Chapter eighteen, Freedom present. She cracks one eye open and surveys her surroundings.
She has no idea where she is. This is a second morning in
a row. She's woken up in a strange place. Using just the one
eye, Freedom looks around, groaning. It hurts to look, It hurts
to move at all, and her head is pounding. As she takes in
the bedside table next door with the black alarm, clock, phone, and
bible. She suddenly remembers she is in a motel. She feels around underneath
the sheet. She still has all her clothes on. She feels something underneath
her stomach. Reaching down, she retrieves her cell phone. It is almost
dead. Flipping onto her back, she moans with the effort. Freedom rubs
her eyes and tries to remember the events of the night before. It all
comes back to her in one whoosh. Glasses, the drinks the Native American
assholes. As if on cue, Her left middle finger starts to throb.
She holds it in front of her face and notices it has an ace bandage
wrapped around it. Freedom next remembers Glasses pushing that guy up against the wall
at the bar and telling him he was a federal marshal. She can't recall
anything else. Freedom shuts her eyes and tries to remember what happened after that,
but after a few minutes she gives up. She assumes she is in
Glass's motel room. She recognizes it as the Super eight and New Kingman.
There aren't too many other places to stay around these parts. Glasses is gone
and Freedom is alone. Pulling the covers away from her, she swings her
legs over the side of the bed and shuffles over to the bathroom sink that
is against the far wall of the motel room, her head pounding worse with
every single step. On the sinc counter, she finds a note scrawled on
hotel paper and barely legible handwriting, had to go hope you are okay.
The note is not signed. Freedom takes a shower using the motel issued soap,
shampoo, and conditioner. She dries off, toweling her hair, and
puts on her clothes from the night before. They smell like stale cigarette smoke.
She's beginning to feel a little better. She uses the yellow pages that
are in the nightstand table to look up the number for a cab company.
Only one of two in the Kingman area. She orders a cab for herself
and goes to wait for it in the lobby of the motel. She grabs
her purse that is neatly placed on the lone chair on the way out the
door. Once inside the motel lobby, she makes herself a cup of coffee
from the coffee pot that is next to the check in desk. Alongside the
coffee pot is a plastic sea through breadbin in which sits one plain bagel and
one small blueberry muffin wrapped and plastic shrink wrap some Continental breakfast. Freedom thinks.
Sitting down in one of the vinyl chairs along the wall, she picks
up a magazine and flips through the pages, sighing as she crosses and uncrosses
her legs. The fat Native American woman behind the desk ignores Freedom and turns
her gaze past her to watch the television against the other wall. Jerry Springer
is on, and the fat Native American clerk laughs every time one of the
guests stands up to threaten another one. Outside the front door, she sees
the yellow taxi pull up. Freedom tosses the magazine on to the table.
On her way out, it slides on top of the other magazines and falls
to the floor. She hears the Native American clerk her rumph as she bangs
out the door. Freedom slides into the taxi and gives her address to the
driver. She puts in her headphones and listens to music on her phone until
it dies about ten miles outside of town. Arriving home, Freedom flings a
wad of cash at the driver and hastily exits the cab. Lydia and A
two are playing with the hose in the front yard. They both stop and
look up at her as she walks toward the door of the trailer. Where
have you been? Lydia asks, hands on hips. The hose she let
slide out of her hands emits a trickle of water on the desert ground.
Yeah, where have you been? A two echoes his sister, also placing
his hands on his hips. What cituya? Freedom asked them, picking up
the hose and flinging it to the side out of her path. Mind your
own business, she finishes, opening the door to the trailer as the kids
go running after the hose. Freedom enters the living room, throws her perts
on the couch, and turns left. Into the kitchen to find something to
eat. Starving and could use a drink. Hannah's in the kitchen feeding the
baby. She looks up when Freedom comes in. Without a word. Freedom
opens the refrigerator door, grabs a beer and a piece of celery, and
pops the top on the beer. She swigs down a few gulps, and
watching Hannah out of the corner of her eye, sets down the beer and
bites into the celery stalk. It makes a loud, crunching noise when she
does. Hello, she says to Hannah in between bites. Freedom picks up
the beer again and pushes the bottle to her lips. When Hannah doesn't respond,
Freedom puts the bear down again. What what is it with everybody?
She asks? Where were you last night? Hannah asked, wiping baby food
from Summer's mouth. She lets out a little squeal and claps her hands.
Freedom waves at the baby and smiles back at her. She is still waving
when Hannah speaks up again, this time more fervently. Where were you?
Freedom jumps up to sit on the counter and crosses her legs. I was
out where, I don't know, I barely remember. Had a lot of
drinks. She tips the beer bottle towards Hannah again. Besides, since when
do you care where I go? Were you at the Sundowner saloon? Hannah
asked, turning toward Freedom, placing the baby spoon on the counter. Summer
squeals again, this time out of frustration, and leans toward the spoon as
if to grab it. Freedom picks up the baby spoon and, dunking it
in the food, reaches over Hannah and feeds it to Summer. Summer gurgles
happily and moving her arms in circles, throws a spoon down, where it
clatters on the floor. Yeah, I was how come, Freedom, still
focusing on the baby, puts her hands over her face and then draws them
away, making a surprise his face when she does. She repeats this two
more times. Summer squeals and laughs with delight. Hannah turns towards Summer and
speaks, again, who were you with this regular from the truck stop?
Guy never takes off his sunglasses, so I call him glasses Pretty clever,
hunh Were you involved in a fight? Hannah's look as serious now? Yeah,
some asshole wallapies with tiny dicks thought it would be funny to try to
fuck with me? Glasses beat him up? Did he say he was a
federal marshal? Hannah is directing all of her attention toward Freedom. Freedom uses
finishing the celery stick. Yeah, some kind of cop, I think.
Do we have any twinkies? Vegetables ain't ideal for a hangover. Hannah grabs
Freedom's arm and shakes it. Listen to me, Freedom, did he say
he was a cop or a federal marshal? Freedom shakes her arm free of
Hannah's grasp a federal marshal? Okay man, Freedom hoops off the counter.
How often does he come around? Hannah asks about once a year. He's
a really nice guy. Just hangs out at the truck stop. You know,
eats stays in New Kingman. Why the twenty? Questions? Hannah nods,
wringing her hands nervously. Summer starts to whimper because no one is paying
any attention to her. She beats her hands on the baby tray table as
tears start to wallop in her eyes, her cheeks flush red. Instead of
responding, Hannah squeezes around the counter and disappears into the back of the trailer,
toward Freedom's room. As she walks, she calls over her shoulder,
where did you get this? Freedom cranes her neck around to the right and
catches sight of the teddy bear Hannah is holding at arm's length. She reaches
for her beer on the counter, raises it to her lips, and drains
the rest of it in one gulp. Oh, that thing. Niewa gave
it to me. She bought it at the church rummage sale. Freaky huh.
Hannah turns the bear around to study it, cocking her head to the
side, as if reminiscing this used to be your bear, you know.
Freedom turns back around. It did. Harry said it belonged to that other
Hualapai family that moved. I gave it to them. Hannah responds, it
was yours a long time ago. Harry doesn't remember. Why did you give
it to them? Hannah hesitates, thinking I thought you didn't need it.
You didn't need to remember. I wanted you to start your life fresh here.
Freedom is confused. You mean when you adopted me, yes, Hannah
responds, You have always told me I was adopted, but you have never
told me where I came from. Hannah opens a small linen closet that is
in the hallway next to Freedom's bedroom, and places the bear on the top
shelf, nestled among the sheets. You do not need to know, But
what if I want to know? Freedom is adamant now some day, Hannah
says, in a manner that tells Freedom she is through talking about the matter.
You always say that some day, Why not? Now I'm old enough.
Hannah's mouth moves into a straight line, and she walks across the living
room to rejoin the baby. She sits down and spoons more baby food into
her mouth. Some day you will know. Freedom grabs her purse from the
couch and heads toward the front door. She needs to get out, to
go somewhere to think. That's fine. Then she hisses at Hannah, opening
the front door and placing a foot halfway down on the step. Don't tell
me I'm leaving, and I have no idea why you don't want me to
know. With that, Freedom barges out the door. She never hears Hannah
as she replies quietly, because what you want to know can hurt you.
Chapter nineteen, Jessica present from the closet, She hears her father speaking to
the men in hushed tones. She is amazed she can hear them as far
away as they are out by the pool, but with the force of her
body, she is able to scoot her chair toward the hallway. After five
minutes of this, she has moved enough to be able to see around the
doorway of the closet, and Jessica realizes the back door has been left wide
open. She sits still and listens. Jessica didn't expect her father to come
home. Her mother had made it sound like he had taken off. Finally,
she was constantly getting calls from her mother. If Lisa Walker was having
a panic attack, she called Jessica. If Lisa Walker was set with her
father, she called Jessica. And once a month or so, Lisa Walker
called Jessica to report that her father was missing, that he was definitely,
without a doubt, gone for good. This time. He never was,
but Jessica had to admit to herself that she was also surprised Martin Walker had
never left one morning and never come back. She would have felt bad for
her mom, but they both would have been better off. Martin Walker was
nothing but trouble, a liar, a low life, a bottom feeder,
and a criminal. Jessica was sure of it. How else did Jessica explain
the fact that she had been attacked in her own house, tied up and
assaulted, and her mother had been killed. Her mother had been killed.
Jessica had been so pumped up with adrenaline for the past few hours that she
hadn't had time to focus on this alarming fact. She was too busy fighting
for her life, screaming and trying to break free from her restraints and trying
to fight off her attackers that she hadn't even let it sink in. But
the minute Jessica had said it out loud to her father, she had known
her mother was dead, killed by Mexican thugs, and she was never coming
back. Jessica was alone. Her father was worthless if he even stayed alive.
As Jessica listens to her father beg and plead with the men, she
starts to cry again silently. She never really liked her mother all that much,
but she never wanted her to die, not like that, not tortured
and shot in the head by murderous street rats. This was all Martin's fault.
If they want to kill him, they should just go ahead and do
it, Jessica thinks, hopefully she will be spared. She can't think of
any reason why they would want to come after her. She has no money,
nothing they want. Jessica is sure it's Martin they are after. How
ironic that she was summoned home on the day they decided to find him.
She thinks about how they had called her Nicole. Who is Nicole, she
wonders, and why do they think I'm her? She knew no Nicole's growing
up, and to her recollection, her parents had never mentioned the name before.
Maybe the Nicole they wanted was someone totally different than her, and the
thugs had just made a mistake. Maybe this was all just a huge misunderstanding.
Maybe Martin was clearing that up right now. As much as she wished
it's so, Jessica strongly doubted it. Jessica listens as her father's voice grows
louder, more insistent. She cannot make out the words. All she hears
is garbled sounds. She leans forward in the chair, thrusting her torso forward
through the closet door to hear better, but she ends up tipping forward,
the chair crashing down to the floor with Jessica landing hard on her side.
Her cheek smashes into the wood, catching the bruise from the man's punch that
is forming rocks solid over her eye. Ow she cries, wincing in pain.
She is on the ground with her head facing toward the back door,
which she can clearly see in front of her, albeit at a ninety degree
angle. Suddenly, one of the men's bodies blocks the sunlight streaming into the
hallway as he stands in the middle of the doorway on the outside. He
is yelling at his partner, motioning with him to come toward him. Jessica
tries to scoot the chair back out of the hallway, but because of her
prone position, she cannot. She sees the man turn around inside the doorway
and look down. He catches sight of Jessica lying on the floor, still
tied to the chair. Oh, Jessica says, again, trying even harder
to scoot the chair back into the closet. No, she screams, as
the man comes toward her, running shouting to his accomplice as he runs.
He reaches Jessica and in one swift motion, picks her chair off the ground,
slamming it right side up. And hard. Jessica's headspins and she cries
out again. The man rears back his hand and slaps her across the face.
Don't fucking move. His thick accent is punctuated by the harshness of his
words. Jessica nods, biting her lip to try to keep from crying again.
The tears come anyway, and roll down her cheeks before her lap.
The man becomes distracted by the other man's voice, and he leaves the closet
as swiftly as he came in. Jessica sees the second man dragging her father
by his arms, tied behind his back, into the kitchen. There,
the first man helps the second tie her father to a chair again. Martin
turns his head to the left to look at Jessica helplessly, then turns back
toward his captors. Please don't hurt my daughter, Martin begs, which daughter.
The first man says, taking out a cell phone and jabbing at the
keys on its face. Jessica, Please don't hurt Jessica, Martin replies.
The man ignores Martin and keeps punching numbers into the cell phone. He turns
away from him and paces back and forth in the kitchen, the second criminal
stands next to Martin, arms crossed, the gun hanging down under his arm
at his side. He stares at Jessica. Jessica begins to grow uncomfortable with
his stare and cries out to her father Dad. She begins until the second
man puts his forefinger up against the bandana covering his mouth. He waves the
gun around in a circle. The first man pulls the phone down from his
ear and cries out to Jessica to shut up or I'll kill you. He
then puts the phone back up against his ear. He begins speaking in rapid
fire Spanish. Jessica whimpers. Martin looks over to his daughter and speaks,
Jessica, don't talk. They'll kill us. I'll get us out of here.
What did you do, Dad? Why do they want to kill us?
Jessica is crying again. I don't know, sweetheart, I didn't do
anything. Just be quiet and this will all be over soon, I promise.
The second man goes over to the counter to grab the duct tape.
He stretches out a long piece the tape, scratching and creaking as he does.
He tears it off with his teeth and walking over to Jessica, tapes
it over her mouth. Jessica rise around in the chair. The first man
ends the call on the phone. I promise you, I can get you
your money. Martin says. How. The man says, flipping the top
of the phone open and shut. Where is it? It is with my
other daughter. She is the only one who can access it. Jessica is
shocked. Nicole, The man says, where is the other daughter? His
accent grows thicker the more anxious he gets. Yes, Nicole, Martin agrees,
only I know where she is. You let me live and I will
take you to her. I swear I will take you to her. The
first man nods toward the second man at the roll of duct tape in his
hand. You take us to her. You and your daughters live, or
maybe one dies. We will see. The second man stretches out another piece
of duct tape and places it over Martin's mouth. The man laughs diabolically.
Jessica's continuous screams are muffled. Chapter twenty Ryan passed. Ryan hadn't dated much
after his divorce. He was too focused on the job and at the beginning
didn't have time. He worked day and night and loved his job. He
realized he was a cliche, the gruff, single cop married to his job
who drank too much, because for a while there he did. It started
out as a good time, a great time with the other guys on the
job. Ryan was in his mid thirties, still felt young, still looked
young. He was the initiator, the instigator. He'd work a twelve hour
day and then ask whoever was still lurking round the office if they wanted to
go for a beer for an hour. A beer turned into multiple beers,
and those turned into shots, and the hour turned into an all night long
every time. Typically on those nights, Ryan would take a girl home with
him. He didn't date, but he did screw plenty random beautiful young girls
up to four or five nights a week. The guys at work started calling
him the closer because he closed almost every time. They would watch in awe
as Ryan would pick the girls up at the bar, have them gazing up
at him, starry eyed for the rest of the night, and then leave
with him car keys in his left hand, perfect round random girl's ass cheek
in the other Ryan found that he could get girls extremely easily back in those
days, it was simple. He just flashed a smile, then he flashed
his badge, smile badge, or vice versa. If he felt like mixing
it up a little, all he had to do was talk about the undercover
stings, the dangerous criminals, the high speed chases, and those girls would
get soaking wet. Hell. All he had to say was Federal Marshal,
and the chicks wide eyed, breast heaving would drop their panties. Why would
Ryan want to date when he could pull all the pussy he ever wanted,
any time, anywhere. He didn't miss Jenny one bit, and he didn't
miss being married. He had his job, He had the boys, and
he had the women. Life was good. And then things started to change.
One by one, his buddies started dropping off. One got married,
then another. Another buddy got married for the second time, another for the
third. These were the same guys who swore over Budweisers and shots of Jamison
as late nineties pop songs played on the jukebox in the bar that they would
never get married or get married again. No way, not for me,
man, Nope, never again, they'd promise after their breakup or divorce or
annulment but they all did all bit the bullet again. Ryan found himself standing
up in more and more weddings or sitting in the pews watching his friends exchange
vows with Donna or Susie or Amanda, and he thought them pathetic and weak.
They were cliches of themselves, and Ryan found that to be unacceptable.
What he also found unacceptable was the fact that there were fewer and fewer of
the guys to go out with after work. Years before youth was on their
side. Ryan and the guys could drink, smoke, shoot the shit,
and screw women all in one night until the sun came up, and still
show up for work the next day bright eyed and bushy tailed. Those times
were gone. Ryan noticed the years wearing on him. He found he couldn't
perform as well the next day on the job. After drinking all night.
He was tired and worn out. He wasn't sleeping. More and more of
the guys begged off on the nights out, explaining that they had to get
home to their wives, their kids the suburbs. They had to catch the
five fifty seven metro train, or needed to beat the horrendous beltway traffic.
Ryan thought they all sounded like pussy whipped losers, so out of a little
bit of spite, he would go to the bar anyway. He didn't have
a wife to answer to, any kids, to provide for any traffic to
beat. He was free as a bird and could do whatever he wanted.
So we went to the bar like usual. Only difference was now he was
going to the bar alone. Ryan tried to convince himself that alone and lonely
were two different things, and for a while, for him they were.
For a while, Ryan was content to sit at bars alone, drink,
smoke meet women until d C passed the law denying patrons the right to smoke
in the bars. Then the women dried up. All of a sudden,
It wasn't so easy for Ryan to meet women. These women weren't as interested,
wouldn't give him the time of day, and they were older. They
looked older and acted older, and older women Ryan found were not as impressed
with a smile and a badge or vice versa. These women did not want
to screw some playboy bachelor closer who hung out at bars every night and got
off on the fact that he chased around the dregs of the earth. Criminals
all day. No, these women wanted relations and ships with stable men who
wanted a family and who caught the five to fifty seven metro train every night.
These women weren't excited by the fact that Ryan chased around criminals all day.
They were scared by it. Ryan wasn't just alone. He was lonely.
He hated to admit it, being the big, bad Federal Marshall cop
he was, but he was. He found himself looking more and more forward
to his yearly pilgrimages to Peach Springs to see her. He never missed a
year, and for a few years, just because he had nothing else to
do, Ryan went more than once. It was his sole vacation. He
didn't have any other place to go, nor the desire. Before she worked
at the truck stop, before she was old enough to drive, Ryan would
be forced to park his car near the edge of the school and wait until
the kids came out for recess to see her. He would wear his sunglasses
and never got out of the car, but still never felt more like a
pervert in his entire life. Except that wasn't the case, not even close.
Ryan knew that if anyone caught sight of him sitting in his car with
sunglasses on outside of a schoolhouse watching the children. He would be in huge
trouble, but no one ever did. For years, he sat and just
made sure she was okay. One year, a few weeks after he returned
from Peach Springs, his buddy on the Federal Marshal Force, Jeremy, cornered
him and told him that his wife would not stop nagging him about setting Ryan
up with one of her friends. He begged Ryan to please just go out
with him and his wife and her friend Friday night, a double date for
just a few hours. Jeremy said he'd owe Ryan if he did. He
just needed Ryan to do this so his wife would shut up and leave him
alone. It was the last thing Ryan wanted to do, but he could
tell by the look in his eyes that Jeremy was desperate, and so he
agreed to one night. A couple of hours Friday night. When Ryan showed
up to the restaurant, an Italian joint with red checkered tablecloths and keanti by
the glass, Jeremy and his wife were already there. Jeremy waved him over,
and as Ryan made his way through the crowd by the bar, he
caught sight of his date sitting next to Jeremy's wife. Her name was Isabel,
and she was a knockout. Part Brazilian, part Chilean, and part
white. Isabel had dark brown, almost black hair that cascaded over her shoulders.
Her eyes were wide set and chocolate colored with green flex in them.
She wore a bright red lipstick that offset her light, creamy complexion, a
complexion surprisingly white in color considering her heritage. She wore three tiny gold bangles
on her right wrist that glinted and sparkled, and a tiny gold watch on
her left. She wore a red dress to match her lips, a dress
so low cut Ryan could almost catch a glimpse of her nipples. Her breasts
were enormous and jiggled over the top of the dress every time she laughed or
moved. When she and Jeremy's wife got up to go to the bathroom,
Ryan caught a glimpse of sky high heels and the roundest, juiciest ass he
had ever laid eyes on. He thanked Jeremy profusely for forcing him to come
to dinner with the sexiest woman on the planet. Left a few minutes later,
and within the hour was screwing Isabel up against the wall of his apartment,
then in his bed, then in the shower, then up against the
wall again. She moved in two months later. Ryan didn't know how things
had moved as fast as they had. He supposed it was Isabel's powers of
persuasion, or her breasts or her ass. Regardless, Ryan had a new
roommate. She was thirty three years old and worked as a front desk receptionist
at a used card dealership in Silver Springs. At first, Isabel was fun.
She would cook for Ryan pastas and other traditional Brazilian dishes for him to
devour. When he came home after a long day at work. She would
go out to bars with him and they would sing and laugh and dance and
get drunk together, with Ryan being the envy of every man in the room.
And at the beginning, she always wanted sex. Isabel's appetite was insatiable,
and Ryan was more than happy to satiated. They would spend whole weekends
lying in bed, eating food and drinking wine, only stopping to sleep and
screw. Ryan was content. Life was good, and then about eight months
in, with no warning, things started to change. Ryan felt Isabel grow
cleanier. She would demand he come home at earlier hours, even though she
knew he couldn't. She no longer wanted to go to bars and dance and
drink and get drunk. Instead, she wanted to stay home and cuddle and
talk about the future, their future. She wore sweatpants and ratty t shirts
almost exclusively, hiding her ample breasts and shapely thighs, which were starting to
grow. Ryan noticed one day as she sat down next to him on the
couch, her once loose pants now clinging to her legs and butt. Isabel
started whining about money. She wanted more of it to replenish their pots and
pans in the kitchen, to paint the walls in his apartment, to redo
the tiny bathroom. She wanted to go shopping on her days off with Ryan's
money. She dropped hints about getting married married as her Brazilian and Chilean mother
was horrified that Isabel was unmarried at thirty three years old and living in sin
with a man in an apartment, and she found every opportunity to talk about
the family of four children she and Ryan were going to have. Every day
she would remind him that her clock was ticking and she wasn't getting any younger.
Ryan was blindsided by this change in Isabel. He felt as if he
had missed a memo somehow. When he could get away from the apartment,
which was not very often because Ryan found it easier to stay than endure the
wrath and crying that was so often put upon him by Isabel. If he
did, he would ask his pals on the Force what in the world had
happened to the smoking, hot girlfriend he once had. They all laughed at
his naivete, clapped him on the back and told him that that girl was
gone, that he had better shit or get off the pond. Shit meaning
put a ring on her finger and give her the baby she wanted, and
get off the pot meaning kick Isabel to the curb for good. Ryan hadn't
plans to do either one. He knew he was intensely unhappy for the millionth
time in his life, but he had no intentions of doing anything about it.
The next week he left for Peach Springs. He had literally ducked out
of his apartment in order to avoid being hit by the plates Isabel had been
throwing at his head when he left. As he hit the open road.
He breathed the sigh of relief, the memories of her sobs and questions of
why she couldn't go with him on his business trip fading away with every mile.
Ryan had told her that this was business dictated by the top brass and
that Ryan was on a covert, secret mission to a location disclosed only to
him and Sam. He felt no guilt whatsoever as the lies passed his lips.
Isabelle was not placated. Instead of driving to the super eighth like he
normally did, this time, Ryan boldly drove to the dirt road that led
up to the trailer park where she lived. He felt out of sorts and
out of control, and he needed to make sure that she was okay now
more than ever. He sat in his car, hidden from view, sunglasses
on, staring straight ahead for four hours until he caught sight of two people
coming into view. It was she walking with another Huallapie girl. Every year
she looked the same to Ryan, a little vanilla colored girl walking, playing,
laughing, shouting with other browner, darker children. Until now there was
something different about her from the year before. Ryan studied her intently as he
did the math to determine her age. He realized was shock that she must
have just turned seventeen two weeks before. Instead of the limp and scraggly,
dirty blonde hair she had worn as a child, her hair was brushed out
in full and glinted almost white under the desert sun. Her eyes sparkled a
darker brown than Ryan remembered, and as she threw back her head and laughed,
he could see a light shade of lip glass gleaming on her thin lips.
She was taller now, and her walk was more aggressive. She was
still skinny and flat chested, but there was a fullness to her thighs and
a wideness to her hips that Ryan had not noticed before. She wore a
loose, fitting off the shoulder shirt that showed off her collarbone and narrow shoulders.
She had a confidence to her walk and an aggressive, yet demure air
about her that seemed to shimmer in the heat. She was no longer a
little girl, Ryan realized, with the confusing mixture of surprise, sadness,
and delight. She was radiant, magnificent, resplendent. She was a woman.
Ryan gazed at her for a long time, feeling her freedom, her
youth, her femininity. As he took her in, he realized what he
found most pleasurable about looking at her, What made her the most stunningly and
dazzlingly beautiful in his eyes, was the fact that she looked luminously happy.
It had been a long time since Ryan had seen a woman he cared about
look happy. Isabel moved out one month after he returned from Peach Springs.
Ryan was not surprised to find he did not miss her, nor was he
surprised when she left. He came home one day after work to find a
note on the table, her belongings gone, a forgotten bottle of shampoo the
only proof she had ever even been there at all. Ryan had found her
gone less than twenty four hours after he had called her nicoll by mistake for
the second time. He guessed that was the last straw, not that he
blamed her.