“Yes,” I say, “though I don’t know what exactly, or how often or how much. And I’m sorry you have to find out like this, but I’m hoping he’ll realize—”
“He’s sick.” Holly’s voice is strangled. The pink around her eyes meets with her cheeks, which have flared red, and she pulls her hand from my grip. “He’s sick, and you’re leaving him? He could die.”
Those same words kept me with him far past when I should’ve left. He could die. He could choke on his vomit, his breathing could stop, his sadness could overwhelm him, my absence could be the final straw. Reason after reason to stay and deny myself happiness. But the words have lost their hold on me. If he dies, it’s his own doing, not mine.
“I know he’s sick,” I say softly. “But it’s not something I can cure. I tried. I promise I tried, but I have nothing left to try with. Things have changed between us, they changed a long time ago, and I—”
“Does Dad want to separate?”
I search for a way to dodge the blame, and then say, “No.”
“You’re the one who said it’s a disease. If he had cancer, would you leave him?”
It’s as if my conscience, my guilt, has sprouted a set of legs and is spewing everything I’ve ever thought back at me. Maybe if she knew the whole story, she’d understand. But I can’t tell them about his insults, his accusations. Partly because I don’t want the kids to view Ethan in that light, and, honestly, because I couldn’t stand for them to view me in that light. I can’t give examples, say the words aloud, and not want to die of humiliation.
“This is different,” Jesse says to Holly. “He keeps relapsing even when he knows how to cure himself. He’s injecting himself with the cancer no matter how much we try to help him. Do you have any idea how hard that is for Mom?”
She spins on him, hands fisted at her sides. “You knew, didn’t you? And you didn’t tell me. What the fuck, Jess?”
“Because I told him not to,” I say quickly. No matter what happens between me and Ethan, I don’t want their relationship spoiled. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
Holly laughs. It’s a broken sound, full of betrayal, and it makes it all too clear I’ve messed up. I should’ve come clean long before now. I thought I was protecting her, but all I did was shield her from the smaller blows until she was knocked out by a big one she never saw coming.
“I know you’re scared,” I say. “You’re scared for him. We all are.”
“You’re not scared enough, apparently.” Holly’s narrowed eyes are full of tears. I reach out, but she steps back, shaking her head so that her hair flies all around. “I don’t understand you. You wait through all of this and then leave now? That’s how much he means to you? No wonder he’s using. Maybe if you actually cared about him, he’d want to be clean.”
I stand open-mouthed, dumbfounded by her words. No matter how angry she is, her fear of losing Ethan is evident, and my heart hurts for that even as I want to smack her for putting his actions on me.
She glares at her brother. “And you’ve written him off, too, Jess? Well, I never will. Never.”
Her anger cracks under a flood of tears, and she looks so tiny and frightened that I move to hug her. “Sweets, please don’t—”
“Don’t talk to me.” She spins away from my arms, shakes off Jesse’s hand on her shoulder, and walks swiftly for the door. “I can’t believe either of you. I just can’t.”
“Holly,” I say. “Please, let’s talk about—”
“What part of don’t talk to me don’t you understand?”
She stomps into the twilight. The door closes behind her, leaving me and Jesse standing in silence. I close my eyes and rub my forehead, where an insistent beating has begun. “God, that didn’t go how I pictured.”
I open my eyes when Jesse doesn’t answer. He can be inscrutable at times, but now he watches me with something close to accusation. “Why didn’t you tell her?” he asks.
“Tell her what?” My voice is weary. I don’t think I can take any more blame today. “What should I have said?”
He swallows, the mask slipping to reveal as much pain on his face as there was on Holly’s. “About how Dad talks to you. The things he says about you. To you.”
I stare up at him in shock, my head spinning so that I have to grip the desk behind me. All at once, his frequent ambivalence where his father’s concerned makes sense. Jesse heard, he saw, and my heart cracks at the thought of him carrying that around. Holding it inside.
The pity in his eyes makes me want to sob with a crushing shame, with sadness for the both of us, but I’ve fucked up with one kid already. I won’t surrender to those feelings and fuck this up, too. I blink away tears and clasp his arm. “I don’t know what to say except that I was trying to make things work, and I thought it would go back to how it was one day. I’m so sorry you heard any of that. It must’ve been awful.”
Jesse’s face screws tight, lips mashed together, and I pull him close as his shoulders begin to jerk. He lets go of months, maybe years, of sadness, until my shoulder is damp and his shaky breaths have leveled out. He pulls from me, wiping his face and staring at the line of antique vehicles. “Sometimes I hate him so much.”
“But you love him so much, too,” I say. He nods and takes the boob tissue I offer, his face turned away. There’s no end to the injuries addiction throws at you, expects you to absorb and move past. “He loves you, please remember that. More than anything, drugs included, even if it doesn’t seem like it sometimes. He’s just…lost his way.”
Jesse nods again, then crosses his arms over his chest. “You need to tell Holly. I’ll tell her.”
I spin him by his sleeve, wearing my best don’t-you-dare expression. “No, you won’t.”
“Mom…”
I shake my head firmly. As much as I want Holly to understand, I can’t bear the thought of her knowing. Of viewing me with pity the way Jesse did. It’d likely backfire anyway; at this point, she’d hate me all the more for trying to poison her against her father. “You know Holly—she’ll understand eventually. Promise me you won’t tell her.”
Jesse’s eyebrows lower. Eventually, he nods.
“Thank you.” I perch on the edge of the desk. I’m so tired I could sweep the brochures and flyers off the wood and lie down for the night right here. “I’m sorry, sweet boy. I wanted your life to be all sunshine and lollipops.”
Jesse sets himself beside me with a sigh. “No one’s life is all sunshine and lollipops, but it was close for a long time.”
My eyes sting. I set my arm around him, marveling for the millionth time at how strong and grown-up he is. “I’m glad for that, at least. Have I ever told you how much I love you? Or how talented and caring and handsome you are?”
“Once or twice, maybe.”
“Don’t you forget it. Did Barry talk to you about joining up?”
He tenses under my arm. “Yeah.”
“I assume you said yes?” He nods, and I give him a squeeze. “Good. Whatever you learn, will you teach me? We all know I’m a straight-up badass, but a little more couldn’t hurt.”
Jesse’s laugh is small, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. “Clara does say I get my ninja skills from you.”
“I’ve always liked that girl.”
“Me, too,” he says, and I hear something soft in his voice before he rises to his feet. “I have to be at a gate soon, but I can find someone to cover my shift and come back here.”
“You’re sweet, but I’m fine. Go learn some badass skills to impart my way. I’m going to see if I can find Holly, and then I’m going to bed. I may look like shit, but I’m all right.”
The concern that lines his face lifts a little. “Okay. Love you.”
“I love you. Be careful.”
“Of course.”
I watch him leave, hoping that softness in his voice was for Clara. I can’t think of anyone else who deserves him.
69
Craig
I’m awake befor
e everyone, brewing multiple tiny pots of terrible coffee on the backpacking stoves. I found the container in a cabinet and doubled up on grounds, though it hasn’t done much to improve the flavor. You can’t grow up in Oregon and live in the Bay Area for twenty years and not be a bit of a coffee snob. I drink my share because it’s still coffee, and you don’t have to be a genius to know that no one will be importing French roast fair-trade beans anytime soon. Or ever.
“Anxious to leave?” Lana asks after she gulps half her brew. “You knew we’d get up if we smelled this.”
“I had a sneaking suspicion.” I top up her mug. She guzzles some more, then grins my way. I thought her kind from the minute I met her, and my opinion has only improved. “Thank you, Lana.”
“For what?”
“For walking up four flights of stairs to my apartment and everything since.”
Lana sips from her mug, then shakes her head. “Hon, you gave us a plan. I could feel we were…not breaking apart, but losing heart, maybe. It doesn’t feel that way since we met you.”
At her words, a strange sensation spreads through my body, loosening my limbs. It takes a minute to name the feeling, maybe because it’s rare: peacefulness. I have no interest in dying, but it might not be so bad today, when the sun is shining and I know I’ve made a difference, no matter how small it may be.
“If for some reason I don’t make it there, will you tell Rose and Mitch I tried?” I ask. “Tell them I love them and the kids. Maybe tell them I sucked at first, but I ended up being okay.”
I give a little laugh to make light of the last part. I feel stupid asking, but I want Rose and Mitch to know I wasn’t a sniveling mess the entire way. Lana raises a hand to my cheek, her fingers still warm from her mug. “Cherry, apart from those first rough patches, you’re as good as any of us.”
Why I can believe Lana when I’ve doubted the same words from Rose for the past decades is beyond me, but I do. “Thanks.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes flick over my shoulder before they return to mine. “But next time you have a choice to save Troy’s life, I want you to really think about it. He’s a pain in the—”
“I can hear you!” Troy shouts from behind me.
Lana dissolves into laughter. “You were supposed to, Atlas. Have some coffee. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
We fly through the towns heading north. Nowhere is untouched; all have busted windows and broken doors. You can see where they attempted to create safe havens. Those are the places where the most Lexers congregate, the places where fences are bent to the ground, where the concrete is stained brown and covered with body parts. In spots, cars sit in a line waiting to leave town via I-5 or another route. The first vehicles likely made it north, but all it took was one accident, one fight, and possibly a few Lexers, to create a hopeless jam.
In the unfortunately named town of Drain, we’re shadowed by thirty Lexers. The elevated tracks are littered with debris, maybe from an explosion. Though we’re making good time, my confidence falters. The chance of finding Rose and Mitch seems as low as my spirits. The small road alongside the tracks, with its sporadic abandoned cars and truly dead bodies, is depressing as hell, and I’m glad when the rails swing east through forest. For someone who’s embraced city living for decades, I can barely stand to see a house anymore.
Coming into Cottage Grove, only twenty miles from Eugene, the tracks parallel Route 99. People attempted to escape both north and south, and that caused more than a few problems. Cars have collided, or they sit facing each other in a single lane, locked in a never-ending game of Chicken. A few enterprising souls tried to take the tracks. I’m sure some made it. The others blew a tire or ran out of gas, and we have to stop to move them from our path.
After the fourth car has been pushed over the rails and driven into the side of one of its abandoned comrades on the road, Gabe uses a bandana to blot his pink cheeks. The SUV was heavy, and two tires sitting on rims made it even more sluggish.
“You okay?” Lance asks. “Maybe sit out the next one.”
Gabe lifts his dreads and fans the back of his neck. “Just hot.”
“That twenty pounds of ropes on your head doesn’t help,” Lance says.
Gabe laughs easily. “Gettin’ saucy on me. I like it.”
Lance’s lips press to hide his smile. They slept snuggled together last night, in full view of everyone, and Lance only blushed a little when Lana and Daisy declared them a cute couple this morning. I’ve seen enough movies to know that this is the point where one of the boys is bound to kick the bucket—the same way every cop dies the day before retirement—and it won’t happen if I can help it.
“At least the Lexers are somewhere else,” Gabe says. “Let’s get out of here before we find them.”
Or they find us.
Gabe and Lance ride in the bed with me and Francis while we clatter up the rails toward a small trestle bridge. Trees grow thick at the river, and it’s only once we cross the bridge that we see the middle school campus full of zombies. The complex of buildings and sports fields was fenced—possibly a Safe Zone—until two cars rammed through the chain-link from the tracks. And with the number of Lexers poised to exit the school grounds, we’re in deep shit.
“Hang on, boys!” Troy shouts out his window.
The engine roars. We crouch in the bed rather than chance being tossed to the mob. Fifty feet ahead, bodies pour through the fence and make their way up the graveled embankment. Troy guns it harder, and the whine of the railgear becomes a scream.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, I think. And then we’re blowing past the first of the bunch, one of whom grabs at the truck and has his arm ripped off. A hundred feet later, an unholy screech rends the air and the pickup tips sideways, clunking to an abrupt halt that slams my shoulder into steel and throws the four of us into a jumble of body parts at the bottom of the truck bed.
Gabe is up first. He pulls Francis to his feet, then Lance and me. The truck sits at an angle to the tracks, the right side a foot lower than the left. We derailed. We derailed with zombies a hundred feet away, and they’re closing in.
Troy, Lana, and Daisy spill from the doors. “Lift the gear!” Daisy yells. With it up, we can drive on tires, at least far enough to get out of range.
“You do the front!” Francis calls. “Did you get the switch?”
Troy raises a thumb on his way to the front bumper with Lana and Daisy. I leap over the tailgate with Francis, turning my attention to the railgear rather than the zombies streaming down the tracks. Gabe and Lance take up posts behind us.
Francis pulls the red handle. I push the up button. The hydraulics kick in, and the railgear lifts a quarter inch before it stops, though the motor grinds on. Francis drops to his knees and inspects under the bumper. “It’s bent!”
At Francis’ words, Troy, Lana, and Daisy run to the cab for their packs, Lance and Gabe behind them. I find my bag smashed in the corner of the bed, tug it and Francis’ out by their straps, and we toss them over our shoulders. Lana, Daisy, and Troy are at our sides a second later, though Lance helps Gabe wrest his pack from where it’s jammed under a seat.
The Lexers are forty feet away. “Leave it!” I shout.
Gabe gives a mighty yank, then falls backward with his bag. He tumbles down the embankment and clangs into the fence headfirst. Lance races after him. I don’t want Lana to have to tell Rose and Mitch I held my own; I want them to see for themselves. But two kids are not dying on these tracks today. They are not.
I slide down the gravel, heart pumping so hard I fear a coronary event is imminent. Lance takes one of Gabe’s arms, I take the other, and we heave Gabe to his feet. “C’mon, man!” Lance yells.
Gabe nods almost dreamily and begins to limp up the gravel with his pack clutched to his chest. I wrench it from him and push at his back. “Go!”
He shakes his head as though clearing it out and gets a move on. Ten feet away, at the back of the truck, Troy and the others slam their weapons into the fi
rst Lexers to arrive. They turn at my shout, and we sprint off the tracks to Route 99, weaving between cars faster than the Lexers can. Across the way, the houses of a development have been looted, and the broken windows and doors offer no sanctuary. We turn left at the next intersection, past another field and single-family homes that are no better. Two Lexers wander from a side yard and are cut down by Daisy and Francis.
“Can you carry your bag?” I ask Gabe after another block. “I want my hands free.”
He nods, and we lift it onto his back. I’d ditch it if necessary, but Gabe has half the mold in there. It’s likely the reason he wouldn’t leave it behind—he’s talked of heading for his mother on the East Coast, spreading it as he goes.
We scramble through a clogged intersection and kill four Lexers on the other side. The hum of the track zombies is distant, over a quarter mile away, and Lana scans the area with her binoculars. “They don’t know where we went.”
Gabe has his wits about him, but he’s limping. I scrutinize the leg he favors and point it out to Francis, who says, “Next good house, let’s stop and see where we are.”
A quarter mile later, we choose a brown house with a fence out front, break a window, and head inside.
We’re twenty miles from Eugene as the crow flies, as Dad used to say. Twenty-five miles driving distance on impassable roads. Thirty or more miles on back roads that might be blocked. Francis found the easements on the map, which is a doable hike, but Gabe’s leg is bruised all to hell. Nothing broken, fortunately, and not even badly sprained, but twenty miles of walking is not going to happen.
“Dude, I can do it,” Gabe says. He sits on the house’s couch, leg elevated on a chair. “I was wrecked the whole first week of the PCT. Did I tell you about the blisters that popped and then—”
The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed Page 68
