Rumble (40 page)

we can hel—”

No! No more lawyers. No more

money. No one can help me now,

so I’m going out with a bang. Ha-

ha. Bang, get it? My only regret

is your uncle isn’t catching

this freight train with us.

Us? Holy shit. He means to take

me with him! I start backing up

slowly, but when I see his hand

move again toward his pocket,

I turn and run and

Where Am I?

I’m awake,

at least I think I am.

Everything’s dark.

Everything’s silent.

Dead silent. Dead.

Wait. Am I dead?

The last thing I remember was . . .

Percussion! An incredible

blast of noise and a mad

thrust of energy. It was . . .

Gus. I must be dead.

But I can’t be dead.

I’m conscious.

Concentrate.

I’m lying on something.

Firm, not hard.

Not the ground.

Bed?

Try to move.

Can’t, not much, but now

I’m aware of my hands.

I can feel my fingers.

Pretty sure they’re all there.

I’m breathing. Yes. Inhale.

There’s a smell, familiar,

but not of home. Antiseptic.

Bleach. The odd scent

of oxygen. Hospital.

That’s it! I’m in the hospital.

Awake. Aware. In the hospital.

I can feel. I can think.

So why can’t I see?

Am I blind? Oh, God,

did he make me blind?

And why can’t I hear?

No chatter. No footsteps.

No
whoosh
of machines.

No squeak of bedsprings.

What else did he take from me?

I try to move again,

but I must be strapped down.

Either that or all that’s left

of me is my fingers. No pain.

That’s good. I can unhinge

my jaw. But when I open

my mouth, no sound comes out.

At Least, I Don’t Think

Any sound came out, because now

there’s movement around me.

Someone touches my hand,

and I know it’s Mom, the feel

of her skin so familiar, plucked

from recollection. “Help me,”

I want to say, and maybe I do.

But I can’t hear my voice,

can’t see Mom’s face. I’m desperate

to know what’s wrong with me,

but all she can do is stroke my arm,

and I imagine her talking to me,

telling me everything will be okay,

be calm. And I try. For her.

But I’m scared. So scared.

Do I have legs? I work real hard,

and my right foot jerks.

Oh my God, is there a left one?

“Help me, Mama.” Instead,

I feel her move away, replaced

by someone else, and now

comes a rush of contentment.

Not quite pleasure, but close.

At least they’ve got good drugs

in here. Going, going . . .

Time Has No Meaning

Not in this place.

I rise up into soundless,

sightless consciousness.

Have no clue how long

I’ve been in suspended

animation. I find I can lift

my hands and I bring them

to my face, most of which

seems to be covered with

gauze. Bandages swaddle

my head, cover my eyes.

Maybe I won’t be blind

when those are removed.

Or maybe I’m still going to die.

I lie as motionless as possible

so they don’t put me back

under. I swear if I make it,

the first thing I’m going to do

is tell Alexa I love her.

I think she’s been here.

I can smell her perfume

afloat the antiseptic.

Will I ever see her face

again? Damn. Popped

my own bubble. Why would

I think Alexa—or any girl—

would want a sightless me?

I consider life minus eyes.

I could never drive again,

never shoot, never ride

my bike along the river.

And that makes me think

of Hayden on a blanket . . .

No. Not Hayden. Alexa.

My sweetest Alexa, hot and

luscious in my bed. I’m crazy

with need for her. Kissing

her face, her neck, down

over her belly, close to that

special spot between those

beautiful legs, and almost there

when “Back in Black” interrupts

us. Now it’s Luke I see and

always will, with or without

functioning eyes, his own eyes

forever sightless, and I know

redemption is lost to me. . . .

And I Ascend

From the depths again.

Up, up, into awareness.

But there’s something

different this time,

somewhere in the darkness.

Sound. A slight vibration.

a-a-a-a

I focus, give it my complete

attention, and it grows into

a low rumble.

A-a-a-a.

It’s the first sound of any

kind I’ve heard since . . .

whenever, and I rejoice.

A-A-A-A.

What is it? Not mechanical,

I don’t think. More vocal.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

Can you hear me if you are?

A-A-A-l

I wish I could see. “Can you

come closer?” I do think

the rumble is a voice. A man’s?

A-A-A-l-l-f

Low. Familiar. I know it.

Dad? No. Uncle Jessie? No.

Younger.

A-A-l-l-f-f-a

And suddenly it sinks in.

“Luke?” I’ve either gone crazy

or they’re upping my meds.

Alphatryptonites

It can’t be! “Luke? Where

are you? I can’t see you.

It’s too dark. Luke! What

is it? What do you want?”

Everything falls completely

silent again. “No! Don’t go!”

Comes a whisper,

Alphatryptonites forgive.

Stunned

I can only pretend to process

what just occurred—or didn’t.

I don’t believe in otherworldly

anythings. There was no Luke.

So why did I call out to him?

I’ve got some major shit embedded

in my psyche, that’s for sure.

Who knows what opiates might

dislodge? On the other hand,

a low haze of pain shimmers.

When was the last time they gave

me anything? I need answers,

damn it, not hallucinations. “Luke?”

But of course, no answer will come.

Whatever that was has deserted me.

Although, wait. If that was, indeed,

a piece of my psyche, I hope it left

the good stuff behind. Is there good stuff?

As I lie here, surrounded by suffocating

darkness digesting possibilities,

I may not be able to see, but a couple

of things have become very clear.

I can hear something, and not some

inexplicable thing, but some external

corporeal noise. It’s muffled, almost

a whisper of conversation or maybe

a television. I’ve exited the well

of total silence. The other thing is

even more important. No, it’s vital.

Either some ghost of my little brother

just traveled light-years, traversing

the wilderness of death to forgive me,

or I have forgiven myself.

After

It’s been three months since Augustus

Lee Swanson went out to the Turner

Shooting Range looking for some

warped form of justice. Experts have

profiled him, and while they might

have argued exactly what set him off,

they all agreed post-traumatic stress

disorder was a contributing factor.

I could’ve told them that. What

saved most of the building—and me—

was his triggering the device while

still inside the locker room, containing

most of the shrapnel and much of

the explosion’s force. Had I not chosen

to run in the opposite direction, well,

who knows? That’s the good news.

Not so good? Major mistake, and

one I’ll remember in case I’m ever

again hauling ass away from a bomb,

was glancing back over my shoulder

just about the exact second everything

blew. I remember none of this, of course,

but when shards of wood and metal

went flying, my face became a target.

Small splinters hit my left eye, while

a larger projectile punctured my right

cornea. With a transplant, my vision

will improve immensely, at least

that’s the promise. Right now, it’s like

peering through sheer dark curtains.

As for my hearing, I’m not completely

deaf. I mean, if you shout at the top

of your lungs, I can pick out a few

key phrases. It may get better with time,

but maybe not. But, hey, technology

has done wonders with hearing aids.

So what if I look like a decrepit old man

when I’m barely old enough to vote?

I’m slowly getting used to the idea

that I’ll never exactly be normal again.

But Maybe Normal Is Overrated

Because abnormal me

has discovered that I’ve got

a lot to live for. My family—

near and extended—has rallied

around me. As I recovered,

both pairs of grandparents

spent many hours reading to me

Yes, the Creswell coots read

from the Bible, but I couldn’t hear

most of it anyway, not even when

they AMPLIFIED. And, much to

my amusement, Grandpa Coot also

read James Bond—his “guilty pleasure.”

What was truly important, lying

there in the semidarkness,

was the company, and I also found

that with aunts, uncles, cousins,

and friends, many of whom

I’d thought lost to me. Funny

how a near-death experience

brings perspective, both to the guy

who almost died, and also

to those who just about lost him.

Best of All

Abnormal me has a stellar

girlfriend. Alexa is my bedrock,

and as I work on dressing myself

in the clothes Lorelei laid out for

me (color coordination was never

my best thing, but now it’s ridiculous),

she’s in the living room, waiting

to drive me (in the Ford, which needs

a good romp that I can’t give it at

the moment) to Uncle Jessie’s wedding.

He and Quin delayed their nuptials

until I could get on my feet again.

He probably wouldn’t have, as anxious

as he was, but Quin insisted.
It’s kind

of the least we can do, considering

he got blown up on your behalf,

don’t you think?
Not much he could

say to that. Weirdly, his heart attack

might very well have saved his life.

What probably salvaged mine

were the first responders who pulled

me from the rubble and stanched

the bleeding. Glad they finished

their doughnuts and got there when they did.

Near As I Can Tell

From the intensity of light through my

window (muted though my traitor

eyes might interpret it), it’s a gorgeous

spring day. Perfect for saying “I do”

on an old covered bridge, family

gathered round. I’m including Lorelei

in that description. She has also

been wonderful to me, and though

I still question the way they went

about it, I have come to terms with

Dad’s relationship with her. Mom

has forged ahead with her new life,

as I must with mine, whatever the end

product might be. I’ll probably never

be a shooting team star, but I will

go to college and hopefully discover

my passion. Who knows? Maybe it

is
politics, but until I go looking,

how can I ever find it? I might even

study comparative religion.

I’ve Thought and Thought

About what happened

in the hospital, and I still

have no clue if my close

encounter was real or imagined.

But it has unlocked my mind

to possibilities. And those

are something I’m eager

to explore. The door opens

and Alexa glides across

the room, at least, that’s

how it looks to me. Now

she straightens the buttons

I’ve managed to get crooked.

Then she lifts up on her toes

to give me a kiss, and it is soft

and warm, filled with promise.

When she breaks away, I pull

her back close, promise, “I love

you.” Because if there’s one

thing I’ve learned through all

this, it’s to have faith in love.

* * *

Author’s Note

The idea for
Rumble
germinated a couple of years ago. It was right after the second of two mosque burnings here in the US. As a card-carrying liberal Lutheran whose beliefs run more toward the spiritual than the biblical, I posted on Facebook:
We all serve one Creator
, meaning Christians, Jews, Muslims and, in fact, all human beings. I was prepared for a negative backlash, but not for the comment that came from a sixteen-year-old girl.