With a fierce headache, I oozed from the bed and onto the floor. I lay motionless on my belly, with my limbs sprawled like a twisted scarecrow. I gathered my energy before trying a second move. When I forced myself onto my hands and knees, my muscles felt like leather restraints working to pull me back down. But I pushed against it, arching my shoulders and pressing forward.
My brain pulsated with pain as I slowly made my way out the bedroom door. With each tiny movement, the inside of my head swirled in a million different directions. I was dizzy. Nauseous. But I kept my eye on the phone at the end of the hall. It sat on the stand in the distance like the peak of a far-off mountain. I crawled along the carpet like a half-tranquilized animal, determined to make it, determined to contact Everett.
When I finally reached the base of the stand, the vision of the phone towering overhead triggered a wave of nausea in my head that rolled to my stomach. Gripping the wooden legs, I vomited uncontrollably. When my stomach emptied, I used what little strength I had to jerk the stand forward. The phone crashed to the floor. The receiver fell off its base. The sound of the dial tone permeated the air. Yet instead of prompting me to start pressing digits, the endless drone began pulling me back under. I rolled to my side and lay in my vomit. But I didn’t care. I couldn’t focus on anything but the monotone hum. I became lost in it. Forgot what it meant. Where it came from. Its purpose had been erased. I could no longer fight it. There was nothing I could do but give in—and sleep.
When I opened my eyes again, all but a trace of the hammering in my head had been alleviated. I felt quite comfortable. Alert. But I was no longer in the upstairs hallway. I was no longer in the house. Florescent lights blazed through the tube of glass that encased my body. I was trapped. Held hostage in a glass coffin. Am I dead? Had the hands of evil held me under for too long? Had I finally been snuffed out?
In my peripheral vision, I caught a flash of movement. I didn’t dare move a muscle for fear I’d find myself trapped inside a lifeless corpse. I strained to hear. But no sound outside the cylinder could be heard. All I could hear was the sound of my breathing and thunderous heartbeat. Wait. If I had a heartbeat, was it possible I was still alive? Or did the dead somehow retain the same sensations as the living? The rhythm of breath? The beating of a heart? A blob of white came closer and closer to the glass. Panic struck. I sprang upright and pressed against the glass, futilely attempting to release myself from the tomb.
Startled, the man in the white lab coat nearly fell over. He dropped his clipboard. Papers scattered about. He scrambled to the glass. Still flustered, he began speaking, although his words were silent to me. It looked as if he was trying to say, “Get down” or “Calm down.” Clipped to his coat pocket was his badge. His name was Dave. He looked younger in his photo, which was a version of him without his mustache and glasses. Realizing his communication wasn’t being effective, he flashed me the OK signal. He then tapped his forehead in the universal gesture meaning he was an idiot. Finally, he flipped a switch on the wall. The sounds of the surrounding room crackled into the glass tube. “I apologize,” he said into a microphone. His voice sounded as if it came from a weak radio station. I spotted the tiny speaker along the bottom edge of the coffin. “It’s just that you gave me a bit of a shock. But I want you to know you’re OK. Your mother’s here. Let me get your mother.”
In a few moments, he returned with Mom. She looked exhausted, still wearing her blue hospital scrubs. She clutched her purse in one hand and a tissue in the other. He ushered her to the microphone. “Oh, thank God you’re awake. And thank God you’re OK,” her voice gushed through the speakers. “What happened?” she asked, looking first to me and then to Dave.
He took over the microphone. “You’re in a hyperbaric oxygen therapy chamber,” he explained. “The carbon monoxide level in your bloodstream was extremely high.”
“I was so tired. And dizzy.”
He nodded. “When carbon monoxide enters your system, it slows down the ability of oxygen to travel through your bloodstream and to your organs: your heart, your brain, etcetera. Normal levels of carbon monoxide in the bloodstream are around ten percent. A person goes unconscious around forty. When you were brought into the hospital, the level in your bloodstream was at fifty-eight percent. You’re lucky you were still alive when your mom found you. While you’re in this machine, you’re breathing in pure oxygen. And it’s pressurized, so you are breathing in about ten times the amount you normally would. This will help restore your levels to normal.”
“What caused it?” asked Mom.
“Well, a number of things can cause high levels of carbon monoxide. Fires, for one. House fires. Even the normal burning of wood can cause dangerous levels of carbon monoxide. And then there’s breathing in fumes from a faulty fuel-burning furnace. And the fumes from cars if they’re left running in an enclosed area. But the strange thing is—” He took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead. “The strange thing is, in your son’s case, there was no fire present. And you didn’t have a faulty furnace. In fact, the fire department performed a carbon monoxide test. And the results showed normal levels at your residence.” He put his glasses back on. “It’s as if his body mimicked the effects of carbon monoxide poisoning without any real threat in the air he was breathing. Frankly, we can’t make any sense of it.”
It was fitting that I, the anomaly, sat encased in glass as they peered at me from the other side with questioning looks on their faces. My own mother looked at me in disbelief. “What happened?” she begged again. I turned away from them and lay back on the white linens that lined the tube. They may not have known what had happened. But I did.
24
Strange Aquarium
“Where’s Kirsten?” I asked as we stood in front of the nuzzling horse painting.
“At the stables,” Everett replied. Since we hadn’t seen each other in so long, our conversation felt stilted. But I didn’t much care. The important thing was that I stood right beside him, that I was in his presence. “Hey, sorry I missed your graduation.”
“It’s OK.” Truly it was. Of course I was desperate for Everett to come home—but not for that. I was certain the crowd would turn against me as I walked across the stage to claim my diploma. I visualized being booed. Laughed at. Awful names shouted from the darkened auditorium. Everett witnessing that would’ve made the humiliation even more unbearable. I agonized over whether I would even attend. In the end, I may not have received the strongest applause, yet I wasn’t publicly obliterated. I couldn’t help but wonder how different graduation would’ve been had Ian Stein and Todd Snelling been at the ceremony.
“So what’re your plans now that you’ve graduated?”
“I don’t have any,” I answered honestly. “Ask for more hours at the grocery store, I guess.”
“But you’re just beginning. You can do anything. Try for a better job. Go to college. Travel. Mom and Dad would give you a bit of dough for that. You have a million different choices.” I looked to my feet, ashamed for not having a plan. But without him, life was stagnant. And the choices he spoke of seemed so overwhelming, they didn’t feel as if they were choices at all. Independent decisions, I was convinced, would be wrong decisions.
I lifted my head when I heard a small explosion in the basement followed by a gushing noise. “What the heck is that?” I asked.
“The basement. It’s flooding,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Flooding?”
“Yup. See for yourself.”
I opened the basement door. He was right. A large pipe that ran along the ceiling had burst. Split in two, it spewed an endless supply of water onto the basement floor. It gushed so fast and with such force that within a few moments, the floor was saturated. Everett’s barbells and dumbbells were submerged. Empty cardboard boxes began to float yet soon crumpled and sank. A pile of clothes climbed the steps, animated by the rising water.
I shut the door on the disaster and rejoined Everett at his side. Water seep
ed beneath the door. It made its way across the light-blue carpet in tiny waves. It pooled at our feet and rose past our ankles. “It sure is rising fast,” he observed. The door bulged from the pressure. Streams of water shot out from every crevice, adding gallons to the gallons already rushing across the floor. “Go ahead,” he said, noticing I was mesmerized by the heaving door. “Open it.”
As instructed, I sloshed my way back to the throbbing door. Water showered over me, and I was instantly soaked. With much reluctance, I looked back to Everett through the streams of water. He stood with his hands firmly tucked in his pockets and nodded for me to proceed. I grasped the handle with unease before swinging open the door.
It was as if an entire ocean had been stored in the basement and unleashed itself upon me. In a flash, I was swept across the living room like a piece of sediment, first thrust to the ceiling, then pushed to the floor. My face dug into the carpeting as a strong current bore down on me. Waves rolled throughout the house, crashing against the windows and submerging the furniture. The shelves were swept clean. The kitchen cupboards blew open, spewing cups and dishes into the jostling waters.
When the forceful current finally released its grip, I rose to the surface. My head bobbed in the two-foot gap of air beneath the ceiling. All was submerged except a set of ceramic horses upon a high shelf in the kitchen. Beneath them, I found Everett treading water as he grinned like a mischievous child. “C’mon,” he called before disappearing under the water. I felt a tug on my calf. I dipped my head below the surface and opened my eyes. It took me a moment to adjust to the watery world. But when I did, I could see clearly, almost as clearly as seeing through air. And the temperature of the water, I realized, was neither cooler nor warmer than air. It required no adjustment.
Everett swam gracefully about the room in his jeans. He circled above the sunken couch before allowing his body to lower by letting loose a stream of bubbles. As he descended gracefully, he assumed a sitting position. When he settled onto the cushion, he rested his arm over the back of the couch, acting like there was nothing out of the ordinary about relaxing in a completely submerged living room. He grabbed the remote floating nearby and pretended to flip channels while watching the blank screen. I too released air from my lungs and sank to join him. We sat on the couch together, laughing bubbles. He waved his fingers through my floating hair.
He then squatted in front of the couch before springing toward the ceiling. I did the same. At the surface, we took a few gulps of air before dipping back under. We swam from room to room, marveling at how the house had transformed into a strange aquarium. In the bedroom, an ivy plant floated over the bed. Its long vines reached across the room like tentacles. I grabbed the pot and placed it on my head, pretending I was Medusa, the green vines the writhing snakes. Everett laughed and swam to the bed. He wrapped himself in the blanket floating just above it and pretended to sleep. We wrestled. We hid from each other in the closets and behind the overturned furniture. We peered out the windows to the dry yard and sun-drenched sky.
I performed a series of somersaults for Everett. I tumbled five or six rotations until my feet kicked loose the horse painting that had stubbornly stayed affixed to the wall. By the time I stopped, I had made myself dizzy. Needing air, I lunged toward the surface. Only I couldn’t reach the surface. I thought maybe my equilibrium was off, that I had confused the floor for the ceiling. Yet I noticed Everett was next to me—right side up. He was pounding his fist against the ceiling, desperately trying to get to air.
The water had risen, closing the gap. Panicked, I too pounded the ceiling in a frenzy. But it was no use. Everett gripped my hand and pulled me deeper. He tried the front door, but the pressure of the water kept it sealed. He grabbed a kitchen chair. It moved in slow motion as he heaved it against the picture window. With its momentum stunted, the chair barely tapped the thick glass. The horse painting, suspended behind us, oscillated back and forth, making the horses appear to gallop toward us, mocking our struggle.
Without air, we became weak. Our desperate pounding turned to light taps. Instead of breaths of air, we inhaled deep gulps of water. Water filled my stomach. It filled my lungs. My head swirled and pounded. I could feel myself begin to slip. Lose consciousness. Go black. I looked to Everett just before it happened. He was the last image I saw. His eyes were closed. His hair waved gracefully in the water. But the rest of his body was still. So still. He floated past me and sank to the floor.
I woke gasping for air. I jolted out of bed and stumbled down the hall to the phone. I didn’t even glance at the clock as I furiously dialed the number. When the wounded raccoon dragged me back from Texas, I knew I’d no longer be allowed to visit Everett by leaving my body. But I still had one luxury: my dreams. Everett had taught me that dreams were an impressionistic version of past, present, or future reality. Yet in just the few moments I had to process my latest impression of reality, one thing was horrifically clear: Everett was in danger.
“Are you OK!”
“Do you know what time it is?” he answered groggily.
“I’ve been good. I haven’t called in a long time about the monsters.”
“Jesus, Ayden. Are you still sleeping in the Grand Am?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Just listen. I know you don’t want to hear this. But I had a dream. I dreamt of you in Texas. I don’t know what it means yet. But you need to stay away from water. I don’t know why, but this water is different from the water in my other dreams. I couldn’t breathe under this water. And your basement—it has something to do with your basement—”
“We don’t have a basement.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“OK. Well. Whatever. You need to come home as soon as possible.”
Silence.
“Don’t you remember my dreams? Don’t you remember how I found the coins in Mr. Peterson’s tree? How I found the Indians in the woods? You used to listen to my dreams. You used to look for clues. If I had told you this when I was thirteen, you wouldn’t have hesitated. If you were the same person you were back then, you would’ve gotten on the first flight back to Michigan. Are you that clouded? Have you become that clouded—by her? Aren’t you coming home? Aren’t you coming home?” I repeated in desperation.
He exhaled deeply. Finally he replied, “Yeah, I suppose I should.” Thank God. “Give me a few days. I have a couple job interviews, and then I can come up for a visit. Now get some sleep.”
“I will!” I happily agreed. Everett was finally coming home! I hung up the phone, cracking a triumphant smile, a smile that felt as though it could’ve repelled demons on its own. There was power to it, power knowing Everett was on his way to me.
I waited three nights, and each night the dream was the same. Sure, the details differed. Our conversation before the pipes burst varied. We’d play different games in our underwater world. But each night, we’d become trapped. Each night, we’d drown. And each time I woke, I became dizzier. And more nauseous.
“Dreams are tricky,” Everett would say. Determining futures from them wasn’t simple. In a dream, it was easy to become clouded and unfocused, to miss the clues to how reality will truly unfold. But as I breathed in pure oxygen, it wasn’t difficult to unravel the true meaning of my dream. It was the conclusion I had feared from the moment that I attempted to wake myself from my latest and most poisonous slumber. Deep down, I knew the tissue my mother clutched wasn’t for me. I had just been too afraid to ask if it was for Everett.
“Is he dead?” I asked quickly to hasten the sting.
Her eyes widened before instantly flooding with tears. She pressed her hand against the glass in an attempt to get closer to me before returning to the microphone. “You’ve always been so perceptive. I didn’t want to tell you,” she sobbed. “Not yet. Not until you were out of—that machine.” She spoke in a whimper, as if she herself was having trouble breathing. “Kirsten’s mother called
. She told me. I got ahold of Dad. He’s on his way home from Ohio.”
“How’d it happen?” I asked with a lump in my throat.
“It’s so strange. It’s all so strange. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“How’d it happen, Mom?” I persisted.
She leaned in as close to the glass as she could. “Carbon monoxide,” she whispered. “Their furnace. It was their furnace. It was broken and must’ve been leaking fumes for quite some time. Kirsten, she got out. She passed out in the yard. But Everett, he had been home all day. He had been breathing it in for too long. Dear God, I don’t understand it either, how you came down with it too. I think it’s just that you two were always so close. So close . . .”
Of course it was carbon monoxide poisoning. In the dream, we were drowning. Suffocating. I should’ve known it was the broken furnace. I should’ve been able to piece together the furnace troubles I had witnessed during my out-of-body trip to Texas with the clues I had learned from my recurring dream.
And of course Kirsten had survived. She had left him in the house to die. She was a monster—just like the monsters that worked to keep Everett and me separated. In fact, if Everett had never met Kirsten, he never would’ve left Michigan. He would’ve still been alive. Yes, demons were at play. They tampered with the furnace. They released the poison that caused his suffocation. But I blamed her. Kirsten was just as responsible for his death. And he was so close. So close to coming home.
“Let me out of here!” I screamed, pounding against the glass chamber.
25
Warrior of Peace
When Everett was in Texas, I was attacked in my own bedroom. I was an easy enough target then. But with Everett dead, I was like an open wound, vulnerable to infection. Finally, the demons had me where they wanted. Full of sorrow. Afraid. Utterly isolated. There was no question they were on their way to reap their reward. It was just a matter of which breed would get to me first.
Where the Cats Will Not Follow Page 15
