As I glide my hands up and down the bark of the tree, the memories of falling off of the last tree I attempted to climb come back to haunt me. I shake my head, knowing I have to forget about that right now. I have to get Alex's notebook—it's the only thing that matters right this second.
I pull in a deep breath and wrap my hands around the branch hovering over my head. I place my feet against the tree and pull my body up to the first branch. I got up pretty easily, and I'm gaining some confidence back—regardless of the fact that I'm still only five feet off of the ground, with about fifteen feet to go. I pull myself up to the next branch the same way, and repeat this for the next five or so branches. I look down and see that I'm far from the ground. It looks as if I only have two or three more branches to climb.
As I make my way to the last branch, or the branch that is parallel to my bedroom window, I see the porch light flick on. I quickly move in toward the trunk of the tree, hoping to blend in with the bark. I see my mother appear in the doorway, wrapping her robe tightly around her body. Her hair is everywhere and her face is colorless without the massive amounts of makeup she was wearing earlier. She looks worried and nervous as she darts her head from side to side, looking for a source of the noise. My feet must have been dragging too loudly against the bark and I'm now holding my breath, hoping she can't hear my heart pounding against the inside of my chest. After a minute or so of her continuing to look around, I see her body begin to shiver from the cold and she turns around and walks back into the house, flicking the porch light off. I have to try my window now, before she gets back upstairs. I wrap my arms tightly around the tree branch that I'm squatting on, and pull myself to the edge, which stops just short of my window by a foot.
During bad thunderstorms and blizzards, this branch has always scraped against my window, scaring me into thinking there was someone outside trying to get in. I never imagined it actually being helpful, and I'm glad my dad never got around to cutting it down as I had begged him to for years.
I reach my arm over to my window and under the sill. I push up with the little momentum I have from trying to keep myself balanced at the same time. I feel the sweat forming on the back of my neck, which causes a chill from the thirty-five degrees of coldness blowing down the back of my jacket. I feel the window give, and relief sets in as I realize that she never did lock it. I move my body an inch closer toward the end of the branch in order to give me a little more leverage. I push the window halfway up, which is as far as I can reach from my position.
With one hand already gripped around the windowsill, I let go of the branch with my other hand and clutch it around the sill. I press off the branch with my feet, catapulting myself halfway into my window. The sill is pressing up against my ribs, causing pain, but not enough to make me stop. I wrap my hands around the headboard of my bed and pull my body the rest of the way in until I flop down on top of my bed, coming face to face with the notebook. I want to cry from relief. But I can’t. If I make any noise, I'll be caught.
I slide onto the ground beside the bed, notebook clutched within my grip and I wrap my other arm around my knees while trying to catch the breaths I missed while dangling off of the tree. I have to get back down with this book in my hands. Sounds impossible. I have to try, though.
After I take a couple minutes to regain my composure, I stick my head out of the window and come to realize the only way I'm making it back down safely is by throwing the notebook down to the ground first. I reluctantly release the notebook from my hand, allowing it to fall two stories into the grass. It looks like it’s still in one piece, which gives me confidence that I'll make it down in one piece too.
With my feet tucked under the railing of my headboard, I reach out of the window with both hands, grabbing for the branch that allowed me to come in. The branch is locked within my grip, and I pull my body out of my window. Without predicting my next move, my body falls from the window, leaving me hanging from the branch that my hands are still wrapped around.
I search for another branch below with my dangling feet. When my foot sweeps across one, I place my weight slowly down and shimmy in toward the base of the tree until I can wrap my arms around the trunk. Once I have some stability, I place both feet down on the branch below and begin to lower myself and then repeat eight more times until my last descent will be onto the grass and safety.
The second my feet reach the ground, I get down on my hands and knees to crawl toward the notebook that’s only a few feet away. With freedom in sight, I place my cold fingers around the warm leather of the notebook. I bring it into my chest, holding it for comfort and now warmth.
A sigh of relief calms me, and I have my eyes set on my dad’s car hidden around the corner. I stand up, ready to make a run for it. With one step forward, a blinding light beams directly into my eyes. I lift my chin and see my mother closing in on me with a flashlight.
"I knew you'd come running back," she says with a cunning grin.
"Yeah, Mother. That's definitely what this is—me running home." I back away a few steps, holding the notebook behind me. "Get that thing out of my face," I demand, holding the back of my hand up in front of my eyes to shield them from the overly intense light.
Her long bony fingers wrap around my arm and she forcefully pulls me toward the front door. Rather than fight with her, I figure now is as good of a time as any to interrogate her for some answers that might help Officer Ash, my dad, and mainly, myself. Although, I'm sure Officer Ash’s idea of finding out information about my mother's life didn't include interrogation, but it might be the only way to find anything out. Plus, who am I kidding, I certainly don't have the patience to play the sucking up card with her for the next week while I find out what grocery store she goes to every day, or who she's conning into sleeping with her.
I've been around Franco enough to play some of his mind games on her. I might even be good at it.
With her fingernails digging into the leather of Alex's jacket, I comply with her pull, to spare the jacket getting torn from her grip. "Take it easy, lunatic. I'm coming, and you don't have to drag me in like a bad dog. The neighbors might see, and how exactly would you explain this one?" I ask, spewing sarcasm.
Even in the foggy starlight, I can see the redness of her face brighten. It must be due to the lack of makeup she's wearing that I'm able to see her become angered so quickly. You'd think she'd be used to putting up with my wrath after all of the complaining she's done to the doctors over the years.
Once we're in the house, she flings me onto the couch and I reposition myself to get comfortable, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees and my fists resting underneath my chin. "What?" I ask, putting emphasis on the first half of the word.
"Where is your son?" she asks, with air quotes around the word son.
"You're a bitch." I narrow my eyes at her.
She sweeps the bangs out of her face and widens her eyes with hate seeping out from under her lids. "Do not speak to me like that. Who do you think you are, young lady?"
I attempt to stifle a laugh, but instead I bellow with the angered excitement that's erupting through my body. I can see I'm making her uneasy, and I like it. "Again, I'll ask you, what the hell do you want?"
Her bloodshot eyes continue to blaze into mine, searching for an answer within her own corrupted brain. "What is that you're hiding behind your back, Chloe?" she asks me the one question that could cause any sort of weakness within me right now.
"It's nothing," I say, keeping my words stern, hoping to use my unaffected demeanor to sway her from what I have.
She stands up, moving toward me as if I were her prey, stepping side to side and shifting her weight in an attempt to look behind my back. I scoot backwards on the couch, pressing the notebook firmly between the cushion and my back. But, it doesn't matter. She pounces, digging her fingernails into both of my arms while trying to pull me away from the couch. I will not let go of this notebook. It is all I have left of him, and it's mine.
She releases one hand from around my arm and reaches it around my back, clawing at the notebook and struggling to pull it from my tight clutch. She removes her hand from the notebook and presses it into the center of my back.
She pushes me with all of her weight. I’m at a disadvantage in my position and I lose my balance, falling face first onto the floor. I feel the cold hardwoods scrape against my cheek, but I still haven't let go of the notebook. However, I feel myself getting closer to losing a handle on it.
Her foot is in the center of my back, holding me down in place as she moves in for the final sweep, ripping the notebook out of my hands.
The second my fingernails scrape against the leather and dig into my empty lifeless palms, a frenzy bolts through every nerve in my body—anger I've never felt before—a need to crush the woman who gave me life. The notebook is all I have left of Alex. The second she has both of her hands gripped around the notebook, I flip over onto my stomach and kick my foot into her knee, her leg buckling and taking her crashing to the ground like a building that's being demolished. She clocks her head on the corner of the coffee table.
She’s unconscious.
At first I think I should help her, but then I realize, I have her right where I want her.
The notebook flew out of her hand when she fell, and my eyes are focused on that and that only. I pick myself off the ground, stand up and step over her body.
Such a bitch.
I focus my attention on the notebook, and wrap my arms around it tightly. “I have you, Alex.” I kiss the leather. “Don’t worry, you’re safe.”
***
She's staring through me with no expression on her face—just the usual coldness that pours out of her almond shaped eyes. "Tables have turned, huh?" I seethe, pulling my lips into a snide grin.
"The tables have not turned, Chloe," she says, cocking her head to the side to flip her bangs away from her eyes. “You just took advantage of my unconscious body and dragged me into the basement.” She laughs. “I wouldn’t go crazy and say ‘the tables have turned.’” She nods her head and rolls her eyes.
I take a couple of steps toward her, unafraid since I’d bound her hands behind a chair. "See, that's where you're wrong." I smirk and watch her swallow the lump in her throat. "You see, I have the power of making one phone call to one particular person. Then this will all be over. You wanted to interfere with Alex and me, and now you're going to play nice."
"Alex is dead, you foolish girl. I didn't interfere with anything," she says.
I pull the notebook from the back of my pants and hold it up to her face. "This is Alex." I press my finger into the hard leather, accenting my point. I replace the notebook back under the waistband of my pants. "And you got in the way of us."
Soft laughs escape from her throat, causing my fury to escalate. I pull my phone from my pocket and hold it up to her face. “I’m calling Dad.” I smile.
Her eyes widen and her mouth drops, appearing to search for her next words. “Wait,” she says.
I shrug. “What?”
“Don’t.” Her voice sounds pleading.
“Why not?” I continue playing her.
Her eyes are glossed over, and she’s staring through me. Her lips are moving rhythmically, saying something with no noise.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t move or even breathe. Is she—? Oh my God. She’s drifting. “Mother?” I shout with anger.
A smile appears on her lifeless face at the same time a pain sears up the side of my cheek. And then my nose. Now my right eye. The pain causes me to cringe and cry with pain. I wrap my hand around my nose and pull it away to find blood covering my fingers.
I turn around and spot a rag on a nearby table. I press it against my nose and clench my eyes from the increasing pain. I groan and grunt through the unbearable discomfort.
She’s laughing. Her eyes aren’t focused anymore, and she’s nodding her head. “You don’t want to play nice, Chloe. You see, I’ve been doing this a lot longer, and I’m fully capable of drifting to wherever you have been or are going, except you aren’t consciously there. And that means, I can do what I want,” she says.
“You’re an asshole?” I cry.
“I knew I should have beat you when I had the chance.” She pulls in an obnoxious sigh. “Good thing I can drift too.” She laughs again. “Maybe you should reconsider your plan of action, Chloe.” Her voice is filled with confidence, causing me to question what I should do. I have my notebook. I should just leave. I am going to leave.
“You’re right,” I say.
She looks confused at my change of direction. “See ya.”
“Chloe?”
I walk up the stairs and out the door, leaving her restrained and alone. Maybe she can drift her way out of that chair too. I hate that woman.
My muscles and nerves relax as I drive back to my dad’s apartment, but my mind is circling, debating my next move. As my thoughts clear, I jerk the car over onto the side of the dirt shoulder, causing a cloud of dust to form around the car. I grip my hands around the steering wheel and place my forehead against the horn. I squeeze my eyes closed and imagine Alex five years ago, on the beach, when we first met.
If I could just go back, time rewinds, and I can talk to him…
My face melts into the plastic finish that covers the horn. My fingers liquefy into the steering wheel, and they’re now clenched against my palm. I suck in the car scent through my nose, and force it to smell like salty ocean air instead. The coldness evaporates off of my skin with the beating hot sun.
I pray.
Please, Alex. Let this work. I need you . . .
I peek through my clenched eyelids, and I’m blinded with light. I place my hand over my face to shield the sun. I need those blue eyes. I need his blond curls. I need his touch, his voice. Pain is souring my stomach when I look around the barren sandy beach. “Alex,” I cry out.
A silhouette appears in the distance, and my heart pounds against my ribcage. My throat becomes dry, and my tears hesitate. “Alex?” I call out again.
Blond hair, blue eyes, and beautiful. The same man from the library walks toward me. It’s not Alex. But it looks like him. His crooked smile is the same as Alex’s. His dimples, those are the same too. But the freckles are in the wrong places, and his nose is pointier. I tilt my head to the side, confused.
Lost.
The man sits down beside me and funnels sand through his hands as if this encounter is normal and comfortable. I stare at him, unsure of what to say.
“You can’t do this,” he says.
“Can’t do what?” I ask.
He turns his head to look me square in the eyes. His eyes. So familiar. “This is not the right way to fix this.”
“Fix what?” I shake my head with confusion.
“You can’t bring him back this way,” he says. “Do what he said.” He smiles an Alex smile. “That’s all you have to do.”
He stands up and brushes the sand from his jeans and reaches his hand out to help me up. I place my hand in his, and it feels familiar.
“Go back and find it.” He looks down, but lifts his eyes. “Okay?”
I nod. It’s all I can do.
He turns around and begins to walk off. “Wait!” I shout.
He doesn’t turn back to face me. “Love you.”
“What?” I yell.
“Go home, Mom,” he says.
“Sammy?” I question.
He shoots his hand in the air, waving from behind. I fall to the sand, but the sand is unforgiving and has turned into leather. The sun has turned to a fuzzy black roof. The smell of the ocean air has turned back into the musky car smell. I swallow my hope and wrap my arms tightly around myself. It’s as if everything I try ends with me thrusting my head up against a cement wall.
I turn the key in the ignition and skid from the dirt shoulder back onto the pavement. The tires scream as they make a sharp turn into the p
arking spot I had pulled the car out from at the apartment building. I race up the stairwell and barge back into the apartment.
The second I close the door, the lights flicker on. Sammy is at the breakfast bar and my dad is standing over him with a glass of milk. Sammy looks upset and angry. And my dad looks the same as he checks his watch. He shakes his head with disappointment. I hate that look. I’ve seen it way too many times before. But I’m an adult now; it’s not quite necessary.
“He just lost his Dad, sweetie.” He takes a few steps toward me. “What were you thinking, disappearing in the middle of the night like that?” Crap. He’s right.
I pull the notebook out from behind my back and look at it briefly before placing it down on the table. “You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
I walk over to Sammy and place my arms around his neck. He sighs. “Don’t do that again,” he says, scolding me.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t go looking for him again either.” He pulls himself away from my hold and turns to look at me, squinting his eyes a bit. “Do what he asked. Please.” He sounds older, less like a four-year-old.
I nod. It’s all I can do. I lift him up off of his chair and carry him back down the hall to the room where we were sleeping. I place him down on the bed and pull the sheets up to his neck. “You promise?” he asks.
“I promise,” I say. I lie down next to him, and pull him into my body. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”
This pain is relentless. It’s too much. I want to give up. But if he were here, he wouldn’t let me. And part of me feels like he is still here. But I know he’s not. The lump in my throat is growing again. The pain in my head is throbbing. My chest trembles with sobs, but my eyes are dry. I roll over and pull my knees into my chest. “Alex. Help me.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
LOOPHOLES IN THE DARK
I OPEN the notebook up to a random page, looking for something to ease my pain and thoughts. I just need his words. I can hear them as I read them. This book is his soul. It’s him.
When Fully Fused Page 15
