Winter Flower

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  Sam

  I bore the hug as long as I could, because, despite the pain in my ribs, I knew that this was an essential moment. I couldn’t remember the last time my parents had embraced like this, and held me like this. And even though Dad said he was determined to win back Mom’s trust, I knew it wasn’t that simple. I knew that this might be the last time they embraced like this, and I wanted to memorize this moment. I wanted to memorize the love I felt, the sunshine and the cool air.

  But then I had to break it off, because it hurt too much.

  Mom and Dad were looking at each other with expressions I couldn’t read. Mom said, “Come on in, you can see where I’ve been staying. It’s not much … I told them this morning I’m checking out so we can move to a place big enough for all of us.”

  Mom’s room was gross. Unidentifiable stains marred the carpet, and there was mold on the ceiling. The room smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke and sweat.

  Mom was jabbering on about random stuff … the room, how much she had paid, where we were going to be staying. I barely heard her, because my eyes fixed on a stack of paper sitting on the small desk next to the television.

  I swallowed looking at the flyer. It was titled, Have you seen this girl? Two photos of Brenna were displayed side by side on the flyer. One of the pictures was from before she disappeared, and the other was the mug shot which had been taken when she was arrested.

  I stared at the mug shot, trying to see through the surface of the paper into my sister’s soul. I was frightened by what I saw. There was anger there, but little else. She looked as if someone had squeezed all the life out of her, leaving an empty shell staring at the camera.

  I looked in my sister’s eyes. What have you been through? How can I help?

  We’d have to find her first.

  I was concentrating so hard on the flyer that I didn’t realize both of my parents had fallen silent.

  Mom said, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” I looked back and forth between them and said, “But can we grab some lunch? I’m starving.”

  Erin

  I couldn’t keep my eyes off of Sam. And it was more than just the makeup and clothes that he—she—Sam—wore. Yes, that was astonishing. Sam wore a lovely dress, sleeveless and calf-length, displaying obviously shaved legs. Sam’s makeup was inexpertly done, but it wasn’t bad, nor was it overdone.

  Sam moved carefully, protecting his broken ribs. Underneath the makeup, the black eye and bruising was visible, as was the very thinly visible scab in the shape of a letter U on his cheek.

  Those were surface differences, however. There was more happening here. For most of his life, Sam shuffled around life looking down at the ground. He shrank back at social events and stood off to the side at school dances. But something had changed. When Cole and Sam had walked across the parking lot to me, Sam had looked directly at me, making eye contact and smiling. Sam moved with an easy confidence, which was a dramatic change from normal.

  In response to Sam’s question, I said, “Let me check out, and we’ll go eat.” It didn’t take long for me to pack my remaining belongings and check out. I won’t pretend that I wasn’t relieved to be out of this motel—aside from the dirt, I feared for my safety the entire time I was here.

  Sam rode with me the couple of blocks to the diner. I felt awkward … I didn’t know what to say, what to ask. I didn’t know how to begin the conversation with my son who transformed into a young lady seemingly overnight.

  The diner was nearly empty when we went in, the only customers an elderly couple sitting in one of the booths. We selected a booth, and for the next forty-five minutes we talked and caught up. Cole told us about work, about Oxford’s mayor making the racist comments, the conflict with Cole’s boss, and the disastrous health inspection.

  I watched Cole as he spoke, and halfway through his story I realized that something had changed with him. It wasn’t just that he talked about work, something which he normally didn’t do. It was that he talked about how he felt about it … his fears that defending his waitress would cost him his job. I found the experience confusing and a little upsetting. I didn’t know why it upset me. Was it that I felt like it was too little, too late? I had wanted him to talk with me four years ago before the affair started. I had wanted him to talk to me before he chose to commit a felony.

  Why was I upset? And how much of a role had I played in his inability or unwillingness to talk about his fears? What did it cost him now to tell me he’d been afraid?

  Sam told us some of what had been happening in school. With a lot of prompting and questioning, Sam talked about the bullying, the photos that had been distributed, his conflict with Cody and Ashley and defense of Hayley.

  Her. I needed to remind myself … Sam seemed to have no hesitations or doubts. And Cole was right about one thing—for the first time I could remember, Sam seemed happy. As disturbing and difficult as it was for me to see my son sitting there with blush and mascara and eyeshadow and a sleeveless dress, it wasn’t nearly as disturbing as seeing my son shuffling around looking dead inside.

  “You seem pretty serious about the gender … switch.”

  Sam’s eyes widened a little. “Mom, it’s not a switch. It’s me finally telling the truth about who I am. You’ve always told me to be honest and true to myself. But this is the one area where I couldn’t. I was too ashamed. I can’t hide anymore. I’m not going back. You can’t make me—”

  As Sam spoke, he—she—became more and more visibly upset with each word. I finally held up a hand as if to say, stop. “Sam—I wouldn’t dream of trying to stop you.” I took a deep breath, trying to contain my emotion. “The only thing I want for you in this world is for you to be happy. If this is what you need, I’ll back you up.”

  She seemed to deflate, relaxing a little.

  Cole said, “Just understand, Sam. It’s difficult for us both. Not because we don’t love you or don’t accept you. We absolutely love you and accept you. It’s just a big change—and it’s going to mean you’re going to have a lot of very difficult challenges ahead. I’d spare you from those if I could, but I can’t. But I’ll be there for you through it all, no matter what.”

  I did something then that startled Cole just as much as it did me. I reached across the table and took his hand, wrapping mine around it. “We both will.”

  Cole gripped my hand back.

  Cole

  After lunch, I drove behind Erin as she led the way to the new hotel she had selected. Sam rode with her, and I was almost ashamed to feel relief for a few minutes alone to collect my thoughts about the dizzying changes of the past few days.

  The frisson of her touch on my hand seemed to throb with the intensity of a flame. I drove with both hands on the wheel, and I could see the spot where her hand had gripped mine. We hadn’t held hands in years. I was drunk with questions. What did it mean? Was she signaling me? Was she taking a step closer to me, or even a step closer to forgiving me? Was it a signal to Sam that regardless of what happened to our marriage, that we were united in supporting her?

  And then there was Sam. Her counselor, Mrs. Mullins, had been quite pointed in her questioning about Sam’s need for therapy. She’d been through incredible trauma — the loss of her sister, and if I was honest, the loss of her parents. I couldn’t help but wonder if that had somehow led to Sam’s gender difficulties.

  No. Maybe it had accelerated it. But in retrospect, I felt like an idiot for not realizing it years ago. As early as kindergarten, Sam had expressed preferences for shows and toys marketed toward girls, to sparkly clothes and nail polish. When we bought the kids a Nintendo Wii, Sam had mostly ignored Lego Star Wars in favor of Dance Party Three.

  While I couldn’t prevent the stab of regret and missed opportunities I felt, I had to set that aside. I couldn’t fix what I had failed to do in the past, but maybe I could make some amends now.

  That feeling was only underscored when I stood in line to check in at the Holiday Inn several
miles from where Erin had been staying. The hotel was a decided step up, and while we couldn’t afford to stay here for long, this was where Stan Wilcox had told Erin to be. From the check-in line, I looked back at Erin and Sam, who were standing next to our bags near the front door. They stood side by side, Erin’s arm around Sam’s waist. Sam leaned her head on Erin’s shoulder, with her eyes closed, and was listening as Erin spoke quietly. I couldn’t tell what Erin was saying, but her eyes were glassy with tears. Sam had a contented smile on her face.

  I would have done anything to see Erin smile like that.

  Finally, we got upstairs into the room and began to unpack. Sam threw herself on one of the beds, bouncing slightly, and grabbed the remote control. She looked at us and said, “You guys need to talk. I’ll hang out here and watch TV, so you can go.”

  I looked at Sam and shook my head slowly, then at Erin. She gave me a wry smile and shrugged. “She’s right.”

  We left Sam there watching a show about … werewolves … in high school? Erin and I were silent as we walked to the elevator, rode down, and exited the front of the hotel. A restaurant was attached to the hotel, so we walked over. The whole time I felt anxious.

  We made inconsequential small talk as the hostess led us to a table. I ordered a bourbon and Coke; Erin a cosmopolitan.

  Once our drinks arrived we didn’t really have any excuse to put it off.

  I swallowed and said, “Erin—” just as she looked at me and said, “Cole?”

  “Go ahead,” I said. “Sorry.”

  She said, “No. You.”

  I took a deep breath. “Listen … I know I’ve fucked our lives up in so many ways. I … wasn’t honest with you. I wasn’t there for you. I cheated. I got thrown in jail and lost my job, and—”

  “No—” she started to say.

  “Let me finish, okay?”

  She nodded.

  “I need you to know I accept responsibility for the areas where I screwed up. And I want to do better. I want … Erin…”

  She stared at me, rapt.

  “Erin, I love you. I’ve always loved you. I know we grew apart, and that was mostly my fault. But, I want a second chance. I want our family back. I want … I want us back. I’d do anything in the world for your forgiveness…”

  Ahhhhh, shit. I was getting choked up, my eyes watering. Tears were running down her face too, and she had her hands somehow clasped around each other, as if she was forcing herself to hold back. I wiped a hand across my face and said, “Erin. Can you give us a chance to be husband and wife again? Will you forgive me?”

  She nodded, rapidly, then said, “Yes. I forgive you. Can you forgive me? I … I left a long time ago. Not physically, but I was … I was so angry, way back when you told me you didn’t want me to work for Win Without War. I just got more and more angry and resentful. I—”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’d give anything to change that.”

  She shook her head. “I mean it. I forgive you. Just … please forgive me too. Can we try again? Can we start over? We have to for the kids, but … I mean … for us? Can we do it for me and you?”

  I reached across the table and took her hands. Both of us were crying. But the touch of her hands across that table reminded me that Erin meant everything to me, that she was the love of my life.

  I stood up, and she slid out of the booth. I pulled her to me and buried my face in the hair at her neck.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I love you.”

  Then she finally said the words I hadn’t heard in I didn’t know how many years. “And I love you, Cole.”

  It was several minutes before we separated and awkwardly sat back down in the booth. Probably everybody in the restaurant was staring but I didn’t care. All I cared about right now was my kids and the woman who sat across from me.

  The spell was broken a moment later by the ringing of her phone. She ignored it for a moment, but then said, “It might be—”

  “Go ahead.”

  She pulled out her phone and said, “It’s Stan Wilcox.”

  “Hello?” she said, putting the phone to her ear. She turned it slightly so I could hear it.

  “Erin? Are you at the Holiday Inn yet? If not, we need you there as soon as you can. We reached them. We’ve got an appointment set.”

  Erin started to slide out of the booth as I waved at our waitress. I pulled out my debit card and handed it to the waitress as she approached. “I need to pay right away,” I said. “We’ve got to go. It’s urgent.”

  In three minutes, we were half walking, half running back to the hotel.

  Thirty-Four

  Cole

  An Asian American woman in her early thirties met us at the entrance to the hotel. She wore blue jeans and a sweatshirt bearing the logo Portland International Beer Fest. Sam had already responded to my text and was in the lobby, pacing nervously.

  “Cole, this is Melody Michelson, she’s with the human trafficking task force in Portland. Melody, this is my husband Cole, and s—daughter, Sam.”

  Even that small sentence seemed like a test. And from Sam’s expression, Erin had passed.

  Detective Michelson didn’t waste any time on small talk. She led us through the lobby to the elevators and up to the second floor to a small conference room.

  The conference room was dominated by a large table. Around it, several men and women were seated—four of them uniformed police officers, the others in civilian clothes ranging from very casual to suits and ties. I recognized one man, Stan Wilcox.

  Wilcox stood and approached as soon as we entered the room, holding his hand out. “Cole, it’s good to see you.”

  “You too. You remember our daughter, Sam.”

  Wilcox didn’t even blink at the introduction of Sam as our daughter. I hadn’t expected it to be an issue … except that maybe I continuously expected it to be an issue. He shook Sam’s hand and smiled at her, then said, “Let’s get this show rolling.”

  Wilcox introduced the police and FBI agents in the room. Then he said, “Most of you are familiar with some of the basics of this case. The girl we’re trying to recover was kidnapped two years ago in Northern Virginia. Her name is Brenna Roberts. She’s been trafficked in multiple cities over the past two years, and is currently in Portland. Our objective is in two stages—free her, then when we know where her pimp is staying, we’re going to go after him, as well as another woman who has been trafficked.”

  Nods around the table. Wilcox continued. “This is her family,” he continued, pointing in our direction. “We’ve asked them to be present in the command center so that we can reunite them with the girl immediately once she is free. Here is how this is going to go down. Detective Yeltsin will pose as the buyer and will be in the room to meet Brenna when she arrives.”

  Wilcox nodded at a fortyish man who wore a suit with a blue shirt and an open collar.

  “Detective Michelson, you and officers Linley and Morris will be in the adjoining room. Officer Auburn will be in the room directly across the hall. You all will be waiting for my signal to enter the room. Once she’s in custody, we’ll immediately send Mrs. Roberts upstairs to the room.”

  I interrupted. “Why not all three of us?”

  Wilcox said, “We should be able to do that almost right away. But it’s important we make sure everything is secure before we get a crowd in there. Okay?”

  It wasn’t okay but I would have to live with it. I nodded.

  “I would like the three of you,” Wilcox said, pointing to three of the FBI agents, “to be watching the entrances to the hotel for her arrival.” Wilcox handed out copies of the mug shot.

  Wilcox walked the team through several different possibilities, such as if the pimp came into the hotel with her or if she ran. As he spoke, I watched a technician setting up three large-screen laptops on the desk at the end of the conference room. He was pulling up software I didn’t recognize, but its function became clear enough. One showed a camera view of a hote
l room, facing the door from across the room. Another was a hallway, presumably the one leading up to the room. Another was trained on the front entrance of the hotel.

  As the meeting broke up, Wilcox gave more detailed instructions to the officers who would be in the adjoining room. Then he sent them on. Turning to us, he said, “From here on out I want the three of you to stay here. There’s a restroom off the conference room right over there, and we’ll order in pizza. But the pimp has seen Erin—we can’t take a chance of him spotting you.”

  Sam whispered to me, “I’m scared.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “Me too,” I said. “I’m scared something will go wrong. Or that she won’t come at all. Or … I don’t know what all I’m scared of.”

  Erin said, “Whatever it is, we’ll meet it together this time.” Sam’s eyes watered, and Erin continued. “I know we fell apart the past couple of years. We blew it. But I promise we’ll try to do better.”

  Brenna

  The gas station bathroom was disgusting. A single bulb barely illuminated the room with its filthy walls with obscenities scrawled everywhere. The floor was wet.

  I took a drag off my cigarette as my eyes scanned the writing on the walls, most of it obscene. My hand shook as I held the cigarette.

  Banging on the door. “Strawberry! What the fuck is taking so long?”

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” I said, trying my best to sound sick. Finally, I tossed the cigarette in the toilet and flushed. A moment later I stepped outside.

  Rick glared at me as I walked out into the parking lot. The sky overhead was clouding over, darkness gathering.

  “Sorry,” I said. I kept a hand clutched over my stomach. There was no way Rick was buying this act. He didn’t seem even remotely concerned.

  “Get in the car. We’re late.”

  He reached for my arm but I pulled away. There was only so much defiance he would put up with before hurting me, but sometimes I pushed those limits. “Leave me alone. I’m coming.”

  I got in the backseat of the Mercedes and curled my legs up, leaning against the door. Rick slammed the front door when he got in, as Nialla said, “You okay, baby?”