“It’s a long fucking story, but right now I’m at LAX. I’m with my biological mom, believe it or not, and we need a place to crash for the night.”
There’s a thump and a curse, then Karina’s familiar, beloved laughter and more crying. “Crap, I just fell out of bed. Can you wait for twenty? I’ll come get you right now.”
I wipe at my eyes, my heart filled with the first true joy it’s felt in what seems like years. “Yes, we’ll wait. Thank you.”
Keys jingle and a door slams. “Oh my God, Eden, I can’t believe it. I’m so glad you’re okay.” She breaks down into deep, shuddering sobs. “Fuck, I need to pull my shit together before I get in the car. You swear you’ll wait for me?”
“Yes, I swear. We’ll wait on the curb at the end of the arrival terminal. I’ll be the bitch sobbing and waving.”
She laughs. “Okay, honey. Hang tight.”
I slowly hang up the receiver and turn to Elizabeth. Tears in her own eyes, she embraces me tightly. And when we part, she smiles and hands me another quarter.
“Call your parents.”
So I do.
72
How many tears
does the body hold?
Infinite.
How many hours
can the body sleep?
Forever.
Drip. Drip.
73
I don’t leave my childhood bed for three weeks except to pee, eat, and run. I run and run and run, going nowhere as fast as I can. Sometimes, too, I sit in the bathtub—with or without water—and stare at the white tiles until my vision distorts and they turn the color of blood.
In another life, Liam must have been a reporter. Those bastards are sneaky as fuck and world-class liars.
I was sold to a sex-slavery ring.
I was undercover for Interpol.
Eden is dead and I’m actually Alexis.
I single-handedly brought down a crime syndicate.
I’m a hero.
A hero!
After my tenth hysterical meltdown, my parents unplug the desktop computer and hide their smartphones.
I wake up one day to a commotion outside. Twitching back the curtains in my room, I see news vans lined up against the curb and reporters milling around like so many hungry ants.
My first and strongest emotion is rage for whoever told the press where I live. Then disappointment, because it means I can’t run today.
Later, my mom comes in with breakfast and tells me it was our elderly neighbor, Henrietta, who spilled the beans. Ninety years old and mostly deaf, she’s known me since I was a baby.
Robbed of my anger, I cry instead.
The day after the news vans finally give up and leave, I accidentally answer the house phone. We changed the number early on because of all the unwanted calls, so it doesn’t occur to me it might be a reporter.
Within an hour, I field tens of calls. It becomes a game, and I keep a running tally of how many seconds it takes them to deliver their pitch.
“No interviews.”
Click.
“No movies or books.”
Click.
“I don’t want your money.”
Click.
Then there are the calls from people who’ve known me for years but who suddenly think I’m a winning horse to bet on. They sour my mood fast and ruin the game.
“No, I don’t need a ghostwriter, Mr. Lin.”
Click.
“A green bean casserole for my story isn’t a fair trade, Mrs. Cole.”
Click.
“No, Marge, I don’t want a homecoming party.”
I unplug the phone again, and we get another new number.
Some days, I really miss Maria.
Every day, I miss him.
74
The first day I feel remotely human, my mom and I drive to Seattle. For my first stop, she stays in the car.
Grant and I have spoken on the phone since my return, but seeing him face-to-face in our old apartment is surreal. He hugs me so tightly and for so long that I battle the urge to introduce his nuts to my knee. Thankfully, the feeling passes.
I relax in his arms. We cry together, then hold each other for a while. I tell him I loved him, that I’m sorry he suffered when I went missing, and that I want him to be happy. That it’s not his fault everything’s different. That I’m different.
He says he understands, and all he wants is the same—for me to be happy.
We both know there’s no going back.
At my old hospital, I’m treated like a celebrity. Begged to come back. Offered higher pay and better benefits. My mom heads off the mob. We stay only long enough for me to retrieve my personal belongings and tell an administrator I won’t be returning to work.
How can I help people when I’m broken?
One morning near the end of August, my dad finds me sitting on the front lawn watching the sunrise, his not-well-enough-hidden bottle of whiskey cradled in my hands and a blanket over my shoulders.
He goes back inside without saying anything and reappears a few minutes later with fresh coffee. The whiskey bottle is pulled from my fingers and replaced with a warm mug.
He sits beside me with his own coffee. We sip in silence as the sun breaches the horizon.
Eventually, he stands and brushes dew and grass off his pants. “Guess what we’re doing today?” he asks.
“What?”
“Buying you a car.”
I squint blearily at him. “Why?”
“Do you remember when you were a teenager and you read On the Road by Kerouac, and you decided that driving across the country was the only way you’d find your true artistic self?”
“I also thought blue eyeliner was awesome,” I grumble.
“You’re taking that trip, Eden.”
Still half-drunk, it’s a few seconds before his words sink in. Then I gape. “You’re kicking me out?”
He nods perfunctorily. “It’s time for you to hit the road.”
75
TWO MONTHS LATER
My dad saved my life that day. I don’t pretend to know how he figured out what I needed. Maybe it was just a guess, or he was sick of my moping. But I think he knew that the only way to find something that was lost was to search for it. It was obvious that I was lost, so he decided I needed to get off my ass and go searching for myself.
With no other plans that day or for my future, I thought fuck it and agreed to go car shopping. Thus, my first large purchase post-Rarotonga was a new car. Sturdy. Reliable. Unremarkable.
My dad didn’t bat an eye when I paid for it with a thick envelope of cash. Nor did my mom comment when, on the morning I set out, I handed her a small duffel full of money. After hugging them both, I drove away on my pilgrimage to nowhere, hoping to find what had been lost.
I’ve been on the road for the last eight weeks with no one but myself for company. I won’t lie—it was a rough start.
But then a funny thing happened.
The hum of tires, the drifting sky, the rest stops, national parks, mountains and lakes, every roadside motel and diner… every lonely meal, every song belted out over the radio, every photo taken on my phone, the tourist traps and monuments… like pieces of a puzzle I didn’t know was forming, all came together.
And about a week ago, as I was driving into Tucson to visit Elizabeth, I looked through a dirty windshield at the dusky evening sky, and I saw the finished puzzle of me.
Not the innocent dove. Not the little monster or the fierce siren. Not the doctor, daughter, sister, friend, or lover. Not my fear or anger. Not my love or hope.
Just… me. Every mismatched, inexplicable, contradictory part of me. Every good memory. Every traumatic one. Everything. All of it.
Liam was right, the bastard. I was never broken—I was breaking free.
I still hate Los Angeles, but when Karina invited me to the opening night of her newest gallery show, I couldn’t think of an honest excuse to miss it. I was already in Tucson, a m
ere seven-hour car trip away.
Early this morning, I said goodbye to Elizabeth, leaving her grinning in the driveway of her modest, recently-purchased home on the outskirts of the city.
As I drove west, nostalgia crept over me. For what, I wasn’t exactly sure. But I knew what it meant.
My pilgrimage was nearing its end.
Now, as I wander through a glamorous crowd at a downtown gallery, I feel remarkably serene. I’m no longer affected by the glances of strangers. I no longer care that in my slinky, burgundy silk gown, I’m the definition of overdressed.
When I called my parents today, I told my dad what I was feeling. The stillness in my mind, the fading of my generalized anxiety, the sense of being a part of the world rather than on the outside looking in.
He was quiet for long moments, then told me that he was glad my insides finally matched my outsides. Oddly, I knew exactly what he meant.
“Dang, girl, look at that dress! Your ass looks positively delish.”
At the familiar, flamboyant voice, I turn away from a painting to find Raul grinning at me. He’s wearing a black suit with tiny rhinestones sewn onto the lapels, a top hat, and glittery white sneakers. Miraculously, with his dramatic makeup and whip-thin frame, he pulls it off.
Raul gives me a spine-cracking hug and kisses my cheek, then leans back to study my face. His eyes, I notice, are clear. According to Karina, they’ve been clear since I went missing. Only when he’d been clean for a month had she given him his portion of the money. He’d bought a car, quit selling drugs, and started taking classes at a local school for fashion design.
“You look better,” he says gravely. “You find a new dick to suck?”
Nearby, there are murmurs of shock. I just roll my eyes. “No, thanks for asking. And thanks, I feel better.”
Raul glances over his shoulder, then steps closer to me and lowers his voice. “I’ve got intel that’s been eating at me, and I have to tell you. You know I can’t keep secrets.”
I laugh. “True. What’s going on?”
“A month or so ago, your dude came into Al’s. He didn’t order food, just sat at the counter for three hours. I finally came out of the kitchen to tell him to piss off, but man, he had some sad fuckin’ eyes.”
My heart is now somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
Raul clucks his tongue. “Just like your eyes right now. All sad and lovesick and shit. He finally manned up and asked how you were. I wasn’t gonna tell him shit, but,” he shrugs, “I’m a sucker for blue eyes. Told him you were good. Staying with your parents as you figured stuff out.”
“Okay,” I finally wheeze.
He squeezes my arm in sympathy. “He told me not to tell you he came in, but you’re my girl and he’s just a dick with a pretty package. And I can’t keep secrets.”
In spite of myself, I laugh. “Thanks, Raul.”
He winks. “Did you see Karina yet?”
“Nope. Just got here a little bit ago.”
Linking his arm through mine, he throws me a saucy grin. “She’s probably hiding somewhere crying into her champagne. Let’s go slap some sense into her.”
I nod sagely. “That’s what friends are for, right?”
“Amen.”
Around eleven, I run out of steam. Whether it’s the long drive catching up, or the high heels on my aching feet, I just want pajamas and a bed. The opening was a success—Karina sold six of her eight paintings. She, Raul, and a crew of friends decide to continue the celebration at a nearby club, and I take advantage of the transition to tell Karina I’m toast.
Armed with her spare house key and permission to eat the fudge ice-cream in her freezer, I retreat to my car and immediately take off my shoes. Sweet relief. Wiggling my toes in pleasure, I start the car and head toward Echo Park.
Before I know it, I’m in the driveway of the cozy, three-bedroom house Karina and Raul share. My headlights illuminate a modest front yard and windows with drawn curtains. Despite my body’s demand for sleep, I can’t seem to make myself turn off the car.
Nostalgia returns tenfold, this time for a city I’ve loved and loathed in turns. Used to traveling on a whim, I don’t think much about it as I back down the driveway and head for Santa Monica.
When I get there, I don’t park, but I do stare overlong at the lights of Pacific Park. And when thoughts of Liam inevitably come, they’re free of resentment. I know everything he did, every lie and misdirection, was for the purpose of keeping me safe.
Now all I feel is sadness for what we’ve endured and longing for a future we might have had.
You’ll always come home to me.
His words and the conviction they’d carried float through my mind. And I realize it’s the final question—one half of the reason I’ve been wandering, lost and searching, for months. Years, even. Since a broken heart and a plane ticket home.
I fulfilled my part, finding all my pieces and fitting them together. But for better or worse, I still don’t know if the reason I’m wandering to begin with is because home isn’t a place, but a person.
My mind and body in perfect agreement, I drive toward the Hollywood Hills.
Straight into the sun.
When I arrive at the familiar house, there’s no car in the driveway and no lights on inside. But the lawn is manicured, the hedges trimmed. Possessed by instinct—or insanity—I park and jog to the front door.
The handle turns easily, the door opening without sound. My heart hammering, I step inside, tiptoeing only far enough to peer into the shadowed kitchen.
A coffee mug sits on the island about six inches from the sink. Beside it rests a folded paper towel, a spoon lying perfectly in the center. Liam. There’s no freaking way a new owner or renter would leave their empty mug in the exact same spot in the exact same way.
My heart calms. I retrace my steps, closing the front door behind me and getting back in my car. For a few minutes, I stare sightlessly ahead. Excitement mingles with apprehension as I consider going back into the house to wait for him. Then I remember the message he gave Agent Hernandez.
If you want to find me, I’ll be waiting.
And I suddenly know that I can’t go inside. Can’t wait for him to find me. It’s not what he’s asking, and it’s not what I’m willing to do.
“You want me to find you, Liam?” I ask as I put the car in reverse. “Game on.”
76
When I walk under the familiar black awning into a wash of crimson light, I don’t wait for the angelic doorman—Nick? Nathan?—to speak.
“Open the door, please.” Polite but firm.
Instead of chewing me out or threatening me, his mouth drops open before resolving into a wide grin. “Sugarplum, you’re here!”
I frown. “What? And what did you call me?”
He shakes his head quickly. “Nothing—never mind.” Jumping off his stool, he opens the padded door and gestures with flourish. “Crossroads awaits, madam.”
As I pass him, I pause and take in his ecstatic expression. Wry humor tilts my lips. “I’m on the list, aren’t I?”
He winks. “Every day of every week.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or sigh. I settle for thanking him and walking into the club. The first thing I notice is the spotlight over the pit. An amplified moan confirms that a scene is being played out for the delight of the crowd.
The communal focus is a blessing, as no one really notices as I walk toward the bar. I muse that the lack of interest could also very well be a side-effect of my dress—vivid red with a near-scandalous cut. A smile tugs my mouth as I wonder if the few people who glance my way think I’m a Domme.
Despite the action going on, the bar is packed two-deep with patrons. I wait and finally find an opening, squeezing through bodies until I reach the counter. My only plan right now is a shot of something strong.
He’s here. I can feel him.
What I don’t expect is to recognize the bartende
r who rises from a squat directly opposite me. Seeing me, London of the perfect-skin does a fair impression of the doorman, her mouth dropping open with surprise.
“Eden! Wow, you look so different, I almost didn’t recognize you. Are you looking for Liam?”
“Yes, I am. Is he here?”
She nods. “He’s in Dominic’s office. Go on back.” When I hesitate, she grabs a bottle and a shot glass, which she fills to the brim. With a grin, she hands it to me. “Down the hatch.”
I throw back the shot, then cough. “Christ, what was that?”
London chuckles. “Liquid courage.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly.
She tosses her head toward the door at the end of the bar. “Now go on. But take it easy on him, will ya? He’s… well, you’ll see. Good luck.” Then she turns to another customer, taking away my last excuse to stall.
Once again fighting the equal urge to laugh and sigh, I skirt around the bar to the white door. Deep breath. I open the door, revealing the familiar, empty hallway.
The first step is the hardest, but I take it. The door swings shut behind me, and the noise from the club is instantly muted.
Another step. Then another and another, until there’s only one more door between us. There I stop. My breathing has reverted to erratic and shallow. I can taste my pounding heartbeat at the back of my throat.
My goddamn panties are damp.
“You’re a fucking mess,” I mutter.
From the other side of the door, an amused voice says, “You’re right. I’m an absolute mess without you.”
The door opens inward, pulling the breath out of me. Turquoise, bloodshot eyes. Messy hair gone too long without a trim. Days-old scruff. Worn t-shirt and faded jeans.
Home.
Double Vision Page 23