Chasing Impossible

by Katie McGarry

  “There’s more to Abby than what you’re saying.”

  “I hope there is.”

  I wait for more of Isaiah’s wisdom, his arguments, but it’s what he’s left unsaid that’s the most damning. Hope—it’s what Rachel and I all have for Abby, but hope doesn’t make Abby’s choices less real.

  A knock on the door and Noah pops his head in. “West got someone to talk. Abby made it out of surgery. Bullet went straight through. Huge blood loss, but they gave her some to replace it. Concussion is why she was passed out. Stitched up the gash. They’ll run more tests later. She’s in recovery and barring shit that comes up in the meantime, she’ll be fine.”

  Fine. For some reason, that word creates a hot rage through my blood. Fine. Abby’s always fine. I don’t want her to be fine, I want her to wake up. I want her to have left with me earlier tonight. I want her to change.

  Noah eyes me like I’m something someone vomited. “Why don’t you head home, shower, change, and get some sleep, bro?” Noah says. “We’ll call if anything changes.”

  It’s two in the morning and I’ve got that appointment with my parents at ten. My father’s too used to my brushes with death to let this appointment slide. “Is she safe here?”

  “Noah, West, and I will watch over her,” Isaiah says. “We’ll protect her while she’s weak and can’t defend herself. Noah’s right—you look dead, man. Get some rest and think about what I said and then if you want, you can take a shift watching over Abby later.”

  Our eyes meet and he’s telling me to reconsider my friendship with Abby. My gut and head are too twisted up. She’s a drug dealer. She was shot. I could have died in the process. But I’m exhausted. It’s the reason I can’t think.

  I offer my hand to Isaiah and he accepts it with a quick pat to my back. “You need one of us to drive you home? Noah will take you, I’ll stay, and West will follow to bring Noah back.”

  I shake my head. Last thing I need is any of them near my truck. My black bag of diabetes supplies was emptied onto the front seat. I don’t need their sympathy or having them believe I’m weak.

  “Call if anything changes,” I say, they agree, and I begin the long walk down the hallway to the exit.

  Abby

  It’s quiet yet not. A low hum of conversation and I feel like I’m floating. I like floating. I turn my head and it’s heavy and the rest of my body is still asleep.

  “...so then, let us not be like others, who are asleep, but let us be alert and self-controlled. For those who sleep, sleep at night, and those who get drunk, get drunk at night...”

  “Are you exorcising the demons from my soul?” My voice comes out cracked, groggy and I flinch with how raw my throat is.

  “That’s the third time you’ve asked that question.” Too many years of drinking and too many years of smoking has damaged his throat. He used to have a smooth tone that I would sit by his feet and listen to, but that, like so many other things in my life, is in the past.

  My eyelids flutter open and a weathered man sits by my bedside. He wears a Marine Corps baseball cap and the Bible is in his hands. I squint as I try to understand where I’m at and why. Something happened. Something I should remember...

  “You were shot, Abby.”

  A throb in my brain. Damn. Just damn. “Bet that wasn’t the first time you told me that.”

  He closes the yellowed-paged book. “It’s not. You wake up. Go back to sleep. Over and over again. You look seventeen in your sleep.”

  “And not like a monster,” I finish for him. Too many fights between us have caused me to memorize the ending. “Did you claim me or will the good people of child protective services be here to sweep me up into their beams of rainbows?”

  My great-uncle Mac bows his head like he’s in prayer. He probably is. When he’s not sipping on whiskey, pretending to be drunk, really drunk, fixing cars or missing his wife, he prays for me. Mac’s one of the real people—both good and bad, both the villain and the hero.

  It must be genetic.

  “I claimed you,” he said.

  My eyes drift closed as I breathe out in relief. He may not agree with my method, but he appreciates the results of my life. “Thank you.”

  “If I could exorcise the demon from your soul, I would,” he says as I begin to fade back into the comforting darkness.

  “If you could exorcise my demons, I’d willingly tie myself to the cross.” I lick my dry lips and an important memory surfaces. “I had to tell someone.”

  Mac sighs deeply. “Someone you trust?”

  “More than Isaiah.”

  “You could have told me.”

  “Can’t. Got to protect you. Got to protect her. They have to think we hate each other.”

  He gruffly chuckles. “We do hate each other.”

  My mouth twitches up. “See, the plan worked.” And the brief humor dies. “I’m sorry, but it’s not safe. You being here isn’t safe.”

  “I’m safe enough. Go to sleep, Abigail, and let me finish Thessalonians.”

  I snuggle the best I can under the thin blanket. “Tell them I want Jell-O. The red kind and tell Isaiah I want a bunny. Big and fluffy and with huge ears.”

  “The type you had when you were five?” There’s a quiet laughter in his voice.

  That’s exactly the bunny I want and I also want my dad and my old life back.

  Logan

  “Why did you drive all the way back to Bullitt County?” Mom’s voice is high enough in pitch my ears ring and my eyes snap open. “You should have slept over at my place.”

  Mom plops down on my bed and messes with my hair. “You should have called me. I would have been with you at the hospital. You shouldn’t have been alone.”

  Damn. She knows about Abby. I rub the sleep out of my eyes before checking out the clock. It’s eleven in the morning and I’m rolling out of bed. Shit. I overslept. Dad’s going to be a powder keg. “The appointment.” The specialist about my diabetes.

  “I rescheduled it.” Dad has a hip cocked in my doorway looking as dead as I feel. He’s in a pair of sweatpants and a white undershirt. Appears I’m not the only one Mom bulldozed out of a deep sleep.

  Dizziness disorients me. With Mom in my room, even with her words, I thought I was in her apartment in Louisville. A quick scan confirms I’m at Dad’s. A stack of award medals grouped together near trophies on the floor. My dresser. My mirror. My bed stand. Dirty clothes in piles mixed with piles of clean ones. Not much else.

  Mom decorates for me at her place because I refuse to do it for myself. My current room in her apartment has wind chimes. Damned if I know why.

  I set my feet on the floor and scratch my bare chest before picking up my cell. Two new messages. One from Noah. The other from Isaiah. Both saying the same thing. Abby’s out of Recovery and sleeping on and off, but when she wakes she is in pain.

  Pain.

  I don’t like Abby in pain.

  “You okay, Logan?” Mom asks.

  No, I’m not. Where Dad can smell blood sugar issues, Mom can sense emotion and I’m not in the mood for her to pick at my internal wounds. “Mind giving me a few minutes?”

  “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked if that’s what you’re concerned about. I did breast-feed you.”

  The wince was internal and external. Not sure what either of those has to do with the other, but I stopped trying to figure out Mom’s mind years ago. Plus, I’m not naked. I’ve got boxers on, yet I glance up at Dad, begging him to get her out of here.

  Dad shrugs an I’m-sorry and I shrug an I-get-it.

  “Let’s give him some room, Kayleigh.”

  The bed shakes as Mom stands and she positions herself in front of me, tipping my chin up with her hand. She has brown eyes, crazy curly blond hair, a cry
stal around her neck, a cotton dress with flowers on it and she wears midforties well. Better than most. What creates an ache is that Mom’s not her constant beam of sunshine and I hate that I scared her. It’s not an emotion she knows how to handle.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I need to test.” And this part of my life makes her uncomfortable.

  Mom’s somber eyes drink me in and she lets go of my chin to mess with my hair again, combing the ends away from my eyes. “You should have called me.”

  “Kayleigh,” Dad pushes.

  Mom sighs heavily and marches out the door. “I brought groceries and I’m making breakfast for both of you.”

  “In case you didn’t know, the divorce went through. Eleven years ago,” Dad calls out. “You don’t have to poison me.”

  “You’re still my first soul mate.” Mom laughs from the kitchen. “Cooking means love and I still love the two of you. In fact, you two are my favorites.”

  Dad shakes his head. “I didn’t marry your mom for her cooking. She sucks at it.”

  “No shit.” I open my drawer, rooting around for what I need. Mom’s vegan, which means Dad and I are about to starve.

  “Heard that, and Logan, he married me for my body.”

  Dad looks close to cracking a smile and after holding Abby last night as she bled, their familiar banter feels like someone administering CPR to a worn-out heart.

  “I’ll make you something to eat. What do you want?” Dad asks.

  I wipe my finger down with an alcohol pad. “That’ll hurt her feelings and why did you tell her about last night? I would have gotten around to it.”

  “More concerned with you eating than her feelings and I had to call and tell her I rescheduled the appointment.”

  After I came home, I stood in a hot shower until the water turned cold then flipped through channels until Dad walked in after seven from work. I told him everything, leaving out Abby’s a drug dealer, and I saw who shot her. For now, choosing to stick to the story I told the police.

  Could have kept the whole thing a secret, but I’m not one of those people who keep things from their parents, especially my dad. Won’t make what happened less true. Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Doesn’t mean it won’t happen again.

  He listened, didn’t ask a single question, and when I was done he hugged me and told me to go to bed.

  “She knew something was off the moment I spoke,” Dad continues.

  I nod as I prick my finger then smear the blood on the testing strip. Mom and Dad may be divorced, but they did love each other once. Marriage wasn’t Mom’s style and Dad’s not into sharing.

  A number pops up. Fuck.

  “How bad?” Dad asks.

  “240.” That’s high. Too high. I briefly check out Dad’s reaction and it’s a mixture of red-faced concern and flat-out panic.

  He returns to quiet and so do I. Mom hums in the kitchen.

  Stress can make my blood glucose levels high.

  I have the insulin pen out, cleaned off, and I’m screwing the top on.

  My routine’s messed up as well. I should have already tested a few times, given myself insulin, eaten breakfast, worked out, and should be moving on to lunch.

  I stand, pinch my abdomen, and inject the needle.

  “Are you two coming?” Mom calls.

  “He’s at 240,” Dad answers.

  And Mom joins us in the silence. We’ve crossed her limitations of what she can handle. Fluctuating glucose levels and shots aren’t abnormal. I give myself three to four shots a day easily and I’ve been dealing with needles since I was six, but Mom gets squeamish with the needles and the ever-changing levels, and in the end, she gets scared.

  “I’ll test again after I eat,” I offer as a reassurance to Dad. “Then go for a run.”

  “I’m making you eggs,” Dad says. “Eat what your mom makes, but you need the protein.”

  Dad leaves and I focus on getting dressed.

  * * *

  My breakfast plate is half filled with eggs and toast, the other half filled with fruit and a small helping of something Mom made. She said what it was, but I wasn’t paying attention. Whatever it is Mom likes it and Dad doesn’t. I haven’t tried it yet. Reminds me of vomit.

  I fork more eggs into my mouth and Mom drinks some orange juice. She’s digesting the bare-bones version of what I told Dad earlier. This time I made it through without my voice breaking and my insides only feel like it’s suffering from third-degree burns instead of a being incinerated by a full-on inferno.

  Like my room and the rest of the house, the kitchen wall is bare and has the original eggshell white as when we moved in. Dad bought this three-bedroom house outright a few months after he and Mom divorced. Has some land, but not enough to farm, but we’re secluded, which means no neighbors. It’s quiet and uncomplicated. A lot like Dad.

  “Are you still planning on helping Ryan and Chris bale hay this summer?” Dad switches up the subject and I nod. It’s good money and a good time. Only loose end at the moment with this plan is Abby.

  “Is Abby your girlfriend?” Mom asks, and Dad glances at me, curious for the answer. I’ve never had a serious girl. That would imply I do serious.

  I focus on my plate and shake my head. I don’t know what Abby and I are. Fucked up is the best answer. My eyes fall to my cell. West is on duty. He knows I’m awake and told me there were no new updates other than the ones Isaiah and Noah sent earlier.

  “I tried out for a band last night,” I say. “It’s why I was there.”

  Mom’s head pops up and Dad’s eyes bore into me. Probably not the right time to bring this up, but it’s not like this conversation will go well regardless.

  “That’s cool,” Mom says. “I like bands.”

  Dad scoots back from the table, his chair squeaking against the linoleum. The dark half-moons under his eyes a testament to his lack of sleep. “Sounds like a lot of time.”

  “No more than baseball.”

  “Late nights,” Dad pushes. “I understand those. It means you’re dead during the day.”

  He and I stare at each other, and he says what I already know is on his mind. “What about the summer institutes through school?”

  Dad’s referring to the hours of prison. My teachers assume because some shit comes easy to me, I should find learning fun. Screw that. My fingers twitch and the need for crazy grows in my veins. To bust out the door, turn off my mind, and find something to throw myself into until all the planning falls away.

  “What’s the deal, Logan?” Dad asks.

  “The band is thinking of getting rid of their guitarist and, if they want me, I’ll fill in.”

  “Aren’t you too young for a band?”

  I’m eighteen, not twenty-one, and they play bars. “I can play onstage, but I can’t hang in the bar. When we take breaks I’ll have to wait outside.”

  “Alone?”

  “I can take care of myself.” A convulsion in my chest as I think of how Abby often said the same words yet she still bled when she was shot, proving she’s human.

  “You’ll be playing in bars? That’s sort of fancy and fun. I’ll come watch. Maybe your dad will, too.” She pokes Dad in the shoulder, her attempt at killing the negative mood. “Did you ever tell your son we met at a bar and that we had nicknames for each other and that you once smoked pot with me?”

  “You smoked pot?” The question rips out of my mouth so fast Mom giggles.

  “Once,” she says. “Your father struggles with fun.”

  Dad won’t take cough syrup, much less get high. He’s one of those blue-collar, maximum-hours-at-near-minimum-wage guys. Worked third or swing shift on the line his entire life. Drinks an occasional beer, never buys new, fixes what breaks, watches football on Sunday. He’s stu
rdy. Responsible. Unchangeable.

  Dad sets his why-did-I-marry-your-mother glare on me. “Don’t even think it.”

  I throw my hands up in defeat. Drinking, drugs—off the list. I can’t control my glucose with eating green vegetables. My rushes have to be the nonchemical kind. I’m crazy, but not suicidal.

  Mom tsks. “Let him be young. We were young once.”

  “And stupid.” Dad shoots Mom that look where it’s obvious he’s trying to remember why he fell for her. I’ve seen pictures. Mom was pretty—still is—and when she moved into Groveton, Dad was swept away by the shiny new girl. “Logan doesn’t need any more stupid.”

  “We’ll, I’m fine with Logan doing and trying whatever he wants,” Mom says. “Pot, the band, baseball, a new school, a new girl. He should be free to experiment.”

  Her answer for everything. She doesn’t believe in boundaries or rules or the American Academy of Pediatrics. There’s a good reason why I’ve lived mainly with Dad.

  Dad stands and tosses his dishes, food and all, into the sink. The dish and fork clank against the metal. “What’s the plan, Logan?”

  “It’ll be a couple of nights a week, but they mostly play locally. There will be some travel. Places two, three hours away.” I pause, knowing that this will be Dad’s deal breaker. “They’re playing a few days in Florida toward the end of summer.”

  “And then what?” Dad stays near the sink.

  I’m drawing blanks. “What?”

  “Then what? What call am I getting next? That you were in a bar fight? That your head was split open by some drunk bastard? That next time you’re the one that was shot?”

  “Logan’s a free spirit,” Mom interjects. “If you try to shut him into a small pen, he’ll only grow restless and hurt himself trying to break free.”

  “He hurts himself anyhow. What he does is crazy.”

  “It’s not crazy. It’s Logan figuring out who he is.” Mom offers Dad a patronizing smile and I shove my plate of half-eaten food away. This is why I keep my mouth shut around people.

  “Detentions in school for pranks.”

  “He was having fun.”