Read Online Following Christopher Creed by Carol Plum-Ucci - Free Book Online
Authors: Carol Plum-Ucci
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this conversation to go. Not only was it about me instead of them, but it was a difficult question to answer. I probably would have avoided it if Mary Ellen hadn't found my hot button with her next thought.
"It's just that you seem so ... calm, so ... together. You're blind, you left your family..."
"Yeah, I call that bad frequency," I shared with a laugh. "I was on it for years."
"But look at you. You're in a really smart college, and you're a reporter, and all this cool stuff that a lot of normal kids would not even be. Just tell us how it came about. And I won't bust you on ChristopherCreed.com or anywhere. We've kept Justin under wraps, haven't we?"
I knew my life could be a testimonial that would help others. I was one of those "if I can make it, you can too" types of people who could make a living giving motivational speeches, probably. I was becoming a Zig Ziglar, a Napoleon Hill, I told myself every day. But I had a long way to go.
"Tell ya what," I tried. "I'll answer any questions you want about my past—given you won't bust me—if you tell me where Justin is so I can interview him."
There was a long silence, and one of them swallowed. "We can't. He'll kill us," Mary Ellen said. "But if he contacts us, we can promise to tell him about you, give him your cell number."
"We're leaving Sunday morning," I said. "I really wanted to do a little better than a phone interview from my desk in Indiana with my deadline five minutes away."
"I can pretty much ... guarantee he will call you by tomorrow" was all Kobe would promise, taking out his cell. "You could say Justin and I are tense toward each other, especially since my secret fave project happens to be his brother and certain people have big mouths. But I'll do him this one and tell him you're looking for him. Give me your number."
As I spat out the last digit, Mary Ellen continued, as if the deal were sealed, "So, what happened at your house?"
I drummed on the tarp some more. This was why I don't tell many people I took off. It's very, very hard to describe. I sighed. "I wish I could say I was beaten, molested, and thrown down into a fruit cellar where the cockroaches could have at it. It was nothing so dramatic."
"She didn't beat you?" Mary Ellen asked.
"Occasionally when she was drinking she would do something violent, but mostly she drank, I think, to drown out the memories of the Oklahoma bombing. She was one of the police who ended up pulling dead kids out of that daycare center."
"My uncle's a fireman, and he pulled dead bodies out of the Trade Center just after 9/11, and he didn't turn into a drunk over it," Mary Ellen pointed out.
"A whole schmear of events actually followed it, if you want to talk about bad frequency." I shuddered but kept my grin. "My dad died maybe a month after that. We farmed corn. He fell off the tractor somehow, got caught under the wheel."
"Wow," she said.
"And ... drumroll ... between the bombing and my dad dying, my mother found out she was pregnant with my sister, Merilee."
"Ohh..."
I hoped she'd leave it alone, but she was the inquisitive sort.
"So, what did she do besides drink, if she didn't beat you?"
I just kind of threw it out there, fixating on getting them to bring Justin to me. "It was weird ... sort of like we were
married.
I don't mean anything sexual by that—she never, like, tried to jump in my bed or anything. My dad died when I was in second grade, and by fifth grade, some kids had cell phones. Kids would always talk on their cells at school with friends. I was always talking with my mother. She knew exactly when the bells would ring. There I'd be, on my cell, talking about the bills or taxes or my little brother and sister. She didn't want me to have friends. She was really possessive, controlling, and if I asked to go anywhere, she would say, 'We've got all this work to do.'
We've, we've, we've
...It was never
her,
never
me,
always
us.
"
"So, you ran away?" Mary Ellen digested this. I guess it
"It's just that you seem so ... calm, so ... together. You're blind, you left your family..."
"Yeah, I call that bad frequency," I shared with a laugh. "I was on it for years."
"But look at you. You're in a really smart college, and you're a reporter, and all this cool stuff that a lot of normal kids would not even be. Just tell us how it came about. And I won't bust you on ChristopherCreed.com or anywhere. We've kept Justin under wraps, haven't we?"
I knew my life could be a testimonial that would help others. I was one of those "if I can make it, you can too" types of people who could make a living giving motivational speeches, probably. I was becoming a Zig Ziglar, a Napoleon Hill, I told myself every day. But I had a long way to go.
"Tell ya what," I tried. "I'll answer any questions you want about my past—given you won't bust me—if you tell me where Justin is so I can interview him."
There was a long silence, and one of them swallowed. "We can't. He'll kill us," Mary Ellen said. "But if he contacts us, we can promise to tell him about you, give him your cell number."
"We're leaving Sunday morning," I said. "I really wanted to do a little better than a phone interview from my desk in Indiana with my deadline five minutes away."
"I can pretty much ... guarantee he will call you by tomorrow" was all Kobe would promise, taking out his cell. "You could say Justin and I are tense toward each other, especially since my secret fave project happens to be his brother and certain people have big mouths. But I'll do him this one and tell him you're looking for him. Give me your number."
As I spat out the last digit, Mary Ellen continued, as if the deal were sealed, "So, what happened at your house?"
I drummed on the tarp some more. This was why I don't tell many people I took off. It's very, very hard to describe. I sighed. "I wish I could say I was beaten, molested, and thrown down into a fruit cellar where the cockroaches could have at it. It was nothing so dramatic."
"She didn't beat you?" Mary Ellen asked.
"Occasionally when she was drinking she would do something violent, but mostly she drank, I think, to drown out the memories of the Oklahoma bombing. She was one of the police who ended up pulling dead kids out of that daycare center."
"My uncle's a fireman, and he pulled dead bodies out of the Trade Center just after 9/11, and he didn't turn into a drunk over it," Mary Ellen pointed out.
"A whole schmear of events actually followed it, if you want to talk about bad frequency." I shuddered but kept my grin. "My dad died maybe a month after that. We farmed corn. He fell off the tractor somehow, got caught under the wheel."
"Wow," she said.
"And ... drumroll ... between the bombing and my dad dying, my mother found out she was pregnant with my sister, Merilee."
"Ohh..."
I hoped she'd leave it alone, but she was the inquisitive sort.
"So, what did she do besides drink, if she didn't beat you?"
I just kind of threw it out there, fixating on getting them to bring Justin to me. "It was weird ... sort of like we were
married.
I don't mean anything sexual by that—she never, like, tried to jump in my bed or anything. My dad died when I was in second grade, and by fifth grade, some kids had cell phones. Kids would always talk on their cells at school with friends. I was always talking with my mother. She knew exactly when the bells would ring. There I'd be, on my cell, talking about the bills or taxes or my little brother and sister. She didn't want me to have friends. She was really possessive, controlling, and if I asked to go anywhere, she would say, 'We've got all this work to do.'
We've, we've, we've
...It was never
her,
never
me,
always
us.
"
"So, you ran away?" Mary Ellen digested this. I guess it
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