by Ian Ballard
Up till just then, everything about Movie Time was pretty normal. Like it had always been dozens of times before. But then, at that exact moment, something strange began to happen. Suddenly, it felt like a bee had stung Luke right on the brain. Ouch. And then again and again and again, until the stings were coming as quick as popcorn in the microwave. Each was different, more painful than the last. After a moment Luke realized he wasn’t just seeing through Emilia’s eyes, he was feeling what she was feeling. Pain, emotions, even her thoughts.
He was engulfed in her. As if a powerful whirlpool had sucked him down into it and he found himself a hundred feet beneath the surface, in the green and glowing ocean of her mind. Her dying brain was as colorful as the giant aquarium his class visited on a field trip last year. She pulsed with squids and stingrays and electric eels and jellyfish and sharks.
Each agony lit up a new part of him, an untouched and secret attic of his mind. Panic, terror, rage, hopelessness, regret. Words he'd heard before, but never understood. Was this just how other people were? How it felt inside them? It was exhilarating—like riding a roller coaster—and he never wanted it to end. And yet, he could already feel her fading away. Her awareness pulling in like a slowly closing rose.
Gary’s huge calloused hand gripped Emilia's shoulder, holding her down. Luke could smell the cigarette stink of his father’s body and breath. See the freckles on his neck and his small gerbil teeth and the dark-red mustache. Emilia was looking up at him now. Into his blue off-kilter eyes.
The knife in his hand was going up again.
Luke felt her mind thinking everything over. Pictures and words flashing and flitting by—confusion—wondering why it was happening, how Gary could be doing this, thinking how she cared so much for him, would have done anything for him. What had she done to make this happen? To deserve this? She would miss him in spite of this. If it would still be possible to miss people then. Was there some devil inside him making him do this? How else could this be happening? How else could this person she loved be killing her? Perhaps he had already done enough that it was too late—already over.
But no, she would not die there today. It was not her time. There was still hope. She could still hold on to the world. She could say something to him to make him stop. To make him know she loved him. Love was the most powerful thing. This must have been happening because he hadn't known. Because she hadn't shown him in the right ways. If she could just somehow make him understand, this would all stop. She would pull him back from that dark place where his mind had gone, and he would go back to being the Gary she knew and cared about.
Her hand wanted to fall limp, wanted badly to fall, to rest, but she wouldn't let it. She squirmed and tried to fend off the knife. She would not give up. At the last moment, he would understand and he would stop. Or else she would break free. Get hold of the blade. Something would happen where she would survive.
She had to, because there was still so much here to do. To have children, a bunch of them, a home, to grow old with the man she loved, to see her babies grow up, and to be proud of them. There were still twenty or thirty Christmases left to spend with her parents before their time would come, and birthdays and Easters and a hundred other things that were waiting and that were meant to be.
But she first had to keep the blackness away. It was tightening around her like a noose. But her wounds were not so bad that she could not live through them. She just had to keep fighting.
The knife went up and up and up and then hung in the air above her. The blade pointed down. It seemed to dangle there forever. And it seemed every thought she'd ever had and every picture she'd ever seen came back to her in that moment.
Then, suddenly, it began to fall—was moving with a swoosh toward her heart. She had to turn her body away. Turn to the side, to get away from it. She couldn't let the point pierce her heart. She could do it. She knew she could. Just had to lift herself a few inches and it would miss. Just shift herself a half an inch, even a quarter inch, and she would be okay.
And then, all of a sudden, Luke felt her die.
Gone. Just like that.
The new world of feeling and thought that had sprung to life in him vanished, as quick as someone switching off the TV and saying it was bedtime.
Luke was alone again in his brain's moon-gray gloom. His heart felt as dead as hers and behind his eyes, the same old nothing.
35
New Mexico
The highway is long and straight and empty. The dotted line in the center reels by and the white lines that mark the shoulders merge somewhere in the distance, passing into the setting sun as if it were a golden tunnel. The land here's perfectly flat, except where volcanic silhouettes jut up abruptly into the sky. From time to time, the dainty figures of antelope appear behind a barbed wire fence, ears twitching. In the distance, a lonely oil well pumps away in the darkening air.
Danielle's fast asleep on the seat beside me. She rests her head against the window and uses her thick black hair as a makeshift pillow. Things have calmed considerably since that rather rocky introduction. True, Sherman will have a headache for a day or two, and Margo, a few bruises, but at least everyone's in one piece.
Every few seconds, I glance in the rearview mirror. Even though I think we're in the clear, I keep half-expecting to see the flashing blue lights of police cars. We headed west from Midland, sticking to back roads, making it to New Mexico in two hours. The plan is to bypass the crowded Juárez checkpoint and cross the border farther west at Antelope Wells, hopefully before the FBI connects the dots and gets word to the border patrol. As a fugitive, I have two facts in my favor—one, that Sherman doesn't know my real name and two, that no one appears to have seen the car I'm driving.
There’s a Band-Aid on the palm of my right hand. That’s where Danielle bit me when I was trying to escort her out of the house. That first hour wasn’t easy. Danielle tried to jump out of the car several times, and all my attempts to explain myself were greeted by deafening screams. Finally, I pulled over on the side of the road and took the picture of Lisa and me out of my wallet.
“See, that’s Lisa, your mother, and that’s me,” I said, firmly.
Danielle later told me she'd seen pictures of her mother on Christmas cards, and so she recognized her. She gave the photo a careful scrutiny and said it looked photoshopped. But she kept staring at it and when she finally looked up, there were tears in her eyes. “So you’re really him?” she said, voice cracking. “You're really my dad?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean you don't necessarily have to call me that. But that's who I am.”
She started bawling and talked about Lisa being dead—Lou and Margo had already told her about it this morning after “Agent Allen” dropped by to break the news.
“You’re not one of those men who kills little girls?” Danielle asked, her nose running.
“Nope.”
“You're not the one that took Lisa?”
“No. I loved your mother. I never would have hurt her.”
I decided it might help if Danielle could see the big picture, so I gave her the CliffsNotes version of my and Lisa's life stories, going all the way back to the Baltimore General days.
“So that's why you've got all those scars?” she asks.
“That's right,” I say.
It’s a lot for a ten-year-old to absorb, but based on the tiny snores that are presently issuing from the passenger seat, she's taking it in stride.
As I drive, that creepy Teddy bear is never far from my thoughts. That was the killer finally showing his hand. Bragging that he's the one behind all this. At least it’s a comfort to know I'm not delusional. I'm apparently just at the center of an intricate plot that's unfolding around me like a giant murderous Rube Goldberg machine.
Still don't know how he got that close without me knowing. Or why he didn't nix us all when he had the chance—which he surely did on multiple occasions.
But the point is that we've escaped. I’ve ma
de one hundred percent sure no one’s tailing us, and there's no way he could know where we're headed tonight because I don’t even know. Yet all that's happened is enough to make you superstitious. To feel like each step away is somehow a step toward him—
Got to put the kibosh on those kinds of thoughts. For the moment, we're safe and in the rearview mirror, not a headlight in sight.
*
Around 10:00 p.m. we get to the border and both the US and Mexican guards wave us through without a second glance. From there, we continue on to the town of El Berrendo, where we pull up at a hotel called La Papusa and park next to the entrance. Danielle’s still asleep and I leave her in the car, keeping a close eye on her from the check-in desk. A short, trollish woman with braided gray hair and dark wrinkled skin signs me in. I speak to her in Spanish. She looks at my scars and unkempt suit with curiosity, but says nothing.
Our room’s on the opposite side of the building, away from the road. I repark and carry Danielle inside. She stays sound asleep, draped across my arms like a modern reimagining of the Pietà. I lay her down on the double bed that’s closer to the bathroom, then slide my own bed forward, blocking the door, just in case she decides to make a break for it during the night. Finally, I tuck her in, watch her sleeping for a while, then climb into my own bed and switch off the light.
*
When I wake up the next morning, something's rustling beside me. I open my eyes and see that Danielle's awake and lying on her bed, head resting on her hands, staring at me.
I flash an awkward smile. “Have you been awake long?”
There’s a dismayed look on her face. “Long enough to know my dad’s a snorer.”
I rub my eyes, trying to think of a reasonable response. “Yeah, and it runs in families. So too bad for you.”
“Gross,” she says, sitting up on the bed and folding her legs Indian style. Her socks have black and purple stripes. “So where are we?”
“In Mexico.”
“I’ve never been to Mexico. What are we doing here?”
“Remember? We had to . . . because it wasn’t safe for you to stay there in Midland,” I explain.
She purses her lips. “Well . . . I was thinking, if it wasn’t safe for us, doesn’t that mean it wasn’t safe for my parents—I mean, for Lou and Margo—either?”
“You don’t need to worry about Lou and Margo. Nobody wants to hurt them, and nobody's going to hurt them.” I immediately regret saying this. It may very well be true—but then again, there’s a small but significant chance it isn’t.
She doesn't say anything for a while and then, apparently switching subjects, tells me to hold out my hand. I cautiously comply, and she places her own hand next to mine and makes a careful study of our palms and fingers.
“Do you think they look alike?” I ask.
“Of course not. Yours is twice as big.” She laughs.
This must be an example of ten-year-old humor. “And besides that?” I ask.
“They’re a little alike, I guess.” She looks me over and bites her upper lip. It looks like maybe she wants to say something, but isn't sure if she should.
“What is it?” I ask.
A long pause while she formulates her thoughts. “Well, since you’re my dad, you knew my mom really well, right?”
I sit up in bed. “Sure. If I hadn’t known her well, you wouldn’t be here.”
Danielle raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t be here? You mean, like, in this hotel?”
“No, I mean, you wouldn’t be here, like, on this planet.”
“What planet would I be on?” she asks, grinning.
This kid is pretty funny, actually. “Probably on Mars—maybe Jupiter,” I say.
She giggles, studies my face, and removes a speck of sleep from my eye. “How long did you know her for?”
“Just a little while,” I say.
Danielle swings her feet around so they dangle off the side of the bed and leans toward me. “Did you love her?”
“Yes,” I say. “I loved her a lot.”
She puffs out her cheeks. “Are you sure you can love someone a lot if you only know them a little while?”
“I think you can.” A note of sadness creeps into my voice when I say this.
Danielle flashes a sympathetic smile. “How long were you married to her?”
“We weren’t married,” I say, unsure if I should explain more.
“Oh. . . . Then, how long was she your girlfriend?”
I tilt my head to the side. “I guess about six weeks.”
“Six weeks!” Danielle exclaims. “Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
“What happened?”
I look away for a second. “She left one day, and I never saw her again.”
Danielle’s eyes widen. “Well, are you sure it was real love? Because it could have just been infatuation, you know?” She stumbles over the word infatuation, as if she just learned it.
“It was real, Danielle,” I say, perhaps a bit defensively.
“How can you be sure?”
“It’s love. You just feel it and you know.”
“What does it feel like?”
“Don’t you love your parents? I mean Louis and Margo,” I ask.
“Of course. But isn’t it different when a boy and a girl love each other?”
“I suppose it’s a little different.”
“So what did it feel like to be in love with her? You tell me and I’ll decide if it was real.”
I consider how to put this into words a ten-year-old can relate to. “It felt like I wanted to be with her forever. Like I wanted to do everything I could to make her happy.” I pause. “When I learned that she was gone—that she passed away—nothing had ever hurt me like that . . . even though it had been a long time since I saw her.”
“Anything else?” she says, like a judge receiving closing arguments.
I reflect. “Yeah, it felt like I wanted to have a baby with her. That nothing would be more wonderful than that. And, as it turns out, I did have a baby with her, and I was right, nothing could be more wonderful than this.” I smile at her.
Danielle drums her fingers on the nightstand, mulling it over.
“So what do you think? True love or just infatuation?” I ask.
She frowns. “Hmm . . . sounds like it was just a crush to me.”
I glare at her—mostly melodramatically, but with a kernel of real annoyance.
“Just kidding,” she says. “That was true blue all the way.”
“I’m glad it gets your seal of approval.”
She gets up and sits next to me on the bed. Her small feet dangle down next to mine. “You know what?” she says.
“What’s that?”
“I’m jealous of you.”
“Jealous?” I say.
Her eyes look sad. “Because you knew her.”
A pause. “Yeah, you would have loved her too.”
She stares intently into my eyes, as if she were seeking some trace of Lisa there. “It's sad that there are people you could love, but you never get to meet them.” She takes a deep breath. “But I guess it’s even sadder for you—because you lost her.”
“I feel sad and lucky at the same time. But mostly lucky.”
“Do you think she was your soul mate?”
I look down. “I’m not sure.”
“Well you believe in soul mates, don’t you?” she asks, a bit testily.
“You mean that there’s one person out there for each of us?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”
Danielle bites her lip like she’s not satisfied with my answer. “Do you think you could love someone else one day the way you loved her?”
“Not in the same way, but maybe in a different way.”
“But just as much?”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Did it ever happen?”
I stand up, walk over to the
window, and peek out through the curtains. A view of some rolling hills and a few rusted-out cars on a neighboring property. “No. It didn't happen yet.”
“Jake—” Danielle says.
“Yeah?”
“I think she was your soul mate.”
I sit back down on the edge of the bed and begin putting my shoes on. “I think she probably was too.”
Danielle scoots close and pats me on the shoulder.
I look away, not wanting her to see the sadness on my face. “Let’s get ready, Danielle. We need to hit the road.”
“Okay.” She stands up and starts putting her shoes on as well. “Dad—I mean Jake—can I ask you one other thing?”
I smile. “You can ask me as many other things as you want. But it doesn’t mean I’ll know the answer.”
“Don’t dads have to know the answers?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve only known I was a dad for a few hours. But what’s the question?”
“Do you think a person could love someone they never saw?”
I draw a deep breath. “Anything’s possible.”
“Well, if it’s possible, I think I’ll love Lisa too.”
I run my hand through her hair. “And how do you plan on doing that, since she’s not around?” For a second, I get a sense of déjà vu. Like I’m looking into Lisa’s eyes again. Danielle’s are so similar.
“Easy. You have to tell me all your stories about her. Tell me all the things that made you love her. And if you do a good enough job and don't forget any of the details, I’ll be able to fall in love with her too.”
“It's a deal.” We shake on it. “What do you want to know first?”
A pause. “Can you tell me why she went away?”
36
El Paso, 1992
Good help was so hard to find, thought Gary, as he pulled the knife out of Emilia’s chest. Her body lay on its back in front of the desk. The ledger was next to her on the floor, opened up to a page that revealed some of his handwritten entries. Leaving the keys out for her to grab had been a set-up. Once she’d gone into the study without permission and looked at his passport, her trustworthiness had to be tested. Obviously, she'd failed the test.