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Authors: Yvonne Heidt
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the goose bumps that prickled the skin on her arms. Damn thermostat. She didn’t care anymore about scaring the landlady; it was just a screwed-up thermostat and she wanted it fixed. The building must have defective electricity as well, sending surging power through the electronics.
See? Now she had something to focus her rage on. She grabbed her leather jacket off the back of the chair and her keys from the counter. Jordan stormed out the door, slamming it behind her. She’d had enough.
By the time she got outside, she felt some of her anger ebb away. What the hell was wrong with her? She wasn’t going to yell at that sweet old lady. Jordan shoved her hands in her pockets, oriented herself, and began to walk toward the water several blocks away. Wanting—no, needing—some space and distance from everything, including herself. Deep down, she knew that wherever she went, there she was.
There she fucking was.
Jordan wore her badass attitude like a piece of clothing; no one bothered her or even waved. Even the punks outside 7-Eleven gave her a wide berth. They were looking for victims, not another predator.
She turned left at the corner and continued up the hill toward Washington Street and the ferry docks, hoping the ocean would help soothe the ache in her soul. Jordan felt an air of confusion surrounding her, and it was puzzling. She always knew what she wanted and how to get it. Everything outside her apartment was normal and within her control, as it should be. Well, she admitted, except for her run-in with the ghost brigade the other night. Her palm burned and she rubbed it against her jeans absently.
Only a block to go.
*
Jordan balanced easily on the slippery rocks, stepping carefully until she found a place to sit. She closed her eyes and felt her shoulders relax while she inhaled the salt air. There was serenity to be found here.
She wondered if that was because one of the only happy memories she had was on the beach. Perhaps that was why she always sought it out.
She’d been about six years old and her mother had been in a good mood. Jordan looked back, and as an adult, she knew it must have been because her mother had been flush with enough money and drugs for the day to make her happy.
It was out of character for her mother to take her anywhere, but that day, for whatever reason, she decided to take her to the beach.
Jordan could still see her mother on that sunny day, so pretty in her cut-offs and long-sleeved peasant blouse. Jordan’s adult perception also told her the sleeves covered her mother’s needle tracks. Rarer still that day was the absence of one of her mother’s men to take away attention from Jordan.
They held hands and raced the waves while the seagulls circled with manic energy, screaming and diving for their hot dogs purchased from the beach vendor.
God, she hadn’t thought of that day in years. Mostly, she remembered the loneliness and pain. She never knew if her mother’s approaching hand would smooth her hair or slap her. More painful was the question that wasn’t answered, never knowing why her mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t—love her. Jordan had tried so hard to be a good girl.
Logically, as an adult, she understood the junkie mentality. There wasn’t room in a house full of drugs for love. Before Jordan could stop the slide, she was catapulted into the past, and the memories came at her like a sledgehammer.
Being eleven years old and coming home to the one-bedroom tiny apartment. The ugly drapes were closed like they always were. Stale cigarette smoke and the sour smell of alcohol stung her senses. Her mother’s bedroom door was shut, also not unusual. Her mother slept most of the day and stayed up all night.
Jordan put down her backpack and went into the filthy kitchen to find something to eat. She opened the refrigerator even as she asked herself why she bothered, since it was always empty. Today, a shriveled apple and tiny piece of cheese lived in
See? Now she had something to focus her rage on. She grabbed her leather jacket off the back of the chair and her keys from the counter. Jordan stormed out the door, slamming it behind her. She’d had enough.
By the time she got outside, she felt some of her anger ebb away. What the hell was wrong with her? She wasn’t going to yell at that sweet old lady. Jordan shoved her hands in her pockets, oriented herself, and began to walk toward the water several blocks away. Wanting—no, needing—some space and distance from everything, including herself. Deep down, she knew that wherever she went, there she was.
There she fucking was.
Jordan wore her badass attitude like a piece of clothing; no one bothered her or even waved. Even the punks outside 7-Eleven gave her a wide berth. They were looking for victims, not another predator.
She turned left at the corner and continued up the hill toward Washington Street and the ferry docks, hoping the ocean would help soothe the ache in her soul. Jordan felt an air of confusion surrounding her, and it was puzzling. She always knew what she wanted and how to get it. Everything outside her apartment was normal and within her control, as it should be. Well, she admitted, except for her run-in with the ghost brigade the other night. Her palm burned and she rubbed it against her jeans absently.
Only a block to go.
*
Jordan balanced easily on the slippery rocks, stepping carefully until she found a place to sit. She closed her eyes and felt her shoulders relax while she inhaled the salt air. There was serenity to be found here.
She wondered if that was because one of the only happy memories she had was on the beach. Perhaps that was why she always sought it out.
She’d been about six years old and her mother had been in a good mood. Jordan looked back, and as an adult, she knew it must have been because her mother had been flush with enough money and drugs for the day to make her happy.
It was out of character for her mother to take her anywhere, but that day, for whatever reason, she decided to take her to the beach.
Jordan could still see her mother on that sunny day, so pretty in her cut-offs and long-sleeved peasant blouse. Jordan’s adult perception also told her the sleeves covered her mother’s needle tracks. Rarer still that day was the absence of one of her mother’s men to take away attention from Jordan.
They held hands and raced the waves while the seagulls circled with manic energy, screaming and diving for their hot dogs purchased from the beach vendor.
God, she hadn’t thought of that day in years. Mostly, she remembered the loneliness and pain. She never knew if her mother’s approaching hand would smooth her hair or slap her. More painful was the question that wasn’t answered, never knowing why her mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t—love her. Jordan had tried so hard to be a good girl.
Logically, as an adult, she understood the junkie mentality. There wasn’t room in a house full of drugs for love. Before Jordan could stop the slide, she was catapulted into the past, and the memories came at her like a sledgehammer.
Being eleven years old and coming home to the one-bedroom tiny apartment. The ugly drapes were closed like they always were. Stale cigarette smoke and the sour smell of alcohol stung her senses. Her mother’s bedroom door was shut, also not unusual. Her mother slept most of the day and stayed up all night.
Jordan put down her backpack and went into the filthy kitchen to find something to eat. She opened the refrigerator even as she asked herself why she bothered, since it was always empty. Today, a shriveled apple and tiny piece of cheese lived in
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