Cameron and the Girls (14 page)

“You're not half bad looking,” I say, and instantly cough over everything.

But Nina calms down and lies back, staring up at the sky. The clouds above are drifting along, swirling from dark into light. “I hope they never find you, Cameron.”

I feel a tiny drop of rain on my cheek. “We're a burden, you know,” I say.

We are quiet for a minute. Waves are rolling through my brain, but I don't want to tell her, because just like her, I don't want this moment to end. Nina seems to have forgotten that she's mad, and I can still taste her lips on mine. But my mind is like an ocean lapping against the shore of my skull. I wait a minute for my brain to calm down and then say, “What's your depression like, Nina?”

“Like a brick,” she says. “Like a big lump of nothing sitting square in the middle of my head. Sometimes it feels like I can barely keep my head up.”

“Do you think if your mom cared more, it'd be better?”

“They say it has to do with the chemistry in my brain. If that's true, how she feels wouldn't make any difference.”

I want to say more, but something is plugging up my thoughts so that my words don't come out right.

“Cam?”

“Yes, babe.”

“I'm sorry I got that way about your girlfriend. It just gets to me.”

“It's okay,” I say. But the dark swirling feeling rumbles in my brain and I tense up.

Back off, boy. Don't get too close.

“Why not?”

Because she'll control you.

“Cam? Are you okay? Are you talking to her?”

“No,” I say. “But I think I need to get up.”

Nina jumps up. She pulls on me and I stand on shaky legs. They seem disconnected from the rest of my body, and when I try to walk normally, one leg stretches way out in front like a cartoon clown's big foot.

“Let me,” Nina says, and she grabs hold of one arm and guides me back to the carport.

It's as if I were watching myself as that cartoon clown, and each step seems more hilarious than the last. Only I'm not laughing anymore.

“I wish there was a place for me,” I say as we make it to the back steps.

Nina opens the door and says, “I've got one right here.”

 

Her mom's bedspread is draped over me, and it looks like some old English king's robe. Nina is in the kitchen, cutting even slices of pepperoni she brought home from the store.

The bed feels like a waterbed and I'm sloshing back and forth. But something is changing. If I close my eyes, I can see dark lines like expanding veins blaze new trails in my head. Nina comes in and gives me a handful of pepperoni. “If you finish that, you can have some Swedish Fish,” she says.

She sits down carefully and I wait for the sloshing to stop. “Nina,” I say.

A pepperoni stick juts out of her mouth. “What?”

“I wish I could be better for you.”

She stops chewing and pulls the stick out. “Ah, Cam. How sweet.”

“I just wish,” I say.

She studies me for a second and then shakes her head. “I don't care,” she finally says. “I don't care if you're better or not.” She jams the stick back in her mouth.

Even though those veins are reproducing fast in my head, I am looking at Nina. There is a bright glow around her hair. Like one that an angel wears. “Till it's over,” I say, holding up one of the pieces of pepperoni.

She nods, doing the same. “Till it's over.”

E
ven
though the screen is slightly snowy, the TV works now, and we sit in front of it waiting to see me mentioned. Only the longer I sit, the more unusual the pictures become. Nina keeps passing me chunks of pepperoni, and I take swigs of bottled tea.

I don't hear from anyone, and by late afternoon, I'm beginning to wonder if the voices are gone. I would like to feel fingers on my neck again, but all I feel is Nina touching my shoulder once in a while, and it's nice to turn and see an actual face smiling back at me.

But even Nina's smile can't take away the surreal sights I see on the TV; faces elongate and people's speech slows down and then speeds up. I fear that I cannot just will these things away, which means I'm doomed to having them for life unless I take my meds.

“No,” I say out loud.

“I agree,” says Nina.

Nina rubs my neck a little. I think she's getting used to me.

As it grows dark outside, Nina says, “Maybe we should have a little party.” But a party is the last thing I want, and I get up and go into my bedroom. I am tired and feeling overpowered, and I didn't even get a chance to see myself on the TV screen. I plop on the bed and close my eyes. Sometime in the night, I feel the bed shake and I roll over.

 

The next morning I feel a lump of pepperoni in my gut. When I turn over, I can feel Nina next to me. I can hear her too. You never really know a person until you hear her snoring. She's talking, only not to me.

“You can't do it,” she says, and she sounds like she really means it. She kicks out her leg and nearly catches my hip. I grab her leg and it feels smooth. Goose bumps rise on my arms.

The incidence of teen pregnancy is . . .

“Stop,” I whisper to The Professor.

The incidence is zero if you don't try.

“He loves me, loves me not,” says a sleeping Nina.

I'm antsy, and I pull on my pants and shirt and leave her in the bed. I look in the fridge and find some milk that Nina bought the day before. I drink half a quart from the carton and put it back in. I don't like the way I feel. Electric jolts are starting at my shoulders and zapping along my arms. I will them to stop but I have no power. I start pacing back and forth in the living room. I need to stop this from going further, but my brain is all tied up in knots, and the rumble there is not getting any softer.

“Try to get focused,” Dr. Simons always says.

“Each step I take,” I say in rhythm with my feet. “Each step I take brings me closer to my destination.” This nonsense used to calm me. Over and over again it flies out of my mouth. “Each step. Each step. Each step.” I can feel my voice rather than hear it as it rises to a crescendo. Back and forth I go. Faster and faster my voice drums out the words. “Each step.”

Each step.

“Each step.” Until I'm practically screaming.

“Cameron!”

Nina is in the doorway dressed in her rumpled clothes from yesterday.

“Cameron,” she mouths again.

I can see the letters of my name as they float out of her mouth and travel across the room.

Catch them.

The
C
leads because it is a capital letter, and the others bunch up behind it. They float so close that I put my hand out and try to grab them. Instead, my hand chops through them, spreading them like oily swirls in the air. I watch as they regroup and form my name again before floating to my ear. Then I can hear them.

“Cameron.”

Crazy fun.

Then slow, deep laughter.

Across the room, I see words pouring out of Nina's mouth again, a lot of them, but I put my hands up to protect myself and try to back up so they won't find me. I hunker down behind a chair. “Don't talk,” I manage to say. “Please, don't talk. Don't talk.”

Good old Nina. She eases into a chair and peeks over the top. Looking at me, she makes a zipping-her-lips motion. Then she gives me the “What is it?” look.

“Something's wrong,” I say. “Way wrong.”

“What?” she asks, and then clamps a hand over her mouth. But it's too late. I can see the
W
looking for me. It and the
h
manage to find my ear. The
a
and the
t
are hiding somewhere in the room.

“I'm lost,” I say, but Nina shakes her head violently. She reaches over and grabs one of my arms, pulling me up. She puts a finger to her lips and then crooks it, asking me to follow her. I stumble along until we hit the bathroom. She takes my shoulders and puts me in front of the mirror hanging on the medicine cabinet.

I'm shocked. My hair is jutting out all over. My lips have a funny white gluey substance on them that keeps them closed. My eyes are sunk deep into my head, but what I can see of them is flashing a red signal light. Nina is pointing at me.

“Not lost,” she squeaks out, and the letters stay put in her mouth. “Right here.”

She's great, but I want to tell her it's like putting a little Band-Aid on a slashed throat.

I can feel myself rise up to the ceiling of the bathroom and then ease back down. I hear a click when I connect with the floor again.

Nina taps on my shoulder. “Cameron?”

“Whose zere?” I say.

“Are you all right? What happened?”

“A lot at the same time,” I say. “A lot.”

“Like what things?” I finally look her in the eye and can see fear but also genuine concern. “The voices again?”

“Something different.” I point to my eyes. “Tricks on me.”

“Oh, Cameron.” Nina gathers me in and squeezes me tightly from the side. My chin comes to rest on top of her head. I smell her hair, a smoky spice. I hear her voice resonate through me. “I worry about you,” she says.

It feels like I could drift up again, but there is a knock on the front door, and it jolts both of us. Nina looks up at me.

“It could be my mom,” she says. She lets go and steps out into the hall.

“Cops?” I blubber.

“Then it had better be me who goes out to meet them,” she says.

She disappears and I wait. I open the medicine cabinet and see bottles of pills lined up on all the shelves. I slam it shut when she comes back.

“It's some guy and your sister,” she says.

“Beffy?”

“It's the girl you wave to on the bus.”

Nina drags me out to a place by the front door where we can peek without being seen. I move the curtain slightly and see Beth and Dylan waiting patiently.

“What do we do?” asks Nina.

I don't answer. Instead, I turn the deadbolt and open the door. Beth's eyes open wide when she sees me. She grabs Dylan's hand and pulls him inside with her.

“Jesus,” she says as she hugs me. “You look dead or something.”

“Heigh-ho, Beffy,” I say.

Beth takes my chin and forces me to look in her eyes. “You're not okay,” she pronounces.

“You look like shit,” Dylan says.

“But how did you know where he was?” Nina asks.

Beth turns and finally looks at her. “Are you that girl?” she says.

“Nina,” Nina says.

Beth turns back to me. “It's not important how I found you. Jesus, Cam, they're dredging the river for you.”

“You're on the news big-time,” Dylan says. “The police, the sheriff's department, everybody is looking for you. They're even talking about a reward.”

“Go get that bag in the car,” Beth tells him, and he immediately obeys, pulling the door closed a little too hard. “I'm worried,” she says to me.

I want to tell her to save me, but I can't get the words out. I snatch a look at Nina, and she raises an eyebrow.

“Are they looking for me, too?” she says.

“They don't mention you,” Beth says. “I don't know what the deal is, Cam, but sooner or later they're going to find you, and then there'll be worse trouble. I don't think you want that.”

“New life,” I say. But I lose the rest of my thought, and luckily Dylan comes bustling through the door, carrying Beth's old suitcase. He sets it on the floor.

“I brought you some things,” Beth says. “I thought you might be a little grungy by now. Plus, there are some chips and stuff to eat.”

“Goody goofy,” I say.

She pulls me aside and talks in a whisper. “Mom's a wreck, just so you know. She's crying all the time. Dad's got that look; you know, his mouth is a straight line. They're hurting badly, Cam. And it looks like you are too.”

It's as if I can feel the hurt as a knife slicing into my belly. I put my hand there.

“Come home,” Beth says.

“Home, home on the range,” I say.

Beth looks like she's struggling with that. She reaches up and kisses me on the forehead. “Come back home,” she says. “I promise it'll be better.”

Dylan points a pistol finger at me and winks as they go out the door. Both Nina and I look out the window as they get in the car and drive away. I see Beth staring back at the house until they're out of sight.

I feel numb and it looks like Nina does too. She goes over and sits down, fingers at her lips.

“Gonna be okay,” I say.

But she shakes her head. “I just wonder why nobody ever knows my name. I'm always just ‘that girl.'”

“Know your name,” I say, pointing to myself.

But Nina's not buying it. “Don't you ever mention me to anybody?” she asks.

I'm not sure what to say, and the look on her face tells me it's a more important question than it seems. “Don't tell them any friends' names,” I say.

“How many friends do you have besides Griffin?” she says. She gets up and walks past me and into her bedroom. I've seen it on TV before; I should follow her in and try to make up, but I can't get my feet to move.

Instead, I go back to the door and pick up the suitcase. I lug it over to the chair and sit down. I unzip it and dig through T-shirts, undies, a bag of cookies, some chips, a deck of cards. And at the bottom, a photo of the four of us: Mom, Dad, Beth, and I at the beach. I'm five years old. My hair is flapping in the wind, and I have a big smile on my face. We all do.

I put the picture on the end table and stare at it. In the background I hear the ticking of the clock, but time doesn't matter to me now. I feel myself pulled toward the picture, and then I'm sucked into it.

Now my family is beside me, but I can't touch them, can't get their attention. All they do is stare out into the room. Hours seem to pass as I stand like a statue in the picture with my family. I think and it makes no difference. I wonder about life and I don't move a muscle. It could be days and days and everything would still be the same. Never a change. Never.