Flee (5 page)

I lay in bed, awake but not moving. From across the hall I could hear Mary softly singing to the baby.
Must be around three a.m
., I thought, knowing when Grace usually woke up hungry. Mary's song was sweet and gentle. It stabbed my heart like a sharp knife.
Momma
, I thought sadly
, I miss you so much.

I tried to find sleep, but it eluded me as usual. For a moment, I stared at the full bottle of sleeping pills high on the bookshelf, across the room and out of Benji's curious reach, like a drowning woman looking for a life-raft. The bottle was only missing one, forced upon me the first night after the murders. I had felt like a traitor when I had awakened the next day. My parents had been killed and I had just lain down and gone to sleep? I wanted to feel every moment of pain. I wanted no memory dulled by drugs. It was all I had left of them. Every past thought of our lives together, my whole life up until now, would be remembered and stored, no matter how agonizing. The fiercer the pain, the better. It paid homage to how much I had loved them. I wasn't scared of it, only tortured by it. I knew it had caused me to slowly turn into myself and away from the things I'd once enjoyed. I didn't care. What was there to enjoy anymore?

I heard Mary moving now, changing a diaper perhaps. I didn't feel much other than alternating numbness and pain these days, but logically I supposed I was thankful to Coach Joe and Mary for taking me in and giving me a place to live. No, they had done more than that. They loved me, they always had. Joe had known Dad forever, since they'd played high school and then college ball together. He was almost as broken-hearted over their deaths as I was. But not tortured. That was just me. They had picked me up from my house that awful night, the cami and flowery boxers I had worn to bed covered in blood, and brought me to their home, and other than the funeral and school. I had not left except when forced.

I sighed and pushed the covers off me, standing quickly and decisively. I'd gone to bed early, at nine, exhausted. That made six hours of consistent sleep, a rarity these days. But I was up now, so I headed to my desk and grabbed a journal and a pen. Since the day of the funeral, I had been pouring out my thoughts and feelings on paper. It was easier than talking to people. The paper didn't respond to my thoughts. It didn't judge me or offer ridiculous advice or freak when I turned dark and despairing. It was just a silent listener.

No one had ever read what I had written. Joe had asked once, telling me he knew that I wasn't able to talk about it, but wondering if he could just read a little so he could understand what I was going through and help me. I hadn't even answered. I just shot him a look that clearly communicated what I thought, and he had never asked again.

Now I sat and wrote for the next hour, telling the paper how much I dreaded this, the first day of school. My senior year was something my dad had been excited about and my mom had cried over. She had often said she wouldn't be able to send me off to school on this day. She would be crying too hard, knowing this was “the beginning of the end.” Her end had no beginning. One day she was there, and the next she was not. Now I would be the one fighting back tears. I honestly didn't know if I had the strength to face it. I had cut off contact with almost all of my friends. They should be happy, enjoying life. I was the huge wet blanket to everyone's good day. The only ones who called or came by anymore were Callie and Wade. Wade, I always sent away quickly. I knew he liked me, or had before and for some reason would not let it go.
Can't you see I'm damaged goods
, I wanted to scream.
Go find some cute, happy little cheerleader and live happily ever after
. There was no happily ever after with me. I couldn't see how there ever would be.

I did enjoy Callie's company, on some levels, as much as I was capable of enjoying anything. We had been friends since the third grade. She seemed to know instinctively what I needed. She was quiet, never asked questions, and was content to just sit and hang out with me. I was thankful for her, but told her often to please go have fun and just give me space. And then I was glad when she only halfway listened.

I shut my journal, patting it on the cover as if to tell it thanks for listening, before realizing what I was doing.
I'm cracking up,
I thought
. I am really, seriously losing it
. My best friend is a plastic binder filled with loose-leaf paper.

I had to do better. Today was the first day of the rest of my life, and all that crap. I would be forced to be around lots of people today. I needed to make an effort to talk, to be normal. I knew it would cost me. Relationships required emotional energy, and I was on low rations with that. But I could try.

I looked in the mirror, and somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I was slightly horrified. Lack of sleep and too many tear-filled hours had left my face a mess. Deep, dark bags lined my eyes. My hair was uncombed and wild. I hadn't had it cut since, well, before. I pictured my mom's beautiful face and knew this wouldn't do for the daughter of Jenny Alden.
If I am making an attempt, I might
as well go all of the way
. It took me thirty minutes of quiet rustling to locate my make-up bag and flat iron
. Good thing I'm up early
.
It's going to take a while to tame this beast I've let myself become into something halfway presentable.

By the time Joe and Mary awakened, I was in the kitchen making breakfast. My hair was straightened, although I anticipated the humidity messing that up pretty quickly, and the bags under my eyes were concealed as best as I could manage. I was hoping a touch of lip gloss would draw attention to my mouth, keeping people from looking too closely anywhere else. I still had a bit of
The Legend of Boggy Creek
look going, despite my best efforts.

Mary gasped and Joe stopped dead in his tracks when they entered the kitchen and saw me.

“Now that's more like it.” Joe came around the counter and gave me a quick hug. “That's the Blakesy I remember.” My heart constricted when he used the nickname Dad had created, but I smiled timidly and decided to change the subject.

“I've made a decision, Joe. I'll continue to be trainer for the team this season. I think it would make… well, he would be… I think Dad would be proud.” I finished quickly.

“He already is, honey, he already is,” Joe said quietly. Joe and Mary exchanged a quick, triumphant glance over my decision. Other than determining to keep everyone at arm's length, it may have been the first one I'd made in six months.

I planned my arrival at school carefully, with just enough time to walk into homeroom and not be tardy. The drive there was much too short. I didn't have time to compose my fragile nerves, and driving the car that was the last present my parents would ever give me always made me cry.
So much for my make-up
. I refreshed my lip gloss as I got out of my Mini Cooper, wondering how I was going to do this. Then Callie appeared out of nowhere, grabbed my hand, and walked quietly in with me. She knew how hard this was. I stiffened a little when I saw Wade waiting by a door. He smiled.

“You look pretty today, Blake,” he said, and I was instantly annoyed. I knew he was just trying to be nice, but I didn't like it.
Do
not
draw attention to me, Wade
, I screamed inside of my head.
Just let me get in the door and to my seat. I'll talk to you when I want to, like maybe next year.

Okay, so I was a little edgy today.
Looks like I'll have to wean myself into this talking thing
. Maybe at first I should just keep my mouth shut. I really did not have anything nice to say.

By first period I was a little more relaxed. It looked like, other than Wade and Callie, everyone had gotten the message I had mentally sent requesting to be left alone, including the staff. No one spoke with me, no one called on me in class.
Perfect. I can do this
. I even found myself listening in on conversations. All of the buzz seemed to be about some new guy, a soccer player from Mexico. I heard Abby Smith, giggling, declare him to be “
muy, muy bueno.
” Poor guy, I thought. Someone should warn him about Abby. She'll be pulling out all the stops to get his attention. He should be told not to bother. She's high maintenance.

It wasn't until second period's AP English class that I saw him. I followed him into the room, noting that from behind at least he appeared lean and fit… and something else? Confident, I decided. He moved with deliberation and confidence. I sat in the back while he moved to the front, talking with the small crowd gathered around him. He turned to maneuver into his desk, and that's when I caught sight of his face. I gasped quietly. Thank goodness no one was close enough to hear. Abby hadn't exaggerated. He was beautiful. But what caught my attention was the character of his face. Confident, yes, but also gentle, and judging from the weary look that quickly flashed across it when he thought no one was looking, he was no stranger to suffering.
Takes one to know one
. I wondered what his story was? I wanted to ask him, which surprised me. I hadn't wanted to ask anyone anything for a long time. I survived my first day of school by silently watching him, glad for the distraction. One day down, 179 more to go.

****

I arrived home after the first day of school and practice oddly relaxed.
Mateo.
What was there about him that made thirty minutes spent in his presence worth more than seven months of counseling? It had been oddly hard to walk away from him and come home, but I knew better than to argue with Joe. Mary was watching for me at home, so Joe must have called and alerted her that I was coming.

The Williamses lived in a more modest neighborhood than the one in which I had been raised. High school coaches weren't in it for the money. Their three-bedroom house was comfortable and welcoming, but small. I felt guilty for taking up one of those rooms, especially since baby Grace had arrived. She slept in a cradle in the corner of Joe and Mary's room and would move in with her three-year-old brother Benji when she slept through the night. I had offered to buy them a bigger house, but they would have none of it. They insisted my inheritance was mine alone. They wouldn't even accept a monthly stipend to help cover my room and board. I was family, not a boarder, they'd said. All I could get away with was doing some of the weekly grocery shopping. I think they'd only agreed to that because it got me out of the house. My parents' home had sold quickly, surprising, considering the murders that had taken place in its well-decorated living room. Of course, it had been offered at a fraction of what it was worth. I had just wanted it gone, preferably burned to the ground. Most of the furnishings, the belongings that had surrounded me most of my life except for the two boxes I had brought with me, were in storage. Some simply stayed with the house. I hadn't been able to sort through anything yet. Would I ever be?

I took Grace from Mary's arms when I walked into the kitchen. There was something about the smell of a new baby, all powder and lotion and sweetness, that comforted me. Propping her in my left arm, I sat at the table to color one-handed with Benji. He was forever drawing dinosaurs, or his version of them. They looked more like disjointed blobs, with saucer eyes and lopsided triangles for teeth.

“That's a good one, Benj. Real mean looking.” Benji grinned and roared at me and returned to coloring. I looked up to see Mary eyeing me quizzically.

“What?” I asked. “Have I grown a second nose?”

“No, you just look content. It suits you. I'm guessing today was better than you'd expected?” She was stirring pasta, carefully avoiding eye contact.

“Yeah, it was,” I answered, picturing Mateo's face and wondering again how some guy I had just met and hardly spoken to could have such an effect on me. Mary waited for me to explain, but when I didn't offer more, she turned back to the pasta and I turned back to coloring.

****

After dinner and three readings of
Danny the Dinosaur
with Benji, I showered and retired to my room. I didn't have much homework yet to occupy me, and for once I did not want to write in my journal. Was it time to tackle the taped-up box in my closet? Way past time, most likely. I was feeling better today than I had since that night. Would it push my luck to open that box, or was this a sign that I was ready? Who knew? I just knew that I felt a sudden urge to rip open the lid and stick my hand in it and pull out a random object. I grabbed my scissors from my desk and sliced through the tape on top.

Ready, set, go
. Thrusting my hand quickly in, I grabbed the first object with which I made contact. Oh, a framed picture. Hugging it tightly to my chest, I crawled into my bed and under my covers, wrapping them securely around me, hoping they could protect me from the emotions squeezing my heart and causing my breath to come in gasps.

Just look, Blake, you can do it
. I slowly opened one eye and peeked. My father's face stared back at me, smiling and happy. He was sweaty, dressed in running clothes with a number pinned to his chest. His arm was around my twelve-year-old self in the picture. I was also dressed in running clothes, a number on my shirt as well. Our first 10K run. Dad had been so proud of how I had kept up with him, although I had accused him of slowing his pace for me. Mom had been waiting at the finish line, cheering like a woman gone mad, and had snapped the photo as soon as she could work her way to us through the crowd. I remembered how Dad had enjoyed teasing her…

“Next year, Jenny, you're running with us,” Dad had said, grinning wickedly at her.

“The day you get me to run a 10K, Ryan, is the day you know my body has been taken over by aliens,” she had replied.

“Well then, unless we can convince E.T. to join us, I guess it's just you and me, Blakesy,” Dad had answered, laughing.

My head filled with memories of us running together, teasing Mom about her yoga classes, getting up early before the sun and heat… I even let myself, for an instant, picture Brody. Then I shoved that memory deep into the hidden recesses of my brain.
Don't push it
. I hugged the picture tightly to me again and after a while, drifted to sleep.

The next morning I awoke before the sunrise. The frame was still in my arms and I was stiff and sore from being in one position for too long. Glancing tentatively at the picture, I was surprised that it brought a happy smile to my face. I guess I had unlocked that memory and processed its effect on me.

Placing the frame on my bookshelf, I took a deep breath, wondering at the strange unfamiliar feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was small, just a spark, but it was there. It took me a minute to identify it, and when I did, I smiled.
Hope
. Hope that I could overcome this. Hope that life could maybe one day be good again. Hope that there just might be a happily ever after for me with someone.

Somewhere a page in the book that was my life silently turned.