Schizo (12 page)

THE PORCH IS PAINTED
a dark red color, and we sit on the top step. There is no one on the street and no cars driving past.

“I'm sorry my mom is so intense,” Eliza says, dragging on her cigarette. “She means well.”

I kiss the back of her neck and her lips and she tastes like apricot beer and cigarettes. I wrap my arms around her and hold her close.

The wind is blowing the fog in around us, so we are covered in this blanket of mist and it grows ever thicker. We are alone in the middle of a dream. There is nothing but the fog and Eliza and me, and whether I say it or not, I know we are in love, that this is love, an ancient soul love that was given to us by a power greater than either one of us.

We kiss and are lifted up together.

The fog carries us away into the night.

Nothing can touch us.

We are sacred.

We are chosen.

Her body is pressed against mine, and it's like I can't get close enough, like I want to stitch my skin together with hers so we are together like this forever.

I thank God.

I say it out loud: “Thank God.”

Her eyes sparkle in the damp.

This is heaven.

Right here and now.

THE SUN STREAMS IN
bright through the window in the morning, and I turn and see that she really is still there next to me. Eliza is there. I mean, she's here—sleeping, curled on her side, wearing a white tank top and underwear.

It's very early still and there are birds chirping loudly from the surrounding rooftops. Eliza seems to be sleeping heavily, but when I kiss her cheek she blinks her eyes awake.

All around us the room is white and clean and perfect, and the bed is white and soft, and she leans forward to kiss me and we kiss together and she tastes clean and perfect and I close my eyes and we kiss more. Her body is so soft and warm beneath my hands and beneath my body, and I kiss her all around her neck and shoulders. She makes little noises, and so I keep going and kiss down her body around the softness of her belly and her hips jutting and down the heat of her thighs.

“Is this okay?” I whisper.

And she whispers back, “Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes,” she says. “I'm sure.”

She seems so tiny underneath me, and I kiss her for what feels like hours, and the room fades out all around us and the walls crash down and it's like we are floating there, and then we make love and it is more perfect and pure and incredible than anything I could've ever imagined, or ever dreamed.

When it is over we lie together intertwined like that and we breathe heavily, and then finally . . . finally . . . we fall back to sleep. Or I do, anyway.

I fall asleep.

And I dream.

I dream that I am at the beach.

At Ocean Beach.

But the tide is so low, I have to walk for what seems like miles and miles to the water. The sun is bright and warm like the day Teddy went missing.

I walk out, trying to reach the ocean, and suddenly I see him, standing there with his back to me. His red hair is shaggy, and he's wearing those same floral-patterned board shorts and the same loose-fitting T-shirt.

He is walking toward the ocean, too, and I am walking behind him, and I call out, “Teddy! Hey, Teddy!” But he doesn't answer or turn back toward me.

I keep calling and calling.

He won't turn around. He won't turn around or acknowledge me.

And as I run to try to catch up, he just keeps getting farther and farther away.

Until finally he is in the ocean.

I yell, “Stop, Teddy, come back!” Getting more and more frantic.

It does no good.

He disappears beneath the waves.

I scream.

Then all at once my legs begin sinking into the sand. The sand is like quicksand, pulling me under. I sink down to where my chest and lungs are compressed from the pressure of the entire beach closing in around me. I sink down.

And then I hear it.

The voice.

The voice from the bathroom that day at the beach.

The sound of it makes me want to pull my skin off and scream so there's nothing left inside me.

“Miles,”
it says, whispering—eating through my brain.
“Miles, stop. Stop fighting. This is what you want.”

“N-no,” I gasp, but then the sand covers me.

I close my eyes and there is only this intense heat and this crushing feeling and I can't breathe.

And then I jerk awake.

It is late, I can tell right away—the afternoon sun warm and orange-colored.

Eliza is still next to me, but there's this sick feeling in my stomach. I'm not sure why the hell her mom didn't wake us up for school. I stagger to the bathroom and run the faucet and try to get the world to stop spinning.

That voice from the dream is still there, whispering at the back of my mind.

I thought it was the voice of some power like God guiding me toward Eliza. But it is the opposite of that. It was tricking me. It made me forget. It made me spend the night here instead of going home, like I should've, to be with my family. They need me. Teddy needs me.

This, with Eliza, it is a distraction.

It's going to make me hurt the people I love.

I lied to my mom and dad. I told them I was spending the night at Preston's. How could I have done that? I see it so clearly now. After everything I put them through, this is such a betrayal.

My heart is beating fast now, so it's almost painful in my chest.

I go back to Eliza's room and start putting my clothes on.

“What . . . Where are you going?” she asks, sitting up.

“I have to get out of here,” I say, my voice shaking. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have stayed.”

She pulls the covers up around her. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. I'm sorry. It's not . . . It's me. It's my fault. This is all my fault. I'm sorry. Once I find him, once I make it right, then we can be together. But I shouldn't be here now.”

“I can't believe this is happening,” she says, but like she's talking more to herself, the sobs choking her, the tears coming down.

“I'm sorry.”

I put on my shoes then, fast, and start toward the door.

“Miles, wait,” she calls.

But I can't wait. I can't.

I have to get out.

I have to get out right now.

And so I run down the stairs and out into the warmth of the afternoon sun. The wind has died down. The city is still and shimmering in the soft light.

This was a mistake, but I will make it right.

I will tell my family.

And I will make it right.

That voice is there whispering in my mind again—but it is different now.

“Stay away from her,”
it tells me.
“Stay away.”

It tells me that until I find Teddy, I can't have anything to do with her.

Being with Eliza, that was a test. I almost got sucked in—drowned in the quicksand.

But I got out.

And now I'll go off to school—even if I'm late. And it will all be all right.

Soon I'll have Teddy back. And the voice will be silenced. And maybe then I will get to be with Eliza again.

But for now, that doesn't matter.

Nothing does.

Except for my family.

Except for Teddy.

“YOU WHAT?” MY MOM
yells. “You spent the night at Eliza's? And you missed more than half the day at school?”

She and my dad are standing there together.

“Were her parents there, at least?” my dad asks.

“Her mom was, yeah.”

The sun is low over the trees of the Presidio, and the house is all dark gray, covered in shadows.

“Why did you lie to us, Mie?” my dad asks again.

My mom cuts me off before I can answer. “What difference does it make why? He lied to us. After everything. Jesus Christ.”

“Mom, I'm sorry.”

I sit down on the couch then and notice Jane watching us from her room. I say, “I know I screwed up. I know it. But I'm gonna make it right. I promise.”

“How can you?” my mom yells. “You can't. You can't make it better. You lied to us. All we do is worry about you, and you lied to us. It's unforgivable.”

My dad sits down on the couch next to me and puts a large hand on my shoulder. “No, no. It's okay.”

“No, it's not okay!” my mom yells. “Sam, don't tell him it's okay. I'm sick of you always making me be the bad guy.”

My dad sighs loudly. “Sweetie, that's not it. He told us, didn't he? He knows he shouldn't have lied.”

“But he did,” my mom says. And then, turning to me, “You did lie. That's the point. It's unacceptable.”

“You're right,” I tell her. “Mom, you're right. I'm not arguing with you. And I'm so, so sorry. I promise you, I'll never do it again.”

My mom gets right in my face. There are tears in her eyes—and in mine, too.

“Why should I believe you?
How
can I believe you?”

“I'm sorry,” I say dumbly.

She sits down next to me on the couch, buries her face in her hands—and cries and cries.

“It's all right,” my dad whispers, putting his hand on her back. “Please, sweetie, it's all right.”

“I'm sorry,” I tell them both. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

My mom continues to cry.

“I just . . . ,” she says through her tears. “I can't take it.”

Bringing my knees up to my chest, I rock back and forth slightly on the couch.

“I'll make it up to you,” I whisper, more to myself than to them. And then, louder, “I'll make it better. I promise. I'll make it all better.”

“It's okay,” my dad tells me. “Why don't you go to your room for a little while?”

“I'll make it up to you,” I say again.

“Please,” my dad repeats.

I stand up and walk to my room.

And I leave them all where they are—better off without me.

IT'S AN HOUR OR
so later when I go back out in the living room. My mom and dad and Jane are all watching some black-and-white movie on TV I can't place, but Jane gets up from the couch when she sees me and comes to give me a hug, and I kiss the top of her head.

“Hush,” my mom says. “Come on, quiet, this is the good part.”

She's referring to the movie, and I suddenly recognize it as
To Kill a Mockingbird
with Gregory Peck—the courtroom scene.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

Me and Jane go over to the couch, and I lie on the floor and watch the movie. And even though I know they're all mad at me, it's nice being here—home—with my family.

Jane holds my hand as we watch. Gregory Peck gives a speech, and there is Scout, and I inhale the familiar smell of our house, along with the Christmas tree they must've put up after school yesterday, while I was gone. It's scraggly and an off color, with soft yellow lights and a few varied ornaments. My dad is on the couch with Mom, and he's sipping a drink and she's leaning against him.

This is my family, and I love them more than anything.

Curling on my side, I take my jacket off and cover myself like it's a blanket.

There is a commercial now, and the local news anchor flashes on-screen. “Ninety-five-million-dollar-historic-high-for-the-lotto-jackpot-more-news-at-eleven,” he says.

The tears burn my eyes and I cry softly.

I cry because I'm happy.

“I'm going to make this right,” I say aloud.

My dad rubs my back with his big, callused hand.

“I'll make it right, I swear.”

THE BUS BRAKES SUDDENLY
and I'm thrown forward into the hard plastic seat in front of me. A large man with a sunken, grizzled face turns and glares at me.

“Sorry,” I say.

He doesn't answer. The light is gray and dull through the scratched windows.

I pick up my book off the floor and continue trying to read.

My eyes can't focus, though. The words blur out, and I just keep thinking over and over how perfect this all is.

Everything, my whole life, it has all been leading to this moment—today, right now.

The bus rattles down the highway, becoming slowly more and more engulfed in the fog.

In order to get down to Ocean Beach before work gets out, I did have to cut my last two classes. But when I come back with Teddy, I'm sure everyone'll be quick to forgive me.

Because I am going to find Teddy.

It will all come full circle. It's so clear to me.

That voice is there like a gentle wind—telling me that I will find him.

“You're going to find him. You're going to make it all better.”

I get off the bus at the stop near the liquor store. The fog is thick and heavy, but it's still warm. The heat surges through me as my lungs expand and contract and my hands shake badly trying to get a cigarette lit.

The liquor store is just a block up, and I walk it slowly, going over and over the not-very-well-conceived plan I've put together. Not that it matters. I don't need a plan. The voice, the power, will see me through this. But I do need to find a good spot to wait for Tolliver without drawing too much attention to myself.

Everything is pretty empty, at least at the moment—two thirty on a Friday afternoon—but I figure once school and work get out there'll be more people. Besides the liquor store on the corner, there's a KFC catty-corner and an auto shop right next to it. Across the street is an old travel agency that looks like it's been closed since the nineties. Frisco Travel, that's what the sign reads. There's also a check cashing place next to that, and I watch a very slow-moving old man walk, bent and pained, out the swinging plate-glass doors, through the fog, to his silver Buick sedan.

A black-and-white cat with a bell on its neck darts quickly up the block and cuts through a side alley.

I drag on my cigarette and keep my attention focused on the liquor store.

A pickup truck, shiny and new-looking, pulls into the lot, and a very tall, very skinny man with big brown boots steps down onto the gray asphalt. It is not Simon Tolliver.

I get ready to wait.

The waiting seems to go on and on.

But that wind blowing in my mind makes me feel at peace all through my body. I am exactly where I am supposed to be. I don't just believe that, I
know
that right down to the center of me.

So I sit smoking and watching the entrance to the liquor store.

Hours pass.

I go inside once to buy a water, a Starbucks drink, and some of those pink-and-white animal cookies. The clerk is that same Korean guy, but he doesn't seem to recognize me.

Outside I eat the cookies and sit on the curb. The fog gets thicker and thicker as the sun begins to set and the world turns dark around me. But still, I sit and wait.

The time goes by.

And then I see it.

A white Ford Explorer—the same kind of car Dotty Peterson saw Teddy getting into.

It pulls into the parking lot and the man gets out. There's no question: It is Simon Tolliver.

He's tall and very thin, with a bald head and glasses. He wears a barn coat over a hooded sweatshirt, with his jeans tucked into knee-high rain boots. Dirt is splattered across his chest, and he's got on a pair of cracked leather gloves, though, like I said, it's really not cold out.

He walks with his head down into the store.

“Now,”
the voice whispers.

I run over to his car and try to find anything suspicious-looking inside. I know I don't have a lot of time. My heart is beating fast and my eyes can't seem to focus. I breathe. There are tools in the way back and a tarp, so quick as I can, without really thinking too much, I open the trunk and climb inside, slamming the door shut and crawling under the tarp. Almost instantly I hear the front door open, and the man gets in. I hold my breath, waiting for him to find me—to throw the tarp back and murder me right there—but he doesn't. He starts the engine and some twangy old-fashioned country music plays softly.

I feel the car lurch backward and turn.

Wherever the hell he's going, I'm going with him. There's no turning back now. I curl up tight and try to hold on to that voice, that cool breeze in my mind. That voice will tell me what's right. It will protect me.

The car hits a bump and I slam against the back of the seat and the tools rattle all around me.

But, as far as I can tell, Tolliver still doesn't know I'm here. I check my phone in my pocket then, to make sure it's on silent. There are three missed calls from my dad and one from Eliza. Obviously, I can't listen to them now. My dad's probably worried about me, wondering where I am. Mom probably told him to call me. They'll both be really angry. But when they see I have Teddy, that I rescued him, of course they'll forgive me.

I grab on to a very large rusted metal wrench to use as a weapon in case I need to fight my way out. The voice whispers softly to me that I am being taken care of—that it will not abandon me. And so I lie still.