The Solitude of Passion (19 page)

“A long time ago, when I was barely eighteen”—she nods into the caveat—“I met this guy who said he filmed models.”

I close my eyes. “Sex tape,” I whisper. “It’s going to take us down like a stone.” I’m going to strangle Hudson for bringing this woman into our lives—although I might have to strangle Sheila first for bringing Hudson into the world. The natural hierarchy of homicides insists I start at the root.

“It’s going to take
you
down like a stone?” She bats her lashes at me incredulous, and I’m half tempted to free those butterflies by ripping the wings right off her eyelids. “What about me? I’m going to be a mother.” Her long fingernails glitter over her belly like ten miniature flames, and, right about now, I’m wishing they were—that she might magically combust and take all these problems with her. “I’m going to have to face my baby one day. What if he or she sees it?”

“Rest assured, he will. He won’t want to, but that’s the way the world works, Candi.” Maybe it’s the heat setting me off, or the blank canvas of night that’s swallowed us whole, or the fact in a week I’ll be wishing the only blight Hudson had stained our world with was a simple cash draw, but I don’t stop there. “Not only will your child see it, but he or she will be mortified that all of their friends can enjoy it for their viewing pleasure as well.” I take in a breath. Nothing I say will really matter in the end.

Her face contorts into all sorts of open-mouthed positions. “I don’t think—” her voice breaks. “I never think.” She drops her face into her palms and starts in on a low, moaning wail.

Crap.

I feel horrible. Reducing an expectant mother to tears was nowhere near the top of the to-do list today. I wrap an arm around her shoulder. Candi can’t change her past. God knows none of us can. Me of all people should appreciate that barbed wired truth.

I’m sure Candi has a sweet side to her if I just get to know her a little bit better, and with the DVD I’ll be able to do just that.

She continues to tremble into her hands, and guilt lines me, heavy as lead.

“It’s me who never thinks,” I say, pulling her in. “I’m really sorry.”

Candi presses in, and my face gets buried in her hair, the light scent of licorice permeates her like a fog. It reminds me of Stella after a bath. It reminds me that Candi is somebody’s daughter. And, for a second, I wonder if Stella could ever land so far off the mark in life.

Candi gives a death grip of a hug, and those expansive foam pillows she calls boobs conform to my body, tight and smothering.

I’ll have to make sure there’s always a three-foot clearance between Max and her ever-expanding bosom.

“
Lee
.” Max’s voice penetrates the shadows.

“We’d better get back,” I say, ushering us in the direction of the patio. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that tape. Why let something that happened a long time ago ruin something special that’s happening now?”

“I guess you’re right. Hudson and I have made much better films. I could do things now that I couldn’t even imagine back then. That’s part of what’s got me so upset.”

My jaw goes slack.

Figures. Candi’s sting of embarrassment has more to do with her inexperience than it does bearing more than her soul to the viewing public.

We trek back and find Max cradling Eli on the porch and my heart melts. I kiss my little boy’s feather soft hair. Eli is pliable in Max’s strong arms—exhausted past the point of no return. I hoist Stella over my hip and offer Candi another partial hug.

“No matter how painful it’s going to be, you’ll get through it,” I say. “Trust me, I know. I had a dark period myself.”

Max glances up. The whites of his eyes cut through the night like glass.

“But Max saved me,” I add quickly, whitewashing Mitch from our lives with a simple stroke of the tongue.

It was so damn dark, and Max pulled me out.

We say goodnight and walk toward the car as a stabbing pain blooms in my heart.

Max may have saved me, but it still hurts like hell.

I never said the pain would disappear.

Mitch

It takes an entire day to readjust to the light—start seeing people and things without spots or lines running through them. Just three days this time in solitary. I think they’re going soft.

I spot Gao in the dining hall just before lunch. Sometimes they shift the population, and people float into the sea of humanity. It takes a while to relocate them once you’ve lost touch.

“Paper book,” he says. “Wear nice shoes. I give you tomorrow.”

Nice
shoes
—
as in contraband receptacle. There are only flip-flops and slippers here. You need the slippers to do the transport. If the authorities come by and you freak, you can easily kick it out and look the other way. I’ve seen enough of my origami floating around to figure this out. You have to request the shoes. You need to convince them that your feet hurt so damn much they’re about to fall off. The shoes aren’t impressive—not much more than corrugated cardboard, but they work.

“I’ll dress for the occasion.”

A strangled vibe takes over the hall. One by one, all eyes turn toward the back as a small band of guards walk shoulder to shoulder up and down the aisle ways.

Strange.

They’re looking for something—someone. All suited up in fatigues, each hugging their long, slender weapons as if it were a woman. Something big is about to go down—a beating, a hanging. They don’t dress to impress unless there’s some form of torment at the other end of the necrotic rainbow.

You could hear a pin drop as the tension chews through the air. It’s not until they enter the aisle across from me that I note a small, dark head bobbing in their midst with sunglasses set neatly on top. He pauses to scrutinize every being at the table, advancing at a decent clip until I recognize him, and my heart stops.

“
Kyle
.” My voice reverberates off the walls like a gong.

His expression brightens as he cuts through the tables, landing just feet away. “Mitch Townsend?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been dead for the last five years.”

It’s hard to focus in on anything once you hear the words
you’re
free
to
go
.

I told Gao to keep the paper book. Officiated him as the keeper of the pearly gates, and follow Kyle downstairs to something I never thought I’d see while still in my body—the fucking beautiful exit.

The guard at the gate opens it with such passive disregard I’m almost disappointed. I sort of envisioned going out in a blaze of glory—a twenty-one gun salute while absorbing the bullets right into my back, but there’s nothing. They let me out as if I were a visitor, a Westerner who just toured the facility.

I take three steps outside the building before the humidity hits my skin. The foreign orb in the sky blesses me with its glory as I hold out my arms, soaking it all in. A fresh blast of air washes over me like a baptism—like a birthright, and I lose myself in a vat of tears.

Kyle speaks in a low hushed tone, but his voice gets lost in the rush of the city blooming in my ears.

Everything is new. It’s as if the world refined itself in the time I was gone and now its sharper, crisper, more stunning than ever before. Just having this kind of space—this kind of freedom to move paralyzes me on some level. To know that somewhere on this planet is beautiful, beautiful Lee scares me to death.

A parade of people congests the sidewalk and mow us over to the edge. I watch the wall of humanity, the dark carpet of hair bobbing up and down the street, and for a moment I’m lost in the tide with panic railing through me. There are so many damn people on the planet. How could I have left Lee for a moment? And all these years she had to learn to survive, to fend for herself because I was too incompetent to get back to her. I pause a moment and try to let life catch up with me as my newfound attorney pats me on the back.

“Let’s get you some clothes. You hungry? Hope you like Chinese.”

Kyle Wong fills me in on the world events of the last five years, smaller phones, social media, battery-operated cars. The only thing I remember were women and wine, and, at that, there was only one woman for me.

I soak it all in over a plateful of delicious food that redefines the less than palatable crap I’ve been forcing into my stomach since I’ve been here. Kyle bought me a brand new pair of Levis, a pair of Nike Air sneakers, and a T-shirt with the Chinese flag emblazoned across the front as a souvenir. He’s got a dry sense of humor I’ve come to appreciate the last twenty minutes, and to tell the truth he could have dressed me like a duck, and I would still appreciate him.

“So I’m going to do a press release when we get back to L.A.” He blots his mouth. “You just tell them you’d like some privacy. I’ll handle the rest. I’ll field a great book deal as soon as I get back to my office. We’re talking six figures to begin with, but easily the numbers can skyrocket.”

“I need to call my wife.”

His chest pumps with a laugh. “Everyone thinks you’re dead. After five years I suspect she’s moved on.” He glances to the ceiling. “If you’re lucky she’s just coming off a divorce.”

A stilted smile wobbles on my lips. This is life through the myopic eye of an attorney. A dark well of an eye with tendrils that chase dollars, but a beautiful eye that plucked me from the hands of my misery nevertheless.

“Maybe I will get lucky.” I smear it with a wry smile. “Anyway, I’d better call my wife. My mom might have a heart attack if she hears my voice.”

“She might.” He nods appreciatively. “All hell is going to break loose once word gets back that you’re alive. Just wait and see.”

Once Kyle settles me into a hotel room, I try calling Lee, but keep getting a man who claims he’s never heard of her. Memorizing phone numbers was one thing I made a point to do religiously. Obviously the false doctrine of rote number memorization wasn’t my strong suit. I can’t remember Colt’s number either, so I dial the house, the one number my mother hasn’t changed since I was seven—at least I hope not.

The phone rings, and I try to make myself comfortable on the enormous bed in an effort to calm my nerves. Kyle put me up in a room next to his. I told him I’d meet him for dinner, although I haven’t eaten this much in the last two months—hell, maybe the last five years.

“Hello?” A male voice grumbles from the other end.

It’s Colton.

My throat locks off, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

“
Hello
?” His voice grows cold in agitation, and for a moment I’m paralyzed by the thought he might hang up. I close my eyes and thank God it wasn’t my mother. Killing people with the sound of my voice isn’t the way I’m hoping to reintegrate myself into society.

“Colt?” I press out his name—try it out on my lips for the first time in half a decade.

“Speaking.”

“It’s me, Mitch.”

Silence clots up the line.

“Don’t hang up.” He probably thinks it’s some sick joke. I rattle off what happened, quicker than a shotgun blast—how I came to the reeducation center, how I got to the phone.