Chapter 28: You're Not Alone

The mild Louisiana weather embraced Cami as she stepped out of New Orleans Louis Armstrong airport and into the limo her father had arranged for her.

Normally, she disliked it when her dad tried to fix things with money. That was the main reason she had never taken him up on his offer to give her the funds to open her clinic. Growing up, she resented all the hours he was away from home building his business, and she hated it when he tried to make up for his absence as a father with material things. But today she was grateful he had been able to make her trip happen. If not for his contacts, she would never have been able to get a flight at this time of year, nor a room, probably—certainly not at a five-star hotel near the river. She really didn't need an extravagant suite on the twelfth floor, but the view was to die for, and it was within walking distance of everything in the French Quarter, including her old apartment.

When she first mentioned the trip to her parents, she was met with a heavy silence followed by the same question over and over: why? She didn't want to frighten them unnecessarily with the truth, so she told them she was going to NOLA to visit Sean's grave. Cami wasn't at all surprised by their reaction—both of them visibly twitched any time she even mentioned New Orleans—but her vague answers to their questions only made things worse. The conversation ended in a bitter argument, during which her mother called Cami selfish and thoughtless for not being with her family at Christmas, and her father sat silently drinking glass after glass of wine.

But the next day she discovered her dad had arranged and paid for her flight and accommodation. When pressed, he admitted he had called in a few favors to make it happen. "The only reason I'm doing this is because otherwise you'll drive twenty-four hours in driving snow and sleep in a dumpster rather than admit it's a bad idea."

Cami felt a twinge of guilt. Her parents wouldn't take more than a token amount for board, and now he was paying first-class prices for her trip. "I'll pay you back," she said and kissed his cheek.

"No, you won't," he replied. "Call it an early Christmas gift. Now go make up with your mother."

But her mom had disappeared. Late that evening, Cami was in her room packing when she saw out of the corner of her eye her mother hovering in the open doorway.

"Have you got enough clothes for the trip?"

Cami knew this was her mother's way of trying to initiate a reconciliation. "I'm not sure. Do you want to come check?"

That was enough of an invitation for her mother. She walked over to the bed and inspected the piles of items Cami had laid out to put in the suitcase sitting next to them. "You're not going to wear those skintight trousers all the time, are you? I don't know why you insist on torturing yourself getting in and out of those revolting pieces of clothing." Without giving Cami time to answer, she went on. "I think you need more than one sweater, and that jacket doesn't look very warm."

"I'll have my trench coat as well. I'm taking it on the plane."

"The charcoal one? I like that coat; it suits your complexion beautifully."

"It's the only one I've got, so that's the one I'm wearing."

Her mother's eyes lit up. "You could let me buy you a new one. I've been dying to take you shopping for a new wardrobe."

"You and Dad have given me enough," Cami said. "I didn't come home to spend my parents' money."

"Gracious, you must be the first child in history to object to spending their parents' money." Cami's mother perched herself elegantly on the corner of the bed. "You said the reason you decided not to get a place of your own is so you can save up to open your clinic, yet you won't let us help you with that." She sighed. "You know we want to spoil you. You're all your father and I have left, and until you have some grandchildren—"

"Mom."

"I know, I know. I'm using emotional manipulation, as you would say."

Cami continued her packing. "Just a little bit."

Her mother began rolling some of Cami's underwear into balls. "You haven't been terribly unhappy, though, living here with us?"

"Of course not."

"Yet you've been restless too. I can always tell. It's just like when you ran away from home to visit Kieran."

"That was part of my 'I hate everything' phase. I was full of teenage angst at the time. Or piss and vinegar, as Dad would say."

Her mother wrinkled her nose. "I really wish he wouldn't use such a crass turn of phrase." Then she gazed up at Cami. "Are you running away this time too? Or are you running to something? Someone?"

"I'm only going to pay my respects to Sean and Uncle Kieran," Cami replied. "I'll be back before you know it."

"Do not lie to your mother, Camille Marie O'Connell. I know some scheme is bubbling away inside that head of yours. I just want to know what it is."

"Really, it's nothing—"

"Tell me the truth. What is in New Orleans that you desperately need to find? What is it the answer to?"

It was clear her mother wouldn't stop until she was satisfied with the response she got. Cami pushed her makeup bag out of the way so she could sit next to her mom on the bed. "If you want to know the honest truth, I…I don't know. I don't know to explain this, except to say I feel…I feel as if part of my life is missing, and I want to get it back."

Her mother didn't look very surprised, and Cami wondered how much she knew about what had happened three years ago. "I see. Well, I won't pretend I'm happy about this trip. But once you've made up your mind about something, there's no stopping you." Her mother smoothed back a lock of Cami's hair from her cheek. "Please remember one thing. No matter what happens, you're not alone, Camille. I know you think we don't understand how you feel, but we do. Your father and I love you, and we'll do anything for you. Anything." She got up and went to the door, then looked back at Cami with a wistful expression. "My darling daughter. Don't spend too much energy chasing windmills when your life is here now. With us."

Cami remembered her mother's words as she enjoyed the luxury of being chauffeured to her hotel. Later, she pondered them again as she looked out at the Mississippi River from her opulent room. She had no idea whether this trip would be a waste of time or it would set her free, but being in New Orleans gave her a feeling of invigoration and contentment at the same time.

Day was giving way to night, and lights twinkled into life right before her eyes. She thought about eating room service, watching TV and getting an early night so she could start her inquiries first thing in the morning. But the city was beckoning, and she knew exactly where to go.

Rousseau's.

Sadly, the place she walked into was not the place she remembered at all. The décor had been changed to reflect the same contemporary-casual blandness as every other bar in the world, and none of the staff were people she had ever worked with. She had to swallow her response when the bartender told her to return tomorrow during the afternoon shift if she wanted to speak to somebody from the "old days." In the end, she ate a mediocre version of Jane-Anne's once-famous gumbo in one of the booths and left quickly.

It may have been a disappointing start, but she couldn't complain as she walked through the streets. They were lit up with beaming Christmas lights and vibrant with color and sound, and NOLA felt more like home to her than the place where she'd spent most of her life. She didn't even mind the fact that this part of the city was designed with one thing in mind: to separate the gullible tourist from his cash.

She found herself at Jackson Square—the most touristy of places, yet also a hub for all kinds of free entertainment and a place she had gone many times when she lived here. She had always loved listening to the jazz musicians and watching the mimes. She loved browsing the street stalls that sold an eclectic assortment of items, from kitsch knickknacks to unique handmade furniture, overpriced T-shirts to wearable art, tarot card readings to political newspapers. Most of all, she loved watching the painters. One particularly talented artist caught her eye, and she stopped to watch him make bold splashes of color on his canvas as a small crowd gathered in front of him.

Suddenly, the wind was knocked out of her as something collided with her stomach and almost made her topple over. She felt arms being wrapped firmly around her thighs, and when she looked down, she saw the top of a pink fur-lined parka, the owner of which had its face mashed against her coat.

"Well, hey there," she said. "Thanks for the hug, I guess."

The hood of the parka slipped back to reveal the owner—a little girl with long brown hair—as she looked up at Cami. "Don't let her get me," the child whispered, her blue eyes wide. "Please!"