Flirting With Chaos (21 page)

At midnight, a knock sounded in my room. Thinking it was Dad doing something crazy, I gripped a steak knife in my hand and kept it behind me. I’d sneaked the weapon earlier while Dad and I had eaten a nerve-racking lunch. The knock came again. I realized it had to be coming from the window and rushed over to see Jude balancing himself on the ledge.

“Why aren’t you answering my calls?” he said through the glass. “I know you’re sick, but I was worried—”

I shook my head and held my finger to my lips. He closed his mouth. The realization that something horrible was going on dawned in his eyes. I motioned for him to stay there, tiptoed to my desk, wrote down a message on a sheet of paper, brought it back, and showed the paper to him. It read: “Dad locked Mom in the basement and me in the house. Call the police.”

He climbed down without saying goodbye or that he’d be back.

The police showed up in less than thirty minutes. Dad answered. I stayed in my room with the door cracked open, listening as my dad laughed with the officers and suggested that whatever kid called must’ve been prank calling the cops. They left without even checking the place. They left because rock legend Jack Kenner answered the door, and all of his stardom radiated out of his skin, making them mishandle Mom’s and my safety.

The door slammed closed. “Rainbow, get down here.”

“Yes?” I hurried his way with the knife behind me.

“Did you tell anybody about us praying for your mother?”

I acted shocked. “No. How could I, Daddy? You have my phone and computer.”

He laid his ring of keys on the end table where Thompson usually placed the mail. “There’s more going on here.”

“There is?” I inched back and realized that he no longer had his gun.

“Someone else is working against us.”

“Who?” I could stab him and run out.

But will I make it? Can I hurt him? What would he do if I stabbed him? He’d put me down in the basement with Mom, and then there would be no way to get us help.

He grasped at his hair and pulled. “I don’t know. I don’t know. There could be more duppies surrounding us. I could barely breathe this morning. How about you?”

“Yes. I also had trouble breathing,” I lied.

“I have to go back and think about this.” He rushed up the stairs, and I got out of his way. “I need to talk to them.”

I stood there, not shaking any more like I had been days before. My body turned into numb flesh. I checked the alarm next to the door. The red light flickered on and off.

The alarm’s on. I can’t run out without him knowing. How far can I make it before he grabs me?

The next mansion was half a mile away. Even if I made it, I’d need to somehow get through the locked gate. I glanced at the end table.

The keys.

I got to them in seconds, quickly tiptoed through the kitchen, and hurried down the stairs to the basement. I was scared to leave by myself, but with Mom, I was ready to do anything. Together, we could figure out an escape or overtake Dad.

Two has to be better than one.

I arrived at the door. The keys fumbled in my hands. “It’s me, Mom.”

“Oh God, Rain,” she cried.

“Shh. Dad is upstairs.” My fingers shook. The keys clinked against themselves.

I could have sworn I heard footsteps upstairs. Had Dad come down to the main level to look for me? On the third key, the door opened. My mom stumbled to me. Her kinky curls sat in a crumpled mess on top of her head. Dark, purplish shadows ringed her swollen eyes. Blood was dried under her nose. She held me so tight, sobbing into my shoulder and smelling like crushed flowers and sweet things that I could no longer remember.

“Mom, don’t cry.” I didn’t want to let her go. I didn’t. She felt like home. Safe. She felt like Mom. “We have to go.”

She bobbed her head, choking on her own tears. No fear swam in those beautiful brown eyes, just regret. I grabbed her hand and tugged her up to the main floor. She seemed so weak and tripped almost every other step.

“Where is he?” she asked in a low voice.

“In his bedroom, I think.” I approached the door as I held her hand. “He has the alarm on. He changed the code to something else. I tried so many number combinations. None of them worked. Can you run?”

“Barely. Where will we go?” She trembled next to me. All the hope I’d experienced when I’d opened the basement door earlier vanished. I’d thought Mom would have the answers and lead the way, but in that moment, I discovered that she was just as lost at me. Even worse, she’d slow me down.

How could I have been so stupid?

“We could…run to one of the estates next door or…” I had no real answer but to run and scream for help.

“You don’t have your phone?”

“No.”

“He hid them all? What about the one in his studio?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Probably. I wasn’t allowed to go out there.”

“I bet that’s where they’re at. He always hides them there.”

Always? How long has he been doing this? How long have Mom and Dad kept me out of these crazy fits of insanity?

“You run to the studio and search for a phone.” She snatched the steak knife from me. “I’ll stay here. If he comes down to check on the alarm, I’ll stab him and hold him back.”

“Mom, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

She wiped tears away from her swollen eyes. “If there isn’t a phone in the studio, run out the back entrance and keep on running, girl. Don’t you stop no matter what, you hear?”

I stiffened, understanding what she was saying and not wanting to do it.

“The whole time I sat there so scared that he was hurting you. Get out of here.” She unlocked the door, opened it, and triggered the alarm. “Run, Rain. Hurry!”

The siren blared. I raced away so fast that I passed the corner and forgot to go to the studio. Instead, I headed to the front gate. A shot boomed behind me.

Mom!

Not thinking, I ran back, but not to the front door. I scurried to the side entrance where the staff usually entered. The lights in the house shut off all at once. Dad must have cut the power. Depraved Mind’s latest album blasted next.

Hands seized my arms. I screamed, hitting and kicking.

Jude’s face appeared in front of me. “Rain, it’s me.”

“Oh my God.” I hugged him, almost climbing his tall body as if it was the safest place on earth. “I got Mom out. She wouldn’t run with me. Then I ran. I heard a gun shot. I think Dad killed her. The music. It’s everywhere.”

“Calm down, Rain.” He kissed my cheeks and hugged me. “Listen. Calm down.”

I breathed in and out at a fast pace, gasping for breaths that didn’t seem to be there.

“My car is parked outside the gate. I saw the cops leave without your dad, so I climbed back over to see where you were at. Come on.” He tried to drag me away. “Let’s get the cops.”

I shook my head. “She’ll be dead by then.”

“We can’t—”

Footsteps stomped outside, over the music. We ducked into the bushes. Mom screamed as Dad dragged her against the concrete by her feet. He held the gun in his right hand. Blood smeared the pavement in a trail behind them. Jude looked at me right as Dad towed Mom past us.

And then everything happened so fast. Jude jumped out of the bushes and charged Dad. They crashed to the ground. The gun fell. I rushed out to pick it up. It felt cool and heavy underneath my fingers. Mom lay there on the ground, soaked in her own blood. Scrapes marked her back and arms. Dad punched Jude in the gut. Jude kneed Dad.

“Stop!” I screamed. “Stop or I’ll shoot you!”

They both froze.

Dad gazed at me and relaxed. “Oh, sweet Rainbow. Give me the gun, baby. Give it to Daddy.”

I backed up. “Get away from Jude, Daddy, or I’ll shoot you.”

He untangled himself and stepped away from Jude. “Would you really shoot me, baby? Not my Rainbow. Don’t fall into your mother’s evil ways. Don’t fall, baby.”

He moved closer to me with his hand out. “Give me the gun, Rainbow.”

“Don’t move, Dad. Jude, go call the police.” After all those days, I stared at my dad and faltered for a second, but it was only a second.

My dad stepped my way.

I pulled back the trigger. A bullet pierced his chest. The pressure of the shot shoved me back, and I crashed into the ground.

Jude ran for me and helped me up, taking the gun out of my hands and placing it on the ground. “Are you okay, Rain?”

“Jude.” Mom picked up the gun and pointed it at him. “Go take Rain somewhere safe.”

Worry creased around the edges of Jude’s eyes, but he nodded his head. “Okay.”

“No. I want to be here when the police come.”

“Take her away for me, Jude.” Mom pointed the gun at Dad. “Get up, you son of a bitch! Now it’s time for you to go into the basement.”

That’s what should have happened. Mom would have been fine if only things had gone this way.

In the real world, my phone buzzed, pushing me out of my dark re-write of memory lane. I yawned, checked the glowing screen, and saw Jude’s text.

Why aren’t you answering my calls? ~ J

It’s six in the morning. I’m sleeping. ~ R

Can I come over later? I’m sorry about Dad bothering you at the cemetery. Is everything okay? Have the nightmares or the blood come back? I haven’t talked to you in days. ~ J

I’m fine. ~ R

I shut off the phone, placed it on the dresser, and gripped my blanket hard in my fingers. The fake emeralds sewed on top of the cover pressed against my skin. I stared at my bathroom door. Blood dripped down from it. In my mind, I knew it wasn’t real, but I jumped under my blanket and squeezed my eyes together anyway. Sometimes that happened; blood spilled onto my hands or pooled around my feet.

It’s not real. It’s not real.

Jude thought I should see somebody. I didn’t think it would help when I would only be lying to the counselor the whole time.

I’d never tell them that I killed him. I couldn’t tell.

Nevertheless, I did go to a therapist at my school in Sarasota. She never pried, but she knew something had happened. I never told her about my visions.

Clearly, I’m crazy, but how insane am I?

I’d gone to her when the blood visions had plagued my whole week. I hadn’t gone to class, left my dorm room bed, or eaten. I’d just cleaned. My room reeked with the odor of bleach. One of my teachers had shown up at my room covered in blood, at least in my eyes. She’d asked me how I was doing. I’d lied and said, “Fine.” My teacher didn’t need to be a genius to see something was wrong with me—I wore a rain coat with plastic foot covers, and had a bottle of bleach in my left hand and a wet cloth in my right.

She’d told me I had to go to the therapist and then took me there herself. I had refused to change out of the rain jacket and just left with her. Luckily, no one snickered, whispered, or pointed as I’d walked through campus. Half of them were probably as crazy as me.

The art world provided an excellent occupation for crazy people. According to some scholars, mental illnesses flooded the art world and other forms of creativity. Van Gogh had probably been bipolar and battled with it, as was seen when he’d hacked off his ear. Michelangelo had endured obsessive compulsive disorder. Pollock had struggled with alcoholism and mood swings. Clinical depression had cursed Georgia O’Keefe, Picasso, Munch, and many artists, writers, and entertainers had dealt with even more mental problems.

Jude and I had argued so many times about whether creativity and mental illness had a connection.
How could they not? Artists tend to see beauty when it isn’t there. We love to experiment with a normal person’s concept of the world and present it in a new light.
Jude had opposed my suggestion, not appreciating the idea that if he was a musical genius, then he, possibly, was also mad.

I, on the other hand, was comfortable with being insane. I didn’t mind the blood or odd thoughts, the weird occurrences during intimacy, or the nightmares of keys. I rejoiced in being alive, no matter how fucked up a day could be. What scared me was a therapist seeing through all of my lies and slowly figuring out the truth.