Page 58 of In a Haze

I feel defeated. All that for nothing. But, even though Joe slows the van, he keeps moving forward. There’s a yellow line painted on the concrete a few feet in front of the door and, as we approach it, the door slowly slides up.

How did he know that would happen?

After just a few more seconds, we’re moving outside.

Outside.

How long has it been since I’ve been out of that place? Feeling eager like a little kid, I look all around—at the streetlights, the cars, the signs. The sky is covered with clouds colored pink from the reflection of the city. As we drive past the center, I see a few lights on inside but much of it appears dark from here.

Most of the patients are actually sleeping.

“Did you want me to go to your house or his office?”

“I don’t even know where his office is.”

“I do. It’s not far from here.”

“Would we even be able to get in there?”

“I don’t know,” Joe says, stopping the van at a red light. “I’d probably have an easier time breaking into your house.”

“Okay. Do you know where that is?”

“I know kind of where it is. I’m hoping you can lead me there. I can get us to the right street.”

I merely nod. I’m looking all around, overly stimulated by all the movement and lights. According to Joe, it’s been at least two years since I’ve been out here, so it’s no surprise I’m feeling a little overwhelmed. To alleviate those strange feelings, I look down and see the time on the dash. If the clock is to be believed, it’s after three AM.

I should be sleepy, but I’m not. Probably because I’ve been asleep for far too long.

As Joe drives through the city, certain sites are familiar to me—the mural on the side of a building, for instance, evokes something emotional. Certain buildings issue other sensations inside me, making me feel like I know what’s coming next.

I know these places. Somehow. From some other time.

Soon, we’re driving past a large park and then, when Joe turns down a residential street, the traffic decreases almost immediately. After a few blocks, he takes another turn and then, a block later, another. I am overwhelmed with emotion, with something wrenching my gut.

I’m home.

Almost.

Joe’s slowed the van. “I’m pretty sure your house is somewhere on this block.”

It’s not like daylight here, but I can still see enough of these homes highlighted by the ambient city light that I know they’re worth millions of dollars, each thousands and thousands of square feet.

What did I expect, being married to an attorney turned politician?

It just doesn’t quite feel likeme.

But it must be, because my skin erupts in goosebumps. As he moves farther forward, I say, “There. Right there.”

“That house?” He’s looking out the passenger window at the three-story brick home.

“Yes.”

He continues driving down the block rather than parking out front. Then he turns the corner and parks the van on a side street. After taking the keys out of the ignition, he says, “Ready?”

I am. Why does it feel like I’m preparing to meet my destiny?

21

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