Blinded (9 page)

He looks at you with eyes that look tired and glassy. “Just met her today, huh?”

You nod.

“How long you been married?”

For a minute you think he noticed your wedding ring, but you remember you left it back at the hotel.

“How’d you—”

“Man, you’ve got married written all over you. That ‘just met her today’ comment. Major guilt, man.”

“Twelve years.”

“What’s her name?”

“Lisa.”

He nods. “Kids?”

“Two.”

“So a call in the middle of the night to Lisa saying her hubby was found in the south Bronx with a couple rounds in his head wouldn’t be so good, right?”

“I just wanted to get out of that car.”

“Like being married?”

The question is simple and straightforward.

“Where are you going?”

“Heading toward Midtown,” the driver says.

You find the license and ask to turn on the light.

“What’s that?”

“The woman I met.”

He takes the license from you and curses. “She looks like this?”

You nod.

“And you let her get away?”

“Didn’t have much of a choice. Any chance you’re heading toward there?”

“That’s the Village.”

“That’s where I need to go.”

The guy nods. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yeah, marriage is good.”

You say this without thinking. The guy’s laugh surprises you.

“What?”

“Good, huh?”

You’re tired and your buzz is wearing off and you should be heading back to the hotel but you can’t.

“It’s hard work too,” you say.

“So you gotta keep things exciting, huh?”

“Not
this
exciting.”

“Just got engaged a month ago.”

“Congrats.”

“I’m Tupac,” the driver says.

“Michael.”

You look at him and he’s laughing. “Man, I’m just teasin’. My name’s Walt.”

Any other time, you’d come up with a witty retort. But you’re too tired and too out of it to think of anything.

“So twelve years and two kids—what’s that have to do with that license?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, huh?”

“Yeah, I can’t explain it.”

Walt laughs and stops the SUV at the red light. He looks over at you. “You don’t have to explain it. She’s hot. Enough said.”

You want to say
She came up to me
. You want to say
She invited me out
. But those are lame excuses. Lisa would say so and so what and you’re so in trouble.

I didn’t do anything
.

“So what now?” Walt asks.

“What?”

“You seeing her again?”

“Hoping to. She left me a voice mail—she might be in a little trouble.”

“Serious?”

You nod.

The song changes and the laughter starts and Walt turns up the stereo as the funky beat goes in unison to the high-pitched voice singing “Feel Good.”

What would it feel like to be twenty-one again? To be engaged again? To be free again? To not have to think of the responsibilities and the ring on your finger and those snapshots in your head? You wouldn’t give up anything, but sometimes on occasions you wish you could be single and twenty-something again just for the night.

But you’re not, Mike
.

You’re thirty-seven and you’re an adult. You’re not hip and you’re not young and you can’t do anything you want.

There are consequences to actions.

The Cadillac drives smoothly and the music soothes you. The deserted and empty outside has been replaced by traffic and people and life and energy. It’s amazing how quickly conditions can change in a matter of miles.

You look over at Walt, and his shoulders move as if he’s ready to dance. His lips mime the words and he seems to forget you’re here.

Maybe it’s time to go back to the hotel
.

But you remember Jasmine’s last voice mail. You have to do something. At least check out her place, see if she’s there. If she’s not, you can call the cops and then leave the rest to them. Then get some rest and head home later this morning.

“Got any advice?” the driver asks you.

“On what?”

“The whole marriage thing. I mean, twelve years. You must be doing something right.”

All that comes to your mind are a dozen things you’ve done wrong.

“Once the whole honeymoon period ends—and believe me, it always does—you have to be open and honest. If you go too long not being honest, that spells disaster.”

“My fiancée—she’s brutally honest. I don’t think she’ll ever have a problem with that whole area.”

Yeah, but it takes two to be completely honest
.

“Just be patient. And remember—it’s hard work.”

“And don’t go chasing broads in the middle of the night,” Walt says.

You laugh. “Yeah.”

“But you’re going to try to find her, aren’t you?”

“I’m just afraid—I don’t know. I’m afraid she might be in a lot of trouble.”

“What exactly are you gonna do?”

“Good question.”

I don’t have a clue. But at least I’ll know. At least I’ll be able to see if she’s okay
.

As the driver listens and sings along to the music, you feel a new sensation on this night. The sense of danger and adventure, something your life has sorely lacked. Where is that
sense of adventure and thrill seeking that you used to long for as a boy but suddenly forgot about once adulthood came into play?

Having children is supposed to help with your sense of adventure. Right? It’s supposed to keep you young at heart.

For once, your heart is racing and you feel alive and you feel that you’re finally on an exciting journey.

What if that journey ends with a bullet in your head, Mike?

There are responsibilities that you have to think about.

What if something happens to Jasmine?

The SUV stops in the middle of a side street.

“It’s gotta be one of these buildings around here,” Walt says.

You shake his hand. “Hope this wasn’t too far out of your way.”

“Nah, it’s cool.”

“Thanks for being my guardian angel tonight.”

“Can angels be black?” he asks with a laugh.

He finds something in the center near the dash and hands it to you.

“That’s my card. Not that you’re likely to be needing a DJ anytime soon. But it’s got my cell number on it. Anybody puts a gun in your face again, or you end up in the south Bronx, give me a call, all right?”

“Appreciate it.”

He nods and you exit the car. The music grows louder and he drives off.

You replace his card with the license from your pocket. You see the address and walk down the street, trying to find it, trying to find something, trying to make sure that Jasmine is okay.

Y
OU HAVEN
’
T TOLD ANYONE
about the counseling that Lisa and you have been going through the past year.

Lisa initiated it. You went willingly, thinking it was unnecessary, just a formality. Twelve years of marriage and you need counseling? Of course you don’t. It’s just this time of your life.

Lately, that’s been the phrase you’ve been using. The Season Of Life You’re In.

How come each season seems to be getting colder, darker, busier? When will spring ever come again? When things felt young and fresh and alive.

When things got really dark, you guys decided to keep at it. And that was when Lisa got pregnant. Olivia wasn’t the result of trying another way out—both of you wanted a child. And for several years, Olivia and then Peyton managed to
cover some of the dysfunctions. But they started to creep back in, more so recently than ever.

The counseling sessions have been fine. But sometimes you leave not telling the whole truth. You don’t talk about this empty feeling you have. You don’t tell them that lately you’ve been hearing a whole lot of silence from God.

It’s your relationship with Lisa you’re in counseling for, not your relationship with God.

You haven’t said much to your church friends. In fact, you haven’t seen much of them. The longstanding monthly small group you’re in has been meeting less and less often. You use trips and work and the children as excuses. But you know the real reason. You don’t want to admit failure. You don’t want to tell them you’ve been angry at God for some time. People don’t like hearing that sort of honest talk. So you’ve been staying away. And going through the motions whenever those friends are around.

It’s just a season
.

Just a season you’re in.

But every day dims away and every morning brightens again and there you are, in the same season. With the same cloudy forecast.

Sometimes you want to run.

Running away from the car back there in the run-down neighborhood of the Bronx—sure, it was terrifying. But a part
of you has needed something to jolt you back to reality. To resuscitate you. To bring you back up to the surface.

The counselor would have a heyday with a listing of tonight’s exploits.

Time to take it up a level, Michael. Time to increase the dosage. Time to put on the headgear and inject shock treatment
.

But you don’t need shock treatment because this night is enough of a shock.

And the scary thing is that it’s not over. It’s far from over.

I need help but I can’t ask for help because I’m angry at the only person who can give it to me
.

T
HE GUY BEHIND THE DESK BUZZES
you in through the door to the lobby of the high-rise. He’s got a big neck and his eyes look tired.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“I need to see Jas—Jana Shreve.”

“I can call up to her place.”

“Okay, yeah, that’d be great.”

He spends a minute on the phone and watches you suspiciously. The gel on his hair glows off the warm orange lights of the narrow hallway.

“She’s not there.”

“Any chance I can leave a message?”

“With me.”

“I have her license.”

“Yeah? How’d you get that?”

“She left her purse at a bar.”

The doorman looks at you again. “You know J?”

“Yes. Sort of.”

“Right. So where’s her purse?”

“Long story.”

“Must’ve been a busy night.”

“Why’s that?” you ask.

“Guy came by about an hour ago or so asking for J. A little more frantic than you.”

“What’d he look like?”

“He had a busted nose, I know that. Short guy.”

“I think he’s part of the problem.”

“What problem is that?”

“Any way you know how to get ahold of her?”

He shakes his head and laughs. “You got any idea who she is?”

“No.”

“One of the richest families in New York. She could be Paris Hilton if she wanted to. Her parents pay for this.” He gestured toward the lobby. “And for everything else she has.”

“Think anybody might want to hurt her?”

The guy laughs and lets out a curse. “Man, a whole lot of people might want to hurt her. Or do something to her. You’ve seen her. A girl that hot has to be careful.”

He pauses, then continues.

“Thing is, J’s not careful. That girl is trouble.”

I realize that
.

“Any idea where she might be?”

“You think she’s in trouble?” he asks.

“Maybe.”

“Some might say to call her parents, but not me. They’re a little—I don’t know—crazy? A little crazy protective.”

“Ever heard of a place called Exit?”

“Probably a club. J’s into those.”

You think for a moment and then decide to leave your name and number with the man. He takes it without comment or reaction.

For some reason you hold on to Jasmine’s license.

Back on the street, you think for a moment. Maybe it’s time to head back to the hotel. Sleep is not what you need. You need a closed door and a safe room.

A hand grabs your arm, and you swing around, ready to hit somebody.

It’s Amanda. Jasmine’s friend. She looks frantic, out of breath, and astounded.

“What are you doing here?”

“Your friend disappeared.”

“I know. Have you—did you just come from her apartment?”

“They wouldn’t let me in.”

“Yeah, I know. Come on.”