Trigger

by Susan Vaught

  After Dad and I got home with a prescription for really strong aspirin, something for my stomach so I could take the aspirin, and a diagnosis of “multiple bruises,” Dad told me I had to stay home for the next week. I fell down! Just a fall. A little fall. X-rays. I tried to argue, but it did no good. I was there, trapped in the house with Dad, J.B. the homicidal ghost, the football rug, and sometimes, late at night or early in the morning, Mom.

  “Use the time,” I told myself Wednesday afternoon, repeating something the hand-Nazi from Carter had told me over and over again. “No such thing as downtime if you use it to get stronger. Time.”

  So, I avoided looking at the devastation of Mama Rush’s presents by studying the driver’s manual, doing hand exercises with a tennis ball, and repairing my memory book as best I could. Time. Time and more time. After a while, I sat down on my bed, looked up the number in my memory book, called Carter, and asked for Alicia. She was in occupational therapy and couldn’t come to the phone. Time. Hank was seeing the shrink, and Joey had been discharged. No forwarding number. His parents wanted him to “go back to his real life.” Probably didn’t want him talking to the kid who shot himself. Me. If I shot myself. Whatever. Time. When I got to talk to Hank, I’d ask him about Joey’s number.

  I had to dig out a school directory to look up numbers from people I knew Before. People other than Todd, anyway. Guys from football. Guys from the golf team. The first one I tried was Kerry Brandt. Time. I used to know him from golf. I used to like him. At least I thought I did. And I wasn’t nervous. Time. Not nervous at all. I made myself quit rocking on the bed.

  The phone rang three times before a guy answered with, “Loooo-ooove shack, may I take a reservation?”

  “Time!” I blurted. Coughed really fast. Shook my head. “I mean, hello. Kerry?”

  Silence. A lot of silence. Then, “Hatch. Is that you?”

  Surprised, but mean-sounding, too. Not friendly.

  I coughed again. “Yeah. I just—”

  “What are you doing calling me?” A snort, kind of like a laugh. “Don’t waste my time.”

  I just sat there holding the phone. I didn’t have a clue what to say, but I didn’t have to say anything, because Kerry hung up.

  Okay.

  I took a deep breath.

  So guys from school didn’t visit me, and now one of them didn’t want to talk to me. But that was just one person. I looked up another name. Just one person. A guy I knew from football. I punched the number, got it wrong. Stopped. Took another deep breath and punched it again. Just one person. Just one.

  This time, a woman answered. “Hello?”

  “Person. One. Hello.” Another breath, but a fast one. Focus. “Mrs. Janson? May I speak to Alan?”

  The woman took a few breaths, too. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Jersey Hatch.”

  “Oh.” More breathing from Mrs. Janson. “Jersey, I—I don’t think this is a good idea. I don’t want to upset you, but I’d rather you didn’t call here.”

  This time, it was me who hung up. I don’t know why I did it, really. It was rude not to say good-bye. But for a second, I felt rude.

  “Good-bye.” I slammed the school directory. “Rude.”

  More deep breaths. My heart thumped faster and my jaws hurt. I realized I was grinding my teeth, so I stopped. Then I opened the book again and looked up Arroyo, Elana. I squinted my good eye at the printed name like it might make a picture pop into my brain, but it didn’t. I couldn’t see her in my head. Maybe if I heard her voice, I’d remember something.

  “Rude.” I dialed the phone. “Rude. Good-bye.”

  One ring.

  Two.

  A click. Recorded voice. “The number you have reached has been disconnected or is no longer in service …”

  I hung up. Started to throw the phone. Stopped.

  “Rude.”

  Pictures. I wanted to see her. Talk to her. Remember something—anything. So I put the phone down and got busy digging out my yearbooks and stacking them on my bed. One at a time, I went through them. I found Arroyo, Elana in the last three, but I couldn’t tell much. Dark hair, dark eyes, a dimple on her right cheek. She looked Spanish or Egyptian or something exotic. I remembered her a little from when she started at our school, but after that, nothing.

  By the time I found Elana’s picture, J.B. and I were on conversational terms up in that room on that bed where I shot myself—if I shot myself instead of having a car wreck.

  “I lost my best friend over her?” Shaking my head, I closed the book. “Time.”

  Maybe she was Todd’s girl and you took her away, J.B. suggested. I wasn’t as scared of him as I should have been, being that he was probably ectoplasm or whatever, and could have killed me if he wanted to. Maybe.

  “Yeah, right. Time. Stronger. Even without the Frankenstein scars, Todd’s always been the movie star, not me. Ectoplasm.”

  You’re talking worse. Those calls made you upset and you’re not focusing, so you’re worse.

  “Am not. Ectoplasm.”

  Don’t say ectoplasm.

  “Ectoplasm.”

  See? Getting worse.

  “It’s harder in the real world. Time. They said it would be. Therapists, I mean. More pressure. Time.” I didn’t say ectoplasm. It wasn’t easy.

  J.B. made a snort-noise in my head. Maybe you went out with Elana and ignored Todd, and he got mad about it.

  Todd, jealous. Ectoplasm. Ectoplasm, ectoplasm. I traced the raised cover of the yearbook. Green to gold, gold to green. The Green Rangers. Todd, jealous. That just didn’t make sense no matter which way I traced the words. Todd was straightforward and honest. If he’d been jealous or had a problem with me, he would have said so, and we would have worked it out.

  Maybe Todd changed. You don’t really know him now, After, do you? Maybe he even changed Before.

  “Ectoplasm. You talk too much, chump.”

  The floor creaked.

  “Jersey?”

  My head jerked up and I snatched my hand off the yearbook cover like I shouldn’t have been touching it. “Mom? You’re home. Time—it isn’t. Ectoplasm. I mean, I didn’t know it was time for you to be home.”

  She stood in the doorway and glanced around my room. Her eyes lingered on the bed, the pillow, the football rug I was keeping spread out where it was Before. She seemed to be studying everything but me. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Um, I—myself, I guess. Bored, looking up faces in the yearbook, and … and stuff.” I felt like a big idiot, and I couldn’t tell her about J.B. No way. Besides, the ghost seemed to have taken off the minute she made a noise.

  “Where’s your father?” She glanced around the room again, like Dad might be hiding somewhere in a corner.

  “I think he went to the ectoplasm. I mean, grocery store. Something about getting a bunch of boy food—easy food—for after he starts back to work next week.”

  Mom jerked like I had hit her. “Did he actually say he was going back to work next week and leaving you here alone?”

  “I didn’t—I didn’t write it down.” I had made a big mistake here, but I had no clue what it was. “But, I think he said that. Food. Boy food. It’ll be fine. Really. Boy food.”

  Mom’s eyes closed. I realized that her normal banking suit, the blue skirt and jacket with the white shirt, was wrinkled. Her pantyhose sagged like they were too big for her.

  “How long have you been here? How long has he been gone?” Her voice came out murder-quiet. It gave me chills.

  “I didn’t write it down.”

  When Mom opened her eyes, she stared at where I was on the bed, but I didn’t think she was seeing me. Not now, not in the present, anyway. “Have you been okay alone?”

  “Sure.” I shrugged. “I’m seventeen.”

  “No thoughts about … what happened?”

  I think about what happened all the time. Every minute. The words wanted to rush down from my brain into my mouth, but in
an unusual fit of pragmatics and social awareness, King Jersey the five-year-old genius figured this was the wrong answer. Do not pass doorbells. Do not collect deserts.

  “No thoughts,” I lied. “Pragmatics. I’ve just been trying to figure out who this girl Elana was. Ectoplasm, and stuff.”

  Mom stiffened and hardened, turning into that scary ice statue with moving lips. “The girl you dated?”

  All thoughts of pragmatic deserts dropped out of my head. “You know who she was? I dated her? When? Ectoplasm!”

  Mom’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed. “You said you were bored, right?”

  “Well, yeah. Dated. Dad said I had to stay here until at least Saturday, so I’ve been trying to find things to do, and—”

  “Clean up and come downstairs. I’ll call a cab to take you over to The Palace to see Mama Rush.” She closed her mouth again. Took a deep breath. “Can you handle a cab, Jersey?”

  “Sure, practiced at Carter. I can handle it.”

  “You positive?”

  “Sure. Cab.”

  Mom sighed.

  Pay the driver. Pay the driver. I could do easy math. I could count change and money and stuff. If I remembered to pay the driver. If I walked off and forgot, he’d call the police and send me to jail. Pay the driver. I clung to my memory book and the bills Mom had given me. The plastic bag with Mama Rush’s presents felt heavy on my weak wrist. Don’t forget to pay the driver. Jail. Don’t forget to keep enough money to get home. Jail. Don’t forget to pay the driver.

  The taxi pulled slowly to a stop beside a long sidewalk. A bunch of flower bushes lined the sides of the white concrete.

  Pay the driver.

  “Pay the driver,” I echoed as I got out of the cab. The present bag smacked my leg.

  The cabbie, who had hair redder than apples and strawberries, couldn’t quit staring at me as I forgot how much to pay him and just held out my fistful of money. His eyes went from my scars to the money, from the money to my scars. He glanced once at my weak, limp side. Once at the memory book tucked under my bad arm, and once at the plastic bag full of presents looped around my bad wrist. Then he took the cash, thumbed through it, and started to put it in his pocket. He stopped, gave me a guilty look, thumbed through the bills again, and handed me some of the money back.

  “For the ride home,” he said.

  “Pay the driver.” I nodded, grateful, mad I forgot to keep some on my own. “Thanks.”

  The guy sighed and shook his head before he pulled away. I crammed the money in my pocket.

  When I turned around and gave the place a good look, The Palace reminded me a lot of a hospital, even though commercials said it offered “The latest in independent living for seniors.” It was sad that I had seen those ads so many times I remembered them word for word. Must have taken at least a thousand times. White walls, white floors—but at least The Palace had carpet. The carpet was royal blue just like on television. When I turned my head a little, I could see it through the open front doors.

  I limped up the flower-bush walkway, passing between brick columns topped by gold lions. My left foot dragged along as usual, bumping every crack in the concrete. My left arm felt tight against my belly as I worked not to drop the present bag. Stupid arm always tightened up when I was nervous. I shifted the memory book to my good hand. It helped me feel more balanced.

  If Mama Rush remembered me, would she talk to me? She might be mad at me, too, and I couldn’t say I’d blame her. Of all the people in the world, Mama Rush had the most right to slap me in the face. A lot of things in my past might be blank, but I knew one thing for sure. Mama Rush wouldn’t have run out on me even if everyone else did. My best friend’s grandmother—well, Todd used to be my best friend but now he hated me—never let me down. I’d known her since I was five, about twelve years if you count the one or two I don’t remember. She would be mad I didn’t talk to her before I did it. If I did it. Before. After. Everything changes.

  The Palace was bigger than I thought. Lots of hallways. Lots of people in wheelchairs or using walkers or canes. The blue rug made swishy-scrunch sounds as I walked, and the whole place smelled like cleanser and muscle rub. I started to sweat. Walk faster. Was that the fireplace in the Carter great room? No. Jesus. I wasn’t at Carter. This was The Palace.

  My hand hurt. My head started to hurt.

  I turned another corner. People sitting in doorways staring out at me. Bathroom stink. I was back at Carter. Why did I have to go back?

  Chewing my lip, I hurried around another corner, and another.

  A woman with very black hair emerged from a crowd of people in bathrobes. She was wearing a bright red dress, and she held up her hand to stop me. A silver headset with a blue button on the earpiece made her look like those people on television commercials taking phone calls about credit cards. I couldn’t help noticing the button was the same shade of blue as the carpet, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with credit cards.

  “May I help you?” she asked. Perky. Definitely Perky. Her name tag said MEKI SHANSU RESIDENTIAL DIRECTOR. Her smile said, You’re some kind of thief or murderer, aren’t you?

  “No,” I answered without being able to stop myself. “Thief or murderer. Credit card blue.”

  This wasn’t Carter. This wasn’t Carter. It wasn’t.

  Meki Shansu Residential Director stared at me, mouth slightly open. Like the cabby, her eyes went from scar to scar to my weak side and back to the scars. Her right hand twitched as she lifted it toward the credit card button on her headset.

  “I came to see Mama Rush,” I blurted before the woman could push the button. It might bring a bunch of guys with guns or something. “Guns,” I echoed helplessly. “No, wait. Credit cards. Royal blue.” I bit my tongue to shut myself up and decided I should carry an actual sock for times like this.

  Meki Shansu Residential Director lowered her hand a fraction, eyes now fixed on my memory book. “Do you know her apartment number?”

  “Um, I—no.” I lowered my head, but lifted it again in a hurry. Pragmatics, Hatch. “Credit cards. I came to see Mama Rush. I need to talk to her, please?”

  “I’m sorry.” Her fingers were moving toward the button again. “Without an apartment number, you can’t visit a resident. You’ll have to leave and come back when you know it.”

  “Please?” My face heated up. Part anger, part frustration. “I’ve got to talk to her to see if she remembers me, to find out if she’s mad at me. It’s the first number on my list, and the second number’s already blown to hell—oops, sorry I cursed. Desert credit cards. I mean, thieves and murderers. I need a sock.”

  Meki Shansu Residential Director’s fingers were millimeters from her blue button when a deep, scratchy voice behind me said, “Back off, Attila the Red. This one’s okay.”

  The woman with the headset frowned, but she once more lowered her hand. Without comment, she strode away, probably to find some other thief, murderer, or credit card fiend.

  I turned around.

  Mama Rush was sitting behind me on a bright purple mobility scooter. Her right hand rested on the controls, and she had a half-smoked stubbed-out cigarette in her left hand.

  “You finally got around to showing up, huh?” Her voice rasped like an old movie actress, but her fuzzy white hair and bowling-pin shape didn’t look so Hollywood. She had big black eyes, huge eyes, framed by gold-rimmed glasses, and when she blinked at me, I knew I was supposed to answer.

  “Yeah. I mean, no. I mean, credit cards.” I fidgeted, clutching my memory book.

  Mama Rush’s lips were as red as that blue-button woman’s dress had been, and when she smiled, she looked friendlier. The smile vanished as quickly as it came and the grumpy old general on the purple scooter returned. I adored her. It was nice to find familiar feelings in the middle of all the strangeness.

  “Well, come on back outside. If we’re gonna talk, I want to smoke.” She rubbed knobby fingers over her chin. Her gold and green robes
whispered with the scooter’s movement, and the scooter barely made any noise at all. Just the softest hum against the royal blue carpet. I followed as fast as I could, noticing that I could still smell her. Smoke and apples, and something spicy I couldn’t name—except it lingered, even if she left. Just like Before. When I was little, I used to think she followed Todd and me everywhere we went. Smoke and apples. Something hadn’t changed. Thank God. Something was the same.

  “Apples,” I muttered as we headed out side doors that swung open without us having to push a button or anything. Mama Rush was here, and she was on a purple scooter, and she was driving to a patio with lots of metal tables and metal chairs and stand-up ashtrays.

  “Slow down, Apple Boy,” she called over her shoulder. I could see her big eyes in the rearview mirror of the scooter. “The way you’re hopping, you’re gonna fall.”

  I did what she said. She was right, too. King Jersey the Apple Boy was about to fall right on his ugly freak face. Slower. Slower. Balance check. The present bag crunched and rattled as it swung back and forth. Slow. Slow. Slow steps over to the metal table Mama Rush had picked. She parked her scooter with a jerk, switched it off, eased up from the seat, and stood. By that time, I had reached the table.

  All I could do was stare at her. Mama Rush. I was really looking at her, and so far she was talking to me.

  “Go on,” she finally said, pointing her unlit cigarette at one of the metal chairs. “Sit.”

  I put the memory book on the metal mesh of the table, started to sit, and remembered the bag.

  “Here.” I thrust out my bad arm, bag dangling from my wrist. “I made you some presents. Only, I think some of them are broken. Apples. I fell on them and they got banged on my leg and stuff and I haven’t looked and—”

  “I know. Leza told me.” Mama Rush sighed, tucked her cigarette behind her left ear, and worked at untying the bag from my wrist. She had long fingers like Leza, and her skin was the same perfect ebony, smooth and silky looking, except it had a few wrinkles. Funny. I always thought Todd looked more like her than Leza did. But that was Before and this was After and lots of things had changed.