Liquid Death (The Edinön Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

              “Gran?” I walk to the kitchen and almost keel over at the sight of freshly baked cookies. Gran is scraping them off the cookie sheets and arranging them on a large plate. She looks up at me and smiles.

              “How was school, Juan?”

              Gran is probably in her mid-fifties, with graying brown hair and the sweetest voice in the world. If she did not look so much like my mom, I wouldn’t have believed we were related. I can’t take my eyes off the plate. “Good.”

              She hands me a separate paper plate with four mouth-watering goods and a glass of milk. Geez, I haven’t been living here more than a week, and she’s already treating me like royalty. “Tell me about your day.”

              This must be a dream. “It was… uh…” I scratch my head and stuff a cookie into my mouth. “An experience,” I say while chewing.

              “Did you make any new friends?”

              I grab another. “No. I didn’t really talk to anyone. It’s hard when I’m constantly being followed.”

              “Well, give it time and I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

              “Gran?”

              She looks up at me. “Yes, dear?”

             
How much do you know about Blue Skys?
I want to ask. “Why can’t I go to a normal school?” I ask instead.

              Her demeanor droops. “This is part of your sentence, Juan. You understand that, don’t you?”

             
My sentence?
“I thought my sentence was two years in Blue Skys. Those two years are over.”

              “Yes, but…” She presses her lips together. “They can’t allow you around normal children. This is the way it must be.”

              I gulp down the entire glass of milk in one breath. “I’m not a child. And I’m not… abnormal. Am I?”

              Gran gives me a queer look.

              I wipe milk from my upper lip and think. “What makes me so different from everyone else?”

              “You really don’t know?” She leans against the oven and folds her arms over her apron.

              I think for a moment. “Am I more different physically, or… mentally?”

              “Dear, you just spent two years in a
mental
hospital. What kind of things did you learn there if not what was different about you?”

              “I... All I remember is…. There was this redheaded
chica
who would come into my room with food and pills. No one spoke to me but the other patients. I was never punished for misbehavior. Every week they would sedate me for the ‘tests’… but I never knew what those tests were, or why they were necessary.”

              “And you never asked?”

              I shake my head. Huh. That does seem odd that I never thought to ask questions. I’m usually a very inquisitive person. Panic swells in my chest. “What did they do to me?”

              “Why don’t you go talk to the school counselor tomorrow? I hear she works for Blue Skys.”

              I nod, brushing the suggestion aside. “I’m going to be in my room for a while. Thanks for the cookies.” I swallow hard and walk to my room, Grandpa’s former office. I shut the door behind me and plop on my bed, running my hands through my hair. Two years of my life I spent in an asylum, and I can’t even remember why I was there. I recall the shot I received in the neck earlier today and the way it made me feel… that drug must have been the reason I was so cooperative.

              And why is a Blue Skys employee daylighting as a high school counselor? That doesn’t make sense.

              At five, Grandpa drives me to the Blue Skys offices where I am to dump my feelings on a shrink twice a week so they can track my “progress” outside of the asylum and school.

              “Something bothering you, Juan?” he queries on the way over.

              I sigh and shake my head. “I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t need therapy. I don’t need to be placed in a school with ‘special kids.’”

              “You killed your father, Juan. Do you want to talk about that?”

              “It was self-defense! Everybody knows that! And I defeated a major drug lord. The government should have applauded me for it. Instead they imprison me with the insane and inject me with mind-altering chemicals. Something isn’t right.”

              “You brought more people to justice than your father. Remember Destiny?”

              My psyche crawls under a boulder and shudders. I look out the window at the dreary streets and empty buildings. This place is like a ghost town. I think of my mom, and how she hasn’t answered my calls since my release. I hope rehab has helped her while I have been gone. I hope she hasn’t given up.

              “We’re here,” Grandpa announces, patting my knee. “I’ll pick you up at six thirty.”

              I unbuckle my seatbelt and exit the car.

              The redheaded
chica
who brought my daily meals in Blue Skys happens to be my therapist. She is hotter than I remember, I suppose due to an abrupt alteration in outfit and hairstyle. Her fiery hair is loose and curled, and she is wearing a white blouse under a dark blue suitcoat and matching skirt. A pearl necklace drapes over her prominent clavicle, and she has left one too many buttons loose on her shirt, making it difficult to concentrate. She welcomes me into her office and asks me to get comfortable on the flower-embroidered sofa under the window. I lie on the couch with one arm behind my head and close my eyes, prioritizing questions in my mind.

              “So, Juan, how has your first week with your grandparents fared for you?” she inquires as she sits demurely in a chair very close to my face. She has a clipboard on her lap and a black pen in her hand on the off chance I have something interesting to say.

              “It’s been great.”

              “I see you have put on a little weight since your release. Gran must be feeding you well.”

              I nod once. I have gained a total of one pound this week. It must be all in my face because apparently it’s quite noticeable.

              “How did you feel about your first day at school?”

              “I’m confused why I have been enrolled as a senior when I don’t have enough credits. Couldn’t I just take the GED and put my high school education behind me?”

              “You earned the credits required during your sophomore and junior years while in Blue Skys,” Doctor Eddington replies. My sight is glued to her red lipstick. “And we thought it would be ideal for you to finish your education in a social setting so we can monitor how you interact with people before you are granted total freedom.”

              Ah.
Now
everything makes sense. “Who is ‘we’?”

              “Doctor Hendricks, your social workers, and I. We are highly invested in your full recovery.” When I open my mouth, she raises a hand to stop me. “Let me ask the questions for a moment, Juan. Tell me more about your day. Did you meet anyone at school?”

              I massage my eyeballs. “No.”

              “How were your classes?”

              “
Estoy tomando una clase de español
.”

              She jots something down. What could she possibly be writing? I crane my head to peek, but she lifts her clipboard against her chest and orders me with a stern expression to lie back down. I reluctantly obey. “Are you thinking of joining any clubs or activities outside of school?”

              “Nope.”

              “What do you plan to do in your spare time, then?”

              “Read, watch TV, play video games. Maybe loot a store or two.” I shrug.

              Doctor Eddington chuckles. “What career paths are you considering?”

              “I’m considering taking after my dad. Maybe starting my own meth-cooking business and migrating to Mexico.”

              She cocks a thin eyebrow. “Would you like to talk about your father?”

              I exhale. “No.” I squint at the far wall. “How about we talk about a girl I saw today at school.”

              My therapist leans forward intently. “Yes?”

              “She was with this surfer dude, dressed in the kind of rags I used to wear. And she had this bruise along her jaw,” I indicate the spot with my finger on my own face. “Looked like she had been punched pretty hard.”

              Eddington purses her red-stained lips and asks, “Surfer dude?”

              “Yeah. I grew up in San Diego. I saw his type every day. Sun-bleached, wavy hair, orange tan year round…”

              “Ah, I see.” She smiles and writes something else down. “What about this girl drew your attention? Was it the bruise, or something she did?”

              “Well, I almost ran into the surfer before I noticed her. The bruise is what initially drew my attention. But as I was walking down the hall I heard her crying, and when I turned, she was sobbing in a fetal position on the floor. The guy with her didn’t seem to know what to do. I heard him talk to someone on the phone about ‘medication’ and a ‘breakdown,’ or something, before my aides dragged me away.”

              “How did you feel when you saw this? Angry? Sympathetic? Confused?”

              “I felt anger for whoever traumatized her. I still want to do… unspeakable things to the man responsible.” Why did I admit that out loud?

              “Why is that? You don’t even know the girl. The bruise could have resulted from an accident. She could have been crying about something completely unrelated.”

              I roll my eyes. “No, no, no. I saw the bruise up close. I saw the knuckle marks. No way was that an accident. Her home life probably isn’t perfect. Her
dad
likely gave her that bruise.” Just the thought of someone hurting that poor girl, stranger or not, is making my blood boil.

              “Juan, you’re projecting your past situation onto a girl you know nothing about.”

              I glower at the therapist. “Right. Ignore the evidence. This is all about
me
, now.”

              She clucks her tongue. “During these sessions,
everything
is about you.” She glances at her wristwatch. “How are you feeling physically? Any back pain? Joint pain? Headaches? Nausea?”

              “No.” I sit up and slide off the couch. “We’re done here.”

***

The Gift

              Dec. 23, 2016

                           
Cleaning is one of the most
effective methods I use to keep my mind occupied. When I am scrubbing every nook and cranny in the kitchen, all I think about is what type of chemical to use in the particular spot I am scouring. It's nice – therapeutic. I wish I was able to do this more often without interruptions.

              The dishes are clean and put away, the walls no longer stink of burnt tar and sweat, and the floor is swept and mopped. Despite its inevitably dumpy appearance, at least it looks like I put some effort into making it look nice. There is nothing I can do about the peeling wallpaper and the cracked, yellowed tiles on the floor and counter top.

              My uncle is stressed because a man from Youth Services is doing his semiannual visit to our house this afternoon to make sure I am being treated well, that I'm taking my medication, and that Jim is at least
trying
to find a job. And, yes, technically I am not a minor, but Leyla believes it is necessary to check up on me as often as possible in whatever form possible. So that means I am responsible for cleaning the entire residence while Jim is out getting a haircut. Not that he needs one of course – he hardly has any hair to trim. He just doesn't want to be around me, that's all.

             
Now the living room.
I scoop up all the beer cans and other trash scattered on the floor around the couch and toss them in the giant garbage sack I placed in the center of the room. I also empty the ash tray, wash it, and hide it under the sofa. I vacuum, scrub the stench from the walls, dust the coffee table and television, and plug in some air freshener.

              I finish vacuuming the rest of the house, switch the load of laundry from the washer to the dryer, and then proceed with the bedrooms. Of course, this is the only time of year besides that day in June when the Youth Services guy visits that I can enter my uncle's bedroom. It's a disaster, and my heart sinks.

              When I'm finally done with everything else, including the bedrooms, I decide it's about time I get myself cleaned up as well. I take a nice long shower, use the rest of the fruit-scented body lotion, put on a clean t-shirt, jacket, and pair of jeans, and then take the time to put my hair into a
neat
bun.

              By the end of all this, I'm positively drained. I fold and put away all the laundry and crumble onto my bed.

              “Kandi! I need you in the kitchen!”

              That voice has never failed to wake me up. I groggily roll out of bed and pad into the kitchen to find my uncle pulling out all the pots and pans, creating a huge mess. My jaw drops.

              “Kandi, he is going to be here any minute! Where is the teapot?”

              Teapot? Since when did any of us drink tea?

              I begin to pick up after him without saying a word. Uncle Jim eventually gives up looking for it and pulls me to my feet by my hood. That's why I often put my hair up – I'm surprised I haven't gone bald given how much he pulls it when I leave it down. “You had better get some refreshments ready,” he hisses menacingly, his breath reeking of tobacco. He doesn't even bother threatening me. The threat is all in his maniacal eyes.

              When he releases me, I realize I hadn't been breathing for nearly a full minute and quickly exhale.

              Glancing up at the clock, my eyes expand with surprise. Doctor Boon is going to be here in fifteen minutes. How am I going to get something prepared by then when we have no food in the fridge and nothing but a bag of potato chips in the pantry?

              The sound of the buzzer startles me. He is five minutes early. Perfect timing. I've just gotten a pitcher of water together. Yay. I hear my uncle respond to the voice on the intercom by the front door, and the next thing I know my uncle is speaking right in my ear, “Where are the refreshments?”

              I pick up the pitcher of water and take it to the living area.

              “That's it?” he shouts. “That's all you got?”

              I feel horrible.

              “Hey, don't cry, Kandi. No! He's coming! You can't let him see you cry!”

              I wipe the tears away and look at the floor. Someone knocks, and I feel the noose tighten around my neck.

              “Hey, Kandi,” greets Doctor Boon, a cheery, older man with hazel eyes and hair as white and wispy as cirrus clouds. He knows better than to touch me by now. Instead of shaking my hand and patting my shoulder, he simply smiles and offers me a beautifully-wrapped box. Oh, my gosh. He gave me a present. The last time I received a present for Christmas was... so long ago. My throat tightens, and tears threaten to spill. But I won't let them.

              “Good afternoon, Doctor Boon,” Jim says, shaking the old man's hand.

              “You can call me Alan,” Doctor Boon assures my uncle kindly. His voice is so deep it makes the room quake.

              “All right, Alan, why don't we all sit down in the kitchen?” My uncle has turned into a different person. It's very disconcerting. I rub my hands together as I follow them into the kitchen where we take our seats around the tiny, square folding table. I stare at the peeling mustard-colored plastic covering its surface.

              From the corner of my right eye, I watch Alan flip through documents on his transparent clipboard with his big, callused fingers. “Doctor Eddington reports that Kanidie has shown little to no improvement in the past six months and will likely never improve with her current treatment,” he says sadly, scanning the pages. “The school counselor wrote a similar report, stating that Kanidie refuses to communicate... and she has reported bruises on her neck and wrists. Do you have anything to say about that, Mr. Levinson?”

              My uncle taps his fingers on the table and nods. “Kandi has... lately been harming herself. I don't know why. I've done all I can to get her to stop.”

              “How severe are her injuries?”

              “Oh, just bruises and scratches. Nothing too serious.”

              “Nothing that would require medical attention?”

              Jim frowns and shakes his head. “Nah, I just get some ointment and bandages if it ever comes to that.”

              “Do you suspect she is suicidal?”

              A slight pause, followed by Jim clearing his throat and replying slowly, “I don't know, honestly.” He rubs the whiskers on his face and sighs.

              Doctor Boon nods. “Leyla Hendricks has suggested returning her to Blue Skys. What do you think?”

              Blue Skys. That's where I spent four years in a white padded cell eating food from plastic cups and hallucinating as a result of the drugs forced into my system.

              “I don't think that is a good idea. Kandi's improvement may be slow and arduous, but when it all comes down to it... I don't think Blue Skys has anything to offer her that I can't offer myself.”

              “What about your financial situation? You've been living off welfare for a year. Your fiancé left you, and you've been unemployed ever since. Aren't you a bit overwhelmed with the responsibility of nurturing Kandi? It would be understandable... maybe even ideal... if you left her in the care of others who had the means to provide for her special needs.”

              My uncle licks his upper lip and winces, as though what the man said physically hurt him.
Ouch.
He doesn't like blows to his precious ego. “I have the means.” He takes a breath and skewers Mr. Boon with his pale blue eyes. For a brief moment, he hesitates, possibly conjuring up a way to retaliate for his insensitivity and bluntness. “What Kandi needs is someone who can provide more than meds and basic physical needs – someone who is capable of showing love and compassion toward her. I strongly feel that Kandi would only deteriorate further in a mental institution. I am her best option right now, since we are family and I treat her the way she deserves to be treated.”

              The old man smiles, apparently interpreting the 'deserves to be treated' part the way my uncle intended, which is a miracle. “In that case, you need to get a job as soon as possible. I have some...” he pulls a stack of papers out of his satchel, “job applications if you're interested. I know it must be hard to get a job the way the economy is these days, so I took the liberty of narrowing down your search to companies in your vicinity that are actually hiring. I hope you don't mind.”

              My uncle takes the stack and glances through it. “Not at all. I appreciate it. Beggars can't be choosers.” Behind his appreciative smile, I can see the flame emerging from the embers that are perpetually smoldering within his eyes.

              “No doubt.” Mr. Boon then turns his attention to me. “Now it's time to decide what you two need. It is the Holiday season, and we have raised quite a bit of money from our recent fundraiser. So let's get down to what you need, and if we have any room left, what you want.” He flips his clipboard documents to the last page and retrieves a pen from his suit coat pocket. “Let's start with food and preferences. Any food allergies we should be aware of?”

              “I am allergic to nuts, but Kandi will eat just about anything.”

              Finally, he speaks the truth.

              “Okay.” Mr. Boon writes something down. “What about hygiene products, like soap, shampoo, and so forth?”

              “We are almost out of soap,” Jim answers, “and Kandi could use some more... feminine products.”

              “Yes, of course.”
Write write write.
“Is your car in need of any repair?”

              “No.”

              “Okay, let's move on to clothing. We will provide Kandi some clothes from our stash of donations since it appears she's wearing clothes that belonged to people three times her size, at least.”
Ouch.
“What about you, Mr. Levinson?”

             
Blah, blah, blah.
I'm so tired, I don't think I can listen to them anymore. My eyelids begin to droop over my blistering eyes, and my mind wanders...

              After what feels like fifty years, Mr. Boon inspects the entire house and, seemingly satisfied, shakes my uncle's hand and departs.

              My uncle wastes no time returning to his normal self. He looks at me accusingly and huffs, then walks swiftly down the hall and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

              In my bedroom at about five o'clock in the evening, I'm lying on my bed admiring the small box wrapped in beautiful golden/scarlet/green paper. A small tear leaks from the corner of my eye and slides down my face, hitting my flat white pillow and soaking into the fabric.

             
I recall waking up early Christmas morning when I was eight, unable to sleep any longer – my excitement growing as I thought about what could be under the tree. A new bike? A doll? Candy? I had to know. I had to. I couldn't sit still in bed and wait until my parents woke up.

              So I climbed out of bed and padded down the hallway in my princess nightgown and walked as quietly and ninja-like as possible down the stairs. As soon as I saw the Christmas tree lights illuminating the wrapped packages that concealed who-knew-what, I almost squealed. Luckily, I was able to contain myself.

              My father was sitting in front of the old fireplace stoking the fire.

              I turned to go back upstairs before he saw me, but apparently he already knew I was there. “Kandi?” He looked up and smiled. I faltered. “You're supposed to be asleep.”

              “I couldn't sleep,” I told him innocently.

              “Come here.” He gestured with his hands to come sit by him. I obeyed, walking down the stairs and through the living room. I sat next to him, inhaling his rich, unique scent.

              “I'm sorry.”

              “For what?”

              “For ruining the surprise.”

              “What surprise? You knew what you were going to see. There was no surprise.”

              He placed the stoker down with all the other fire-kindling tools and brought me closer to his side. “I love sitting in the soft light alone in the middle of the night. It's very relaxing, don't you think?”

              I nodded.

              I wake with a start and look at the clock. 7:59. The house is quiet. The air is still and relatively clean. I feel at peace, at least for the moment. I am alone and calm as I'll ever be.

              I was reading a book in the basement while Traci was playing with her toys when suddenly I heard my mom yelling upstairs. Traci and I, nine and twelve years old, looked up, startled, but otherwise did not move a muscle.

              I heard more yelling; my parents were fighting again. Traci's big coffee-brown eyes widened and looked at me for reassurance. I nodded, assuring her with my gaze that this was just another one of “those fights” that usually lasted a few minutes, after which my parents would be back to normal.