Twisted (12 page)

34

A
dam and Kayla make an earnest attempt to accept my offer of reparation, then Kayla launches into her next topic; but I don’t hear much of it. I’m too distracted by an expression on Jenna’s face that seems to work its way deeper into her as the evening wears on. Uncertainty. Fear. The look of someone pulling away.

Silence widens the fissure between us when we arrive home. Jenna goes upstairs and leaves me standing in a vacuum of uncertainty. I can’t endure another minute. It crushes me to see my wife hurt this way.

When I reach our room, she’s still fully clothed and sitting up in bed, expression stoic, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around them. I close our door, and the sound brings her attention to me momentarily before she takes it away again.

I walk forward, then lower myself slowly to the edge of the bed, keeping my back to her.

Again, there is silence. And again, it’s stifling.

“I don’t know what to say.” I turn to look at her. “All I know is that I’m so very sorry.”

Jenna searches my eyes. “Chris, tell me what’s happening. Give me the truth.”

I vacillate for a few beats. “I’m not even sure.”

“You scared the hell out of Devon last night, and tonight it was as if I didn’t even know you.”

Like an axe, her comment cleaves a plumb line through the center of me, breaks me in two, because she’s the last person in the world I want to hear that from. It reactivates so much old pain that runs so deep. Pain that lies heavy at my core like some rotten and stinking piece of meat. I turn away because seeing my wife like this is excruciating—and I don’t know how to fix myself. I feel so powerless.

Jenna must sense my agony because I immediately feel her hand on my shoulder. Still, I can’t bring myself to meet her gaze.

“Chris,” she says. “Look at me.”

I shake my head. My hands are trembling.

“Don’t do this,” she persists, firming her hold on my shoulder. “Don’t shut me out. Not now. Not when you need me the most. I know it’s your old pattern, what you had to do in order to survive your father, but . . .” I hear her soft, labored breaths. I hear her pain—no, I feel it—which gives me the courage to finally turn around. She’s biting her bottom lip, shaking her head. I look at the tears filling her bottom lids.

Sliding over, I place an arm around her body, pull it against mine, but still I don’t know what to say, don’t know if there’s anything in me that can make this better. Instead, I hold my wife tight. I cling to her, hoping our physical closeness can in some way mend what now seems so terribly torn apart.

“I’ve been fighting this battle alongside you for years,” Jenna says after we’ve been quiet for a while, “and I understand it . . . and I know your pain as well as any that I could ever feel . . . and I goddamned hate the pain, Chris. I hate it every bit as much as you do, and God knows I’d do anything to take it all away. But what I don’t understand—what I can’t, hard as I try—is why, after all this time, you still think you’ve got to go through that misery alone.”

“I don’t want to,” I answer, voice no more than a crippled whisper. “I’m trying not to.”

“Baby, I know you are, but you have to try harder.”

“I’m not sure how.”

“You do it by starting with the truth. Whatever that is.”

“Then what?”

“Then you put one foot in front of the other. You walk on faith
,
and the answers will find you. They always do
.”

I study Jenna’s confident expression, as if it might in some way give me strength to trust her wisdom. I shake my head, feel desperation in my tragic smile when I say, “I think it may be serious. I think I’m losing my mind.”

Jenna doesn’t appear surprised. It’s as if she already knew, like she’s been waiting for me to tell her.

“We need to find out why,” she says.

“I’m scared.” My response comes out fast and instinctual, like it’s been fighting for air.

“Then we’ll do that together, too.”

“Adam is arranging an MRI.”

“Good.”

“If he’s still talking to me.”

“Adam will talk to you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. You’ll tell him the truth, and he’ll understand.”

I say nothing.

“He will,” she assures me, “and then whatever happens after that, you will not be alone. I won’t let you be. Do you understand?”

My nod is barely substantive, not because I don’t believe her, not even because I can’t trust or feel her commitment. The problem isn’t what I know, but rather, it’s what she doesn’t, what she never could.

That my cracking mind may be the one thing stronger than us both.

35

“I wanna see the ducks when we get there, Daddy! Can we see the ducks like last time?”

“Absolutely.” I glance at my son and smile.

It’s Sunday. Devon, Jake, and I are on our way to Anderson Lake. After my outburst at Adam and Kayla’s, I’m hoping this road trip may restore balance and, if I’m lucky, some calm to my life. But more than that, because I frightened Devon at dinner the other night, I owe him this and want to be sure our relationship is back on solid footing.

“Will the white one still be there?” Devon asks, bouncing up and down with excitement. “Do you think he will?”

“He might be. We’ll just have to see.”

My son watches the world fly past his window with the steady fascination that only a child can muster. I love watching him in these peaceful moments, and do I ever need one right now.

“Good,” he says, turning back to me with an approving nod. He pulls his feet up beneath himself, arms wrapped around legs. “I like the white one, Daddy.”

“So do I, kiddo,” I reply, then notice his sock choice for the day.

Devon looks curious, too, but I can tell our reasons differ.

“Your socks,” I inform him. “They don’t match.”

He studies them and says, “Yeah. I know.”

“Is there a particular reason? Maybe some sort of fashion statement?”

He looks out his window again and says, “Uh-uh.”

“Okay, then. Care to explain?”

“None of them match anymore.”

“
None of them?
You must have over thirty pairs. Where did they all go?”

“Dunno.”

“Well, where do you put your socks after taking them off?”

“In the hamper, just like Mom tells me to.”

“Hmm, I’d imagine she’s not very happy about this.”

“Nope. Said she’s gonna buy me some more.”

We reach the entrance to Anderson Lake. Before slowing, I check the rearview, but it’s not the road I see. It’s Jake, upright in the backseat. Eyes glued to mine. As if he’s been waiting all this time for me to notice him.

A thousand tiny ribbons of amber sunlight dance across the rippling water. I’m relaxed and in the present, simply enjoying time with my son. If it were possible, I would reach out and capture this moment in my hands and hold on to it forever, because the feeling is so authentic, so pure. But I know that’s not possible, and with this understanding comes another far more troubling. If my injury is serious, or if history is indeed repeating itself, then I don’t know how much more time I’ve got left before my mind checks out, before I disappear into another place, a much darker one.

Before I lose my son, and he loses me.

I banish the notion, give myself a stern warning not to stray from this moment. To enjoy it, because this moment is the only one that matters.

With that spirit, I settle on a park bench and share in Devon’s joy, watching as he runs along the shoreline, splashing water everywhere and having a wonderful time. He kneels to observe the ducks at play, and the excitement in his young eyes captivates me. It’s like I’m seeing magic in motion, and I’m compelled to join him.

I kneel alongside my son and place an arm around his shoulder. He looks up at me, squinting in the sunlight, and now we are both smiling, as if we know we’re creating this wonderful memory together.

“I love it here, Daddy,” he says, mirroring my thought. “Let’s stay like this forever, okay? Just like this.”

I pull Devon closer and tightly wrap my arms around him.

But the joy dissolves when over his shoulder and across the lake, the Evil Tree towers from a distant hillside. A symbol of impending doom, spreading its bloodred blanket of misery like a giant, toxic cloud. Mocking me, telling me there is no escape from its malignant and calamitous power.

I turn my head but find only a different source of unrest. Jake sits at the shoreline, his body ramrod straight, his gaze nailed to the tree. Then he looks my way, and a bitter chill shimmies through me, and the air in my lungs turns thick and ropy.

The dog is speaking to me.

Not with words. Not even with his stare. This is different and far more powerful. No mental impairment, no distortion. This is genuine. It’s primitive, and above all, it’s critically urgent. Like some kind of communication custom-made for me, only I still don’t understand what he wants me to know.

I glance protectively down at Devon, then amble toward Jake. When I’m about two feet away, he stiffens, lets out a low groan, and I feel another chill, this one absorbing through my bones. I’m still unable to discern what he’s telling me, but there’s nothing good about it. The message is dark and foreboding and dangerous. It makes my hairs stand on end.

“Daddy! Help me!”

Devon’s distressed voice rattles me. I spin around.

“I can’t get my sneaker on,” he says, looking down at his mismatched and wet socks covered in sand.

I exhale my relief. But then I glance toward Jake and my relief fades because there is an empty spot where he once stood.

I scan my surroundings and find him several feet away, staring at the tree again.

Backing away from it.

Ears lowered and pinned back, tail tucked between his legs.

Like he smells fear.

36

We walk toward a wooded picnic area, carrying the lunches that Jenna packed, but the lingering gloom from my encounter with Jake is a burden I can’t seem to lift. The dog trails several feet behind us, and while his mood seems less intense, it’s still noticeable. I steal a curious glance at my son, but just as before, he appears oblivious to Jake’s peculiar behavior.

“Devon?” I say.

He looks up at me.

“I feel like there’s something you might not be telling me about Jake.”

His expression falls flat, and he shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do that, Daddy.”

“Do you know what’s happening with him?”

“He’s just upset.”

“About what?”

“He can’t tell me.”

“I know, but I was wondering if maybe you had an idea.”

With sight aimed forward, he gives a mild shrug. “It’s just how things are.”

I raise my brows. “What things?”

“Since the accident,” he says. “That’s when everything changed.” Then he bolts toward a picnic table and shouts, “Daddy, can we sit at this one?”

After lunch, I do my best to relax and enjoy the beauty that surrounds us, the sunlight filtering through the trees, the moist tang of soil mingling with a whisper of pine.

A crackling noise interrupts my quietude. I look up and see two birds perched side by side on an overhead branch. Without warning, one of them loses its balance. The bird flaps its wings, flutters, and rights itself back on the branch. The other bird sidles a little closer, and they gaze into each other’s eyes. In that brief instance, I sense profound unity between the two creatures that nearly takes my breath away. For them, imbalance and uncertainty have moved quickly into the past. Together, everything is just right in their world, exactly as it should be. I turn to Devon and realize he’s been watching, too.

Later, as we sit on a dock by the lake, Devon seems reflective, looking into the water and making circles in it with his feet. I wait, allowing him to find his own time to speak.

Eventually, he turns to me.

“Daddy?” he says, “We’re like those two birds, aren’t we.”

It’s not a question but rather a declaration, and the conviction in his voice, the unequivocal confidence, makes my heart swell so full that my chest can barely hold it. He sees us as unshakable, and I couldn’t love him any more than I do right now.

“Yes,” I say, “we’re just like that.”

37

You again.

The Evil Tree lies in wait up ahead.

If there were another road, some alternate, high-velocity flight path or time travel spiral, I’d take it. But there is only one way in and out of Loveland, so eluding the monster is unavoidable.

As I approach, I size up my opponent and see things are much the same—still hideous and threatening, intrinsic evil oozing from every branch like poisonous sap.

I hate that thing.

Burn it down.

Are you crazy?

No, but you are, so burn the motherfucker down.

I clench the wheel, angst and sweat holding my palms to it like epoxy. Now the tree is less than ten feet away, challenging me, daring me to cross its path.

Wanting to get past its powerful, toxic draw, I punch the accelerator, and like a gun throwing lead, my car fires forward and away from what I’m now sure is the filthiest patch of hell on earth. Though I maintain a fast and steady pace for the next several miles, I can feel that the Evil Tree has still sent its noxious vibes on the hunt for me.

That’s when I realize the beast’s control is more powerful than I’d first thought, its reach stretching far beyond the cursed spot where it tore through the ground to wreak havoc on my life.

38

The morning can often bring clarity. It can bring perspective. But on this morning, there is neither. In fact, this morning—as I return to work and know that seeing Adam is inevitable—I’m even more restless as my mind hashes over the embarrassing scene I created in his home. Humiliation has washed into regret, shock into achy disquiet, all of it pumping like dirty blood through my veins and out to every part of me.

This isn’t just about my off-color behavior or even about my inability to control it. What wrecks me is that I’ve hurt my closest friend. As messed up as I know Kayla is, as difficult as she can be, and even though I know she’s not right for Adam, I’ve worked hard to respect their relationship. What I did the other night may have destroyed a friendship that means a great deal to me.

I really screwed this one up.

I’m fully aware that my effort may be in vain, but I’ve got to try and fix this, to reconnect with Adam, to make this right.

At the office, I rise from my chair, draw a breath of courage, then head down the hall. I give Adam’s door a faint knock and poke my head inside. He looks up from his work, expression at first attentive, then after seeing me, strained by awkward discomfort.

I’m feeling it myself, probably more than he is.

I clear my throat, then say, “Got a minute?”

“Sure.” Adam nods. He motions me inside with a warm gesture that gives me the courage to step forward.

I drop into the visitor’s chair. I try to think.

“There is no excuse for my actions the other night, Adam,” I say, remorse giving me the proper amount of resolve I need at this moment, “so I’m not even going to try making any. All I can tell you—and all I want you to hear—is that I deeply regret what I did, and I wish there were a way to—”

“Chris,” he interrupts in a tone of compassion that I wasn’t at all expecting. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“Well, no.” He laughs a little. “It’s not
okay,
but my concern for you far supersedes that. Look, I know you, Chris. I’ve known you for years, and that guy the other night? It wasn’t you.”

He has no idea.

He has every idea. He’s yanking your chain.

“That guy was someone else,” Adam continues. “Chris, you’re one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I know. So . . . I guess what I’m trying to say is that, well . . . I’ve been worried about you, buddy.”

I lower my head, close my eyes. “Me too.”

“And even though I can tell you’ve been trying to act strong, to keep your feelings from showing, I know you well enough to see past all that.”

“I feel so goddamned bad about this. How I hurt Kayla.”

He levels his eyes with mine. “Kayla will be just fine. Trust me. She’s the least of your concerns right now. If you really want to fix this . . .” He hesitates “. . . What matters most now is that we fix
you
, and I want to help.”

“You already are. You’re arranging the MRI.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the more important stuff. Look, I understand how you are, maybe even better than I understand myself, sometimes. I know what you do when you’re scared. The hiding thing, how you shift into that place where you think you’ve got to fight the toughest battles alone. Don’t do that. Not now, not at a time like this.”

His sentiment sounds painfully familiar.

“I’ll try,” I say.

“Look, we’ll get the MRI set up for you tomorrow, but listen to me very carefully when I say this. Please don’t let that be my last effort in helping you. I want to be here. I want you to lean on me if you need to, okay?”

“Okay.”

“That doesn’t sound so convincing there, partner,” he says, a careful undertone of humor in his voice. “Can I get a side of emotion with that boilerplate?”

I try again. “Okay.”

“Better, but still not so great. It’ll reflect in your tip.”

I laugh a little.

“Adam?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Just please take care of yourself, Chris.”

I try to smile my compliance. He does know me well enough to recognize my pain, even when I’m trying to hide it, but most of all, enough not to let it come between us.

I’m so lucky to have a friend like Adam.

Adam is trying to destroy you.