The Crossing

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Book excerpt

Exodus

October swooped in, bringing an unexpected chill. The kind of chill that hot chocolate couldn’t soothe. With autumn fast approaching, the weather had taken a vicious turn for the worse. The scent of snow clung heavily to the air, burning my lungs.

New York winters arrived early.

Snowflakes dotted my black coat as I entered JFK airport. I paused a minute, taking in the trillion people swarming like bees, all rushing to find their flight.

After standing in a mile-long line, I clenched my boarding pass in hand and ventured onto the plane, departing for Shreveport, Louisiana, where my dad, Henry, awaited my arrival. He lived only a few miles east in a small town called Eastwick. Population, a little more than five thousand.

I whipped out a puff of air, feeling the pressure of regret. I missed New York already. I knew nothing else. For seventeen years, my whole world centered around the Big Apple. But now, I, Micki Lea O'Sullivan, was forced to abandon my precious home for good.

I stopped at row 13A and paused. In the chair next to mine sat a man large enough to fill two seats. A little bothered, I squeezed past him. I settled in my spot, laying my purse by my feet, and nodded to my new neighbor. I quietly blew out a long breath to calm my pounding heart. I needed a distraction. I eyed the small window and slid the shade up and gazed out. By now, the white flakes cluttered the bruised sky. A slight breeze tousled the snow this way and that.

My mind drifted to a luggage handler across the tarmac. The man hurled one bag after another over the rail and down into the bin, several feet below. I gave in to a curt giggle. Several pieces of baggage had missed the container and laid in broken pieces on the ground. Clothing of rainbow colors scurried in the wind to and fro as if in a cat and mouse chase. The handler appeared clueless as he continued in a rhythmic beat.

Restless, I sat back in my seat and started to close my eyes, but not before I checked my seatbelt once more. My hands shook as my heart remained lodged in my throat. First time to fly and first-time jitters too. I listened to the gentle thrum of the engine idling. But my agitation got the best of me.

The man next to me, bathed in British Sterling, agitated me to no end. The left side of his body spilled over onto my seat, pressing me against the window. I started to speak up, but I decided to keep quiet. Ending up handcuffed by a police officer and missing my flight sounded like a bad idea. A recent scuffle with the law taught me a valuable lesson. Jail and stale baloney sandwiches sucked.

I glanced up and met two small hazel eyes. A little boy no more than three, peeked over his seat, flashing a shy smile. I teased the toddler poking my tongue at him, and he shyly responded with a giggle ducking behind his mother.

Moments later, his happy mood morphed into a squalling temper tantrum. I reached inside my handbag and dug out my earbuds and cell phone. I swore under my breath that I would never have children. I jammed the buds in my ears and slumped down into my seat, listening to The Chainsmokers. Maybe music would settle my nerves. Crammed together with total strangers, reminded me of a sardine can. I preferred riding in a taxi with a backseat full of drunks. At least they made me laugh and only rode for a short duration.

All at once, the engine revved with mounting power. A loud ding drew the passenger’s attention to a flickering green sign that hung on a panel above the seated guest. Time to buckle up for takeoff. A rush of clicks stirred the coach, and a burst of energy spread throughout. I hurried to check my seatbelt again and then grabbed the armrest, eyes shut tight, embracing for an anticipated takeoff.

The man next to me, up to his elbows, was buried in his paperwork. Documents scattered across the small folding table that hovered barely above his thick lap. A frequent flyer, my guess and not a worry in the world if this flight crashed.

People began to stir as I caught the attendants ushering toward the front, grabbing their seats, and hunkering down as the wheels commenced churning and gaining momentum.

As the powerful jet sped down the runway, anxiety punched me in the gut. I listened to the drum of the wheels gobbling up the pavement, and then my stomach somersaulted as we lifted into the gray sky. My skin paled to white chalk, making me regret not taking a Trailways bus. I shut my eyes tight, squeezing the armrest.

After a terrifying thirty-five seconds, the plane straightened its nose, and the quiet hum of the engine eased my fear. I inhaled a deep breath and smiled. “Whew! That wasn’t so bad,” I mumbled to myself.

I peeked under my lashes at the man beside me. A slow rise and fall enfolded his chest. His gray head tilted to the right, hanging into the aisle. He had fallen asleep. My brows bunched together, baffled at how anyone slept through takeoff?

Just when I started to relax, I glanced out the tiny window, and my stomach dropped. Nothing but tiny green and brown square patches blanketed the land. “Geez!” I muttered under my breath and slammed the small shade down. I sat back, clenching my chest. It baffled me how a mere man was capable of creating something made mostly of metal that was capable of soaring above the clouds. My first time to fly and absolutely my last.

The coach had quieted, and even the little boy sitting up front had fallen asleep in his mother’s lap. I leaned back in my seat and stretched out the kink in my neck and then closed my eyes. My mind drifted over the past few weeks and the legal troubles that had gotten me into this mess.

Though I remembered a time when life was much simpler. Before my parents divorced, living in Hell’s Kitchen on 51st street in New York City was like my little pie in the sky. Congested traffic, cars honking, and the busy stream of people all strolling to the same relentless beat. The smell of pin oak and ice skating in Central Park during Christmas, hot dogs, and exhaust fumes was my little piece of heaven. It was my escape from my parents’ fighting.

Every morning, I’d take a brisk walk to the Coffee Pot, grabbing a toasty bagel and a hot Cappuccino before catching the school bus.

Henry drove a taxi. Joan, my mom, worked for a prestigious couple, Phil and Anna Montgomery, who lived on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Joan was an assistant, the go-to girl. The couple recently gave birth to a boy. Mrs. Montgomery needed someone to run errands. Joan couldn’t have found a job more suitable for her. She had a knack for shopping for bargains and made quite an impression on Mr. Montgomery.

Though my family lived from paycheck to paycheck, we had all we needed. A roof over our heads and food to eat. For a little spending money, after school and on weekends, I worked a part-time job walking dogs. The money came in handy if I wanted to catch a movie or go ice skating.

I didn’t care about hanging out with kids from school. I wore the badge socially inept across my chest proudly. Besides, making friends had its downside.

Boys often asked me out, but considering their lack of probity, I declined their offer. They didn’t see me. They only saw my outer beauty, hair of honey, long cascading curls, blue eyes, and curves. The girls hated me despite how hard I tried to hide in the shadows.

I supposed it turned out for the best. I had a secret. One I didn’t share with anyone. As far back as I could remember, I possessed a gift. Not even my parents knew. Since the age of five, I saw auras. Various shades of green to bright red. Each color revealed the truth about the individual and at times, their deepest darkest secrets. My colorful auras never steered me wrong. Not once.

Alone all the time, I found ways to stay busy… the theater. A diehard passion of mine. Henry and I jumped at any opportunity to see a Broadway play. The Phantom of the Opera sat top of the list of our favorites. We both teared up many times. A young soprano becomes the obsession of a disfigured musical genius who lives beneath the Paris Opéra House.

Joan, my mom, didn’t share the passion. It became mine and Henry’s special event.

Then our whole world changed when Joan went to work for a corporate company. Mr. Montgomery offered her a position at his law firm. Apart from my mom’s attractive features, glistening, chestnut hair, tall, and hour-glass curves, Joan didn’t have any specific skills for the corporate world. A pencil pusher or fetch the coffee described her qualifications best.

I think for the first time in her life, she found an opportunity. A job with promise. Even I understood her newfound zest. As a young woman, she had missed out on so much. Joan and Henry were high school sweethearts. He was seventeen, and Joan was only sixteen when she got pregnant with me.

When their families heard the happy announcement, it was a huge disappointment. Both families had big plans for their children. Getting pregnant was not one of them. After a couple of months passed, Henry’s family, the O'Sullivans, and Joan’s family, the Watsons, planned a small wedding. In the beginning, Henry and Joan, deeply in love, were confident they had gotten their happily ever after.

Then the happily-ever-after ceased, and Joan gave birth to a baby girl… me. My entrance into this world wreaked havoc for the two star-crossed lovers.

Soon, Henry and Joan came to understand the late-night bottle feeding and changing diapers were only the beginning of parenthood. It was tough for them. Growing up and facing a heavy responsibility wasn’t as easy as they once thought.

The couple settled into their roles, but it was not smooth sailing. My parents fought a lot. Every week, they had at least one good argument. It usually ended when Henry ducked out the front door when Joan started slinging dishes. I hung out in my room until the house quieted.

The happiness between Henry and Joan never completed a full circle. Tension rose in the house as angry silence loomed.

Then the day came when my world shattered into a million pieces. Joan left Henry. I saw it coming, but I turned the other cheek, pretending their arguments were typical.

The affair ripped our family in two and set Henry into a spiraling depression. Unable to grasp the fact that his seventeen-year marriage was finished, the reality crushed him. I saw it in his eyes, his walk, his slumped shoulders.

Joan, aloof to the hurt she caused, moved out and into a penthouse with all the expensive perks of the Upper East Side of Manhattan, compliments of her wealthy boss, Phil Montgomery.

In the divorce, Henry got our home, and Joan got me. I think she thought giving Henry the house would atone for her infidelity. And then again, the sky was the limit, marrying her loaded fiancé. Where money was concerned, Joan had the world at her feet.

Henry received a business offer from an out-of-towner that he couldn’t refuse. So, he sold the house and moved to Eastwick, Louisiana, where he settled down in a quiet country community. The new surroundings gave Henry the perfect escape. I think watching his wife with a wealthy and powerful attorney was like a swift kick in the gut, more than he could bear.

As our lives shifted, we had to learn a new balance. When Grandma Martha O'Sullivan died, Grandpa Brín moved in with Henry. It was bittersweet. It really crushed Grandpa losing his partner of almost fifty years. Moving in with Henry helped to ease the loneliness. It comforted both men. Every Sunday, the two went fishing down at the bayou. They both loved the outdoors and fishing was at the top of the list. Maybe Grandpa’s second. He seemed to be quite social with the widows of Eastwick.

As for the divorce, it was Henry’s unexpected break. Henry took the money from the house sale and partnered up with a renowned Eastwick business partner and started his construction business. Carpentry was in Henry’s blood. Grandpa was a carpenter in his younger days, and his father before him and so on down the line. The trade ran deep in the O'Sullivan family and was referred to as an art rather than a trade. Henry was brilliant, and his talents paid off.

Living more than a thousand miles apart, I only got to see Henry and Grandpa on holidays and summers. It was a welcome visit and an exhausting return back to living with Joan and my stepfather, Phil. I didn’t get along with him. He didn’t have the patience for children. He rarely saw his own son. And a teenager intensified his intolerance to almost a breaking point, and it wasn’t a lack of trying on my part. I loathed my stepfather.

Phil stayed busy a lot with his firm. He needed absolute quiet in the house at all times. Having a noisy teenager blasting heavy metal at all hours of the night hit his rage button. He’d go into meltdown at least twice a week. I liked pushing his buttons. And he had many.

Appearances weighed heavily on Phil’s shoulders. At all times, he demanded we wear our expensive apparel by some stupid designer with a name no one could pronounce. I defied his demands by paying homage to vintage fashion with a modern, sassy twist, all black. I wore nothing but. I wanted my clothes to reflect my dislike for his brainfart rules. Plus, an added bonus… pissing Phil off. All the more reason to black-punk up.

As my spidey senses warned me, after a few months into their marriage, Joan’s glee began to wane. Though, shopping helped to ease her woes until Phil put his foot down, demanding a strict budget and firing Joan at the firm. My mom stayed furious for weeks. She loved her position at the firm. I didn’t understand how she could be around Phil twenty-four-seven. He was such a nasty sort. But okay. Whatever floated her boat. Happy Joan was much easier to live with. Phil failed to get the memo.

Then my life began to improve when I got busted with a couple of blunts in my possession. I tried to defend myself. “I swear, it’s not mine!” I declared vehemently. Neither Joan nor Phil fell for that excuse, and even Henry and Grandpa questioned my defense. Displeasing Phil or Joan didn’t bother me, but disappointing Henry ripped through me. I hated having to look him in the face after I’d disappointed him.

Joan and Phil were at their wits’ end, and lucky me got sent to live with Henry. This was the best punishment ever. I never wanted to live with Joan. I preferred staying with my dad. As I predicted, Joan packed my bags, sending me straight to Henry.

Phil stood with a wide grin plastered on his face, waving goodbye as I boarded the plane. His intent wasn’t to wish me a happy bon voyage. He was there to make sure I didn’t miss my flight. He hated me. That was one thing we both agree on. There was no love between us.

Ostentation clung to Phil like dermatitis. With his fancy law firm and his silver chrome Jaguar and his fortress-tight mansion, Phil was a pompous man with a large cork up his butt. His bowlegged walk confirmed my suspicions.