Exiled (2 page)

Michael tossed a rock into Crystal Lake. It skipped three times before disappearing beneath the murky depths. He went to pick up another, but stopped at the sound of a noise. He rose to his full six feet and searched for the culprit.

Around the water, tall bare trees stood, their branches reaching toward the sky like skeleton fingers. Interspersed between the naked branches of the elm and aspen were the fir, their needles a soft silvery-green and the prickly forest green needles of pine.

The small lake rippled, a slight wind pushing the water to and fro against the muddy shore. He turned, zipped his letterman’s jacket, and grabbed a blanket from the hood of his car. A little ways off stood a thicket of long yellow weeds, the strands bending in the breeze like bullied children. At the base of a gigantic tree, he shook out the large blanket over a patch of dried grass. The ground was firm, though it hadn’t frozen. That would change soon. Mid October meant freezing weather in Wyoming. At the moment, it was a beautiful afternoon and the spot would serve as the perfect table for the picnic he’d prepared his girlfriend, Cheverly.

With all the crap that went on in his not-so-happy family, he’d been surprised—still was—that he and Chev had been in a relationship. Somehow they’d managed and today marked their six month anniversary. As a surprise, he’d made a meal, put it in a basket and asked Cheverly’s best friend, Lori, to help him plan their date. On top of that, here next to Crystal Lake and their favorite elm, Michael planned to tell Chev he loved her.

In the past, they’d argued about it, the fact that he never said the words. It wasn’t that he didn’t have affectionate feelings toward her. He did. He even believed the feelings might be love. Most of his life had been spent keeping emotions at bay. At the ripe old age of seven, he’d come to recognize that expressing fear, anger, pain, or for that matter, happiness, joy and, heaven forbid love, only caused his father and then later his mother’s abuse to be more severe.

Michael had scars on his back, feet and a long, thin scar on his cheek to prove it. Showing no emotion kept the violence to a minimum. As for real love, if it existed, he figured that might be what he felt for Cheverly. He had no idea, but to keep the peace between them, he’d decided to tell her. Say the words.

Lori should’ve dropped Cheverly off already. He knew getting Chev to do something without knowing all the details demanded skill. Michael’d been cryptic today, during school, and that’d caused Chev to give him dirty looks. Probably upset and a little hurt, too. A surprise around her required stealth and he’d wanted the moment to be special. So when his cell rang, Michael felt relieved.

“Hey, Lori. Where you at?” He’d begun to pace.

“I’m sorry dude, but I can’t find her. I’ve called. Left messages. Texted the girl like ten times. She isn’t answering me.”

He allowed his mind to run through the various places she could’ve been. Work. Cheerleading practice. At the mall. “I guess I’d better call her. Hope she isn’t too mad.” With his old, orange converse, he kicked a hole in the ground.

“Yeah, you know how Cheverly feels about surprises, though.”

“Thanks, Lori.” Michael hung up and dialed Chev’s number. It went straight to voice mail. He left her a message. Then he texted her.

“Happy Anni, Chev. Wanted 2surprise U. @the lake nxt 2r tree. Com hang w/me.” He debated about whether or not he should add the words, those three words she’d wanted him to say for so long. “Might as well.” He spelled them out completely. “I love you.” And hit send.

He sat on the blanket and leaned against the old tree. A large bird flew overhead, calling out. An eagle. He watched it circle the lake, drop its claws into the water and pull out a fish.

Food. His stomach rumbled. Digging around in the picnic basket, he pulled out a PB&J sandwich. No, it wasn’t gourmet, but hey,
not
achef. He’d gone the extra mile and baked sugar cookies. When they cooled, he dipped one side in melted milk chocolate, which happened to be her favorite.

Michael looked forward to them as well. It’d taken all of his restraint not to help himself while he baked them. Every once in a while the buttery-chocolate smell would drift through the air and hit his nose, causing his mouth to water. If Chev didn’t hurry, he’d probably eat them all. He unwrapped another sandwich and wolfed it down while he waited.

A ways off, he heard a motor. Michael turned toward the sound. A large cloud of dust swirled high in the air. Seconds later, a gleaming, black truck drove into the clearing across the lake. He knew the truck, with its huge halogen lamps, chrome roll bars and beefy silver-coated grill. It belonged to Vinny Smith. Dirt clung to the air even after the 4X4 stopped.

The motor shut off. If he’d come with friends to party, they’d have jumped out by now. Other cars would’ve followed. Vinny’s truck sat alone on the opposite side of the lake which meant he probably had some girl in there with him. The possibility of what might be going on got Michael to thinking about him and Chev. They’d had some good times.

Totally his type, she had long, dark hair that smelled of jasmine, a heart-shaped face, the softest skin, and a perfectly curved body. The girl rocked a tight sweater. That was another reason he’d decided to say the words.

I love you,
he practiced
.

Michael checked his phone. No messages. No texts. He decided to call her again.

While it rang, Michael noticed the car door to Vinny’s truck open. A girl got out and slammed the door. Her ringing phone tinkled through the silence around him.

“Hey, Michael.” Not only did he hear her voice in his ear, but it sang across the small lake. He froze, too stunned to answer. Had she not seen his text? Or did she? He stood. “Michael? Are you there?”

“Chev,” he whispered. “I texted you. Did you get it?” The dank, sour smell of the lake had begun to irritate his stomach. And, the afternoon chill, which felt crisp not five minutes ago, vanished. Sweat covered his back, causing his plaid button-up shirt to stick and scratch, even through his undershirt.

“No, hang on.” He watched her lower the phone and tried to imagine what kind of look would be on her face as she read. Horror. Fear, maybe. Or she might find the whole situation funny. She raised the phone to her ear, her face lifted so that he knew she watched him. But the distance made it impossible to see her expression. In the background Vinny’s country music blared. “I’m so sorry.” A hand went to her mouth.

Anger blistered hot and he struggled to think straight. Michael wanted to beat Vinny to a pulp. The two of them played football together. Michael had believed Vinny was okay. The scum was his favorite receiver.
Damn him!
He’d deal with Vinny in his own way.

As for Chev, evidently they meant nothing. She’d made a choice, made a fool of him. Into the phone, Michael said, “When you’re done doing . . . whatever it is you came to do . . .” He trailed off as images of his girlfriend and Vinny making out, or worse, entered his mind. He pounded the side of his head with the palm of a hand, trying to knock the thoughts away. “Chev,” he whispered, kicking at a loose rock. “How could you? I guess I should’ve known.” The words came out bitter, cold.

“Cheese on crackers, Michael. I’m not . . . we aren’t—”

“One more thing.” He interrupted as his fury rose. She was making excuses and he didn’t want to hear them. If they weren’t doing anything, then why come here—with him—today of all days? Murder would’ve been better than this. At least he wouldn’t have had to feel this-this pain.
Damn her!

“Michael, I—”

“You can take that text, those words you so badly wanted to hear, and shove em up—”

“Jerk,” she shouted, and hung up.

“Ha,” he yelled into the phone. Then slammed it shut. “I’m the jerk. Me,” he hollered across the lake as he grabbed the basket, turned it over, and let the food fall into the dirt. He picked up the blanket and jogged to his car—Red—the only girl who didn’t irritate him. The only one who’d remained loyal. With a key, he opened the trunk and chucked the basket and blanket inside. Then gently pushed it closed. He got in the driver’s side, started the engine and adjusted the mirror. His reflection glared. “You’re such an idiot. Crap!” He slammed on the gas and peeled away.

While Michael drove, he tried not to think about Chev, but that proved impossible. She was laughable, in a very un
-
funny way. How dare she do this to him?

It served him right. He’d seen how love affected his parents, and the way they’d taken it out on him. Why had he figured he and Chev would be any different? Love didn’t exist.

Love.
He blew out his breath.

No way would he allow himself to be swayed again.

“Michael, can you come into the kitchen?”

“Sure, mother.” He walked into the house from the garage. Stink from cigarette smoke assaulted his nose. All the lights were off and, as usual, the blinds were closed. Michael was surprised to see his mother in the kitchen. At this time of day, she usually watched a talk show, still in a good mood. Her “happy” pills saw to that. From her tone, the pills weren’t working at the moment. He set the blanket and empty picnic basket on the counter.

“What’s this?” she asked, taking a drag from her menthol flavored cigarette. A smoky haze caused the stainless steel appliances and walnut cabinets to appear like apparitions. The house mourned in silence, except for the sizzle and burn as she sucked deadly chemicals into her lungs. She wobbled, unsteady on her feet, a frail shell of a woman.

He’d seen old pictures of his mother before his parents divorced. When they’d been together, she’d worn her hair up, in curly piles of blond. Her skin had always been tanned and her honey-colored eyes alert. Not long after dad left, everything changed. She stood in front of Michael now, her hair stringy, skin patchy, and vacant eyes underlined with dark circles. Brown sweats, four sizes too big drowned her body, and fuzzy, drab-looking slippers that at one time were probably white, adorned her feet—a wrinkled potato.

Michael towered over her. She barely reached his bicep. But, as she stood there, a cigarette in one hand and a half-filled wine glass in the other, his stomach started to twist in knots of fear. For her, for him, for the way he knew their confrontation would end.

Michael hated days like today.

“I made dinner for my girlfriend and me.” No point denying. Despite her dirty, half-stoned looks, she was quick as a bull whip.

“Ah, young love.” She crushed the cigarette in an ashtray on the counter, picked up the basket and put it away, on the bottom shelf, in the pantry.

Right then, it occurred to him that perhaps he shouldn’t have used the stupid thing. It belonged to his parents. Who knew how many memories it contained? He also noticed bread crusts on the floor near the trashcan. In his hurry to clean up, he’d apparently missed.
Ah crap.
Any sort of mess pushed a mad-button on his mother, setting her off.

When she faced him again, her wine glass had been refilled and she held an extra glass. Michael knew she’d filled it for him.
Not good.
He pulled abarstool from under the counter and sat.

She placed his glass on the marbled granite countertop next to him. Then set hers down, too. From the elastic of her sweats, she pulled out a box of cigarettes, opened it and grabbed one along with a banana-yellow lighter. In a quick motion, she sucked the cigarette to life. Her ashy hollowed-out face and bony body reminded him of a rotting carcass.

The time had come. No sense trying to fight the inevitable. That only made matters worse. He hunkered down, pressing his forearms into the edge of the counter. With a flick of his chin, he motioned toward the wine. “No thanks, I have a game tomorrow.”

“Suit yourself.” She scooted his glass over next to hers and before he’d totally prepared, backhanded him across the face. “That’s for taking my stuff without asking.” No need to yell, her hand spoke volumes.

“Yes, Mother. It won’t happen again.” Michael lowered his gaze. His face stung a little, but he didn’t let the fact that he’d felt anything show. He breathed in deeply and swallowed. She wasn’t done.

“You make me sick. It’s your fault your father left.” He watched her face now, could see the near frenzied anger dancing in her eyes. The silvered light from outside made them flicker. “If you’d never been born, if that stupid ali—” She stopped, frightened and looked around the kitchen. After a moment, she continued, “Frank and I would still be together. You ruined everything.”

He closed his eyes and forced his heart to slow down.
Do not feel. Don’t let her get to you.
It didn’t help. Rage tore through him. He hated everyone. His dad, the guys on the football team, and girls. Cheverly. His mother. He pounded a fist on the counter, allowing the fury to build.

“Mother.” The word came out more anguished than angry. He opened his eyes in time to see the wrath on his mother’s face ease. She caused him pain to lessen her own. He knew it, accepted it, and allowed it. But, he’d only suffer so much.

Maliciously, he went on, “It’s your fault I’m alive. Remember that!” Her hand came up to hit him again. He smacked it away. “Enough!” He may’ve allowed her emotional abuse and permitted her to slap him around some, because he felt sorry for her, but he wasn’t taking any more. Not today.

“Don’t talk that way to me. I’m still your mother,” Catherine yelled, pounding her cigarette on the edge of a quartz ashtray.

Michael glared, but didn’t say a word, stifling the rest of the words he wanted to spew her direction. There wasn’t any point and he knew it, so he held his tongue.

“Fine!” She picked up the glass of wine she’d poured for him and threw it across the kitchen. It smashed against one of the mahogany stained cupboards, next to the refrigerator. He watched it shatter, the broken pieces flying everywhere. One of the glass shards struck him below his right eye. He felt the cut line with blood and trickle down his cheek. The stench of copper and fermented grapes swirled in the air, an interesting combination, especially when added to the lingering cloud of smoke. “Clean up the mess in here.” She lifted her wine glass and shuffled out.

“Yes, Mother.” He went and picked up a piece of glass. A drop of blood dripped onto the bone white tile.
I have to get out of here
.