Part 42 (1/2)

be wrenched away, s.n.a.t.c.hed by a riptide I have no power to resist?

If I find my way to you, one man standing in a crowd, will I even know who you are?

Eden

Off the Streets

Safely sheltered by the kind people here at Walk Straight, thanks to Father Gregory.

What is it with me and good Samaritans?

I never believed so many really existed, never guessed that any of them would ever reach out and yank me away from h.e.l.l.

That's where I was. h.e.l.l isn't some fiery pit ”down there.” It's right here on Earth, in every dirty city, every yawning town.

Every glittery resort and every naked stretch of desert where someone's life somersaults out of control. Satan-Evil-doesn't have horns or poke you with a pitchfork. His power doesn't come from full moon sacrifices, and he doesn't go out looking for new recruits. He doesn't have to. All he has to do is wait.

Walk Straight Is an amazing place, a rescue for teen prost.i.tutes who want to turn their lives around. All they have to do is ask. I didn't know to ask, but Father Gregory did.

It's run by an exceptional woman, he told me, an ex-prost.i.tute herself.

When she got out, she wanted to help other young people get off the streets.

You'll have a place to live, an education.

They'll help you decide how to shape your future. If you have a pimp, they'll encourage you to testify against him, and they'll go to court with you so you don't have to be afraid to put him away.

When I got here, they cleaned me up, fed me, had a doctor run some tests.

I'm not pregnant, didn't catch some horrible disease. I was a little anemic, but that will change with good nutrition.

I didn't eat nearly so well at Tears of Zion.

My Caseworker Is named Sarah. She's really nice, but she does ask a lot of questions, some of which I'm not prepared to answer.

Sarah: Where is your home, Ruthie?

Okay, so I haven't been completely honest with them. I'm afraid if I give them my real name, they'll find some kind of all points bulletin out for me.

So I used my middle name-Ruth. Sarah added the ”ie” to make it ”feel friendlier.”

I didn't exactly lie when I answered, ”Las Vegas has been my home for a while.”

Sarah: Okay, then. Can you tell me how you ended up in ”the business”?

More mostly truth. ”I never wanted to.

I just didn't know any other way to survive.”

Sarah: I understand. And what about your parents? Will you tell me about them?

”They're dead.” That was not a lie.

My parents are dead. To me.

Boise, Idaho Is a bittersweet memory, and Tears of Zion is a wake-up-s.h.i.+vering nightmare. My parents are zombies, death-walking through both.

I would die before I'd go back, and I'll have to tell Sarah all of that very soon. Because I did find a way to get hold of Andrew. His mom is still a professor at Boise State. And, duh, professors have e-mail addresses. We have computer access here at Walk Straight. I e-mailed her two days ago. She got back to me yesterday.

Eden! Thank G.o.d you're okay. We've been so worried! Andrew has searched and searched for you. He pestered your parents so much, I thought they'd have him arrested again... . She gives a long story about the first time they had him arrested, and how they and some of Papa's congregation hara.s.sed Andrew until he had to have his phone number changed. He'll be so relieved. How can he reach you?

I Insisted on E-mail A phone call would mean somebody knows and cares I'm here. I'm not ready to confess that yet, not ready to think about talking to Pastor Streit and his not-nearly-as-sweet-as-she-seems right-hand woman. She will never be Mama again. I don't know how much I will ever be able to tell Andrew about the past few months. I'm changed, and he'll know that. But does he have to know why?

If he finds out I'm here, I guess he'll figure out why. I go to the resource room, open my Gmail. Oh my G.o.d. It's here.

Eden, he writes. I can't believe it's you.

Every prayer answered. When can I see you? When are you coming home?

To the point. All Andrew, in cybers.p.a.ce.

I type a to-the-point reply: ”Not sure when I'll come home. Lots to talk about.

Just know, now and always, I love you.”

A Poem by Seth Parnell Home Simple word. Four letters, two consonants, two vowels, one of them silent.

Home.

You wish you could walk through a familiar door, shout out the word, in a simple two-word sentence: ”I'm home!”

But that door has been closed to you, slammed shut in your face, and no amount of pleading will open it again. Two consonants, two vowels.

One word without meaning when you don't have a home.

Seth

Always Believed