Mari, who won't quit

The last memory I have of my mother is unpleasant. By the time I was 15, she'd lost herself to heroin and cocaine and stopped trying. It was late, and she was pacing the floors with a cigarette. "I didn't mean for things to be this way, Marija," she said, scratching at her arm. "I don't have a choice anymore. If I could just get a little money, maybe $50,000 it could change our whole life. Hell, $20,000 would do it." A few minutes later she left with a man I'd never seen before and that was it. I never saw her again.

I'd avoided the lifestyle around me for as long as I could, but after my mother died I became one of them. Just like my friends and my mother's friends, I started dating a mid level drug dealer with the aspiration of being noticed by the high level dealers. Plenty of girls around me enjoyed the perks of free flowing money and no responsibilities, but I was never enticed. I did what I had to do and I never stopped looking for the next opportunity to change my life. One day I was going to leave Latvia for good. I'd change my name and marry an American. I'd lie about my family and tell my children a fairy tale about how I grew up. I daydreamed while I rolled a joint for my current boyfriend, who was more like an employer. The pay was a place to sleep, food, clothing, and a certain level of protection. The sacrifice was living with a man I loathed. He had an explosive temper and a cocaine dependancy, and ran his business about as well as any drug addicted narcissist. I only looked forward to his business meetings, which provided a chance for me to be noticed by a more important drug addicted narcissist. The ladder out of this lifestyle was a steep and unattractive one, but the alternative wasn't an option. A meeting was finally set with a dealer from Amsterdam, who was widely feared and respected. For that reason, I made myself as attractive as possible in a form fitting dress, my long blonde hair cascading down my back, and slipped into the meeting with a bottle of chilled champage.

My boyfriend, Damien, looked nervous. He was such a coward. I hated him. He tried to appear relaxed, leaning back on a chair listening to the man talk. I kept my eyes down but I heard his voice clearly. He was an American! I placed the bottle on the table between them and turned to leave without saying a word. "Mari," Damien called before I reached the door. I stopped and looked at the ground over my shoulder. "You didn't pour our guest a glass." I turned on my heel and approached the two men again, quickly popping the top on the bottle and pouring two glasses. I handed one to the American and let my eyes meet his for a brief second. He was smiling. I could feel him looking at me as I walked away.

Three hours later, Damien told me to get in the car. We were going to meet his cousin at a remote gas station halfway up a mountain, a location frequented by drug dealers. "I saw you looking at him," Damien slurred dangerously. I wondered how much he'd been drinking and if we'd make it up the winding mountain without incident. I didn't answer him, which made him angrier. I stared out the window as we drove, his insults fading into the background as I planned my new life. Finally we pulled in, the sun already setting. "Did you hear me?" he jeered, just before shoving my face into the car window. He released his hand and jumped out, slamming the car door and stumbling twice on his way into the store. It was getting cold and we were in the middle of nowhere. I was still wearing a short dress. I mulled these things over in my mind as I considered running, rifling through my purse for a tissue. There was a knock on the window that made me jump. It was him. The American.

He had to be at least 6'5. His expression was serious, but his eyes danced with amusement. I just stared at him. He motioned for me to open the door. My eyes darted to the store, where I could see Damien inside talking to someone. I opened the door, and he stood back. "Do you want to go with me?" he asked. I didn't even think. I was already out of the car. It could have been the most dangerous decision of my life, but I didn't care. He wrapped his jacket around my shoulders and laughed, slamming the car door shut. "Come on" he said, leading me to his motorcycle parked just out of view. His friend sat on the bike next to his, smiling and shaking his head. I zipped the jacket up while he sat down and revved up the engine, then climbed on the back. Damien hadn't even come out of the store when we pulled off, driving up the winding mountain.

wNo one tried to speak over the engine and the wind as we drove into the dark for more than half an hour. Finally, we approached a gravel drive, which eventually led to a gate. High up on the mountain was an extravagant multi level home. The American and his friend parked under an awning and spoke in another language. "What are you speaking?" I asked, without thinking. He smiled. "French. I'm Canadian." Canadian. What was he doing here anyway? As if reading my mind, he answered my thought. "I do business in Europe sometimes, so I have this house." He offered me his hand and I swung my leg over to get off the bike. His friend had already walked inside. I shoved my hands into the pockets of his jacket and shivered. There was something in the right pocket. We walked in the doors and I carefully felt around the object, which was rectangular, and soft like leather. I held on to it, as I followed the Canadian into the pristine home. He continued walking up a wide marble staircase but I stopped at the bottom. "Who are you?" I asked flatly. He stopped and looked over his shoulder, grinning again. "Pablo," he said, and started walking again. This time I followed him. I watched him walk ahead of me. His shoulders were broad and his body was muscular. He should have been menacing, but he wasn't. I didn't regret what I'd done or fear what I didn't know. I was always looking for an opportunity to change my life. At the top of the stairs, Pablo turned to walk down a long hallway. "There's no one else here now. Just you and me, and Marcus that was with me," he said as he continued down the hall. "You don't need to be afraid. You're free to go if you choose." I followed him silently, my hand still firmly holding the object in the jacket pocket. He stopped and opened a door, leading us onto a large semi-circle balcony overlooking the mountain. The mountain air was cold but refreshing. He sat down in front of the patio heater and motioned for me to sit next to him.

"Mari, right?" he questioned, opening a patio table to reveal a fully stocked cooler. "Marija," I answered, accepting a hard seltzer from him. He closed the lid and reclined in his seat. "What are you doing with a guy like Damien?" he asked, turning to look at me. I'd looked at him before but his eyes seemed to pull me like a magnet this time. They were deep brown and thoughtful. I almost wanted to trust him, but I knew I couldn't. I answered his question with a question of my own. "Why did you bring me here?" He looked out into the treeline and sighed. He was quiet for a minute before he spoke. He turned back to look me in the eye. "Women like you don't have a lot of choices in life. I just wanted to give you a choice." I stared at him, distrust brewing and rising. I didn't have a chance to respond, because the sliding door opened behind us. It was Marcus. "We've got company at the front gate," he said. "I saw it on the security camera." My heart dropped into my stomach. Pablo shook his head and stretched, unbothered. "I didn't think he'd be brave enough to come looking for you here, but I guess he's just drunk enough to try and prove himself," Pablo said as he stood. "Don't worry about it," he called over his shoulder as he walked inside, completely unrushed. I started pacing, rubbing my hands over my face and straining to see what was in the darkness at the foot of the driveway. Pablo had already made it downstairs and stood below the balcony with Marcus. He looked up and I saw him grin. "Choices," he called, as he started walking down with gravel drive. I shoved my cold hands back into the pockets of Pablo's jacket and clamped down on the rectangular object again. I walked inside quickly where there was more light, trying to think on my feet. I tried to find my way out, but I was turned around. I didn't recognize where I was, or where I'd been. I didn't know if I should run or hide, but I had to look for the next opportunity to change my life. I found a different set of stairs and bounded down them, two at a time. The stairs led to a door, which opened to a garage There were security cameras, showing Pablo and Marcus approaching Damien and several others at the gate. Damien was irate. Pablo was smiling. In a flash, he turned and looked directly into the security camera, like he was looking directly at me. "She isn't here," he said into the camera, almost amused. Damien was screaming. I hadn't noticed it before but suddenly became aware the open garage was at the end of a long paved road. A back exit. A white Rolls-Royce Ghost had been backed in and was idling almost silently. Choices. I ran over and tried the handle. It was unlocked. Sitting in the most expensive car I'd ever seen, I exhaled. I ripped the object from the jacket pocket to reveal a small black book, bound with one cloth strap. I pulled the strap and opened the cover and gasped as crisp American dollars started falling out into my lap. Frantically grabbing them up, I snatched the stack out of the notebook to reveal all of the pages of the notebook had been removed with the exception of one. A note was written in clean, block letters that I recognized. Behind the page was a one way ticket to New York, and a passport I hadn't seen in 6 years. It was my own. I flipped back to the notebook page and recognition consumed me. It was my mother's handwriting. "Change your life." Wiping away tears I counted the bills. It was $20,000.