by S. F. Kosa
Oh my god. I can’t breathe. My vision begins to swim.
“What does this have to do with the murder of Mr. Moore?” asks Valentina.
“He was one of the three survivors,” Miles says, looking triumphant. “Tell me this isn’t a major story. I dare you.”
I shove away from the table and stand up. “Excuse me,” I whisper as I rush to the door and stumble into the hall. I don’t look up until I’ve safely made it into a bathroom stall, where I press my hands to the cool metal walls and do my best not to sink to the floor.
This can’t be happening. I’ve worked too hard.
I whirl around and retch into the toilet, squeezing my eyes shut at the sight of the four orange pills sinking to the bottom of the bowl.
I’ve been running for twenty years, but my past has just caught up.
Chapter Three
Portland, Oregon
December 9, 1999
The house was on a street clustered with other houses that looked just like it, nestled in a quiet neighborhood a few blocks and a world away from the trash-strewn avenue she’d prowled for the past week, trying to figure out how to eat, where to sleep, how to protect herself.
“Not bad, right?” Eszter asked as she marched up the walk and opened the front door.
Cinnamon. The scent wafted forth in a wave that made Christy’s mouth water.
Eszter waved her inside and set down her bags. “Ladonna knows her stuff.”
A Black woman with fluffy natural hair and a baby bump leaned out of the kitchen and waved a batter-coated wooden spoon at them. “Hi there,” she said before turning to Eszter. “I need more eggs.”
“She just got back. Somebody else can get them,” said a blond pregnant woman sitting on the couch in the living room. She gestured to a few others who had been sitting near her. “Do you have a list of other things you need?”
“I’ve got it,” said a muscular, dark-haired guy in the dining room, holding a spiral-bound notebook. He took dictation while Ladonna recited a few additional items, then tore the page out of the notebook and handed it to the woman in the living room.
“This is Octavia,” Eszter said, gesturing at the blond pregnant woman. “Octavia, this is Christy.”
Octavia grinned. “Are you hungry? You look hungry.”
“I’m fine,” said Christy.
“She ate three of Ladonna’s muffins,” Eszter said.
Octavia patted her basketball belly. “Me too,” she replied. “I couldn’t help myself.” Her sheepish expression made Christy want to smile.
Eszter led Christy into the dining room, where several people were chatting as they chopped vegetables and kneaded dough at the long, wooden table. She pointed down the hallway. “How does a hot shower sound?”
If Christy could smell herself, that meant they could too. “Sounds okay.”
Eszter took in her hesitant tone and gave her a playful poke in the arm. “Don’t worry. The door locks.”
Maybe she remembered what some of the shelters were like. Christy kept her eyes on the floor as she followed Eszter down a hall, past a few bedrooms full of neatly arranged cots and sleeping bags. The door to the room at the end of the hall was cracked open, slivers of movement drawing her eye.
Eszter smiled over her shoulder. “Meditation session,” she whispered. “Have you ever tried it?”
Christy wanted to laugh. “Sure. That’s what I was doing on the curb when you found me.”
“I know, it sounds weird.” She led Christy into a room with a big closet, clothes hanging from racks and folded on shelves. From down the hall, behind the closed door, came the sound of a man’s voice, an insistent, low murmur. Another person—it sounded like a woman—moaned. “They’re channeling,” Eszter said as she set down her Walmart bags. “It’s a powerful experience.”
“Uh-huh.” So far, she’d seen two pregnant ladies. Maybe it was less of a crack house and more of a—
“Oh my god,” Eszter said with a snort. “I can almost hear your thoughts from here. They really are just doing deep meditation. And if you stay long enough, you can try it yourself. It’s hard to focus on anything else when you’re just trying to get through the day, but when your needs are met and you’re freed from all that?” She shook her head. “You’d be surprised what you can do.” She gestured at the clothes. “Pick out some stuff that fits. We’ve got everything here.” She opened a few drawers of a large bureau against the wall. “Underwear, socks, bras. Take anything you need. It’s all clean.”
It looked like a mini thrift store. “Are you serious? Why would you guys—?”
“Because you’re a human being who needs it. Not that complicated, really.”
“This is unreal.”
Eszter grinned. “It’s totally real. And you don’t have to be scared it’ll disappear or be yanked out from under you—but it took me a long time to start believing that, so I don’t blame you if you’re the same.”
Christy chuckled. “You literally just met me.”
“Maybe the best friendships start with the little things—like a clean, dry pair of underwear.” Eszter’s eyes glinted with playfulness. “Or even three layers of them, if that’s what it takes to keep your butt warm.” She pointed to the door. “Bathroom’s across the hall. If you need anything else, just call my name, okay? I’ll be right there.”
Clean was a strange feeling, one she’d never noticed before or thought much about. But now, her hair brushed, a faint soapy scent rising from her skin, her body her own and covered in clean clothes, Christy wondered how she ever experienced this without appreciating it. Before leaving the bathroom, she smiled into the mirror, then frowned. “You can leave whenever you want,” she whispered to herself. “You know how to get out if you need to.”
But as she opened the door and heard laughter and conversation from the living room, she rolled her eyes. These people seemed harmless. Like she always imagined a healthy family might act. Or just a big group of friends, just crashing, no stress. Not rich, but happy. The only question that remained was why they were being so nice to her.
“Christy!” Eszter greeted her at the end of the hallway, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the dining room. “Come meet everyone! This is Arnie.” She nodded at a lanky white guy with messy hair who was chopping celery at the end of the dining table. He looked up and gave her a shy smile. “And that’s Gilgamesh.” She pointed to the guy who had written down Ladonna’s grocery list.
“Gil.” He held up his notebook. “Resident list maker.”
Eszter gazed at him fondly. “In other words, the one who makes sure we have all the supplies we need to feed and clothe so many people.”
“Who I also keep track of,” said Gil. “Speaking of…” He looked Christy up and down. “We should talk.”
“What?” Christy took a step back, her movement arrested only when she stepped on Arnie’s toe. “Sorry!”
“He just meant that he wants to get your details,” said Eszter. “Only what you feel comfortable telling him, though.”
Gil waggled his eyebrows at her. “But I’m a great listener, right?”
“That you are,” Eszter murmured.
He waved a hand at Christy. “It’s just an unofficial roster. Easier for keeping track, remembering birthdays, making sure we have enough for everyone. Think of me as the team’s general manager.”
“I’m not on the team,” Christy said.
He smiled and resumed his list making, and Eszter returned her attention to the people at the table. “This is Marie.” She put her hand on the shoulder of a plain-looking girl, close to Christy’s age, who had been emptying peelings into a bin marked compost. “She joined us last week.”
“Marie Heckender,” said Marie as she offered her hand to shake. “Heck-en-der.”
“Marie Heck-en-der,” Christy said, hoping
that was what this girl wanted to hear.
Marie grinned at her. “This place is amazing, right?”
“I…guess?”
“You don’t have to pretend,” said Eszter. “You haven’t made any decisions or commitments, and there’s no rush.”
“Commitment to what?” asked Christy.
“Each other,” Octavia said as she emerged from the kitchen, muffin in hand. “You’ll see.”
“And it’ll change everything,” Marie enthused.
Eszter shook her head. “She’ll make up her own mind.”
“When’s Darius going to be done?” Marie asked Eszter.
“When he’s done,” said Octavia, wincing and putting a hand to her belly. “You know that clocks don’t matter here.”
Marie’s face fell. “Right. I have to stop thinking like that. Hours and seconds.” She looked at Christy. “Have you ever thought about how arbitrary all that is? When we were kids, we never worried about it. We never worried about anything.”
“I did,” said Christy.
Marie blinked. “Well, sure. I just meant that we weren’t aware, you know?”
Christy felt like she’d been aware since the moment she was born, of how much she wished she could live with Grammy, of the smell of her mom’s breath, Mom’s boyfriends’ breath, too many breaths, all breathing on her. The urge to say so was almost too much, but she didn’t want to snap at all these strange, nice people.
Once again, Eszter saved the day. “We all had different experiences before we came to this place,” she said to Marie. “What’s important is that we’re all here now. And that’s how we save one another. It’s how we grow our consciousness.”
Marie’s face was flushed now, but she merely nodded. From down the hall, a door opened and shut. The effect was the same on everyone in the room—Christy sensed the shift like an electric current humming through the air. A soft clicking sound reached her, and a second later, two people emerged from the corridor: a gaunt, elderly woman wearing a knit cap, sitting in a wheelchair pushed by a tall, bearded man with deeply tanned skin and broad shoulders. He was handsome for an older guy; Christy guessed he was in his forties maybe. These were the people she’d heard meditating, and now she felt really stupid, assuming they’d been up to something dirty. She shouldn’t have been so quick to assume.
The bearded guy whispered something in the elderly woman’s ear, and she nodded wearily. He straightened up and surveyed the people in the dining room. “Marie,” he said. “Get Shirin a glass of water and help get her comfortable in one of the bedrooms. She needs to rest.”
Marie shot to her feet. “Can I get you something, too, Darius? Do you want—”
“If you take care of Shirin, you’re taking care of me,” he said with a gentle smile.
Marie rushed over to Shirin, and the old woman patted Marie’s hand as she pushed the wheelchair back down the hall. Christy spared them a glance before returning her focus to the man in front of her.
He was looking at her too. “Who is this?”
“Christy,” Eszter said.
“You look like you’re considering running right back out the door, Christy.” He scowled at the people in the dining room. “Who made Christy feel unwelcome?”
“They’ve all been really nice!” Christy said quickly—just as she realized that the people at the table were all grinning.
“Come sit down,” said Darius, grinning in return. “Tell us your story.”
“I don’t have one.”
“We all have one,” said Darius. “And they’re all worth hearing.” He gestured toward the couch, empty now that the others had gone out for additional supplies. Darius sat on a chair nearby with a teasing expression on his face. “Clear path to the door there. Only a few steps, and you’ll have escaped.”
“How can you tell?” Christy mumbled.
“I have a lot of experience with people in pain,” he said. As soon as she opened her mouth to deny it, he shook his head. “No one’s going to shame you for it.”
She sat back. Tried to swallow the sudden lump in her throat. Looked out the window as a kid rode by on a bicycle, wearing a helmet. His mom must really care about him.
“Who have you lost?” he asked.
“My grandma,” she said before she could think about it. “She’s the only person who ever cared if I lived or died.”
“Not your parents?”
She shook her head.
“You don’t have to talk about it until you’re ready,” he said. “And right now, Christy, you are surrounded by people who care whether you live or die. Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“It’s okay. But if you stay here long enough, I promise you—you’ll know it, right down to your bones. And it will change you forever.”
“What,” she said hoarsely, “is this place?”
Darius leaned his elbows on his knees. His blue eyes held her fast. “Do you believe we’re all connected, Christy?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“We’re all human, right?” When she nodded, he continued. “We were all born, and we’re all going to die someday.” He waited for another nod, then said, “Between that emergence into the world and that departure, we’re all here, and we feel, and we know.”
She stopped nodding. “What I know is that I’ve had to take care of myself since I was a kid.”
“What you know is exactly my point. You understand that something is wrong. Something’s missing.”
“Like food?”
“That’s just a symptom of the larger disease, but yes. You know you’re hungry. But in that case, you know how to fix it. You do whatever you can to fill your belly because you’ll die if you don’t. But what about your soul? Your consciousness? What happens when you don’t feed them?”
“I haven’t really had time to think about it.”
“Most of us spend our whole lives not thinking about it,” he said. “But some of us realize we can’t afford that kind of ignorance.”
“And some of us are just trying to afford our next meal,” she snapped.
He nodded as if he approved. “You’re absolutely right. Which is why, I’m guessing, the first thing that happened when you entered this house is that someone offered you something to eat. Or a place to rest.” He tugged at the sleeve of the sweatshirt she’d donned, fresh from its package. “Or clean clothes. It’s called Maslow’s hierarchy. At the bottom are your basic needs: food, shelter. Then comes safety. And only after those needs are met can you start to think about love. Belonging. But even that’s not at the very top; it’s only a stepping-stone. The next one is esteem. Believing in yourself. And after that?” He smiled. “After that, you’re approaching enlightenment. But first, those basic needs have to be met, or you can’t think of anything else. So that’s where we start. Where we go from there is up to you.”
“We?”
He shrugged. “You’re young, so you might think you can do everything on your own. That you’re invincible. That you can figure everything out.” He spread his arms and gave her a teasing smile. “When you’re old like me, you realize that’s all a lie. That no matter how much money you have—and trust me, I’ve had plenty—no matter how much education—and yes, I have that too—you still need some help along the way. So, yeah—we.”
Christy shook her head. “But you said we like it included me, and that’s what I’m asking. Why me? You have no idea—”
He held up a hand. “Who brought you here?”
“Eszter.”
Darius smiled. “She spots the heart in people better than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“She really does,” said Octavia, coming up behind him and placing her hands on his shoulders. “But you’re the one who spotted the heart in me.”
“It was so
beautiful, there was no missing it,” he said, bringing one of her palms to his lips and laying a light kiss there. They were together, Christy realized. She wondered if Octavia’s baby was his. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions again, but there was a familiarity there, an obvious bond.
Octavia headed back into the dining room. Darius followed her with his gaze for a moment before returning his attention to Christy. “We’re all here because we want the same thing, Christy. We want to connect with something deeper than all this distracting surface crud. We want to touch that deep consciousness and make it real for one another. If one person were missing, it wouldn’t be the same. Which is why I’m so glad you’re here, for however long you’re here. You have a questioning mind.”
Did she? And did it matter, if they let her sleep on one of those cots tonight? If they fed her another meal?
Darius watched her for a moment. Then he put his hand on her knee, a warm, steady weight. “You’re safe here, Christy. Even if you don’t know it yet, you’re among friends. Rest. Eat. Get to know us. Stay if you want; go if you feel like this isn’t the place for you. But either way, I’m grateful to have met you.”
He got up and headed back down the hall, leaving Christy blinking in his wake. Her heart was racing, and her eyes stung. She hadn’t said much, but he’d left her feeling like she’d given a lot away. Somehow, though, it felt good. Like a burden lifted instead of a weight of expectation pushing her down.
She got to her feet. Everybody else was busy, happily chatting as they worked on the meal they were preparing. Suddenly, she wanted to be a part of that, if only for the evening.
“Hey, Eszter?” she called. “Do you guys need any help with dinner?”
Chapter Four
Seattle, Washington
December 9, present day
My first instinct is to run. Pack up my entire apartment, empty the bank accounts, terminate the credit cards, get a burner phone. Head for Canada or Mexico or Brazil, I don’t know. Anything to put miles between myself and dead Arnie Moore. Between me and what Miles might find if he goes after this story.