Apparently 6:30 a.m. on a Friday morning is a popular time to fly. Judging by the swarms of people in Barry Field Nashville Airport, I was lucky to get a last-minute ticket. The line for the security gate looked like it stretched clear across Tennessee. I checked my watch. One hour and forty-five minutes to boarding. Just wanted to get through this as smoothly as possible.
In all my thirty-two years, I’d never been in an airport. Had Jules not given me a crash course the night before, I would’ve been a lost puppy. The parking lot alone was a complete maze, and according to Jules, Denver was worse.
I checked my wallet and boarding pass for the umpteenth time. Still there. My hands fidgeted with my duffel strap as I neared the official-looking TSA agents. I knew checks and pat downs were randomized and part of the protocol, but my neck was sweating anyway. I’d received too many of those over the years. I blew out a breath as the familiar weight settled on my shoulders.
I thought of Gracie. Did she ever get to fly? She always wanted to experience air travel. With the way she seemed to bounce around the country, I figured she flew quite a bit. She surely wasn’t a small town girl anymore. I remembered the deep frown on her face when she had asked, half teasing and half serious, “Patrick Timothy Moore, when are you going to bust me out of this place?” I smiled, hoping the great big world was all she had imagined it would be. If anyone deserved some dreams come true, it was Gracie.
My turn. I held my breath as the agent scanned my I.D. and boarding pass. He glanced at my face once and waved me through. “Have a nice flight.” I put my duffel on the conveyer belt, and dropped my phone, watch, wallet, and shoes into a bin. The next agent directed me to stand in a tube. I placed my feet on the correct spots and raised my hands over my head as directed. Memories of Riverbend flooded in as the scanner whirred around me.
They waved me along and I stumbled out of the tube, surprised by the intense thumping in my chest. I found a bench to replace my belongings. My fingers trembled as I tied the laces of my tennis shoes. Would situations like this be nerve-wracking for the rest of my life? I shuddered. Mentally cursed the record I knew would follow me forever.
I got lucky. My gate was only a few minutes’ walk from security, and I spent the next hour sipping a black coffee from Starbucks and meandering through the over-priced shops. I purchased a James Patterson novel and headed to boarding.
* * *
My Chevrolet truck rental was a beauty and so were the mountains in the distance. But my mind couldn’t appreciate them. A jittery feeling—like drinking too much caffeine—washed over me as I started the ignition and backed out of the parking lot. I rolled my neck from side to side, trying to dispel the built-up tension.
I was absolutely, downright crazy. That much I knew. I was traipsing around the country in a vain hope I might be able to locate someone who hadn’t made any attempt to reach out to me in over ten years. What if I didn’t find her? What would I do then? Or worse, what if I did find her and she was angry with me? What if she stopped contacting me on purpose? What if she was happily married and totally moved on with her life?
Of course she’s moved on. It’s been fourteen years.
I ran my fingers through my hair and glanced in the rearview mirror. Unfortunately, I looked as desperate as I felt. My hair was overgrown and flopping onto my forehead, dark patches encased my eyes, and I’d lost a good ten pounds of muscle. The lack of routine meals was catching up to me. If I wanted to make a good second, first-impression, I was off to a bad start.
I plugged the address into my phone’s GPS before leaving the lot: 98 Unit C, Calhoun Avenue, Denver. The address appeared to be in West Denver, about 40 minutes out. I untucked my shirt and flipped on the AC. My hands grew moist around the steering wheel as the truck silently slipped out of the lot and onto I-70.
* * *
Once again, I found myself in a bad area of town. The buildings were shoulder to shoulder, run down, and the people loitering on the sidewalks looked like they needed to be in a recovery program too. My exhale shuddered as I wondered what sorts of things Gracie had gotten into. The possibilities were like a punch to the gut. For the first time, I acknowledged my deepest fear. The one that haunted me in the quiet each night.
If my desertion of her led her down a path of destruction, I could never forgive myself. Her intense hatred of me would be easier to swallow.
I made eye contact with a man on the street corner, holding a cardboard sign. He randomly yelled out and waved at cars. A wave of nausea rumbled up from my gut.
Please, Gracie, don’t let me find you here.
The idea she may have spent her time rubbing elbows with people offering her the powerful stuff made my veins constrict. I turned the AC up higher, praying she was nowhere near this place.
98 Calhoun Street appeared on the left. It looked identical to the last four houses. They were all triplexes; suite C was on the right. I pulled my truck up the crowded drive and surveyed the array of vehicles. Sports cars and beaters were all jammed in together. The smell of marijuana, legal in Colorado, assaulted my senses. Reminded me of the one time in high school me and Nate gave the stuff a whirl. Never again. I preferred my feet on the ground.
I lifted my hand and knocked. Music thumped through the metal door. I needed to keep my head on straight and not do anything stupid. The characters behind the door didn’t worry me; I’d shared meals with plenty like them over the years. It was the potential of Gracie being there with them—either now or in the past—that stoked the cocktail of fear and rage in my gut.
I figured whoever was inside didn’t and wouldn’t hear the knocking, so I pushed open the door. I jerked my head back as my eyes and sinuses registered the stench of chemicals and urine. This had to be a meth house. How they were getting away with it in broad daylight was beyond me.
There were a dozen or so people crammed into the front room. Most of them were sleeping, likely trapped in a crash from the night before. The upright ones staggered. A scantily-clad woman was sprawled across the floor. Trash spilled out of a trash bag in the corner and liquor bottles, mostly empty, poked out of the take-out rubbish heaped on the coffee table.
It took a full five seconds for anyone to notice the open door and uninvited stranger. One guy turned toward me. “Hey man.” He approached and lifted his hand to give me a high-five, handshake thing. His pupils were dilated, and his movements were jerky and quick. “Where ya been, bro?” I reckon he thought I was late to the party.
I cleared my throat and raised my voice above the rattling speaker. “I’m looking for the tenant of this unit.” This was going to be fruitless. I knew that before I even got off the plane.
He squinted his eyes as confusion washed over his sharpened features, and he moved his jaw back and forth. “You police?”
“No. I’m just looking for someone. Are you the tenant?”
“Yeah—well, no actually.” He turned and yelled at a woman on the edge of the couch, named Deborah apparently. She rolled her eyes and carefully picked her way through the mess.
“This guy is lookin’ for the tenant.”
She turned to me, her eyes glazed over and her look unseeing. My heart ached for each one of them. I knew what being trapped felt like.
