by Mindy Mejia
“I need to know where you left him, everything you can remember, if we’re going to be able to locate him in time.”
Lucas took a step forward, swallowing as his eyes filled with tightly-banked emotion. “You’re going to help me?”
Swiveling back to the table, I shifted one of the copies a millimeter to the right. “Nothing gets by you, huh?”
When I started to tape the fragments of the maps together, he moved up beside me and held the edges together with his one good arm, helping me create a patchwork whole.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me until you’ve heard the plan.” I lifted my face to his and smiled. “Let’s get to work.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, after discussing, debating, and flat-out arguing in whispers too low for anyone else to overhear, I gathered up all the papers and stuffed them away. Lucas wanted to leave for the Boundary Waters yesterday and refused to even try to understand how the system worked. He thought my way was irritating and pointless, which made me think it was the most adult plan I’d ever had.
I slung the surprise bag over my shoulder, ready to beat hell across the building for my next session, an OCD patient who would take it badly if I wasn’t punctual.
Lucas stood up with me. “Can I ask you another question?”
I glanced at the clock again. I had three minutes. “Only if it can be answered in five words or less.”
His mouth quirked up, the first sign of humor I’d seen from him all day. “That’s up to you.”
He walked me to the cafeteria door and pushed it open with his good arm, easily keeping up with my determined pace.
“What did you mean earlier? By the grand scheme of things?”
It took me a second to remember what he was talking about and then it flashed back—the quip about being tackled by large men. I felt my cheeks getting warm as we headed toward the rear exit of the ward.
“Hmmm. Sometimes . . .” I paused before counting the words on my fingers. “Tackling can be fun.”
We reached the end of the hall and I reached for my ID.
“You’re talking about sex?”
Badge in hand, I ran out of reasons to avoid his gaze. We stared at each other for a second. Then I smiled and activated the door.
“That’s two questions.”
14
* * *
MY MOTHER GAVE me a necklace once. She called me into her room one day and held it up to the sunlight filtering through the bedroom window. A simple string with a slice of Superior agate for a pendant, the striations of white and burnt orange looked like a depth map, sharp at the edges and polished in the middle. The light caught its brilliance and made it flash into the corners of the room—lake and lighthouse together.
I asked her where she’d gotten it, but she didn’t seem to hear the question. She traced the layers with a finger, describing the billion-year-old volcanic eruptions that had tried to tear North America apart.
“But they didn’t. The eruptions ended and tiny bubbles in the lava filled with mineral sediments. The white is quartz and the red, oxidized iron, which is the same thing as rust. Have you ever imagined rust looking like this, Maya?”
I shook my head. At ten years old, I hadn’t given rust much thought.
“This is what the Earth makes,” she said, laying the necklace carefully back in her jewelry box, “out of violence and decay. Do you see?”
I didn’t know what she wanted me to see. I saw a semiprecious stone, no different than the minerals in our rock garden, or the four-pound agate she’d found in college and kept uncut on her bedside table—her prize specimen. Our house was littered with rocks as paperweights, doorstops, and decorations. I saw their form and function, nothing more.
“So, it’s sedimentary,” I offered, but it was the wrong thing to say. She shut the drawer and turned inward, telling me to go play until dinner, which we both knew she wasn’t going to make.
I didn’t see the necklace again until a few months later when she took the copper study job on the iron range, packed her things, and left before I got home from school. The four-pound agate was gone from her bedside table and the pendant necklace was lying on my pillow. I didn’t think about it in those first few days of her bewildering absence, when every sound in an empty room brought me running, stupidly expecting to see the rich tumble of her hair, her thin frame turning to me and restoring what she’d fractured. It wasn’t until after Dad read me her letter and we started to accept she wasn’t coming back, that I remembered the afternoon she’d shown it to me.
Had I failed some obscure geology test? Was there a hidden meaning in the agate, something that might have made her stay if I’d said the right thing, been the right daughter? I had no one to ask and the questions only grew louder with every milestone she missed, every day without her in it. The questions became my brothers and sisters. They were with me always, in my blood, until five years later when I found an answer that sent me to the depths of Congdon Psychiatric Facility.
* * *
I must have dreamed about the agate necklace because it shimmered in the shadows of my mind as I lay in bed, unwilling to get up after another late night studying Boundary Waters topographical maps and the restless non-sleep that followed. The necklace itself was gone and I didn’t want to think about where, so instead I rolled over and saw Jasper lying patiently in my bedroom doorway, waiting for me.
“You want to take a drive today, Jazz?”
He answered by walking over to the bed, laying his head on the sheets, and licking my elbow.
I sighed. “No kisses. Time to put your game face on.”
Today was a huge day. Today Lucas took his first sanctioned step toward the Boundary Waters. My plan was simple: If Lucas could prove himself capable of behaving in public—i.e., not running off or assaulting anyone—then Dr. Mehta had agreed he might be able to join a search party to locate his father. I’d set up different field trips every day, with progressive liberties attached to each outing. First we started by taking a walk around Congdon’s neighborhood and worked up to our last test at the end of the week, a drive up the shore to Split Rock Lighthouse with Dr. Mehta in tow.
I showered, gulped down a quick breakfast, and drove Jasper up the hill to Congdon, where at least fifteen “Free Lucas Blackthorn” protesters waved signs and took footage with their phones. Lucas’s escape attempts from Congdon and St. Mary’s had given fuel to both sides of the fire raging on the social media sites. To those who believed he was a dangerous criminal, it proved his unbalanced state of mind. For the protesters—whose presence outside the gates seemed to grow every day—his actions were a desperate plea for help and the Congdon staff had become the instruments of his oppression. This morning the red-haired girl, who’d led the charge on the police motorcade the night we brought Lucas back, took several halting steps toward my car as I pulled up to the guardhouse, talking and gesturing at me. I kept the window rolled up and flashed my badge at the guard, who quickly opened the gate and waved me through. Pulling up to the drop-off zone at the main entrance, I saw Bryce already waiting with Lucas out front to meet us. They’d dressed him in street clothes for our outing, or at least a mental health facility’s version of street clothes—he wore a bright turquoise hoodie, sweatpants, and a baby blue stocking cap with cat ears courtesy of Dr. Mehta’s wife, who bought cat caps for all the patients and never knew most of them ended up ripped to pieces or shoved into snowbanks within a few days of their annual arrival. At least the hat sort of matched his arm sling.
Jasper rumbled a hello as we climbed out of the car and I let him sniff Bryce’s shoes while Bryce looked less than comfortable.
“Is that the same dog that chewed on this guy’s foot?”
“I don’t know.” I nodded to the holster on his belt. “Is that the same Taser you tried to kill us with?”
Lucas’s eyes widened and he stepped back, pulling against the grip Bryce had on his good arm. Bryce bristled, but be
fore he could retaliate Jasper’s muzzle started wandering up his leg.
“I was doing my job,” he said. “Now call off your fucking dog.”
“Fucking,” Lucas muttered. “Why do people always say that?”
I escorted everyone back toward the car. “It’s an expression. An all-purpose word for people who don’t know very many.”
“Fuck you, Maya.” Bryce jerked open the car door.
“See? Adjective. Verb. It can be a noun, too. Like, Isn’t Bryce such a dumb fuck?”
Bryce cursed some more and threatened to call Dr. Mehta while I engaged the child locks and waved the two of them into the backseat. Jasper climbed in front next to me and immediately turned around to inspect Lucas, who was glancing between his sling and the hand Bryce was using to grip his Taser handle.
“Don’t get bent out of shape, Bryce. It was just an example.” I handed back a blanket covered in dog hair. “Here, put this on him.”
Bryce made Lucas double over and covered him with the blanket as we pulled out of the parking lot. The protesters parted as the gate opened, hovering only a few feet away from the car. They were near enough to see the blanket and I held my breath as we pulled through them, not too fast, not too slow, only exhaling when we got halfway down the block.
Bryce uncovered our patient, and we drove for a few minutes in silence.
“Free Lucas Blackthorn.”
“What?” I glanced in the rearview mirror.
“That’s what those signs said the other night. That’s who those people are.” Lucas looked behind us, but Congdon was already out of sight. “They want you to let me go.”
Sighing, I tried to explain the situation, the controversial celebrity he’d become, but the more I said, the more agitated both passengers became. Jasper whined and tried to pace, hitting me in the face with his tail, rubbing his head nervously against the seats. I steered the car over the cracked and potholed pavement, climbing higher up the hill until we reached the Enger Trailhead.
“Look, it’s complicated.” I checked the parking lot to make sure it was empty before pulling into a spot. “These people don’t understand the legal system or the mental health system.”
“Neither do I,” Lucas muttered.
Jasper and I got out and then let Bryce and Lucas out of the backseat. Bryce immediately lit up a cigarette.
“All you need to know is that they love you,” Bryce puffed. “They hate me, they hate Maya, and they love you, all right?”
“Bryce.”
He rolled his eyes and turned away, scanning the perimeter. “I can’t even log in to Twitter anymore, I’m getting tagged on so many posts. I had to cancel my Facebook account. One of my cousins is out there protesting and texting me every day. Every freaking day. She thinks I’m the reason he got sent to St. Mary’s.”
“Bryce, we can talk about this later.” We could talk about how I sided with his cousin on that one, but right now Lucas was absorbing every word, his gaze shifting between the two of us.
“Yeah, right.” Bryce took another drag. “So what are we doing here?”
I pointed out the Superior Hiking Trail that led into the woods at the south side of the Twin Ponds. It wound up through the park and toward Enger Tower, the five-story bluestone observation building. “And if you try to run or incapacitate Bryce or me in any way during this walk, Jasper is going to have you for lunch. Understand?”
I said it mostly for Bryce’s benefit, but Lucas still shifted uneasily.
“I understand.”
“Okay, then. Let’s hike.”
The four of us set off. Enger Park was situated on the peak of the bluff overlooking Superior. Below us to the east, Victorian houses and brick buildings stood in varying degrees of disrepair from the constant punishment of the winds. To the west the land flattened out into college campuses, strip malls, and suburban housing before giving way to forests and the Iron Range beyond. The temperature on top of the hill was always at least five degrees warmer than downtown at the water’s edge. Sometimes ten. Today that meant we were flirting with fifty degrees and only traces of the blowing snow from a few days ago remained, swept into the crevices underneath rock ledges and gathered at the base of evergreens. I led our strange little troop on to the trail and up toward the summit.
Jasper led the pack with Lucas and me following and Bryce bringing up the rear. The path was littered with dead and decaying leaves and I sensed Lucas looking around, trying to gauge the extent of the forest. He stared at the tower on the hill and seemed surprised when we descended into a parking lot in the middle of the trees. I kept walking, moving away from the cars and the few people milling near the tower, directing us up a set of stone steps to a giant gazebo with pergolas on either side. A slope of exposed rock—anorthosite gabbro dotted with scrub bushes—provided a perfect outcrop in front of the gazebo to get a panorama of the largest freshwater harbor in the world.
Lucas stared at the horizon of blue. “Where’s the other side?”
Bryce huffed out a laugh and shook his head.
“It’s out there,” I shrugged. “I’ve never seen it.”
“Your dad has.”
I nodded, scanning the blur where clouds met water. “He’s out there somewhere, too.”
After examining the drop-off around the outcrop and eyeing Jasper’s position—within biting distance of the meaty part of Lucas’s leg—Bryce wandered back up to the gazebo and lit another cigarette. I watched him pull out his phone and start texting people, apparently too wrapped up in his unwanted Internet attention to worry about our patient escaping. Leading Lucas and Jasper over to a bench, I wrapped my coat around my middle and curled up on the iron slats. After a beat, Lucas sat down next to me.
“What is it?” I asked.
He shook his head, refusing to respond even as he glanced back at the trees again.
“Don’t even think about it. Jasper is much faster than you.”
He heaved out a sigh and crossed his arms, staring sightlessly at the vista. “Why should I tell you what the matter is?”
The retort, an angry teenager’s reply, sent my brain stumbling back. I thought we were beyond this. Keeping my tone casual, I reached down to scratch Jasper behind the ears. “Well, I’m glad you asked. This is what we call therapy. The modern form of psychoanalysis was developed ages ago by a guy named Freud, who incidentally could have used some of his own medicine, but informally the idea of communicating to resolve conflict dates back to—”
“I didn’t ask for therapy, I asked for your help,” he interrupted. “All those people outside Congdon want me to be free. You said you were going to help me, but here we are. In Duluth. Not. Going. Anywhere. Do you know how frustrating it is when someone you love is suffering and you can’t get to them?”
I swallowed and stared at the fractures in the rock where the weeds kept growing even with the nightly frost freezing their leaves. They would be back next year and the next, never flourishing, never giving up.
“Yes.” I nodded at the rock. “I do know what that’s like.”
“That’s the problem,” he said. “I don’t know anything about you, do I? I tell you everything and you tell me nothing.”
Turning to face him, I looked him straight in the eye, giving him my complete attention. “What do you want me to tell you?”
“Why were you a patient at Congdon?”
My mouth fell open in sheer surprise. Lucas watched me, waiting, until I exhaled, long and heavy.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It tells me what kind of person I’m trusting with my father’s life.” Then his head dropped and his jaw tightened, struggling with the qualification. “If he’s alive.”
I tried to put myself in his place, tried to remember how it felt before I’d really gotten to know Dr. Mehta—the one-sided revelation called counseling. It had been uncomfortable, exposing, like I was stripping naked and prancing around in front of fully clothed, expressionless pe
ople. As Lucas’s speech therapist, I wasn’t supposed to tell him my life story. But as a friend . . .
“There’s not much to tell. My mom . . .”
“Didn’t stick around,” he supplied, startling me with his uncanny recall.
“Yeah.” I plowed ahead, trying to do it quick, like a Band-Aid. “I didn’t handle it well. Neither did my dad. He disappeared out there”—I waved to the lake—“as much as he could and left me with a woman who didn’t care what I did so long as my dad’s checks cashed. She lived over there.”
I pointed to an area even further south of our house, where violence, drugs, and drunkenness saturated the neighborhood with a reek even the lake winds couldn’t blow away.
“I started hanging out with random kids on the street. Getting into trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The usual. Stealing, destruction of property, breaking and entering. I discovered I had a knack for picking locks, which endeared me to a certain group of people.”
“And that’s why you got sent to Congdon?”
“No.” Bryce stubbed out his second cigarette and headed across the outcrop toward us. I turned back to Lucas, my face carefully blank, and told him what I’d never shared with anyone outside of Congdon’s walls.
“I got committed because I killed a man and painted my face with his blood.”
Lucas gaped as Bryce reached us. I stood up and stretched.
“Are you done yet?” Bryce asked.
I patted Jasper on the head. “Yeah, let’s go.”
15
* * *
SOMETHING HAPPENS to you after you kill a person.
I’m not talking about the guilt or the doubt or the nightmares that make you do it over and over, each time a little different, each time like you have a chance to change it but you never can. What happens, in the daylight hours, is a bubble forms between you and everyone else, invisible and impenetrable. Everyone on the outside is all the same. They work and they hustle and they complain about what they don’t have and then they go home and crawl into their beds and drift away. And you can never be part of them, because something is awake in you that doesn’t know how to sleep.
