Finding Tranquility Read online

  Bo’s battered Hyundai remained untouched in the parking lot where we’d left it. Police didn’t know who it belonged to, maybe, or they didn’t care. Either way, I was glad the bar owner hadn’t towed it before Henny drove me back to pick it up. We hadn’t made a back-up plan, and I didn’t much want to ride my bike all the way north across Vermont as autumn turned to winter.

  Before I got out of the car, I leaned in for one final Henny hug. “Thank you so much. For everything. I’m really going to miss you.”

  She adjusted my wig. “Long good-byes will only turn us into a giant two-headed, blubbering mess. Chris was a nice guy, but I hope Christa stays in touch. If you ever need anything, let me know. Val and I have both grown to love you.”

  “I love you, too. You guys saved me.”

  “We did no such thing. You’re stronger than you think. Now go, before you make this old woman cry. With a bit of luck, we’ll see each other again someday. The goddess go with you.”

  With a final hug and a kiss on the cheek, I steeled myself and opened the door. I don’t know what I was expecting, but nothing happened, other than cold air entering the car. Henny shivered, and I slammed the door shut.

  Afraid someone might try to stop me, I approached the other vehicle quickly. I found the key on the wheel well of the back tire, just where Henny said it would be. Then I moved to the driver’s side door, which was already unlocked.

  Locking the doors of a convertible is just asking to have to fork over a thousand bucks to replace the cover, Bo once explained to me. A person who wants to break in isn’t going to be stopped by a top made of fabric flimsier than one of my bustiers. Better to let the bastards in and not bother upgrading the stereo.

  A wave of sadness hit me, but I forced it down. Henny waited in the parking lot to make sure I got off okay, and I didn’t want her to see me break down. There would be plenty of time to be sad later. After all, I had the rest of my life in front of me, nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no one to turn to. For now, I had to believe that he was going to be okay, or I’d never be able to move on.

  My only regret was never getting to see those fuckers who did this brought to justice. Plenty of people had been at the bar that night, though. When Bo woke up, he would testify as to exactly what happened. The D.A. could get a conviction without my help. I wouldn’t have to go on TV and risk being spotted.

  The morning after I left the hospital, the local newspaper had reported that both men sat in jail awaiting their arraignment. I hoped they sat there, without bail, until they rotted. For a moment, I prayed Vermont had the death penalty for attempted murder.

  Taking a deep breath, I banished those thoughts with a turn of the car key. The engine roared smoothly to life, and I flashed Henny the thumbs up before shifting into first gear. Moments later, I turned west, toward the New York border. Behind me, Henny’s battered old truck turned to the east, back toward Tranquility. I wholeheartedly wished I could go with her, but it wasn’t safe anymore. A couple of reporters had already been sniffing around. If what happened to Bo made national news, a swarm would descend. I didn’t want Jess to find out about me like that. Or my mom, or anyone.

  It killed me to know they were hurting, that I’d caused them pain. But at the same time, I needed to take care of myself before I could deal with righting that wrong.

  Approximately two minutes passed before the next wave of sadness overwhelmed me. Maybe it was the scent of CK One still lingering in the air. Or the cassette in the old stereo flipping over, filling the car with Madonna’s sultry voice. The road before me blurred, and I pulled over.

  Henny and Val were like the parents I’d always wanted, but Bo was my only real friend. The person who gave me the courage to be who I was born to be. My confidant, my guide. Maybe he didn’t understand my need to live as a woman, but he certainly understood enough about being different to help and support me. The reality of driving his car, headed toward a new life, while he lay in a coma, possibly never to recover, punched me in the gut and left me gasping for breath.

  For a long time I sat, sobbing into the steering wheel. What if I just stayed here, engine running, until the carbon monoxide penetrated the floorboards?

  Maybe it was like those movies: When you defeat death, it comes after you again. Maybe I was supposed to die on September 11, and when I didn’t, death created other circumstances to take my life. Or maybe I cheated death, and Bo was the price I had to pay for my new life. I’d thought Brett needed to die before Christa could be reborn, but what did I know?

  My parents raised me Catholic, but I hadn’t thought much about Jesus, or the afterlife, or anything. At least not since I graduated the eighth grade and no longer served as an altar boy. But now I wondered.

  After what felt like hours, Bo’s voice rang in my head, as clear as if he sat next to me. Girlfriend, what the fuck are you doing? Put the car in gear and go. You didn’t escape the worst terrorist attack in American history to go hide on a farm for a couple of months and then freeze to death by the side of the road. You’ve spent your entire life doing what other people expected of you. It’s time to start living your life for you. Be who you were meant to be.

  He was right. Or more accurately, I was right, and my subconscious borrowed a familiar voice to tell me what, deep down, I already knew.

  With a final sniffle, I sat up, wiped my eyes, and drove back onto the road. I cranked up the radio and blasted Madonna, belting out the lyrics Jess made me listen to a thousand times when we were kids while I pretended to hate it. The miles melted beneath the tires as I left New England and my old life behind. It was the furthest west I’d ever been. By the time I reached the New York border, I felt almost like a human being. When I neared Canada, I thought perhaps I could act normal enough not to freak out everyone I encountered.

  I parked at the far end of the rest stop for Bo to retrieve the car when he woke up. I headed into the women’s room to splash water on my face, steeling myself for the task ahead.

  The first three drivers I approached for a ride sidled away, eyes planted on the ground, and made vague excuses. I’d have felt safer with a family, but most families had so much junk stuffed in their backseat between their kids, there was no room for me. Then a big rig with Quebec license plates pulled into the lot. Truck drivers were lonely, right? Maybe this guy could use someone to talk to.

  I waited near the picnic tables until he exited the restroom, then approached. “Excuse me, sir?” I kept my eyes down, my voice low. A demure woman.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “My car broke down a ways back.” I pointed down the road. “It can be fixed, but not until Monday. I have relatives near Montreal. I was wondering if you could be so kind as to carry me over the border?”

  His gaze traveled up and down my body. Suspicious, not leering. “You got a passport? I’m not smuggling anyone across the border.”

  “Yes, sir.” No need to mention that the passport was stolen. After all, I had one. “I’m not asking to hide in the back of the truck. Front seat, seat belt, and everything.”

  “Why can’t your relatives come get you here? Montreal’s not so far.” He chewed thoughtfully.

  My mind raced. “They keep their passports in a safe deposit box, sir. House kept getting broken into. They can’t get to the bank to retrieve them until Monday. I’d rather not to have to sit here for two days.”

  “Don’t call me sir. Doesn’t sit right. Name’s Pat.” He turned his head away from me. A stream of tobacco juice flew from his mouth, landing near the wall of the restroom. A moment later, he put out one beefy hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Pat.” His palm warmed mine. “I’m Christa.” The more I used the name on the passport, the more it grew on me.

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s my truck there. I’m going to grab something from the vending machines. Want a snack?”

  I shook my head, but my traitorous stomach rumbled, giving me away.

&n
bsp; He laughed. “What can I get you?”

  “Anything’s fine,” I said. “Except white chocolate. It’s not real chocolate.”

  “No problem. I’ll be right back.”

  We climbed into the cab in companionable silence. My heart fluttered wildly as I tried to think calming thoughts. Almost there, almost there. He doesn’t know I have a penis. It’s going to be okay. Just a couple more hours, and I’ll be safe.

  I cast a final glance at Bo’s car, blinking back tears. Goodbye, friend. I hope to see you again someday.

  The rest stop sat only a few miles from the border. One last chance to get out and pee on American soil, I guessed. Before I knew it, the truck rolled to a stop before the gate. Pat rolled down his window and handed our passports through. My heart pounded so loudly in my ears, I feared the customs agent might hear it. He examined Pat’s passport, asked a few questions I barely heard over my beating heart, then picked up my booklet.

  Wiping my palms against my skirt, I leaned forward. Here goes nothing. My tongue filled my entire mouth. How did it get so large?

  The officer glanced from the passport to my face and back. “Canadian, eh?”

  Too terrified to speak, I nodded.

  “Welcome home, Ms. McCall.”

  The arm of the gate lifted, Pat restarted the engine, and a moment later we were through, heading down a road where signs displayed warnings in French in English, and the speed limits were expressed in kilometers.

  A whole new world unfolded before me.

  PART II: JESS

  Those who are easily shocked should be shocked more often.

  — Mae West

  Chapter 8

  September 2001

  No one needed to tell me my husband was dead. After dropping Brett off at the airport, I wasn’t feeling well, so I drove home, made tea, laid down on the living room couch, and turned on the Today show. When NBC cut away from an interview with some guy who wrote a book about Howard Hughes to say we were going to a breaking story at the World Trade Center, I got up to go to the bathroom. Matt Lauer was so calm, the upcoming story seemed about as exciting as watching paint dry. I never could’ve dreamed what I was about to witness, not in a hundred years.

  When the second plane flew into the south tower, my heart stopped. I couldn’t breathe. The idea that I’d just watched thousands of people die tore me apart. At that moment, I’d yet to realize that I witnessed my own husband’s murder.

  Like millions of Americans, I spent the morning glued to my television. I picked up the phone and called Brett, despite knowing his plane wouldn’t have landed yet, that he couldn’t answer while in flight. Shaking fingers dropped the phone twice. The FAA cancelled all flights, so I assumed (prayed) Brett’s flight would be making an emergency landing somewhere. Planes were still unaccounted for. He could be on any of them, headed anywhere.

  Every time the footage paused or went to commercial, even for a second, I skipped frantically around other stations, hoping for more information. Someone reported that fifty planes were missing, thought to be aiming for the fifty state capitals.

  My heart beat a million times a second. I gasped for air, but nothing happened. Finally, I managed to find my husband’s name in the call history of my phone and press the button. The sound of his voice calmed me almost a fraction before I recognized what he was saying.

  “Hi, this is Brett. You know what to do. If this is Jess, I love you.”

  The message usually made me smile, but today I wondered if I’d ever hear him say those words again. I left a voice mail, begging Brett to call me the second he landed, anywhere, for any reason.

  Seconds after I pressed “end call,” they reported that a third plane had flown into the Pentagon. My fast breathing escalated into a full-blown panic attack. Part of me considered calling for help, a friend, my mother, anyone—but my fingers fell open. The phone dropped to the floor. I couldn’t think, couldn’t move. I sat, feet rooted to the floor, butt glued to the couch.

  Finally, feeling like a zombie, I forced myself to get up, wash my empty mug, put on make-up, and start my day. The doctor’s office expected me to arrive when they opened after lunch, so I needed to get my shit together. I was going through the motions, mechanically applying mascara when one of the newscasters started talking about the planes. An American Airlines jet, en route from Boston. I breathed a sigh of relief. We never flew American. Still, a close call. Whoever thought people would hijack planes in Boston of all places. What if Brett had bought a ticket for that flight instead?

  When the doctor’s office called to reschedule my appointment, I felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. As much as I needed to know what was going on, part of me thought the best way to ensure Brett would be okay meant going about my day as usual.

  The receptionist and I spent more time than we should on the phone, sharing our horror. Having anyone else to talk to, even a stranger, comforted me. I didn’t mention Brett’s flight. If I talked about it, the danger would be real. He’d call me any minute to let me know he was safe. Cell towers everywhere must be jammed. As soon as he got to a landline, a call would beep through on the other line.

  The newscaster’s voice penetrated my thoughts as I settled our cordless phone onto the base to charge. “United Airlines.”

  What was that? No. It couldn’t be. My concerns were making me hear things.

  “…deeply concerned about Flight 175, headed from Boston to Los Angeles,” he said.

  I raced to the table, scrambling through my purse for Brett’s flight information, even though I remembered yelling it through the car window at his back. Maybe if I took the time to find the paper printout, it would magically have changed.

  The growing sense of dread in my chest told me everything. There was no need to wait for final confirmation. The airlines knew where their planes were supposed to be, the timing of the crash fit when Brett’s plane would have flown by New York City, and I still hadn’t heard from my husband, whose plane should have been on the ground by now. All the airports were closed; his flight never would have been allowed to continue to Los Angeles after the attacks.

  He had to have been on that plane.

  Dead.

  Gone forever.

  The last words I’d ever speak to my husband were screamed through a car window at his back. At that realization, the numbness dissipated, and I broke.

  ∞ ♡ ∞

  The weeks following Brett’s death passed in a haze. When my mother finally dragged me out of bed and forced me to rejoin the living, I remembered nothing about those first days.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t forget that he was gone. That I would never look into his warm brown eyes again, never kiss his soft lips. Never hold him or laugh with him or watch bad reality TV with him again.

  Having a funeral without a body was weird. We didn’t even have ashes sitting in a pretty box or anything. Nope, no remains, period. Just a picture. My husband’s body was spread somewhere around the ruins of 1–2 World Trade Center. Or maybe the wind carried him around the city a bit. Took him down to Battery Park. Hopefully not toward Yankee Stadium. Brett hated the Yankees. He wouldn’t want to spend eternity on that field.

  Before 9/11, I never thought of myself as a black humor kind of person. Now morbid thoughts wouldn’t leave me alone.

  It took time to have Brett officially declared dead, which didn’t make sense. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together could guess that when a plane slams into the seventy-eighth floor of a building, the people inside don’t have the best chance of survival. But I wasn’t in any condition to deal with that stuff, so I waited. When my parents and Brett’s parents started to push, I finally went through the motions of putting together a ceremony. Like I cared which hymns were sung, what Bible readings we gave. Brett wouldn’t have wanted any of that. A religious funeral would make him roll over in his grave. Except he didn’t even get a grave.

  A voice jarred me out of these th
oughts. “What about this one, dear?”

  Mom and I sat on the living room floor, surrounded by pictures of me and Brett. There must’ve been hundreds. That’s what happens when you start sharing your life with someone at fourteen. School pictures, yearbook shots, prom pictures, lots of formal posed photos. Not a single candid shot—Brett always preferred to be the one behind the camera. There were about a thousand images of me with my friends, but he wasn’t in any of them. Instead, the only recent photographs were wedding pictures. That was all I had left. Our wedding album, and the memories.

  That had been the happiest day of my life. On that day, I never dreamed that “’Til death do us part” would come so soon… that a few short months later, I’d be more miserable than I ever knew I could be.

  A tear dropped onto the pictures in my lap. Mom reached for them, presumably to blot the moisture away.

  “It’s fine,” I said without looking. “I don’t care.”

  “This is a lovely picture,” she said. “I’m glad the photographer caught the moment Brett spotted you walking down the aisle.”

  I’d been glad at the time. Now, seeing the love shine out of his eyes stabbed me in the gut. That love was gone forever. Our love, our dreams, everything.

  Again, I said, “Use whatever you like.”

  Mom sighed, clucked her tongue, but didn’t bitch about how detached I was from this process. How could I be interested in something like this? How did anyone distill someone’s entire life into a one-hour service? An afternoon with finger sandwiches and cookies?

  “Have you thought about Bible verses?” Mom asked. “There are some lovely Psalms.”

  “Go with Leviticus 26:29,” I said. “That was Brett’s favorite.”