Now I’m starting to worry just how serious my injury might be. I reach for a penlight, shine it into my eyes, but the pupils don’t appear dilated. I find some relief in that, because it indicates that even if I’ve suffered a concussion, it’s more than likely minor. After locating a box of tissues in my glove compartment, I apply gentle pressure to the wound and dab away the blood.
Back to the tree again. I take a closer look and see its trunk is split wide open, the base littered with pieces of jagged, rusted metal and broken plastic.
That could have been me. I could be dead right now.
I remind myself how notoriously dangerous this road is, how I’m constantly hearing about accidents on the news involving horrific injuries or even fatalities. It would appear I’m among the luckier ranks.
So what should I do now?
Call for help, idiot.
Help . . . yeah . . . Get help, that’s it. I find my phone on the floorboard, but there’s no signal. A quick glance around reminds me why. The road is situated in a low point with foothills all around. I can’t count the number of times my phone has dropped calls while passing through here. I set my gaze uphill, knowing I’ll be able to get reception there.
After turning the ignition key, I’m thankful to hear the engine start. I straighten my wheels, put the car into reverse, and rock my way out of the ditch. Seconds later, I’m racing up the hill.
13
Or maybe I was wrong.
I’m at the summit’s peak, but my phone still isn’t showing me the love. No bars.
To my right, I spot a potential explanation, another taller foothill that’s likely blocking the cell signal. But I also see a clearing about a hundred feet away, so I get out of the car and trot toward it.
When I arrive, the bars at last make an appearance, only three, but I’ll take them. I dial my wife and wait for her to pick up.
She does.
“Hi, honey . . . ,” I say, for the first time realizing how thick my tongue feels as it wades through the sentence. “I’m okay, but I . . . but I’ve accident.”
“What?”
“I mean . . . I . . . I’ve had an accident.”
“How bad? Are you okay?” Jenna’s voice grows more distraught with each syllable. “Where are you?”
“Yeah . . . my think my am . . .” I try to assure her, but my hoarse voice and jumbled words strain credibility beyond reasonable limits.
“Where are you?” she again asks.
“I was on Saxony . . . I lost control in the rain, swerved to miss a tree but . . . but ended up running . . . off the . . . I ran off the road.”
“Chris, I don’t like the way you sound at all.”
“I hit my head on the steering wheel.”
“What? Have you called an ambulance?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Baby, you can barely even speak.”
“I checked my pupils. They’re fine. I can handle this.”
“You can’t, and I’m not about to let you try. I’ll be there in—”
“No!” I cut her off. “Don’t!”
About five seconds of quiet.
“It’s just . . . ,” I say, hearing desperate urgency in my voice that I’m unable to conceal. “I don’t want you driving so late with Devon. This road is dangerous enough.”
“Chris, this is not a good time for your persistent worries about Devon. You’ve been hurt. I can handle the road, and I’ll call for the sitter.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“But you can’t possibly think you’re getting behind the wheel like this.”
“Honey, I’m more . . . I’m qualified to say I can drive or not.”
You can barely put two words together, Dr. Moronic.
Shut up!
“I’m sorry,” Jenna says, “but not on my watch. Either call Adam, or I’m on my way.”
“I can’t just leave my car here,” I say, at last finding a foothold on clarity.
“That’s not important now! We can get it in the morning.”
I let out a long sigh. My wife’s got me beat in the persistence department. Has the stubborn down pretty well, too. After a few seconds, I relent and say, “Okay, I’ll get a hold of Adam.”
“Call me when he’s there,” Jenna adds, then without allowing me a response, hangs up.
I scowl at the phone, but in all honesty, she’s right. I probably shouldn’t be driving—it’s just that suddenly, and for reasons I can’t explain, bad vibes are rocking through me. I don’t like this place. I need to get out of here.
In my car, the throbbing resumes behind my ears with ferocious intensity, followed by skull-crushing tension. I lean back against the headrest and pray for deliverance from this pain.
My phone rings.
“Is Adam there?” Jenna asks.
“Well, no . . . not yet.”
“What? Why?”
“Honey, please. We just got off the pho—” But as the dashboard clock comes into focus, my reprimand grinds to a scrambling halt. Forty-five minutes have passed.
“Chris?”
“Yeah,” I answer, a little too rushed, a little too distracted, and then, “He’ll be here soon.”
“But he should already be there by now. What’s taking him so long?”
What’s taking him so long is that you never called, because you took a nap instead.
“He’ll be here soon,” I say again for lack of a more reasonable response. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
To avoid further explanation, I hang up, then take one last look at the tree resting downhill and obscured beneath shadows. The wind takes a sudden shift through the branches, opening them up like wide, outstretched arms. But this is no welcome—this is a warning.
A swath of red moves out from behind the tree. I get a fix on it but can’t believe what I see. The teenager I nearly hit earlier is running away, and the farther he goes, the more his image becomes lost in the cover of night.
A vile sensation claws its way through my stomach and up into the back of my throat. And I know—without a second of doubt or a moment of hesitation—that there is indeed something terribly wrong with this place.
You’ve got to get the hell out of here.
I have to get out of here.
I turn the ignition key, slam the gas pedal, and before I know it, I’m flying up the road.
14
I make it home in one piece.
My body does, anyway. As for my mind, that’s becoming more questionable by the minute. I’m not a medical doctor. I’m a damned psychologist, and that doesn’t make me anywhere near qualified to determine whether I should drive with a head injury—it only makes me impulsive and thoughtless.
When I walk into the kitchen, Jake is lying on the floor asleep. He stirs, flicks his attention at me, then withdraws, appearing lethargic and detached.
“You okay, boy?”
The dog lifts his head, gives my leg a gentle nudge with his nose, then with chin resting on paws, stares absently ahead. Troubled, I watch him for a moment, but something dark on my pant leg distracts me. I inspect closer and find a muddy splotch.
I look back at Jake. His nose is covered in mud.
There are two problems here. First, I know his nose was clean just a moment ago. Second, I’ve got no idea where the muck could have possibly come from. Arizona is in a drought, and while I may or may not have seen rain before my accident, everything I’ve witnessed since has been bone dry.
I return to Jake and flinch. His nose is clean.
Before I can reason my way through this unsettling mud quandary, Devon darts into the room. He throws his arms around my legs, forcing my weight to shift abruptly, which sends an instantaneous stab of pain through my side. Now I’ve got bruised ribs to contend with, and as the initial shock
wears off, I’m aware that more troubling injuries from the accident could soon surface. But for my son’s sake, I try to conceal both the pain and worry.
“Daddy got a bad cut!” Devon proclaims, pointing to my forehead.
Jenna rushes in. As soon as she sees me, her expression bounces from relief to serious worry.
“Chris, sit down right now,” she says. “You’re bleeding.”
I gingerly touch my head and feel dampness, now with added heat and a marked increase in swelling.
Jenna sits me in a chair, then heads for the sink. She runs a towel under the faucet, brings it back, and begins applying first aid.
“You look awful,” she says, blotting the blood off my forehead.
“Just a small cut. It actually looks worse than it feels.”
She pulls back to frown at me. She’s not buying it.
Devon now sits across from me at the table, leaning forward and watching. “Does it hurt, Daddy?”
“Not too bad,” I say, then throw in a wink to go with my little white lie.
“I don’t like the way this looks at all,” Jenna says. “I think we should take you to the emergency room.”
“It’s not necessary. I’ll be fine.”
“What if it’s something serious?”
“Sweetie, believe me, I’d know if it was. I’ll have Adam check me over tomorrow.”
She gives me another look, then goes back to work and shakes her head. “I think you need some treatment.”
I’m with the wife on that one. Seeing and hearing things that don’t exist isn’t exactly small potatoes.
“Stuff it!”
Jenna pulls back to look at me again, only this time it’s not worry I see but, rather, injured surprise. Add me to the startled list because I’ve got no idea how my thought transformed into spoken words. It’s like my brain sprouted speakers.
I go for the save. “I said I’ll tough it.”
Jenna watches me, but I’m not sure whether she’s measuring the veracity of my statement or still assessing my condition.
“Please don’t worry, sweetheart,” I say.
But it seems my assurance is only worth a frustrated sigh, followed by, “Your head is so damned hard that I’m actually surprised the crash managed to break skin.”
For the first time in the last hour, I grin.
Jenna bustles for an ice pack, and I retreat to the couch, thoughts funneling past my headache like cloudy dishwater. Devon perches in the easy chair across from me, and his company is a welcome distraction.
Jenna enters the room. She doesn’t look concerned about my injury right now. She looks . . .
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Your car is in the garage.”
Oh. Shit.
I meant to explain that earlier, come clean right away, but it’s too late. I’m in trouble.
“Yeah,” I say. “About that . . .”
“Please tell me you did not drive home.”
“I sort of did.”
Jenna points to the staircase but keeps her eyes nailed to me as she says, “Devon, please go to your room.”
Devon looks at his mom, looks at me, and gets the picture. He’s out of here.
“You drove yourself.”
“Honey, I just wanted to get home.”
“After I told you not to.”
“Basically, yes,” I say, then quickly add, “But I swear, I wasn’t trying to make you mad.” I inhale sharply. “It was something else . . .”
Jenna must sense my distress because her expression softens. Her tone, too. “Chris, what are you saying?”
I draw some more air, let it out slowly. “Something happened. I got scared.”
She takes a seat at my side, studying me with guarded concern.
“I told you I lost control, but what I didn’t tell you . . .” I steeple my hands, keep my eyes aimed on them. “ . . . is that I saw things.”
Jenna’s body relaxes, but the action doesn’t signal relief—it’s recognition—and without speaking, she says: I get it.
A few seconds of quiet stretch between us, and I need them, because I’m not sure what to say, and because the fear I was speaking of earlier now seems that much more real.
“Baby,” Jenna whispers, “you are not your father.”
All I can do is shake my head.
“This isn’t the same thing.” She reaches for my hand, gives it a squeeze. “It’s not him.”
“It is him. It’s always him.”
“You’re upset. That’s making everything seem worse.”
“I know . . .”
And I do know. I know that my exhaustion from work could have played a part in what I saw before the accident, then my head injury further precipitated the visual distortions after. But that doesn’t make this any easier. Jenna is well aware of my fear, knows that I battle it every day. Fear that any misperception, anything strange, could be a whisper from the past, coming to pay a most unwelcome visit. That what happened to my father will happen to me.
“Just a few moments,” I say, “that’s all it takes. Just a few moments of uncertainty, and I’m there again.”
“The accident played with your mind.”
I nod.
“Please promise me you’ll have this looked at tomorrow.”
“I’ll have it looked at.”
“You still should have told me.”
“I know.”
“But I also understand how you can get.”
“I shut down. I close up.”
She smiles a little. “Let’s keep working on that, okay?”
I try to smile back.
“And do me one more favor? No more driving with a dented head again. Ever. Got it?”
“I promise.”
“And if you get scared like that, you tell me.” Jenna leans over, gives me a kiss, and I feel a little better.
That is, until I catch sight of Jake over her shoulder, body inert, expression stoic and fixed on the front door. Like he’s waiting for someone.
Or something.
15
THE MAN IN THE DRAIN
Trouble was on the slow burn and moving through our home, through our lives.
My father began acting just a little odd. At first it didn’t feel like much cause for alarm. I’d occasionally overhear him mumble quietly while doing things around the house, but it seemed more like thinking out loud than anything else. So I brushed it off.
Until the mumbling turned into what sounded like an exchange with a voice only he could hear. Then, little by little, his comments took a disturbing turn, straying far outside the lines of normalcy, his shades of gray falling deeper into darkness.
My mother, just like always, pretended nothing was wrong. She wrote off the statements as his offbeat humor. Then in a fleeting moment during dinner one evening, the earth shifted beneath our feet, and just like that, we found ourselves on a whole other planet.
“There’s someone inside the drain,” my father proclaimed matter-of-factly, speaking around a mouthful of potatoes.
“What’s that, darling?” My mother regarded him briefly, her smile revealing negligible interest as she placed a bowl on the table.
After swallowing his food, he said, “In the drain.”
“There’s something in the drain?”
“Someone.”
“James, take some collard greens. You love those.” That was her response.
My father shrugged, then scooped greens onto his plate. “He’s in the bathroom. In the tub. A man—or I’m pretty sure he is, anyway. It’s hard to tell sometimes.”
“Stop being silly,” my mother said with a dismissive giggle, then with a grin of encouragement, motioned enthusiastically toward his plate, “Try those greens! Tell me what you
think!”
“I’ve seen him there twice,” he said, throwing me a confidential wink and smile, as if revealing some secret we’d been sharing.
I wasn’t smiling. I was unnerved. Not only because of his nonsensical observation but also because there was something in his demeanor I didn’t recognize—as though a stranger was posing as my dad.
“Honestly, James,” my mother remarked, “the things you say sometimes.”
Dad reached for a slice of bread and shrugged again. “He’s there. You’ll see.”
“I forgot the dumplings!” And with that, she was gone from the room.
After she returned, dinner went on for several minutes in tight silence, until my father shook it loose.
He pushed his plate away, leaned back. “He says he’s going to kill us all.”
It was as if every bulb in the room had blown because all I saw was utter darkness. My father’s mind had turned inside out and landed smack dab on the dining room table. Even Mom couldn’t ignore that one, and her face—blank and nearly bloodless—showed it.
But the dinner horror show paled in comparison to what I saw a few hours later.
I walked into the bathroom, and my legs went flimsy.
There was my father, inside the tub and hunched over the drain.
Talking to it.
Pleading.
16
My headache refuses to let up.
The ribs aren’t cooperating much either, shifting from sore and tender to stabbing and stinging. Despite how lousy I feel, I stop by Devon’s room to tuck him in.
Entering through the doorway, I find him belly to floor and searching beneath his bed.
“What are you looking for there, kiddo?”
He draws his head up to look at me. “My pajamas.”
“Unless I’ve missed something, Mom doesn’t keep them there.”
“But they were just on the bed a little bit ago.”
“Then they have to be somewhere.” I give the room a cursory inspection.
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