Rush

by Jonathan Friesen

  “Are you there?” she screams, and I see her gray form dive straight down into the swirl.

  “No!” I stagger around the falls to the ledge. I drop onto the bank beneath, wade in, and scream. Her hair whooshes gently around my knees. I reach down, see the gash where her head struck rock, and press hard against it.

  “Help!” I stand and scream and stare at the limp girl in my arms.

  CHAPTER 32

  OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL ROOM, nurses laugh. Their lives are smooth and full of hope. They will hop on elevators, throw off pastel uniforms, and forget her. But I will stay in this room. I won’t move. I have nowhere else to go.

  I’ll sit here until she wakes.

  I have so much to tell her—but I need her to come back. Wherever Salome is, I need her back, and I promise she’ll always get the truth. Because now I can’t hold it in.

  Grim faces no longer scurry like rats, rush to every beep. She’s stable. Their machines keep her alive.

  They say Salome won’t wake up, that she can’t.

  But they don’t know her. Not like me.

  I stare at my brother’s face, cold and lifeless. There is nothing left of Scottie. My hands fold, and I count the freckles on floor tiles.

  I rise and walk to the bedside table, reach through the tangle of IV drips, and finger the book, the tattered book. It’s a Bible. Shouldn’t be hard to open, but it is. I flip through. The words are small and many, and I wouldn’t know where to start, though she’d want me to. I carry it to my seat and collapse.

  And listen. The low hum from the vent, pushing the air that inflates Salome’s lungs; the steady beep from a monitor near the bed; and a clock—a cheap wall clock. Its tick grows louder, pounds in my head.

  Again tears fall, like they do every hour. I can’t take this room, can’t take that clock.

  I stand and rip it off the wall, hurl it to the floor. Glass shatters. My brother doesn’t flinch. I plop into the chair, throw the Bible onto broken glass, and lift the clock. I set my pointer against the hour hand. I turn back time. Three hours. Seven.

  “What are you doing?” A nurse stands in the door. “You can’t—”

  One day, now another hour.

  “Can you hear me, Jake?”

  Two days, three days. Four. I stop. 1:00 A.M. I stare at the dead clock that jerks in rhythmic seconds against my finger. It tries to live. Four days ago, I did, too.

  I stare at the nurse, old and thick, through swollen eyes.

  “I did it all,” I whisper.

  “Things fall, accidents happen.” She tiptoes toward me, lays her hand on my shoulder. “We’ll get housekeeping.” The nurse turns to leave, stops when she sees the Bible. “This shouldn’t be on the floor.”

  She picks up the book, lays it on the nightstand.

  I listen to the machines, grind shards into the floor with my boot, slump down, and close my eyes.

  “Jake? Scottie?”

  We both jump to our feet. Mrs. Lee stands in the doorway.

  The nurse smiles. “I’ll see to this mess. Be careful, Carol. An accident happened over there.”

  “An accident is still standing over there,” Scottie mutters, does not look my way.

  Mrs. Lee walks between Scottie and me, straight toward her daughter, the one I did in. She strokes Salome’s hair, kisses her forehead, and whispers.

  “Hello, darling. I’m back. The Kings were kind enough to let me sleep a bit.” She winks at me, turns, and likely does the same toward Scottie. “They’re both such nice boys. You’re very fortunate.”

  Fortunate?

  I peek at Scottie. He cries again. I can’t take it. All the niceness. Yell or curse or shout, but don’t kill me with this niceness I don’t deserve.

  “I—I need to leave.”

  Neither turns their head. Mrs. Lee strokes. Scottie seethes.

  “Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow?”

  “Don’t bother.” Scottie’s jaw tightens, and muscles in his face twitch.

  Mrs. Lee straightens and smiles. “That would be nice.” She walks toward me, tiptoes through the glass. “You are so special to her. She needs you here.”

  I nod and bury my face in my hands. I feel a hand gently pull my fingers down. Mrs. Lee reaches into her purse and pulls out a small journal. Salome’s journal. I’d know it anywhere.

  “Here.” She presses it into my hand.

  I swallow hard. “Why give it to me?”

  Mrs. Lee smiles. “This one’s all about you. Cover to cover.”

  “Things have changed,” Scottie hisses, leans over Salome. He picks up a hand and kisses it.

  “Maybe.” Mrs. Lee’s gaze stays locked on me. “Time will tell. Come back tomorrow, Jake.”

  I squeeze Salome’s book and step out past the house-keeper in the doorway.

  I drive into Brockton. There is nothing left here for me. My solve-it-all plan ruined everything. I pass Dad’s place, the home he wanted me to visit. The bushes are overgrown; the lawn’s unmowed. A week of flyers stuff the mailbox. Dad’s dead. I killed him, too. I could have outed the Rush Club from the outside, he’d say. I should have listened to him, he’d say. I know what he’s doing—he sits on the couch, knowing his son destroyed his town.

  I glance back at the Lees’, quiet and sad. Wreaths lean against the door. There is no place for me to lay my head. The villa is closed pending investigation. My interviews after that black night, Salome’s photographs, and the sweet life I destroyed see to that. Firefighters, heroes in this world, hate me, too.

  Mox is suspended. To the town, an icon has fallen—chopped down too soon. It doesn’t know why; it feels no relief that other fighters are safe. All Brockton knows is that a Jake King stunt put Salome in the hospital.

  I drive up the mountain, to the only place I know I’m welcome. I sit among the junk with Salome’s journal.

  Hour after hour. I forget why I’m there there, remember, and forget again. I think about fifth grade and Mom’s salmon dinners and the journal I don’t dare open. I remember my first home run and Dad’s whoop, my last home run and his empty seat on the bleachers. Night falls, and I still sit.

  I lose strength, let my body fall. Alone, I cry.

  CHAPTER 33

  I WAKE, STAND UP IN the heat of morning, and hop on the dirt bike.

  I race laps around my jump, tire of the view, and turn into the trees. Away from Brockton. Up the mountain. I’ve never been here before. I ride hard and straight and can’t shake her sheet-white face from my mind.

  Soon thighs burn, the engine scalding me through denim.

  I break free into a clearing and throw down my bike. Sweat stings my eyes, and I swipe beads away with a soaked T-shirt. I squint forward. Trees stretch on forever.

  I owed Koss. Now I owe Salome.

  I turn around, stare back down. The wind blows hot, scorches my already hot cheeks.

  What would she want? What do I want?

  Jake, come back to me.

  I race down toward the salvage yard. Faster I fly. Trees blur by me.

  Slow down.

  The voice is small, but real. I ease on the throttle.

  Slower still.

  I reach my jump, rev the engine, and power up the takeoff ramp.

  Stop.

  I do.

  I look down over the twisted metal. Ahead, there is weightlessness and everything I’ve known.

  I glance at hands covered with Salome’s blood. And I think. All is still. My mind is at rest. All urges are gone—the monster’s grip doesn’t hold.

  I let the bike roll back down to solid earth.

  From here, I see clearly. I feel it all. I am free, free to stay with the one I love.

  I walk my dirt bike to the road, hoist it high, and strap it on top of the Beetle. Won’t need it up there anymore. I wind down to Dad’s.

  Once there, I stand on the step and pound. I’ve pounded for minutes. The man’s in there. I kick the door with my boot, and it slowly opens.

  Wha
t the—

  There is little left of the dad I grew up with, the man I spoke with days ago. Vacant eyes, slumped shoulders. He looks at me, I think. It’s hard to tell if he sees.

  “Do you mind if I drop off my bike? It needs work. I thought maybe I could spend time in your garage and—”

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he whispers.

  It’s the one response I’m not ready for, and I run hands through my hair and nod. Dad turns, leaves the door open behind him, and vanishes. I unstrap the dirt bike and follow close behind.

  I walk into the dining room and stop. The house is a dump. But there’s no junk. Old trunks full of Mom’s pictures and letters, report cards of mine and Scottie’s. His old blankie, my stuffed animals.

  “I was just . . . going through some things. Your mom’s. Both of you boys’.”

  I walk around, pick up pictures of Scottie and me. Our family and the Lees. Salome and me holding hands when we were three.

  I hold it up. “Can I keep—”

  Dad smiles. “Yeah.”

  I nod. “I just stopped in to say I know I made a mess of things. That accident was totally my fault. I can’t blame it anyone else. I thought it through. I mean, Salome agreed to it.” I blink. “No. She agreed to me.”

  He inhales slow. “I want you home. Both of you boys. It’s the right place, you know.”

  “It’s probably not going to happen. Scottie isn’t talking to me, unless it’s under his breath. But the offer is great.”

  Dad nods. “How about you, then? I don’t know where you’ve been these days since the accident, but I’d sure love to have you around.” He pauses, forces a smile. “I don’t know that I can shut Brockton up. I can’t fire everybody.” He smirks. “This town can be brutal. But if anyone can take it, I figure it’s you.”

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “I’ll stay. Least for now.” I walk to the window. Outside it’s calm, but dark. Too dark for daytime. “What’s the word out there?”

  “That you hurt Salome to get back at Scottie. That asshole Mox spread that one right up until his suspension, right up until he disappeared.” He shakes his head.

  “And the guys? Where’d they all end up?”

  “Most Brockton bucks are staying with their parents, and a bunch of folk are putting up the out-of-towners, just until the investigation’s over and things get back to normal.” He joins me at the window. We rub shoulders and stare at nothing, at least I don’t.

  “So this club. Everything Scottie tried to tell me was true?”

  “Everything Scottie said was true.” I open the window, sniff, and look at Dad.

  “The Grasston blaze. If we had wind, she’d be on our doorstep. They’ll knock it down. It’s eighty percent contained. You haven’t been following it?”

  “Time does funny things sitting in a hospital room. I’m heading back there.” I hold up the yellowed photo. “Thanks for the picture.” I shuffle toward the door.

  “Say hello to Carol and Jacob for me,” Dad says.

  If Scottie lets me.

  CHAPTER 34

  CLOUDS ROLL IN. NO RAIN.

  I know I should get to the hospital, but I plunk onto the steps in my house and turn the journal over in my hands. Maybe I am the star of the show, but Salome never offered me a peek; in fact, she slammed it shut more times than I remember. I’m more frightened than eager to read it. I know how each entry will sound to my ears.

  What were you thinking, idiot? Say how you feel.

  I stand and press the journal against my nose. Her scent is gone, there is only the pine-tinged sweetness of smoke. Inside, I start to tingle.

  I walk out to my car as the Lees’ garage door rises. Crap.

  “Jake?”

  No way can I look him in the eyes. I slip my hands and the journal behind my back, then kick the ground. “Mr. Lee.”

  He jogs over and gives me a hug I don’t know what to do with. “Heading to see Salome?”

  I nod. He must catch a view of the journal, and he pulls my arm in front of me. We both look at her words in my hands.

  “She loves to write.”

  “Always,” I say.

  Mr. Lee looks up, closes his eyes, and groans. It’s a frustrated groan.

  “Got room for me?” he asks.

  No. I have absolutely no room for you.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  He closes his garage door, rejoins me by my car. “I’m glad we get some time alone.”

  I risk a peek at his face. His wrinkles are deeper, but they hold no rage. They still mark him only when he smiles. But those eyes, they sear with something new. Determination, I guess. They’ve always been tough to look at—now it’s darn near impossible.

  A hot gust carries the smell of a burn, and light flakes whisk between us. We both look up.

  “Can you see that?” he says. “It’s getting closer.”

  “There’s not enough wind. Tonight, I bet the clouds will open up.” I force a smile. The smell ignites dry tinder inside me, and my body grows tense.

  “The radio is talking possible evacuation.” He hops in the car. “They’ve already lost twelve homes in Grasston.”

  “That’s a ways off. Clearing Brockton would be paranoia.”

  We pull out. Mr. Lee sets his hand on the journal that rests between us.

  “Have you had a chance to read this yet, Jake?”

  I wonder what to say, what to hold. “No,” I lie. “I mean, I can’t . . . open it.” My leg bounces against the Volkswagen wheel. “More paranoia.”

  In the distance, a siren sounds. The wicked one. Firefighters up. Brockton’s crews get ready for dispatch, wherever you are. Men, women, the feds need all hands on this blaze.

  But inside me, all is quiet; I’m drawn to a different emergency.

  The hospital in Chisel Falls is half an hour from Grasston—not far enough. I peek at Mr. Lee. He nods.

  “Floor it.”

  AT THE HOSPITAL, ORDERLIES and nurses talk quick and quiet and flash nervous smiles. They don’t fool a soul. It’s California. It’s the season, and even these vented halls fill with the scent I know so well.

  Scottie is still there. He reads a book to Salome. I think he’ll make a mighty good husband, to somebody else.

  “Hey, Scottie,” I say.

  “Mr. Lee.” Scottie rises, goes and pats Jacob on the back.

  I walk toward the bed, lean over, and whisper to Salome. “If you come over again, I promise I’ll beat him to the door.”

  “Guys.”

  I know the voice, and my gut twists. The voice isn’t here; it can’t be. I slowly peek over my shoulder, straighten, and face it.

  Scottie grabs a chair to steady himself. His knuckles redden, then whiten, then stretch and fist, and soon Salome won’t be the only one lying down. Mox shifts his weight and fiddles with the hat in front of him.

  He can’t be here. There’s no way.

  “We’ve been called. Everybody’s been recalled. Active, suspended. It’s comin’ this way via Brockton. There are high winds and hot spots all around us, and they’re throwing the world at it.”

  Scottie rushes at him, grabs him by the jacket, and pins him against the door frame. Mox is limp, a rag doll. “See her? Do you see what you did?” He rears back.

  Mr. Lee grabs his arm. “Let him go.”

  “He took Kyle and Drew. He took Salome. Don’t you know who this is?”

  Mr. Lee gentles Scottie away from Mox, turns, and stands in front of Mox’s expressionless face. “Salome is my daughter. Do you bear any responsibility for her lying here?”

  Mox shifts. “Yeah, I do.”

  Mr. Lee nods. “You’re an honest man.”

  “No.” Mox swallows. “I’m not.”

  Mr. Lee’s gaze has him pegged.

  “Do you know what it’s like to see your daughter day after day, but not hear her voice. Not hear her say, ‘I love you’?”

  Mox looks down, his rasp barely a whisper. “No.” Mox has disappeared,
and this is the shell of a man I haven’t met.

  “You could lose your daughter if we can’t stop this fire.” Mox’s eyes plead. Mr. Lee turns, and his gaze falls on Salome. He moves slowly toward her, bends over, and rests his forehead on hers. His words come barely audible.

  “I know you hear all this. Don’t worry, Jake won’t let it near you.”

  I clear my throat, and Mr. Lee gazes up at me, before straightening, his voice clear and strong.

  “Boys, bury it.”

  MOX, SCOTTIE, AND I SPEED toward Brockton. The air hangs hot and heavy and unnatural, and a series of charcoal plumes crested with orange rise from the horizon.

  In the Jeep, sandwiched between two men who likely hate me, makes for a quiet ride.

  We meet Fatty near the villa, gear up, and buddy-check en route to the airport and our waiting copter. Troy’s already been dispatched, but along with Fez, we’re five strong with three packs in tow.

  Scottie’s gaze fixes on me. He trained to rappel, but he’s never done it live. He looks scared and angry, and I don’t know how to help him—speak up or shut up. So I give him a tight-lipped nod. He can do this. For her, he can do it.

  We reach the port and leap out. Fatty and Fez stare at Mox. The blaze in his eyes—the crazy look that pumps us up and tells us it’s showtime—is gone. His feet drag over the tarmac, barely carrying him toward the sound of rotors.

  He’s always the IC, always in charge. But not now.

  “I’m taking IC.” I shove Mox into the copter. “Any problems with that?”

  Silence.

  Mox reaches me the radio. “It’s your show, kid.”

  I grab it, glance around the copter at nervous eyes. “Dispatch, Helicopter Five Hotel X-ray.”

  The gravelly voice fights through the noise. “Incident number four-four-three in Township Sixty-seven North. Landmark Carver’s Gorge.”

  “Five Hotel X-ray is off the ground with five souls on board and showing ten minutes out.”

  There is silence. More gravel from the radio, then Lorna from dispatch’s voice resounds.

  “Who is this? Mox?”

  “Negative. Jake.”