Winter Flower

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  Sam showered first then sat down in front of a mirror to put on makeup while Cole showered. I sat on the bed, fascinated as I watched this half-stranger child carefully apply mascara.

  I had a million questions. I wanted to know where Sam had bought makeup and how she picked it out. I wanted to know when was the first time she dressed in women’s clothes, and if there was a precipitating event that made her realize for sure how she felt. I wanted to know why she trusted Brenna and not us, and I wanted to be worthy of that trust now that we had it.

  Cole had been right when he said that we weren’t going to lose another child. Not if we could help it. I desperately wanted Brenna back. I wanted to bring her home and hold her in my arms and do whatever it took to help her heal from the hell she’d been in. But even if we never saw her again, even if she were dead, it was time for me to be there for my youngest child, the daughter I didn’t know I had, the child who had in some ways borne the weight of our entire family.

  I had tremendous doubts about the idea of Sam being transgender. It’s one thing to advocate for people’s rights in the abstract, but it’s something else entirely when it’s your own child. Had he really been this way secretly his entire life? Or was this some kind of reaction to being so alone? To losing his sister? By supporting this change, was I making life harder for my child? What if we supported him now, in this, then years from now he realized it was a terrible mistake and it was too late to go back?

  But whatever doubts I might have inside, whatever fears I might have, for now I would keep them to myself. My only job right now was to be there for her.

  I didn’t know where to start.

  Sam said, “Why are you staring?”

  I took a deep breath. “I was just thinking how much catching up I have to do. How much getting to know you I have to do. I like watching you do that.”

  Sam flushed red all the way down to her neck. “I barely know what I’m doing. I watched some YouTube videos, but I can never seem to make it look right.”

  It took me a second to realize just how vulnerable a statement that was. It was all tied up in the fact that Sam had no one to teach her, no one to talk about it with. I remembered sitting with my mother close, her scent in the air around me, as she braided my hair. Learning about things like makeup and hair—it was often a ritual for mothers and daughters, a way they bonded, that Sam had missed out on.

  Tentatively, I asked, “May I help? I could teach you some things.”

  Sam nodded. She didn’t say anything else, but I had a sudden flashback to having a similar conversation with Brenna when she was about twelve years old. I took a deep breath. “Let’s start by tying your hair back, get that out of the way. I think we should take a trip to the hair stylist together soon, don’t you?”

  Sam nodded again. I felt like I was holding my breath as I began to talk with her about picking the right colors and how to apply foundation.

  As we were talking, Cole came out of the shower wrapped in a towel, his hair dripping wet. He gave me a brilliant smile, a courageous smile, because I knew he was hurting just as bad as I was, then he ducked back into the bathroom. I heard him turn on the faucet—he must be getting ready to shave—when his phone rang.

  It was barely eight o’clock in the morning. “Who is that?” I asked.

  “Don’t know,” he said.

  Then he answered it. “Cole Roberts.”

  Even fifteen feet away I heard the cry over the phone, the frantic high-pitched voice that cried out, “Daddy?”

  “Brenna?” he replied, stunned.

  Sam and I both jumped to our feet as Cole burst out of the bathroom, towel still wrapped around his waist. His eyes were already turning red, wet with tears.

  He said, “Honey, slow down, I can’t understand you. Where are you?”

  As he listened he grabbed the notepad off the stand next to the television then scribbled with the hotel pen, “Call Stan Wilcox. 911.”

  Cole’s face looked panicked, almost terrified. I started dialing as he said, “Okay—” He started writing an address on the notepad.

  Azalea Motel, 33250 Pacific Highway South, Seattle.

  Underneath, in large block letters, he wrote:

  SHE SHOT AND KILLED THE PIMP.

  Oh my God. Sam handed me her phone and I dialed Stan’s number.

  I almost hung up in frustration when Stan’s phone rang for the fifth and then sixth time. But finally, he answered.

  “Erin, I’m sorry we didn’t have any—”

  “Stan, shut up and listen, please. Cole has Brenna on the phone. She just called, she’s in a motel in Seattle. She shot and killed her abductor.”

  Stan was immediately all business. “How long ago? Are the police there?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “It’s fine. I’m going to call the Seattle Police Department right now. You stay right where you are. Don’t do anything until you hear back from me, okay?”

  Bullshit. We were leaving for Seattle right now. “Sure, but call me back immediately. You got the number? This is Sam’s phone.”

  I gave Stan the address for the motel.

  Cole was saying, “Brenna, I’m going to put you on speaker. Your mom and Sam are right here. I need to throw some clothes on and then we’re on our way to you. We’re not far, we’re in Portland.”

  And just like that, I heard my daughter’s voice for the first time in two years. “Mom? Sam?” She sounded frantic, her voice harsh and scratchy. It sounded like someone else was crying in the background.

  “Baby, I’m right here. Sam’s right here. Sam, get your shoes on, we’re leaving. Baby, I promise you you’re going to be okay. We’re on our way to you.” As I was pulling my boots on, Cole threw on jeans and a T-shirt and his shoes.

  “Leave the rest of it,” Cole said. “We’ll deal with it later.”

  We ran for the door and down the hall to the elevator. Cole said, “Brenna, we’re getting in the elevator now. If we lose you, call back right away.”

  Brenna’s voice still sounded raw, but she was no longer crying. “Okay. I don’t know the number for this phone, do you see it?”

  “Yeah, I got it on my caller ID,” Cole said.

  We clambered onto the elevator together, as the crying in the background grew louder and more hysterical. Then, a second later, I heard thumping over the phone. Then a muffled voice, barely understandable. “Police.”

  Shit! The door to the elevator had already closed, it was too late to stop. Brenna’s voice began to break up as she said, “What do I do? What do I do?” The panic and fear in her voice chilled me to the bone.

  As the elevator door opened, Cole said, “Can you hear me? Listen—stay calm. We’ve already called the FBI investigator who was helping us. If the local police don’t know who you are yet, they will very soon. Just make sure you’re not holding the gun, and stay calm, and let them in. Okay? Just don’t give them any reason to think you’re dangerous. Okay? Stay calm. Move slowly. Hands where they can see you.”

  We walked out into the lobby of the hotel, rushing toward the front door. A wall of water was pouring out of the sky. Even deep under the shelter of the porte-cochere, I felt rain hitting me.

  Cole said, “Stay here and talk her through this, I’ll get the van.” He shoved the phone at me then ran into the storm.

  Over the phone, I could hear the thumping again. “Police, come to the door with your hands up.”

  In a thin voice, Brenna responded, “I’m not armed. I’m gonna open the door.”

  Sam grabbed my left hand, and I squeezed hers back.

  Brenna

  I was so afraid. I was so afraid of what might happen when I opened that door. If the police came in and saw Rick lying there dead, would they shoot me? And say that I had threatened them? Did they know him?

  Some of the places we’d stayed in the past, Rick had been well acquainted with the local police.

  I put the phone on speaker and laid it on the table next to the t
elevision and walked to the hotel room door. Kaylee had moved to the corner of the room furthest away from Rick’s body, where she sat with her arms around her as she sobbed.

  I called out, “I’m opening the door now.”

  I turned the knob and pulled the door open.

  There were four police cars, lights flashing in the rain, with officers crouched down behind the vehicles. As I opened the door, from my left and right police officers rushed at me. Two of them grabbed my arms, while another kicked the door all the way open.

  Everybody was shouting, as the two officers who had grabbed my arms rushed me away from the door. From the doorway, I could hear my mom shouting on the speakerphone. “Brenna, what’s happening?”

  I shouted back, “Mom, I’m okay.”

  Sam

  The drive to Seattle seemed like the longest ride of my life. I sat in the middle seat of the van, messaging with Hayley, as Dad drove through a downpour, the windshield wipers on high, making a thump-thump-thump-thump sound that punctuated the loud clattering of the heavy rain against the roof of the van.

  We’d been driving about twenty minutes when my phone rang, a Washington, DC number. I handed it to Mom.

  “Hello?”

  She hunched over, plugging her left ear with a finger while holding the phone to her right. The rain was so loud, she must be having a hard time hearing.

  “Uh–uh … yes … okay. Let me know as soon as you hear anything more, please? Okay.”

  Mom put a hand to her chest and took a deep breath.

  “What is it?” I asked. “How is she?”

  Mom looked at Dad then back at me. She began to speak in short, clipped sentences. “Agent Wilcox said they’re taking her to the hospital. Apparently she was beat up pretty bad. He said there was nothing life-threatening. The guy … her trafficker … was dead from multiple gunshot wounds. She told the police she shot him. He said there was another girl there, a thirteen-year-old from Portland. The important thing is, she’s … we found her. She’s free.” As she said the last words, Mom broke down and began to weep. “She’s free.”

  Dad reached over the space between them and held her hand.

  Brenna

  The questions seemed to take forever. What was my name? Where had I come from? How did I get the gun from Rick? Was I really abducted or had I run away? All the while, I sat on a plastic chair sheltered from the rain fifty feet from the hotel room door where Rick lay dead.

  But nobody hurt me. Nobody groped me or did anything awful. A few minutes after the police had arrived, a female police officer walked over and sat down in the plastic chair next to me. “Hi, Brenna. I’m Officer Lopez. An ambulance will be here in a minute, and we’re going to take you to the hospital and get you checked out, okay?”

  I nodded.

  “The FBI called. They said you were abducted two years ago.”

  I nodded. Then I said, “On my sixteenth birthday.”

  She gently laid a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve had a tough time, haven’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “But you can go home now.”

  I nodded, swallowed, and didn’t say anything. Could I go home? Really? I didn’t know. I was filthy inside. Filthy. I had to hold back tears. I’d done all the crying I could take. “Is Kaylee okay?”

  Officer Lopez said, “She was pretty shaken up. But not physically hurt other than some bruising. She told the other officers that the guy you were with was attempting to rape her when you shot him?”

  I nodded. “Yeah,” I whispered.

  She leaned close. “I’m sorry you had to do that, Brenna. But you did good.”

  I nodded. I couldn’t answer that. “Can you … were you … did anyone find out anything about Laura? My friend. He shot her last night because she tried to help me…” I sucked in a breath.

  “I’ll see what I can find out. Let’s head to the ambulance now.”

  “Okay.” I stood up and walked with her. The ambulance had pulled up next to the hotel, lights flashing. The door stood open, and Kaylee was scrambling in. At the edge of the covered walk, I turned to Lopez. “Officer Lopez … thanks. Thanks for being so kind. I didn’t—I’ve not had very good experiences with police.”

  She closed her eyes and said, “It’s our job, Brenna. I’m sorry you’ve had bad experiences before. Maybe later you could tell me about that?”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  We ran through the rain and she helped me up into the ambulance. I sat down next to Kaylee and put an arm around her. “You okay?” I whispered.

  She leaned against me and closed her eyes.

  Forty

  Cole

  Seattle Children’s Hospital was a huge building, six or seven stories, glass and stone. Despite the heavy rain over the area, a break in the clouds let the sun shine through, reflecting off the building. As I pulled up to the emergency entrance, I said, “See if you can find out anything. I’m going to go park.”

  As I said the words, a police officer approached. He had ruddy skin and dark almost-black hair and a surprisingly thick five-o’clock shadow for nine o’clock in the morning. I rolled down the window.

  “Excuse me, are you Mr. Roberts?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “You can park right over here,” he said, pointing to a spot near the entrance. “The captain’s asked me to take you up to your daughter’s room.”

  I turned and looked at Erin then back at the officer. “Thanks,” I said. Wilcox must have called, or maybe Detective Michaelson. I parked the van, and the three of us ran through the rain to the cover of the awning. As we approached the officer, I realized he was young, maybe in his early twenties. His name tag bore the name Lahoud.

  That’s when I saw the reporters. A tall man in a suit, followed by a cameraman. He approached rapidly, saying, “Mrs. Roberts, can you comment on the rescue of your daughter?”

  “No comment!” I shouted. The officer stepped between the reporter and us and we ran for the entrance. A news van was pulling into the parking lot as we entered the building.

  A moment later the young officer stepped into the building. “They can’t come inside,” he said. “But there was some chatter earlier, the reporters probably heard over the scanner. I’m afraid you may be dealing with the media.”

  “It’s fine, if you could just take us to her,” Erin said.

  “Of course.”

  We followed him through the emergency entrance, down a long hall, and stopped at a bank of elevators. And waited.

  Sam said something I think we probably all felt. “I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, baby,” Erin said. She wrapped her arms around her. “It’s okay. It’s going to be hard. She’s going to be a long time healing. But we’ll take care of her.”

  The elevator dinged and we stepped in and rode to the fifth floor.

  Down another hall, and then we were in a small waiting room. A bulky man in a police uniform stood by one of the inner doors. The officer who had escorted us said to him, “This is the Roberts’ family.”

  I was startled when he demanded that we show identification. But then he explained that Brenna had been assigned a protective detail until they knew more about what had happened—out of concern that someone associated with her pimp might show up to harm her.

  A moment later, a nurse led us down another hall. She knocked on the door and opened it slightly, and said the words, “Brenna—your family’s here.”

  She pulled the door open all the way and I stopped breathing.

  Some things in my daughter’s life I recall with precision.

  Especially, I remember the moments I first held her in my arms, the moment I first fell in love with the tiniest little baby just seconds after she was born. She had huge blue eyes and tiny little hands, and one of them wrapped around my finger as I held her.

  Seeing her now was like that. When the nurse opened the door, Brenna was sitting in a wooden chair next to an exam table. Her right eye widened and flooded with
tears. The left was swollen shut, bruised and purple. She stood and stumbled toward us, her face twisted in an expression of indescribable grief.

  I stepped forward as she staggered, catching her as she fell to her knees, and I dropped to my own knees and wrapped my arms around her. Brenna buried her face in my neck and began to wail. Then I felt Sam on one side and Erin on the other as all three of us held her, arms and hearts intertwined.

  I didn’t know what horrors Brenna had endured in the past two years. I didn’t know if I could ever really understand. Her voice seemed to carry all the pain of the world as she gagged and wept.

  We stayed there for a long time, all four of us weeping until it seemed there were no more tears. We would calm down, and then as soon as one of us tried to talk, we broke down into tears again. My knees were starting to hurt, but I didn’t want to get up. I didn’t want to move or leave this place, where for the first time in I didn’t know how long, I had my family right there in my arms.

  Eventually, we got up off the floor. Sam and Brenna sat together on the exam table, Brenna leaning her head on Sam’s shoulder, their arms around each other. In halting words, tentative and unsure, we began to talk about what the past couple of years had been like. We didn’t dig deep—it was way too early for that—and I wondered how much Brenna would ever talk about what she experienced.

  When a doctor came in, a woman in her late thirties, I caught a glimpse, maybe just a small one, of what she was going to have to overcome. The doctor said, “If you all will excuse us for just a few minutes, I’d like to have a moment with Brenna?”

  Brenna grabbed Sam like she was clutching a life preserver. “No! Please, I want them to stay.” The panic in her eyes was unmistakable.

  Erin said, “It’s okay, baby. We’re not going anywhere.”