Page 1 of Sin of Love
1
Disinfectant.Desperation. Flickering fluorescents and squeaking plastic chairs. A woman cries softly, her broken heart scattered in the air. There are other voices, too, coiled tight with resentment. Loathing. Longing. Fear. No matter the language, the emotions are the same.
“Hello, Ernie.”
My stepfather appears happy to see me, but I don’t take it personally. I doubt he gets many visitors. His eyes are tearing, wide with surprise or elation or whatever bullshit emotion he’s going for. A slender, veiny hand trembles where he holds the phone receiver to his ear.
There’s more than a wall of plexiglass between us. More than time and distance and resentment. The visage of my mother floats here, too. Dead or alive—wherever she is—she haunts us both.
“Deirdre Anne.” His voice is the same, if a little hoarser. It’s obvious he hasn’t given up smoking in the joint. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Neither can I,” I say flatly.
His gaze roams my features, pushing and punching against my emotional barriers. The blue of his eyes is still vivid and clear; when I was little, it was my favorite color.
“You look so beautiful. All grown up. I can’t believe it—Thank God you’re okay.”
He’s losing his shit, tears streaming down his craggy face, shoulders high and lips pinched in misery. He always was a good actor.
“Cut the crap, Ernie. I’m not here for a family reunion.”
He sniffs, chest shuddering, and wipes his face on a regulation blue sleeve.
“W-what, then? I thought maybe—”
“Did you have anything to do with it?” I ask into the receiver, leaning forward until my nose almost touches the barrier. I stare into his eyes and wait for the words to register—wait for the slide of shadows, the lies and denial.
“What? Do what?” he asks, his stare steady, if bewildered. “Are you talking about the phone calls? I know… I know you told me not to call, but you’re the only thing I’ve got left in the world and I figured as long as you didn’t change your number it meant you wanted me to—”
“Did you sell me out to the cartel when I was fourteen to pay your debt? Did you tell them where to find me?”
He shuts up fast. Blood drains from his face, leaving bright red blotches of color. “Jesus Christ, girl, what the fuck are you talking about? I would never.”
I sit back in my chair, the plastic lip digging into my vertebra. The pain centers me. Fuck. He’s telling the truth. He didn’t do it. I’m not sure what difference it would have made, anyway, had my suspicions proven true. For years, I wondered if Ernie was somehow responsible for what happened to me, had sold me out to save his own hide.
All thanks to Mama, who told me often, “When you’re old enough, he’s gonna sell your soul to the Devil just like he did his own.”
Damn her.
It was easier, I think, to imagine someone was to blame. That it wasn’t sheer shit luck that caused Julep to stop under the overpass where Nate and I were camping for the night. To coerce us with promises of food and showers and a warm bed.
But now, faced with my stepfather’s words, the part of me that blamed someone else dies. It was my fault. No one else’s. Not my stepfather’s, not my mama’s.
My fault we got in that car. My fault we were held, abused, and rented to the highest bidders for years. My fault that Nate has struggled with drug addiction and agoraphobia. My fault that I’m incapable of normal relationships and emotional intimacy.
My.
Fault.
“DeeDee, what happened to you?” whispers Ernie.
My startled eyes snap to him. “Don’t call me that,” I hiss.
Ernie swallows, a tentative hand lifting toward the glass. A guard snaps, “Hand down!”
He slumps in defeat, reddened eyes fixed on my face. “There ain’t enough time in the world for me to tell you how sorry I am. For everything. For not standing up to your mama when—”
“Stop. Just stop.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, my mind racing.
