by Ashley Smith
“It’s Xanax,” I said to him, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. “It’s for anxiety.”
I grabbed my pocketbook off the coffee table and my keys where they were lying on Paige’s toy box, and we walked out the front door. I was still holding the phone and the battery in my hand. It was dark out—the outside lights around the building were still turned on—but not totally dark. Not pitch black. I could see the sun just barely beginning to light up. Not too much longer, Lord. Just help me hold on a little longer.
My car was parked at the end of the sidewalk where I had left it several hours before to make the run for my front door. Maybe three car lengths away, the agent’s blue truck was backed into that parking space directly behind me. For a second I remembered it all: Sitting at the wheel. Knowing someone was sitting behind me in that truck. Getting my keys ready. Deciding to make a run for it. Opening my car door. Stepping onto the pavement. Then hearing that click. His door. He was coming.
“Lead the way,” Brian said now, leaving me at my car door and walking to the truck.
I was thinking back to that moment he grabbed me. I could hear his voice. “Stop screaming! If you stop screaming, I won’t hurt you. Just shut up!” I felt like he was going to kill me right then. Just blow my head off. Right there. “My little girl doesn’t have a daddy, and if you hurt me she won’t have a mommy.” I was thinking about all of that now. It seemed like an eternity ago. And this guy seemed totally different to me. Totally different. Like, I just knew he was going to let me leave. And I was really beginning to believe he was going to turn himself in.
Brian was in the truck now and had just started it up. Standing at my blue Bonneville, I put the key in, swung open the heavy door, and got in. The light blue upholstery reeked of cigarettes. That Hello Kitty air freshener on my gearshift was just worthless. Where am I taking him, God? I have absolutely no idea. Where does someone ditch a truck around here?
I backed out and drove down around the building to the first stop sign. About five hours ago I had done this same thing, thinking I was going out for cigarettes, coming right back home, and going to bed. I was thinking about sleep right now, too. Thursday night I’d only gotten a few hours because I did that ice, stayed up all night moving, and then went to bed from dawn until the time my step-dad woke me up, calling about Brian Nichols. I hadn’t been to sleep since.
At the stop sign I took a right and started toward one of the exits from the complex. I looked in my rearview mirror to check on Brian. Then I reached over to the passenger’s seat where I had laid the cell phone and the battery. I was going to try to put this thing together with one hand while watching the road. I didn’t want Brian to look at me from behind and think I was up to something. I didn’t see him take a gun out of the house; I didn’t think he had one. But I didn’t know. And I had this fear that if he thought I was calling the police, he might commit suicide right there in the truck. So I worked with the phone one-handed, and I got the battery in.
When I reached the apartment complex exit, I made a left on West Liddell Road and drove up to the stoplight at Old Norcross Road. The first time I made a drug run to Atlanta with John, we went to a drug dealer’s house somewhere on Old Norcross. Just thank you, God, all that is over. Done. Behind me. Thank you I didn’t do those drugs in that bathroom. Thank you I’m still alive. Thank you for just letting me be out here in this car by myself right now. Just, thank you.
I turned left on Old Norcross, a two-lane road with a lot of trees and curves and hills, now heading southwest, just above and vaguely parallel to I-85. I was driving in a kind of exhausted Xanax haze. I looked in my rearview mirror, and there was Brian. I had no idea where to take him or what kind of setting he wanted for the truck. What was I doing? What do you want me to do here, God? I’m out here in my car. Do I call the police now? Do I just try to kind of drive off, drive away from him?
With my piece of junk for a car, I knew the idea of trying to outrun the truck was just stupid. That would never work, and I wouldn’t feel safe attempting it. But what about the police? I didn’t know if I should do that—call them right now. If I called 911, then Brian could drive off and he’d be on the run again. There could be a terrible scene and people could die—he could die. Or he could get away and stay on the run and hold more people hostage or rob the bank, and even more people would get hurt. It just didn’t seem like a good idea. I knew this guy was going to let me leave at 9:30. I just knew it. He trusted me. He had let me take this phone. He was talking about turning himself in now. He just wanted a place to relax for a few days. Shouldn’t I wait it out? I didn’t know what to do.
After going through a few lights on Old Norcross, I came to a road that looked like it led into a subdivision: Millerbrook Drive. I put my blinker on and hung a right. Brian was right behind me. Immediately, we were in a subdivision of houses all sitting really close together. I took my first left and turned into a cul-de-sac that ended in a long wooden fence. It was just a short road with a few houses on each side. I drove down to the end. In my rearview mirror I could see Brian drive past the cul-de-sac and make a U-turn.
Okay. So I guess this isn’t what he wanted. I pulled into a driveway, turned around, and drove back up to Millerbrook Drive. Brian had the truck pointed back in the direction of Old Norcross Road now, and he was sitting just to my left as I came out of the cul-de-sac. I could see his passenger-side window was down.
I rolled down my window to see what he wanted. “I’m not parking here,” he said. I was close enough to him that he didn’t have to yell. “Somebody will find it here. They’ll find this place. Follow me.”
I let him pull in front of me, and he led us back up to the intersection with Old Norcross. Then he took a right, and we continued back in the direction I had us going in the beginning. I didn’t see many cars on the road. I glanced down at my phone again. What do I do here? I decided to dial 911 and just not hit send for a minute. I knew if I called the police, I would have to put the phone up to my ear, and if he looked at me in his rearview mirror, he would say, “Yeah, she’s calling the police.” Should I do it? God, just show me what to do.
Old Norcross Road began to take a slight turn downhill to the right as we came up on a major intersection at Buford Highway. Where’s he taking us? He doesn’t know where we’re going, either. Then, right before we got to the light, Brian put on his left blinker. He was turning us onto a little cut-through road behind the CVS Pharmacy and jetting us up to Buford Highway that way. When we got up there, up to Buford Highway, he went slightly right; then he cut across Buford Highway to a road that appeared to go into a kind of industrial park area. There were a bunch of warehouse-looking buildings with loading docks. Everything looked completely deserted. How did he find this place?
Maybe a few blocks of buildings down the industrial road, Brian put on his right blinker. We were turning into this empty parking lot just in front of a row of brick buildings. Brian drove the truck all the way down to the end, where there was a tree line. All the parking spaces were on the left-hand side next to the row of buildings. Then he turned to the right a little and backed the truck into the last parking space on the row. A brick building with the letter “A” on it was right behind the truck now, and a hedge or some shrubs were to the left. I pulled my car in next to the truck; then I backed up so my passenger door was right next to him.
Am I about to do this? Am I actually letting him in my car and going back to that apartment? Brian got out of the truck. It looked like he might have something under his red coat now—there was a small bulge, like maybe he got something out of the truck that he didn’t have before. A gun? I had no idea. Okay. He’s out here. I could just drive off now and leave him. I could jam my foot on this accelerator and go and call the police.
But no—I just couldn’t see doing that. Either he’d take the truck and start running again. Or the police would come, and a lot more people would die. And what if I called the police and then let him into my car to keep him from runn
ing? The cops would have to surround Brian and me together, and I could get hurt. No. I really believed if I just got him back to my apartment, then he would let me leave to go see Paige. He would let me leave and then he wouldn’t have a car. He wanted to rest, he said. He was tired of hurting people. And I was so tired at this point, I almost felt like I couldn’t think anymore. I’m just sticking with the original plan here, Lord. Just please, please protect me.
At that moment Brian walked up to the passenger door and opened it. He got in, shut that heavy door, and looked over at me for a second. “Man,” he said. “You really are a ‘ride or die chick.’ ”
23
saturday breakfast
So,” I asked him, pulling out of the parking lot onto that industrial park road, “are you ready now?”
“For what?” he asked. I could tell out of the corner of my eye that he was looking at me.
“To turn yourself in,” I said. I was just going to be matter-of-fact about this stuff now, like I was taking it for granted that he was going to do it. He was turning himself in and that was all. And I seriously felt right then that he might possibly tell me, “Sure, yeah. Go ahead. Let’s go to the courthouse.” I really thought he might say that.
“No,” he said, turning away from me. “No, I just need a few more days.” Okay, so is he not moving off this “few more days” thing? Doesn’t he know he can’t wait a few more days? He could change his mind if he waits, and things could get worse.
Then he said, “If you give me a few more days, I’ll let you take me to the courthouse and turn myself in and then everybody’s just gonna praise you and talk about how wonderful you are.”
I didn’t say anything. But I was thinking, “Look, buddy, I’m not planning on being around in a few more days to do that, okay? And I don’t care about that anyway. I don’t care about people saying how wonderful I am because it’s not me doing this. I know who’s doing it, and it sure isn’t me.”
We drove in silence back the way we came: the cut-through street to Old Norcross Road to West Liddell. We passed a few cars on the road. “If they only knew,” I thought, glancing at the drivers as the cars went by. “If they only knew who was driving past them.” I wish I was in their position. I really wish all of this was just over.
Finally, I turned back into the apartment complex and took the long road up to my section of buildings. My section was set off a little bit from the rest of the apartments. The road kind of curved and went over a short bridge with stone handrails—there was a creek there and a grassy area—and then it kept going up behind some three-story apartment buildings on the right and left.
After we crossed the creek, I took the only right turn, then curved around to the left to my building—the first building. All the buildings were on the left. Driving now, I was thinking again about how unbelievable it was that this guy had ended up at my place. Two days ago—well, three now—I had lived clear on the other side of this apartment complex. And driving through it, I saw again how many apartments were out here. The place was just huge to me.
I pulled the car into my same parking space. By now it was really starting to get light out; I was guessing it was somewhere around 7:30. It wasn’t fully daylight, but I could see things clearly now—cars, trees, the rails around people’s porches, the rail around my porch, and the boxes sitting out there from the move. I could see it all. And I was really glad about it. Because I was that much closer to 9:30.
“Wait,” Brian said now. I was just about to open my door and get out. He was looking out his window. Five or six cars away from us, a woman was coming out of her apartment in the last building.
“Just wait,” he said again. I waited like he asked.
Maybe I could’ve done something then—like called out to that woman for help. Maybe I could’ve taken that opportunity. But there was just no way I could see doing that right then. I wasn’t going to freak Brian Nichols out. We were already at my apartment, and he was going to let me leave. I just wasn’t risking the total nightmare of this guy breaking down and going inside and getting those guns and losing it out here. I had to stick with my plan.
I unlocked the door for us and went straight to the kitchen. This was a great time for breakfast—I was starving. “Hungry now?” I asked as he came in behind me.
“Yeah, I am.” He unzipped his coat and kicked off those clogs. So maybe there wasn’t anything in his coat. Then he shoved both the shoes and the coat under the coffee table.
I turned on the burner under my pancake pan and poured a little oil in there. Then I got the mixing bowl down and opened up the box of pancake mix.
Brian was looking at the photographs on the bar. There were two big eight-by-ten silver frames, one on either end—one of Paige, one of my eleven-year-old sister, Leah. There were several smaller frames in between. Pictures of Paige, some of me, one of my family at my cousin’s wedding, the picture of Mack holding Paige, and others. There was another framed eight-by-ten of Paige sitting on the stereo speaker next to the dresser where the TV was—I had just put that frame out before all of this started last night; Paige was holding a red flower.
“Are all these you?” Brian asked. I turned around and saw him leaning over the agent’s tools to look closely at the pictures on the bar. There was a black-and-white photo of me wearing those extensions in my hair and others with me wearing my hair sometimes straight, sometimes curly like it was now.
“Yep,” I said. “They’re all me. It’s my hair—it can be straight or curly.”
“Well, I like it better curly,” he said, still bent over looking. Okay. Cool. Whatever. That’s fine.
Then he asked, “Can I see some more pictures of your family?” I was cracking eggs into the pancake mix now.
“Sure,” I said. He must really be feeling close to me if he wants to see family pictures.
I rinsed off my hands in the sink and dried them quickly. Then I walked around the bar where he was standing and went to the dresser. I kept a bunch of loose photos in the top drawer, so I just reached in there and grabbed a stack. “Come in here and I’ll show them to you,” I said.
He followed me into the kitchen, and I stood next to him flipping through the pictures. “Here’s Paige and me and my mom at my cousin Sarah’s wedding. Here’s my cousin Rebekah. This is Mack and me and Paige in our Easter picture—we took one every Easter. We’re out at his parents’ trailer in this one.”
“Can I hold them?” Brian asked. Wow, God. What are you doing here with this guy? He wants to hold them?
“Sure, okay.” I handed him the stack of pictures and went back to mixing up my pancake batter.
“Who’s this?” he asked now. He had stepped over closer to me and was holding the picture out.
“That’s my mom with my little brother and sister, Christian and Leah. My mom had them with my step-dad when I was fourteen. Christian’s a top-level gymnast, and Leah’s a really passionate reader.”
I went to the stove with the bowl of batter now and dropped my first pancake into the pan. “And that—” I said, trying to kind of pay attention to the pictures he was looking at, “that’s at recovery right there. All of those you’re looking at right there are recovery. I went last year from January to April. Before that, I’d gone to these two other programs and kind of just failed or dropped out early or whatever. I just didn’t want it. And you can’t recover that way. You’ve got to want it.
“See that one there,” I said, “with me sitting on the back of that truck with all those bales of pine straw?” I was trying to watch for the pancake to start bubbling so I could flip it.
“Well,” I told him, “I went to recovery knowing I had to go. I was willing and everything. But at first I just hated it. All I wanted to do was sleep. It was like depression, not having drugs, knowing I couldn’t have drugs, and everything else was going down on me at once. But later I ended up being made pine crew leader and that’s what those pictures are showing—us working out in the pine forest.
I looked at my pancake again now, and it was bubbling like crazy. I grabbed the spatula to flip it. “Man, I burned it,” I said, reaching for a pot holder across the counter. I picked up the pan, carried it over to the laundry closet in the far left-hand corner of the kitchen, and opened the door; then I flipped the pancake into the trash can. “Gotta pay more attention, I guess.” What’s the deal? I never burn pancakes.
I started another one while he was still going through the pictures. “And you know,” I told him, “my whole entire life changed at that recovery.” I was touching the edges of the pancake with my spatula now.
“I got back in touch with the Lord there. Everything they taught me really sank in. You know, deal with your own problems. Don’t blame them on anything else. Don’t blame them on anybody else. It’s your fault. You did it. That kind of thing. And like, I was so angry at Mack for not listening to me the night he got stabbed, because if he would have listened to me, then he wouldn’t have died, and none of this would have happened to me. That’s what I thought, anyway.
“But see,” I said, turning from the stove now to look at Brian, “I had to face that whole way of thinking. I had to face it and admit that certain things happened to me because I chose to do those drugs—and because I didn’t choose to turn to God and say, ‘Help. What do I do now?’ ”