Undercurrent (8 page)

He must have slept here. . . .

“Hey, Cal,” he says, putting down his coffee mug, a mutant-looking brown one I made him for Christmas when I was little. He’s insisted it’s his favorite ever since, and he even took it with him when he left. “Feeling better today?”

I stare at him like he’s a visitor from another planet.

“Cal?” he says, shaking me out of it.

“Uh, yeah, sure. I had a decent sleep.”

“Glad to hear it. Sit down and have something to eat.”

As soon as I sit down, I chug my orange juice. I load up my plate with waffles and add four strips of bacon alongside them. Then I drench the whole lot in syrup and start wolfing it all down like someone who’s been lost in the woods for a week.

“Well, your appetite is back, at least,” my mother tells me. “That’s a good sign.”

I can’t even reply, I have so much food in my mouth. My father offers me some coffee, and I nod. I top it off with milk and dump in three heaping teaspoons of sugar.

“So, about getting back to school,” Mom says. “There’s no hurry, the doctor says. He’ll give you a note for as long as you need.”

Actually I’d forgotten all about school. It’s, what, Wednesday now? I think so. Considering how behind I was to start with, I’m pretty much screwed at this point. But at least I have a good excuse, for once.

Still, I find myself wanting to get back, if only to see how everybody will act toward me. From my messages it seems as if I’m Mr. Popularity or something. All just because I went over the falls and survived? If so, it’s a social-climbing method I wouldn’t recommend to others.

“I don’t know. I can go back anytime,” I tell my mother. “Today even,” I add.

My parents look surprised. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” my father asks. “We were thinking you should stay home another week.”

“I don’t know. I feel like going,” I say. And I’m feeling a lot better now that I have some food in my system. “I don’t want to miss too many assignments.”

“Well, let’s consider today a write-off,” Dad says. “But if you’re still feeling up to it, maybe tomorrow. Deal?”

“Deal,” I say, swigging from my coffee cup.

A few minutes go by as we continue eating. “Cal,” my mother finally says, “your father and I were wondering if you remembered anything more about your accident.”

“Not really. It’s still pretty much fuzzy,” I tell her.

“Are you sure?” my father asks. “Is there anything you want to tell us?”

“No. Why?”

“Well, you’ve seemed kind of withdrawn lately, for starters,” Dad says. “Before the accident. Like you’ve been a bit depressed or something.”

“Depressed?” I laugh. “No, not at all. What made you think that?”

“Come on, Cal,” my mother says. “You’ve been coming home later and later, going straight up to your room without even saying hello. And when we do see you, we can hardly get a word out of you these days.”

I laugh again, but this time uncomfortably, because as far as I’m concerned, I haven’t been acting like that at all. If anything, that describes Cole—or at least the Cole I remember. “What are you talking about?”

“We just want to know if you’re feeling depressed, Cal,” my father says. “If you’ve had any thoughts about hurting yourself. Because if you have, we’re here for you. And it’s important to get you help.”

Now I’m stunned. And scared. “What? No!” I reply, offended. “Look, just because I fell into the river doesn’t mean I was trying to kill myself. Jeez!”

“Calm down. It was simply a question, not an accusation,” my mother says.

“But try to kill myself? Why would I do that?” I demand angrily. “Believe me, I’m glad to be alive. Really glad. I’m not Uncle Bud, you know!”

My mother turns white at this remark. Her head drops, and her mouth quivers.

“Cal!” my father shouts.

“Drop it, Don,” she says, still looking down. “Just drop it.”

I do feel bad for mentioning Uncle Bud like that, though; it was one of the hardest things my mother ever went through. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I just don’t like what you’re saying. Look, I know I don’t remember what happened, but I’m sure it wasn’t anything like that. Okay?”

Mom just stares at the table, her eyes bright with tears.

“Okay, Cal,” my father finally says.

Mom returns her attention to her breakfast, pushing the remains of a waffle around on her plate. My father breathes heavily and then goes back to reading his newspaper. An uncomfortable silence hangs over the table. I try to eat, but my stomach feels all sour.

I still can’t get over Dad sitting here at the breakfast table. In his pajamas! I think back to the four toothbrushes—has he been staying over here or something? No, that couldn’t be—Mom wouldn’t let him. Would she?

He sips from the stupid-looking mug again. I’m sure I saw it hanging from a hook in the kitchen at his apartment. Did he bring the mug with him?

I look toward the kitchen door, where Jess is now standing. She’s eyeing the food on the table but won’t enter the room.

“Here, girl,” I call to her.

Jess doesn’t budge. So I hold out a piece of bacon. Her hungry gaze fixes on it, and her body twitches slightly. But she still won’t come into the kitchen. I give the bacon a waggle. She cocks her head as if she’s trying to figure out what kind of game I’m playing.

“Jess, come here,” I say as sweetly as I can. “Come here.”

The dog finally slopes into the room and sniffs the offering. She slowly leans in and takes it, reminding me of how a wild squirrel might snatch a crust of bread from a person’s hand. She really is afraid of me now. Which is so unfair. Because except for a few light whacks that hurt me more than her, I’ve never done anything but love that dog since I was ten. But now she’s acting like I’ve been beating her with a stick for her whole life.

“Good girl,” I say as she retreats to the kitchen doorway. Only then does she start chewing, like she’s ashamed to accept gifts from me.

I call it quits on breakfast. My stomach is still feeling gross, and the coffee has me buzzing on top of it all. I could use a shower and then a walk outside. I ask my parents if that’s all right.

“Okay,” my mother agrees, her voice still heavy. “But why not spend some time with your brother first? I’m sure he’s missed you.”

I look up at her. Missed me? He doesn’t even seem to see me. It’s horrible, but I can’t believe it. I can’t make any sort of connection between the wheezing bundle of bones upstairs and my brother. I just can’t.

“Uh, sure,” I feel obliged say, to make her feel happier. “I’ll go up right now.”

I head upstairs. But I can already feel myself going back on my promise. Because I don’t want to see that guy again. I don’t want to sit there, staring at the wavering eyes in that frozen face.

I can’t.

So I sit down in the hall, my back pressed against the wall. I listen to the machine making its steady noise, the wheezy rise and fall of artificial breath.

That can’t be my brother in there; it just can’t be. The jock with attention deficit disorder, who couldn’t even sit still until he was fifteen and medicated? But if he isn’t Cole, who is he? I’m feeling the fear again, like a giant hand crushing my chest, making it impossible to breathe. Something has happened to me. Maybe I’ve lost my mind like Mr. Schroeder. Because I don’t know what is real or what is a dream.

The dark splotches appearing on my jeans make me realize I’m crying. I try to be quiet. Because I don’t want my parents to come looking for me to ask what’s wrong. How could I ever explain? I don’t know what’s happened to me. All I know is that, unlike the experiment with those upside-down glasses, my brain isn’t fixing anything, putting the world back to the way it was. Which means I’m here to stay. At least for now.

I just need time to think, to figure this all out. Because I don’t want to go back to the hospital. I’m too afraid of what could happen to me there.

Just as I’m wiping the last of my tears on my sleeve, I hear my mother coming up the stairs. I have no choice—I get to my feet and quickly slip inside the guest room.

I stand facing the door. I can feel the presence behind me and imagine piercing eyes boring into my back. But I don’t turn around. As soon as Mom hits the landing, I leave the room, closing the door behind me.

“Was he awake?” my mother asks me.

Awake? How can you tell?

“Yeah,” I reply. “But he fell asleep,” I add, hoping it sounds plausible.

My mother looks at me sadly. “Well, at least he saw you. He was wondering where you were, I’m sure. He knew something was wrong.”

I don’t know what to say. I shuffle uncomfortably. “I’d better get a shower,” I finally say.

“Okay.”

We head off to our separate rooms. Once alone, I get undressed and wrap the towel on the back of my door around my waist. Then I pick out some fresh clothes to bring with me. That’s when I discover yet more weirdness.

The first thing is my underwear. They’re all briefs. And I never wear briefs—I wear boxers.

I have a look at the jeans I just kicked off and am surprised to see the knotted-up pair of briefs inside. They’re skimpy—black with purple stripes. What the hell?

I search through the drawer and find a pair that are at least boxer briefs, like the ones I wore back from the hospital and something I actually remember wearing. Then I open the next drawer down, where I keep all my T-shirts. I don’t recognize any of these either. I like plain tees, maybe a band shirt or two, but these are all from name-brand sports companies.

Then there’s the next drawer down, where I keep my jeans. What’s with all the sweats and track pants? As I remember I had one pair, and those were for gym class. But now they take up the whole drawer. But wait, that’s right—now I’m supposed to be some kind of athlete.

I have to dig around to find a pair of jeans. Even these I don’t recognize and would never wear—they’d make me look like a douche bag.

But I have no choice. Douche bag or not, I don’t want to prance around Crystal Falls with my ass showing. So, along with the boxer briefs, I take the jeans and one of the few unbranded T-shirts I can find and head off to the bathroom.

I take a long, hot shower. I wash my hair, forgetting I’ve still got a bandage taped to the back of my head. Screw that—I’m done with Band-Aids. I pull it off. A small piece of red-stained tape falls into the bath and starts circling the drain, before—
poof
—it’s gone, sucked in to be spat out God knows where. I drop the rest of the gory bandage on the edge of the bathtub.

The water stings a bit on the exposed wound, but otherwise it feels good just to soap up and rinse off. I stand there and let the water bounce off my face for a while, which is nice until the moment when I go to take a breath and inhale some water—and for a horrible second I feel right back there, in the depths of the river under the falls.

Jumping back, I slip and fall inside the tub. It hurts, but luckily I didn’t hit my head.

“Cal!” It’s my mother, pounding on the door. “Are you okay?”

“I’m all right!” I call back, over the running shower. “I just slipped.”

I hear my mother shout something else, but I can’t make out the words. I call out that I’m okay and get back up, my hip throbbing.

I finish rinsing and then turn off the water and get out.

After drying myself as best I can in the steamy bathroom, I get dressed. I carefully towel off my head some more and go back to my room to grab some socks and a hooded sweatshirt.

When I’m finally ready, I head downstairs. Dad is on the phone to work, sounding unhappy about something and saying he’ll be in shortly. He smiles at me though. I point to the front door, and he gives me the thumbs-up.

I put on a jacket and some running shoes and then head out into this new, uncertain world.

CHAPTER 9

I stand at the bottom of the drive for a while, trying to figure out
which way to go. Maybe it doesn’t matter. The walk into town is pretty far, and I’m still feeling stiff and sore—a short stroll is what I need.

I pass Edwina’s house, setting off her dogs in a barking fit. A few minutes later, I come to a fork in the road ahead, where a sign points the way to the campground and trailer park.

The road up to the campground is where I usually take Jess for walks. There’s a big, empty field up there where she can chase balls and sticks without me having to worry about her getting run over. And if she takes a dump, I don’t usually have to pick it up, which is a bonus.

Even without the dog, I need to be careful and stick to the shoulder while on the main road. The last thing I need right now is to get hit by a car. But I do begin wondering if such an impact might put the world back, at least.

I turn off toward the campground. Traffic along here is light this time of year, and the road is pretty bumpy, which slows people down.

Since nothing’s coming, I walk right down the middle of the road. I’m enjoying the day, which, though colder than expected, is otherwise sunny and bright.

It feels good to be alone.

I draw up alongside the field, where I usually let Jess off the leash. The grass is really tall. Which is strange, because the campground operators usually take pretty good care of it. At the moment the field looks like it hasn’t been mowed in months. I doubt Jess could even find a ball if I tossed one out there. Which is funny, because I clearly remember having a big marathon session with her here last week.

I head along to where the park’s reception office is supposed to come into view. Here, I’m stopped right in my tracks.

Because it’s gone. Vanished. Instead of the big log cabin, there’s nothing but a bunch of trees and some tangled brush. It’s like the place never existed.

Just beyond the trees, I see an old trailer propped on cinder blocks. On the other side of the road, an old beat-up pickup sits on a square of mud exactly where I remember there was a lame painted replica of Crystal Falls.

The big, wooden gate at the entrance is gone too. There’s now just a length of rope blocking the road, strung between what look like two broom handles.

I don’t know what to make of this, but it’s freaking me out. I feel like I should run away, but curiosity gets the better of me. As I approach, I can now make out the actual campground itself. The whole site looks neglected, with overflowing garbage cans and plastic bags blown into the trees. At least three-quarters of the rental trailers are missing, and I can’t see a single tent anywhere. The tennis courts, the miniputt, they’re gone!

The transformation is so disturbing that I just want to get out of there. After one last look, I begin heading back.

I’m stopped by a shout: “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” I turn around and see a man in a plaid shirt who is climbing down from the trailer.

“Come back here!” he yells after me.

For a second I consider making a break for it. The guy looks old; even feeling stiff and sore, I figure I could probably outrun him. But I’m not a criminal. So why start acting like one? Besides, he could easily catch me in his truck if he really wanted to.

So I start walking back.

On closer inspection I see he’s not a stranger. It’s Mr. Guise, the park owner. I don’t know him personally, but I know his face from around town. With business brisk at the Crystal Falls Campground, he’s usually well dressed and driving a flashy new four-by-four.

But now he looks terrible, his clothes filthy and his face red and flecked with broken blood vessels. And he’s been drinking, I see, as he staggers up the road.

“Hello,” I say when he reaches me. “Nice day, huh?”

But he isn’t here for a pleasant exchange. “Well, well, well,” he says, spitting in the dirt. “Where do you think you’re headed?”

“Home,” I tell him, not that it’s any of his business.

“Oh, really?” he says, sneering. “You didn’t just see my truck and decide to hightail it?”

The man’s breath is really bad. “Pardon me?” I say, taking a step back, out of range.

Mr. Guise screws up his ravaged features.
“Pardon me?”
he rasps in what I think is supposed to be a girl’s voice.
“Pardon me?”

This can’t be happening—the guy just won Citizen of the Year. “Listen, I’m sorry,” I say, trying to remain as polite as possible. “But is there some sort of problem?”

“
Pardon? Sorry?
You’ve really found your manners today, haven’t you, punk, coming onto my private property?”

All right, now I’m getting fed up. I’m feeling uncomfortable, being alone on the road with this guy. But still, I don’t have to take crap from someone so drunk, he’s swaying with every breeze.

“It’s a public road,” I tell him, although, to be honest, I have no idea about this. “I’m allowed to walk on it.”

His bleary eyes go wide.

“Oh, you teenagers always know your rights, dontcha?” Mr. Guise cackles, giving me a glimpse of a jumble of stained and broken teeth. “Yeah, you’re right—this is a public road. But everything on the other side of that rope is mine,” he says, flipping a thumb backward.

“Okay. So?”

“So the only people allowed on the other side are my guests,” Mr. Guise informs me. “And like I said, every guest owes me rental fees.”

“Huh?” I reply. “Rental fees?”

The man explodes. “Yeah, rental fees!” he shouts at me. “For using my facilities. How many times are we going to go over this?”

Wiping spit from my face, I take a step back. “What are you talking about?” I ask. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“Oh no?” he says.

“No.”

I really don’t expect what happens next: Mr. Guise lunges for me. Grabbing me by the front of my sweatshirt, he yanks me toward him.

Eyes stinging from whiskey fumes, I feel totally helpless.

“Are you jerking my chain, son?” he demands, lips tight against those awful teeth. “Because if so, you’ll be sorry for it!”

“Let go!” I yell at him, almost retching from the assault of his breath. “Let go of me!”

Surprisingly, he does, but unfortunately he does it with a violent shove. I’m sent sprawling, and I land flat on my back, the impact knocking the wind out of me. Through stars like I’m a cartoon character, I see the man hover above me, jabbing the air with a finger.

“You spoiled little jerks think you can use my property and get away with it?” he shouts. “That you can sneak in here at night and have parties or whatever you please? Well, you made a deal. And either you pay up or I’m getting the law involved. Do you hear me?”

Still lying on the road, I flinch as the park owner unleashes a kick at my face. But he stops midway, sending up a cloud of dirt and rocks instead. Half blind and sputtering, I can hear him laughing at me. I scramble to my feet and take off.

“Run, little boy!” Mr. Guise calls after me. “Run back to your mama!”

I don’t stop until I hit the main road. By then I am completely out of breath. I know I’m not the fittest guy in the world to begin with, but both the accident and the stint in the hospital seem to have really taken it out of me. My lungs are burning, and I can’t get enough air. I try and try, but it feels like I’ve got a plastic bag over my head.

My vision begins darkening, and I know I’m going down.

I’m in the black place again, where I was stuck after I went over the falls. And I’ve missed being here, I find. Everything is quiet, and there is nothing to worry about. I feel like maybe this time I could happily stay forever.

A loud noise startles me. It’s a car horn, blowing hard. My eyes open, and I look up. Crying out, I roll onto the shoulder of the road. A set of tires whooshes by, no more than a foot from my head.

The driver doesn’t stop, though, or even slow down. How long was I lying in the road? Because that was too close a call to even consider.

The memory of my abuse at the hands of Mr. Guise returns, making me feel humiliated. That filthy drunk. I start fantasizing about coming back for him with the gun. I imagine myself jamming the weapon under his chin before knocking him to the ground.

He would deserve it.

I start heading home. I make only about a minute’s progress before there’s more honking, this time behind me. Jumping in fright, I almost dive into the bushes to get out of the way.

In a cloud of dust, the car—a sporty little silver compact—comes screeching to a halt beside me. A tinted window rolls down. Ivy’s grinning face appears. She’s leaning over the passenger seat. I can see down her shirt, into a dark recess of cleavage.

“What, did I scare you?” she asks, laughing.

“Actually it’s not funny,” I tell her irritably. “I almost got run over a few minutes ago.”

“That’s because you’re a total spaz, my friend.”

“Ha-ha.”

Annoyed as I am, I can remember how those bright red lips felt the other night, working their soft magic on my face and neck. I’m shocked to realize that they were the first real kisses I’ve ever had in my whole life—other than the pecks from the uninterested girl during a game of spin the bottle years ago, the girl whose boobs I was also obliged to touch in a closet.

Ivy’s mouth felt pretty different, all right.

“Get in, little boy,” Ivy orders. “I’ll give you a lift.”

I don’t know why, but I’m scared to get into her car. But standing here by the side of the road just looks stupid. So against my better instincts, I climb in.

Ivy’s car is small but muscly—and brand-spanking-new, I can tell just from the way the leather seat squeaks as I sit down. The bass from the sound system plasters my jeans against my legs. From all the girlie trinkets hanging from the rearview mirror, I’m guessing this car is her full-time ride.

Come to think of it, I remember hearing that her parents were pretty rich. Her father is a dentist, if I’m right, and her mother is an interior designer or something like that.

Spinning her wheels in the dirt, Ivy peels out onto the road. Since she doesn’t ask for directions, I assume she must know I live just up ahead. And at the speed she’s driving, I’ll be home in seconds.

“Cig?” she asks, shoving a pack in my face.

“No, thanks,” I answer, disgusted, though I feel lame somehow. “I quit,” I tell her, even though the truth is, I never started.

“Cal Harris off cigarettes? Wow—good luck with that,” she says. The remark surprises me, but she doesn’t notice. She drops the pack back into the yawning purse wedged between the seats. “Actually I shouldn’t smoke in the car anyway. Not until I put at least a thousand miles on it.”

“Yeah,” I reply, relieved. “It’ll ruin the new-car smell.”

She turns to me, removing her eyes from the hard bend we’re now taking at high speed. “You know, you look handsome even with dirt on your face,” she says.

Embarrassed, I wipe my face as Ivy turns her attention back to the road. My house is coming up. But Ivy doesn’t slow down; instead she floors it.

“Um, that was my house,” I tell her as it whips by.

“I know.”

“So why didn’t you stop?”

Ivy is now steering with an elbow. Flipping down the vanity mirror, she doesn’t answer but instead starts re-applying her lipstick. Her front tire misses a chipmunk by inches.

“Hello?” I say.

“Listen, Cal, I know you’re cute and all, but I didn’t cut class just to drive you half a mile,” she lectures.

“You’re cutting class?” I ask. “For what?”

“Didn’t you get my message asking if we were still on today?” Ivy asks.

“No,” I answer. “I didn’t even turn on the computer.”

“I figured. You’re just lucky I assumed you were waiting for me. You really need to get a new phone, like immediately.”

Waiting for her? I don’t know what Ivy’s talking about. “Where are we going?”

“To take care of your little errand,” she says. “It was today, wasn’t it? Today or tomorrow, I couldn’t remember.”

“My errand?”

“Don’t you remember? You asked for a lift last week.”

“Oh,” I reply. But I still have no idea what she’s talking about. I feel like I’m living in another world, in someone else’s body. My skin is tingling. My heart is racing.

But still, I don’t want to ruin things. As scary as this ride is, I’m enjoying it. How often do I bomb around in a sports car with an amazing-looking girl?

And I like watching Ivy drive. With her seat way back, the girl’s bare legs are completely outstretched, her calf muscles flexing every time she stomps the pedals—which, with her hell-bent driving style, is often.

“So you’re coming Friday night?”

“Where?” I manage to get out, throat clenched as we barely make a turn.

“To Becca’s house,” she says. “Her parents are away, so she’s having a party. It should be fun—she has a big house, man.”

“I don’t know.” Having heard neither about this party nor anyone named Becca, for that matter, I seriously doubt I’m invited.

“Well, you’re dumb to miss it,” she informs me. “Where else are you going to sell your stuff?”

Again, I’m not following. What stuff? The feeling of enjoyment is quickly evaporating. I feel stressed—I can’t keep this up. Why don’t I know what she’s talking about?

At that moment I notice we’re almost out of town. Where is the girl heading—to Waterford?

Holden Distillery comes into view, the old buildings looking brilliant white among the red and yellow leaves. According to my dad, the business has been continually operating from the same premises, making a world-renowned rye whiskey—a beverage of infinitely greater quality than the more popular corn-based bourbons.

Whatever. It just tastes like smoke and fire to me.

Even at this speed, I quickly spot my dad’s van already sitting in the parking lot. I slump down in my seat.

Ivy brakes hard, signaling to turn. As I’m thrown forward, my head is almost chopped off by the seat belt.

“Whoa!” I shout. “Why are we stopping?”

Ivy looks at me like I’ve lost it. “Where else do you do your shopping, dude? Love the jeans, by the way—why don’t you wear those more often?”