Final
Escape

 

 

Stacia Seaman

 

 

It was a bitterly cold night in Detroit. The wind had picked up and the snow started falling as soon as the sun went down. Laima had no plans for New Year’s Eve—all she wanted to do was make some money to buy something to eat, then find a place to stay warm, stay dry. She wore almost everything she owned: T-shirt, sweatshirt, the old woolen navy pea coat she’d found at a thrift shop, faded jeans. Her tattered boots, taped with duct tape, were scant protection against the slick, icy pavement. She paused to tuck her tangled hair, once so thick and lustrous, into her tattered beanie.

The street was deserted, lined with the burnt-out shells of houses—testament to the thousands of residents who’d abandoned the city when its economy collapsed. This area was so different from the suburban neighborhood where Laima had grown up, with its green, tree-lined streets and large cookie-cutter homes, the brand new American cars in the driveways. It wasn’t safe to go into most of these houses; though they were dark, that didn’t mean they were empty, and the people inside weren’t usually friendly.

Snow was starting to accumulate, on the grass, on the pavement, and the cold had driven everyone indoors. Laima couldn’t see another soul on the street. Alone, hungry, and miserable, she shivered as she continued walking. On a night like this, she wanted coffee with sugar. And maybe some soup or, if they had it tonight, chili. There was a diner a few streets down—it was open twenty-four hours, but perhaps not on New Year’s Eve.

But if she didn’t make some money first, she wouldn’t eat anything. She had put together more kits yesterday, so she had plenty: Baggies, each with a new syringe, a bottle cap, a cotton ball, and an alcohol pad, that she sold for a dollar each to other addicts. If she sold five, she’d have dinner.

Laima bowed her head against the wind and started down a small side street. She took in the boarded-up windows of the houses; usually there were signs of life in at least a couple of them, but not tonight. It was cold, it was dark, and anyone who had a warm place to stay was unlikely to venture out. She knew better than to knock on any doors. On the street people knew her and bought kits from her; on a night like tonight, though, with no one around, they’d think nothing of taking her kits, her stash… She didn’t allow the thought to continue.

With every step she took on the way to the diner, her hopes continued to dim. Not only did she not encounter any other homeless addicts who might buy some works, but she didn’t see anyone who might be a diner patron, someone she’d be able to hit up for a dollar or two. Finally Laima reached the diner. It was silent, deserted, almost eerily dark without the garish neon that usually lit up the entire block. A handwritten sign in the door informed her that she’d arrived during the only twenty-four hours of the year the diner was closed, but they would reopen the next day at noon, “a Football Free Zone!”

With tears running down her cheeks, Laima crossed the street, then walked down a ways to where two buildings overlapped, forming a sheltered corner. One of the buildings jutted out just far enough to block the wind, and the sidewalk there was dry and free of snow. She sat, drawing her knees up to her chest, and tried to think of what to do next.

Laima fingered the balloons in her pocket. Nothing in her stomach, nowhere to warm up, no one to talk to. She pulled out one of the balloons, then carefully zipped her pocket closed. Turning her back to the street so nobody could see her, she prepared a dose.

She shivered as she pulled her arm out of her coat, but quickly felt the rush of warmth once she’d finished giving herself the injection.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the brick. Her feet were finally warm, as though she were sitting in front of the fireplace in her parents’ living room, wearing thick woolen socks and sitting under the old plaid blanket they kept draped over the back of the sofa. Her cat, Zemi, lay curled on her lap, purring. Laima sank her fingers into Zemi’s thick fur, rubbing her back, scratching behind her ears. That last day before the holiday break, in school, she’d sneaked a look at Emilia during biology class. Emilia had smiled at her, shyly, and it was all Laima could do to keep her hands folded on her desk and not reach across to link her fingers with Emilia’s. She sighed happily and continued to pet Zemi. In the background she heard the preparations for the holiday meal. New Year’s Eve in her family was a joyous occasion—tradition held that the year would continue the way it had started, so everyone wanted to be happy, singing and talking and enjoying each other’s company. How long had it been since she’d enjoyed her father’s company? How long since she’d been welcome at her family home? How long since she’d seen Emilia?

The fire vanished; Zemi’s purrs faded into the darkness. The warmth had worn off. The cold seeped into her toes through her cracked boots. Once again chilled, Laima curled up against the brick wall of the building behind her. She slipped her hand into her pocket and fingered the balloons. It was too soon, she knew, but she had felt so good. For that one moment, everything had been good again.

She prepared another dose, then injected it. As she leaned back against the building behind her, the brick wall in front of her began to waver—from solid to translucent, then it vanished completely.

As she looked into the room beyond, she saw a family. Her family. There she was, a young girl with long, wavy dark hair that tumbled down her back as she ran from her father, screaming with laughter, clutching a new toy she’d received as a Christmas present. The dining room table was laden with food for their holiday meal; the smells made her mouth water, her stomach rumble.

And there, sitting in the comfortable chair closest to the fire, there was her močiutė, her father’s mother, the person who knew and understood her best in the world. Even as Laima watched, the view changed: her grandmother’s wrinkles deepened, her shoulders bent under the weight of her years. And there was Laima, a year ago, at her feet, her grandmother’s hand gently stroking Laima’s hair as she told her stories of Laima’s senelis, her father’s father, who had died before Laima was born. She smiled and pulled Laima close as Laima told her about Emilia. Beautiful Emilia, with her golden hair and her caramel-colored eyes, her sweet sweet kisses and her poet’s soul. Laima told her grandmother about their days together at the DIA, how Emilia loved the modern American artists while Laima herself preferred the Europeans. They would go to Europe one day, Laima said, her and Emilia, and see more art, more museums, visit the village where Laima’s močiutė and senelis had met and fallen in love. Love, Laima’s grandmother sighed, love was such a gift to see shining in her Laima’s eyes. Would Emilia be coming to share in the New Year’s Eve celebration?

Through the invisible wall, Laima saw herself smile, the glow of happiness that Emilia would finally meet her grandmother. Saw herself pulling out her phone, sending a text message. Moments later she was greeting Emilia, inviting her into the house, hanging up her coat. Taking her by the hand, Laima led her to the chair by the fire and introduced her to her grandmother, watching them exchange holiday greetings. In this glimpse into the past, Laima saw herself full of contentment that the two people she loved most in the world were here, with her, on the most important night of the year. What joy the new year would bring! Then, after Emilia bundled up to return to her own home for her family’s holiday meal, the two girls stole a kiss under the mistletoe.

Laima closed her eyes as she remembered; she could still hear her father’s roar, feel his hands on her arms as he tore her away from Emilia. Hear Emilia’s sobs as she turned and ran out the front door.

Laima still felt the sting of her father’s hand, the burning imprint of his palm on her cheek.

Hot tears on her cheeks brought her back to the present. Behind her the wall was cold and hard. This time she didn’t hesitate. She shot up a third time, needing the warmth of the past to help her cope with the frigid loneliness of this New Year’s Eve.

This time the warmth drifted down over her. Looking up, she saw a Christmas tree; the trunk was in the corner beside her, and she was sheltered in its branches. It was the most magnificent tree she’d ever seen. The boughs danced with sparkling lights and colorful ornaments. Some had photographs of Laima, her parents, her močiutė… Last year Emilia had given Laima a special gift, an ornament with a picture of the two girls together, which she’d wrapped in tissue and told Laima to put away for the future, when they would celebrate together. She’d had to watch as her father, over the protests of his wife and his mother, had broken the ornament into bits and told Laima to leave his house and never return. She’d barely had time to stuff some clothes into her backpack before he’d slammed the door in her face—“You’ve disgraced us all”—and she’d stumbled out into the cold. Her grandmother had beckoned her to the back of the house, where she’d pressed a roll of bills into Laima’s hand and hugged her close.

Laima blinked and saw Emilia’s ornament on the tree before her, but as she reached for it, the tree began to rise, higher and higher, into the sky, until the twinkling lights looked exactly like stars. She gasped when one of them began to fall, blazing into the night with a trail of fire behind it.

“That means someone has died,” she said aloud. When she was little, her grandmother had told her that shooting stars were the souls of the dead making their journey toward heaven. Laima’s eyes filled with tears. Every two weeks for the last year she’d taken the bus to the cemetery where her grandmother visited her husband’s grave on Wednesdays. During those short visits Laima had once again felt loved, felt cherished—but one summer day she’d waited for hours, alone, and on her next visit, her grandmother lay in the ground beside her husband.

Laima had only one dose left. It was hours yet until daylight…

She opened the balloon. As she held her lighter under the spoon, she looked up and saw her grandmother standing beside her on the sidewalk, smiling, holding out a hand. “Močiutė, take me with you,” she said. “Don’t go away this time. You always go away.” She quickly found a vein and injected herself. The rush was immediate—Laima’s corner became as warm as a spring day, and her grandmother, strong and young, helped her to her feet. They turned to see Emilia, who greeted them both with a kiss and an embrace, and the three began to soar into the sky, shining, leaving behind a golden trail of fire.

Hours later, when the sun finally rose, Laima sat tucked into her corner. Her cheeks were flushed and she wore a blissful smile, yet she was ice-cold. Beside her on the ground were a needle and a spoon. “Another junkie trying to escape her life,” said passersby.

None of them could imagine the joy and the love of the new world she had entered in the new year.