Stealing Bradford

epilogue

TAYLOR FELT BORED BEYOND BELIEF as she flipped through the limited cable channels on the grainy TV. One more rerun of The OC and she might have to pull out her hair or throw one of these ugly lamps or just scream. And that might draw the attention of the dimwitted reception clerk at this half-star hotel. Already, she felt worried that one of the workers, whether it was a maid or a room-service guy, might put two and two together and figure out who she was and what she was running from. After all, she had seen the local news more than once herself. Not only did they use a less-than-flattering photo of her, they had to go and mention that MySpace scandal as well. Talk about adding insult to injury. No wonder she wanted to lay low for a while. Who could stand such “lovely” publicity? On the other hand, who could stand this nasty old hotel for one more night? Not only did it smell like tuna fish and Lysol, the bed totally sucked and she’d already killed seven cockroaches by the minibar.

Even so, she wasn’t ready to give up and go home yet. Home? She wanted to laugh at the mere thought of that word. As if she even had one. Yeah, right. She didn’t have a “home” back in California where no one wanted her. And it certainly wasn’t “home” back at Carter House where everyone hated her. Was there any such thing as home anyway? Or maybe just not for someone like her. And yet, it wasn’t as if she had any other options right now either.

Although Taylor had always been a fighter and a survivor, she felt tired now. As she looked at the empty booze bottles, lined up like a worn-out army on the window sill, she felt like it was time to surrender. She was ready to wave her white flag and give up now. And hadn’t that been her plan when she’d checked into this little hellhole? Her sole consolation for all she’d suffered? She’d even imagined the news report—how they’d discovered her body laid out neatly on the hotel bed—how she’d been fashionably dressed, every hair in place, even wearing makeup. She’d even purchased a bottle of pills, just in case she had the nerve to carry out her little exit plan. Of course, she’d also purchased her bag of booze, just in case she didn’t. But that was gone now. And it was raining outside. And, really, why shouldn’t she just end this thing?

Seriously, she wondered as she studied the depressingly dingy hotel room, what difference would it make if she checked out? Permanently. Who would really care? If anything, they’d probably all get together—her family and her so-called friends—and they’d probably throw a great big party. They would wear colorful party hats and blow noisemakers as they celebrated her demise. Perhaps they’d even sing that old Wizard of Oz song—“Ding, dong, the witch is dead…”

But each time she played out this death-by-choice scenario, she had to face the big question—what came next? Because as badly as she wanted to escape all this—this pain of being unwanted, of being unloved—she was afraid to take that final step. And she had this strong sense that something deep inside of her didn’t really want to die. She wasn’t even sure how to explain it—or what it meant. But perhaps the truth was that she didn’t want to cease to exist. She didn’t want her life—no matter how pathetic—to be snuffed out like that. Finis.

And so Taylor considered doing something extremely out of character—something she hadn’t done in years. It was something her grandmother had taught her to do, back before she’d died when Taylor was ten. “Don’t you ever forget that it’s your lifeline,” Grandma had told her many a time. “And you hang onto it, Taylor girl, hang onto it for dear life.” But the years passed, and Taylor had loosened her grip on it, and little by little, she had allowed the lifeline to slip from her grasp until it had vanished completely. She wasn’t even sure if she could reach for it now.

But she decided, for Grandma’s sake, to give it a try. And just to show she was in earnest, she kneeled down on the nasty matted-down carpet next to the bed.

“Dear God,” she prayed. “If you’re there…if you still care about me…I need some help. I really, really need some help.” And then she buried her face into the prickly polyester surface of the smelly bedspread and sobbed.