If You're Lucky (10 page)

My mother started policing my meds as instructed by Dr. Saul, who put me back on my old dosage. Three times a day she poured me a glass of water, shook a pill out of the bottle, handed it to me, and watched me swallow. She soon stopped asking me to open my mouth and stick out my tongue and lift it up so she could peer under it. She made a big deal about “trusting me.” She never saw me slide the pill between the inside of my cheek and my molars. The bitterness made me fight the urge to gag. As soon as she was out of sight I spit the pill into my hand and threw it out my bedroom window. Then I brushed my teeth vigorously.

My mom kept me close now. Things that she used to do alone she now did with me. I know that she valued her alone time and she probably resented having me along.

“Do you wish it was me?” I asked as we drove north along the coast.

“Do I wish it was you what?”

“Instead of Lucky, do you wish it was me?”

She took her eyes off the road to look at me. “No, of course not. Don't say things like that.”

“It's okay if you do. I wish it was me too.”

She looked exasperated. “Please, Georgia. Stop.”

My mom was gearing up to do a wood firing. She used to teach pottery classes and her eager students would fall all over themselves to help, but now she's too busy with her own work and gallery shows to teach, so she's making me help her. Years ago, my dad built the stone kiln in the backyard. It sits in the middle of a sandpit. It's hot and dangerous. The fire needs to be stoked every few hours and it has to stay blazing hot. Earlier that morning, we stacked a cord of wood that the wood guy delivered. Then we got in the car. Seaweed is a big component of these wood firings. My mom adds it along with some other organic things like rice and tea leaves to the kiln to give each pot a unique finish. The best seaweed is down toward Fort Ross, right near where we scattered Lucky's ashes. My mom parked the car in the dirt lot and we trudged down the rocky beach in rubber boots.

“Gross!” I said, as I picked up the disgusting-smelling seaweed and dropped it into a big garbage bag. “Really gross, Mom!”

“It's not that bad,” she said.

The sun was out but it was cold and windy and the beach was deserted except for a flock of gulls that sat hunkered down in the sand, watching us with mild interest.

Thousands of tiny flies swarmed over the piles. I kicked at each pile to scatter them before I could touch the seaweed with my gloved hand, but they still flew up into my face. I was chilled and miserable. With a full bag each, my mom and I started trudging through the wet sand, dragging our heavy bags across the beach to the car. Something compelled me to turn around and look back out at the choppy water. I shielded my eyes from the sun and looked for the spot where we'd scattered Lucky's ashes. A head popped up out of the water, a seal of course, it had to be a seal, but then I saw blond curls and an arm waving for help.

“George! Help me!” I heard Lucky calling out to me.

I dropped my bag and start running back toward the water. My boots were heavy and slow in the sand but I kept my eye on the bobbing head and the waving arm.

“Lucky!” I called out to him, running in slow motion. “Lucky, I'm coming!”

My mom caught up to me and tackled me from behind just as a wave retreated and I was finally getting some traction on the wet sand. We hit the ground and rolled around.

“Let go of me!” I shrieked. I couldn't believe she was trying to pin me. I squirmed around, trying to get out from under her, straining to see above the wave that was fast approaching. I had to get to Lucky.

“Mom, it's Lucky. We have to help him. Get the hell off me!”

My mom got up and pulled me roughly to my feet. “Look!” She pointed. “It's a seal.”

I looked out at a glossy black-headed seal, bobbing in a wave, watching the commotion on the shore with curiosity. I scanned the horizon for that blond head. It was gone. I had to wait for him to resurface.

“I heard him, Mom! He was calling me.”

“Seagulls,” she said. She wrapped her strong arms around me and pulled me firmly to her. “Stop it, baby. You're scaring me.” She said this quietly into my ear. I looked up at her, my eyes filled with tears. “I saw him, Mom. I did.”

She held my face in her rough hands and kissed my cheek. She dropped her hands to her sides and stalked over to her bag of seaweed. I stood watching the water, waiting.

“Georgia, let's go!” called my mom. I finally followed her and we trudged side by side up the beach, dragging the bags across the sand. I looked over my shoulder again and again, all the way up the beach.

From my bedroom window I watched my mom in her studio. She was examining the pots she'd pulled from her kiln the day before, picking up one at a time and slowly turning them to see every side. She put one down in the center of her worktable and picked up her camera and took a photo of it.

A few days had passed since the incident at the beach so my mom wasn't watching me quite as closely anymore. I'd been planning a trip down to Fin's cottage for a while and now seemed like a good time to slip away unnoticed. I wasn't entirely sure what I was looking for but I would know when I saw it. I pulled on my jeans and left out the back door. I started down the hill, walking briskly. I knew that Fin was out of his place because I'd listened from my room when he picked up Rocket earlier.

When I got close to Jeff and Miles's house, I slowed my pace and tried to look casual, like I was out for a stroll. I turned into their drive. It was all clear. I looked around and quickly crossed the lawn to the cottage at the back of the property. The redwood on the exterior was weather-worn to a smooth silver. Red-and-white-checkered curtains hung in the window. It looked like a fairy-tale place.

The latch on the wooden door gave easily. Once inside, I walked around the small cabin, making sure that there were no signs that anyone was there. I looked out the window. All was quiet except for the gentle rolling sound of the waves and the crows cawing in the redwoods. An Italian coffeemaker sat on the small stove. The side of it felt barely warm. There were two used coffee mugs on the countertop, one with Sonia's bright lipstick on the edge. A plastic honey bear sat next to the mugs. Honey dripped down its belly. All around me were mementos of a couple in love: rocks and shells picked up on the beach and carefully lined up on a wooden shelf, candles burned down to nubs, a half-full bottle of red wine with the cork forced back in, and the white sheets on the unmade bed entwined like the ghosts of lovers. On the top of the dresser in a driftwood frame there was a photo of Lucky, Fin, and Sonia. I picked it up. It was taken on a beach in Australia. Sonia is in the middle and has her arms around both guys' waists.

Fin's guitar leaned against a straight-backed wooden chair. I went to it and picked it up carefully. The finish was worn down to the bare wood where a pick had rubbed against it thousands of times. On the back of the neck, the initials
YS
were burned into the wood in curly script—Yuri Sacula, Fin's dad. I set it down. I pulled open the wooden drawers on an old carved dresser. Most of them contained piles of Fin's neatly folded clothing: T-shirts, sweaters, a couple of pairs of jeans. I tried the bottom drawer but it was locked. The lock was old. I looked around for a key but Fin probably had it with him and I'd never picked a lock in my life so that wasn't an option. I sat down on the floor and braced my feet against the feet of the dresser and gave the drawer a really good yank. The lock broke and the drawer flew open, pitching me backward. Jeff and Miles would die if they saw me do that.

The drawer was empty except for a handmade wooden box. I took it out and opened it. Inside there was a stack of photos, an old necklace, a few guitar picks, and a simple silver signet ring engraved with the initials
YS
again. I leaned against the bed and looked carefully at the first picture. It was a black-and-white photo of a darkly handsome man wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It was Yuri Sacula. He was sitting in a wooden chair holding a small, dark-haired Fin on his lap. Fin was grinning at the camera. The resemblance to his dad was uncanny. Behind them on the table were the remains of a meal: a breadboard with a knife, the end of a baguette, a chunk of cheese, and an empty bottle of wine with glasses at two places. The background looked like a bohemian apartment. The photographer must have been Fin's mom, Sophie. In the next photo, Yuri sat on a stage, playing guitar. He was wearing a finely tailored dark suit. A cigarette dangled from his mouth and his face looked just like Fin's did at the club that night, like there was nothing in the world but the music. I looked closely at his hands. He was wearing the signet ring. A stand-up bass player and a rhythm guitar player were onstage with him, also in suits. In the third photo Fin and his dad were sitting across from each other, playing guitar. Fin looked about six years old. He was leaning over his small guitar, intently studying his dad's fingers. Then there was a photo of a very attractive woman in a stylish dress and heels. This had to be Sophie. She was walking up a narrow cobblestone street, carrying a straw bag in one hand. Her other hand held Fin's little hand. Her deep-red hair was swept up into an updo and she wore bold red lipstick. Almost every detail matched exactly the way Sonia looked now. She was smiling alluringly at the photographer. Fin was looking up at his mother with great affection. He had on a little pair of trousers and a tweed newsboy cap. He looked about four years old.

The next one was taken on a boat somewhere. A boy, about eighteen, was standing at the railing. He was tan and windblown. He looked like the privileged son of wealthy parents. I wondered how he fit into Fin's life. The last group of photos were candid, it seemed. They were pictures of Lucky and Sonia. In one they were walking along a beach, talking, looking solemn. There were a few of Sonia asleep in the backseat of a car and one of Lucky and Sonia asleep together in a bed—Lucky's arm was slung over Sonia's waist from behind. There was one of Lucky showering at the beach. And then several of Sonia walking, laughing, swimming, reading a book, surfing. Then there were a few of the boy from the boat photo: a couple of him asleep in bed, possibly taken the same night. Had Fin watched him sleep? A few others of the boy were taken through the window of a café where he's sipping coffee and looking lost in thought, or perhaps he was waiting for someone. It was clear to me that these photos weren't meant to be seen by anyone but Fin. I exhaled. I'd been holding my breath. The photos proved nothing but they offered me a glimpse of a dark side of Fin I'd started to suspect.

As I put the photos back I noticed a note folded up at the bottom of the box. I removed it and unfolded it quickly. My hands were shaking now. The note was written in French with a fountain pen. I refolded it and stuffed it into the pocket of my jeans.

I tried lamely to fix the lock but it was no use. The next time Fin opened this drawer he would know that someone had been in here.

I sat on the bed and looked around. I felt desperately alone. I kept finding myself in places that my rational mind had nothing to do with. The things that I was putting together about Fin were just too sensational to fit into my safe sleepy life here in False Bay. I was scared. I wanted more than anything to go back to the way things used to be but it was too late. Something kept pushing me on, or maybe it was
someone.
Maybe it was Lucky.

I walked home, uneasy about what I'd just done. I sat at the kitchen table, lost in thought, but then I took my laptop into Lucky's room. Rocket was still on a date with Fin. My mom was still out in her studio and my dad was at the farm. The house was quiet. There were bits of Rocket's fur on the quilt in the shape of a curled-up dog. No one bothered to shoo him off the bed anymore.

I sat down on the bed and typed “Yuri Sacula” into my browser again. Links to shows all over the world where Yuri had performed popped up. I clicked on them, one by one, and watched. Some of them were higher-quality videos from concert halls in Europe and some of them were grainy videos shot in smoky, crowded clubs. Everything about the way Fin moved, the way he smiled, the way he played guitar, it was all just like his dad. Between songs, Yuri would speak to the audience in French. He always had a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Holy shit. Fin was only ten when his parents died.

I pulled the note I'd taken from the wooden box out of my pocket. It was written in a very feminine hand. The heavy linen paper was creased and looked like it had been read over and over. I laid it next to me on the bed and typed it carefully, word by word, into a French/English translation site. When I was done, I clicked “translate” and read the note:

My sweet little sausage, I am sorry I wasn't there to pick you up from school today. Your father and I had to take the train to Lyon this afternoon. He is playing a concert and then we will catch the train home late tonight. I will kiss you while you sleep and you will see me in the morning when you open your eyes. Be a good boy for Kiki and she will give you a nice piece of honey cake for your dessert. Sweet dreams. I love you very much. Mommy.

I should never have taken the note. It obviously meant a lot to him. I had to get it back into that box somehow. I folded it up and tucked it into my pocket.

I curled up on my side, thinking about Abel and the life he'd already lived by the time he was ten years old. And the life he'd lived after that. What had it all led him to? What had he become? A charismatic adventurer who moved around a lot, charming people everywhere he went? Or was he a coldhearted seducer who was hiding something awful? The idea that the latter could be true had been bubbling around in my brain for some time now, but I finally let it move to the forefront of my thoughts. Had Fin murdered my brother so he could have his life?

I thought about the day my brother died as I gazed up at a famous surfer on a poster taped to the wall above Lucky's bed. A wall of water as big as a building was coming up behind him. The spray from the top of the wave was raining down on him. My eyes became heavy.

I guess I must have drifted off. When I woke up it was dark in the house. I sat up and called out “Mom? Dad?” I heard nothing. I put my feet down on the floor. Water rushed over them. There was water on the floor, at least an inch deep. It flowed in from the door. I jumped up and splashed through it in my bare feet. The house was empty. Where was everybody?

I ran outside. On the road in front of my house a black car had crashed into a big oak tree. It looked like the car had knocked over a fire hydrant before it smashed into the tree. The front of the car was crumpled up against the tree and a fountain of water was shooting straight up from the hydrant. The car was old. It was the kind you see in black-and-white gangster movies. On the passenger's side, a beautiful redheaded woman rested her head against the window. A tiny trickle of blood ran down her forehead. She looked like she was sleeping peacefully. There was a snowflake of shattered glass on the driver's side with blood in the center. The back door of the car slowly creaked open and a frightened dark-haired boy peered out.

“Little boy!” I called out to him. He looked at me and took off running. I ran after him.

“Little boy, please stop!”

A river of water gushed down the hill next to him as he ran. “Please stop. I want to help you!”

He kept running. My bare feet were scraped and raw from the pavement. He reached the bottom of the hill and turned right on the dark, deserted highway. There was no one around. I was starting to fall behind.

Finally, I called out, “Abel!” He stopped short and turned to look at me. He looked confused at how I knew his name.

I closed in on him. He darted off the highway and ducked into the underbrush on the side of the road. I followed. I could hear him rustling in the dense growth. I got closer. I could almost touch him.

“Please! I'm not going to hurt you!” I reached out for the sleeve of his blue shirt and held on. He turned around and spat “
Lâchez-moi
!
” He yanked his arm away and quickly fought his way through the tangled undergrowth until he was in a clearing. He kept running. I watched him until he disappeared.

“George,” I heard my dad's voice. “George, come eat.”

I slowly opened my eyes. I was still on Lucky's bed. I rolled over and looked at the floor. It was completely dry. I got up and walked down the hallway and out the back door. My dad watched me from the kitchen, puzzled. I followed the walkway out to the street. There was no car, no water. There wasn't even a fire hydrant. What was happening to me?

I heard Fin's truck rumbling up the hill as I stood there in the middle of the road. He pulled up next to me and rolled down his window. I couldn't look at him the same way anymore. I felt ashamed. My fingers touched the note in my pocket.

“You okay? You look a bit dazed.”

Rocket was in the passenger seat.

“I'm fine.”

“So, uh, I was just at my place and it looks like someone broke in. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?” He held my eyes with a look that made a chill run up the back of my neck.

I shook my head. “Can I have my dog?”

“Lucky's dog? Sure.” He leaned over and opened the passenger door. Rocket jumped to the ground and ran up the path to the house.

“Careful, George,” he said.

I watched him watching me in his rearview mirror as he drove away slowly.