hope

  She never auctioned off my sisters.

  Mary Ann would tell me if it happened

  to her, not that I can do one damn

  thing to change it. And now a big

  old knife of guilt rips through me.

  Running away accomplished zilch,

  especially considering where Alex

  and I ended up. It was totally selfish,

  and what if it only opened the door

  to one of the kids being traded

  for cigarette money? I could probably

  forgive the fact that Iris was a sex

  worker, but making one out of me,

  and profiting from the rapes

  that ground my childhood into

  oblivion? What do I say when

  I see her? “Hey, Iris, I’m home.

  I’d like to tell you I’m sorry

  you’re dying, but that would be

  a lie. Could you hurry the process,

  please?” And how much do I confess

  to Gram? I haven’t said a word to her

  about why I ran off. Do I want her

  to hate her daughter as much as I do?

  Play It by Ear

  That’s what I’ll do, like every

  girl here, pretty much. One day

  feeds the next, and the routine

  grows exponentially more boring.

  I never really learned how to deal

  with routine. We’ve always moved

  around a lot, never put down roots

  in a town or school, Iris chasing

  dreams with penises, one after

  another. You can’t keep friends

  like that, which is why I’m so close

  with my sisters and brothers.

  Alex was the first outside person

  I’d ever truly connected with. God,

  I miss her. But I guess she’s moved

  on with her life, totally independent

  of me. For all the texts I’ve sent her,

  she’s only bothered to answer a few.

  I try one more time now. HEY GIRL.

  STILL PUKING IN THE MORNING?

  BEEN THINKING ABOUT U AND

  HOW WE MET. DID I EVER TELL

  U I NEVER HAD A REAL FRIEND

  BEFORE U? MISS TALKING TO U.

  NOT THE SAME SWAPPING

  STORIES WITH STRANGERS.

  HEARD SOME GOOD ONES

  THO. WELL, SO BAD THEY’RE