Worst of all, I hated that feeling of abandonment. The feeling that no one had cared enough to take care of me, or at least to try to get in contact with me. But no one had cared. No one had wondered where I’d gone or what had happened to me. In a world full of people, I was alone.
At 6:00 p.m., the city bus rolled to a stop a few blocks from the trailer court. The door hissed as it closed behind me, sending a whoosh of frosty air at my back. I pulled my jacket collar snug to my neck and took my time walking home, eyeing the endless trees in rows of lush green, glowing under a string of street lamps. Some of the lights were broken and buzzed with fireflies as I walked beneath them. The smell of spring mixed with Seattle rain grew heavy in the air, the sweet scent of camellias, and cherry blossoms. I loved watching them bloom, but they looked mournful now, at night, against their gloomy backdrop of soggy earth. I picked up my pace.
Two more blocks and I'd reached the entrance to the trailer court. I slipped under the rusty sign and between the steel gates. In the shadow of a wooden shed, two guard dogs strained at their chains, growling and barking non-stop, their warning of trespass echoing into the night. The dogs’ teeth glowed in the evening light as hair rose on their muscled, brindled backs. For an instant I felt a crazy, suicidal urge to unchain them, set them free from their burdens, happy for their escape. I couldn’t stand to see animals trapped that way. I had spent enough years in Bellingham that when I looked into the eyes of caged animals, I understood their pain, their fear, their desire to be free. It was worse when animals were trapped together. It brought back memories of having to fight for just an inch of personal space. That’s why I liked to roam around at night, because the darkness felt like vast, endless space. Plus staying up was better than being terrorized by dreams, even though I'd always be beyond tired the next day, it was worth it. Anything for an escape from the nightmares.
A half moon slipped from behind a wisp of gray clouds. In the fading light, I hurried past a row of dumpy mobile homes, leaving the barking dogs behind, hung a right between two overflowing trash cans, and paused. Some guy was crouched outside of Bambi’s trailer, working on a motorcycle under the glow of a weak porch light with his hands coated in grease. As I drew closer, I saw it wasn’t just any bike—but one wicked-awesome bike. Not that I was an expert on motorcycles, but it certainly looked cool with a sleek black body and flaming skulls. Gravel crunched under my feet as I tried to rush past him and up the front steps.
“Hey, hand me that wrench.” He pointed to the ground just out of his reach. Tattoos of skulls and crossbones circled his arm like the sleeve of a grim reaper. Probably prison tats. Our eyes locked.
His gaze dark. Smoldering. Dangerous.
“Please?” He brushed back a strand of black hair that had escaped from a long ponytail. I took a step closer, picked up the tool, and handed it to him.
“Cool, thanks.”
“No problem,” I mumbled and turned to leave.
“If you stay and help, I’ll take you for a ride on my bike later. If you want.”
“No thanks.” I hurried up the rickety steps and ducked inside. I didn’t need a ride from a sketchy looking creep who might be a criminal, and I didn’t want to get stuck helping the greaser all night either.
I tossed my army bag on the kitchen floor and grabbed a soda out of the fridge. My stomach was killing me. I hadn’t eaten all day, except a candy bar at lunch that I’d bought with the last of my change. I foraged through the cupboards for something to eat, even though it was a total waste of time. Bambi spent all her money on booze and Blackjack.
With just the tips of my fingers, I pulled back the curtains and watched the guy as he continued to work. He suddenly looked up at me, eyes narrowed as if he was used to watching his back. I tried to look away but there was something about him that drew me. He was lean, rugged, and road-worn. It was hard to guess his age, but I figured he was at least forty. He had a jet-black beard and wore a leather motorcycle vest covered in badges over a thin t-shirt. I tore my eyes away and quickly headed to my room. Hopefully he wouldn’t be hanging around long. Most of Bambi’s boyfriends didn’t.
I grabbed my bag and collapsed on my bed, unzipped the pack and took out a set of Matryoskas—Russian nesting dolls. I had found them a week earlier in the trash at the market. Someone had thrown them away because they were beat up and missing paint. I examined each one carefully, figuring out how I would repair them. I took out my acrylics and the finest tipped brush I could find and set to work on their intricate swirls and patterns. Mr. Henderson, my art teacher at school, marveled at my talents. “You have an unusual artistic ability,” he exclaimed one day in class—totally embarrassing me in front of the other kids. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Everyone snickered and I wanted to melt into the floor, and yet I felt proud. I knew he was right. There was no denying I was good at art. It was something that came naturally to me.
Lost in my work, I emerged from my room to scrounge for food again, my stomach practically clawing its way out of me. Shadows played along the dark hallway from the television set, dancing like flickering flames. Bambi was probably camped out on the couch with her biker boyfriend. I clenched my teeth, seething with irritation. I hated sharing my space with some gross guy. He’d probably be like the last one who left the seat up, cigarette butts swimming in the toilet, dirty underwear and t-shirts yellowed with arm-pit stains dangling from the towel rack.
My brilliant plan was to dodge them, grab a soda, and head back to my room. But Bambi wasn’t in the living room—only the biker dude camped on the couch, drinking beer.
He spotted me and smiled. “Hey, you’re just in time!”
“Excuse me?”
“For the match,” He motioned to a chair across from the TV and next to a wooden stand sagging from the weight of a bazillion lighthouses. He juggled two bags of cheese puffs and tossed me one. “I know it’s fake, but I really dig wrestling.”
My stomach rumbled. I loved cheese puffs. I hardly ever got them as Bambi only stocked her shelves with booze and whatever she could get at the food bank. Her impulsive gambling had really put a damper on things. Most days, it was usually a choice between a slice of imitation cheese that tasted like paste or onion soup mix.
The wrestling match started and he stared at the television screen, sitting on the edge of his seat, as if he was holding a lottery ticket and someone was reading the winning numbers.
I sat there, taking advantage of the free food, shoveling in handfuls.
He swiveled around, staring at me. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I paused, dumbfounded, my mouth full.
“You don’t eat cheese puffs that way. Don’t you know anything? You’re gonna have that orange stuff all over your fingers.” He waved one in the air. “Watch and learn, kid.” He dropped it into his mouth careful not to touch his lips. “One bit of moisture on your fingertips and you’re screwed.”
I studied my fingers, caked in orange, feeling his eyes burning into me. I got a Kleenex from a box on the end table and wiped my hands and mouth, avoiding eye contact—cheeks flaming. He plopped his big biker boots on the end table between a matching set of pink plastic lighthouses.
“Well, I better get going,” I said.
He turned down the sound on the television and stared at me as if I'd just said I was an axe murderer. “What’s the hurry?”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. Just can’t imagine you want to miss the end of the match. Gravekeeper against Gravedigger. This is historic.”
I rolled my eyes and scoffed. Historic? God, who was he kidding?
“Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
Crap, he caught me. “No, I didn’t. I…”
His eyes blazed. “Yes, you did—I saw you. And let me tell you something, kid—nobody rolls their eyes at me.”
Great. I just ticked off a maniac.
A smile crawled into the corners of his mouth. He threw his head
back and laughed. “I’m just teasing you, kid. What’s your name?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
He stuck out a calloused hand. “Name’s Chuck. Bambi’s letting me crash here for a couple of days. You must be her daughter?” He sat back down, eyes darting to the TV screen.
“I’m nobody’s daughter.” I got to my feet. As I passed him, I saw the top of a giant scar sticking out of his shirt. It looked like a knife wound except wider, deeper. More like the blade of a humongous machete.
“Got a name, nobody?”
“Nope.” I shut the door to my room a little harder than necessary. A stack of books and papers slid off my dresser. I stood there leaning against the door, gazing at the heaping pile of clothes covering the floor, makeup and hairspray crowding the top of my night stand, shelves spilling over with clutter. I took a deep breath, even though my room was stuffed full—there was something missing—a gaping abyss that swirled inside of me. A bottomless, black void in my soul that was my mother, someone I’d never know. Never turn to for support in times of trouble. A life cut short.
Somewhere in the night, police sirens wailed, sawing along my nerves. Maybe they were coming for the guy on the couch. Funny how none of Bambi’s other boyfriends ever cared enough to ask me my name.
Maybe I should have told him.
I climbed into bed and stared at stars stuck to the ceiling. Decorations from some other kid Bambi had before me. I traced the little dipper with my eyes, wondering what it would be like to be in space—far away from everything. Where even gravity couldn’t reach me.
Morning brought spots of sunshine and chilly gusts of wind pressing against the battered trailer. Cold bursts of air invaded every open seam, crack, or warped windowsill. They ghosted along the floor, freezing my feet as I climbed out of bed. I dressed quickly, grabbed my books, and headed into the bathroom on my way out. The toilet seat was up…great. Chuckles or Scar or whoever was still here. Not sure what I'd expected. It wasn’t like he had just vanished as I’d hoped. Most of Bambi’s boyfriends stayed at least a week—until they couldn’t take it anymore.
Bambi had a bad habit of sleeping with guys and feeling guilty about it later. Before they were out of bed, she’d start preaching about sinning. None of them ever stayed long. Some would even leave while she was in the shower or asleep. But trying to sneak away from Bambi was like running from a blood hound. She had a knack for finding people who didn’t want to be found. Still, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t convince them to come back.
A heavy fog of perfume and cigarette smoke polluted the air in the hallway. I plugged my nose and made my escape into the kitchen. Hopefully, the love birds would still be in bed. I opened the refrigerator, leaned in, and dug around the back and pulled out a can of cola hidden behind a box of baking soda. The refrigerator sighed as I closed it.
“You’re up early.”
I spun around. Chuck stood behind me, shirtless and barefoot in jeans.
“So are you,” I snapped, a bit more snide than I'd planned.
“Grab me a beer, if you don’t mind.”
“Help yourself.”
“Please?”
I pulled open the refrigerator again, reached inside, and handed him an icy bottle of Miller Lite. The frosty cold bit into my skin, numbing my hand. I rubbed my palm against my jeans until feeling returned.
Chuck popped off the lid using the side of the table and poured the beer down his throat. He wiped his mouth with a forearm and then slouched into a chair across from me.
My stomach churned. Beer for breakfast—gross. He winked at me and grabbed a cigarette from a pack on the kitchen table, one of Bambi’s generic smokes, and lit it with a diamond-studded lighter.
Circling his neck was a strange-looking cross made with three heavy bars across it. I’d seen that cross before, but where? My gaze trailed the gigantic scar that ran from his neck across his toned chest. Under the pale kitchen light his tanned skin looked almost mahogany. He smiled when he saw me looking at his scar. “What’s the matter, kid, haven’t you ever seen Frankenstein? Gotta put us back together somehow. At least I don’t have bolts on my neck—not yet anyway.” He took a long drag of his cigarette and let the smoke roll out of his nose while holding his arms out zombie-like. “Got a pin in my knee, though. Does that count?”
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. For some weird reason I kinda liked him. He seemed so friendly even though he looked scary. I was invisible to Bambi’s other boyfriends. They treated me like something in their way, like a coffee table that skinned your shin or a rolled up rug that tripped you. But this guy seemed different somehow. More accepting. Tolerant. Not that it mattered. He’d be gone in a day or two and I’d have the house all to myself again. Bambi never stayed home in the evenings, always on the prowl. Which made perfect sense—a lot of cold-blooded creatures hunt at night.
I slid my books into my backpack and headed out. “Gotta run.”
“See ya around, kid. Take care of yourself and have a good day.”
Somehow those words stopped me. No one had ever wished me a good day. It was like something a father would say. For a moment I allowed myself to wish I had a father to care about me having a good day. I shook the thought off. No point in wishing. My backpack felt extra heavy as I reached for the doorknob.
“Wait,” he said. “Aren’t you gonna tell me your name?”
“Look, I don’t even know you and…”
“Why not? Everyone’s got one, right? Hmm…let me guess. Is it Hilda? Roz? Gertrude? Twinkle Toes?”
Like a total idiot, I burst out laughing.
“Come on, kid, tell me!”
Before I could answer, I caught a glimpse of Bambi watching me from the hallway, hands on shapely hips. She swaggered into the kitchen, her fuzzy bathrobe barely covering her enormous breasts, her spray-tanned legs gleaming. She glared at me, then at Chuck.
“What’s so funny?”
I didn’t know what to say.
Bambi cut her eyes at me. “Better get going or you’re gonna be late.” She waltzed over to Chuck and wrapped her arms around his neck, glaring at me as I left.
The day dragged on forever and after work at the theater I missed the bus. I pulled out my cell phone and called home. No one answered. I tried again and on the last ring I heard Chuck’s voice.
“'Ello?”
“Uh, hi, is Bambi there?”
“Who’s this?”
“Natasha.”
“AH-HA—gotcha! Now I know your name!”
“Whatever—is she there, or not?”
Bambi grabbed the phone, her voice curt and annoyed. I told her how I had worked late and missed the bus. She told me it was my own fault and I could make my own way home. “It’ll teach you a lesson, Missy. A good walk won’t kill you. Jesus walked everywhere his whole life.” She slammed the phone down.
God forbid I should interrupt her precious time with what’s his name. I should have known better than to call her in the first place. She couldn’t have cared less—no surprise there. It really didn’t matter anyhow; I could find my way around the city. My habit of walking the streets at night started when I first got out of the group home. After being so cramped, having to struggle and fight for every inch of space, I cherished the empty streets. Seattle felt like it was all mine to explore and to a girl who had nothing, suddenly a whole city belonged to me—only me.
Tonight was somehow different; I didn’t feel the same excitement. My stomach clenched tight. Every nerve stood on edge. I picked up my pace, the soles of my boots pounded against the pavement harder than usual. I crossed the street and hurried down the dark sidewalk. I couldn’t see well; this street didn’t have lights and the waning moon gave hardly enough light to walk by.
Fog rolled in, thick and suffocating. From my right came the high-pitched yowl of stray cats fighting in an alleyway. It sounded like they were tearing each other apart. I paused, peering into the darkness—yellow eye
s glowed back at me.
I braced my shoulders, head down, walking faster. Behind me footsteps echoed, I whipped around…nothing. An eerie silence hung in the air, yet there was no one. I started walking again. Footsteps thudded behind me—bearing down on me. My heart punched into my rib cage. The air seemed to thicken, forming a prison to capture me. I strained to see into the haze, convinced someone or something was chasing me. I froze, my legs turning to jelly. The footsteps sounded again. This time more urgent. Trembling inside, I whirled around. A light appeared down the street, approaching fast. Maybe it was a taxi and I could hitch a ride. The outline of a motorcycle broke through the mist. Chuck pulled up beside me.
“Hop on, kid.”
A couple emerged out of the fog, wearing track suits. They jogged past us, feet slapping against the pavement.
I suddenly felt stupid for being so afraid.
I crossed my arms. “Why did you come? I could have made my own way home.”
He shrugged. “Bambi told me where you worked. It can be a dangerous place at night. Thought you might like a lift.”
“Well you thought wrong, I can make my own way.”
He frowned and spiked an eyebrow. “Really? You sure?”
I looked away and nodded, wrapping my arms around myself, shivering in the moist spring evening.
“I should leave you here for being such a brat, but I can’t do that. Not with a clear conscience.”
“Oh really, and why is that?”
“Because you remind me of my daughter. Bambi told me how you love to wander the streets at night. A real Moonflower.”
“A what?”
“A Moonflower. You bloom at night—and that’s dangerous. Lots of creeps are out this time of the evening.”
“Yes, I see that.” I glared at him.
He threw back his head, laughed, and then revved the bike’s motor. “Since you don’t need a ride, I guess I’ll be seeing you.”
Moonflower Page 2