No Such Thing as a Free Ride

by Shelly Fredman

  “No problem, Sunshine. I’ll swing by your place on the way home. Are you still at work?”

  “Yes,” I said, a little too quickly. I’ve known John since I was four. He always knows when I’m lying.

  “Yeah, sure you are,” he said. “Where are you really?”

  I heaved a big sigh and told him.

  “So, let me get this straight,” he said when I finished. “One minute you’re a fugitive on the run from Lamaze class and the next you’re speeding down Broad Street in the back of an ambulance with a kid you’d never seen before in your life.”

  “Yeah, pretty much.” I figured I’d leave out the part about getting gum stuck in my hair as that was strictly “need to know.”

  “Listen, do you want me to come down there and keep you company?”

  “Thanks for the offer but I’m fine.” I glanced up and a large pretty woman in blue rounded the corner and began walking toward me.

  “I’ve gotta go,” I told him. “Tell Adrian I’ll be home soon.” I hung up before he could make fun of me for thinking the dog understands—which he totally does. Then I stood and greeted Dr. Martine Sanchez.

  Dr. Sanchez and I have gotten to know each other fairly well over the past several months. Seems my penchant for disaster corresponds perfectly with her rotation on the duty roster. She stopped in front of me and shook her head in mock disapproval. I could tell by the dark circles under her eyes that it had been a long night, and it wasn’t over yet.

  “Do you have stock in this hospital?” she teased. “Is that why you can’t stay away?”

  “Hey,” I joked back, “at least this time I wasn’t wheeled in on a gurney.”

  “Well, I’m glad to see you’re staying out of trouble.” (Sheesh, does everybody think I go looking for it?) “But if you’re here to report on the quints that were born tonight, you’ve got the wrong hospital. They’re over at Einstein.”

  “Actually, I’m here about a teenage girl who was brought in about forty-five minutes ago. She’s white, long brown hair, pretty.”

  “Are you a relative?”

  “Um… yes?”

  Dr. Sanchez rolled her eyes heavenward. I don’t know why I bother lying anymore. I’ve totally lost my touch.

  “Okay,” I admitted. “I’m not exactly a relative. But I do feel responsible for her. I was the one who brought her in.”

  “What can you tell me about her?” she asked.

  “Not much. I found her and called 911. She was really scared, so I rode along with her in the ambulance. Who is she?”

  “We don’t know,” Dr. Sanchez told me, her mouth forming a slight frown. “She’s running a high fever and drifting in and out of consciousness. She had no I.D. on her. I suspect she’s a runaway.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “All the signs point to it. Even in her weakened condition she was defiant, giving evasive answers to straightforward questions—we couldn’t get her to tell us her real name. Then there’s this little homemade tattoo on her ankle. A lot of street kids that wind up here sport those.” She sighed.

  “What happened to her?” I asked. “Why was she bleeding?”

  Dr. Sanchez shook her head. “Miscarriage—or botched abortion. She’s developed an infection. It’s a blessing you found her when you did.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “May I ask why?”

  I didn’t know why and for once I was at a loss for words.

  “Mija, I’ve been following your career ever since the first time you ended up in the emergency room, and I know your heart’s in the right place. But I’m very protective of my patients. These kids are exploited enough, so if your boss is looking for a quick ratings boost for your station during Sweeps Week—”

  When I answered there was a hitch in my voice that I didn’t expect. I must’ve been getting a cold. “I just thought she could use a friend.”

  “Follow me.”

  *****

  It was after midnight by the time I got home from the hospital. The girl had fallen into a fitful sleep, her slight hands clasped in prayer, an I.V. needle protruding from one thin vein. She was draped in a sheet, her right foot sticking out at an angle, and I caught a glimpse of the amateur etching on her ankle. It took me a moment to realize it was almost an exact replica of the girl’s at the gym.

  They were waiting to move her, either to I.C.U. or the morgue, depending on how well she responded to the meds. Dr. Sanchez was cautiously optimistic.

  I left the cubicle, thought briefly about going home and decided to hang around a little while longer. The guy who’d shot himself in the foot was just leaving, supported by a pair of crutches and two uniformed cops. I didn’t see the woman who’d eaten soap. I assumed she’d gotten a clean bill of health. (Sometimes I crack myself up.)

  At 11:00 p.m. a nurse came out to tell me the girl’s condition had stabilized. She wasn’t out of the woods yet, but it looked promising. I said a silent goodbye to the girl with no name and headed home.

  *****

  By 7:00 a.m. it was 82 degrees outside with 100% humidity. I woke up swimming in sweat, my air conditioner having given up the ghost in the middle of the night. Even the rain seemed to be suffering from heat exhaustion. It fell in languid plops, steaming up the bedroom windows.

  I wasn’t scheduled to work today, so I rolled over onto my back and tried to recapture the dream I’d been having—something about a six-foot tall chimpanzee wearing a business suit and smoking a bubble gum cigar. He spoke English with a Brooklyn accent and was just about to ask me out when my phone rang, waking me up and effectively putting the kibosh on my only date in three months.

  “Hullo?”

  “Brandy, it’s Suzanne!” Suzanne is my boss, Eric’s, nineteen year old assistant/girlfriend. She’s not too bright but she makes up for it with lots of enthusiasm.

  “Hey, Suzanne. What’s up?”

  “It’s an emergency! Eric said to get over to 239 Arch Street. Stat! A camera crew will meet you there.”

  I shoved Rocky off my chest and sat up. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “He didn’t say… or maybe he did. I don’t really remember… .”

  While she pondered this, I hung up.

  My mind raced with possibilities. What could be so urgent? House fire? Bomb scare? Whatever, I’m finally getting a shot at breaking news. Whoo hoo!

  “Mommy’s finally going to be taken seriously around here,” I told the cat and the dog. I threw on my one nice pair of slacks, gathered my hair into a ponytail and brushed my teeth on the way downstairs. After promising Adrian a long walk when I got back, I made a dash for the car and took off for Center City.

  Turning onto Arch Street, I double parked next to a WINN news van and hopped out. The rain had slowed to a fine mist and a crowd had formed on the sidewalk. I looked around. Nothing seemed to be on fire, there was no SWAT team circling the premises, there wasn’t even anyone wielding a megaphone trying to talk a depressive off a ledge. And why was the WINN news van the only one in sight?

  We must have an exclusive! I made a beeline for Eric.

  “What’s going on?” I huffed, completely winded.

  “Here,” he yelled, shoving something into my arms. “Put this on, quick! We’re live in two minutes!”

  Hmm… What is this? Kevlar? Or maybe something flame-retardant? Or…

  I looked down. “A corset?” I said aloud.

  “Well, what else would you expect for a segment on Betsy Ross?”

  “Betsy Ross?” Behind Eric stood a beautiful colonial structure. It looked like a doll’s house, small and narrow and perfect.

  “Um, is someone being held hostage inside or something?” I asked, hopefully.

  Eric gave me a sideways glance. “Real funny, Alexander.” He piled a wig and boots on top of an old-timey gown. “Listen up. I know it’s short notice, but all your lines are on the teleprompter. All you have to do is read ‘em and then toss back to the studio. Now get dressed,
we’re on in a minute!”

  Fuming, I grabbed the garb and entered the van to change.

  “Stupid Betsy Ross,” I muttered, jamming the wig on top of my head. “Stupid Eric, making me wear this stupid get-up,” I mumbled as I hopped, first on one foot, then the other, lacing up my boots. “Stupid…” the heel of my boot jammed between two bricks on the cobble stone road. I teetered on the brink as onlookers tried to determine if I’d been dipping into the family spirits, and then I toppled over, landing face first in a fresh puddle of mud.

  The wig slipped over my eyes, sparing me the sight of the gawking crowd. In the next instant I felt a hand tug gently at my arm and pull me to my feet. Then the hand moved to my face and nudged the wig off my eyes, and suddenly I found myself staring into twin pools of melted chocolate. I turned three shades of pink and nearly passed out.

  “Hello, Angel.”

  Oh my god.

  It had been three months since I’d heard that voice, seen that face, felt that feeling I got in the pit of my stomach whenever I was in the presence of Nicholas Santiago. For three long months I’d dreamed of our next encounter. It didn’t look anything like the nightmare this was shaping up to be.

  I smiled weakly, wiped the mud off my forehead and readjusted the wig. Nick waited patiently while I went through the motions of being very busy—too busy for conversation, the show must go on and all that crap. The truth is I had no idea in the world what to say to him that didn’t begin with, “Why don’t you love me, you heartless bastard?”

  Fortunately, Eric showed up at that moment.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. At least I think that’s what he said. He was laughing so hard he had spit coming out the sides of his mouth.

  “I’m fine. I’m sorry I ruined the shoot.”

  “No worries, kid. Gary caught your swan dive on tape. We’ll get tons of mileage out of the replay and feature it on our blooper special.” God must stay up nights thinking of fresh ways to humiliate me.

  Eric left and it was just Nick and me. He looked magnificent. His hair was slightly longer than the last time I’d seen him; curled at the ends and grazing the top of his shoulders. He had on faded jeans and a long sleeved white dress shirt, rolled at the elbows and open at the neck. His forearms were tan, his almond shaped eyes darker than I’d remembered, with slight shadows underneath, making him appear sexier than I ever thought humanly possible. He even smelled wonderful, which was totally unfair, seeing as I smelled like wet dog.

  Well, I would just have to make up for it with witty repartee. “I… uh… um… hi, Nick.”

  “Listen, Angel, I’ve got to take off. I’ve got a meeting a few blocks away and I’m running late. It was good bumping into you.” And then he was gone. Just like that.

  Well, what the hell was that all about? It was the topic of conversation with myself the entire way home. “Okay,” I conceded, the last time I’d seen him, things had been left a tad on the awkward side.

  I’d been on a mission to tell Nick I loved him. Never mind that I knew more personal info about the UPS delivery guy than I did about him. It wasn’t about facts. It was about the way he made me feel. Safe and smart and respected and loved. I mean he just had to love me. After all, a guy saves a girl’s life a coupla three times, she starts getting ideas that maybe he could return her feelings. Turns out, I was wrong.

  I knew I’d made a mistake the minute I’d arrived at Nick’s apartment building and found a gorgeous blonde descending the elevator from his floor. She had a sultry, satisfied look on her face that comes from either having really great sex or eating really great chocolate. Ever the optimist, I chose to think it was the latter.

  The icing on the cake was when Nick answered the door—naked. Clearly, he was happy to see someone, but I was quite sure that someone wasn’t me.

  “Did you forget something?” he asked. “Oh,” he said, surprised. “Hello, Angel. You’re up early.”

  I’d tried to bow out quickly, but in the end, I’d confessed it all. Seemed pointless not to. The man knew me better than I knew myself. He set me straight on his feelings for me. I was a friend, nothing more.

  Nick had the good grace to leave me alone while I pulled myself together. He told me to stay as long as I needed, he had a meeting. And then he left me alone in his apartment, and I did what anyone would have done. I snooped. Oh, come on, like you wouldn’t?

  I went into the bedroom in the guise of looking for tissue to absorb the buckets of tears I’d cried. On the nightstand was a pile of books. I thumbed through the Tibetan Book of the Dead and decided I should read it. I figured I wouldn’t understand one damn thing, but at least when people asked me what I’ve been reading lately I’d have something to tell them besides Internet Porn and the TV Guide.

  And then I opened a drawer and found a photo that John had taken of me. It had been part of a gallery exhibit, but it was never meant to be sold. I’d heard someone had paid a boatload of money for it and now I knew who. The question was, “why?”

  I never did get to ask Nick that question because he left town the next day. I’m sure I wasn’t foremost in his mind while he was gone, seeing as in three months, I never got so much as a postcard from the guy, but still the question of the photo haunted me.

  *****

  “You shoot like a girl.” Bobby took off his goggles and reloaded his pistol and handed it back to me. We were at the shooting range and I had just emptied a clip into the wall next to a paper man-shaped target. Well, that’s not entirely true. A few stray bullets hit the ceiling. I don’t have the best aim in town.

  I made a face and readjusted my ear protectors. “You shoot like a girl.”

  DiCarlo looked at me. “That made no sense at all. And, it’s sexist. You should watch statements like that.” He grinned and pulled the goggles down over his eyes. Standing behind me he wrapped his arms around me, enclosing my hands in his. “Try it again.” I felt his breath, warm on my ear, and it made me forget for a minute that we’d decided to be “just friends.” And then I remembered Tina.

  It’s not that I’m jealous. I’m not. It’s just that she’s stupid and Bobby can do so much better. I wiggled out of his grasp. “Y’know I think I’ve had enough practice for today.”

  “I thought you were serious about learning how to shoot.” He aimed the pistol and hit the target square in the chest, in rapid succession, emptying the chamber.

  “Lucky shots,” I shrugged.

  “That’s not luck, Sweetheart. I’m that good.”

  I flashed him a major eye roll.

  Bobby put down the gun, his face growing serious. “Look, Bran, all kidding aside, I heard about the girl you found last night. She was lucky you were there to help her, but the fact remains that it could’ve ended up being a dangerous situation for you.” I started to protest but he held up the “talk to the hand” sign. “Sweetheart, it’s not your fault. You attract danger like flies on shit. I’m just saying as your friend and someone who loves you, I want you to be prepared.”

  DiCarlo was right. I needed to raise my level of competency instead of relying on luck to keep myself safe. I reloaded and shot round after round until I was finally able to hit the target. Granted, a moving target would present more of a challenge, but at least by the end I wasn’t aerating the ceiling.

  Bobby walked me back to the car. “I’ve got an hour before I pick Sophia up from her play group. You want to grab a cheesesteak? My treat.”

  The offer was tempting seeing as all I had in my refrigerator was a slimy bag of organic lettuce about a week past its expiration date, (As John says, it’s not enough to buy healthy food. You actually have to eat it) but I had things to do.

  “Can I take a rain check? I want to swing by the hospital to check up on that girl. They won’t tell me anything over the phone.” Plus, I had to walk past Nick’s apartment building about a thousand times in the hopes of casually running into him again. My agenda for the afternoon was pretty full.

  Bobby leaned
against the car, his arms folded across his chest, his expression a cross between amused and aggravated. People look like that quite often around me.

  “It’s already started,” he said.

  “I’ll bite. What’s already started?”

  “You’re obsessing over that kid. You think you’re the only one in the city that can help her.”

  “Bobby that is so not true. Jeez you make it sound like I go totally overboard. I just want to make sure she’s okay is all.”

  “Did you or did you not call the police station three times last night to see if they’ve been able to find out who she is?”

  “You have no proof that was me. Besides, they wouldn’t tell me anything. Could you call for me?”

  He cast me another look, this time of pure affection. “I’ve already checked—because I knew you’d want to know. She finally gave a name to the hospital, but the cops ran a check and it’s bogus.”

  “Listen, there’s a girl who’s been hanging around Frankie’s gym. I think she’s homeless. Anyway, she has a homemade tattoo under her ear. It looks really similar to the one the girl in the hospital has. Maybe they’re a part of some kind of street club or something. If we could find out where they hang out, maybe we can go down there and they’ll I.D. the girl in the hospital.”

  Bobby shook his head. “No good.”

  “Why not?”

  “The police have already done a sweep of known hangouts. Nobody’s talking. Street kids don’t give each other up to the cops.”

  “Unhh! But we’re just trying to help!”

  “To a youth living on the street, cops are the enemy, Sweetheart.”

  “Then it makes perfect sense for me to go. These kids just need to know someone cares about them. Once I explain why I’m there, they’ll talk to me.”

  “And we’re back to square one. Brandy, these kids aren’t the innocent little flowers you think they are. They have to be tough to be able to survive on the streets. They’re all con artists, most are druggies—and those are some of their better qualities. I know you’re on a crusade to save the world, but until you understand certain realities you’d better sit this one out.”