Painting Sage by Rachael K Hannah

Author:Rachael K Hannah [Hannah, Rachael K]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781544806020
Published: 2017-05-17T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Distant Memories Past

Mike

“Connor speaking.”

“Taxi!” My heart hammered furiously against the insides of my chest—louder, sharper, than the snare of my drum set I used to pound away at in the garage of the house I grew up in. I could hear, feel my breaths get heavier and heavier, fists clenched, as I fought with every fiber of my being to stop myself from completely spiraling out of control right then and there on the sidewalk.

“TAXI!”

They usually swarmed the streets, but where were they now? Frantically, I searched, my eyes darting left and right, up and down, until I finally saw a single yellow SUV making its way down the street towards a middle-aged tourist couple. They were the kind of New York City visitors who wore matching t-shirts emblazoned with a pic of the Empire State Building. They were the kind of outsiders who wore sandals in the winter, stuffed with heavy white cotton gym socks, and ambled awkwardly around the city. Their necks strained to where the tops of their heads should be, gawking incredulously at every building that stood over ten stories tall. Charging after them without a moment’s hesitation, I slipped in front of them, swung the car door open, and slid right into the cab’s backseat.

“Excuse me—” the man tried to protest.

“Sorry!” I turned to his partner, “Ma’am, I have a personal emergency involving my daughter. Teenagers.” Before either one of them could say another word, my hand deftly reached for and opened my wallet in one swift motion, producing two twenty-dollar bills. Shoving them both into her hand, clasping my own over hers, I added, “You’ll get another one on me,” before pulling away entirely and slamming the passenger door shut.

“Mike, is that you?” I heard Connor say. For a second there, I had forgotten all about calling him on the phone.

The cabbie just looked at me and shook his head as if to say, typical New Yorker.

“Well, don’t just stare at me. Go! Go!” I slammed a clenched fist into the seat beside me.

“Mike?” I heard Connor repeat himself.

“Yeah, Connor, hold on.”

Connor kept talking. “I’m really starting to wonder why people feel this need to call me in times of crisis. Maybe it’s something about my face. Do I have one of those faces that make people feel as if they can confide in—”

“Connor, just hold on for one minute!” I turned my attention back to the driver. “Sir, take me to… oh Jesus, I don’t know where this kid went.”

“Mike, what’s going on over there? Are you even at work?”

“HOLD ON, CONNOR!” I shouted. Racking my brain for every bit of information I could possibly remember about Sage and our memories together in the city; I tried to figure out exactly what it was that I wanted to say. “Sir, I’m sorry,” I apologized to the driver. I allowed myself to take a deep breath before continuing, “I’ll tell you what. I have a few places I might have to go to. This may be a while—”

“Sir, I—”

“Now just hold on,” I interrupted.

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