15. Present
fifteen
Present
Boston
That’s how long it’s been since I last saw Cassie and Bronx, my mom.
Twenty-five months and one week since I last slept in my own bed, went to school, talked with my friends.
Nearly 110 weeks since I made breakfast for my siblings, picked them up from school, worked the front counter at that small gym in Stillwater.
Over two years have passed since that night Eddie threatened not just my life, but theirs. If I stayed, they’d be hurt. That’s what he said. That’s what I believed.
So I disappeared.
Where did I go? What have I been doing?
Surviving.
Barely, at first.
When I left the apartment that night, I had nothing but the clothes on my body, a broken hand, and just over two hundred dollars in my bank account.
I made it to a 24-hour pharmacy and bought some basic first-aid supplies.
Man, I almost passed out—twice—trying to splint and wrap my hand.
I obviously knew I needed to get out of Stillwater, far enough that Eddie or any of his henchmen wouldn’t find me.
That meant no going to Jake’s or even the ER. Too many questions. Too dangerous.
Thirty-three-dollar bus ticket to Minneapolis it was.
I stayed there a few months, spending my nights in public restrooms or behind the dumpster by the library, until I eventually landed in Rochester, about ninety miles south of Stillwater.
And that’s where I’ve been for over eighteen months now, working four minimum-wage jobs just to scrape by.
I don’t panhandle or steal unless I have no choice. And even then, it’s only a sandwich or water.
That’s the line I toe.
Occasionally, I’ll go to a shelter for food or a free clinic when I’m really sick, always using my fake ID.
I can’t risk word getting back to Eddie.
That sometimes means flat-out lying to law enforcement, heart pounding while they pretend to believe me when I tell them I was too tired to drive home and just needed a quick nap in my car.
I just pray they don’t scan the license and realize I’m not who I say I am.
But maybe getting picked up wouldn’t be the worst thing. Maybe then I’d finally find out what happened to my family because they, too, vanished.
When I finally scraped together enough to buy a phone—a burner, prepaid, the cheapest shit on the shelf—I called Miss Janine. She told me she hadn’t seen Cassie or Bronx in weeks—that my family was just… gone.
It felt like the air got sucked from my lungs.
I haven’t taken a deep breath since.
It’s just before ten, and even though today was technically the first day of spring, the nights are still miserably cold.
I’m sitting in the front seat of my car, fully dressed, my cold-weather sleeping bag already wrapped around me.
It’s not much, but it does the job. I’ll try to grab a few hours of sleep before my alarm goes off at three a.m. so I can walk the few feet to the gym where I open most mornings.
That job isn’t about nostalgia. It was a purposeful find.
People who’ve never been homeless don’t realize how clutch gyms are. Hot showers, even laundry. Now that is a god damn luxury.
Most mornings are slow. I clean equipment, restock towels, and pretend I’m just another dude working his way through school.
Then it’s off to bag groceries at the co-op, work the line at the pizza joint, and finally wash dishes at the falafel place.
All of my jobs involve food or showers or warmth—things that aren’t guaranteed when you live in your car. It’s all very strategic, trust me.
About a year into hiding, after saving every spare cent I had, I bought a used Toyota C-HR. Every piece of my life fits into that car.
And it sure as hell is safer than sleeping on benches, dealing with junkies, or waking up to cops telling me to move on. Those things still happen sometimes, but not as often as they did when I literally slept under the stars.
I’m scrolling through my phone. It’s hooked up to the gym’s Wi-Fi while I work through my list of social media and news sites.
It’s what I do every night because it’s the only way I know how to ease the constant knot of anxiety in my chest. Nights are the worst. Too quiet.
Too much time to think: Where’s my family? Are Cassie and Bronx safe?
I tell myself that if they’d been hurt—or worse, if they were dead—I’d see it online.
My friends would post about it, or the news would cover it.
So each night, I check. Social media first because nobody waits to verify shit there before posting gossip, then confirmation through Stillwater’s news sites.
Only when that returns zip do I feel calm enough to sleep.
It’s like a ritual. Some people drink a hot beverage, maybe take a valium. I search the obituaries.
This is exactly the process I go through tonight.
I start with Jake’s profile.
His most recent post is only an hour old.
A photo of him, Pacey, Jonathan, Lily, and—I groan audibly—Archer, whose arm’s slung around Skye’s shoulder. “Spring Break!” the caption reads. They’re somewhere warm, tropical. Florida, maybe?
I zoom in on Skye’s face, my heart lurching. She’s still as beautiful as ever. Long auburn hair curled from salt water or humidity, a golden tan that makes her big blue eyes pop. There’s not a word powerful enough to describe how devastating she is.
Her social media is next. I spend more time there than I probably should, just... looking. I try to convince myself I’m only gathering information, but it’s not true.
I once again note how perfectly curated her photos are. Too perfect, sometimes. Archer features in a lot of them. They’re obviously still together. Two years later, even while at different colleges.
Good for them.
Social media’s nice. It makes me feel less alone somehow, like they’re still part of my life, even though I haven’t spoken to them in years. I also haven’t posted online since I left. Not that I have anything worth posting.
@b.rawls: Look, they served spaghetti casserole at the shelter today. #blessed
3 likes · 2 comments
Yeah, I think not.
Social media’s just recon now. Jake, Skye, Pacey, Jonathan, Lily. In that order. Sometimes even Archer, though I hate myself a little more each time I read his latest self-indulgent post. Smug fucking asshole.
I swipe through everyone’s pages, looking for news, gossip, anything. But they’re all living their lives, and none of those lives include updates on my family.
Next, I hit Stillwater’s local news site. The top headline makes my heart screech to a halt: Oak Park Heights Drug Bust Results in 19 Arrests; One Dead After Police Stand-Off.
My palms go clammy.
I tap on the article, skimming for names. Nothing familiar, but that doesn’t mean shit. I open a new tab then pull up the world’s most powerful search engine and type in: Susan Irene Rawlings, Stillwater, MN.
Boom.
First hit: a short article about the incident and my mom’s name listed among those arrested. Eddie’s is, too, I think. Well, there’s an Edward Mulvaney III, and I choose to believe it’s shithead. Better be.
I dive deeper, already searching for Stillwater’s arrest and inmate information. A few more clicks and I’m looking at a mugshot of my mom.
She looks tired. Faded. Her eyes are flat and hollowed out. The messy ponytail makes her look even older. She doesn’t look high—at least not in the photo. But she looks… broken.
I stare at the picture for a long time. Man, I still remember her dancing barefoot in the kitchen, my dad’s arms wrapped around her.
Her bail’s set at $25,000. That might as well be $25 million. No way that’ll get posted. Not by anyone I know. Not for her.
I scribble down the jail’s number, trying not to let anxiety eat away at me because, where the hell are my siblings?
I search their names for good measure, but nothing comes up. Not on social media. Not in any news article. Not a surprise. The press is usually mindful of disclosing the names of minors. Still, it doesn’t exactly settle my nerves.
I shut off my phone, wide awake. Sleep’s a distant idea at this point. I lean my head back against the seat, staring at the ceiling of the car, my home.
This wasn’t supposed to be my life.