Coming Home Again (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 1) (9 page)

“Okay, okay,” John Paul replies,
raising his hands up. “Let’s check it over real good first.” I can tell he has
his mind made up on performing today, no matter what. “You know everyone will
be ticked at us if they come out here in this blame heat and we chicken out,
dude.” John Paul runs his hands through his long hair.

The grassy field is located down a dirt
road and isn’t being planted this year, so it’s pretty secluded and deserted.
It is quite overgrown with waist-high weeds in some spots. I keep checking
around my feet for snakes as I follow behind them. They quickly scope it out
for any hidden obstacles while the cicadas keep whining out a warning. I hope
those blame bugs hit their crescendo soon, because the volume is echoing around
the field in an annoying buzz.

After the boys decide the field is safe
enough, John Paul can barely contain his excitement. He’s practically skipping
around, high-fiving some of his buddies as he passes by. The crowd of kids
begins to gather at the edge of the field.

“What are they going to do this time?”
someone in the group behind me asks once I settle in my spot at the edge of the
field. I have no idea, so I let someone else answer.

“J.P. is going to drive that old,
beat-up car around the field while Bradley walks on top of it from the front to
the back,” another kid answers.

I slipped out of the house earlier to
come out here and watch the stunt. Now that I find out exactly what the stunt
is, I want the boys to heed to the cicadas’ warnings. I know it’s no use to try
to talk them out of it, though. I reluctantly stand on the sidelines with
everyone else and watch nervously. The heat is searing my face and thick beads
of sweat blanket the back of my neck in the late summer afternoon. It’s nearing
suppertime, so I’m hoping this won’t take long. My heart is pounding so
intensely that I can see my shirt bouncing off my chest. My gut just knows this
isn’t going to end well.

After John Paul slides behind the
wheel, a strenuous roar yells out from the massive car with the engine coming
to life, and “Smells Like Teen Spirit”
by
Nirvana booms from the speakers in a static-filled thump. The old radio system is
just butchering a perfectly good song, but no one seems to mind.

Bradley jumps on top of the hood and
sits on it with his long legs crossed casually as the beast of a car slowly
begins to creep across the grassy field. The ancient thing creaks and vibrates
over the uneven ground. It is a mammoth of a vehicle. Maybe it will make it
easier for the lanky teenage boy to keep his balance. I keep my fingers
crossed. He has a stern, very determined look on his face. Good. That means he
is concentrating. I can only hope John Paul is taking this as seriously. I
slide my attention to him sitting behind the wheel, one arm hanging out the
open window. He is tapping the side of the door in the rhythm of the music. The
humidity flicks his hair in every direction in the breeze, but he seems to not
mind.

Once Bradley seems to work up enough
nerve, he stands on the dented hood. The thick metal pops and groans in protest
as he plants his feet. Slowly he straightens his posture and extends his arms
away from his sides to help with balancing. He looks as if he is surfing a
massive wave. I begin to relax at this thought, for both boys are excellent
surfers. Carefully, he steps over the windshield onto the roof and then makes
his way towards the back of the long rusty car. Once he reaches the trunk, the
crowd lets out an earsplitting roar. He gives us a thumbs-up before turning
around cautiously.

The car passes in front of us. “Are you
ready to go a little faster?” John Paul yells out of the window, trying to
antagonize his cousin. “That was way too easy, bro!”

Bradley shakes his head aversely but
agrees, and so John Paul increases the old car’s speed gradually and heads away
from us once more. The pile of junk sounds like it wants to choke off in
defeat, but instead the speed creeps up slowly. Bradley begins to make his way
towards the front of the car in the same manner. His demeanor is more confident
with the second pass, and he is maneuvering through the stunt a little faster.
The spectators are cheering and whistling with excitement, but the cicadas are
still shouting their disapproval. With a quick glance at me and a slight grin
working from the corners of his mouth, Bradley proceeds. His shaggy hair flairs
out all around him, and his face is tinged pink from the heat and excitement.

As he is reaching the rooftop once
again, the car wobbles in response to an uneven groove in the field and Bradley
loses his balance and nearly sails off the side completely. John Paul
instinctively decelerates without hitting the brakes to slow the speed. The
crowd gasps as Bradley safely recovers his balance. Thankfully, his foot landed
on top of the passenger side rearview mirror, and so he is able to use it to
help climb back on top. A spasm of panic shoots through my stomach and I have
to remind myself to breathe. Within seconds, Bradley is standing straight up on
the roof and waving his arms in the air with victory. Everyone joins in with
their own victorious roar. John Paul, wrapped up in all the excitement of the
moment, isn’t paying attention to where he is going and drives through another
uneven area of the field.

With the car shaking from the
bumpiness, Bradley loses his balance once again. Only this time he is unable to
catch himself and he soars over the hood of the old car as it plows into a deep
rut on the far edge of the field. Everything flashes in slow motion at a
hastened speed in a confused instant. Bradley lands right in the path of the
car and before he can roll out the way, it pins him up against the earth. John
Paul immediately puts the car into reverse, but the rut is just too steep to
get it out. The car only whines and sputters with smoke bellowing out from all
directions before it abruptly chokes off. I watch hopelessly as the wheels sink
in the soft soil even more. The earth begins to whirl around us before we can
will ourselves to move forward. As the crowd erupts in horror, John Paul jumps
from the driver’s seat screaming. My cool, laidback brother is gone and a
madman wailing at the top of his lungs has taken his place.

“I’m sorry! I couldn’t get it to stop!
I’m so sorry!” John Paul screams. He just repeats this over and over again, as
he tries to lift and pull the solid piece of death trap that’s on Bradley.
Several guys from the crowd try to help but it still won’t budge. John Paul
tries to dig Bradley out, but the soft dry dirt quickly fills back in every
time. He digs until he is black from dust and his fingertips trickle blood.
Everyone is running around crazed. Everything is chaotic. We are frightened and
in shock over seeing the awful accident happening right before us. I can taste
the bitterness, and the field begins to spin out of control. I try swallowing
it back down, but my throat refuses until I relent and vomit. I vomit until dry
heaves seize me and render me destitute. I just stand here by the two boys in
disbelief as John Paul keeps pulling on Bradley—one wild in pain and one still
in death.

“Please, bro. Please move. Please,
please,
please
!” John Paul cries.
“Please God.
Please
!” He has Bradley
under his arms and is yanking with all his might, still screaming.

I vaguely notice the put-put puttering
sound of the tractor echoing through the field. The farm machine is hooked to
the bumper of the car in an instant, and it only takes minutes for the tractor
to wrench the heavy car off Bradley. But it is already too late. We gather
around his broken body in shock. His shirt has been torn and exposes deep
bruises and cuts on his abdomen. His left arm hangs in an unnatural angle. My
cousin’s long legs, which have always seemed so nimble, are now oddly
still—broken and bleeding. Bradley’s green lifeless eyes stare past us as we
stand trembling in confusion and shock. Sweat, tears, and overwhelming grief
cast their own effects in our features.

Time feels as though it stands still
for hours, and I don’t think the horrifying scene will ever end. No one leaves
us. They all stay until adults arrive and demand them to go home. Dad shows up.
He collapses beside John Paul and tries unsuccessfully to grip his shoulders.
My brother’s body is shaking uncontrollably, and he is still screaming. His
movements are jerky and chaotic.

Suddenly—but not really—the sun seems
to abandon us. The world turns an eerie dark. The field is only lit up with
sporadic flashes of blue and red lights as police and rescue vehicles file in
and out. In the midst of all the commotion, John Paul sits beside Bradley,
rocking back and forth. His painful screams linger repeatedly but with no
voice. He can only squeak at this point, grief and pain having stolen his
voice. Even the cicadas finally fall silent. I find the night’s quietness
peculiar, and this is the point where I find my voice and begin to scream for
us all—John Paul, Bradley, Daddy, and me.

My screaming angers the night, and the
ground begins to move and dissolve around my feet. I still don’t relent. I
scream repeatedly in yelping cries. I want it known that this is not right.
This is not fair. The night warns again as I feel my body sinking and slipping
dangerously close to the edge of the guilty car. As the soil moves, it tugs me
closer to Bradley’s torn body and John Paul. We are being swallowed up by the
earth. I blink the abrasive dirt out of my eyes, only to discover we are
imprisoned in a grave and the bloody soil is seeping slowly in on us. I
continue to scream until my mouth fills with dirt, which finally mutes me.
  

~ ~ ~

I nearly jump out of the bed as the
dreadful dream finally releases me. My hands bat at my mouth, searching for invasive
dirt, but find none. A shiver skirts me, bringing awareness of the cold sweat
dampening me. Gasping and moaning, I let my anger out on the bed and begin
punching the mattress repeatedly. This nightmare has plagued me for years,
along with my others. I punch some more, wanting those images to leave me the
heck alone. I’m so sick of this night routine.

I can’t take it anymore, so I climb out
of bed and pace the expanse of my room for a while. I want the anxiety to taper
down without having to take a pill. I’m sick of those dang things too. My shaky
hands fumble with the window latch for a few aggressive moments before I can
open the window up, causing the glass panes to rattle in protest. I lean way
out to take several deep breaths of the humid air and demand my body to calm
down.

The panic finally subsides, so I slip
out of my room and ease to John Paul’s door. It’s open, so I glance in and am
disappointed at finding it empty. I look back down the hall and find it empty
as well. I don’t want to go back to my haunting room, so I walk in his and am
amazed at what I find. The bedroom walls are covered in hundreds of
photographs. I know instantly that my brother has taken each one of these
spectacular images. There are many vivid ocean shoreline scenes and a few of
surfers on the waves. The intense action captured in the images is
awe-inspiring. The waves whirl around the surfer or the sun’s rays are
filtering through the scene in such an artistic way. These are not amateur
photos, for sure.
 

I find one to be exquisite amongst the
grouping. It’s of the beach during an intense storm. The sky is painted just as
I had seen it only the other day. The waves are crashing the shore harshly, and
rain is pelting the sea with big splashes. The camera catches the water being
raised from the splash, midair, and I’m astounded by the clarity. It’s
breathtaking, and I’m wondering if I can sneak it home with me. The scene looks
as though John Paul hit a pause button to capture the perfection of Mother
Nature raging against the sea. Oh yes, this baby will be mine.

I glance over at the opposite wall with
the intention of heading back to my room, when my eyes get a good look at the
photos. My stomach seizes as I take in the repeated image of the grassy field
where Bradley lost his life. My brother has made a memorial in his room to our
cousin, and it sends a deep ache through me. Reining in the emotions as best I
can, I shuffle in the direction of the wall to learn a bit more about my older
brother.

I ease closer and study the unnerving
collage of photos. Some are black and white while others are in striking color
or aged antiqued. Some are in the daylight and some at night. No matter, they
are all eerie and laced with grief. My skin pricks with goose bumps rising all
over my body. My eyes focus in one spot, and I start to decipher the images
before me in a slow, meticulous fashion. I don’t want to miss anything. A long
time passes as I take in scene after scene of the floor to ceiling collage. One
night shot has a huge, glowing moon hovering over the field. Another one
captures a rare ice storm with the secrets of the haunted field hidden under a
thick sheet of ice. I take in the photo beside this one. It was taken during a
severe-looking thunderstorm. The field is drenched and mournful in the gloomy
illumination as lightning cuts through the sky ruthlessly. You can feel the
animosity in the storm’s fury. I scan another that has been tinted in a russet
red. It reminds me of dried blood, and I know that was John Paul’s intention. This
gallery here in my brother’s bedroom is unnerving and mesmerizing all at once.
There are hundreds, and I can see my brother’s pain in each one.

I stand in astonishment for a long
spell, studying each photo in reverence and sorrow at the same time. My brother
is an artist. An absolute genius with a camera, and I’ve missed seeing him
develop this. I’m just beginning to realize how costly my disappearing act has
been.