by Leanne Davis
I wait, thinking that Max will realize I am leaving and call me, text me, or come see me… anything. Max will have to come to his senses and realize that everything will change if I leave. I will not return here next summer as this Christina. We will lose our only chance. Our window of opportunity. I feel it in my bones, this is it. And that’s perhaps why the knowledge sits so heavily on my heart. I don’t know how Max is after that terrible fight. I should never have left him in that locker room. I left him hurt, lying in the shower stall. I left him as if he wasn’t worth fighting for any longer. I left him as if he was right to shove me away. I left him to continue fighting, and to be with that woman. I left him because I was immature. I couldn’t have Max the way I wanted. Or how I thought he should be.
Because I had to know, even then, that he would feel lucky to have me. It would never occur to him that I felt lucky to have him.
That’s the trouble with having a lot of time on your hands: you stop and think. It’s very, very quiet. Yet, for once in my life, I don’t mind. I like the extra time and the quiet. All my thoughts go back to how much I miss Max not being here.
And Natalie.
Chapter Sixteen
~Christina~
I’VE WORKED EVERY SUMMER, and three days a week during the school year at my mom’s vet office since I was sixteen. I’m not rich, but my parents pay most of my expenses beyond gas, insurance, and my monthly car payment. So I have enough money in my savings account to pay for a trip to San Francisco. I keep staring at my bank balance. It’s enough. More than enough to take a trip. I’m freaking eighteen years old! I’m old enough to take a damn trip without my parents’ approval.
Or knowledge.
I know it’s the wrong thing to do. I know going off without telling them isn’t considerate. It’s what the old me would do, act without really caring if I hurt those around me. But this time, I don’t want to hurt those around me. I just want to satisfy my curiosity. I don’t know what I expect or hope to find. But I want to see Natalie. I want to know what her life is like. I want to know if she is okay. I want to see her; and I want her to see me.
It will hurt my mom, and it could hurt Natalie. It could hurt me, too. But she’s my sister. Biology might not mean very much, but it does with Melissa and Emily; what if it does with Natalie too? I’m consumed by the thought. It piques my curiosity. I don’t know if my reasons are noble or selfish, but I decide I must go there alone.
I’m going to do it. I know it in my gut as I pack a bag. Here, I am, with all my stuff ready to move into the dorm, and instead of doing that, I’m taking off! I don’t know for how long. I do know it will freak everyone out. Classes start in six days. I might miss some of them. It’s a stupid and shortsighted thing to do right now. It’s reckless and bratty and all the other things I’m often accused of being.
Yet I feel that I absolutely have to. How can I go off to college, the place where I’m supposed grow up and find myself, if I have this huge question mark in my life? She’s part of my family. I can’t stand unanswered questions. Having someone tell me the answers, or coax me not to worry about the answers doesn’t satisfy my incessant quest for the truth. It doesn’t cut it for me. I need to see proof. I need to have total and complete clarity. I feel like if I don’t do this now, the new life I intend to start will only be a false one.
I wait until my parents are at work and leave Melissa in charge. I tell her I’m going to hang out with some friends and won’t be home until after dinner. I also leave a note on my bed. They’ll look there soon enough, as soon as I don’t show up. I don’t intend to call anyone, or answer my phone. I can’t imagine how angry they’ll be. Dad especially. I certainly can’t talk to him, or he’ll surely get it all out of me. I can’t actually lie to them, not even over the phone. But I can avoid them. I see it as my only choice right now. They will have no idea of my destination. I doubt if they’ll think to call Seth Gifford, and ask for information about me; and he’s the only one who would have a clue about me going to San Francisco.
I start the drive south towards Oregon, and by late night, I’m out of Washington state, and well on my road trip. It’s really freaking boring to drive all those miles alone. It gives you way too much time to think. Monotony breeds self-reflection, and all I can see is every advantage I’ve ever been given; and yet, I let go of the only person I ever loved who isn’t part of my family. I love Max. My friend. Lover. Boyfriend. I just love him. Having him any way at all is better than this… not having him. I feel like nothing without him.
I pull over at a roadside motel that’s almost more depressing than driving. I open the door to a faceless, worn motel room with a queen-sized bed, nightstand, a bolted-down TV, and a small, two-seater table. After texting my parents with the obligatory I’m okay, I resist the urge to check any of my messages and turn my phone off. I watch TV, and lie in the dark, and I think.
Day number two brings more of the same. I eat some fast food and stop at gas stations for stretching breaks and to pee. At one of the stops, I turn my phone on and see there are about twenty messages and texts for me. I scroll through them, ignoring the ones from my parents and aunt and Noah, having a pretty good idea what they all say. Melissa even texts me. I click on hers. She says Everyone is freaking out and I need to call home, not just text, asking, where am I? What am I doing? And why don’t I just tell them?
The last message stops me dead. Max. There is a text from Max! Tears fill my eyes and my breathing escalates. Just seeing his name on my phone makes me feel weird. Wired. Alive. I used to get five texts a day from him, and now? Just one has my freaking palms sweating. It’s simple, it says, Call me. No doubt, he must have heard I disappeared.
The gas handle clicks off. I set my phone down and walk back to disengage the pump and twist the gas cap back on. I take my receipt. Even if my parents are tracking my purchases, I don’t expect them to guess where my destination is, or what the hell I’m doing.
The second night, I stay in another faceless chain motel that’s even worse than last night. I text home I’m fine before eating a cold hamburger. I twirl my phone around, staring at it. Call me. Call me. Max said I should call him. Should I? Why am I hesitating? Why don’t I jump at the chance?
In the end, I decide not to call. I can’t take anymore anxiety or confusion on top of the whole sister-I-didn’t-know-about stuff.
The next day, I pull into San Francisco. It’s a stunning town, really. After traveling through Oregon on the I-5 South, I purposely drive through the Golden Gate Bridge, which shines under the summer sun. It rises up into the air with its majestic towers and long suspension cables. The color reflects the sun while the idyllic view of water, boats and blue sky fill my vision. I stop at a vantage point and take some pictures because it really is a breathtaking bridge. I’ve never been here before. My heart is literally skipping. The wind is blowing my hair every which way. I am here! Finally! I stare across the bay towards the city where my sister lives.
Using my phone, I type in Natalie Ford’s address and follow the ensuing directions. It takes me longer than it should, as I’m trying to navigate the steep, one-way streets. I’m not much of a city driver so I have to be hyper careful. Eventually, I park opposite my sister’s listed address.
The street is narrow, another one-way thoroughfare with mostly Victorian-styled, row houses. There are a few interspersed trees along the sidewalk. It’s rather neat and tidy, indicative of a more well-to-do area of town. I judge the Fords to be reasonably successful, simply by where they live. The house is three stories high with a steep, pointed roof, plenty of dormers and cornices as well as gingerbreading in the details. It’s a bright, sunny yellow with clean, white trim.
I glance around, worrying that someone might notice me and think I’m a stalker or something. I kind of feel like that. I’m so nervous, my hands are slick with sweat. I cannot believe I’ve come here and done this. It seems surreal, now that I’m here. What should I do?
Evening is approa
ching. Car after car parallel parks along the street out in front of the row of houses. The workday is over. A man parks a sleek-looking, silver Audi in front of the Ford address. That perks me up and I sit up straighter. The man opens his car door, and a long leg steps out. Then his torso until the man stands to his full height. He’s pretty tall, maybe six feet or so, and wearing a full-on suit. Gray trousers, white button-up shirt, tie, and jacket. I honestly don’t know anyone who dresses like that. Not even in downtown Ellensburg, where a few professionals have businesses, no one wears suits that look like this guy’s. I wonder what the hell he does. He has black, thick hair that curls around the collar of his shirt. I hold my breath because from a distance, he looks pretty hot. Like he should be modeling for a men’s magazine handsome. He brings out a briefcase and shuts the car door. With a quick, commanding stride, he pulls out the keys from his pocket, and inserts one that opens the Ford house before he disappears. Samuel Ford? Natalie’s husband? I wait a little longer, but no one else appears. I wait longer still. But nothing. I’m not sure what to do. I’m hesitant. I don’t want to just show up at the front door, unannounced. I mean, no matter how I approach them, it has to be a complete and utter shock for them. I most likely won’t be a welcomed, pleasant surprise.
But still, I doubt I can give this up now, and I kind of hate myself for it.
I pull away and find another cheap motel for the night. The neighborhood doesn’t look as neat or feel as safe as the Fords’ enclave. I can’t find their names listed anywhere in the phonebook provided by the motel room. Must be an unlisted number. Or they only use cell phones. I sigh. I guess appearing at the front door will have to be my only course of action.
My phone is on, and I stare at it. Max has messaged me three more times with increasingly annoyed texts: call me please ASAP. Call me now. Damn it, Tina quit ignoring me and fucking call me already. The last one makes me laugh. I can picture him perfectly. In the last text, I can even hear his voice, the tone, the pitch, and the way his face gets all wrinkled up with aggravation. If he thinks I’m acting like a brat, he also rolls his eyes. I can finally feel Max again, and that squeezes my heart. This whole journey is lonely, but definitely eye-opening. I finally realize how little time I’ve been alone, or on my own at all in my life. I have never done anything without parental permission, or pressure from friends, or some consideration of Max’s input.
My phone rings as I’m scrolling through the long list of worried messages. I stare in surprise when Max’s name flashes. My heart skips. I think about ignoring it. But envisioning his actual presence on the other end, I can’t do it.
“Hello?”
He sighs right into my ear. “About fucking time! Where are you?”
“Hi, Max, friend. How am I? I’m okay. I’m—”
“I get your point. We need to talk. No more bullshit, and I mean it. Everyone is freaking the fuck out over this stunt of yours. When will you ever learn to quit being such a spoiled brat?”
I don’t expect the ferocious attack. My mouth is hanging open without any sound coming out of it.
“Where are you?” he repeats.
“The Bay View Motel in San Francisco,” I snap, hoping it shocks him.
The silence is so thick over the line, you could spread it on toast. Then, “What are you doing there?”
“Something important,” I mumble.
He asks, “Are you all right?”
“No. I’m really not. But physically, yes. I chose to come here.”
“Why? What the hell is there?”
“Not what, who. Someone I’m thinking about visiting.”
“What’s going on? What are you doing? Come on, Tiny, you need to talk to me.”
Tears fill my eyes. His voice drops and the tone changes, as if he were right next to me, coaxing me to talk. And all I want to do, now, suddenly, is talk to Max. “My mom has another daughter. She was born as a result of what happened to her in Mexico. I found her! I found the woman who is my oldest sister.”
Max’s heavy breath travels right into my ear. “In San Francisco?”
“Yes. She’s here in San Francisco.”
We’re both quiet. I can hear him breathing, which strangely comforts me, more than anything else. “Have you met her?”
“No. I found her house. I think I saw her husband getting home from work.”
“And what are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. I’m still figuring that out.”
“Always so rash to act and slow to think it out,” he mumbles. “I’m coming to you. Tell me where you’re staying. Don’t bullshit me, Christina.”
My heart literally leaps and my pulse increases. “You don’t need to come here.”
“Yes, I do. Besides I’m already halfway there. Derek flew up here to ream my ass out after you told him I was fighting. I’m taking him home. I’ll only be a few hours away from you. So it’s either me, or your dad. I’m thinking right now, you’d be better off seeing me.”
“You’ll tell him,” I say in a defeated monotone. I shouldn’t have revealed where I was or what I was doing.
“No. I won’t. You will. You will call your damn parents right now and tell them where you are and what you’re doing. Then my parents will know too.”
“Since when do you have parents?”
“Since someone left me lying bloody and alone in a shower stall. It reminded me that I didn’t have to be there, or hurt like that. I have options. Way better options than I was choosing to piss away. Now, call them! Quit acting like a spoiled brat who doesn’t think about anyone but herself. Do you have any idea how worried everyone is?”
“I’m not a spoiled brat! You don’t get a say in this either. I wasn’t being a brat this time. I was trying to spare them some anguish. I know it is hard for my mom, but I still needed to do this. I want to meet her. I want to meet my sister! She’s not just my mom’s illegitimate baby anymore; she’s my sister.”
I finish my tirade, nearly screaming, and hang up on him. Then I furiously hurled the phone across the room. It crashes to the floor. I don’t care if it’s ruined. I curl up into a ball on the bedspread and lie there, feeling miserable. I feel all alone and abandoned, yet I’m the one who left everyone to go out on my own. I intellectually get that, but it doesn’t make me feel much better. I am in a strange city and unsure of how to fulfill my mission. I am worrying about everyone back home and something aches inside me. I inherently don’t like to disappoint anyone in my life. I’m not a rebel, although I am always seeking answers and trying to learn secrets and things about people that they might not want to volunteer.
But this time, without Max, I feel like I’m being dragged behind a car. I’m worn out, run over, and inconsolably sad. After the way he treated me, how can he just call me up now and try to tell me what to do?
I continue lying there, doing nothing, cradling a pillow against my stomach. Staring with hollow eyes and a hollow heart at the bland, beige paint on the walls and the pretty beach scene watercolor hanging opposite me, I finally fall asleep with the lights on.
A sharp knock on my motel room door wakes me abruptly. My heart nearly stops. I sit up, blinking, and push the pillow aside. Being more aware than ever that I’m hundreds of miles from anyone, and no one knows where I am, or what I’m doing, I also realize it’s the middle of the freaking night… Christ, who could be knocking on my door? I glance around. There is no way I can call for help.
“Christina? It’s me,” a voice calls through the door. I’m about to stand up when I stop short and simply freeze. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed with my feet on the floor. Max. Oh, dear Lord, it’s Max. I am stunned. He actually drove here? To San Francisco? How’d he get my room number? I guess after coming this far, that was probably the easiest part.
I pull myself up and walk across the small room. I am still dressed, but my hair is ratty and my eyes are heavy from lack of sleep and crying. I fling the door open and see him. We’re staring at each other ove
r the small threshold of my hotel room. Tears instantly fill my eyes and slide down my cheeks. I start shaking my head in sad disbelief. Something in me that kept trying to be tough and grown up suddenly fades from exhaustion. I feel like my spine is bending under the pressure of what’s going on. I lean against the doorknob. I’m shaking my head through my tears, still afraid to trust what I see.
“You’re here?” I barely whisper.
Max’s mouth starts to lift into a half grin. “You’re here, where else could I be?”
I stare at him, not comprehending. As far as I know, me being here should mean he can’t be here. I start to back up. I can’t do that again. I can’t survive the hurt, knowing how much I want and need him; and the thing is: I want to want him and need him. I don’t see any shame in it. I love him. I know now as surely as I have brown hair. I stare into his dark eyes. They seem kind of tender as they run up and down the length of me.
He who broke my heart. I step back again. I keep my eyes glued to his, but my face is scrunched up with the pain and confusion I can’t hide from him. It’s all Max, it’s always been Max, since I was old enough to even feel those things. I always wondered why Max was so much more important to me than everyone else. His opinions, his presence, his everything weighed so much more with me than with anyone else.
Now, I finally can begin to understand my own reaction to him. I just didn’t know then, or perhaps, I couldn’t admit it. I don’t exactly know now. It just is for me now. My heart aches and more tears fall. He holds all the power in the world. He can hurt me, destroy me, ruin me… or save me.
I’m still compulsively shaking my head and backing up. I find it difficult to comprehend that he is here with me. Why? To bring me home? To reassure everyone I’m okay? To serve as the good big brother he so often tried to be to me?
I want nothing to do with any of it. None of that is okay with me, not anymore. I didn’t ask his permission to come here, and I don’t need it now. I need no one’s permission anymore. I wipe my tears and sniff, my breath slightly hitching. It’s somewhat empowering to finally admit that to myself. “You didn’t have to come here. I don’t need babysitting, protecting, or saving. I know what I want and I’m perfectly capable of deciding what to do. Even if it’s a mistake, I’m old enough, smart enough, and capable enough to make my own mistakes. I know how to handle them. So fine, you saw me! I’m alive and well in a motel room, paid for with money I earned from my job. You can go tell everyone back home. But I don’t need or want you or my dad coming here to save me.”