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Chapter 3
In only a few short hours I had gone from thinking there were too many exciting adventures to fit into a single vacation to wishing I could magically make school start again the next day.
I rode my bike home and did the one thing that always helped when things weren't going well. I read. Books were my refuge. Getting lost in a solid adventure story was the best way I knew of to turn off reality. There was nothing like a trip to Tralfamador or Middle Earth to help escape real life. I went to my bedroom and tried to get lost in the pages of one of my favorites: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It wasn't working. I was still too caught up with Cooper's drama. I tossed down the book and grabbed a sketch pad to do a little drawing and clear my head.
My hand instinctively started tracing the lines of Grave-digger's face. I got as far as the sunken eyes and had to force
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myself to stop. I needed to come up with something else to draw. Tyler Frano was wrong. I was an artist. I had all kinds of inspiration to call on. It was in my blood.
My mom was an artist. Actually, she was a photographer, but the images she created were works of art. She was a freelancer who traveled all over the world on assignment for magazines like National Geographic and Smithsonian. Mom loved to shoot ancient structures like churches and old villages. I'm no expert, but I think she was good. She could take something that looked like a crumbling pile of rocks and, by using light and the perfect angle, create a stunning picture that made you feel as if you were stepping back through time to see the building in its original glory. It was like she had a third eye that saw possibility where most people saw, well, a pile of old rocks.
I had prints of some of her photos hanging in my bedroom. One made the Great Wall of China look like a living serpent, snaking across misty green hills. Another was a black-and-white image of a doll's face taken through the window of a long-abandoned shop in a California ghost town. It was creepy and sad at the same time. I often wondered who the doll belonged to. Besides her photos, I had one whole shelf of stuff Mom had picked up on her travels and sent back to me. There wasn't anything cheesy like: My parents went to Jamaica and all I got was this lousy T-shirt. There were hand-carved jade elephants from Indonesia; a marionette from Germany; a voodoo doll from New Orleans; a flute from Chile; and one item I had no clue about.
It was a golden ball about the size of a plum. I think it might have been made of glass, but it was hard to tell because the entire surface was painted with odd designs that could have been some strange alphabet or just random doodles. The thing had weight but wasn't heavy. It had absolutely
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no useful purpose as far as I could tell. I didn't even know where it came from or when I had gotten it.
As I did so many times, I sat and let my eyes wander over Mom's stuff until I came to one particular photo. It was a spectacular shot of an abandoned, centuries-old temple. The place looked like it had been built in the year one, but my mom captured the warm light of sunset on its surface in such a way that it looked timeless. It was a great picture.
I hated it.
"Dinner!" came a call from downstairs.
Seven o'clock. I could set my watch by when Dad had dinner on the table. I wasn't hungry but didn't feel like sitting in my room by myself, searching for inspiration. There would be plenty of time for that over the next two months.
Dad made spaghetti. His specialty. Pasta in boiling water and a jar of sauce. Real fancy stuff. I didn't eat much. I kept playing the events of the day over and over in my head.
"So?" Dad asked, pulling me into the moment. "Vegas?"
With all that had been going on, I'd totally forgotten. Dad was a marketing guy for a home electronics company. It's how we got the sweet plasma TV. He was headed to Las Vegas for a weeklong convention and wanted me to go with him. I hadn't thought much about it because I was expecting to be kicking off summer with Cooper.
"I don't know . . . ," I replied.
"C'mon! It'll be great. While I'm working, you can check out all the new tech stuff. Then we'll catch some shows at night. You know, Cirque du Ole."
"Cirque du Soleil."
"Yeah, that. We'll stay on a couple days and do some fishing. Maybe see Hoover Dam.
L-D-I!"
That meant "Let's do it." Dad was a goof. He often spoke in acronyms like "L-D-I" or "I am O-O-H" ("out of here").
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Maybe that came from working the Black Berry too much. Or maybe he was just a goof.
"They're kind of relying on me at work," I said. It was a lie. They weren't relying on me at all.
"Work? You sound like some old guy. C'mon! It's summer! L-I-U!"
That meant "lighten up." Or "live it up." I wasn't sure which.
As I think back, I wonder what would have happened if I had made a different decision. What if I had gone with him? Would things have played out differently? Or was everything that happened inevitable?
"I really don't want to go, Dad."
He was ready to jump in with another reason to tempt me to go, but turned serious instead. "I hate leaving you home alone."
"I know, but it's cool. Really. You know that."
Dad frowned. "I do. I'm just worried about you, Marsh."
"Dad! I'll be fine! Seriously. You know I won't throw parties or trash the house."
"I know. I almost wish you would."
"Uhh . . . what?"
He got up and started clearing the dinner plates. Something was bugging him.
He finally said, "We never talk about Mom anymore."
"Whoa. Change of subject."
"Not really. Mom was always the one who got us going. She came up with the ideas and the adventures. Right? You used to love going on trips. That's what we did. But we haven't gone anywhere since, well, since Mom planned the last one. With her gone, it's like we're not . . . we're not . . . things are just different."
"Well . . . yeah."
"But it's not right."
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"Is that why you want me to go to Vegas? You're trying to come up with an adventure like Mom used to do?"
"No. Maybe. I don't know. I'm just afraid that ... I don't know how to say this, Marsh ... I see you closing into yourself."
"Huh?"
Once Dad found the words, he couldn't stop. "Don't get mad. It's just that I wish you'd get out more. Make more friends. Join a team. I think it's great how you're so into your books and your comics and your drawings. That's all great. But it's so . . . solitary."
He really caught me off guard. I wasn't expecting any of that. "I've got friends," I said defensively.
"You've got Coop, and he's entering the Witness Protection Program. Where does that leave you? What are you going to do the rest of the summer?"
"I've got plenty to do," I shot back.
"I'm sure you do and that's great--I just want you to get out a little bit and have some fun. That's all I'm saying. It's what Mom would have wanted."
"Mom never would have said anything like that," I said, my anger building.
"Probably not. She was much smarter than me. But she knew what she wanted for you and it wasn't to live a life inside your head."
"Where do you get that stuff? Are you reading psychology books or something?"
"No. Okay, maybe a few. I'm feeling my way along here. You're a smart guy, Marsh. I'm really proud of you. But you need people in your life. You need to get out. Go to parties. Chase girls. You know ... do normal stuff."
I jumped out of my chair. "You think I'm not normal?"
"No! I didn't mean it like that. C'mon, you know what I'm saying."
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"I have no idea what you're saying, but I think you better stop saying it before you say something even dumber than you already have."
I blasted out of there and headed back to my bedroom. I'd never spoken like that to my dad, but then again, he'd never spoken to me like that either. Where did he get off saying I wasn't normal? Thi
ngs were different. He didn't need to point that out. I was dealing with it. Okay, maybe I spent a lot of time alone, but that was my personality. I wasn't a big-group kind of guy. I stormed into my bedroom and stood there, not sure of what to do with my anger. Scream? Punch the wall? Throw myself on the bed and kick my legs like a little girl? My eye caught the photo on the wall. Mom's photo. The temple. It brought back a flood of memories that only made me feel worse.
It could have happened yesterday. That's how vivid the moment was. But it was nearly two years before. I was in my bedroom, playing Jenga with Cooper. It was a game for five-year-olds, but we always made it more interesting by balancing a glass of water on top or playing for Cokes. It was way more fun when something was at stake. Except that Cooper would always make me laugh at a critical moment and I'd end up knocking over the tower and owing him. It was one of those great memories not so much because of what it was, but because it was the final moment before things would change. If I had a time machine, I'd pick that moment to go back to . . . and stay there.
Dad came into the room. His face was gray. I remember that. He usually bounced in with a loud "Hello, girls!" or something equally goofy. Not that time. His eyes were red. I knew instantly that he'd been crying. I don't know how or why, but as soon as I saw him, I knew what I would hear. I didn't
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yet know the details, hut something had had happened and I was pretty sure of what it was.
"Maybe you should head home, Cooper," Dad said, his voice cracking.
Coop moved to get up, but I pushed him down.
"Stay," I said, and looked to Dad. "What happened?"
Coop's eyes were so wide, it was almost comical. For once, and maybe for the last time, he was speechless.
Dad sat down on the floor, facing me. He didn't have to talk because for some reason I knew what he was going to say. All he could offer were details, and I wasn't so sure I wanted them.
"Mom had a bad accident," he said. Everything after that was white noise.
Mom had been on assignment in one of those Eastern European countries that changes its name every two weeks. "Somethingistan" or whatever. She was there to do a study of ancient buildings. It happened in a city where she was shooting a centuries-old temple. It was an earthquake. A serious one. The temple was destroyed. Dozens of people were killed.
It was a wrong-place, wrong-time event . . . that killed my mom and changed our lives.
When I first got the news, I was angry. I had the whole "Why her?" thing going on. (Though to be honest, it was more of a "Why me?" thing.) I had no choice but to accept it. Or try to. I still get angry sometimes and this was one of those times. It didn't help that I was already pissed off at Cooper. At that moment I was pissed at Mom, too. I wanted to hit something. Or someone. I needed to release the pressure or I was going to scream.
I should have screamed.
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I looked to the picture on my bedroom wall. The temple. It was the last photo she ever took. She would soon die inside of it. When I look at it, which I do most every day, I can't help but think that it didn't matter how many centuries it stood--it was moments away from crumbling to dust, along with my mom. What seemed so strong was actually very fragile.
It's a beautiful photo.
I hate it.
I reached for the shelf that had all of Mom's mementos and grabbed the small, golden ball with the odd markings. It was exactly what I needed. I spun, cocked my arm, and whipped the golden orb across the room, nailing the photo of the temple. It was exactly the release I needed . . . and one I instantly regretted. When the golden sphere hit the picture, it shattered, along with the glass over the photo. Tiny bits of glass flew everywhere. It was like a small explosion. At that same moment I felt a sharp rumble as if a heavy truck was rolling by outside, shaking the house. It was so short, I figured my loss of control and release of pent-up energy had thrown off my equilibrium somehow.
When the ball broke, it splattered deep red liquid all over the photo and wall. The spray reached beyond the black frame, staining the wall with dark, red-brown juice. I couldn't get my mind around what I was seeing. The ball seemed ancient. How could it be filled with liquid? I walked to the photo, transfixed by the sight of red rivers drooling down the wall. Was it colored water? Or juice? I reached up and gingerly touched a glistening rivulet. I rubbed my fingers together, smearing it around and wiping it back onto the wall. It was thick. It smelled like steak.
It was blood.
"Dad!" I screamed, and ran out of the room. "Dad, c'mere!"
I stood on top of the stairs as Dad hurried up. "What?"
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I ran back into my room with my dad right behind me. "I threw this thing and when it hit the wall, it shattered and spewed . . ."
I looked to the bloodied wall to see ... it wasn't bloody anymore. The photo and the wall around it were completely clean. I felt dizzy. How could that have happened?
"What did you throw?" Dad asked, confused.
Only a few seconds before, the wall had been splattered with what I thought was blood. There was no way it could have run down and left no trace. At least not that fast. The floor was covered with broken glass and shattered pieces from the golden ball. I hurried over and picked up two of the larger pieces of the destroyed ball. I felt the inside for traces of liquid. It was bone-dry.
"Was it Mom's?" Dad asked.
I couldn't think straight. "Uh, yeah. I threw it at the picture."
"You what? Marsh!"
"It was ... I mean ... I shouldn't have. I know. I was mad. But when it broke, there was red stuff inside. Like blood."
He hurried to the wall and touched the photo where there was a small gouge from the impact. He ran his finger over it like it was a wound. A wound I had caused. He didn't have to say anything. I knew what he was thinking. I wasn't normal.
All I could say was "Sorry."
Dad nodded. "I am too."
"Was it valuable?" I asked.
Dad shrugged. "I don't know, your mom was always collecting things. Listen, Marsh, I didn't mean to get you so angry. I just ... I want things to be good for you."
"But I'm okay, Dad. Really."
He gave me a small, sad smile that said he didn't believe
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me. He didn't push it, though, and neither did I. He bent over to clean up the remains of the shattered globe and the glass from the picture.
I wasn't mad at him anymore. I knew he was just as upset about Mom as I was, and when you're upset, you say things you don't mean. We usually handled it well. Sometimes we didn't. That was a fact of our new life. There was nothing to do but help him clean up.
The storm had passed, at least for the moment. I was left with a mess to sweep away, a damaged picture, and the mystery of what had happened to the blood that was no longer splattered all over my bedroom wall.
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Chapter 4
Cooper and I didn't talk to each other again before his family left for the lake. A couple of times I thought about giving him a call to settle things, but didn't. I figured it was better if we both took some time to cool off.
I tried to stop thinking about the broken globe and the blood. Whether it was valuable or not, it was one more piece of Mom that was now gone, thanks to me. I couldn't come up with any logical answers or explanations for what had happened, so I pushed the whole event out of my head.
All the fun things I had planned to do didn't seem like much fun anymore, so I spent most of my time those first few days either reading or picking up hours at work. As long as I was going to be bored, I figured I might as well make some bucks. Not that I had anywhere to spend it. I actually started to think that Dad was right. I should get out a little
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more and make some friends. I might have done it too ... if I knew how.
I'd only been out of school for three days, and the summer had already become deadly monotonous. That changed when a visitor came to see me at work. I was hunched ov
er my engraving machine, etching out a sailing trophy for the local yacht club, when I heard a familiar singsong voice call out to me.
"Hello, Marshmallow!"
I looked up to see Ennis Mobley step into my tiny workplace.
"Ennis! Hey!" I jumped up and hugged the guy.
Ennis was a guy my mom used to work with, but he was more like family. I think he was around forty years old, though I'm not the best judge. He was from Jamaica, which accounted for his singsong voice. Mom always hired Ennis whenever she went somewhere on assignment. He would help with the gear and travel arrangements and basically free Mom up to focus on taking pictures instead of sweating logistics. Ennis was with her when the earthquake hit. As I heard it, he was nearly killed himself. He was able to salvage most of Mom's gear, which is how I got the film with the picture of the temple. More important, Ennis worked hard to cut through the red tape and transport Mom's body back home quickly. We owed him for that in a big way.
He was almost as torn up about Mom's death as Dad and I were. I want to say that when I think about him, the first thing that comes to mind is his quick smile and easy laugh. It isn't. I picture him standing over my mother's grave at the funeral, crying. He put a small bouquet of flowers, which he told me came from a tree called lignum vitae, on her casket. He said it produced wood that was so strong, it was called the "wood of life." He loved my mom. We all did.
Since the funeral, he'd send an e-mail to check in every
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once in a while, but we hardly ever saw him in person . . . which is why it was a total surprise when he showed up at the trophy shop.
"How are you, Marshmallow?" he asked.
He had called me that ever since I was little. It was cuter when I was little.
"I'm good. What are you doing here?" I asked.
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