I got a trail--I was right--and I'm on the next flight out of here. As fast as I can shake the dirt of this godforsaken soil off my feet, I swear it.
I went home three days ago.
Maybe it was fate, or something screwing around with my head, because I don't know how it happened, I really don't.
I was sitting around Canton, doing nothing really, and it was really odd--I didn't find anything, even the car, and so I just started driving--and you know, I kept driving, and kept driving--and then I was in another city altogether and ended up in front of my house with no real clue how I managed to leave the highway without noticing. Dad's car was out front, and Mom--well, I could see Mom was in the garden, and just for a minute, I thought about getting out and running up and--
--and it all stopped there. Just stopped, and I sat behind the wheel of the car and stared at that house, at my mom in the garden--at who I was. I don't remember her very well, Jubilee--or maybe I never thought about little-Marie, ya know, since she got to touch people and I didn't. Yet there I was, in mummy gear, just--
I never thought of going back before, Jubes. I never did.
When I came to the school, being underage, the Professor needed my parents' permission to keep me--and he arranged with a judge that my parents be notified of my whereabouts so they could come claim me or give permission for me to stay where I was. The date was set three months in advance, so they had plenty of time, and Xavier sent them a letter, explaining everything--me, the school, what he did, what he was trying to do with us. Sent them my progress reports and my grades and--well, you know, stuff parents are interested in. And--and I tucked a letter in with it--no, I'm not telling you what was on it. I've forgotten, it was so long ago.
No, that's not true. Damn it. Damn, damn, damn, I remember every word.
I waited three hours in the judge's chamber, and the screwiest things went through my head. That they hadn't gotten the addresses right, or they hadn't understood where to meet or--or the car broke down and the flight was delayed, and Jean just sat there and held my hand and the judge just--just looked at me, when she was trying not to. And then I thought maybe it was all a lie, that he hadn't sent the letters, that my parents didn't know where I was, that--that--
Shit...just a sec.
They didn't come.
A few weeks later, Xavier petitioned the court on my behalf for a change in guardianship--and they still didn't come. And I thought they would--you know? None of you did, though--I saw it in your eyes when I got back, Jubes. I saw it. Not a phone call or a letter or a word. Nothing, just this blank silence that told me more than any letter ever could have.
Then a few weeks later I sat in that judge's chamber and I had a new name and a new family and--and I cried all the way home. It was that simple magic--from one person to another, all in the space it took to get the my hands to stop shaking when I gripped the pen.
And right up until the moment the judge put the seal on the order, I really believed they'd come through. I thought--God, Jubilee, I thought anything could have happened--they were out of the country, they were looking for me, they were--dead. Yeah, dead, and--and--
--well, I guess they are. Their daughter stopped existing five years ago--Marie Summers doesn't have any parents.
God, Jube, it hurt. It hurt to see that house.
And it gets worse, because--because I went back. After dark, practicing some of my renowned burglary skills--and I always left my window unlocked anyway. But you know, it was locked and for some reason that surprised me, and I had to pry it open--hoping like hell the neighbors didn't hear--and--
This isn't working. I thought writing it would make me feel better. But it hasn't. It's not, and I don't want to even fucking *think* about it. Not ever.
I'm getting the hell out of this city.
* * * * *
I'm at the airport--if I don't finish and mail this, I'll burn it, and well--while it's a nice idea, maybe writing it will help.
God, something has to help, doesn't it? The truth will set you free and all that?
Where was I...room. Yeah, my room. Almost killed my boyfriend there, in case you're curious. But I never almost-killed anyone in this room.
There was nothing of me left in there. And at first, I thought--I thought maybe I went to the wrong window, or I was at the wrong house. It was dark. I was seeing things. But--it was a nice room--nice spare bedroom, and all my furniture, my clothes, my posters and my stuff in general and in specific--all gone.
It was like--like I'd died or never even existed, and you wouldn't believe how fast I got out of town--you wouldn't believe it. Ended up in Jackson, and hit the first bar I saw--don't look like that. Don't. I know, believe me--but I wanted--
You know, I don't need to explain myself to you.
"Whiskey, straight." It was just natural. Really damned natural and all I could think was that forgetting with alcohol is really underrated.
The bartender was that type you always see in the movies--kind of not really caring who he's serving, kind of too sharp-eyed, and he noticed the gloves right off and pegged me as an outsider--and when he asked what I wanted, it was so--it was weird to hear his voice. I grew up in Mississippi, but the accent was like it was brand new and I just stared at him and wished I could get him to just sit there and talk to me the rest of the night.
I don't speak like that anymore--I heard my own voice, and you know what? My parents' daughter really is dead. So maybe they had the right to make over her room, ya know? That's what I thought.
Three shots later, I don't know who the hell I was, but Marie Summers I was not, I can tell you that right now. And I bought a cigar from some idiot and popped down on a stool and started channeling Logan like he was in the room, disturbing every single guy that found the balls to walk up to me. Not-nice Marie huh? I can bring up his personality and his less distinguished habits, but I don't have his tolerance and when I left I was doing damned good not to throw up on my own feet trying to find someplace to crash.
Call it fate, call it luck, I don't really give a damn--the first motel in walking distance--I couldn't even see my keys, you know--I plopped an improperly large amount of money on and just crashed in the room he handed over and cried myself to sleep. And woke up half-way through the night to do it again and get a good working relationship with the toilet.
God, how can they still do this to me? Five years, Jubes--five fucking long years, and I didn't think about it, I didn't--but I'm getting this so out of order. Never mind...okay, lemme clear my head. Okay.
Well, let me get to the interesting part of this letter. Your eyes only, all of it. I sort of had an accident. Not *me* with the car, but--well, okay, let me start at the beginning and state that none of this was my fault. None of it. It was fate. Or something close to it, because no one's luck, I don't care who they are, can possibly be this good, and my luck has never strayed any farther than making sure I didn't get killed.
I was still hungover and I was just trying to figure out what the hell to do now--maybe drag out my map and just stab a finger at it in hopes Logan would end up there or something along those lines--and I decided, really rationally, I needed coffee. So I changed clothes and got my pack (somewhere along the line I had the sense to bring it with me), and went looking for the car.
Tell Xavier, carefully, that the very pretty little Geo is very gone and by now is visiting Mexico City with a new paint job and serial numbers.
Anyway, so I'm in a lousy part of town without a car. Solution--get thee to a cab. Got it. Found a phone in the motel office, sat down at the phone book, and started looking up names.
Scribbled in the margin--Jube, I'd know his handwriting anywhere. Scribbled was a name and a number, and my hands started to shake and I almost dropped the book. I looked around--and yeah, it was a seedy damned motel. Just his type.
I called the number--hell, I have no idea what I expected, but it was a cab, so I solved two stones--hehehe, I mean, killed two birds with one stone. A particular cab, right here, one he very well might have used.
And that's when things got surreal.
"Logan?" he echoed when I broached the subject. "Mean fucker."
Logan endears himself to all who meet him. And it should tell you something that many months after Logan meets a guy, that guy remembers. Oh yeah--and if I hadn't had a headache that was splitting my head in two, I might have listened to what he did to offend this poor, defenseless cabbie. But to be honest--well, I sort of didn't care either.
Jubilee, this guy was damned annoying. I mean--never mind. You'd have to meet him, you really would.
"Where'd you take him?"
The guy hemmed and hawed and I got the money out and wondered a little idly if I could break his neck from the backseat with only one hand when he finally just dropped me off in what had to be the worst part of town and I overpaid him big time.
I had to smile, because damn--Jubilee, what are the chances?
It took only five minutes at the local bar for someone to remember him, because he got in a just beautiful fight and got arrested. And got away. Showed up the next night and did some damned heavy damage before he left--apparently, either they caught him on a bad night or someone really pissed him off. I'm guessing on the latter. The chick I talked to was all starry-eyed, which probably should have annoyed me, but since I have been hanging out with his hookers and shacking up with his strippers, who was I to begrudge a little admiration, huh? Anyway, he had to leave town fast, for obvious reasons, and according to the locals, he said he wanted to go to Mexico, so guess where I'll be?
What I've learned:
One--you can't go home.
Two--you shouldn't want to.
Three--drinking whiskey on an empty stomach can lead to good things. Who knew?
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