But it’s decided.
I’m going to meet with this Karma woman in the slight chance that it will get me closer to her brother, the only one of my kidnappers still alive. I have dreamed (and had nightmares) about this moment for years. What would I do if we crossed paths again? Would I thank him for having a conscience at the last minute and allowing me a moment to escape from a certain death? Whether he had a change of heart or not, he was an integral part of something that altered my life horribly and permanently.
The choice is easy.
This is an opportunity for me to finally put a close to a horrible chapter of my life.
I’m not going to blow it.
After I pay an exorbitant fee for long-term airport parking, I settle into my Mercedes Benz truck and turn on my favorite old-school hip hop satellite radio station. Eminem’s classic hit, Lose Yourself, is on and I bop my head to the beat, remembering the days when I could actually rhyme along with this song out loud and it sounded good.
I’ve probably heard this song a million times, but for some reason the lyrics are resonating with me even harder as I make this hour journey to meet Karma. Is it a coincidence that this song is playing right now? I don’t think so.
I bop my head as Eminem asks the listener what they would do if they only had one shot, and one moment, to capture everything they wanted. It feels as if a higher power is talking to me through the rhyme. Asking me the question. Challenging me to capture the moment.
I consider what my father would say if I told him this new information about my kidnapper. This Lev person. My Father has never allowed a moment to slip. He is practically the king of seizing all the fucking moments. I know what he’d say and definitely what he’d do… and he’d probably be right.
But this is my life.
My justice.
So I just need to be sure that this is what I want to do.
And maybe I’ll know after meeting this guy’s sister.
***
I pull up to a neatly kept row house in the West Mt. Airy section of Philadelphia. The small front lawn is mowed and there’s a political sign for some local councilman I’ve never heard of staked right in the middle of it. I haven’t parallel parked in ages, so it takes me a second to back my large truck into the cramped parking spot in front of the house.
This is interesting, I think to myself. It’s not the kind of home I imagined the voice on the other end of the phone would live at. She sounded young and broke. This place looks like a responsible Mother of two lives here with a cat and a tomato garden in the back.
The sun is setting fast and the solar pathway lights along the walkway are starting to illuminate. I wrap three times on the wrought iron and glass storm door because I can’t seem to find a doorbell.
A middle-aged woman with a pale blonde ponytail and two Yorkies on crystal encrusted leashes walks down the street, trying to avoid staring at me, but she can’t help herself. It’s always one thing or the other with me and most women. They either daydream about what it would feel like to be underneath me or they fear me because they think I’m a criminal… sometimes both.
I’m taller than most, muscular, sport a lot of tattoos on my body, and I have a visibly thickened scar across my throat. To some people, I probably come off as menacing, but in my family I look perfectly normal. All the Masterson men wear tats and some even have scars, even Grandpapa Joe.
I knock again and then pull out my phone to text this Karma woman one more time. I didn’t drive all the way here to west hell to be stood up.
Me: I’m at the door.
I’m leaning with my back against the door and staring at all the other homes on the block when the first door to the house opens. I turn around and almost choke on my own saliva.
This can’t be her.
“Karma?”
The woman has fine lines and freckles all over her face and is dressed in Mom jeans and a washed out graphic tee that you find in Walmart. She unlocks the second door and simply says, “Come in.”
I hesitate for a moment but finally cross the threshold, wondering if I should just stand in the vestibule or continue walking into the living room area.
“Take your shoes off,” she orders.
“I’m not staying long.”
“Doesn’t matter. Shoes off.”
There’s no way that this woman is related to the asshole who held me captive six years ago, unless one of them is adopted, not to mention that her voice doesn’t have the same pleasant tone of the woman I remember speaking to on the phone.
