Unfolding

What started as a dying man’s last request morphed into an entire photo shoot. She posed, in ways both tempting and uncomfortable. After thirty shots, I let the camera fall to my side and leaned back.

  “So, you’re not sick.” She tapped my forearm with her finger. “What are you, contagious?”

  “Not contagious. Twisted.”

  The scrub smiled slyly, leaning over me. “I don’t know if that’s all bad.”

  “No, that’s not, I’m actually—”

  “Ahem.”

  The door was open, and Dad marched in.

  I shifted, pushing myself higher. “Dad, meet . . .” I winced at my new friend.

  “Hannah.”

  “Yes, Hannah. She’s . . . well, she’s apparently part of my spontaneous treatment plan. An important part, actually.”

  “Hmm,” Dad said. “She looks to be at that.”

  I placed my hand on Hannah’s. “Thank you for the encouragement. It was . . . encouraging.”

  Hannah’s eyes twinkled. “You are most welcome, Jonah Everett the third.”

  She left and I fiddled with my shark tooth necklace, racked with guilt, as if I had gone behind Stormi’s back. Feeling wanted is a powerful thing.

  That evening, hours before the knife, I met with a bunch of other pre-surgical teens also in the final stages of their treatment plans.

  Eight self-absorbed patients filed into a room and sat down in plush chairs to discuss the “emotions of the moment” and to celebrate our “oneness and inner wholeness.” To everyone’s credit, nobody said a darn thing for the longest time. With no facilitator, we sat there completely alone, and I thought that maybe this part of the treatment plan would work, since I could use a little peace.

  My mind circled Stormi, remembered her leaning on my shoulder, and wished she were here. I replayed our last conversation. She’d never been wrong until now. Surgery definitely qualified as a procedure, and my wristband screamed full steam ahead.

  I glanced around the circle, wondering if the other kids had their own Stormis, because none of them seemed present in the room. There were no jokes, and in the silence, a strange weight fell. Yep, I decided, it was a good group, every last one. Strange how the real possibility of premature death improves manners.

  “What are we doing here?” said the kid sitting across from me.

  Turned out his name was Gabe, who, like most gathered, was an epileptic awaiting brain surgery. Their seizures grabbed them and flung them to the ground too, or so Dad had said.

  “Shut up. I’m searching for inner wholeness.” This from Francis, a pretty girl from the face up. Another warped cottonwood, she kept peeking at me—or, more accurately, at my feet, since that was the direction of her gaze. This I only caught in my periphery, as I couldn’t bear the sight of her straight-on. It’s tough to gaze at yourself.

  “How’s that wholeness working for you?” Gabe smirked.

  Francis shrugged. “I think I found some in my shoulder. My left shoulder. That feels pretty good right now.”

  “Ankles,” another boy blurted. “My ankles are golden.”

  “Solid elbows.” I touched each one. “Left, right. Solid. They screw up my elbows tomorrow and there’s gonna be a lawsuit.”

  Ankles held out his fist and we bumped. “Where you from, Elbows? That’s some accent.”

  “Nowhere, Oklahoma. We don’t have an accent.”

  Ankles laughed. “Fair.”

  “Talk about wholeness, I have the healthiest back in the room. Wow, does my back feel good!” the nerdy guy with frames the size of Dad’s windshield blurted, and the room fell quiet. He glanced around, clueless. “What? It does.” He turned toward me. “My back feels awesome—Oh crap.”

  All eyes shifted to Francis and me.

  “Well, Mr. Gold-Medal Back, my brain never felt better.” I risked a peek into Francis’s eyes. “How ’bout yours?”

  “Perfect.”

  I laughed and she laughed and everyone else laughed and a nurse walked into the room and we all stopped laughing.

  She sat down, found her somber face, and quickly had the room properly depressed.

  “My name is Nurse Kalan, and it would be understandable if you kids were a little bit afraid. Your surgeries are major; I won’t lie to you.”

  Why not? Now would be a really good time to tell a whopper.

  She continued, “This time is your time to come together. To share your hearts.”

  My heart was another piece of me that worked perfectly. There would be zero chance of me sharing. The others must have felt the same.

  Except for Holly.

  Quiet until now, she burst to the fore.

  “I’m Holly”—we all knew this from the dumb Hello badge she alone was wearing—“and this will be my fifth brain surgery. I’m not scared because it’s my fifth. My first was scary though. Really scary. During my last surgery, I made it to the anesthesia count of ninety-six. That’s kind of the game, and if any of you beat me . . . Well, none of you will, because you’ll be out at ninety-eight. The anesthesia is seriously weird. Between that and the narcs, most people conk out or say something stupid before they even get to the counting, but not me, not this time. I’m going to lie there and count backward and still be lying and counting when I hit ninety-five.”

  She glanced triumphantly around the circle as if she had discovered her purpose in life. Ankles stared at me, his eyebrows raised. I shook my head. There was a girl in our midst living to reach ninety-five. Well, backward.

  Nurse Kalan glanced at me. “Jonah? I noticed your response as she shared. Care to share your thoughts?”

  “About Holly? No. You know, I hope she makes it tomorrow. To ninety-five, I mean.” Nobody spoke. They all kept waiting and waiting, and they were probably just thinking about my perfect elbows, and I shouldn’t have felt compelled to say any more on the eve of a near-death experience, but their eyes wouldn’t shut up, so I said it. I thought of Stormi’s words and I said it.

  “I don’t want to die.”

  And like that, Gabe flung forward. He hit the ground with force, his eyes rolled back, and he started to seize. It was fish-floppin’ something. Kate, seated on my right, must’ve felt an intense kinship with him, because she joined him in a communal jerk-and-writhe session on the floor.

  Now, epilepsy is not contagious, but I tell you this spectacle shook me. Ankles and Francis and the nerdy guy, they all dropped to their knees. Were they helping? Was everyone taking the oneness thing to extremes and seizing? I closed my eyes and listened to Nurse Kalan call for calm. Her voice muddled, morphed into gibberish, and my fingers tingled. A metallic taste filled my mouth and a ringing strengthened inside my ears. I tried to stand, to flee, but my legs were no longer my own and I struck the ground, feeling nothing.

  A felled cottonwood, having his first seizure.

  When I came to, I was gowned and bedded. Dad stared down at me with venom, quickly lowered the rail, and began to dress me, groggy as I was, in my own clothes.

  “We’re leaving.”

  It was all he said to me; all he said to the nurses and the doctor who attempted to dissuade him.

  Dad had come to get me fixed, and this place had not only stolen his money, it had doubled his troubles. Three days after Christmas, he led me out into the frozen Minnesota night, helped me into the truck, and the next day we were back in Gullary.

  I had two more seizures on that ride home, and following the second, miles from the Oklahoma border, I thought to tell him of Stormi’s words. But it was too late. I’d already paid the price of ignoring her prediction.

  Ma greeted us at the door, frowned at my back, and drew me close. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Doctors,” Dad hissed, flinging his keys onto the table and vanishing into the back room.

  I stood in front of my mother, watching her cry. I tried to straighten, but it hurt and I wasn’t sure that it mattered anymore.

  “I’m a monster,” I said quietly. “Stormi won’t
want anything to do with me.”

  “Oh, honey, you’re the most peaceful child I know.”

  “Wait,” I whispered. “You haven’t seen the nightmare.”

  Stormi shook me back to the present. “Off the path, Jonah. Quickly.”

  We crunched into the forest of hickory and oak and crouched behind a fallen log.

  “I liked it there. Why are we here?” I whispered.

  She shook her head, and I rolled my eyes.

  Five minutes. Ten minutes. Then voices. Deep and hushed, men’s voices joined the symphony of frogs and crickets from down the trail. The trudging of feet crackled the bracken, approaching, walking back toward Gullary.

  Sun gave way to moon, and night shadow stole their faces from me, but it didn’t matter; I knew these voices well.

  “You know my stance on the matter. He doesn’t need to be stayin’ in Gullary no longer.” Mr. Cartwright. “Nothing he said would hold weight.”

  “He does no harm inside. Can’t be sure of anything if we let him out.” Dad. Dad?

  He continued. “Haste never provided us any benefit. It’s why the mess started in the first place.” Their feet paused on the holy ground where I’d held Stormi, and then three more men gathered. “I don’t hear from Jonah that Tres is complaining. I say if it ain’t broke—”

  “And Stormi. What of her?” Men murmured and Cartwright’s voice lowered. “My Gina says she’s unnatural.”

  “Do we have a law against that?” Dad asked. “What would you have me do?”

  “Many things can be done. Have been done.” Mr. Cartwright pulled Dad nearer. “Shoot, I know Jonah’s taken a likin’ to her. And heaven knows that boy deserves some good his way. I’m startin’ to think he’s the reason you don’t act.”

  Dad grabbed Cartwright by the shoulders. “I don’t act because Stormi’s done nothing wrong. Unexplained intuition is no reason for concern. You’re on a witch hunt, and, David, I know why. It hurts. But what’s done is done. We can’t go back.”

  “Dang you, acting all innocent, Mr. Mayor! You’ve got chat under your fingernails like the rest of us.” Cartwright shoved Dad, and then along with Mr. Tennyson pounded away across the moss bridge over the Green.

  Dad swiped his hand over his head. “Men, this is going to get worse before it gets better. But the Circle must stay united. You understand the importance of this?”

  Murmurs and nods, and together, three men plodded into the night.

  Stormi took a deep breath. “Now would be another really good time to hold me.”

  I did, and she squeezed my arms tightly around her. What struck me as odd must’ve sounded a deeper chord in Stormi. An hour of mosquito-slapping minutes passed before she finally broke free. “It’s safe now.”

  “What were they talking about? Unnatural? You haven’t committed any crimes.” I forced a chuckle, and my face hardened. “Have you?”

  Stormi looked at me with those piercing browns; it was a sad look, both hopeful and resigned. The same look I got from Ms. Aldermaky when I failed trigonometry.

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?”

  She took my hand and pulled me back onto the path. I thought about that answer clear back to Gullary.

  Stars appeared in the east, while the sun gave up one last streak of gray across the western sky. The lone cloud hovering above the hills caught the glint and whispered pink around its edges—a lot of beauty floated over our angry town.

  “And why were they talking about Tres?” I asked. “Do you know about that?”

  She hugged me and whispered, “Thank you for my birthday wish.”

  Birthday. Oh, birthday!

  “Stormi, I have questions about what I heard, but I’m setting those down for now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yeah, no problem.” I squinted, and rocked. The lie I was aiming to tell and the gift I was thinking to give were both out of character. “I’ll be straight with you. I wasn’t certain when your birthday was coming—we never knew before—but I thought I better be ready.”

  I dug in my pocket and pulled out the necklace. “It’s real gold, I think. I thought it would look pretty on you, if you want it. I mean, I want you to want it—the necklace, that is. Oh, here.”

  I dropped the necklace into her hand, and she examined it for a long time, her face unreadable. Finally, she nodded. “Yeah, this is right.” Then she exhaled, long and slow. “Put it on me, would you?”

  “Sure.” I fumbled with the clasp and her hair and the feel of her neck, but in time, I achieved my goal. “I think it’s really good on you.”

  Stormi stroked it and stared toward SMX. “I’m scared, Jonah. It’s like this whole town is holding its breath. A storm’s coming, but I can’t see it. Why can’t I see it?”

  “A storm? A funnel?”

  Stormi winced. “I think worse. See you Monday morning, Jonah.” She jogged away toward our trailer park.

  I kicked at the dirt, experiencing none of Stormi’s usual afterglow. In its place was dread, an anxious claw that ripped at my thoughts.

  Cartwright. Dad. Stormi.

  Not yet . . .

  Worse?

  CHAPTER 4

  Sunday was dark.

  Dark clouds billowed overhead. Dark questions ran through my mind.

  It was dark with the memory of Dad and Mr. Cartwright in heated debate. Mr. Cartwright was a “bag o’ wind,” even Ma broke Christian charity to say so. But the fact that I had been involved in the debate sat sour with me, as did his flimsy concern for my well-being, which could blanket the truth no more than plastic wrap over a pig.

  Mostly, Sunday felt empty because I didn’t see Stormi.

  I spent a fair piece of the morning gazing alternately at the hundred-plus photos of Stormi plastered on my walls and out my bedroom window at the Pickerings’ trailer. As self-absorbed as I admittedly was, I worried all the more about Stormi in that double-wide. This because Connor lived there, and where I had trouble speaking clearly when Stormi was near, Connor expressed his perverse passions with ease.

  He wasn’t safe. I told Stormi as much.

  “I know,” was all she’d say.

  So, on days when Ms. P had the 5 a.m. at Sophie’s Diner, I watched, knowing nothing but Stormi’s knack for the prophetic would keep her from harm’s way.

  “Sorry, Mr. E!”

  Connor’s voice cut through the open window, and I frowned and scampered to the front of our trailer. I cracked the blinds.

  There was Dad, tossing a baseball to Connor.

  I loved baseball.

  They stood thirty feet apart, nodding and firing. Nodding and firing. Their gloves swallowed each ball with a thwack. I tried to leave, but I couldn’t pull free from that stupid window.

  Couldn’t take my eyes off my happy dad. My happy, talkative dad.

  “You’ve got a good arm, Connor. You’re a strong kid—young man, I should say.”

  Thwack.

  “You know, son, I forget how much I miss this.”

  Son?

  Thwack. I heard Connor’s throw strike Dad’s glove. Thwack. And I felt Dad’s words nail my gut. Thwack. And I thought to dig for my mitt and join them, to show them I could play. That I was worth playing with. That I wasn’t some cripple.

  “You know, son, I’m heading out fishing tomorrow.” Dad gestured toward our trailer with his head. “Can’t really risk him on open water. Have any interest?”

  Thwack.

  I retreated from the glass, the sound of the ball and Dad’s words tossing about in my brain. So, Dad, you found a replacement.

  I hauled my defective self back to my bedroom. Ten minutes later, a knock at the door. I made no move to answer.

  Dad peeked in. “How long are you planning on eyeing our neighbors?” He plunked beside me on the bed, mitt still on his hand.

  I boiled. Even before I saw him with Connor, Dad had that effect. All my classmates had long ago snipped their umbilicals, but not me. Not with
the seizures. Without a driver’s license, I needed Dad to shuttle me, Ma to buy my medicine, both of them to speak gently when Ol’ Rick took me at home. Yeah, I needed them—hated needing them. I found rage much easier to bear than shame.

  “You know . . .” Dad leaned into my shoulder—granted a fatherly gesture, but I was simmering and muscled his weight off me. “We live too close for you to ogle the day away. That type of surveillance isn’t healthy.” He glanced at my photos, the ones that captured every nuance of her. That’s what I was, a nuance collector.

  “Not sure your obsession with her is healthy either.”

  “Neither is Connor’s, your baseball buddy. And you know his sick thoughts,” I hissed.

  Dad gently set his mitt on the floor and folded his hands. Two minutes passed. Then five. I peeked over at the man. He exhaled slow and loud, and then tousled my hair.

  It takes a fair piece of energy to hate a person for any length of time. Maybe if this had been the first time I’d seen them together, I could have stoked the fire, but it wasn’t and I calmed. With the anger went my wonderings about the secrecy and mystery of the night before. I was with Dad. A jerk sometimes, yeah, but as decent a dad as could be found in Gullary.

  I tracked a silhouette, followed closely by a larger shadow, moving behind the Pickerings’ kitchen shade.

  “Oh, I know Connor’s a scoundrel.” Dad chuckled and lowered his head. “I see it each time he mocks you. And believe you me, if I hear of that young man causing trouble in there, I will . . . well, I’ll force the Circle to move its hand. How’s that?”

  The Circle. Five men with the authority to pass judgment on the citizens of Gullary. My father was the unpaid mayor, but it was his position in the Circle that gave him power.

  Dad often told the story of an out-of-control former mining town and Granddad’s solution. A Circle with the town’s blessing to act as judge and jury. With the SMX at their disposal, there was no need to involve the courts or outsiders. Gullary could take care of its own problems.

  The Circle, accountable to no one, was effective, and soon there was no crime in Gullary, a source of pride even today. Gullary still did not employ a single police officer.