Chapter 3
HONEY
A family of sand hill cranes pecks at the ground in an open, marshy field that runs along the road.
That’s another advantage to not whizzing around in an air-conditioned car, besides not having to talk to cocky strangers.
I can see and hear things up close and personal that I would have missed if I were driving.
I slowly and quietly walk my bike off the road and prop it against a tree, pull out my sketchbook and pencil, and begin a rough sketch of the downy-feathered baby sand hill crane shadowing his parents as they peck at the ground looking for food.
I follow the family as they shift farther into the field.
I weave through thick-trunked strangler figs before stepping through their stalwart line and practically stumbling into a small, crystal-clear pond glistening in the sun.
It’s hugged by beach daisies, overgrown ferns, and thick patches of beach grass.
A rickety dock juts out into the pond. A stone path, long neglected, winds back to a charming, old Florida cracker house, with a wide, listing veranda.
The whole property, smack-dab in the middle of nowhere, seems as if it’s been forgotten by everyone.
I return to my bike, making note of the location of the path, so I can find it again, hoping that it isn’t, somehow, a figment of my imagination. I bike back down the path, through the strangler figs, and there it is. As enchanting and peaceful as before.
I prop my bike against the veranda and rummage in my satchel for the flip phone I was provided by the safe house. I check the time. I have ten minutes before I can call Cat.
I always call Cat at the same time—when she’s driving to or from work.
Usually, I time it so that I can make the call sitting under the shade of the giant magnolia tree, now ripe with large, white flowering buds, that signifies the turnoff to Heaven.
But this little haven, with its ribbon of privacy formed by the strangler figs, is the perfect place to call her.
The dock has some split and warped boards, so I carefully make my way to the edge.
When I plop my satchel onto the dock, tug off my shoes and socks, and sit on the edge of the dock, slipping my feet into the water, it’s wonderfully cool.
A spring bubbles in the middle—the source of the water and why it’s such a clean, clear blue green.
A hawk cries overhead as if to say, “I’ll share today. Welcome. Enjoy.” It lands effortlessly in a branch of one of the thick, tall oak trees, watching me.
It’s just me and the hawk, so I tug my shirt and shorts off and slide into the cool water.
It washes over my hot, tired body like a balm.
I lay back in the water and float. I don’t usually cry when I’m sad.
But when something feels this good and my body is being offered comfort like this right now, that’s when the tears come.
As if feeling right is wrong now. As if happiness is now so confusing that my body doesn’t know how to respond appropriately.
When the tears roll down my cheeks, I dunk my head in the water to wash them away.
I float for too long, losing track of time before I realize it’s past time to call Cat.
Scrambling back on the dock, I dry my hands with my coffee-stained T-shirt before automatically poking out her old number—not the one I’m supposed to be using but the one my fingers remember because they’ve typed it out millions of times.
I stop just before I hit send. Cursing, I retype the correct numbers to Cat’s flip phone in her glovebox.
Cat’s my one contact. My one support and tie to my old life, and sometimes it seems like my sole tie to sanity.
Cat and I take the flip phones seriously, even if they feel a little silly.
Because Trey has too much money to throw away, he is undoubtedly paying someone to watch, track, and listen to everyone I know, for the sole purpose of finding me and bringing me back “home.”
Cat would have never gotten mixed up with a man like Trey. She would have recognized him for who he was the second she saw him. Then, she would have given him the finger. With both hands.
Not that Trey would have been looking. He’s intolerant of people who don’t fall in love with him at first sight—a frighteningly small number, due to his ability to charm the socks off most people.
Because Cat and I are different from each other in a multitude of ways, Trey didn’t understand our relationship.
That isn’t surprising to me now that I see he’s incapable of loving other people deeply and unselfishly.
One time, when Cat and I had a disagreement over something so minor that I don’t even remember, Trey asked me why Cat was still in my life.
“She’s a bitch,” he said, shrugging. “You two have nothing in common and she drags you down. You should ditch her. Families ditch families all the time.”
“You got her all wrong,” I told him. This was before I found out that I should never tell him he was wrong or I would pay for it.
“No, Honey,” he said. “You’ve got her all wrong.”
I had reeled at that. “So, you’re saying that the woman I’ve known since birth, and the woman who raised me because my parents were rarely around, is not who I think she is?”
One of the many reasons I love Cat is because she is herself, through and through. There is no mistaking who she is. She’s utterly incapable of pretending to be someone she’s not. She is unwilling—and maybe even unable to bend or soften around others. She’s strong and centered. Not a bitch.
But it didn’t matter because eventually, Trey found fault not just with Cat but with all my friends and methodically began to isolate me from each one of them. None of them were good enough for me. For us.
Voicemail kicks in, and I hang up and give Cat a minute before I call back.
It’s the procedure. Cat has to fish the phone from her glove box.
It always takes two calls. One is the warning call.
If she doesn’t answer on the second call, specifically on the third ring, I don’t call again that day.
And if it happens again that week, I don’t call again.
Even though that’s the rule we agreed upon, I’m not sure I could stick by it if I had to.
Not only would I worry and wonder what was going on, but I miss Cat desperately.
I miss her constancy. I miss her telling me what’s what. I miss her humungous hugs.
“You’re late.” I can hear the traffic noise in the background. Chicago. Commute time. Because it’s always commute time in Chicago. Who would think I’d miss Chicago traffic? But I missed it with every cell in my body because Cat is there. She yawns. “Sorry. Still waking up.”
“Are you okay?”
Another yawn.
“How’s Aunt Birdie?” I ask, pulling out the pastry bag from my satchel. I stick my hand in the bag, and pinch off a nibble of cinnamon bun.
“Exactly the same. She happened to mention that the bulbs the two of you planted are in full bloom.”
Sadness catches deep in my throat as I think about when Aunt Birdie and I planted those bulbs years ago, one dreary, wet, cold day.
“We plant them now, Honey, right here where it is the perfect spot for them, so that they’ll brighten come spring,” she had said.
“You’ve got to think ahead in gardening and love. ”
“What’s it like there? Is it hot?” Cat asks.
“Cold as shit,” I lie. She knows I won’t give her clues to my location.
“Shit isn’t usually cold. FYI.” Cat’s blinker tick, tick, ticks like a bomb ticking off seconds until the blast. “Unless you’re in the arctic and you have an outdoor latrine. I hope for your sake that’s not the case. If so, don’t get frostbite on your behind.”
“You know I want to tell you everything about where I am and what I’m doing.”
“I know.” She puffs out a sigh. “Was your morning good so far? You can tell me that.”
I think about the coffee disaster. Not good.
But she’d think the story was hilarious.
I want to tell her how Cowboy Boots reminded me of my first crush until I got up close and he was five times as handsome but infinitely more annoying.
And how I found a little piece of paradise to cherish, at least just for right now, and it seems like no one else in the world knows about it.
But I don’t. Because talking about my days—even the most minor details—leaves the conversation wide open for information slips. If she finds out where I am, there’s a high chance that she’ll pack up and come to me.
“I know you can’t tell me the details, sweet girl.
That’s okay, though. I’ll make up stuff in my head instead.
Good stuff.” After a pause, she asks, “Did you make any friends there?” I feel like I’m in middle school again, when Mom kept moving me from one ballet academy to another to find the perfect one that would push me hard enough to become a prima ballerina.
“Yes. In fact, I’ve got the perfect friend here. He loves my cooking, he listens to me all day long without complaining, he’s snuggly in bed, and he loves to be brushed.”
She’s quiet for a moment then barks out a laugh. “Leave it to you to be running from a psycho ex-boyfriend and somehow you’ve acquired a dog?”
“I can’t make human friends here, Cat. It’s too hard. I can’t really talk to anyone because I might let something slip. You know I can’t keep my mouth shut for long.”
“That must be painful for you. You always did love to talk.”
“You’re never at a loss for words either.”
“Our verbosity is genetic. Gran used to talk nonstop.”
“Gramps said she could talk off all the ears in the cornfield.” I say.
“You know, you are capable of not talking.” I hear her take a sip of something. Probably coffee. Which I still haven’t had yet. “There was that one time you fell off that horse, and they wired your jaw closed, and you had to mumble everything.”