A Split in Time
Page 18
There you are little fellow. I found you.
The old, raspy voice turned his dream into a nightmare. Warren jerked awake, wide-eyed and ready to run. He clutched his backpack and swung his head, searching the forest for danger. A faint light coming from Stibnite made the trees appear darker than death. He dropped his backpack and felt around for the urn. He searched to his right where the lid had fallen, but it wasn’t there. Moving his hands right to left, he patted the ground. Still nothing. A shooting pain appeared above his left eye and ran to the back of his skull. Thunder boomed in the distance, and tiny drops of rain fell from the sky.
Warren got to his feet, pulled his hoodie over his head, and put on his backpack. His throat tightened. Panic gripped his neck, and a lump formed. He swallowed, and the lump disappeared when he saw a reddish-gold glimmer to the side of the tree. He stepped toward the glimmer, and it faded away, but not before he picked it up. The urn’s glimmer vanished, and raindrops clung to the sides. He wiped them away, held the urn up to the faint light, and marveled at the shiny surface. The lid rested on the urn, and he smelled yeast.
Where am I? My Hellhole? Cameron’s Hellhole? Nirvana? Somewhere worse? The shooting pain in his head moved down his back and into his stomach. It doesn’t matter where I am. I’ve got to eat.
He put the urn in the outer pocket of his backpack and pushed his way through the trees to Acorn Row. If he found his Hellhole parents at home, he would make up a story. He would tell his mom that someone jumped him in the forest and beat him. After something like that, she would have to make him dinner. If he found Nirvana Sredo at home, then he would offer to tutor for food. Either way, Warren was going to eat.
A hazy cloud cut off the bottom of a full moon. Situated high in the mountains, away from light pollution, Tamarack was a great place to stargaze. Warren remembered looking at the stars through a telescope with his dad. On a clear night, tiny stars stitched large stars together into clusters of misshapen spiderwebs. Tonight was not a clear night. Tonight, invisible clouds let go of tiny rain drops and blocked the star clusters from view behind odd-shaped patches of black. At some point, his dad had replaced the telescope with vodka, and he missed gazing at the stars.
Warren walked onto the road, watching clouds he couldn’t see, and wiping rain from his face.
His dad’s disfigured station wagon sat in the driveway, nose-in and straight with the edge of the fence, the way most people parked. His mom’s car sat next to the wagon in perfect alignment. Warren limped down the hill in case one of his parents came outside. If he’d remembered to limp into school yesterday, then he wouldn’t have needed to come up with a lie now. If he had limped then, he would’ve gotten out of gym class and stayed at school. He wouldn’t have met up with Tanner to make a bong. The lightning, the fire, the trips to Nirvana—none of those things would have happened…but they had happened.
His parents probably thought he had run away, or worse, that he was dead. They were probably fighting about it right now. Something twisted in his stomach and he thought he heard a pop. He needed to make up the lie of all lies if for no other reason than he needed to eat something, and soon.
Okay. Four guys in a van, dressed in military uniforms, pulled onto the side of the road. They put a black bag over my head and took me to their base camp where they beat me, interrogated me, and left me to die in the woods.
It was a cool story, but complicated. Warren’s eighth grade shop teacher, Mr. McKenzie, had a wood-carved sign above his desk that read KISS. Sawdust and general shop gunk clung to it, and it wasn’t cool. Mr. McKenzie wasn’t the type of teacher that rock-n-rolled all night and partied every day. Mr. McKenzie was the type of teacher to always make a point—Keep It Simple Stupid.
Okay. No military uniforms, no black bag, and no interrogation…
The van was good though. Everyone suspects unmarked panel vans. Warren could use the white van he’d seen at Watley’s Pump-N-Save in his lie.
I met this guy at the convenience store and he said, “Hey let me show you something in my van,” and I said, “Sure, let’s go,” and—
No good. His parents would never believe he had gotten into a stranger’s van.
He walked across the driveway and rested his hand on the fence. The white paint had separated from the wood in most places, and Warren picked at it. He needed more time to get his story straight, but his stomach hurt.
One of Tanner’s friends—no, it was Tanner’s uncle. He came into town on a hunting trip. We got in his van, went up to Lookout Mountain, and ran out of gas. We spent the night walking back, but we got tired and fell asleep in the woods, and—
Good enough. Warren needed to get inside the house. The walls of his stomach quaked. He walked across the yard and put his hand on the doorknob. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Mi Casa Es Su Casa
Mark rode his bicycle down a long, dirt driveway, winding through the trees towards Ponder’s Lake. He hoped the other members of Survivor’s Glory had enjoyed the meeting as much as he had. He loved his train set analogy, and when Cassie told him she understood it, he had reached an elevated state of being.
The bicycle’s front tire skidded around a corner. Mark put his foot on the ground and the cleats of his boots gripped the soil. He twisted the handlebars, pushed off, and kept the bicycle on track. Bicycles and driveways are like trains and rails, but not enough to make it worth changing his analogy.
Going to the Survivor’s Glory meeting had filled Mark with gratitude. He was high from the meeting. Some days, Mark would wake up depressed. He would take his Mary Jane medication and wait for the sadness to lift. If it didn’t, he would go to a Survivor’s Glory meeting and share his thoughts on life. By the time he would get back to his little abode, his depression would’ve lifted. Today, his depression had not only lifted, but vanished altogether. His body pumped in time with the universe. Gratitude for every little thing filled his heart. Each little thing connected to another little thing, and another, and another, multiplying his joy beyond comprehension. He was grateful for his comprehension.
He was grateful for the leg muscles that helped him avoid crashing his bicycle. He wanted to thank the soles of his boots for gripping the dirt. His day had started bad when someone had stolen his sandals. High quality leather sandal's cost a lot of money, and theft made Mark mad, even if money was nothing more than a fleeting construct of control. He didn't have the money to buy a new pair, but now he understood. A power greater than his had taken control and given him the boots. If someone—or something—hadn’t taken his sandals and left him the boots, he would have crashed for sure. He didn’t understand the purpose of the blue flannel shirt, and football jerseys cost a lot of money too, but he had a greater understanding of the universe now. With gratitude and patience, he believed he could understand all things.
Green trim ran up the “A” of Mark’s A-frame not far from Ponder’s Lake. The inner edges of the green trim bent and dipped to form waves. The tips of the waves were bells at the end of a jester’s boot. Cedar shake shingles covered the sides of the little mountain abode, and a red chimney jutted up from the A-frame’s back wall. If hobbits lived in houses, Mark Collezza's roommate would have had hairy feet and eaten two breakfasts every day, but Mark didn’t have a roommate. He hadn’t had a roommate since his brother’s murder.
He leaned his bicycle on the side of the A-frame and walked to the porch. He’d left the outside light on to keep government spies and bill collectors away. His organic-bristle-brush doormat read MI CASA ES SU CASA. That phrase always made him smile, even when he wasn’t depressed.
My house is your house.
He wanted to invite the entire world into his house. Things just couldn’t get any better. He took off his boots and put them next to the steps. They toppled over his sandals, and he smiled. A power greater than his had returned his sandals. It didn’t matter to Mark that someone had spilled their drink o
n the leather straps. His sandals were back, and for that, he was grateful.
He opened the front door and walked into his abode. A small TV he never watched sat against the wall to his left. A couch sat against the wall to his right. An end table with a Tolkien incense burner and a roach clip sat at the far side of the couch. The path to the kitchen ran past a pinewood ladder leading to the loft. At the top of the ladder, a glowing red dot bounced in the air, and Mark smelled cigarette smoke.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Hi Mom
A malcontent void trapped in a bubble of stomach acid increased in circumference one centimeter, burst, and came out of Warren’s mouth—belch. He stood in the doorway of his house, ready to launch into his lie, but he had no one to tell. His dad wasn’t lying on the couch, his mom wasn’t sitting at the table, and Cameron wasn’t in the urn on the mantle.
He passed by the fireplace, and his brain sent two commands to his body. The first command made his right leg step toward the mantle, and the second command made his left leg step toward the kitchen. Indecision split him like a wishbone. He needed to put the urn back, but he also needed to eat. Turkey sounded good.
If I don’t eat now, I’ll die. I can put the urn back after I eat.
He walked past the white dinette set and stepped into the kitchen. A plate with a few pieces of bread and butter lay next to a steaming pot on the stove. It smelled like beef stew, and it was beef stew. Warren ladled some into a bowl and plopped a piece of bread into it. Something moved outside the kitchen window. He ducked and crept up to the sink. Outside, his parents sat on the edge of the concrete patio and talked.
The stew-soaked bread tantalized Warren’s tongue and warmed his insides. He grabbed another piece of bread, dunked it in the stew, and shoved it in his mouth. He cracked the window. His parents sat with their backs to him like buoys drifting on the edge of an unforgiving ocean.
The tide is coming in. Anyone up for surfing the hangover half-pipe?
His mom said, “I don’t know. What do you think we should do?”
“Are you sure he didn’t come home last night?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” His mom’s voice trembled, and she wrapped her arms around herself. “Where were you?”
“I told you, I had to work late,” his dad said. “When I got home, I slept on the couch so I wouldn’t wake you.”
Looks like I’m not the only one who came up with a lie today.
Her head dropped into her hands. “I can’t lose another one. I just can’t. What if he doesn’t come back? Haven’t we been through enough?”
A rain puddle collected water on the concrete behind his parents. Small drops of rain distorted the moon’s reflection, making it unreal. His dad put his arm around his mom. She hesitated, then leaned into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder.
“I wish it could have been different,” she said.
“Me too.”
The moon disappeared behind a cloud, casting the puddle in darkness. Warren scraped his spoon across the bottom of the bowl and fished out the last chunk of beef. He glanced at the last piece of bread and left it there. His lower back hurt. Everything hurt. He wanted to curl up in bed with his outer space comforter.
If he left the kitchen now, he could pretend he’d been sleeping the whole time. How hard had they searched for him? His hopes vanished when he saw the laundry basket sitting in the hall. Draped over the edge of the basket, his magnificent cotton star comforter called to him. At the very least, his mom had been in his room.
His mom said, “I thought I saw him yesterday.”
“Warren?”
“No. Cameron.”
Warren leaned over the sink and stretched his aching back.
His dad said, “I’ve had that happen too.”
“No, I really thought I saw him.” Her voice tensed. “I saw him standing outside the Tenoco.”
His dad wiped the rain from his forehead and felt around on the concrete. Warren glanced at the top of the refrigerator and saw an empty water glass next to a full bottle of vodka.
His dad said, “That was probably Nathan Pollack. He works there.”
“I know. I thought it was Nathan too, so I waved and…I swear,” she choked and put her hand over her mouth, “it wasn’t Nathan. It was a grown-up version of Cameron.”
“Oh, honey…”
She took her head off his shoulder. The puddle on the patio glistened, and a distorted moon reflected off her eyes. “It was him. I swear.”
Warren's dad sighed and wiped his forehead again. His hand trembled, and he glanced toward the glass-sliding door. “I used to see him everywhere right after he died, but not so much anymore. What were you doing at the Tenoco?”
“I was driving around looking for Warren.” She took his hand in hers. “Seth, I didn’t imagine him. I really saw him. I was so surprised that I slammed on the brakes to make sure, and he…he—”
“He what?”
“He looked me straight in the eyes and mouthed the words ‘Hi Mom.’” She put her face in her hands and sobbed.
“Ugh. Why are kids so mean?” He stood up and stepped toward the door. Warren ducked behind the cabinets. “Whoever it was, he was just messing with you. Please tell me you flipped him off or something.”
“No, I had to drive away. Somebody was honking their horn at me.” She lowered her chin, and pulled on her fingers, one at a time. “It’s just that he…he looked so much like him.”
“I need a drink.”
The sliding door scraped against the bottom rail.
She said, “Could you not drink tonight?”
His dad turned away from the house. “I was going to stop today. Really, I was…but this is all too much.”
Warren scurried across the dining room floor and into the hall.
“Please, Seth? This is not how things are supposed to be. You’re a train and you derailed—”
“What are you rambling about?”
“Never mind.”
Warren peered around the laundry basket. His dad turned to slide the door closed. “When Warren comes back, and everything calms down, I’ll quit drinking.”
Wait for it. Wait for it…here it comes.
“I promise. This time will be different.”
And there it is.
Warren crawled below the Renner family photos, dragging his comforter behind him.
His dad slid the glass sliding door shut. “Hmm, that’s odd. Cass, did you open the kitchen window?” The kitchen window slid shut, and the metal latch clinked into place. Warren eased the door of his bedroom closed, not letting it make a sound. An empty bowl banged against the sink. Ice clacked against the sides of a water glass and cracked when the vodka hit.
Heading out to catch a wave on the hangover half-pipe, eh Dad? You’ll stop drinking when I come back. Sure you will.
Warren took off his hoodie and threw it in the corner. It crumpled on the floor like a pile of broken promises, corrupting the carpet. He crawled into bed and wrapped himself in magnificent stars. The stew in his stomach comforted him, but he was worried. He didn't know if the plan would work. He didn’t know if he would get out of his house without getting in trouble. He didn’t know if the urn would still take him to Nirvana.
He sat up, looked around, and clutched his comforter.
He didn’t know where the urn was.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
My House Is Your House
The glowing red dot didn’t scare Mark, and neither did the odor of cigarette smoke. His newfound understanding of the universe held him above fear. He flipped the light switch and smiled at the old guy sitting in his loft.
The old guy said, “I come to get my clothes back.”
Instant eye contact. A rush of joyful excitement burst from Mark’s heart and ran out through his extremities. His eyes glossed over with a sheen of admiration and love. He had been right. A power greater than his had taken his sandals and left boots to keep him from crashing his bicycle.
The old guy narrowed his eyes. His dirty feet, blackened with mud and a reddish, brown syrup, dangled from the top of the ladder. His cigarette bobbed in and out of his mouth, and he puffed smoke like a model train.
Mark recognized Doc and wanted to hug him. He wanted to thank him for the boots, but what had Doc said? Mark asked himself to repeat the last thing he’d heard.
I come to get my clothes back.
Mark said, “Sure thing, Doc. I didn’t know they were yours.” He ran his hand over the blue flannel shirt. He could feel every fiber in the grooves of his fingerprints. “Thank you for saving me from crashing on my bicycle.”
“Saving you from wha—hold on. How you know my name?”
Mark said, “You’re Doc.” He clasped his hands together. “You’re a benevolent spirit from the other side.” A thought struck Mark like lightning. “Have you seen my brother? Is he on the other side?”
“How you know about the other side?” Mark’s gaze went to the end table, and Doc’s followed. A wizard figurine towered over a basin of ash and sticks. A box with the words NAG CHAMPA printed on the side lay next to the basin. “Have you been smoking the wacky weed boy?”
“No. I mean, yes. I have a prescription, but that doesn’t—did you see my brother on the other side?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Doc took a drag on his cigarette. “How you know my name…ah, never mind. I done broke all the rules now anyway.” He sprang from the loft and landed with his knees bent. He took a step toward Mark, winced, and rubbed his leg.
Mark said, “Are you okay?” He held out his hand and moved toward the benevolent spirit.
“Stay right there.” Doc pinched his chin with one hand and put the other in his pocket.