I reply to the bachelorette’s tweet with a selfie from the inside of the limo. What a crazy sweet thing for her to do. Next, I send a video of me lying down on the seats to Steffi. Heading to Midway in style! I write.
Holy crap! she texts back. I just read about this online. I can hardly keep up with all of the comments. Drink some of that champagne for me!
“So we have tickets to Los Angeles?” I ask.
Esben nods. “We do. A nice young couple. They just . . . gave up their seats. Just because they’re awesome.” He sighs with a happiness of sorts. “If you can believe it, the pilot is going to meet us at security and help get us through. He can only wait so long, though. It’s going to be tight.”
“I can’t believe this is working.” I’m still in shock.
“I know. I can’t either.”
We’re more than thirty minutes into the ride when Leon says from up front, “Sir? Ma’am? We have a problem.”
The car slows to a stop. There are red brake lights everywhere.
Before I have a chance to say anything, Esben is online. He finishes typing and looks at me. “Say a prayer.” Then he opens the moonroof and pokes his head out.
“What are you doing? Esben!” I stand, too, and take in the horrendous traffic jam. “Christ. No. No, not now. Please.”
“Come on. Come on. Come on.” He’s facing the cars behind us.
“What are you doing? We’re stuck. We’re just stuck.” I rub my face. “We’ll have to . . . hope for a later flight.”
“This is the last one out tonight.”
“Oh God.”
“We’re getting on it,” he says stubbornly. “Just . . . just wait.”
The cars behind us begin to blur into one. This is over. We won’t reach Steffi. The honking of horns is deafening, the endless sea of lights depressing. I hear the roar of some kind of engine, but I don’t care what it is.
“There!” Esben shouts excitedly. “There!”
I stare in shock as four tough-looking motorcyclists pull up next to us. “You must be Allison and Esben. Heard you two need a lift.”
The guys look to be in their midfifties, all with thick graying beards, denim and leather outfits, heavy boots, and bandannas knotted around their heads. Tattoos are everywhere. They’re also all wearing sunglasses, despite the time of night.
“Oh boy,” Esben says.
“You’re definitely posting this insanity,” I say with a laugh. “Steffi won’t forgive us if we don’t.”
“You coming or not?” The first biker holds out a helmet.
“We’re coming!” I duck down. “Thank you, Leon. Thank you so much.” I swing open the door and walk to the biker, who revs his engine. I glance back at Esben, who shakes his head with amused acceptance.
“All set there?” My new driver asks gruffly. “Grab on tight, sweet cheeks. We’ll be taking the breakdown lane. Could get a little hairy.”
I straddle the bike and clutch on hard to this man’s mammoth waist. “Okay. What’s your name?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He revs his engine again. “Here we go.”
A surge of fear courses through me, and I shut my eyes for a moment. We are, for sure, speeding, but I’m comforted by the fact that my driver is obviously in total control of his bike as he flies us past unmoving cars. Without these bikers, we’d never make it to Midway. Never.
Just as we pass the area where traffic seems to ease up—there’s no sign of an accident or anything, just a damn unexplained traffic clog—a siren rings out behind us.
“Here we go!” my biker cries out rather triumphantly and hits the gas. “Hang on, little lady! Hang on!”
Oh my God.
A motorcycle cop is chasing us.
We bang out a turn, and soon the entrance to the airport is ahead. We screech to a stop, with the police officer’s siren still audible but lagging behind.
“Go!” the biker yells at me. “Go, go, go!”
I scramble to get off the bike, and before I can even get my helmet off, he’s gone.
I’m still standing on the departure sidewalk when Esben taps me hard on the shoulder. “We need to move. Allison! Now!”
I turn and run with him into the terminal. There’s no time to think about what just happened, and we only just make our flight to LAX. After we land, we’re picked up by an off-duty Uber driver, then sail to Cedars-Sinai with such ease. Almost too much. Maybe I was secretly hoping for another problem to extend the inevitable, but we are here now. A wave of sadness washes over me.
After hours and hours of chaos, we are here. Our car pulls up at the entrance, and I am unspeakably moved by what I see.
There are at least thirty people outside. Some hold candles, some have signs with #ALLISONANDSTEFFI, or #SCREWCANCER, or #BESTFRIENDS. Some have flowers, stuffed animals, or balloons. They are quiet and sweet and radiating love so entirely that I hardly know what to do as we walk past them. There are hugs and a few soft words. Mostly, there is a circle of serenity. These people are here to guard Steffi against as much pain as they can.
“Will you take a picture for Steffi? She’ll want to see this.” I am almost numb. The love that has been thrown our way today is immeasurable. And no one wants thanks. No one wants attention for his or her part in getting us here. Every single tag that I’ve seen today is fueled by nothing but true heart. I stagger a bit as I walk. “Take a picture,” I say again.
“Of course,” Esben says. “This is beautiful.”
When we step through the front doors, I brace myself, preparing to see Steffi soon.
However, I am not prepared to see the two people who call my name from the waiting area. When they reach us, I am breathing hard, seething with anger, rage from past pain that I almost can’t control.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I spit out. “How dare you? How dare you?”
“Allison,” the woman says, with tears in her eyes. She was clearly going to lean in for a hug, but my words stopped her short. “We read about Steffi online. We just happened to be in San Diego. Obviously, we drove up when we heard.”
“We were hoping to—” the man starts.
“Hoping to what? What exactly were you hoping to do, huh?” I’m near screaming.
“What’s going on? Who are they?” Esben touches my arm with concern.
“Cal and Joan Kantor,” I say, shooting a venomous look their way.
“Steffi’s foster parents?” he says in disbelief.
“Yes. The ones who kicked her out when she turned eighteen.” My words are cold.
“Wait, what?” Cal says. “Is that what she told you?”
Joan touches a hand to her forehead. She looks as distraught as I feel. “Oh, Cal . . .”
Her husband takes her hand and collects himself before he speaks. “Allison, that’s not what happened. Not at all . . .”
“What do you mean?” My stomach sinks as something clicks.
“We didn’t kick Steffi out,” he says, struggling not to cry. “We never would have done that.”
“She told me . . .” I cannot believe this. And yet I can. “She told me that you didn’t want her. Not for the long term. That it wasn’t working out.”