by Kerri Ann
Knowing every inch of it and then some, I pick up a pebble and roll it between my fingers. Today is different. I feel it, somethings off. I need this. The ability to the ride the rim of each tight, solid, and unforgiving curve, hugging it tight to my chest until I feel I can’t breathe from the closeness. That’s perfection.
Today, I feel them. The ghosts loom on the track as palpable entities. They’re always here, waiting, wishing for another try to best me. They’re the ghosts of my past. Times when I failed, times when I bested my own records, or times when I felt the need to push the envelope a tad bit further. It’s frightening. When no one’s here, you can hear them creep around the corners, swerving to miss a danger that only they can see.
I see them. I’ve always seen them. Sometimes they were imagined. Sometimes, though, they were strong spectres that slid up behind you to make you go faster, pushing you to your limits until you almost do too much. Dad always said, “A good racer feels the nuances of the track, that you can anticipate the point when you’ll lose it. A great racer knows how to make the track work for them. You won’t have to feel it, you’ll just know.”
He was right. You feel when it’s right.
Kneeling, leaning my back against the cool concrete, I pull up a seat. The gravel on the track’s edge is a combination of tar, rubber, flicks of rock that are kicked up, and sweat from our personal vehicles of choice.
“Do you see it, Wyatt?” My dad asks. Looking up to his massive form, I see the joy, the passion he has for us, and the care for the track’s ghosts that have bested him too.
“Not today,” I say mechanically, almost rehearsed.
“Wyatt, it’s always there. You just have to grab it.” He’s talking about visualizing the cup in my hand.
Remembering this conversation, we sat here and talked the day before my first TT race. He was sure I could do it, whereas, I was scared I’d disappoint.
“You just have to visualize the win. Don’t feel that it can’t happen, because it won’t if you can’t. Can’t is a shit answer to anything.” Laughing at this, tossing a rubberized rock, it skips across the surface of the track like a pebble on a flat pond.
“I know. Can’t is for pussies. I’m no pussy, Dad. I can do it. I’m just afraid of not bringing my best, disappointing you with my performance.”
Laughing, he ruffles my hair. “I love you, Wyatt. I’m never disappointed in you.”
Wanting to enjoy this trip down memory lane, soaking up the moment I had with my father, I know it’s not real. He’s just another ghost of the track now.
And as soon as I think that, he disappears, leaving me to sit on the edge of this quiet track alone. I wish he were still alive. I need a moment more of his time. It’s a cold reminder that he’s gone. He was gone too fast. Way, way too fast.
Needing him with me, needing him to help me find my way through this, his loving and caring soul could’ve helped me work through this, whatever it is.
Not wanting to leave the stillness of this moment, I take it in, exhaling deeply.
The track hums with anticipation. It’s waiting for me to hit the blacktop. It wants my rubber to slip across its surface. Come dance with the devil, it says. It’s calling for me.
There’s almost nothing I’d rather have…almost.
Wanting to run to the garage, slipping the bike out of its soft and warm paddock, I ache to make it screech in joy as we kiss the rim of death. But it’s not real.
What is real? Siren. She’s real, Dad is not.
Internalizing it to myself, I feel the weight of the truth. The track escapes in a dreamlike fog, the warm air with the sweet moisture of the ocean, and the light of day beaming sunshine dulls to a dim hue. It’s shocking, seeing it dissipate. That warmth, the comfort of the track, and Dad’s love as it surrounded me, all of it’s gone. I know without a doubt I’m back in my own mind. In in the hospital bed, in my cranial trap.
Enough! No more! Dad’s words ring out, that I need to dust it off and get up. I can’t stay here any longer. Shaking off the cloud of the past, I immediately notice the lights of the hospital’s sterile room. They’re gross and unloving as I lazily open my eyes. Doll’s long chocolate hair is strewn around her face, partially covering, partially hanging down the side of the awkward chair. Sitting propped up with a blanket tucked around her shoulders, her legs are curled under her uncomfortably in a reclined position. I feel bad for everything she’s endured. She looks so worn out, so tired, and it seems like she’s aged years since I physically saw her last.
Stirring awake, I attempt speech. My mouth is parched like the Mojave, and the best I can muster is a deep groan. Coughing lightly, grunting, and generally humph a few unrecognizable noises, it wakes Doll.
Sitting up so fast, the blanket she was hidden under is tossed off, discarded like trash. But it’s that look. The look on her face is priceless. Appearing at my side with a massive grin, she says, “What took you so long?” She’s clearly relieved to see me awake.
Reaching down to the floor, picking up the castaway blanket, she drapes it across my body as her tears flow down her face. “I’ve missed the shit out of you.” Controlling the bed, righting me to a sitting position, she hits the button for the nurse, frantically.
“Water, D.” Squeaking it out, she grabs it fast, handing it to me in a blink.
Pushing the button for the nurse a few more times, she doesn’t stop grinning. Holding the cup up to me, I’m sip it slowly. The water feels amazing in my dry mouth. Pulling it through the straw, I relish the ache it assuages as it passes down my throat. Working up the best smile I can with a sore jaw, cottontail mouth, and rough inner cheeks, Doll pulls the cup away as I release the straw. When we crashed, I must have bit down hard, as the sores on the inside of my mouth are still tender.
Within seconds, the tiny room becomes a flurry of activity. The gentle doctor and elderly nurse that I’d heard before become real people. They shuffle around my inactive body, checking monitors and such as I allow the ministrations.
Pushing the cup back to me, as I’m sipping at the straw, the lovely older nurse asks, “You must be feeling better?”
Trying to smile, she pulls my hand out of the covers to check my pulse. Her touch is slightly cool, but refreshing as she tracks the beats on her watch. Once satisfied with the results, she places my hand back on the bed, covers it with the half-warm flannel, then turns to write it in the log sheets.
“I’ll check back in a bit. I’m sure you have things to talk about. If you need me, just ring, China.” Smiling as she exits the room, she closes the door to the outside noises. The doctor stays for a moment more.
Going over the chart, still checking monitors, smiling at Doll and I, she says, “Glad you made it back, sugar. It would be a harmful waste to lose something as precious as you.” She smiles wide. “I have to pull my rounds, but I’ll be back in just a tick.” She leaves Doll and I in a companionable silence.
Instinctively hopping up on the bed, Doll tucks into my side, assuming the position we’ve had since we were kids. I’m tired, but I don’t care. We need to talk. Man, I missed this.
“Where’s Whiskey?” I mumble. Figuring it’s not nice to go for the gullet yet, I wonder where our older, flightier brother is.
“He should be back soon. He went out to check on something. He’s tight-lipped as usual. There’s a backstory, but I don’t care. I’ve had enough to worry about with just your mug stuck in a coma. PS, thanks for that. Like I didn’t need more trouble these past few months.”
I think about what she said. Months? Fuck. I didn’t realize it’d been that long. Dreams and reality blended as I was tucked away in my own mind. Deciding to avoid that conversation for the moment, and getting to heart of what I want to know, I ask, “How is she?”
Doll takes a deep breath, sighs, and expels the pent-up stressful breath. This was imminent.
“She’s alive. She’s sore, broken, and worried sick about you, but…” She turns over to her side, prop
ping herself on her elbow to peer down at me. “I haven’t really dealt with that. Sorry, Cas. The nurses asked my permission to tell her, but I asked that they hold off until we saw about your recovery. My first priority was you.” Her composure is thinning as the strain drains from her face. She’s had to grow up so fast, in such a short period of time. Almost twenty-one, and she’s been in charge of my care, my well-being, and I’m sure in family affairs that she honestly had no business caring for.
“I’m sorry, Doll. This shouldn’t have been your burden.” Talking even this much is straining my vocal cords. Sure, I’d been idle in the coma, but I’m exhausted awake, if that makes sense.
She pets my chest, kisses my forehead and smiles. “It’s not your fault. Now that you’re awake, things will change, I’m sure. Your stubborn streak will shine through, Cas. So get strong, get your ass out of bed and help me. Then I’ll forgive you.” After a quirky smile, she rolls off the bed. “I’ll go see what’s taking Whiskey so long with my lunch. Just relax, okay?”
Nodding, she pulls the blanket up tight to my chest. Bending down to place her shoes on and heads to the door. “I love you, Cas.”
God, I love her too. “Ditto, kid. See you in a bit.”
WYATT
Needing to tell Doll and Whiskey the whole story from beginning to end is paramount. Waking yesterday, I went back to sleep almost immediately, but it felt good to know I could wake up now on my own. I’ve been awake now for the last three hours, and it feels like my insides are jumping to get loose. My mental shell is falling to rubble in a pile of soft marshmallowy goo. My body is loose, my mind is wired, and my impatient soul wants to get out. I want to find Siren.
But I have a priority. Doll and Whiskey need to know what happened first. The nurses and doctors have been checking my pulse, heart rate, blood count, eyesight, cognitive recollection and every other motion my body can make. Doll sat perfectly still in the chair, watching as Dr. Callie, the nurses, and every other intern needing to see the effects of coma recovery. Most have left now, leaving only the doctor, Doll, Whiskey and I in the silence, waiting for the elephant in the room to take over.
“I want to check on you in a few hours, and you’ve only just come back so please, please, do me favor and get more rest. It seems redundant to sleep after a coma, but even though you’ve been out cold for a bit, you need it.” She loops her stethoscope around her neck then walks to the door, closing it tightly behind her.
Kicking back in the chair, Doll relaxes to a point. Whiskey in no way is relaxed. Legs crossed at the ankles, leaning on the wall, he looks ready to pounce.
“Okay, I’ll start this.” Doll shifts forward in the chair, slings her feet across my bed and smirks. “So, deets before you go back to snooziepoo land.”
I’m finding it hard to not laugh at that. I’ve been sitting here in snooziepoo land, as she put it, waiting to speak to her about it all. I guess now is as good a time as any.
Patting the bed beside me, Doll hops up off the chair and curls up in the corner “Whiskey, Sit, man. You’re killing me.”
With a stern scowl, he shakes his head. “Nah. I’m good here.”
Fine. “So you know I promised Mother that I would come and stay at the house until the family celebration for Dad. I thought I could handle her. I thought I could handle the soul-crushing sadness, and the pall of disappointment that hangs around me when I’m within her wrath.”
“Yeah, kind of been there for all of that, Wyatt. I was just smart enough to head out and hide in public, away from her scrutiny that day. Which I’m kicking myself for now.”
“Don’t feel bad. You were doing what you could to survive us.” I always wondered what I did to gain my mother’s undying hatred and display of incredulous disdain. I was always fearful to ask, but now I know better. Our relationship was strained because of our commonalities.
“When you popped out to shop with the girls, you left me to deal with the despair as she boxed up Dad’s things.”
Handing me the glass of water off the table beside the bed, I sip at it, watching as they await my diatribe. I’m sort of stalling.
Doll sets the glass back down. “Cas?”
“Yeah, Doll?”
“Look, I get it. You just woke up, and I’m not rushing you. Trust me, I know you need time.” She gets it so easily. She understands better than I ever expected.
“Maybe a bit more sleep,” I say as she tucks the blanket back up around my chin. “Then I’m all yours, okay?”
“Yeah. That sounds good.” Kissing my forehead, she rises off the bed with a perfect smile. I’ve been waiting to see that. “Sleep, then spill. K, Cas?”
I’m quiet for a second as she takes in my tired state. Smiling back at her, she grabs a sweater off the chair, exiting with Whiskey in tow.
Not knowing how long this recovery will be, I don’t doubt how hard a go I have ahead of me. I’ve watched it enough with other racers as bones mend. I’m not worried about bones.
It’s the mental state that will kill me.
CHINA
Finally. That’s all I could think.
Finally, he’s awake. Finally, he’s back.
We still haven’t gone over the accident, what happened, what’s gone on since he was in the coma, and everything in-between. Thing was, I needed out way too badly. If I didn’t blow this prison, I was going to lose my shit on someone. I need a moment alone to release the stress and the joy I’m feeling. After Wyatt went back to sleep, and Whiskey said he’d stay behind, I knew there was someone to watch him.
Almost running down the stairs, taking off like a bat out of hell, I peeled out of the long-term parking as fast as my fingers could hold the throttle on my 1250cc road monster. I’m so grateful that Whiskey brought out my ride. Sure, it was torture for a few days, realizing it was out there, waiting for me as I was stuck inside. But I finally got to escape. Whiskey will look after Cas. Casper promised to wait for me before he went over things so the two of them can catch up on guy shit. When I come back, I won’t have to listen to bro crap.
With Wyatt sleeping in that awful coma, I never left. In my heart, I knew it was taking its toll on all of us. If I could get out on the highway to let the bike loose, shaking out the cobwebs, then maybe I’d find a bit of peace before I heard the truth of it all. Feeling there’s a dreadful story to be told, I’ll need a bit of zen to deal with it.
Passing through the UCLA campus, I felt more relaxed than I had in weeks, and I swear I was breathing a bit easier too. This is what I needed.
Sitting on the bike, rolling my shoulders and stretching out my body, inevitably everything argues and pushes back. After sitting in that crap-ass folding death trap for close to two months, I’ve become stiff and sore. Dr. Callie, in all her infinite Southern Belle sweetness, felt bad for me a few weeks back. Giving me a pass to the staff’s sparse gym, I was able to get in a run on the ancient treadmill and lift a few weights to clear my head. The last thing I wanted was to become the soft marshmallow like I watched Wyatt slowly turn in to. After the days turned into weeks, I knew he was going to need physio, and loads of it. I didn’t want to be like him. I needed to get off my duff. It wouldn’t help my damaged soul, but for sure, it might keep me from going batshit crazy sitting in that nine-by-nine cell.
Advancing on the lights at the corner, I wait to turn onto Wiltshire Blvd. Traffic is subdued this time of day, which is good. I won’t have to fight commuters.
Reaching back and sky high, I push the muscles in my back to lengthen as I shake out my knots.
“Fuck, I needed this,” I mutter as I twist back and forth, then side to side, stretching everything out.
It feels fantastic.
This day is fantastic. Fuck, even the sun is shining brighter.
The warmth of it is amazing on my skin, recharging me better than any shopping could. The fetid smell of the inner-city smog seems diminished, and it’s almost tolerable as I take in all the noise around me. It’s as if they are integral
in orchestrating my freedom.
I don’t care that the cars honk because of impatient drivers on phones, and I care even less that the impolite assholes have no idea how to drive. Each ignore the lights so they can rush past me and my bike before the red hits. If any of these morons ever got behind the handles of my machine, they’d pee themselves. The feeling of the horses letting loose on the sweaty blacktop is the best sensation on earth to me, and not one of these asses can say the same inside their steel boxes.
The light flicks green as I cautiously wait to turn. Like I said, I know there’ll be some moron wanting to scream through the light like a banshee. After checking the way is clear a couple times, I pull onto Wiltshire, heading out toward the highway. Out there, I’ll be able to stretch the speed as I weave in and out of traffic.
On a bike, I’m fearless. There’s nothing about regular traffic that scares me. I pass on the left in a space that could only fit a stroller, and I increase, not decrease, my speed as I come into a curve. Brakes are only used in grand emergencies. The freeway is a piece of cake.
Merging into the next lane, I follow along behind the perfect example of a distracted driver—a mother in a minivan. I know I won’t be safe here. She’s more likely to reach for something she shouldn’t, veering off into the opposing lane and causing instant mayhem and carnage. So, before I become roadkill, I quickly shift, pulling in behind a sleek black Lambo. The best part of tailing high-end cars is that no one wants to be responsible for the insurance claims. They avoid them at all costs. Thankfully, becoming my perfect traffic buffer.
Sailing through lights, passing under the overpass for the 405, my cavalcade escapes into a side street, leaving me an unprotected, Bouncing Betty once more. Increasing my speed slightly, I pass a few trucks.
Swinging onto the Interstate, I let loose the evil screaming engine. Pulling into the flow opposite the direction of our house. My family home now holds nothing for me. There’s no love, no obligations, and no controlling forces to direct me to their will. I’ll be totally free soon. With Wyatt back, and me creeping up on my twenty-first birthday, which is only mere weeks away, I have less constraints. Weeks, that’s it. My race proceeds will be released into my control. My inheritance will be freed up, and my trust fund that was hung over my head for years will be mine to decide. Sure, they tried to hold it to twenty-five, but death rearranged that. I’m not looking to spend it on wild nights and hookers, but I want the control of deciding my fate in this world where my family is broken and distended.
