by Monica James
“No offense, Bobby,” I sneer. “But you know fuck all about me. So I’d really appreciate if you just mind your own fucking business.”
Bobby’s face drops and damn me, I feel a pang of regret for being so rude to him.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Miss.” He averts his eyes and suddenly, a profound sadness overtakes him.
I know that feeling all too well.
“You just remind me of my daughter,” he clarifies, clearing his throat.
Oh, lucky me.
As much as I hate to blow him off, I’m not here to make friends, or owe anyone favors. And I certainly don’t want to be reminding anyone of their daughter.
“Well, in that case, go bother her,” I bark angrily, about to leave this awkward scene behind me.
I never used to be this way. But growing up amongst drug dealers and users hardens you up fast.
Watching Bobby’s chubby face transform into a right royal mess, I tell myself to walk away, as I don’t have time for this shit.
“I would, but she passed about a year ago,” he replies sadly.
The look on his face touches something inside of me that I thought was long dead.
I feel guilt.
“I’m… sorry,” I sigh. “About your daughter,” I explain when Bobby meets my uncomfortable gaze.
Bobby nods and wipes his teary eyes.
“Thank you. Anyway, if you change your mind, the motel is about a mile up the road. You can’t miss it. It’s a big, ugly building with a red flashing cat. It’s called Night Cats.”
Bobby heads back to the bus and leaves me to wonder how I let a forty-plus meddlesome bus driver get to me.
***
Okay, Bobby was wrong. It’s more like one hundred miles, as opposed to one.
But finally I can see the tacky, buzzing cat sign and I stumble towards it, thankful the rain has held off.
Looking around the parking lot, I search for Norman Bates, because this motel is a dead ringer for the Bates Motel.
The wrap around walkways are weather worn and in desperate need of a good coat of paint. I think the original color was yellow, but it’s hard to tell due to the heavy decay. There’s a sad looking basketball stand tucked away to the back of the motel, and it’s fair to say it’s seen better days.
The gardens are overgrown and whaddya know, looks like they have tumbleweeds in South Boston, or it could be an oversized cat.
There’s a flashing red arrow, zapping loudly, pointing in the direction of the office, which offers twenty-four hour check-in.
Perfect.
As the digital clock, which is sitting under the fluorescent crimson motel sign, ticks over to 1:24 a.m., I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. It’s only then do I realize how dog tired I am. I can’t wait to crash, so I quickly make my way through the deserted parking lot, the gravel crunching loudly under my Chucks. My heart begins to beat faster when I hear a loud howling echoing in the distance.
Quickening my step, as I do not want to meet the owner of that ominous yowl, I charge into the tiny reception area, which smells of stale cigarettes and coffee. A T.V, with its volume close to being mute, is humming from behind the maroon curtain, and I can’t help but think it’s just background noise for whoever sits in front of the screen.
On the long, wooden counter sits a silver bell, which I ding twice.
As I wait for someone to come out and serve me, I look around the room and its minimal offerings. The reception desk takes up most of the space, and behind the counter, I eye the keys which are lined up neatly, attached to the back wall.
Leaning to the left, and attempting to peer through the gap in the curtain to see if anyone is back there, proves to be futile, as I can’t see anything. Just as I’m contemplating whether or not to ring the bell again, an older gentleman comes strolling out, wiping the sleep from his tired eyes.
“What can I get for you, Miss?” he asks kindly, giving me a crooked smile.
If I had a grandfather, I would want him to look like this old man. With his thinning grey hair and weathered skin, I automatically like him.
“How many days can I stay here with this?” I ask, reaching into my backpack and sliding my minimal offerings across the counter.
Grandpa, as I’ve dubbed him, counts my money and scrunches up his brow.
“Probably four, five days,” he says, separating the notes from the coins. “Is this all you got?”
“Yes,” I answer, wiping a hand down my exhausted face.
I know it’s not much, but I’m out job hunting as soon as first light breaks.
“Are you staying or passing through?” Grandpa questions kindly.
For some reason, I don’t find his questions to be invasive, and that might be because there’s only kindness behind his crinkled eyes.
“Just passing through. Once I get a job and save enough money, I’ll be outta here and looking for my mom,” I confess openly, which surprises me.
This is the first time I’ve shared my plans with another living soul. Saying them aloud makes what I am doing, and more importantly what I have done, all the more real.
“Oh.” Grandpa’s mouth dips and I see it. I see pity in his aged, wise eyes.
I hate that look and I instantly regret the over share.
“So, can I get a room or not?” I ask, attempting to steer Grandpa away from asking anymore personal questions.
“Of course,” he says quickly, and the pity look fades.
His shaky fingers tremble as they reach for my room key, and I wonder if he has someone here to help him out. Someone younger, someone less frail.
Grandpa should be in bed, or on some seniors’ cruise, sailing the Bahamas, not manning this reception desk at this ungodly hour.
Watching with interest as he pulls out a leather bound logbook, which he keeps tucked away under the counter, he’s in no real hurry and he seems so calm, but it could just be because he’s so… old.
He reaches for his silver-rimmed glasses, which are hanging loosely from a linked chain around his neck. And as he perches them on at the tip of his narrow nose, I can’t help but examine the wrinkles on the back of his tanned hand. I look down at my hands, which are youthful and wrinkle free, and it’s hard to believe that Grandpa’s hands once resembled mine. How age can change one’s appearance baffles me. Will my hands look like Grandpa’s when I get to his age? Or the better question would be, if I ever get to his age.
He slides the key across the counter, snapping me out of my haze. As I look up at him, there is that damn kind-hearted look in his eyes once again. I quickly snatch them up so I can get the hell away from his compassionate gaze.
Before I have a chance to flee, Grandpa asks, “Is there anything particular you’re looking for?”
I raise my eyebrow at him, not following.
“I mean, job-wise,” he explains with a smile.
I shrug. “Anything that pays and is relatively legal. Although if it’s not, no entiendo Inglés,” I reply, reciting the only Spanish I can remember from high school.
Grandpa looks at me and lets out a loud, hearty laugh. He wipes the tear that has escaped from the corner of his crinkled eye.
My mouth tips up into a small smile, but it’s gone before I can second guess it.
“Well, if you’re interested,” Grandpa says, leaning forward onto the counter casually, “I have a job going here.”
“You do?” I ask quickly, totally interested.
“Now before you get too excited, it’s working in the kitchen, preparing breakfast for guests, and then clearing out the rooms once they checkout. I can offer you cheap accommodation in one of the rooms—and the pay, well, it’s nothing flashy, but…”
“It’s perfect,” I interrupt. “Can I start tomorrow?”
Grandpa smiles broadly, revealing a few missing back teeth.
“You mean today,” and it’s like déjà vu as he corrects me while looking over his shoulder at the white wall clock.
“So is th
at a yes?” I ask, mentally crossing my fingers and not bothering to amend his comment.
Grandpa smiles and his kind, grey eyes give me all the confirmation I need.
“I’m Hank, by the way,” he says, extending his hand.
Internally thanking Bobby for sending me this way, I look down at his hand, at his weathered, wrinkled hand, and shake it firmly.
“I’m Paige. Paige Cassidy,” I reply.
The pseudonym rolls off my tongue easily.
But that’s who I am now.
Mia Lee was a victim.
But Paige Cassidy is a survivor.
Chapter 3
My Life as Mia Lee
“Daddy, I don’t want to go with him, he’s scary,” I whimper.
My father, Thomas Lee, is a tall man with black hair and blue eyes. I’ve watched my dad go from a healthy, fat man, to a skinny, sick man. And I know it’s got to do with the white powder my daddy smokes, or sometimes, I see him put it up his nose.
Daddy bends down and rests himself on one knee, looking me in the eyes.
“You be a good girl and go with Phil, okay, baby? He won’t hurt you,” Daddy says, nodding.
“But I don’t like him,” I reply, looking over his shoulder at big Phil.
Big, fat Phil.
He looks scary, standing with his arms crossed. And even though he’s wearing dark sunglasses, I know he’s looking at me and making an angry face. His big, round belly is sticking out like Santa Claus, but Santa doesn’t look as mean as Phil does. And I don’t think he’s as fat.
Looking back at my father, I see his jaw moving backwards and forwards quickly, and he shivers like he’s cold. I wonder what’s wrong with him.
“Daddy, are you sick?” I ask.
Daddy shivers once again and softly grabs my upper arms. “Yes, Mia, I’m sick. You have to go with Phil to make Daddy better.”
I bite my lip and look over his shoulder once more. Phil takes off his sunglasses and gives me a small smile. My arms get funny bumps on them. I don’t like him smiling at me.
“Okay, Daddy, I’ll go,” I say, nodding, and am happy when I see him smile at me.
“Good girl, Mia. You’re my princess, you remember that. That’s why you’re called Mia,” he says. “You’ll always be mine.”
Daddy told me that my name means ‘mine’ in Italian. I like knowing that I’ll always belong to my daddy.
“Okay, Mia, take this bag,” he says, placing my pink Tinkerbell backpack onto my shoulders. “Phil will take you to lots of different places, and all you have to do is give the little bags to the people who need them. Can you do that for Daddy?”
I nod. “Yes. But what’s inside? Why can’t he do it?”
Daddy closes his eyes and lets out a big breath. “It’s candy for grownups. Once you give the candy to the grownups, Daddy can have his. Go now, Mia, I’ll see you later.”
I’m a big girl now. I’m eight years old and big girls don’t cry.
“Okay, I love you.”
I give Daddy a big hug and he feels sweaty and shaky. I have to do this for him because I want my daddy to play catch with me again, and make me food like he used to do before he got sick.
With my heart beating, I take a step towards Phil, who has walked over to his white van.
“Mia!” Daddy calls out to me.
“What, Daddy?” I ask quickly, running over to him.
Maybe he’s changed his mind and I don’t have to go with Phil.
“I promise, baby, it’ll only be this one time. Daddy will get better.”
“Okay. Bye, Daddy,” I say, looking into his red, sleepy eyes.
I walk towards Phil, and with every step I take, I look over my shoulder, hoping my daddy will stop me.
But he doesn’t.
And it was on that day that I realized…my daddy was a liar.
***
Jolting awake, I’m breathing like I’ve just run a thousand laps around the moon.
As my eyes take in my surroundings, my heart rate begins to slow to a semi-normal pace. I can see through the thin, frilly curtains that it’s still dark out.
Holy shit, I hate dreaming.
I always wake this way, and it always takes me several minutes before I can think straight again. I know from experience that I have no hope in getting back to sleep, especially after having the particular dream I just had. It’s a reoccurring one, and one I wish I never had. It was the day my faith in my father diminished to nothing. It was the day my father traded me to Big Phil for drugs.
It was the day I became a drug peddler.
Mia Lee, drug pusher at age eight.
***
I spend twenty minutes coloring my skin to a bright red while standing under the shower spray. Only then do I stop shivering.
I hate that he still has this effect over me. I hate that whenever I think about my father, I transform into that scared little eight-year-old. The eight-year-old who became Big Phil’s number one drug peddler.
I had the pleasure of being Big Phil’s top employee for eleven years. In eleven fucking years, I’ve seen things that would make the toughest motherfucker cower in fear.
I’ve seen mothers get high and ignore their crying babies, too strung out to notice their child is dirty and starving. I’ve seen junkies pry needles from the arms of their fellow junkies to shoot up, desperate to get their next fix. I’ve seen kids, no older than I, addicted to their drug of choice, and do anything, and I mean anything to get a hit.
And I stood by and watched. No, I stood by and helped these individuals destroy their lives with every hit they took. I am as much to blame as Big Phil. And my dad.
Big Phil is the biggest drug dealer in Los Angeles. Whatever you wanted, Big Phil could get. He dealt in coke, heroin, weed, meth, speed, prescription pills, and everything in between.
But Big Phil never got his hands dirty as he hid behind the ruse of being a hippy herbalist. He owned a small shop front downtown and was the perfect social chameleon. His business, ‘Happy Herbs,’ sold remedies to ‘cure’ everything from the common cold to cancer.
It was all bullshit, of course.
His ‘remedies’ were cheap imports from China or India, and usually only cured people who wanted to believe in a miracle cure. He was a fraud on all accounts, and couldn’t care less when his miracle remedies fell short of achieving what they claimed to do.
But somehow he evaded the police and continued on with his illegal dealings, making a name for himself amongst the lowlife scumbags of L.A. But looking at Phil, you would never pick him for what he is—a parasite. He blended into society in his nice suits and fake smiles, and you wouldn’t look twice if you walked past him on the street.
On the outside, he’s your average, middle class, overweight American, with nothing special or memorable about him. But on the inside, he’s a ruthless murderer with greed fuelling his every emotion. And that’s what makes him a dangerous predator. He’ll attack when one least expects it, blind siding his victims and catching them unaware.
The fear he induces in people is the one thing that makes him untouchable. This fact alone fuels his sadistic ways, making him feel invincible and unstoppable.
So, how did I get involved in all these illegal dealings?
It all comes down to one man, of course.
My father.
When my mother left for Canada, she took a piece of my father with her. I don’t know why she left, because we were happy. Well, I thought we were.
My dad worked for a successful manufacturing company and had just been promoted to shift manager. My mother was an art teacher at the local high school, and her art was on display at a gallery downtown, which was her dream come true.
But then one day my father picked me up from kindergarten, and he told me my mother was gone and never coming back. I remember that day, clearer than any that has passed since. I had drawn her a picture of an off center butterfly, its wings streaked with bright greens and pinks and blues. I was s
o proud of my picture because it was similar to one I had seen her submit into her art show.
I remember crying like I had never cried before when my father told me she had left us, and it was only me and him from now on.
I held that picture tightly to my chest because it was the last thing I would ever draw for her.
My father saw me gripping onto that piece of paper like it was my lifeline, and he angrily asked what it was. When I told him I had drawn it for my mother, my father flew into a fit of rage and tore the picture from my tiny fingers, tossing it out the open window.
The scream that ripped from my throat left my voice raspy for three days. I recall seeing my artwork fly into the wind like a balloon, and I closed my eyes tight, wishing it was all a bad dream.
But when I reopened them, sadly, it was real.
My childhood ended that day, and I was forced to become an adult quickly, because my dad started dabbling in drugs soon after. But it wasn’t until I got to age eight that his drug taking really got out of control.
I never really understood why my dad became agitated and angry, because he was usually such a placid, happy man. Now I know my father was a drug addict. Well, more specifically, he was a meth addict. He would abuse the drug over and over, and now I know this misuse is called a ‘run.’ He would inject the drug every few hours until he ran out of his stash, or just got so fucked up he couldn’t continue.
It started about a year after my mother left and escalated as each year passed. Soon my dad was raking up a drug debt so big, one he couldn’t afford to pay, and that’s when I started ‘working’ for Big Phil to pay for my dad’s drug habit.
My dad lost his job and burned through his savings quicker than expected because his habit was getting out of control. The child support payments he received from the government were blown on his addiction, and it still wasn’t enough to pay for his habit. So, that’s where I became useful to my dad, and to Big Phil.
My dad and Phil came to an agreement. I would work for Big Phil whenever he needed me to deliver drugs, as no one questions an eight-year-old, roaming the streets with a Tinkerbell backpack, appearing to be on her way to school. And that’s because no one could fathom that her backpack would be filled with drugs.