by Spencer Hyde
Fitz was quiet as the boat took, like, an hour to dock. When we finally got off the boat, I spoke up.
“I miss Didi. And Leah. This is weird to say, but I miss them. I didn’t think I’d miss that place.”
“Not the place,” he said. “The people. That’s how life is. People make the place, not the other way around.”
The light was making all these crazy shadows on the pavement where people were getting into their cars after departing from the ferry. Other people walked along the pier or stood near the fishermen or just sat down on the benches warped from the sun and water and salt and wind.
Fitz suggested we get something to eat, so we stopped at this place near the water that was selling fish and chips. I hate vinegar, but I was starving, so we grabbed food to go and headed in the general direction of the bus stop with no ostensible plan in mind. At least, I didn’t have a plan in mind.
“What would you do without your Sugar Momma to buy you lunch?” I said.
“That’s really weird,” said Fitz, laughing.
“True. I felt it as I said it. Sorry,” I said, blushing.
I liked the salt of the chips and the deep-fried goodness of the fish. Grease was a wonderful thing.
“Where to?” I said. “This is your show.”
We kept walking, and this really fine mist started to float down. Sure enough, as soon as you think you’ve got a sunny day, bring on the waterworks, right? In the distance, small clouds had gathered and formed this tight fist and darkened and crawled through the sky to our spot on the shoreline. It only took a matter of minutes.
Overhead, I saw this accordion of starlings shifting in the sky. I wondered how they were able to fly so close together and in unison or whatever. I loved being outside. It made me not want to return to the hospital. Like, ever.
“So what were you going to do if you didn’t have any money? Wait, do you just want me for my money? I mean, seriously. Fitzgerald Whitman IV, the consummate gold digger,” I said, trying out his full name. “But I guess a name like that presupposes gold digging to some degree.”
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted from you, Addie,” he said. “Nice sweaters and five-star trips to the islands.”
I saw these tents lined up with fishermen hawking the fish they’d wrapped up to sell in small bundles.
“Did you know that a turtle’s heart goes on beating for hours after it’s been butchered? Ask anyone down there. It’s true. My mom’s friend worked on the docks for forever, and he said he’s seen one bounce on those squat wood tables where they sell their tuna and whitefish and salmon, near where the water laps at the legs of the workers. The little heart just bumps and bumps for hours,” I said.
“We just ate fish, Addie. Please don’t tell me that stuff.”
I started blinking fast and thinking about those hearts. I placed my hand on my chest and felt the thud of that little muscle flexing behind my bones.
“Shut up!” Fitz yelled. “I don’t care, Toby. Leave me alone!”
Fitz spun in circles yelling “Leave me alone!” and it made me scared. Like, legitimately scared and not just concerned or nervous, for the first time ever.
Maybe I hadn’t worried about it in the hospital because there were orderlies and doctors who could help if something got out of hand. But Fitz yelling on the streets in the middle-of-nowhere-Washington was not making me feel comfortable. I was worried about him, especially because he hadn’t been taking his full medication doses for a couple of days—maybe longer.
“Maybe we should head back,” I said. “I mean, we saw the island and you were able to say goodbye to Quentin, right? That’s why you wanted to escape in the first place, yeah? I think it’s best if we head back and not make the doctors or our parents worry about us anymore.”
I bit my lip when I mentioned worried parents. I shouldn’t have said that, or at least not in that way.
“No, Addie, you were right. I need to confront her,” he said, walking with more determination.
We reached the stop just as the bus arrived. I hesitated to step aboard, but I knew that if Fitz was going to struggle, than somebody should be there who knew him and could possibly get through to him or whatever. Maybe Max would know how to handle it, though she wasn’t my favorite person after hearing about Fitz’s past.
Anyway, the bus ride to the southern part of Tacoma felt especially long because I kept my eyes on Fitz the whole time—between blinks, of course—and saw that he was sweating more than usual as the scenery outside passed by in little boxes of bus-window, the hair on the back of his neck curling in the wetness. He was balling up that bandana and turning it in his hands. I was amazed the fabric had lasted that long, to be honest.
“Why don’t we just get off at the hospital?” I said, trying one more time.
“We’re almost there,” he said, standing.
He’d stood up way too soon, which was kind of awkward. It’s like when people step to the elevator doors way before their floor, and because they’re uncomfortable in admitting their mistake, they just stand close to the doors without stepping back. It’s kind of funny to watch, really.
I stayed in my seat and waited seven more stops before we actually arrived.
When the bus’s hydraulic system hissed and the one side lowered, we stepped off into overgrown grass near a sidewalk buckling from the underground tree roots. I saw a row of cookie-cutter apartment buildings, each one as boring as the next, with gray, drab colors and sagging corners where rain gutters were torn or barely holding onto the siding.
Fitz grabbed my hand as we walked through an alleyway with trash blown and bunched into the corners of the buildings’ parking structures. After turning two corners and ducking beneath an oddly placed carport, we arrived at glass doors that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in years. The doors led into the artificially lit lobby of Seaside Pines. Super corny name. I know. Whatever.
Moving from natural light to artificial light made me sick because it felt so compact and condensed and grainy. Outside, dark clouds were rolling closer, starting to drip rain just as we stepped inside.
We called the elevator, and Fitz hit the button for the fourth floor. I stared at the doors and thought again about that big whale heart inching open for us, closing us in, moving us up.
We stood outside Max’s apartment, and Fitz banged on the door. “Max!” he yelled.
I thought about memory and how smells can bring this incredible sense of recall. Even from the hallway, Max’s apartment smelled awful, stale and sharp. A mix of rotting food, sour milk, cigarettes, sweat and mildew and wet dog. I covered my nose, and my eyes started watering.
In a softer tone, Fitz said, “Sorry, Addie. If she’s not here, she’ll be back soon.”
He knocked again, then tried the doorknob. It turned in his hand.
“Never locks the door,” Fitz muttered. “Who would want to steal from this place? It’s disgusting. Max!”
He led me into the apartment.
“Please excuse the filth,” Fitz said. “It always looks, and smells, like this.” He looked around the room. “Max!” he yelled.
I noticed that he rarely, if ever, said “Mom” or any variation—and particularly not then, not in the apartment. The intensity of the storm outside increased, the tapping on the rain gutters now audible.
There was a stack of newspapers between an old television and a sunken, orange corduroy chair. An ashtray filled with cigarette butts sat on the table. On the wall near the television, there was a small painting of the bird Fitz had mentioned, along with a bunch of pictures of Quentin. It was like a mosaic of Quentin in different places, different positions, but always the same, large smile. I didn’t see any pictures of Fitz.
Fitz took the bird picture off the wall and tucked it under his sweatshirt. “She won’t miss it,” he said, then, “Stop!”
Fitz shouted again, and before I could register his movements, he turned and his weight knocked me over the coffee table.
I hit my head against a stone pot holding an artificial agave plant. I started bleeding almost immediately. I touched the back of my head and felt the moisture, and my fingers came back red. My vision was blurry, but I hadn’t blacked out. I moaned in pain and rolled onto my side, attempting to stand.
My face was stuck in some old housekeeping magazine, and I felt a sharp pain shooting down the back of my head and spreading into my shoulders.
“Shut up, Lyle!” said Fitz.
He started throwing things.
“I’ll tell you why, Willy!” he yelled.
He knocked the television over, and I heard it shatter. He was wrestling something or someone but I couldn’t make out what was going on. I used the orange chair to pull myself to my feet.
I moved as quickly as I could to the front door, walking past a mess of a kitchen with plates and take-out cartons scattered everywhere. The cupboards were open, and cracks crisscrossed the walls—it was all more than I was able to think about in that moment.
He was at a full yell at that point, knocking a mirror onto the floor and turning over the coffee table. I paused at the door and tried to get a sense of the situation. Before I could get my eyes to believe what they were seeing or my mind to understanding what was going on, a glass cup came flying at me. I dodged it and heard it break against the door.
I closed the door and started crying as I hurried down the steps and ran to the curb and tried to get the attention of the drivers zipping by. I slipped in the grass, which was slick with rain that had started to pour in earnest. I rose to my feet, totally drenched.
And nobody would stop. I kept one hand pressed against my head and tried to look stable. I saw car after car blur past in a wave of lights, and I heard the swooshing sound of the rain as it slipped from the rapidly turning tires. Water sprayed the giant gutters collecting the swelling and coursing water.
My waving finally got the attention of a taxi driver.
“Please call the police!” I said. “Call the police!”
I felt so tired and dizzy. I shouldn’t have yelled because pain stabbed into my head when I raised my voice. I felt sick. My stomach hurt, and I felt like throwing up. I sat down on the curb, but I really wanted to lay down in the grass and take a nap. I was confused and hurt and angry, and I didn’t know what to do. My tears washed away in the rain, one and the same.
The driver took out his cell phone and dialed. Someone must have answered on the other end of the line, because after a minute, he turned to me and said, “What’s the problem?”
“Tell them two kids escaped the hospital psych ward, and one is injured and the other one is in that building right there and needs help,” I said, pointing to the small window where Fitz was likely still throwing things, breaking things, and shouting back at the voices shouting at him.
There had been something animalistic in his eyes when he shouted at me, something of anger and greed and hunger, and it scared me.
I hoped it wasn’t Fitz. I knew it wasn’t Fitz. He wasn’t that person. I didn’t know him as that person. The Fitz I knew would never intentionally hurt me. He wasn’t a violent person.
I don’t think the driver fully believed my story, but it didn’t matter because at least he was talking to the police for me. The driver stepped out of the car after putting on his hazards.
I tried to keep my eyes open in the haze of red, blinking lights. Then rested my head on my knees.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he said. “Do you need a ride to the hospital?”
“I think I should wait,” I said. “I think I’ll be fine.”
“The police are on their way. I can stay if you’d like,” he said.
“I’m okay,” I said.
He shrugged. “Are you sure? I’ll wait just to be sure.”
“No. It’s okay. Thank you,” I said.
He stood and reminded me the cops were on their way before getting back into his cab and driving away.
I sat on the curb debating whether I should return to the apartment or not. I was too close to the road to hear anything going on inside the apartment, but I was worried and exhausted and my limbs felt so heavy that, if I fell over, they might just pull me down through the concrete of the road and straight through to the center of the earth.
My head throbbed, but the blood seemed to be coagulating, which meant the cut wasn’t all that deep. The clouds were still dark, and thick drops of rain coated the ground and slipped from the leaves of the trees and sprayed from the road as more cars passed by with an endless humming sound.
After sitting for a few more minutes, I slowly made my way back to the stairs leading up to the apartment. I was afraid of Fitz hurting himself or someone else. I stood under an awning to gather my energy and my courage. I leaned against the wall and rested my head on my arm because the ground kept slipping beneath me in an odd slant and turn and blur.
In that moment, I heard the police sirens, and this jolt of adrenaline coursed through me. I could be in serious danger if I stepped into that room again. How well did I know Fitz off his meds? Like, not at all. Zero.
Had it really been an accident—the thing with Quentin? Yes. I believed it was, and I hated myself for even considering the alternative. But the idea had legs and it ran through my mind, sprinted through my thoughts. I hesitated before deciding it wasn’t worth chasing that thread.
A short, plump cop stepped from the cruiser and adjusted his cap and his gear as he crossed the wet grass. His partner left the car lights on and walked my way. I hated those bright, red-and-blue lights. The spinning made me sick.
They talked to me for a minute before the taller, stronger-looking cop said he would take a look upstairs. He radioed something in on his shoulder unit or whatever they call it and made his way up the concrete steps.
The plump cop led me to the car and turned me around and set me in the back seat. I tried to open the door for some air, but it was locked.
“For your own safety,” he said, climbing into the front seat.
“I’m not dangerous,” I said.
“I know. But they all say that, sweetheart,” said the cop, giving me a kind look. I think he was aware I posed no real threat, but I understood he had no way of knowing if I was lying or not. What an awful job that would be.
The spinning lights on the car’s roof reflected in the windows of the cars passing by. Traffic slowed as people stared at me, like maybe slowing down would allow them to witness some massive crime scene or something. So freaking ridiculous.
I sat and blinked like crazy, and at one point the officer asked what was wrong.
“Just my OCD,” I said.
He didn’t seem to understand.
“I’m just nervous for my friend,” I said.
I don’t think he’d noticed my head, or he would have called an ambulance. Maybe it really wasn’t bad or he would have spotted the blood. I was not with it, like, one hundred percent, but I was savvy enough to know when to keep my mouth shut.
I looked at the window and thought about Fitz and wondered why the other officer was taking so long. But then I saw the tall officer in his pressed uniform walking through the rain. The rain had fallen with more force and snarling persistence when I’d been ushered into the cruiser. It was totally dumping at that point, the water pooling in potholes and grassy divots. It was running straight off the rigid cap on the cop’s head.
“Nobody there,” said the tall cop as he slid into his seat behind the wheel, shaking the rain from his clothes and turning up the heat.
“Addie, was it?” said the plump one.
“What?” I was crying. I was worried. I was scared.
“Don’t be scared. We’ll find your friend. We need to know everything about him. And
right now.”
So I told them everything I could think of. I had to clear my throat, like, a million times so I could get to talking right. I tried not to leave any details out—height, weight, tie-dyed bandana, curly brown hair, eyes like gray stones with blue flecks, the gap in his front teeth, the broad shoulders, the synonym sweatshirt, and the way he walked, the way he smiled, the way he laughed.
Maybe it was too much information, because halfway through my description, the plump cop got back on the radio and the tall cop began driving around the block. They totally ignored me after that.
Nothing. No sign of Fitz.
And that’s how our great escape ended—at least for me. Mom was at the station waiting for me, her eyes red and puffy. I felt awful when I saw that.
That was when I realized what a big mistake I’d made. I’d hurt her with this small idea of a fun escape for a brief outing to help Fitz keep a promise. I stood by that promise, but I also had never done anything beyond my OCD rituals to make Mom cry. Not a thing. At least not that I was aware of. It was a paradox that was hard to process in a cramped police station at night.
It was also when I started to cry because I realized I had someone I could call Mom and mean it, and I wanted to keep her in my life, like, forever.
She hugged me and brushed my hair down my back and that’s when she noticed the cut. After she patched me up using the station’s first-aid kit, Mom sat with me in a room that had a cheap metal table and horrific metal chairs that were about as comfortable as sitting on a stack of granite boulders. Maybe less so.
Anyway, we sat in two of those chairs, and I told Mom the whole story, from my first conversation with Fitz about the breakout until the moment I walked into the police station. She kept sniffling and getting tissues and saying things under her breath like “Should have kept you at home.”
I had a real hard time telling her everything, still knowing that Fitz was lost out there. It made me feel sick. I felt like throwing up.
“So dangerous,” she said.
