by Sheena Kamal
An alcoholic cannot afford to be depressed if sobriety is still a goal. She cannot allow despair to gnaw at her self-control until it consumes her, until she no longer recognizes where she begins and the sickening feelings of doubt and shame end. I know this but, still, I can’t help the betrayal that seizes me now. When I learned of Bonnie’s disappearance, I went to him first. There’s a bond between an alcoholic and her sponsor, an unspoken agreement. The promise of secrecy. Once again, he has proved better at secrecy than I have. And, let’s be honest. Last night was about more than release. It was about that trust which, along with the benefit of the doubt, I very rarely extend.
When we were teenagers, Lorelei asked me if I’d ever been in love.
Love?
What do I have to give to love, to feed it so that it grows lush and beautiful like you see in the movies? The happy ones, I mean. Not the sad ones about the downside of love that people walk out of theaters feeling cheated by. I’m talking about the good love that some people get to have, the kind that nourishes the soul, helps it bloom in the springtime no matter how frigid the winter that precedes it. Everything I have is broken or bent somehow, stained so bad that no amount of extra-strength detergent could rub it all out, no matter what the ad says. I have no money to offer to love, no wisdom or kindness. Inside me I have nothing but vast reserves of suspicion and heartache, a current that runs so deep and dark I feel its chill right to my core. And, as it turns out, this current never plays me false.
I stare at the email from Leo. He hasn’t been able to get through to my cell phone, so he took a chance and sent his message electronically. No matter how many times I read the words, the results from the plate inquiry are still the same.
Silver sedan.
Registered to WIN Security.
12
Some of the headlines from my dark period go like this:
Unidentified woman found beaten in the woods, left for dead
Beaten woman sexually assaulted before being left for dead in woods
Beaten woman still in coma, authorities suspect she is of mixed-native heritage
Beaten woman left for dead wakes from coma, doesn’t remember her name
Woman left for dead wakes from coma to discover she is pregnant
I especially like the last one because it omits the word beaten, but number three is a doozy, too. To “suspect” me makes it sound like being of mixed heritage was the crime. I’d pointed out to Starling that these headlines were idiotic and, also, don’t write articles about me, but it’s too much to ask a reporter not to report on a story in which he plays an important role—and there is no role more important than “rescuer.” Even if the “rescued” just wants to crawl into a hole somewhere and disappear. Starling commiserated that, yes, they were mostly shitty headlines, but that was the nature of the game, and he had little control over them anyway. No matter how much he wanted to move on to other things, his editors wanted him to expand my story and try to find new angles to it. To examine it from as many perspectives as possible and find other women who have experienced similar attacks. I answered his questions as briefly as possible, but I still answered them. He was the only reporter I would talk to. I was his big story, whether either of us wanted it or not.
Things changed when he noticed a TV journalist hanging around the hospital, asking questions about “Mary,” my alias in his feature piece on me.
“He tried to kill me,” I said to him when I found out about the other reporter. “The man who left me in the woods. He thought I was dead.”
Starling dropped heavily on the armchair by my hospital bed. “Yeah, I know.”
“I talk to you only and you keep my name out of it. No one would know who I am, you said. That was the deal, remember?” Starling had to work hard to convince me to open up. That it was important that people heard my story. I don’t care much about people, then or now, but he had saved my life and I pay my debts, then and now. But this . . . I didn’t want another journalist connecting me with what happened.
“It was the most widely read human interest piece this year, Nora. I might even . . . I might even get an award for this story.”
“Fuck your award and fuck you.” I remember pacing on my swollen feet with my belly so distended that I could barely see the ground in front of me. “You can’t come here anymore. I’m serious.”
“I know, I’m sorry. You don’t think . . . you don’t think he’ll come after you, do you? The man who did this?” He gestured helplessly at my stomach.
“How the hell should I know?” I snapped. “I don’t remember anything about him.”
“So I’ll stay away.”
“You better. I did what you asked. I helped you with your story, okay? We’re even.”
“This was never about us becoming even, Nora.”
“Don’t say my name! Not here, not anywhere. You got your story, people are reading your stupid articles again, and everything’s coming up roses for you. But just take a look at me. Nothing is going to be the same for me ever again.”
“Maybe we should go to the police,” he says, his voice hesitant.
“Were you even listening to me? I said it when I agreed to talk to you. No cops.”
I’d told him what it had been like, living on the streets. How the police were to be avoided at all costs, how they never helped you if you were homeless or busking. How they pushed you around and made you leave public spaces. How they let other people treat you like garbage without intervening. Cops would never believe someone like me. Never. Not even with Starling’s support.
After Leo’s message comes in, I start going through Brazuca’s things. Tossing them out of his duffel bag and then packing them back with absolutely no regard for the order in which I found them. I search for clues that will tell me that I was wrong to trust him . . . look, this giant WIN Security ID card has been here all along and, Nora, you bloody fool, you didn’t see it.
But there’s nothing there except for a few items of clothing, toiletry bag, and shaving kit. There are no clues because he’s too smart to leave them.
But I already knew that, didn’t I? I already knew because I searched through his things while he was in the bathroom, before I even got the registration details from Leo. You see, you can’t really change who you are. And now, in the cold light of day, with no one’s face hovering under me, I’m glad for it.
13
I’m sitting in the dark with the curtains drawn when Brazuca returns. The morning light will make an appearance soon and I’ve already overstayed my welcome.
“I made a few calls,” he says, shucking off his coat and shoes. “There’s a doctor friend of mine, used to work as a medical examiner for the city before retiring.”
“Yeah?”
“Turns out, cord blood is chock-full of stem cells that are normally found in bone marrow. They make every kind of blood cell. They’re used to treat blood disorders because they’re versatile. You were right about that. But here’s the thing. It’s not enough for a full bone marrow transplant. Not enough for any real treatment for a full-grown adult.”
“What about an infirm one?”
He stares at me, perplexed. “What are you thinking?”
“No one has seen Ray Zhang for over a year, right? What if he’s sick and needs a transplant? They somehow got a hold of the cord blood and find a match—”
“How?”
“Black market? Private blood banks? Public blood banks? They have resources. Money isn’t an obstacle for these people.”
“So they track down the source somehow and find Bonnie.”
I frown. “It’s far-fetched.”
“It connects some of the dots. Best theory that we have.” He yawns. “Most of the other guests are gone. Some stayed back to do some helicopter skiing but not a lot.” Not surprising. The majority of the men at the conference were pushing the far side of fifty. I can’t imagine many of them agreeing to jump out of a helicopter on skis. For fun. “Jia Zhang left ab
out an hour ago.”
“Lam?”
“Him, too.” Brazuca collapses on the bed. I rise from the armchair by the window and go to him. He doesn’t protest when I tie his hands to the bedpost, but he does keep his eyes open this time. “Again? Okay . . . but maybe we could try something different.”
“Oh, it’ll be different. Hey, when you got shot, did they try to put you on a desk?”
Brazuca raises a brow. He sees the strange look in my eyes, my dilated pupils, and becomes concerned. “Yes, but what’s that got to do with—ow, is that really necessary?” he says, as I tighten the straps.
“But you had to see a shrink after the shooting, right? To clear you?”
“That’s standard procedure.” His voice is light, but his eyes are narrowed. This time I don’t straddle him and I’m not wearing a towel. He catches a glimpse of the empty bottles on the floor. Whoops. “You’ve been drinking.”
Boy, have I ever. I laugh. “That’s quite a minibar you’ve got here. Fancy. Too bad I didn’t get to the cognac first, though. My only regret.”
He pulls against his restraints. They don’t budge. “Untie me right now.”
I don’t.
“So, you get shot and the shrink recommends that you ride a desk. Maybe the shrink already knows you’re an alcoholic, maybe the shrink doesn’t really like you very much, but the point is, that recommendation wasn’t your first strike.”
He says nothing.
“You’re a crippled drunk who’s maybe as addicted to painkillers as you are to liquor. You don’t want to be on the force anymore so who do you go to for help when you need a change of career? The man whose life you saved, right? You know he’s got private security now, so maybe he’ll put in a recommendation to the company he uses, which, coincidentally, is the same company that Ray fucking Zhang uses. WIN Security. You’re not a cop anymore, are you? I’m guessing you haven’t been one for a while now.”
There is a pause as Brazuca assesses his options, but he and I both know the game is up. “How?”
That single word breaks my heart. It’s not even an outright acknowledgment. Not a “Yes, you clever girl.” Not an apology. Just a measly “How did you find out? Where did I go wrong in my attempt to pull the wool over your eyes?”
“Leo ran the plates from the car you followed me in.”
He sighs. “Okay, so now you know. I’m actually glad that you do, because believe what you want, I didn’t enjoy keeping that a secret from you, but I knew you’d never trust me otherwise. You can untie me now.”
I still don’t feel like it. “When I hit you on the bridge, you told me you were a cop.”
“Because it was the easiest explanation. You’re right about everything else. I went to WIN when I got shot.”
“Why are they looking for Bonnie?”
“I don’t know! That’s what I’m trying to figure out. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s not even an official case for them. I work for these guys and they’re pros, really, they are. Mostly ex-military. Very organized. But there’s something not right about this case. Almost like they’ve gone off the rails, and I think it’s because of Zhang. He must be very powerful. Listen, Nora, please. I may not be a cop anymore, but trust me on this. I’m on your side.”
Is he lying? I can’t tell.
I move toward him. Too late, he sees the bottle in my hand.
“Hey!” he shouts. He bucks off the bed, but I know a thing or two about tying restraints. Rule number one: make a tight knot. Rule number two: make three more. I drive the heel of my hand into his bad leg and he howls in pain.
“You’ve fucked my sobriety, Brazuca. So I’m going to fuck yours.” Alcohol has loosened my tongue and delivered to it dialogue from a terrible movie. Have you ever met an eloquent drunk? There’s a good reason for that.
He struggles, but his right leg is now next to useless, which makes his left easier to tie down with his belt. “Don’t do this,” he whispers as I approach the head of the bed.
I sit on his chest to keep him steady. “You said let’s get smashed together,” I tell him, grabbing his jaw and holding his mouth open with one hand. “I’m only taking you up on your offer.” I pour with the other. He sputters but I keep pouring until I know that he’s swallowed some. “Hey, maybe you and your pal Lam can go drink some of that cognac now. It’s never too late.” And then I do the next bottle. After that one I stuff a pair of his shorts into his mouth. It’s a clean pair. I’m not a monster. He shouts in protest, but no one can hear him.
“There, there. Go to sleep,” I say before I leave, with the rest of those little bottles tucked into my pack. I’ve managed to dissolve a handful of the extra-strength painkillers I snatched from the animal hospital into the tiny bottles of rum, so I know Brazuca will be out of my way long enough for me to get him off my trail.
I walk to the access road, where Carl is waiting, and feel the self-loathing rise up in me. Loneliness makes me do awful things. Like place my trust in people who don’t deserve it.
“Where ya off to, lady?” Carl asks as he starts the engine.
The morning is crisp but clear. I can see that the snow kicked up from the night before has covered the landscape in its cold, beautiful embrace. Everything but the access road, which is freshly salted. “Let’s not go there, Carl.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “We’ve all got our secrets.”
No shit. I’ve had a nice steady buzz since I found out about Brazuca but now it’s starting to fade. Good thing I stuffed the remaining contents of the minibar into my pack. When we make it down the mountain, I’ll crack open one of those little bottles to get me through. Not now, though. Not in front of Carl. He’s a decent sort, but he wouldn’t understand.
14
In her dreams she is wrapped in a blanket and carried through the woods. The man carrying her smells like sweat and pine needles. It is not unpleasant and the girl knows she probably smells a lot worse than he does. She has been out here for . . . days? Weeks? She doesn’t know. Bonnie asks the man where they’re going but he doesn’t respond. Her lids are too heavy to open, but she can hear the forest sounds and smell the damp earth.
Cradled in his arms like that, Bonnie thinks of her father. Who used to muss her hair and laugh at her stupid jokes. Who used to play sports with her and drive her to school when she woke up too late to take the bus. Her father who had changed so much in the past year, who became like Lynn. Unable to look her in the eyes. Last Christmas they opened their presents wordlessly and then went to the movies to see something about how a superhero came to be a superhero and found some superhero friends. Both her parents thought it would be something that she would enjoy, but they all had ended up loving it because it had been funny. They left the theater still giggling about something or other and then went back to their quiet home where nobody laughed anymore.
But that’s so far away from her now. Now she is being carried through her island like a child. By a stranger. Through the forest they go, until there’s a new scent that fills her nostrils. The fresh, salty smell of the ocean.
Part IV
1
I came down from the interior through a combination of hitching and using public transportation. It was difficult but not impossible, and the steady supply of miniature bottles from Brazuca’s hotel room helped ease my way. I drank to take the edge off and became as soft and devoid of sharp angles as the snow-covered landscape, where thick, damp flurries met frozen ground. The edges returned the closer the city loomed until the snow turned into slush and then disappeared altogether.
I show up to my old alcoholics support group after three beers and two shots of vodka in the space of two hours. I’m loaded, but not so loaded that I can’t follow the conversation and stand up at break time without falling on my face.
“Hey, you,” says my ex-sponsor at the coffee station. The one I thought worked for the intelligence service. “We haven’t seen you in a while. How are things going?”
Nosy bit
ch. “Great!” I say, a little too loudly for the basement of a community center.
Her eyes are wide with concern. False? I can never suss out kindness when I’m drunk. “You seem a little off today, hon, that’s all. Anything you want to talk about?”
“Why you all up in my grille, Sierra?” This is something that I’ve heard on television but have never had the opportunity to use. Sierra obviously isn’t her real name, but she has a flare for the dramatic.
“Okay, okay, that’s enough.” Simone, who has been watching me from the back of the room ever since I came in, inserts herself between us. She grabs my elbow. “Come with me.” I don’t protest as Simone drags me from the room, up the stairs, and out into the parking lot. She’s a lot stronger than me, even in the ridiculous platform heels she insists on wearing to these meetings.
For once, it’s not raining. Simone pulls me under a streetlight and examines me. “You asshole,” she says finally. Even though the instant coffee from the meeting has masked the smell of alcohol on my breath, Simone knows the signs. She’s been there enough times to.
“That’s not very nice.”
“Tough, we’re at an AA meeting, we’re not supposed to be nice.”
“Uh . . . you sure about that?”
Because I’m not. I thought the point of a support group was to be nice to people that you’d normally cross the street to avoid at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday because they’d be as faded as you and you don’t want to see the shame in them, and recognize it in yourself. I thought that was the whole point of support groups for alcoholics.
“Come back when you get your head straight. You don’t belong here tonight.”
She’s right. I don’t belong here. But I don’t belong anywhere else, either. I think about my father, who also didn’t belong. And then he put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. I don’t think about my mother, though, because whoever she was, when she abandoned us she lost my sympathy.