Page 53 of Hooked on Trouble

We study each other, me twisting my hands, him jamming his foot into the floor. Awkward, meet Uncomfortable. But this is different than the hippie den. When Clara said she didn’t know Rose had a sister, it cut deep. Here I am obsessing over her, searching for her, and she’s barely given me a thought. Or she’s blocked me out, chosen to forget the sibling who betrayed her. But Russ opened the door when I said who I was. “Did Rose talk about me?”

“Yeah.” I hold my breath until he goes on, “Said you were a cute kid.”

Is that how she remembers me—cute? Shy? The kid who’d beg her to watch cartoons? If it were only that simple. The weight of his earlier admission snaps me back to the moment. “Why would she be at a shelter?”

Standing upright, he steps back and grips the door. As if to close it. As if to cut this conversation short. “Rose’s priorities aren’t what they should be. Keep that in mind if you find her.” With that, he shuts me out.

His warning rings in my ears, reminding me I haven’t seen my sister in a lifetime. She may be the girl who took me to catch frogs and taught me how to skateboard, but playing games doesn’t help you survive on your own. Not when she was thrust into the world with a dislocated shoulder and a collection of gashes and bruises. Who knows what she’s done to stay afloat? Hopefully his advice was the caution of a wounded man, his glassy eyes hinting as much, and Rose talked about me. She stood on this spot and dated that man, each bit of information teasing me like a cloud I can’t quite grasp.

I could wait and visit the shelter with Nico, but I missed her by a month here. There’s no telling what a day or two might impact.

When the cocktail of odors gets too much, I hurry down the stairs and bust out the door, but the fresh air I crave is thwarted by smoke. A woman blows a thick stream as her sneakers shuffle down the sidewalk. I pull out my phone and search for shelters. Not surprising, there’s one close by. A number of others appear, but Russ called it the “local” shelter. I don’t pause, don’t pace in front of the hot dog guy. Cell shoved in my purse, I hoof it to the address without a backward glance.

* * *

The shelter isn’t hard to find. A queue leads to a kiosk-style window—people lined up for a bed. If I had a camera, I’d take shots, my street-life essay that much closer to conclusion. Even without it I squint, splitting the scene into frames. Each blink is the snap of my shutter.

Blink. A young boy plays with a cigarette butt.

Blink. A girl in sweats flips through a fashion magazine.

Blink. An emaciated man feeds his dog.

There’s more humanity in that gesture than in most people’s souls.

This lifestyle isn’t so far from my reality. Another time, and I could have been here for a very different reason. But as Nico said, I’m defined by the choices I make now, today, not the mistakes I made in the past. His mysterious phone call comes back, the thought like poking a bruise. He hasn’t breathed a word about it, and I haven’t asked. What happens to the man who values right over wrong if he breaks the law to save his brother? How much of his soul does he lose? As I stew over the unsettling implications, I join the line, until I’m next.

A Plexiglas divider separates me from a black woman, her braids pulled tight, revealing tired eyes. “We’re full up tonight. But if you leave your name, you’ll be near the top of the list tomorrow.”

My spirit dims. There are at least ten people behind me, including two kids. But they’re not why I’m here. Maybe they’ll find room at a different shelter. “Actually, I’m looking for someone.”

She pulls a binder in front of her and opens the book. “Name?”

I dig my nails into my palms. “Rose Hunt.”

The wall to the side is covered in spray paint, vibrant colors and bold lines layered to create a word I can’t quite read. I study it like it’s one of those 3-D posters with a hidden image. No dinosaur appears, but slowly, letters emerge, and the word terror expands across the brick. It’s as though the artist, with the use of exploding flames and jagged edges, has captured my self-portrait.

The lady clears her throat. “Rose should be inside. I can have someone call her out.”

Forget terror. This is zombie-apocalypse scary. But I won’t flake out. I’m the girl who moved across the country without a job. I’m rocking my apprenticeship, my photography is improving, and I have a whole lotta man who looks at me like I’m his last drink of water.

I attempt a smile. “That would be great.”

“Who should I say is asking?”

The girl she left behind. The girl who ruined her life. “Her sister.”

The woman says something to a man then nods to the next person in line.

I step aside to wait. And…wait. My attention doesn’t waver from the front door. There’s a massive dent in the steel. It must have taken some kind of force to bend it. A bat, maybe, swung really hard. I run through several scenarios that could have resulted in the vandalism, when the metal door pushes open, and my breath rushes out. Rose. She emerges like an apparition, and my pulse beats an unsteady rhythm, every apology I’ve ever imagined saying to her vanishing in an instant. All I can do is stare. And try to breathe. Her eyes are dark, like mine. Her hair is long, like mine. The recognition spills over me as tears well up.

My sister.

She squints and blinks, scanning me from head to toe. “Raven?”

She’s not as pretty as I recall. Her gaunt cheeks highlight her cheekbones, her fair skin pasty white, and I don’t remember her having freckles over her nose or the thin scar crossing her upper lip. But there’s no doubt who she is. We stand like this awhile, assessing each other, a couple feet apart but seventeen years between us.

I wipe at the corner of my eye, unsure when it got wet, and she approaches me. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her cords, her baggy tie-dyed shirt hanging over her wrists. “How’d you find me?”