Why do they want it? What are they looking for? It wasn’t my fault.
My thumbs got all twitchy. At least I could move them.
I gotta get that phone back.
BRAIN DAMAGE
I don’t remember much about my recovery. All I know is it got worse before it got better. A lot worse.
Mostly it’s a blur. How I learned to walk all over again. How my speech got so bad I was blinking yes’s and no’s—two blinks yes, one blink no. How I got the shakes if I tried to do too much, like just watching TV, and my hospital bed would start bouncing off the floor.
Or how I’d wake up, screaming for my phone.
Which they refused to give me even after the cops were done with it.
They proved it, all right. That much I remember. The cops proved that I’d been thumbing my iPhone seconds before the car flipped.
The phone that killed my dog.
That almost killed me.
There were many days when I wish it had.
Mom kept pulling the brain damage card on me. Said if I went haywire online again, I’d become permanently depressed or crazy or just plain stupid.
Mom came by to see me every day. Sofi every weekend. Once she got over my Frankenstein stitches, Sofi started reading to me. Stuff she wrote for school or a book she was reading. She’d go on for over an hour or until my brain started bubbling. One day, she brought in an old Prensa Libre newspaper from our Guatemalan days and read me an article about Xela’s Boy Wonder.
That almost sent me into convulsions.
Mom brought Uncle Faustus sometimes. Whenever he came, all he did was smile and keep repeating, “Prométeme … prométeme.”
I knew exactly what he was talking about. That I never give up the music.
“Le prometo, tío.” I promise you, uncle.
What else could I say to the old guy?
It was only after a bunch of visits that Mom asked if I was aware that now, when I spoke, it was always Spanish. Even to the hospital staff. This came as a total surprise.
No wonder they give me such weird looks.
Brent later explained that this can be one of the side effects of a concussion. “If you know more than one language and your brain takes a hit,” he said, “it’ll default to the language you know best.”
“¿De verdad?” I said.
Brent raised his eyebrows. “See?”
I tried to laugh. “I mean … really?”
“Your battered brain’s going to follow the path of least resistance. So it runs to the language closest to your …” Brent shrugged, “... your real identity, I guess.”
My real identity. Hmm.
The bubbling came back. I scrunched my eyes.
Brent stuck me with another sedative and I was blotto all over again.
Truth is, until I got my brain back, I wasn’t talking much in any language. So nobody visited very long. As usual, I spent most of my time alone.
It was early February before my neurologist let me go home, more than three months after the crash. In all that time, I saw Dad once, the day I came out of my coma.
Mom insisted he came a few times when I was zonked out.
I didn’t believe her.
BACK ONLINE
Another month went by before they let me go back online. It started with half an hour a day. Half an hour! Were they kidding me? It felt like Mom was being stricter about my online time than Dad ever was with my practice time.
If that’s humanly possible.
Every day after supper, Mom came downstairs and unlocked my filing cabinet where she kept my laptop. She set it on my desk, waited for it to boot up, then started a timer on her cell phone. “Thirty minutes, Indio,” she’d say, wagging a finger at me as I plowed into the keyboard. “Not a minute more. You don’t want brain damage, do you?”
So it went every day.
Five minutes before my time was up, she was already marching downstairs. She hovered over my shoulder as I scrambled to finish whatever I was doing—checking my messages, posting a blog. The second her alarm went off, she’d slam the laptop shut, shove it in the filing cabinet, and lock it with a key she wore around her neck.
And I thought Dad was the family dictator! At least she didn’t beat me over the shins.
God, it was frustrating.
As for my iPhone, I hadn’t seen that since the crash. Luckily I still had my cheapie flip phone that I used at school every chance I could. I was back there part-time. Monica was talking to me again and Morris was out of the picture. They said he really did quit this time. Or got expelled. Or got shipped off to some addiction rehab center.
Who the hell cared? What mattered was that he was gone and I was back. At least until the headaches came or the dizzy spells knocked me over, or my eyes gave out even when I wore sunglasses in class.
Even on my best days, I was nowhere near the lightning texter I used to be. And blind texting under the desk was impossible. Instant headache. Grimsby, too, was always harping about brain damage, and ratted on me with a call home every time I got caught.
It was usually Mom who picked up the phone, since Dad was still away most of the time, fighting Guatemalan lawyers or kissing the butts of Colombian politicians.
Six months after the crash, I was back up to two hours online a day—officially, at least. I used a crowbar one night to wrench the back off my filing cabinet. Mom still thought she was in control, unlocking it and doing her timing thing. I acted super-cooperative when she came down to lock away my laptop. When everyone was in bed, I’d pull the cabinet away from the wall and slip my laptop out the back for endless hours of online fun.
I rebuilt my list of friends and followers. I created the coolest profiles ever. I hunted the far corners of the Web for the funniest pix and craziest videos. I fired out a couple of blogs every night. One from Ian, the champion of Canadian teens’ rights and freedoms. The other from Indio, the Guatemalan guitar guru with tips and tricks to make you a star.
I merged back into the Internet, not caring for anything or anyone else. I felt powerful and alive like never before.
Until the next morning.
When I showed up for breakfast totally wiped, or couldn’t get out of bed, I’d tell Mom the headaches were back and she’d let me stay home from school. She was so impressed with my supposed discipline on the computer that she put me on an honor system, letting me control my own time, up to the medically prescribed max of two hours a day.
Hah. Peanuts!
I managed to keep up my double life—the obedient son who stuck to his online ration, and the late-night Internet partier—until Sofi started stalking my blogs and realized I was cheating big time.
“You can’t do this, Indio!” Sofi said, when she crept downstairs late one night and caught me on my laptop. “The doctor said—”
“Screw the doctor,” I said, without looking up from the screen. “I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay and I’m telling.”
“Don’t you tell on me! Just let me finish this blog and I’ll—”
But Sofi was already up the stairs and running for Mom.
They just didn’t get it. How could something that felt so good be so bad? The Internet was buena medicina for me, right? It took my mind off the pain, off the loneliness. It fought my depression.
Made me a somebody.
They’d see.
There was no stopping me now.
ABDUCTION
There. That blog took a lot out of me, but it’s always worth it. Can’t let 10,891 followers down. Time to check out the rest of my world … Scan my email …. Touch base with App Chat … Visit the Guitar God forum … Oh yeah, and see what my Israeli girlfriend Shoshana’s up to. I need an oud fix. Haven’t talked with her since last week and it’s only —¡Jesucristo! How did it get to be 4:00 am? Oh well, more chance of catching her online with the time zone difference. I can sleep this weekend … What about that math exam tomorrow? I’ll have to fake sick again. This is important.
Shoshana really seems interested in me in a new way. Like when I told her about my sore back, she wrote, “Visit me in Tel Aviv and I will give you a nice massage with my smooth fingers.” Whoah! … There was that profile glitch I have to fix, maybe add a new selfie … And I better scan my blogs for any nasty comments. Gotta keep them squeaky clean … I can squeeze all this in and get a couple hours sleep before Mom pounds on my door … Gotta pee. Do I have time? ... God, my back hurts … Just a little stretch then back to business …
I felt a muscled hand on my shoulder, rocking me out of a cyber sleep less than an hour old. Before I could open my eyes, someone lifted my face off the desk.
“Indio … Indio,” some guy was saying, cool as a cucumber. “Time to get up. We’ve got a busy day ahead. Let’s go.”
I struggled to open my eyes. A thirty-something stranger built like a football player stood over me. Another guy by the door flicked the overhead light on.
I buried my eyes in my arm. “Who the hell are you? What do you want?”
“My name’s Erik,” the first guy said. “And this is Larry. It’s a big day for you, Indio. A new start. Everything’s going to be all right, but we really have to go now.”
Larry was turning on more lights, ripping the tinfoil off my windows, hefting a packed duffle bag out the door.
By now I was awake enough to wonder about my family.
“Where’s my Mom?” I yelled.
“Your parents love you, Indio,” Erik said. “They’re sending you someplace where you can get it together again. Your stuff’s all packed. We need to get going. Right now.”
“What is this?” I yelled. “What have I done?” I started screaming for Mom, then at her, shrieking, cursing. When I stopped to catch my breath, I saw her by my door, sobbing.
“We love you, Indio!” she cried. “We love you!”
Then another shocker. The sound of cowboy boots coming down the stairs.
When did he get home?
My father, Edgar Stoneheart, stopped at my door, looking hunched and old in his bathrobe and dog-puke golf shirt. He had a lost look on his face I’d never seen before. He held some kind of form in one hand, a gold fountain pen in the other. “Good morning, Indio,” he said without a trace of his fake cheer.
“Jesus, what are you doing to me now, Dad?”
Mom stepped in front of him.
Dad reached for her hand.
“You know, we tried everything, Indio,” Mom said. “Limiting your online hours, rehab, therapy, group counseling. It’s not working. Look at you. This thing is going to kill you.”
“So we’ve found something that will work,” Dad said as he stepped around Mom. He straightened up, like he was trying to arouse his crusty old self. “Something that better work.” His darting eyes landed on me. “You’ll like this place, nice and peaceful, away from all your … your screen stuff. You need to unplug for a couple of months. Take a tech break. Discover another world out there.” Dad’s Blackberry went off and, amazingly, he ignored it. “Give it a chance, Indio. So we can get you back on that guitar, eh? Maybe … maybe even do some jamming together? Like old times. What do you say?”
It felt like the longest conversation I’d ever had with my father. Except I wasn’t talking. I just looked daggers at him. Let him stand there and bleed.
“¡Nunca! Never!”
His face darkened. I so knew that look. If he’d been holding a mining stake instead of a pen, he would’ve used it on me. “This is no joke, Indio. It’s either this or next stop is lockdown at the psych hospital. Your choice.”
“Hmm, imagine that,” I said. “A lockdown. Your specialty.”
I peeled myself out of my chair. For the first time I noticed I was as tall as my father, maybe taller. I caught my reflection in the mirror and saw little red squares on one cheek where it had lain squashed against the keyboard.
Dad thrust the form and pen at me. “Your choice, Indio,” he said, his voice breaking into gravel.
I rubbed my eyes and stared at the paper. Camp Lifeboat—Intern Consent Form. Tons of fine print but not a word on where the place was. At the bottom was a big black X with my name printed beside it.
“Truly, Indio,” Mom said, wiping her eyes, “it’s like standing on the edge of a river, watching someone drown. We had no life preserver to throw you. This is the life preserver.”
“Well?” Dad said.
I looked up at him with as much hatred as I could muster, given how wrecked I was.
His eyes tightened.
Did I see him flinch?
At that moment, the idea of getting out from under my father’s roof seemed irresistible. But to unplug for a couple months? What about all my blog followers? My music fans? What about Shoshana and her smooth fingers?
I’d be as good as dead to all of them.
Erik nudged me forward. I flicked his hand off my shoulder like a bird had shit on me. “Go on, Indio, please sign it. We really should be going.”
Dad’s mining stake face was back.
That settled it. I scrawled my name beside the X and threw the form and fountain pen at him. Black blood splashed over his dog-puke shirt. He looked down in disgust and snapped an order at his hired kidnappers. “Take him away!”
I reached for my iPhone, but Erik’s hand was quicker and he carefully planted it in Dad’s outstretched palm. “I’m sorry, Indio,” Erik said.
I pushed past my father, not looking at him, not acknowledging his existence.
At the last moment, I looked back at Loba’s sheepskin rug, wanting to give her at least a goodbye pat.
Then I remembered.
That’s when I felt the fear break loose. This feeling, like my whole world was going down the toilet.
Part III
NORTHERN CANADA
One day later
I can no longer imagine being broken without a wild place to fall apart in.
–Gary Ferguson, Shouting at the Sky
Something hidden, go and find it; Go and look behind the ranges. Something lost behind the ranges; Lost and waiting for you—go!
–Rudyard Kipling, The Explorer
THE DROP
I was still repeating it under my breath when the van finally stopped. “Left from the airport, one sharp right, another sharp right, smell of cinnamon rolls, pavement ends, cow manure, a squeaky gate … Left from the airport, one sharp right, another sharp right, smell of cinnamon rolls, pavement ends—”
Engine off. Blindfold off.
We were here. Wherever here was.
After we’d landed in Whitehorse, you’d think I would’ve gone ballistic when they told me to put a blindfold on for the van ride. But the nice goons who walked me to the plane in Calgary gave me a heads-up, so it was no surprise. “It’s safer not to have a clue where they take you,” Larry told me. “Less chance you’ll run for the hills and fall off a mountain or get eaten by a grizzly.” After all I’d been through, the blindfold had a strange calming effect, like I was a budgie with a blanket thrown over my cage.
The light stabbed my eyes. Seven months after my concussion, they were still super-sensitive. I dug around for my sunglasses, the rainbow ones Brent had given me in the hospital. Yup, the ones with Pride on the side. I didn’t care if people thought I was gay. What mattered was what they thought of me online.
I hid behind my sunglasses, checking out who was in the van. I sat beside the driver, a Native guy with braided pigtails. He wore a black leather vest and a string tie with a hunk of turquoise slung under his neck. His hands hung limp over the steering wheel. He looked at me with a big grin, like I’d just won a lottery.
I snuck a look behind me. Three other delinquents, a tall skinny guy, a short round guy, and, somewhere in between, what I thought was a girl. It was hard to tell. Everyone’s face was hidden by lowered ball caps or pulled-up hoodies.
But the vibe was clear. What the fuck am I doing here?
I looked out the van window at my latest cage. Some weird mutant be
tween a summer camp and a prison. A two-story log building. A couple of yurts. A vegetable garden and volleyball court. A bunch of paths with signs pointing the way to Meaning, Courage, Confidence, and Respect.
Rehab-speak.
Make me puke.
Everything was laid out in a circle around a big tipi. Beside the tipi was a wooden sculpture of a guy and girl, leaning back-to-back, holding each other up. Carved on the base were the words, Hope is a place.
The whole compound was surrounded by a high chain-link fence. I checked the top for razor wire.
None.
There was hope for me, all right.
To get the hell out of here. To get back online.
Somebody booted the back of my seat really hard.
“I am not getting out of this van!”
So I was right. It was a girl.
A woman in the back of the van came forward and crouched beside her. The woman wore a blue tracksuit with a pink whistle around her neck. I could smell her fruity perfume. “Hey, hey, Alyssa,” she said, her voice all chirpy. “It’s going to be okay.”
An even harder boot in my back.
“Like, I know you have no reason to believe anything I tell you,” the woman said, “and I don’t know what you’ve been through.”
Alyssa crunched into a fetal position, hands over her ears, face crammed between her knees. “This is crazy!” she screamed to the floor. “I don’t belong here!”
You and me both, I thought.
“Please, Alyssa, give it a try. I know the young people who come here usually aren’t very happy. But I’ve seen the numbers. I follow the ones that finish this program. I can tell you it actually works. For most, at least. Just give it a try.”
I spun around in my seat, fighting back tears.
WELCOME CIRCLE
We sat in the tipi on ratty cushions and soggy cardboard, the tall skinny guy and the short round guy. The Native guy with the pigtails sat beside me, silently rocking back and forth like he was grooving to a tune. I checked for earbuds but couldn’t see any. Just the thought made me thwack my pants pocket. Empty.
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