by R. J. Rogue
"If you plan on apologizing to Essence, Evan, I think you should really hurry like right now right now," he says looking down the hallway.
"What you mean?" I ask not following.
"Essence LaRoux has left the building!" He says in an announcer tone.
"What?"
I turn to the exit doors and see her walking out with her belongings. Without hesitation I start for the exit doors zig zagging through people. I toss and turn through the constant rush then push the doors open. I run down the steps and I look around. She's gone and that only meant the worst has happened. My apology would have to wait until tomorrow, far from today.
My bike is not far from where I stand. I unlock it and shake it at the thought of a missed opportunity. I exhale the tension, pull my bike from the cage, and start to make my way home. As I pass the sea of people, Cedric is nearby. He watches with a maniacal grin until I am off campus.
The bike ride home is long. I'm not thinking about Utica and its beauty. I'm not thinking about the Mohawk River Valley, its trees, nor its smell of fresh mint and pine that blows across my face as I pedal. All I can think about is what happened in school and Essence. What does she think of me? That I'm some weird, paint eating creep? Clearly I have been correct all along. I really do have nothing to offer her.
When I get home, the car is in the driveway. I put my bike in the garage and go into the house. To my surprise, my mother isn't resting in bed from driving all day. Instead, she is still in her work clothes moving about the house.
"Hey, sweetie," she kisses my cheek.
"Hey, mom," I reply and meet her in the kitchen. I take a seat at the island, place my bag on top, and exhale.
"How was school today?" She asks as she studies me. "What's wrong?” "I just had a rough day."
"Well, did you get a chance to write down the dream? You've had it so many times already, Evan I think --"
"YES, I wrote down the dream, mom, and I'm really not trying to think about that right now."
"I think you should."
"Well I don't."
"I'm just saying--" she raises her hands in defense.
"Stop! Just stop! You can really be inconsiderate sometimes. You don't know what I've been through today."
"Then talk to me."
"No. How about I just go write about it in my notebook?"
I rise from the stool and my legs give. I barely catch myself before my face smacks the floor.
"Evan!" She hurries over.
I struggle to prop myself against the island. My ears begin to ring again and I cup my hands to my ears to block the noise. It doesn't work. I then see flashes of red around me. Blood. I shut my eyes tight and feel my mother's hands firmly grasp my wrists pulling me. I fight back keeping my eyes closed and my hands to my head.
"Evan! Evan!" she yells.
I stop fighting and open my eyes slowly. I catch my breath and she brings me to her chest wrapping her
arms round me. It just keeps happening. My mother holds me out in front of her.
"Are you alright, Evan? You scared me half to death."
I nod. "I--I'll be okay. Really."
I look up to her face and can tell she knows I am unsure.
"Mom don't look at me like that." I look away.
"Like what Evan? Like what?" She starts to get upset with crack and cry in her voice.
"I'm scared for you."
"Are you sure not of me?“
I watch as a tear sits upon her eyelash.
"You pushed me away earlier," I mumble.
"Evan, what are you talking about?"
"I tell you to accept me for who I am and I had to practically call out your name to get you to answer."
"Evan, you know I accept you for who you are. Of all people I accept you," she says cupping her hands on her heart.
"I'm just worried about you," she says. "You're...changing."
"You don't have anything to worry about. I promise. I'm okay."
"You can't tell a mother not to worry about her child," she says shaking her head.
I sit quiet. Even I am unsure about what I just said. I can hope this will pass over with time. I refuse to see a doctor. I hate being examined. Makes me feel like some experiment.
"I'm sorry. I love you," I say and hug her tight.
"I love you too," she says hugging back. She places her hands on my shoulders and holds me in front of her. Then cups my face with her hands. Her scar creases within her smile.
"You're growing up. I can understand that," she nods.
She wipes her tears and finds a smile over her blushed face and looks into my eyes as though she had an epiphany. Her face is frozen again like this morning.
"I knew the day would come."
We sit quiet for a moment before she begins to stand.
"Well, I have to go, " she says returning back to earth, "But I'll be right back. I have to make a stop by the cliffs in the Valley. They've been sending me all over the place lately. We need more drivers. Maybe you can work."
"No thanks, mom," I smile and stand. "I'll pass."
"Okay," she laughs and caresses my cheek. "I'll be back." She brings my forehead to her lips and kisses before she leaves.
Today has become one of many days that I would go into the rainforest and meditate over the many things haunting me: my nightmares, the altercation with Cedric, the bad impression left on Essence, arguing with my mother, and these on and off periods of mental breakdowns. As much as I disagree with my mom at times, she may be right about something. I am changing. But not changing how I would imagine puberty to be. This is something different. It feels like there's something inside of me that won't let me be me. I don't like it.
I grab my backpack from the island. I run up to my room, kick off my shoes, and step into my running sneakers. When I go into the bathroom, I feel like cringing thinking about earlier at school. I throw water on my face. Do I dare take a look into the mirror? My curiosity wins and I take a glance. I sigh of relief. I am okay.
I head back downstairs and open the back door. I look out to the rainforest of the Mohawk River Valley and
step outside. The gray sky rumbles of thunder, and I can smell rain in the air. Right on time.
Chapter Five: The Visitor
What we long for most is the most difficult to attain. Whether it's stability, passion, love, or for me, understanding. How do we cope when the road is fogged? Where do we go? I know what it is like to be hungry for these things. Writing has become my saving grace. My way to keep myself stable, my passion, my love, and my cry for understanding. Nature too helps me cope. It acknowledges its past of once being nothing, and accepts the mystery of its future. How I wish to learn the secret of acceptance.
I walk through the rainforest attracted to the moss covered trees, bushy shrubs, and ground-bound rocks. The trees stand tall in the sky, their shadows hugging me below, and their large branches of arms, grip vast green leaves on its fingers. It makes a great umbrella when rain is heavy.
I follow the trails that are familiar to me, gripping the straps of my backpack with my hands. Dark brown aisles of ground, curves and dips throughout the rainforest as I step into its damp mixture. The roars of thunder in the clouds are music to my ears and the wind whispers between the torsos of the trees. Out here, the air is thick with pine and mint and the relaxation that I have longed for since my day had begun, welcomes me.
I have become quite familiar with the Mohawk River Valley. At least in parts that are fairly close to home. Not often would I make discovery and explore new routes, but I can't say I'm not interested. I go to the same place every time. A place where I can focus on myself and reflect. It's a great feeling knowing that you can go to that one place and no matter what emotions are attacking you, you're given an extra defense that I call a smile. Today, I didn't have many of those. The odds were against me.
I push aside a few shrubs and step out of the crowded green to meet my counselor. And there it stands. In the middle of an
open, grassy meadow with beds of yellow and white flowers at its feet. My tree, which is wider than the rest. Bigger than the rest. More dominant in its stance. Its branches thick and humble. Broad shoulders in which I can stand and walk without cautioning for balance.
"I'm here," I say placing a hand on its wooden body.
I adjust my backpack more securely on my back and begin to climb up the wooden planks. Branch by branch, plank by plank, I climb to the torso and walk along the arm. I remove my backpack from my back, and sit with my legs crossed for meditation. I close my eyes and with one deep breath, the negative energy leaves.
"Things may not be where I want them to be or how I want them to be, but I am content," I say in a low whisper.
I repeat these words to myself over and over and focus on breathing until my head is clear and free from tension. I slowly begin to open myself to the world again, starting with nature. I listen to the small drops of rain smack onto the leaves, smell the moist air, and continue to sit silent and still, reconnecting and aligning peace within myself. I open my eyes, breathe, and now ready to write something in my notebook different from all the nightmares:
To Whom My Heart Beats for,
Essence LaRoux. What a perfect name and character for a love story or fairy tale, but she is all too real. Too great of an existence to recognize mine. Calling her perfect, beautiful, or a goddess, seems more like an insult than a compliment to match her every trait. None of those do her justice. The best adjectives of the English language wouldn't leave a dent in her crowd of perfections. The best love poem couldn't impress her heart with adequate iambic pentameter of emotion. The best man, Romeo himself, has no chance of holding her hand in holy matrimony.
…If so, I would have killed him myself. Poison from a cup would have been mercy.
I've come to the conclusion that becoming her friend alone would be quite a task, especially now for what I've done. It hurts me. It weakens me. Not knowing how she feels about me. Not knowing how she feels about anything. Not knowing her favorite color, food, or hobby. Not knowing if she eats her eggs scrambled or sunny side up. Not knowing if she drinks her coffee black or with two creams and two sugars. Not knowing if she drinks coffee at all. A bit extreme? No.
The smallest things to know about a person may not concern many, but it concerns me. We should care for the small things about a person because it means you are paying attention. Giving caution to what others overlook is what makes you stand out. But...I have yet to stand out to her. And it's not that I want to know all these things. I HAVE to know. I want to be a part her life in any way possible. If she decides, after my planned apology, to never speak to me again, it'd be my funeral.
No one likes being left, ignored, nor forgotten...especially by a girl such as Essence LaRoux.
With Love,
Evan Macrae
I sit staring at those last few words. I hope she speaks to me again. I hope she doesn't think it'd be best we remain strangers to one another. The rain quickens and thunder roars much louder than earlier. I begin to pack my notebook into my book bag, then hear a twig snap followed by a rush of air. I look below, but no one's there.
"Hello?" I call out. No response.
I finish packing and sling my book bag over my back and the sound returns, but is in the trees making me flinch.
"Hello?" I call out again looking around the rainforest. Nothing.
I stand to my feet and the huge gust of wind hits my tree and knocks me off balance. I try to grab hold of something to break my fall, but I fail. I fall down the tree from trunk to branch trying to stop myself. When I reach one of the planks, I hang on with my hands, but my fingers begin to slip. I have to hold on, I tell myself. My feet kick one of the planks from beneath me, and I cling onto the plank above with one hand like in my dream. I try to stop the momentum from swinging me away, but it is too strong. No, no, no! My fingers leave the plank and I fall to the ground. When I connect, I hear a snap and pop.
"Aahhh!"
I curl into ball holding my wrist to my stomach in agony. My fingers on my right hand immediately go numb, my wrist, the origin of the damage. My cheeks fill and exhale air as I try to take the pain, but it's excruciating. It's broken. There's that sound again, much closer, practically next to me. Get up! Get up! Run! I tell myself.
I get up carefully and begin to jog wincing from every ounce of pain with each step I take. The noise follows closely, but I do not look back. It is then above me and leaves fall from the trees. The rain makes it difficult to run. The soil is like quicksand and my clothes feel much heavier. I then stop running and look around frantically keeping my wrist close to my body. I can't think straight and everything looks different and new. I am lost.
Above me, the sound returns. I have no choice, but to keep moving forward. I look up to the trees to find an answer, but I can't see what it can be. When the noise returns, I catch a glimpse and see a shadowy figure. A solid wooden wall stops my run and knocks me into oblivion. I fall into the mud and lay at the base of a tree disoriented and barely able to breathe.
I stare into the rain falling onto me and listen to the approaching footsteps squish in the mud. The footsteps come to a halt and a dark figure stands above me. Rain drips from its long hair and dark head. It squats above me and I try to make out his or her eyes, nose, or lips.
"Evan. It's you. It has been years, but it is really you. She hasn't told you has she, Evan? She hasn't told you what you really are... But don't be afraid of what is to come -- nephew. We are watching you."
I struggle to breath and respond. I watch his dark shadow hover over me and soon hear a snap. Agony leaves my lips again.
"You'll be just fine now. You will heal very quickly."
His voice, I had expected to be horrifying, but instead his French accent was calm, gentle, and comforting. I try to focus as my vision slowly returns. My eyes lay upon a mark on his hand that rests in between his wrist and thumb knuckle. It was black.
There is a letter 'M' in which one end of the 'M' creates a circle around the letter and inside the circle, above the M, is a symbol I've never seen before.
"I shall see you soon," he says. "Your father will be proud to hear of this."
He stands to his feet and I try to make out his face, but before I can, he was gone. My eyes feel heavy and my body aches as darkness begins to creep into my vision. I'm going blind, slipping away from the world, becoming weightless.
'My…Father?'
Chapter Six: Hunger
"Evan?! Evan!" I hear her call.
I open my eyes to the raining sky wetting my face, my head resting on a soft existence. It is my mother. She holds my head in her lap and her long hair is drenched.
"Evan?! Are you alright?!"
"I'm cold," I say as my teeth chatter. My head aches with pain, but at least I can breathe after having the wind knocked from my lungs. She hugs me.
"Okay, okay," she says. "Let's get you home before you get sick."
"Careful. I think I broke my wrist," I say, but have yet felt any pain.
"Okay," she says. "I will take a closer look the second we get home."
As she takes my bag and helps me to my feet, I look up to the trees and sky. It's almost dark. How long was I unconscious, I ask myself.
My mother guides me through the rainforest and talks about how worried she was and how she called Mike who didn't hear from me. All I can think about is that man. Who was that man? I can't see his face in my head and didn't recognize his voice, yet he didn't seem to mean any harm. I felt protected and cared for, by a stranger. If I was to see him now, I doubt I will recognize him, but I feel I will see him again. He told me something. But what was it? What did he say? I can't seem to remember. I slip in the mud.
"Careful, Evan," my mother says. "Watch your step."
'We're watching you.' That's it. 'We're watching you.' But who is we. I slip again, but mother catches me. There was only him. No others. But wait. He knows my father. Goosebumps spread across m
y skin, not just from the cold, but from the thought of someone knowing my father, having answers about leaving me and my mother years ago. I have to find him. I have to find that man.
I scan the trees once more, remembering the noise I heard earlier. Was that him? Impossible.
~
My mother and I get back to the house free from any strange visits. Our clothes are soaked to the bone and each step I take squeezes water out of the soles of my shoes. The rain has not let up one bit.
"Take a seat and let me take a look at your wrist. May need to go to the hospital if it's broken."
I hate hospitals. They're cold. Smell of latex. Bright white lights in every room and hallway, but worst of all, the pullover nightgowns that fail to hide the butt. I take a seat at the kitchen island and show her my wrist, careful not to budge the bone and cause any pain. Been doing well with that so far.
"Hmmm, doesn't look bad at all," she says as her hands avoid my wrist area.
I inch closer for a look myself. There's no swelling, punctures, nor discoloration.
"Yeah, no kidding," I say tilting my head to the side.
"Can you make a fist?"
I lick my lips and hold my breath. With caution, I begin to make a fist. Nothing.
"Okay, now try to rotate."
"I don't know, mom."
"Try, Evan."
I nod and begin to rotate my fist expecting for agony to strike. When I complete one full rotation, I attempt another, but faster. Then, I try a third time almost hoping it would hurt so I can confirm I am right. That I broke my wrist.
"Looks to me that you didn't break it," she smiles. "Or anything at all for that matter."
"But I know I did. I heard it snap. I felt it."
I rotate my fist again. Nothing.
"Do you feel any pain now?" She asks.
I don't.
