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I don’t believe her for a second, and neither does she.
“Take care of yourself,” Twanow exhales, her tone more tired, more honest. “If Sanders MacManus really has Lea… she deserves to come home; she deserves to be safe.”
I don’t bother to question what that’s going to look like. Lea’s family farm is long gone, not to mention an infamous crime scene. As for her sister… nothing Lea can do about Keahi’s fate.
To a certain extent, however, these are all esoteric issues. A young girl, forced into sex trafficking… Lea doesn’t care about the details. Lea deserves to be free.
These are my marching orders.
For her I get out of the car, square my shoulders, and grab my sole piece of luggage. I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’m going. I’m totally, completely a stranger in a strange land.
Which is to say, I’m exactly in the sweet spot of my comfort zone.
Watch YouTube video. Have a valid driver’s license as well as a plane ticket. I go forth and find my flight.
MY TICKET IS first class, which I should probably feel guilty about, but I am too terrified to care. Turns out that has its own security line, so I basically stand in the wrong line for thirty minutes to have some cranky TSA agent inform me I could have been in the shorter queue all along. The “dumbass” part of his statement was implied.
Twanow had set up my toiletries in a clear plastic bag, so at least I have that part right. Electronics boils down to my brand-new fancy phone, so I survive that test as well. I must’ve looked terrified passing through the body scanner, however, because on the other side some sweet old lady pats my arm in reassurance.
“First time flying, dear?”
“Maybe. I’m not on the plane yet.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Hawaii.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Red-eye flight? Just close your eyes and next thing you know, you’ll have arrived in paradise. Tip from a frequent flier, never hurts to have a couple of drinks before boarding. I’m partial to whiskey myself. Then, nighty night.”
I nod obediently, not having the heart to tell her I don’t want a shot of whiskey. I want the entire bottle. Or tequila with a twist of lime, vodka with a splash of cranberry. I was never partial to one kind of booze; in my heyday, I’d drink them all, my only concession being to go light on the mixers. Didn’t want to risk filling up on fruit juice or tonic water. Heaven forbid.
My father loved Jack Daniel’s. Early on, I swiped a half-filled bottle and snuck it into my room, where I drizzled the potent brew across my fingers, inhaling its heady fragrance while trying to understand the mysterious power this elixir had over him. For the longest time, I thought Jack tasted like love. But really, it tasted of loss, of the father I missed so much, who was never a bad man, and in fact could be quite a silly man, in the rare moments he wasn’t passed out on the sofa.
I grab my suitcase by the handle and roll it behind me toward the gate. I’m shaking. Weirdly enough, the airport reminds me of Keahi’s prison. Too loud and overstimulating. I have to force myself to breathe in deeply, then exhale.
The tinkle of ice cubes hitting the bottom of a glass. A long pour from some bartender, showing off to his captive audience. The scent of hops as I pass a table topped with a pitcher of foamy beer.
I keep my gaze straight ahead, trying not to notice all the lounges, bars, and restaurants intent on medicating anxious airline travelers with booze, booze, and more booze.
Even a sweet old lady is having a whiskey right now, I think resentfully. But for all my inner cravings, at this moment I’m all right. I know this world isn’t meant for me; I can’t handle it. I have two decades of my life I barely remember, thanks to my disease. Hooking up with strange men in order to score free drinks. Waking up in pools of vomit. Listening to my aunt’s phone call notifying me that both my parents had been killed in an auto accident, then hanging up and heading back into the bar.
The person I was then isn’t the person I want to be. That person couldn’t save anyone. That woman couldn’t even save herself. It took Paul’s intervention and determination to pull me back from the abyss. And then, after all that…
I’m going to board this plane. I’m gonna freak out a little, and some kind flight attendant will calm me down. Then I will close my eyes and sleep till the plane lands at LAX, after which I’ll find my new plane, sleep some more, and voilà, paradise.
I can do this. The guy in the YouTube video said so.
Now I arrive at my designated gate, which, at first glance, looks like a refugee camp. People huddled everywhere, many sporting ripped jeans and well-worn pajamas, all of them staring at the ground—or their cell phones, as the case might be. I claim twelve inches of available wall space, grateful to be small as I wedge myself in and lower myself to the floor.
I have an hour till boarding begins. I use the time to dig through my messenger bag until I locate Twanow’s research folder.
My final orders are to burn the documents upon arrival in Honolulu, then check in with the employment company, which will have paperwork for me to do.
(“Just be myself?” I ask blithely.
“Of course.”
Sighing heavily. Always a tragedy when good sarcasm goes to waste.)
