ahead as if the journey is a task that needs all of her focus, and her eyes don’t veer off her course when she answers, “Every Saturday and Wednesday morning at two o’clock.”
“Why do you go in the middle of the night?”
“Less people. Everyone’s sleeping,” she says matter-of-factly.
We don’t speak for the duration of the walk. It’s a bit uncomfortable for me, but she doesn’t seem to mind. I hand over her bag at her door. She nods to address the exchange and then she shuts the door without another word.
My mind is muddled. Weary with tonight’s fucked up events. When I get to my apartment, I put the beer in the fridge, the jerky on the counter, and I go to bed and let sleep take me before I analyze anything further.
Because tomorrow I need my brain fresh.
The epicenter of hell
Present
I swore I would never do this.
Never go back.
Never.
Never say never.
My lungs feel like they’re punishing me for overturning my promise, my breaths are short and stunted. The compression of fear isn’t allowing for enough air. I haven’t had a panic attack since I’ve been in California. I’m convinced now that they were geographically induced. Kansas City is the epicenter of hell.
My legs are soldiers marching up the steps onto the Greyhound bus, determined to carry out their mission. By the time I take a seat near the back, the pain in my chest is swelling. It’s already reached that critical mark that brings the heel of my hand to press against it, praying for relief. My full backpack is sitting in my lap. I hug it tightly to my chest with my free arm and bury my face in the top of the rough canvas, and then I let the tears fall. And I hope the people sitting around me ignore my meltdown and let me muddle through it in peace.
They do.
I don’t know how long it is before the assault lessens and relents, but I’m exhausted in its wake. I sleep through a few hundred miles. I decide I like the unconscious approach, even though each time I awake it’s like a time warp that places me closer and closer to my adversary.
When the bus pulls into the Kansas City station, my body aches. Every muscle is protesting at the tense posture I’ve held the entire trip. Even while I slept I didn’t relax. I wait for everyone else to exit the bus and only at last call do I rise. My legs carry me out on a militant charge, and the thought briefly crosses my mind about developing blood clots in my legs from prolonged sitting and how that wouldn’t be such a bad way to go if it took me quickly before I stepped off this bus.
There are no blood clots.
Only numbness, that’s flushed mercifully through my torso and limbs in a deluge as if it’s being carried intravenously in my bloodstream.
The sidewalk feels more substantial under my feet when I land upon it. I huff under my breath. Everything is less forgiving here, even the concrete. The air is biting and cold, the sharpness of it pricks the lining of my lungs, and I tug Mrs. L’s scarf that I already had wrapped around my neck up over my mouth to repress the attack.
My fingers are shaky as I dial a number I haven’t thought about in years, Claudette, my caseworker.
“Hello?” her answer brings on the same rush of relief it always did. I always thought of Claudette as my guardian angel because she was the woman who rescued me.
“Claudette, this is,” I hesitate because I haven’t said my birth name out loud in years, “Meg Groves.” The words are acrid, and I swallow repeatedly trying to rid my mouth of the awful taste they’ve left behind.
“Meg,” she says it the same way she always did, soothing, setting the stage for what is about to unfold. She lived her life in crisis management mood, obviously she still does. “It’s been a long time, dear. How are you?”
“I’m good,” I lie. I’ve learned that lying when my well-being is concerned is easier than trying to navigate the truth. Nobody wants to hear, I’m not good. That just makes everything uncomfortable and then the fact that I’m not good would need to be addressed or ignored. Either option makes people squirm, so I lie. I’m good. I’m always good. Deep down I’m so scared I want to cry, but I continue. “I’ve been in California, and