Sins & Needles

It had been two months since I escaped Sergei’s fat-knuckled clutches in Ohio. Two months of being on the road and lying low from state to state. Two months of trading in my long, naturally strawberry blonde hair for a choppy black bob. Two months of surviving on Sergei’s money until it ran dry. Two months of being Ellie Watt.

Two months before I finally had to return home.

Well, the only place I’d ever called home.

I loved the high desert though, always have, and seeing the Joshua trees as they clung to rocky, chalk-colored hillsides made a familiar thrill run through me. The same kind of thrill I got when pulling off a scam. Only there were probably more repercussions for returning to the Coachella Valley. A scam, yeah, I was usually good at those. Being home again—being me again—not so much.

But I brushed that worry out of my head and gunned the engine. Roadrunners shot out of the bushes at the barren roadside, their little legs kicking up dust onto the rippling asphalt. There wasn’t a car or a soul around for miles. It was just me and Jim Morrison and the extreme landscape. The endless sky, the searing heat, the relentless sun that made the highs pop and the lows sink. This was a high contrast land and I lived a high contrast life.

I followed Highway 62 while listening to my favorite Calexico songs and surf music until Joshua Tree National Park appeared on my left.

And that’s when I had to pull the car over to vomit.

Ugh. I sat back down on the passenger side, away from the road, and leaned forward on my knees, Jose making a clicking noise under the hood as the engine settled. I tried to breathe in deeply through my nose. My hands were shaking slightly, my heart running around in my chest as if it were looking for a way out. This was going to be a lot harder than I thought. A semi-truck roared past, making Jose tremble beneath me. Now we were both scared.

You can do this, Ellie, I told myself, even though my own name sounded weird in my head. No one will know you’re in town. You’re twenty-six, not nineteen. You don’t look the same. You don’t even walk the same. And like anyone from high school would still be living here. They all probably left just the same as you did.

I punched the glove compartment with the side of my fist and it flipped open. I grabbed the pill bottle of Kava and shook a few into my mouth. They were the size of horse pills but I managed to swallow them dry. If you do something enough, your body learns to adapt. I should know.

Another car roared past and we shook again. The Kava would kick in soon, and if it didn’t, I had a few bottles of Ativan in the trunk. I was trying to wean off of the stuff since my habit got a little out of control for a while, but I’d cut myself some slack this time. I just didn’t want to be totally out of it when I saw Uncle Jim.

The intense, oven-like heat was making my thighs stick to my jeans, which were in turn sticking to the seat. I peeled myself off of it and walked around to the driver’s side. I gripped the worn wheel until my knuckles turned white then sped off down the road. I hoped I’d left my fear on the roadside with the rest of my breakfast.

Uncle Jim owned a date farm on the outskirts of Palm Valley. My parents and I went to live with him after we fell into a bit of trouble. They thought a fresh start would be a good idea, though I thought it had more to do with Child Services poking their nose around and the fact that my dad lost his job at the casino. So we left Gulfport, Mississippi and came west. Uncle Jim is my mother’s brother and the only living relative I have that hasn’t disowned me. And at the time, he hadn’t disowned my parents either, which is why he let us stay with him.

They enrolled me in Palm Valley High School, the first real school I’d ever attended. I’m sure high school is a big shock to a lot of people, but to me it felt like I’d stuck my tongue in an electrical socket. And as if I wasn’t damaged enough at that point, a year later my parents sort of forgot about the whole “starting over” thing and pulled a fast one on a local. They took off like the fugitives they were and I stayed behind with Uncle Jim. To be honest, I would have given anything to go with my parents, but ever since the incident in Gulfport they didn’t want to take any more chances with me.

So I continued my stint at Palm Valley High School and as soon as I graduated, I got the fuck out of there. I only came back once, when I was nineteen, because my uncle had a heart attack. I was the only family member at his side and helped him with his farm for a few months until he was back on his feet.

Then I kissed him on his rough cheek and said goodbye.

Now, I was hoping he’d be willing to take me in again.

The foreboding guitar strings of Calexico’s “Gypsy’s Curse” started playing as I entered Palm Valley’s Main Street, which only added to the drama. I peered from storefront to storefront under my dark shades. The town still had the kitschy ‘50s and ‘60s vibe, but now it was retro chic. All the stores had fresh, bright coats of paint, creating a wall of aquamarine, saffron, mint, and cobalt. Palm trees lined the narrow street and the street signs hung above flower boxes spilling over with red flowers. It looked clean and wholesome and sweet enough to make my teeth hurt.

None of the stores looked familiar. None of the faces looked familiar. My heart rate slowed and feeling came back to my hands and feet. I’d been worrying for no reason at all. When I left Palm Valley, it was a bit down at its heels, especially when you compared it to nearby resorts like Palm Springs and Palm Desert. Now it looked like the town could give them a run for their money, or at least provide for people who wanted charming desert living without the golf courses and condo fees. It was different now. And so was I.

It took a while to get off of the main street thanks to the new stoplights and plethora of crosswalks, but as soon as I was back on the highway and turning off onto Date Palm Way, a wave of nostalgia hit me. The air even smelled the same as it once did, hot pavement, dried palm husks, and orange blossoms.

The date farm was at the very end of the road, lined with rows and rows of palms. I spied a few clouds of dust rolling up through the sections as laborers rode their tractors along. Judging by the burlap sacks that hung from each palm, the harvest season was fully upon them. Surely he’d be able to give me a job helping the harvesters. It wasn’t glamorous work at all; it was long hours in the hot sun, skin peeling off your nose despite the hat and sunscreen, climbing up and down the trees until your hands were singed by the ladder and sticky from the dates. Luckily, I was the type of girl who liked to get her hands dirty.

It wasn’t until I spied the house where I’d spent my formative years that I started second guessing my decision to just show up unannounced. To put it mildly, it looked like shit. It used to be a well-maintained ranch with terracotta shingles and a beautiful rock garden that surrounded the house like a desert moat. Now it could have passed for abandoned had it not been for the tractor and pickup truck out front. Christ, he still had the same truck I learned to drive in and it barely ran back then.

I pulled Jose to a stop on the street and approached the house with trepidation, wiping my hands on my jeans. I could hear the far-off cries of Spanish from the workers in the groves and the coo of a few ground doves that were walking across the cracked, tiled driveway. An enormous wash of guilt curved over me like the surrounding palm fronds. The last time I talked to my uncle was two years ago, when I was holed up in Vermont. I told him I’d send him some money and he said he was fine and didn’t need my charity. I meant to send him some cash anyway but I never got around to it.

Now it looked like he was in dire straits. And that would make two of us.

I took in a deep breath at the door, noticing the doormat was the same as it was back then, the same thick embroidery that his wife had done up before she died. It was patched with black mold and barely hanging together. I hoped that wasn’t symbolic.

I knocked quickly and snapped my hand back. I waited, taking a moment to look around me. I wouldn’t have been followed but some habits stuck with you. Being extra precautious was a wonderful habit for a girl like me.

I raised my hand to knock again when the door was opened a crack and I spied a familiar looking eye peering through it.

“Uncle Jim,” I said through a broad smile.

He frowned and the door opened fully.

He looked me up and down and said, “Oh shit.”

***

“I’m sorry, but you know you can’t stay here,” Uncle Jim was saying to me in his dusty kitchen as he poured me another glass of iced tea, the undissolved crystals swirling around the bottom like tornado debris.

I breathed out sharply through my nose, trying to hide my frustration. I’d been talking to him for an hour and we hadn’t gotten anywhere except that I wasn’t welcome.

“Look, I get that you’re a proud man,“ I started.

His eyes snapped up. He looked so much older now that it scared me; his dark hair had gone grey, the sides of his mouth lined like canyons, but his eyes were still sharp and determined.

“This isn’t about pride, Ellie. If you were someone else offering to help me, I’d take you up on it. It’s not like I’m not getting enough fucking charity from Betty down the street, bringing me hot meals a few times a week. I know I’m struggling here. But you’re not someone else. You’re Ellie Fucking Watt.”

I wrinkled my nose at his profanity. “I didn’t know fucking was my middle name.”

He raised a caterpillar brow. “No?”

I rolled my eyes. “No, Uncle Jim. That’s not a very nice thing to insinuate of your niece.”

He smiled—ever so briefly—but I caught it. He turned around and pulled open the fridge, looking at it blankly. There wasn’t anything in there except condiments. “Well, I beg your pardon for not being an appropriate uncle. I haven’t seen you since you were nineteen, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

He seemed to think about pulling out a jar of mustard but decided against it. What, was he going to make me a mustard milkshake? He slammed the door shut and leaned against the counter.

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything to eat.”

“I had some beef jerky in the car.”

He looked me over and shook his head. “You’re too skinny, Ellie.”

“It’s just my arms,” I told him defensively, crossing them over my chest. “Stress does that to you. I’ve still got enough weight down below.”

He nodded and his face pinched in sympathy. My heart thumped. I knew what followed that look.

“How’s your leg doing?”

I gave him a tight smile. “My leg is fine.”

“And you’re still grifting?”

“Sometimes,” I said, diverting my eyes. Suddenly the pattern on the faux marble countertop was fascinating. “I’ve quit for good though. Had a close call in Cincinnati. Don’t want to do that again.”

Without glancing at him, I knew he was giving me the “a leopard doesn’t change his spots” look.

“What con went wrong?”

I suppressed a smile. “It was just an online dating thing.”

“And...?”