by PK Hrezo
Chapter Seven
“Bianca, it’s unacceptable. I don’t care who the guy is.” The vein at Dad’s temple throbs beneath his skin.
Mom rubs his arm, soothing him. We both know he doesn’t lose his cool often, but when it happens, stand back. Thing is, it’s not usually me who pisses him off.
“It wasn’t his fault,” I say, remembering that shady glimmer in Finn Capra’s dark eyes. “He’s been under a lot of stress, and some guy buddied up to him, offered shots.”
I don’t mention the possibility he was on something else, even though it’s all over the gossip sites that he was doped up. Mom and Dad could never tell the difference anyway—they don’t even drink alcohol.
Dad’s eyes are on mine. “You know as well as I do that doesn’t matter for someone with Tristan’s history and reputation. Look, honey, we all deal with stress, but we don’t all run right to the bottle, or the pills, or whatever it is that numbs real life. Tristan is a legal adult, responsible for his actions, and I gotta tell you, I’m more than concerned with the kind of influence he has on you.”
“I make my own choices, Dad,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. The way my pulse is thrumming I feel more like an eight-year-old than eighteen.
“You’ve always been level-headed,” Dad says, “but this guy has a hold on you I just don’t like.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “You’re not the same since he came along.”
“What?” I practically spit out the word.
Mom jumps in of course, because that’s what she’s good at—smoothing things over. “What your Dad’s trying to say is that we see a change in you, and we know it’s your first romantic relationship … we want to be supportive, but everything that’s happened since you met this guy—”
“What about the CCL?” I ask. “If it weren’t for Tristan I wouldn’t have shown up in Bethel, New York and helped initiate the Butterman time travel science.”
Dad holds up a hand. “We understand that. He had a purpose in the Consistent Causal Loop of our legacy. But that purpose is not to get you involved in a media scandal, or worse. Who knows how long the guy
has before he relapses into the same drugs? Bee, he’s a loaded weapon.”
I’m about to defend him, when Mom jumps in again. “We just want you to realize how dangerous that kind of peer pressure can be.”
“Peer pressure?” I say. “What’re you talking about? Tristan doesn’t pressure me to do anything. He wants to be clean. He went through rehab. So he had a few drinks? So does half of Paloot once the temperature drops, or else Agnes wouldn’t keep whiskey behind the counter.”
The memory of Tristan and I eating mushrooms at Woodstock flashes through my mind. But that was a fluke, and in my opinion, considered privileged information this legal adult isn’t at liberty to discuss under the current circumstances.
Dad lowers his voice to keep a level tone. “All I’m saying is that you have a unique responsibility and accountability here, and I know it can be tough, but it goes with the territory of being a time traveler. You can’t do what other young adults your age do. One bad choice and the entire family business could be destroyed. Now, I know you’re toying with this crush on him because he’s a famous musician, but I’m asking you to put that aside and use your head.”
“We’ve got your Induction Day to think about,” Mom says. “Lola says the DOT approves of a public sendoff with full media coverage of the journey. That means there’s no room for mistakes.”
“You have to be ready for a peak performance,” Dad says. “Or else the whole world will watch Butterman Travel go under.”
I groan, squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t want the world to watch. No other Butterman ever had to let the DOT watch their Induction, not to mention the entire world. This is such BS.”
“No other Butterman started dating a pop star with a history of drug use.” Dad’s voice is even-keeled, but emphatic.
My shoulders tense. I don’t want to look at him right now. I hate the way his gaze suggests I’m not as innocent as I once was. We’ve always had the kind of bond that didn’t require words. But he doesn’t see me as his little girl anymore. That much is obvious by the way he shifts his gaze when our eyes lock for more than a few seconds. Well, what did he expect? I couldn’t be his pure and innocent protégé forever. But this void I feel in my chest right now sucks.
“So what do you want me to do?” I ask, my voice faltering. “Send him home?”
“I know his friendship means a lot to you,” Mom says, taking my hand. “We want to believe the influence will be the other way around—yours on his. But you need to be very careful. Last night he showed how defenseless he is to temptation. Getting drunk after confessing he’s a fully recovered heliox addict on interweb broadcasting? You have to see to see how inconsistent and dishonest he comes off. Booking him another time trip this soon would be asking for more scandal.”
“That’s why I want him here, Mom—so I can help him, watch out for him.”
“You can’t hold yourself responsible for that kind of thing,” she says. “He needs to learn to resist on his own. Having him here won’t fix his problems.”
“No, but it will help him try without interference. He’s got his music to work on, and even if he doesn’t get the time trip he wants right away, it’ll give him something to look forward to. I can talk to him, make sure he understands we can’t book him if he’s not a hundred percent sober.” I’m pleading now, and it sounds awkward to my own ears. I didn’t realize how much I wanted him here til just now.
Dad moves in beside me, his stubbled jawline stiff. “If he stays, I want him to complete a fully supervised detox sequence.”
Mom glances at him, her brows arched, as if they hadn’t discussed this before.
Dad continues, “I checked into it and I can retrieve a dosage from the hospital in Deadhorse. Depending on availability, I could leave tomorrow and be back with it so Tristan can start the following day. If the media wants to nose around, they’ll see just how serious we take our operation, as well as Tristan’s health.”
Mom nods at me. “This may be the best suggestion I’ve heard yet. I’ve read about those detox injections, and they have a very high success rate. Completely purges the body of toxins.”
“Pharmaceutical grade,” Dad says. “I won’t sugar coat it, the purge is ugly, from what I hear, but a few hours of misery is heaps better than weeks of withdrawal.”
“All because of some whiskey?”
“The injection will clean him of any and all intoxicants over the course of eight hours. He won’t want even want to look at an unhealthy substance afterwards.” Dad sounds almost hopeful.
I’m fighting a no-win battle. And maybe it is the best thing for him. “He’s probably familiar with it already. I’m sure they made him detox when he went to rehab.”
“Possibly. Rehab is about learning a new lifestyle over time. What I’m talking about is an intense day-long physical process.”
I’m quiet a moment as I toss the idea around. I’ll have to convince Tristan it’s the best thing to do. Once he recovers from his hangover, maybe he’ll realize damage control is up to him.
Mom interrupts my contemplation. “We always want what’s best for you, even if it conflicts with what you want.”
I straighten my sparkly silver puffer vest over my skirt, avoiding direct eye contact because the moment just got heavier than I prefer. “It means a lot to me that you trust me, and I hope you can trust Tristan someday too.”
Dad feigns a chuckle. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves now. Let’s see how he does after detox, and go from there. Maybe his agent could make an official statement so we don’t have to.”
“That’d be for the best,” Mom adds. “I hate to think of the poor guy under fire in front of everyone.”
I nod, blowing a little gust of air between my lips. He sure does complicate my life.
Dad flips his device around to his palm and projects the holo-screen.
“Meanwhile, I’ll let Agent Garth know your Induction is a go for first thing next week.”
“Copy that, Dad.” I try to sound excited, but it comes out painfully forced.
He glances at me. “I can only man Mission Control for you. Everything else is up to you.”
“I know.”
“Treat it like it’s the real deal, for all our sakes,” Mom says. “Let the world see you accomplish a four hour time trip to the place that’s been the object of your affection for the last four years—this is what’ll connect them to you and make them cheer you on, instead of expecting you to fail. The human spirit loves a hero. You have to give them that, Bianca.”
“How can I be a hero if I can’t save Titanic?”
“They won’t be expecting you to save it, only to get there and get back in one piece.”
I square my shoulders. “Then I’d better get to work.”
* * *
Most people would shudder at the thought of staying in an ice shack in December in the Arctic. And okay, it’s just about the coldest place possible … until next month, when the word cold is a total understatement for Northern Alaska’s temperature. But that’s why our clothing is infused with nano-generators to keep heat circulating through the thermal threading. It’s hard to imagine a time before heartbeat powered inline heating systems. Must’ve been toe-numbingly frigid living up here in the middle of frozen nowhere.
“This is like a miniature house,” Tristan says outside the ice shack, his breath creating a burst of steam from his mouth. He’s in good spirits, considering what torture lies ahead.
At least we managed to avoid the attention of any microdrones driving out here past the mountain ridge to the frozen sound. Last thing we need is this day caught on camera.
Dad powers down the snowmobile, waits for us to climb off, then enters a code into the touchpad at the shack door. I’ve been here hundreds of times, and know how to do everything, but Dad still insists showing us around like we’re six-year-olds. I’ve learned when he gets in coaching mode, it’s best to let him have his instructive moment. Besides, except for the time-craft, this shack is his most cherished possession.
The steel enforced door slides open and Dad steps inside, powering on the generators so the interior is illuminated.
“Sublime,” Tristan says. He strolls in and pushes his fur hood away from his face. “You call this place a shack?”
Dad shrugs, but there’s a glimmer of pride in his green eyes. “Not bad for 625 square feet, huh? Bee, you’ll need to switch over to the
other generator if you recharge your devices, and I’d keep the door locked just in case.”
“Uh, we didn’t bring any devices,” Tristan says. “Cold turkey is cold turkey. I wanna be shut off from everything.”
Dad smiles approvingly. “Sounds like a wise decision.” He tilts his head as he glances at me. “And you’re following suit?”
“I know it’s hard to believe and all, but yeah. I’m gadget-free for the day with Tristan.”
Dad doesn’t respond. Instead, he begins checking the cabinets over the sink. He won’t admit it, but I can tell he’s impressed with how willingly Tristan agreed to the detox session. It’s almost like he hoped Tristan would argue so he could send him away. That’s one good thing about Tristan—even though he screws up, he’s not too proud to make amends.
Dad reaches above the kitchenette and presses a release button so the queen-sized bunk overhead opens and shifts itself into place.
Tristan flings his shaggy blond bangs to the side with a shake of his head. “Nothing but nature to keep us occupied.”
Dad’s about to say something, when he stops, glares at Tristan, then me. “Maybe I better stay—”
“Dad,” I say through my teeth. “It’s one day, we’re not even staying overnight.”
“It could get tough, though,” he says. “The nurse said the first few hours are brutal.”
“We know, Dad. He could go into convulsions, hallucinations, and cold sweats, blah blah blah. We understand.” I glance at Tristan, who’s staring at the wood paneled floor, then back at Dad. “He wants to detox in private.”
After Tristan confessed on all his social network pages that he misjudged a few shots of liquor during a bitter cold evening, he announced a full detox course to rid him of any contaminates and future cravings. It was viral within minutes—with everyone from diehard fans to disapproving parents commenting on what was best for Tristan Helms.
Tristan chuckles but it’s empty of its usual lightness. “Nothing to worry about. Not like I could get a hold of any intoxicants out here, anyway.”
Dad frowns, his expression a canvas for Dads Against Daughters Dating. After an awkward silence, he turns, rummages through the closet to the left of the kitchenette. “Plenty of wool blankets, should you need them. And I packed more coal for the stove. You fully checked your nano-generators, right? Without your devices you won’t be able to contact anyone for help.”
I cock a half smile at Tristan because I know how ready he is to get this over with. Truth is, so am I. And I don’t know if that means eventually having to remove him from my life. I hope not, but maybe it’s like Dad says, and I’ve changed for the worse. He thinks I’ve gotten soft—unable to think straight anymore because of Tristan. He hasn’t come right out and said it, but I see it in the way his posture slumps whenever I relay something Tristan said or did.
I’m the future owner of Butterman Travel, and Dad has high expectations of me—maybe too high. I don’t want to let him down, but Tristan needs me. There’s a bond I feel with him that I’ve never felt with anyone else. We’re so different from each other, but at the same time, something I can’t explain connects me to him—a deep familiar stirring inside my chest.
“All right then.” Dad stands before us, removing his green wool jacket, hanging it on the coat hook at the wall. From inside one of the pockets, he pulls out a small sealed plastic bag and unzips it, taking out a hypodermic needle the size of a drinking straw. “There’s enough here to supply you with a week of detox … if you were going about it in a gradual process. We don’t have time for that. You’ll receive the entire week’s dosage now. Not for the faint of heart, but after a few hours, this will have you fully cleaned.”
I offer Tristan a smile to encourage him. But what I’m thinking is that he’s been clean before. What about the cravings? How does he beat those? I read up on the expectations, but none of it mentioned dispelling the physical need for good. What’s the point of any of this if Tristan still joneses? I can’t say this out loud, though. To either of them. They’re both trying and believing so hard. It’s possible that belief will spawn strength.
“Let’s get this party started.” Tristan removes his fur parka.
Dad finds his target at the back of Tristan’s left shoulder and injects him, emitting a swift whisk of air.
“Ouch.”
“Just a little pinch, right?” Dad asks, removing the needle.
“Right.” Tristan doesn’t sound too convinced, rubbing his shoulder.
“Well, then. Guess I’ll be on my way.” Dad’s gaze drifts to me, as if giving me one more opportunity to ask him to stay. “I’ll check on you in a few hours.”
“Okay, Dad. Thanks.”
Once Dad’s outside the ice shack door, I bolt it shut and start building a fire inside the black cast-iron stove. It’s plenty warm with the thermal threads inside our long johns, but something about a fire calms me, and I could really use some peace to balance out the awkward impatience now washing over me.
Tristan stands over me. “You’re telling me you can actually light a fire over the ice and it doesn’t melt?”
I half shrug, eyes on the slowly burning coals. “Yeah. Ice here is thick. It won’t start getting soft til May.”
I stand, face to face with his gray-blue eyes and disheveled mop of bangs grazing his lashes. “How’re you feeling?”
“Thirsty.”
“That’s
normal. I’ll get some water.”
Unsure of what to do with myself, I shuffle thru the ice box to rearrange our supplies.
“Crazy not having online access,” Tristan says, moseying about the room and inspecting the native artwork my parents have hung on the wood-paneled walls. “So what happens when the ice melts? This thing have pontoons or something?”
I hand him a bottle of water. “The entire shack’s equipped with magnetic hover capabilities. Stays parked behind our house in the summer months.”
Tristan chugs his water til it’s gone, wipes his mouth and squints his eyes. “Whoa, I need to sit down.”
“You okay?”
“Just … a little dizzy.” He backs up onto the built in bench, his left foot knocking the lid from one of the fishing holes as he flops onto the seat. He coughs—deep and croupy, and just as I think he’ll eject a lung, his body slacks into a lifeless heap.
Chapter Eight
“Tristan?” I kneel before him, shaking his arms, searching for the pulse at his wrist.
He moans softly, sweat beading at his forehead and temples, incoherent words fraught on his lips.
It’s beginning.
All the resources I read said it would be ugly, frightening even. Mom and Dad suggested we hire a nurse, or let Tristan stay in the Paloot clinic. Kayla offered to host a spirit ceremony with her dad’s tribe—apparently they smoke the evil spirits out with a bonfire while Tristan’s body detoxes. But I convinced them I could handle it.
Now that it’s happening, I’m not so sure.
His hands and face are ice cold, his veins purplish-blue just beneath his pale skin. His hairline is damp with sweat and matted to his forehead and temples. Even his usual plush lips are a wraithlike blue. He groans, still mumbling and oblivious.
I’ve never seen him like this. So vulnerable and helpless. I remember watching Mom care for Dad when he had his appendix removed—how she never left his side. A new respect for her welled up from inside me, and that’s when I realized there was more to true love than storybook romance.
