Ghost Hand (13 page)

The murmur of voices.
Who was he talking to?

The crunch of someone’s foot just outside.
Was he going to come in?

The rustle of tent flaps being brushed aside.
He was. He was.

I opened my eyes to slits and tried to focus on the dingy green blur in front of them. My head was pounding, and the light felt like it was jabbing at my eyeballs. Finally, after a few minutes, whatever I was looking at coalesced into grainy green fabric with a dark stain shaped like a dog’s head splashed on it. I blinked, trying to clear my vision, but the image stayed put. There was a soft, rushing sound from outside and the dog’s head rippled.

It was a tent. I was staring at the very-up-close inner wall of a canvas tent. Hadn’t I been dreaming about tents? About camping with my dad, but our tent hadn’t been canvas. It had been bright blue and made of nylon or something. Who even used canvas tents anymore? The military maybe. The military, or the militant.

I suddenly had the sinking feeling I’d just woken up in a CAMFer tent. And then I remembered the confrontation on Old Delarente Road with the CAMFers. Marcus had talked to them, bossed them around like they worked for him. Most of it was a blur in my head. And the parts that weren’t didn’t make sense.

I glanced down at myself, half expecting to find my arms tied or my hands bound. Instead, I was lying on a cot wrapped in an old quilt, as if someone’s grandma had just tucked me in for the night. I started to turn my aching head to look around, but even that slight movement sent pain shooting through my temples to collide in a crescendo of dazzling sparks behind my eyes.

Oh right. Marcus had said something about a concussion. I was just trying to determine the least painful course of action when someone touched my shoulder. I flailed, rearing up and turning on the cot, adrenaline temporarily overriding the explosion of agony that caused.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Marcus said, looking down at me, his eyes full of concern.

“You,” I said. It came out as a groan. There was some bright light shining from behind him, blinding me and making him look like an angel.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” he said, sounding relieved. “How’s the head?”

“It hurts,” I said, closing my eyes, but I still saw the outline of him standing there, a blue boy-shaped bruise burned on to the inside of my retinas. “Where are we?”

“A camp in the woods about three miles outside of town.”

“What about the CAMFers? The ones on the ATVs?”

“Those weren’t CAMFers,” he said. “Those were my friends.”

“Your friends?” I asked, trying to wrap my aching head around that.

“Yeah, I called them, back on that hill by the hospital, and asked them to meet us on Old Delarente Road.”

“Wait,” I said, trying to sit up, and quickly realizing that was a very bad idea. “I thought they were CAMFers. I freakin’ dove on my head so you could get away.”

“Oh, is that why you did that?” he asked, grinning. “Because it looked like you slipped.”

“I thought they were CAMFers,” I groaned.

“I told you they were my friends.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did,” he insisted. “I yelled, ‘Hey, they’re friends’ right as they pulled up.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, glaring at him even though it made my head spin.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, and he even had the decency to look a little sheepish. “It sort of slipped my mind that I hadn’t told you until Nose’s wheeler was right there.”

“Did you just say Nose’s wheeler?” The words coming out of his mouth weren’t even making sense anymore. Something was seriously wrong with my head.

“Yeah. Nose is his name. And we call the ATVs wheelers.”

“You have a friend named Nose?” I just wanted this confusing conversation to end, but I couldn’t seem to keep my mouth from asking.

“Sort of. His real name is actually Trey, but he goes by Nose.”

“God, my head hurts,” I said. It didn’t matter whether I closed my eyes or opened them. The pain just kept getting worse. On the bright side, my body seemed to have completely forgotten about my smoke inhalation.

“Oh shit! I was supposed to give you more pain killer,” Marcus said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a tattered bottle of pills. “And I’m going to have to wake you up every hour through the night, just to make sure your symptoms aren’t getting worse,” he said, opening the bottle, pouring two white tablets into his palm and handing them to me.

“Oh yay,” I moaned, wondering why I’d even escaped from the hospital if Marcus was just going to turn into the night shift nurse.

“Take them,” he said gently. At least his bedside manner wasn’t terrible.

I opened my hand for the pills, and he dropped them in my palm. Then he crossed behind the bright light source somewhere beyond my vision. I heard the sound of water being poured, and he came back with a blue enamel cup full.

He crouched next to the cot and helped me sit up, his arm warm against my back.

I drank the pills down, ignoring how they scraped my throat as they went.

“So we’re not in a CAMFer camp?” I asked, lying back. Even with the incessant throbbing in my skull, I was so tired I couldn’t keep my eyes open. From outside the canvas walls, I thought I heard the rustle of another tent being opened and someone entering it.
Maybe it was my dad.

“No,” Marcus said softly, tucking the quilt gently back under me where it had come loose when I’d thrashed away from him earlier. “You’re safe. I promise.”

DAVID'S LIST

I woke up slowly, my head still aching, but it was better. Way better.

This time the dog-shaped stain on the tent’s interior seemed to greet me, and by the way burnt orange and murky green shadows danced on the canvas walls, I thought it must be dusk.

Marcus had spent all night taking care of me, waking me up at intervals, giving me pain medicine, bringing me water, and tucking me in. By morning we’d both been exhausted, and he’d finally promised I could sleep without interruption. Apparently, I’d taken him up on it and slept all day.

I glanced around. It didn’t hurt as much to turn my head. At least I could do it without feeling like I was going to hurl.

The tent wasn’t huge, maybe ten feet square. It had a pitched roof about six feet at the peak. Right next to my cot was the orange camp chair Marcus had sat in all night. As I looked at it a memory flashed in my mind—Marcus asleep in that chair pulled up next to me, his long arm stretched over mine, his hand cupped protectively over my ghost hand.

Beyond the camp chair on the far wall was a square flap covering a screened window. Below the window was a small folding table with a laptop on it. Surrounding the computer were neat stacks of papers and what looked like maps weighted down by a compass, a lighter, a Swiss Army knife, and a rock. Pulled up to the table was another orange camp chair.

In one corner of the tent was an old trunk, the sleeve of a shirt and a sock hanging out from under its mostly closed lid. The top of the trunk was doubling as a table as well, sporting a large plastic jug of water, some enamel camp ware, a coil of rope, an old camp lantern, and the hydration pack we had drunk from on Old Delarente Road.

Beyond the foot of my cot were the door flaps, tied shut but billowing a little in the wind. Just inside the door was a welcome mat that read “GET OUT” in bold black letters.

It was a cozy place. A safe place, just like he’d promised.

Carefully, I sat up, pushed the quilt away, and swung my legs over the side of the cot. The walls of the tent were growing dark, but my ghost hand lit up all but the corners of the interior.

So far so good. My head wasn’t spinning or hurting much more than it had when I’d been lying down.

From outside, I could hear the occasional murmur of voices, the clang of pans, the slosh of water, all the sounds of a camp cleaning up after dinner.
Dinner
. At the mere thought of the word, my stomach gave an audible and very unladylike growl. When was the last time I’d eaten?

Marcus had given me something that morning, saltines accompanied by the instructions, “Don’t puke in my tent.” Before that, there had been the almonds, most of which I’d thrown in someone’s face, or thrown up. Before that, mushy hospital food. No wonder I was starving.

I glanced at the door of the tent. I could go out there and look for Marcus, or some food, or both. There were probably leftovers from dinner, and the smells that still hung in the air were enticing. My stomach growled again, but I just couldn’t bring myself to leave. Maybe it was the lingering memory of that weird dream of my dad and Bluefly Lake. It wasn’t rational, but it was there. Fear. Fear of the unknown. I knew what was in this tent. Knew I was safe. I had absolutely no idea what was out there,
who
was out there. Marcus had claimed them as friends, but what would they be to me?

Maybe there was food stashed in the tent somewhere. I’d seen the way teen boys ate at school—like ravenous, insatiable dogs. Had Marcus gone out to get the crackers last night, or was there a stash in his tent? I couldn’t remember, but that was nothing a little snooping couldn’t solve.

I began my search. No food on the computer table, probably none in the trunk where he kept his clothes, but beyond the trunk was a stack of several plastic storage tubs with lids which I hadn’t been able to see from the cot. I opened the top one, stuck my ghost hand in as a flashlight, and Bingo! The saltines. More almonds. Some dried fruit. A bag of cinnamon and raisin bagels. Several chocolate bars. Yum.

I snagged a bagel out of the bag and devoured it, followed by some dried apricots and a chocolate bar, all of which just barely took the edge off my hunger. Maybe there was something more substantial (like a turkey dinner with walnut stuffing) in the bottom tub.

I set the top tub to the side and removed the lid of the bottom one, again using my ghost hand to light up the contents. This one didn’t have food. It was a keepsake box, or at least that’s what my mother would have called it—a box full of odds and ends, stuff that looked like junk but was obviously very important to someone. I knew immediately that I should put the lid back on that box.

But I didn’t.

I reached inside and pulled out a photo that was lying on top.

It was a snapshot of a boy and a girl, standing side by side, shoulders touching, faces somber, eyes full of something startling I couldn’t even name. Determination? Togetherness? Desperation?

Behind them it looked like there was some kind of dilapidated building or shed.

The boy was obviously Marcus, three or four years younger than he was now (maybe fourteen). The girl was probably a little bit younger than that. She looked so much like Marcus—same dark complexion, same dark hair (but longer), same brooding eyes—there was no question in my mind that they were related.

The photo was strangely overexposed, washed out to a blinding white in the lower left corner that obscured the girl’s arm and part of her torso.

I turned the photo over to the back, hoping to find some identifying information written there.

“What are you doing?” Marcus demanded from behind me.

“I was just looking for something to eat,” I stammered, dropping the photo into the tub and slamming the lid back on.

“There was food in the top one,” he said, his voice hard and cold.

“I know,” I said, stacking the top tub back on to the bottom one. “I’m sorry. I was just really hungry, and I thought there might be something more than bagels in that one.”

“Well, I brought you some dinner,” he said, his voice softening.

I looked up to see that he was indeed holding a steaming plate of something that smelled delicious.

“Oh, thank God!” I stood up and took the plate from him. It looked like some kind of goulash, full of beans, noodles, onion, tomatoes, and little bits of bacon.

Marcus pulled a fork wrapped in a paper napkin out of his back jeans pocket and handed it to me.

I crossed to my cot, sat, and began shoveling the amazing substance into my mouth.

“So, I take it you’re feeling better,” he said as he checked his tubs, making sure the lids were secure. I got the message; I was forgiven this time, but there shouldn’t be a next time.

“Not too bad,” I mumbled between mouthfuls. “Just a normal headache now, instead of an uber one.”

“Good,” he said, lighting the lantern on top of the trunk. Its glow started out soft and pale, echoing the tones of my ghost hand and mingling with them.

Could that really be the same spotlight that had been drilling me in the head last night?

Marcus crossed the tent to sit in the camp chair, our knees almost touching. “We have a lot to talk about,” he said, leaning forward.

“Yes, we do,” I agreed, cramming more goulash into my mouth. “You talk. I’ll eat.”

“Um. Let’s see. Where do I start?”

“My ghost hand,” I said, looking at him over the top of the fork being wielded by the very glowy hand I was referring to. “What did you do to fix it back in Calculus?”

“Ever heard of the Vulcan nerve pinch?” he asked, smiling.

“You gave me a Vulcan nerve pinch?”

“Kind of. I pinched the median nerve in your wrist. I wasn’t even sure it would work, but it was the only thing I could think of at the time.”

“Show me,” I said, setting my plate down on the cot and presenting my wrist to him.

“The nerve runs here,” he said, reaching out toward my ghost hand without the slightest hesitation. He pinched my wrist, his thumb between the two knobby bones on top, and his index finger underneath. “It’s almost like taking someone’s pulse but the finger placement is reversed, and you have to press pretty hard, but it can make people drop things.”

“And you know this why?” I asked, distracted by the softness of his fingertips, of his warm hand cupped over mine. He could take his hand away, now that he’d shown me. But he didn’t.

“Anatomy’s kind of a hobby of mine,” he said, stroking his finger along the inside of my wrist to the edge of my stump. “Your median nerve stops here, because of your PSS.” His touch seemed to run all the way up my arm into my shoulder and back down to the tips of my ghost fingers.