That’s exactly how Daisy looked.
The memory popped into his head as if it had always been there, though a moment ago he hadn’t been aware of its existence. Now, though, he quite clearly recalled looking into his girlfriend’s face as she turned away from him with that same anguished expression.
But why? He searched his mind for the answer, but there seemed to be a black hole where the rest of the memory should have been. He had no idea whether they had merely bickered over something stupid, the way Boone and Shannon did all day long, or fought about a more serious matter.
Daisy and I don’t bicker, he thought. Despite his newly discovered memory holes, he knew that much was true.
The thought wasn’t particularly comforting, though. If they hadn’t been bickering, the fight must have been over something serious. So why couldn’t he remember it?
He turned and wandered back toward the main part of the beach. As he walked, he did his best to focus on that image of Daisy’s angry, disappointed face. It might be painful, but it seemed to be his only clue, his only chance of finding answers to his questions.
“Hey, man. Where’d you run off to just now?”
Glancing up, Dexter saw that he’d almost walked straight into Boone, who was at the water’s edge rinsing off his hands in the surf. “Hey,” he greeted him. “I just went to get a drink.”
Boone straightened up and peered at him. “You all right?” he asked. “You look kind of—I don’t know. Weird.”
“Thanks a lot, dude.” Dexter smiled weakly, then sighed. “Yeah, but you’re right. I’m feeling kind of weird, too.”
“Do you need more water?” Boone asked with concern. “I could run up and get you some, or—”
“No, it’s not that.” For a moment Dexter was ready to brush him off with a shallow excuse. Then he realized Boone was probably the closest thing he had to a friend on this island. Maybe talking to someone would make him feel better. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to work? Dexter glanced down and poked at the damp sand with his toe, trying to figure out how to explain. “I’m just kind of feeling like a loser because I’m too chicken to go into the fuselage and check for Daisy.” He shrugged awkwardly. “For all I know she could have been rotting away in there since the crash while I was out looking for her in the jungle or wherever.”
Boone stared at him, his blue eyes uncertain. “You don’t sound that upset about it, man,” he said, his voice verging on accusatory. “Come to think of it, you haven’t really seemed all that worried about finding your girlfriend this whole time. I noticed from the start, but figured it was just the dehydration working you over, so I cut you some slack…”
“Yeah, I know.” As soon as he heard the words come out of the other guy’s mouth, Dexter realized they were true. This whole time, it was almost as if finding Daisy were an afterthought—something he constantly had to remind himself about. And there was a reason for that. The truth had just slid into place in his head, another memory out of nowhere. “See, I’m not even sure if Daisy was on the plane.”
“What?” Boone looked startled. “But I thought you said—”
“She was booked on the flight,” Dexter explained, wondering why he was just remembering this now. “But we had a big fight right before we left Sydney and so I didn’t see her when we boarded. She might have switched flights or just switched seats. I don’t really know.”
“That’s rough, man.” Boone gazed at him curiously.
Dexter could tell he was wondering what they had fought about. The trouble was, he was still wondering that himself. As clear as that image was of Daisy’s angry face, he couldn’t quite move beyond it to the details of what had caused it.
The hole in his memory disturbed him, making him feel off-kilter and not quite himself. “You know, I just realized what I need to do,” he told Boone firmly, not allowing himself to second-guess the impulse that had just grabbed him. “I’ve got to go check in the fuselage—right now, before it gets too dark. At least that way I’ll know, one way or the other.”
“Okay.” Boone gazed at him, still looking curious and uncertain. “Good luck with that.”
Dexter thanked him and hurried off toward the fuselage, not giving himself a chance to back down. The sky over the beach was fading to pink with the sunset, the beauty of the lush tropical island out of sync with the scattered refuse of the crash and the horrific groans of the injured man in the infirmary tent.
But Dexter hardly noticed any of it. Pausing only long enough to find a flashlight in a handy pile of supplies, he headed straight toward his goal. The fuselage filled his eyes and mind as he approached it. He drifted to a stop a few yards from the dark, jagged opening, staring up into the blackness. All his fears crowded back as he heard the buzz of the flies from inside and caught a whiff of the stench.
Taking a deep breath, he gathered his courage and stepped forward. He knew what he needed to do; now all that was left was to do it.…
14
“DO YOU SEE THAT?” Aunt Paula threw up her hands in disgust, making the gaudy gold bracelets she wore everywhere these days jangle loudly against one another. She glared at the tiny figures taking part in the TV crime drama. “That detective guy better clear outta the way and let the doctors do their thing, or that girl will never live to tell him who killed those eight people.”
“The emergency room always looks so exciting. Maybe Dexy will wind up working there when he’s a doctor.” Dexter’s mother turned around in her seat on the new leather sofa and smiled at him.
Dexter drew in a deep breath, trying to work up the courage to do what he knew he needed to do. The winter break was almost over, and he still hadn’t found the opportunity to talk to the two women about heading back to school early, let alone broken the news to them about his grades.
Now or never, he told himself.
“Never” sounded like a tempting option. But he ignored the temptation, adding his half-empty cereal bowl to the sink full of dirty dishes and walking out of the kitchen alcove to join the two women in the tiny living room. After all, why shouldn’t this work out just like everything else had been working out for him lately? If his luck truly had changed, he had nothing to fear from telling the truth.
Besides, maybe wasn’t giving his mother and aunt enough credit. Once upon a time he couldn’t have imagined them encouraging him to go to college at all. If he simply explained things to them, perhaps they would see that he needed to follow his own path when it came to choosing a major. The thought made him feel a little better, and he cleared his throat.
“Listen,” he spoke up firmly. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you guys about something.”
For a second the women seemed disinclined to turn away from the TV program. But finally his mother seemed to notice something different in his voice and turned to gaze at him quizzically.
“What is it, Dexy?” she asked.
“It’s about my major.”
This time Aunt Paula, too, turned away from the TV. “What about it?” she said. “Did you declare Pre-med yet, or what? You better get off your butt about it if you want to get into a good med school someday.”
“But that’s just it,” Dexter said. “I—I don’t think I want to go to medical school. I don’t really think I could even if I did want to. See, my grades…Well, they weren’t so hot this term. At least not in my science classes.”
“What?” His mother’s eyes widened. “But Dexy, I thought you told us you were doing just fine! What happened?”
“I did do fine in English,” Dexter said, feeling a slight swell of pride as he remembered his professor’s encouraging comments on his final paper. “Great, actually. Got an A minus. I did okay in Spanish and even Econ, too—B in Spanish, C plus in Econ.”
“What about your science classes?” Aunt Paula demanded. “Those are the important ones for your Pre-med, you know.”
“I know. But I just couldn’t pull them off, I guess.” He shrugged weakly, almost afraid to menti
on the actual grades. “Uh, I think I ended up with a D in Bio, and D minus in Chem. Sorry.”
His mother looked horrified. “Oh, Dexy…” she whispered.
“How’d you manage to screw up so bad, boy?” Aunt Paula snapped. “You never got grades that crappy in high school, didja? Otherwise they wouldn’ta let you into that fancy college in the first place.”
“I know.” Dexter tried to keep the whiny defensiveness out of his voice. Any hint of weakness, and Aunt Paula would attack like a shark. “But college courses are a lot more challenging. And like I’m trying to tell you, I just don’t think I have much aptitude for the whole science thing.”
He expected Aunt Paula to berate him for being lazy or stupid. Instead she sat there for a moment looking thoughtful. Then she glanced at his mother and gave a quick shrug.
“Sounds like our boy ain’t cut out for the doctoring thing,” she said. “Guess we shoulda seen that coming, after the way he cried like a baby when he cut up his face that time.”
Dexter winced, resisting the urge to reach up and rub his scar as both women turned to stare at it. Why did his aunt always have to bring up that embarrassing old story? He still remembered it as if it had happened yesterday. Fourth grade; the usual bullies. Pushed over the edge by their usual taunts—about his looks, his clothes, his lack of a father—he’d suddenly leaped on the biggest boy, ready to take them all on at once. They’d creamed him, of course, leaving him with a bloody nose and two black eyes. When they’d dropped him on the sidewalk at the end, he’d cracked his head open, resulting in that scar, a constant reminder of his humiliation.
That was probably the last time I stood up for myself, he realized. At least until now…
“I suppose you’re right, Paula,” Dexter’s mother said uncertainly. “But if he’s not going to be a doctor, then what is he going to do with this expensive education?”
Dexter opened his mouth to respond. Maybe now they were ready to listen to his ideas about becoming an English professor or maybe a writer. After all, he certainly seemed to be showing a talent for spinning stories lately.
“What about law school?” Aunt Paula put in before he could speak. “I heard somewhere that lots of people who are good in English and other useless subjects wind up as lawyers.”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful!” Dexter’s mother’s expression brightened with relief. “Lawyers make almost as much money as doctors, right?”
“Sure,” Aunt Paula said, sounding as confident as if she actually knew what she was talking about. “Some of ’em make even more.”
“But, Mom,” Dexter protested. “I don’t think I—”
“Just thought of another good one,” Aunt Paula interrupted, hardly seeming to remember that Dexter was in the room as she talked to her sister. “What about those real rich fellows in New York City—you know, on Wall Street? Dexy could do that. Like Donald Trump, you know?”
At that moment the program on TV broke for commercials, and an ad for a local political race came on. Dexter’s mother pointed to it. “Or what about politics?” she suggested.
“I dunno if there’s much money in that,” Aunt Paula mused. “But we could look into it, I supp—”
“Hey!” Dexter cried, cutting her off. The two of them turned to stare at him in surprise, and he felt his face go beet-red. “Don’t I get any say in this?”
“Well, of course, Dexy,” his mother said soothingly. “What do you think? How does it sound, being a lawyer?”
“Terrible.” Dexter glared at her. “I’m not interested in that at all. Why should I decide to major in something I have no interest in doing?”
“Look, do you think I was interested in going in to work at that drugstore every damn day for twenty-three years?” Aunt Paula scowled at him. “Grow up, boy. Sometimes people gotta do things they ain’t crazy about if they want to get by.”
“I know that,” Dexter said. “But—”
“But nothing.” His aunt’s voice was unyielding and cold. “Long as I’m footing the bills, you ain’t gonna throw away your expensive education on something stupid. That sort of thing is for rich boys who can live off their trust funds. In case you haven’t noticed, that category don’t include you.”
His mother waggled her hands soothingly at the two of them. “Now, now, you two,” she murmured. “If we just talk this out…”
Dexter stood silently for a moment, still glaring at his aunt. Why had he ever thought she could be reasonable about this or consider his wishes? That wasn’t the way she was made, and he knew it. Part of him wanted to rebel, to throw her stupid money back in her face and insist on living his own life his own way.
Almost immediately, he shrank back from that idea. Rejecting her money—and her manipulation—would feel good in the short term. But where would it leave him in the end?
Right back here where I started, he realized with a sinking feeling in his gut. Stuck in this depressed, dead-end town with no prospects, no future…and no Daisy.
He gulped, realizing how close he’d been to risking everything he’d come to care about over the past few months. So what if his aunt was close-minded and unreasonable? That wasn’t exactly breaking news. He’d spent his whole life working around her stubbornness. He should be able to strike a compromise they could all live with on this matter, too. After all, wasn’t he supposed to be the smart one in the family?
“All right,” he said, keeping his voice as calm and reasonable as possible. “I understand. But is there maybe something else that could pay the bills besides being a doctor or lawyer or stockbroker? There are tons of different kinds of jobs out there that pay decently.”
“That’s the right spirit, Dexy.” Once again, his mother sounded relieved. “What do you say, Paula?”
Aunt Paula seemed suspicious, but she agreed to discuss it. The three of them spent the next hour poring over the university’s course catalog and hashing out Dexter’s skills and interests. More than once he was tempted to get up and walk out, especially when Aunt Paula insulted him or belittled his ideas. But every time the urge struck he thought of Daisy’s pretty, laughing face and bit his tongue. He could be strong for her. For them.
“It’s decided, then,” Aunt Paula said at last, leaning back so suddenly that the sofa squeaked in protest. “You’ll major in Psychology.”
Dexter didn’t like the way she made it sound like a royal decree. But he was satisfied enough with the content of her remark to ignore the delivery. “Okay,” he agreed. “Psych it is.”
His mother clapped her hands. “Good!” she cried. “That way you can still be a doctor, Dexy. Sort of, anyway.”
Dexter nodded and smiled blandly. He still didn’t feel much interest in going into clinical practice, but he figured he could work that out later. As far as he was concerned, the good news was that Psych required fewer core classes than Pre-med, which meant more electives free for English Lit or Philosophy or anything else he felt like exploring—and Aunt Paula couldn’t possibly complain about it.
It’s not the perfect solution, he told himself, trying not to feel like a sellout for letting the women talk him down from his original plans. But it’ll do for now. And who knows—Psych just might turn out to be my thing. More likely than chemistry, anyway.…
“That’s true,” Aunt Paula said in response to the other woman’s comment. “Those shrinks make plenty, too, from what I hear.” She glanced toward the muted TV, where a dapper attorney was arguing a case in front of a courtroom. “Plus if he decides to give law school a try, he can probably do that with a Psychology major just as easy as anything else, right?”
“Sure,” Dexter said, though she wasn’t really talking to him. When it came right down to it, he was willing to agree to just about anything as long as he was allowed to drop the hard sciences that had been the only really miserable part of his otherwise amazing first semester. Whatever else Aunt Paula demanded, he could live with it—for now, at least.
Even if it made him feel a
little less like SuperDexter and a little more like a coward.
15
THE GAPING MAW OF the fuselage lay before him, the pale crimson light of the sinking sun making it glow like the gates of Hell. Dexter did his best to banish such fanciful impressions as he switched on his flashlight and took a tentative step forward. The breeze shifted and blew out at him through the husk of the plane, nearly choking him with the thick smells of jet fuel, moldy food, and rotting flesh. He gagged, not sure he could go any closer to that stench without losing the meager contents of his stomach.
It took a moment to get his churning guts back under control. Gripping his flashlight more tightly, he moved forward again, playing the beam over the closest section of the plane. He definitely wanted to see exactly where he was going in there.
No surprises, he thought with a shudder, remembering the way he’d literally stumbled over Jason’s body.
The fuselage lay at a crazy upside-down angle, one at which no airplane was meant to land. The baggage compartment was now at the top, with the passenger compartment below, its seats hanging almost straight down from the floor overhead. The ground—formerly the ceiling of the plane—was cluttered with clothing and seat cushions and bits of metal and various other parts of the plane.
Dexter took one cautious step inside, then another, holding his small flashlight before him like a weapon. Flies were everywhere, their constant buzzing drone surrounding him and blocking out any noise from outside. The oxygen masks still hung limply from their clear tubes, and Dexter shuddered as he remembered grabbing frantically for his while the plane screamed toward the ground. As he took another step he noticed a man’s foot sticking out from beneath a battered metal snack cart wedged in among the wreckage, and quickly averted his eyes.
Just take a look around, then get out, Dexter told himself, breathing as shallowly as he could in a futile attempt to avoid the stench.
It got darker and harder to see his way through the rubble as he moved farther into the body of the plane, step by careful step. As he swept his light around, he noticed that most of the overhead bins—which weren’t overhead anymore—were yawning open, revealing suitcases and clothes and other items within. Dexter momentarily wondered if his carry-on bag was still in its compartment, but he quickly banished the thought. It wasn’t worth staying in this hellhole any longer than necessary—not for a few pairs of clean underwear and some deodorant.
Lost: The Novels Page 23
