His sister stood slightly behind his mother. His grandparents approached with smiles; huge artificial smiles which tried hard to smother a torrent of uncomfortable and unwanted emotions. Sure, there may have been a morsel of relief and perhaps a hint of joy in those smiles. But those smiles were hiding something more; their lingering embarrassment, disappointment, fear, and anger – yeah, anger that he had put their daughter through an entirely unnecessary hell. Joe tried not to stiffen as they embraced him. They could try to hide it, but he knew it was there – there had to be lots of anger. He wanted to turn, run through the door and never come back. Braxton warned him about this, feeling guilty, unworthy. It’s okay. Relax. They do love me. Of course, they care.
“Give your brother a hug. Go on then.” Mom gave the gentle command. She pulled Amber from behind her and nudged her toward Joe.
Amber stepped forward. Joe reached out and hugged his sister and kissed her on the forehead. Joe whispered in her ear. “Sorry Amber. I’m Sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Amber said loudly.
Joe stepped back. “I’m just sorry for everything. For everything.”
“It’s okay.” Amber grabbed him and embraced him again.
It’s okay? It can never be okay. She found him – unconscious, covered in blood and vomit. Pure horror. She was not supposed to be the one. He didn’t know who was supposed to find his dead body. He hadn’t thought about that. It should have been his father who found him, in the back shed, where he had left boxes of his things, his rubbish, fragments of his sorry life. His sister found him. She saved his life. He traumatized hers. It could never be okay.
***
Chuck came home later that night. More guilt. Another declaration that he had disrupted everyone’s universe. Chuck had moved back home and was working at the nearby AutoZone. Chuck felt responsible to help mom. “This hospital bill is going be a fortune. The insurance doesn’t pay for all it you know.” He had told Joe at the hospital. Chuck later apologized, told him he shouldn’t have said that, then said, “Don’t worry about the money. You’re getting help, and that’s all that matters.” But the truth was always there. The truth refuses to lie.
Joe and Chuck sat wrapped up in blankets on the front porch; everyone else was asleep. “The police were here yesterday. Mom was at work. I haven’t told her. Suppose I should. They’ll probably be back with more questions. Two of them came,” Chuck said as he sipped the last dregs of his coffee. He set his cup on a wobbly outdoor table and leaned back in the rocking chair.
Joe looked at Chuck, mouth agape. He shook his head then said, “Flippin’ hell.”
“It was going happen sooner or later. You knew that.”
“Screw this man! That’s all I need. All we need. What’d the hell you tell them?”
“The truth. Told them the truth. Just like we talked about.”
“What? What did you tell them?”
“Cool it. Geez. I told them he abused mom, that he hit Amber, that we beat him up a bit and told him to never come back here and we hadn’t seen him since. That’s it. That’s as much of the truth as they need to know.”
Joe clasped his hands on top of his head. His words came out in a whisper. “They found him. Good God, they found him.”
“I don’t think so. They said some family had reported him missing. Cell phone didn’t work, hadn’t heard from him and all that. Listen. We’re gonna have to tell mom. Tell her everything. They’ll be back asking her questions.”
“Mom knows enough. He went back to Texas. He was a creep and decided to move on. That’s all she needs to know. That’s what she thinks.”
“We tell her the truth. We scared him off. Beat him up. Threatened him. That’s it. No big deal. Whatever happened after that is not our problem. If the cops talk to you, that’s what you tell them. That’s it.” Chuck paused, put his arm around Joe’s shoulder. “You alright? It’s fine, really. You don’t need to worry about it. Okay? And … well you know what not to tell them.”
“Yeah. I know. It’s okay. I’m fine. No, I’m not fine. I’m on edge. Nervous as hell. Chuck. I don’t know. I can’t deal with it anymore.” Joe felt his legs shaking, moving faster and faster. He put his hands under his thighs trying to slow them down.
“Deal with what? What do you mean?”
“I don’t even know. With this police nonsense. With Mom. Amber. School. With being home. It’s like I can’t deal with life.”
Chuck stood up and picked up their coffee cups. He kicked Joe’s ankle. “Come on. Get on to bed. You’re just tired.” He chuckled, then said, “God, I think that psycho place has made ya crazy. Listen. Don’t worry about things. Just get back to normal. Live your life, Joe. Just live your life.”
Live your life. How? How? Since he and his mom pulled into their driveway, Joe’s gut had been churning with a jumble of horrible sensations that wouldn’t slow down. Control. He’s right. Just take a day at a time. Live my life. Control. No. Control’s an illusion that disappeared long before I went into the hospital. The hospital. It was safe there. Steven was crazy but he was safe. Maddie, she knew me, it was safe with her. Can’t go back there. Can’t go back. Just live your life? Just live? Get through tomorrow. Day at a time, like Braxton said. Just get through tomorrow, get through Sunday. Oh my God. Monday! School! School on Monday. Oh my God. “Tell me Chuck, because I don’t know. How am I supposed to live my life?”
“Geez Joe. Be who you are, who you’ve always been. Don’t make it so hard. Just live your life, Joe. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Go to bed.” Chuck turned and walked through the front door.
Trazodone. I need my damn Trazodone. Joe went to his room and found his medication meant to bring sleep, escape, peace – meant to make everything better. Day at a time. Day at a time.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Four hours. His father had not showed up; had not answered his phone. The charge nurse put her hand on Steven’s shoulder; she sighed and quietly said, “I’ll need to go call the police now, Steven. Maybe something’s happened to your dad.”
Steven knew what the nurse meant. His dad failing to pick him up at discharge – he would now be considered abandoned; that’s why she had to call the police. Off to another shelter, then a foster home or group home; that would be fine, preferable. Steven sometimes prayed his dad would not pick him up. But as always, he felt relieved when his dad showed up thirty minutes later.
Henry, his dad, arrived at the hospital sober, but still the stench of sweaty clothes and neglected hygiene accompanied him. He’d brought a duffel bag for Steve to pack his clothes in. When they opened it, a roach bolted down the side onto the bed. Steve thought nothing of it – every home has roaches. He was amused when Miss Linda gasped and shook her head. She said, “Hate those critters. Don’t need them running around here.” She smashed the bug and sent him to fry in roach hell.
***
The rattle of the twenty-year-old cranky and angry pickup truck went unnoticed as they drove away from the hospital. Steven stared passed the barren trees of late autumn, refusing to be reminded that winter would soon envelop his world. Desperately he tried to free his mind of any thought, his heart free of any emotion. He knew what was coming and prepared himself for battle. Ten minutes later Henry sighed, then grunted, then shouted, “It’s high time you stopped going to these eff’n places. They ain’t gonna help ya. Never had and never will. I don’t have the gas money to be driving across town, picking you up. Damn hospitals. Next time I ain’t picking you up. Why is it you love these white men and their white ways? Good God almighty, you might as well stay in ’em ’till you’re eighteen. Yip that would keep ya out of my goddamn hair. Do you hear me? I’ve had enough of this.”
Steven’s head remained motionless as he stared out of the passenger window. He spoke softly, “It’s grandfather’s birthday. Take me to his grave. We have to go to his grave. Take me.”
“How many times you been in a goddamn hospital? What good’s it done ya? Hell, boy. Y
ou ain’t crazy and you better stop making them think you are. I’ve really had enough of you. Hey, let’s stop at MacDonald’s, get us a Big Mack.”
“Take me to my grandfather’s grave.” Steve enunciated each word with increasing force.
“Don’t have time for that. Don’t ask me again or you can goddamn walk home.”
With lungs exploding, he shouted, “Take me to grandfather’s grave and do it now!” Steven grabbed the steering wheel and pulled it down. The truck swerved up a curb and Steven’s chest slammed into the dashboard. Henry jerked the steering wheel hard to the left, barely missing oncoming traffic before the truck returned to its lane. Immediately the back of Henry’s hand struck Steven hard on the forehead. He then grabbed his collar and threw him against the door.
“You are crazy as hell. You want to kill of both us or just me? Try that again and it’ll be the end of you. You hear me boy? You’re going home and gonna rake leaves until your prissy little hands blister up and explode with blood soaked puss.”
Twenty minutes later the truck pulled in front of their doublewide trailer. Steven said, “You got more junk than ever. I thought they told ya to get rid of all that damn junk.”
“It ain’t junk. It’s money to be made. Now you’re here you can help me get it to the goddamn scrap yard. All that metal there is money in our pockets little one.”
Steven shook his head as he looked across the large front yard cluttered with rusted bicycles, old stoves, washing machines and no end of dangerous shards of iron and metal. He said, “It’s all junk. Been there for years and you ain’t ever gonna do noth’n with it.”
“Shut your mouth, boy. Get out and go rake those damn leaves in the back.” Henry got out of the truck and pounded the hood, yelling, “Come on! Get out here! Now!”
Steven remained in the truck. Henry yelled out three more times, each time more emphatic and with more vivid language. Steven put his head back and closed his eyes. Memories. Sweet memories. He wanted the past to come back, live again – his grandparents holding his hands as they walked along the lakeshore; grandfather dancing at a Pow Wow in North Dakota; the sweat lodge ceremonies; the stories; the legends. The reality. The truck’s door creaked. Henry’s hand gripped Steven’s right arm. Before Steven could react, he hit the ground with his left shoulder and rolled face down. His father’s words were distant, mumbled, not real. “The rake’s over there. I mean it. You rake those leaves till I tell ya to stop, you little runt-face.” Henry yanked Steven up by one arm, brushed him off and said, “Good as new. Off you go then. Rake, till I tell ya to come in. I’ll get some supper ready.”
Steven walked to the side of the trailer, grabbed the rake and went to the back yard. He looked back and forth at the lawn smothered knee high with leaves. When the front door of the trailer slammed shut, Steven tossed the rake across the yard and walked back across the front yard. He went down a slight incline and climbed over a wobbly chain-link fence and disappeared into a thick forest; old Indian land waiting to be developed into a housing estate. After a fifteen-minute hike, he came to a large open area – his safe place, where his friends lived. Maybe tonight, they would visit him; maybe even allow him to see them.
He and his grandfather had cleared this portion of the woods not long before his grandfather died. Steven smiled as he noticed a large circle of withered mushrooms in the middle of the clearing. Surrounding the strange circle were rocks and stones they had placed there years ago. “Yes. Their village is still here.” Steven laughed, then cried.
This forest, this spot, was his refuge. Here the world treated him right. Crazy was an unknown concept; there was only the acceptance of nature enfolding him. Nature understood his hurts, his pain – and the confusion in his brain that, more and more, he feared was robbing him of sanity. Here there was peace. He could live in this place. Mother Nature caring for him. And too, his friends were there, the Little People – always accepting him, loving him. The Little People, they would be very worried about him and they would help him. That’s the way they are. They help the lost children. But make sure you’re good to them – one does not want to get on their bad side. He lay down on the fallen tree trunk he and his grandfather had chiseled out to make a bench. Finally, peace.
A hard thump on his head. Light blinding his eyes. Steven’s deep sleep shattered. He pushed the flashlight away. “Leave me alone.”
“You’ll die of frost out here you idiot! Maybe that’s what you want. Come on, get home. I’ve got some supper waiting.” Henry’s head shook as he shone the flashlight in Steven’s face. “You and your grandfather. Both ya’r crazy. Waiting for Little People. Ain’t no such thing.” His father went to the circle and began kicking dried up mushrooms and rocks away from the circle.
Steven jumped on his father back and wrapped his right arm around his father’s neck and punched his head with his left fist. “Stop it! Stop it!”
Henry whipped Steven off. As he fell to the ground, his head snapped back and hit the cold leafy ground. His father kicked the last decaying mushroom into the darkened woods, then grabbed Steven by the wrist and jerked him up. “Alright. Let’s go eat. No more damn nonsense tonight.”
Steven walked behind his father. They climbed the chain-link fence and went through the backdoor of the double-wide trailer. The two sat in front of the TV with plates of pasta on their laps; plain pasta – no sauce, no meat, no conversation. Steven knew his father was in for trouble; the destruction of the Little People’s village would bring retaliation, sooner or later, one way or another.
Steven went to bed and remembered the white owl he’d seen some weeks ago. Tears welled up and slid down his temples. Maybe it means dad. I hope it’s him. No. It can’t be him. I need him. I love him. Why does he have to be like that?
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Delete My Account.’ Maddie clicked ‘submit.’ The message popped up, ‘You are about to permanently delete your account. Are you sure?’ She typed in her password. The cursor moved back and forth. ‘Okay’ and ‘Cancel.’
Facebook had become a seductive savior that welcomed, embraced, then consumed. Maddie would disappear into this virtual world, resting in its unquestionable assurance that she was not alone. In this world, she shared her darkness with invisible beings who most surely understood the raw reality of her own pain, anger, fear, hatred, loneliness; her ugliness. Friends on Facebook introduced her to the necessity of cutting; encouraged her to get her eyebrows and tongue pierced and taught her how to do it at home. They had introduced her to screamo bands like Loma Prieta, Danse Macabre, Ampere. The chaotic and frenzied nature of this music and the pure emotion of the lyrics assured her that depression and self-loathing was okay – it was okay to hate the world; and it was okay to hate herself.
Facebook – also the place where rumors, lies, and unbridled malice spread like vicious and unrelenting tumors. Cyber bullying, her therapist called it. “You’ve been pulled into a world you really don’t want to be in.” Maddie laughed and rolled her eyes when Angie made that statement. The next day Angie told Maddie’s parents they needed to monitor her Facebook activity and all her computer use; even told them to check her texting. Maddie, at first, thought her counselor was kidding; then she realized she wasn’t. Too much; too unthinkable, too unreasonable –utterly and insanely too cruel. Too many secrets would be exposed, too much ugliness would be discovered. Maddie exploded in rage that afternoon; she cursed Angie and her parents with the fury of hell unleashed. She stomped out of the office and had hurled two chairs and a table across the dayroom before two gorilla-sized staff placed her in a therapeutic hold. What else was she supposed to do? They wanted to destroy her world.
After dinner that evening, she cut her forearm up and down with a broken plastic spoon. “The doctor’s ordered Zyprexa to help you calm down.” The nurse told her in an irritatingly tranquil tone. “Go to hell you ugly bitch!” Was her reply. The nurse, with an even more aggravating calmness said, “Now Maddie. You can take it by mou
th or we can give you a shot. You can decide.” She took it by mouth and was zombiefied for twelve straight hours.
Maddie clicked ‘Okay.’ Her world on Facebook vanished. The panic and dread she feared would drown her didn’t surface. Strangely, she felt free.
This sense of liberation emboldened her. She went to the back of her oversized walk-in closet, past clothes she hadn’t dare touch in three years – clothes too clean, too bright, too rich, too sexy, too preppy. Behind a chest full of winter boots, she pulled out a shoebox. She went and sat on the floor at the far side of her bed; there she couldn’t be seen should mom or dad come in without knocking. They never had, but she always feared such an intrusion. This was where she sat on so many late nights, with towels underneath her, cutting on her arms, her thighs, her stomach.
She opened the shoebox and stared at its content. Angie had asked twice if she had such a box, a place to store her sharp instruments: knives, pushpins, shards of glass, blades she’d carefully extracted from old safety razors. She vehemently declared that would be a stupid thing to do; she was not that crazy. She was not so addicted to cutting to be hoarding cutting tools.
Looking in the box stirred memories, hated memories. Anger and embarrassment grew as skeletons of the past shook their fingers at her. Like a movie played out in her mind, she could see herself cutting with this and that object, at this and that place on her body. The events, the emotions that lead her to cut on that particular day, that particular moment, flashed across her mind. She shook her head wildly and said, “No! Stop! Can’t dwell on the past.”