“Who cares about everyone else?”
Before I can stop myself I say, “I need you. I do. I have no one else to talk to.”
“What do you mean? You have your mom.”
“I don’t. I don’t have anyone.”
“Buddy, Buddy.” He’s so concerned I want to break. “What is it, Buddy? Go ahead. Tell me.”
“Okay…” Here goes nothing. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Sure, why not? I mean, look, I’ve never seen one, never talked to one, never even come close. But there are so many stories, stories from people way smarter than me, and they swear they’ve seen them, talked to them. All those stories… You know what they say, Buddy—where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
“Yeah, I know.” For the first time in ages, I’m breathing. Really breathing. “I think so too.”
Out of nowhere, Mom’s running up the stairs. “Cameron?” I hear Ken on her heels. “Cameron?”
“It’s Mom. Gotta go,” I whisper. “I’ll call tomorrow from school.”
I hang up and slip the photo and phone under my pillow as Mom and Ken barge into my room.
I jump up. “Hello? There’s this new invention. It’s called privacy.”
Mom’s eyes are wild. “Cameron, who were you talking to? Was it that ghost?”
“No,” I shout. “It wasn’t ‘that ghost.’ It was his buddies. The whole frigging cemetery. We were having a party.”
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
Ken puts his arm around her. “We were worried about you.”
“Don’t be. I’m fine.”
“No, Cameron,” Mom says, “you’re not fine.” She has this look like my head’s going to spin off and hit the ceiling. Maybe it is.
“If you’re so worried,” I rage, “why don’t you sleep up here with Ken? Then you can eavesdrop on me all you like. Plus it’ll save Ken having to sneak down to your room in the middle of the night. You think I don’t hear the stairs?”
Mom’s eyes flicker. Ken looks away. They separate.
Oh my God. It’s true.
“You owe Ken an apology,” Mom says. “And me.” She turns on her heel and goes back downstairs. Ken shoots me an embarrassed glance and follows her.
So…Mom’s sleeping with Ken. Maybe I guessed, but now I know. And after my call, I know something else even more important.
I’m not crazy. Neither is Dad.
37
There are things you want to know and things you don’t. Right now, my head is full of so many things I don’t want to know that I can’t stand it. I rock on the edge of my bed. Right away, like he knew I needed him, Jacky’s here beside me.
“It’s tough, huh?” he says. “I didn’t want to know about Mother’s friend either.”
“I don’t know what I want. It’s weird. I mean, I like Ken.”
“But he’s not your father.”
“No, he’s not Dad. Jacky, what am I going to do about Dad?”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’ll all work out.” His voice is so solemn, like he’s the wisest person in the world. We sit a bit, then Jacky says, “I know it’s bothered you, me not being around. I’ve been hiding in my secret place. I didn’t want to think about that day with Father and the dogs.”
“It’s okay,” I say, not wanting to scare him off. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“No, I do,” he says quietly. “It’s been my secret since forever. Secrets are hard, especially secrets like that. They don’t leave you alone. I try to hide, to make them go away, but they don’t, they won’t. Cameron, I need to tell someone. You’re the only one I can trust. Can I?”
“Are you sure?”
“Please. Just look away is all. It’s easier to say it if you look away.”
“Okay.” I stare at the spot by the window where the wallpaper’s peeling back. Soon I see double, triple. Things blur and disappear, and all I’m aware of is the sound of Jacky’s voice.
“After Mother left and the police came by, Father got rid of the telephone. It was ringing at weird times, and he thought I might answer. About a week later, he got the dogs. They came in steel cages. He fed them in the barn but let them run free. He said they were to keep people away, people who’d take me, who’d hurt me. But the dogs kept me inside too. I was scared to go out. I saw them from the window, chasing rabbits, and how the rabbits never knew where to run, like they’d forgotten how, and how the dogs ripped them apart.
“In my dreams I was a rabbit.
“Father knew I was scared. He said it was good, that it kept me in line. When I’d be bad or say I wanted to see Arty, he didn’t put me in the coal room anymore. Instead he grabbed me and dragged me to the door. ‘Go ahead,’ he’d yell. ‘Go see Arty. Get put in some orphanage with the rats. See if I care.’ And I’d hear the dogs barking, and I’d hold on to anything, the counter, the door frame, anything to keep from being thrown outside. Anything to keep away from the dogs.
“I sort of knew he’d never feed me to them. I even liked it when he got mad and dragged me to the door. Because afterward he’d hold me and tell me he loved me.”
Jacky stops talking. I hear his breath though, fast and hard, exactly in time with my own. I want to ask what happened that day. But I know it’s hard when you get to the part you can’t say, the part you don’t want to remember, so I stay real still. I just stare at the wall and wait until he’s ready to tell me the thing he’s never told.
“It was a Sunday morning,” Jacky says at last. “I know because we always listened to the church service on the radio. Father had been drinking. After Mother went away, he drank all the time. He was looking gray and getting nightmares, yelling Mother’s name and the name of her friend, and how it wasn’t his fault, it was their fault things happened.
“Anyway, it was right in the middle of the sermon. We were in the kitchen, and Father was pacing back and forth talking to himself. All of a sudden he seized up, grabbed his arm, and went stiff. Then he toppled over, hit his head on the floor, and lay there.
“At first I thought he’d just knocked himself out. So I shook him. ‘Father? Father?’ Nothing. I turned him over. He stared up at me. I slapped his face. ‘Wake up, wake up.’ He didn’t, just kept staring. I told myself everything was okay. But it wasn’t. I knew it. He was dead.
“I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t call out; there was no phone. And I couldn’t go over to Arty’s because of the dogs. They were barking, scratching at the door. He hadn’t fed them. I knew they must be hungry, so I got some hamburger, chicken, and a few vegetables out of the fridge. I tossed them at the dogs from my bedroom window. They went crazy, fighting for everything.
“At night I stayed beside Father so I wouldn’t be lonely, because there was nobody but me and him, and the dogs outside. I needed Father. He always knew what to do. Only now he was all stiff and staring at me. I tried to close his eyelids. They wouldn’t. So I wrapped his head in a towel, covered him in a blanket, and snuggled under to be near him.
“I stayed with Father for three days, throwing all the food I could find at the dogs. It was never enough. Then Father started to smell, the kind of smell that got on the frying pan when he didn’t wash it. It got so bad I couldn’t take it. I rolled him to the door to put him in the fresh air. I waited till I didn’t hear the dogs. Then I opened it.
“But some of them were just outside. They leaped at Father’s body. I raced upstairs. They followed me. I climbed the ladder into the attic and pulled up the ladder. There were dogs everywhere now, all over the house. I closed the trapdoor so I couldn’t see them. But I could still hear them, ripping at Father, tearing at him. It was my fault. All my fault. I screamed and screamed and ran to Mother’s hope chest. I crawled inside, closed the lid, stuck my fingers in my ears, and sang songs so I wouldn’t hear. At last I fell asleep.”
Oh no. I underst
and now. “What happened when you woke up?” I whisper. But I know the answer.
“It was dark,” he sniffles. “I just stayed there.”
“In your mother’s hope chest. Your secret hiding place?”
“Yeah.”
Where is it now? I wonder. But all I say is, “You did good.”
“No.”
“I mean it. You were braver than I’ll ever be. Even now. I couldn’t be alone all these years like you.”
“I haven’t always been alone. Arty moved here for a while. Only he looked older. He wouldn’t talk to me. He didn’t want to play anymore. Then you came.” His voice goes shy. “I’m glad you’re my friend.”
“So am I.”
“And the dogs. They’ve been here too. Like I told you. They’re everywhere. They see everything.”
I seize up.
“No, it’s okay. Don’t be scared. They won’t hurt you. I won’t let them.”
“But what they did to your father…”
“That was my fault. They were hungry. But they’re not anymore. When I went to sleep I dreamed we were playing. We’ve been playing ever since.”
“All the same, when I hear them howling in the wind…the way they howl…”
“That’s just how they sound. Things aren’t always what you think. We imagine all kinds of stuff that isn’t true. You know that, right?”
I nod.
“Father said he got the dogs to keep me safe. To protect me from bad people who’d take me away. They did too. And they’ll protect you, if you want.” I feel him give me a hug, like a little brother. “I have to go now.”
And he’s gone.
38
Everyone’s pretty quiet at breakfast. Ken smiles for a living, so a couple of times he tries to loosen things up by wondering if it’ll snow or starting a funny story, but Mom says, “Ken, not now,” and he shuts up.
If things were weird at breakfast, they’re even weirder when Mom drives me to school. Tomorrow’s the weekend. Even classes would be better than two days of this.
Mom finally breaks the silence. “Do you have something to say to me?”
“Like what?”
“I have to spell it out?”
“Oh, like, sorry for what I said about you and Ken?”
“Something like that.”
“Why should I be sorry? It was the truth. Do you have something to say to me?”
Mom shoots me a look. “Such as?”
“Did you go out with other guys before Ken?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“So you did.”
Mom takes a deep, angry breath. “If you must know, on occasion I was asked out for dinner. The last time was a year ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to wait till I was sure I’d found the right person.”
I stare out the window. “Did you ever ‘go out for dinner’ when we were with Dad?”
“Cameron!”
“Did you? Is that why he got mad?”
“Of course not. I suppose you heard him yelling things. He had a wild imagination. He made up stories that weren’t true.”
“In other words, he was like me.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Would you tell me if his stories were true?”
Mom clenches the steering wheel. “This conversation is over.” We stay silent the rest of the way to school.
I get out of the car. “Thanks.”
Mom drives off without a word. The silent treatment is her way to punish me. Well, it doesn’t work. I have Dad to talk to. He’s all I think about till lunch. I don’t even care when Cody’s friend, Brandon, jabs me with a pen and says, “Watch your back, dickhead. We haven’t forgotten. We know where you live.”
At guidance, I wave to Ms. Adams as I go into her conference room. Then I get out my sandwich, phone, and calling card and dial.
“Hey, Buddy. Long time, no talk to,” Dad says, laughing.
“Last night Mom thought I was talking to a ghost.” I laugh back.
“Guess I have been a kind of a ghost since she took you away. There in spirit, even if you couldn’t see me.”
“Yeah.” I hesitate. “Dad, I hate to ask, but have you been trying to find us? Like, have you been after us?”
“Is that what your mom says?”
“It’s not just her. There was that Facebook thing.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Dad says quietly. “It’s just—Cameron, I love you. What kind of father wouldn’t look for his son?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I don’t know either. You’re the most precious thing in the world to me, Buddy. Every night I dream about you, wonder about you, worry about you. I wouldn’t be a father if I didn’t.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll bet she’s called me a stalker. Reported me to the police.” I don’t say anything; he reads my mind. “I thought so. Your grandparents—well, I’m not going to talk about them. I’m sure they love you very much. But they, well… I’m sorry, there are things I shouldn’t say.”
“No, say it.”
“I wish I could. But parents shouldn’t say things about each other, or about grandparents either. It isn’t fair. You wouldn’t make up things about someone who wasn’t around to defend himself, would you?”
“No.”
“Good boy. When a parent or grandparent lies about the other parent, it can mess a kid up.” He pauses. “Anyway, it’s true that I hired a private investigator. I don’t know everything he did. All I know is, he cost me a lot of money. But you were worth it. Things weren’t the same without you.”
My heart beats a little faster. “So, like, you know where we’ve lived?”
“Not really. He wasn’t very good. I think you maybe moved twice?”
“Four times.”
“Four? That’s a lot.”
“Yeah. Mom kept saying she could tell when you were around. She said she could feel it. That you were around where she worked or parked outside at night, all kinds of stuff.”
“The mind can sure play tricks, can’t it? I guess you figured out that if what she said was true, I’d have been arrested.”
“I kind of thought so, yeah.”
“And I wasn’t, was I?” He sighs. “It must have been hell, moving all those times. Leaving friends. Thinking this psycho dad was out to get you.”
“It was pretty awful.”
“I hear you, Buddy. Just remember, my name is Mike.”
“Huh?”
Dad chuckles. “Mike. It’s a good, solid name, like Cameron. A name you can trust. Not a name like Cody.”
“What?” My throat goes dry.
“Or Jason. Or Colt. Or Zach. You know, cool names, tough-guy names.”
I can’t breathe. “Why did you say Cody?”
“What do you mean? You know a Cody?”
“Maybe.”
“You like him?”
“No.”
“So what did I tell you?” Dad laughs again. “For a second I thought you were going paranoid like your mom.”
“Dad, I gotta go,” I lie. “The bell’s going to ring.”
“Bye for now then,” Dad says. “Talk to you later.”
“You bet.”
I hang up. Cody? What was that all about?
39
The Cody thing freaks me all day. It’s like my brain is jammed. In the middle of the night I wake up, wild-eyed and sweating: what have I done?
Nothing. Called Dad. Big deal.
Something’s wrong. Dad knows about Cody.
It was a fluke. He said his name along with a bunch of others.
No, I gave away where we are.
How?
I don’t know, but I did. Dad’s coming for us. It’s my fault. I have to tell Mom.
Are you kidding? She’ll go nuts. And for nothing.
But if Dad comes, he could hurt us. He could kill us—
That’s Mom talking. Remember Dad’s voice. He sounded nice.
Anyone can sound nice.
Dad’s not coming, because it’s impossible for him to know where we are. He got called on a calling card. And besides, remember that first call? He said not to tell him where we were because Mom would get mad. That means he doesn’t know and he doesn’t want trouble.
But what if he does know?
What if ducks ride bicycles? Don’t be an idiot. If Dad comes, Ken’s here. Ken’s a big guy. No way Dad could pull anything with Ken around. We’ll be fine.
But, but, but, but, but—
It’s like that all night, me arguing with myself. I hold the pillow between my teeth to keep from talking out loud.
I get up early and brush my teeth. I can’t believe I’m the guy in the mirror. My face is gray as a corpse, my eyes puffy as gym bags. Saturday. A weekend with Mom and Ken. Can I please die now?
They’re already in the kitchen. They must hear me moving around, because they go quiet, like they’ve switched to whispers and hand signals. I go downstairs thinking about my secret calls and wondering what Mom and Ken were saying. I can’t look them in the eye, not when I know I should tell about Dad but can’t without setting off World War III.
“Rough night?” Mom’s voice is gentle, which makes me feel even worse.
“Yeah.” I slump into my chair
She brings me my cereal. “We didn’t sleep very well either.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “Really sorry.”
Mom squeezes my shoulders, happy and surprised. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m talking about what I said about her and Ken. If that gets me out of talking about calling Dad, great. She motions to Ken and they sit opposite me. “We’re sorry too. Ken, do you want to start?”
“Sure.” Ken leans over the table, trying to make eye contact. I glance at him. “You and I, we went off the rails a few weeks ago. It was my fault. You trusted me with something and I told your mom. I should’ve been clear I’d be telling her and explained why. We could have talked about it, maybe spoken to your mom together. But I went ahead and you got ambushed. That wasn’t fair, and it’s on me. I apologize.”
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