Some Are Sicker Than Others (43 page)

The kid didn’t respond and just lay underneath the covers, his shoulders rising and falling with each shallow breath.

“You know,” Dave said, contemplating his knuckles, looking down at his dry, cold-cracked skin. “Sometimes it’s good to talk about stuff…get whatever you got bottled up inside there off your chest. I know I felt a whole lot better when I told you all of my shit—about Larry and Cheryl, Angie and Sarah, the cops, the bus, the pod, the crack.” Dave shook his head in disgust. “Actually, I’m probably not gonna be getting out of here as soon as I expected. In fact, I might be stuck here for the three whole fucking months. Remember that chick’s daughter I was telling you about, Sarah? Well, for whatever reason, she’s not gonna help me out. I don’t know if my wife got to her or if she’s just being skittish. Either way, it looks like I’m stuck here for a few more months. You should feel lucky, kid. Whatever shit you’re going through, it can’t be half as bad as the shit I’m dealing with.”

“You think I’m lucky?” Monty said from underneath the covers.

Dave was caught off guard. He didn’t think the kid was actually listening. He turned away and shook his head. “Well no, I didn’t mean that…I mean, I know you got problems, but, shit, so do I. Hell, I mean, look at me. I’m fucked. I’m probably never gonna get out of here. I bet I’ll be stuck here as long as you, maybe even longer. But I guess that’s why we gotta stick together, you know? Because, honestly, I don’t think I can get through three months of this shit on my own. You know what I mean?”

For a moment there was nothing but an awful silence, a silence so thick it seemed to throb inside Dave’s brain.

After a few seconds, the kid sat up and pulled off the covers. His face was as pale and lifeless as a mannequin. “You got problems, Dave? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Well yeah. I mean, I’m in here, aren’t I?”

The kid nodded and looked towards the windows, a pained expression on his bruised and bloodied face. His eyes were glazed over with a cold, simmering anger, but also weighted down with a much deeper pain. It looked like he wanted to say something, but was afraid to say it, like the words were flies buzzing inside his mouth.

“What is it?” Dave said, sitting perfectly rigid, afraid that any movement at all would scare the kid off. “You look like you got something you wanna say. It’s alright, you can tell me. Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ll understand.”

“I doubt it.”

“Try me.”

The kid turned away and looked over towards the windows. The lines from the blinds threw shadows on his face.

“Come on Monty, what is it? You can tell me.”

“I killed her,” Monty said in a flat, low whisper, the flies finally spitting out from his mouth.

It took a few seconds for the words to register. Dave waited for Monty to say a little bit more. But when the kid didn’t say anything, Dave edged closer to him on the mattress, his eyes wide open, his feet tapping nervously on the floor. “What? What are you talking about? Who? Who’d you kill?”

“Vicky. My fiancé.”

“What?”

“I watched her drown as the water poured in through the windows. I listened to her scream as she died in my arms.” Monty took a deep breath and slumped forward, burying his head into his arms. “It happened on the night of my one year sober anniversary. We were on our way up to the mountains for some time alone. I had just proposed to her at our Sunday night speaker meeting and I wanted to do something special, you know, like a romantic, little honeymoon.” The kid smiled weakly for only a brief second, then turned and buried his head back into his arms. “We were driving just north of Boulder when it all happened, up around that big reservoir near Nederland. You know where that is?”

Dave nodded. He knew exactly the spot where the kid was talking about. He’d driven up and down that road at least a million times. Most of the time to get away from Cheryl and her constant bickering, to just drive and think and smoke in his car.

The kid continued, his voice barely audible, like something had been stolen from inside his lungs: “I swear to God, I thought I saw headlights, but maybe it was nothing, you know, maybe it was just something I saw. It all happened so fucking sudden. One minute she was smiling, holding my hand, looking out the window…the next minute she was screaming, the blood from her head all over the car. I tried to get her out, but I just couldn’t pull hard enough, the dashboard was too twisted and I just wasn’t strong enough. I lost her,” he said, looking upward, the tears from his eyes dripping onto the sheets. “I watched her take her last breath of oxygen. I watched her die. I watched her drown.”

A cold, dense chill descended into Dave’s body, like a dead, petrified hand reaching into his soul. He sat there frozen, his legs glued to the mattress, unable to blink, unable to move. Something wasn’t right…something was missing…something about the kid’s story seemed to be off. Nederland…the canyon…the frozen reservoir…something about it all seemed to be horribly wrong. Wasn’t that the same spot he’d dreamt about in his nightmares? The spot where he fell out of the car and lost his legs in the water? It was, wasn’t it? But it wasn’t real…it was just a nightmare…a horrible, terrible, God-awful dream.

Then, all of a sudden, the nightmare came back to him, like the pieces of a puzzle assembling in his brain—Larry’s chubby face, blown up like a blowfish, his lips moving along to that same god damn song—
Magic Bus
, the kid’s absolute favorite, a song he played on the way to every god damn volleyball game. The lyrics were like a scalpel scraping the inside of Dave’s eardrums, the same horrible words repeating over and over and over again:
Too much, the Magic Bus…Too much, the Magic Bus…Too much, the Magic Bus
.

He slumped forward and stuck his head in between his kneecaps, sucking for breath like he was sucking his own dick. He felt cold and vacant, like something had been taken out of him, like all the air had been sucked from his chest. As he looked up at the wall, his mind flashed to images of the blue Volkswagen and big gouge of metal just above the right headlamp. But when was that? When did that happen? Wasn’t that the night before he got arrested on the bus? He stood up from the bed and looked down at Monty, the lyrics of that damn song still ringing in his head:
Too much, the Magic Bus…Too much, the Magic Bus…Too much, the Magic Bus
.

“Are you okay?” Monty said, looking at him quizzically, the tears from his eyes still dripping onto the bed.

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine, I’m just”—Dave looked around the room. It seemed to be getting smaller, the walls of the bedroom closing in on his head. His hands shook and his bad leg was throbbing, as if someone had just taken a hacksaw to his knee.

“What?” Monty said. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing, I was just”—His lips were dry, his tongue was twisted, and everything inside was being tied in one big knot—“I was just wondering when the accident happened.”

“Oh.” Monty looked away and back at the pillow, rubbing his eyes and rubbing his nose. “It was about, three weeks ago, on Sunday.”

Jesus…the volleyball game was on Monday…that meant the car must’ve been wrecked the night before…Sunday…the night of the kid’s accident…the night he was watching Larry…the night he was supposed to be in charge.

He turned away from the bed and took a step backward, across the room, towards the door. His hands were shaking, his legs were shaking, and he felt like his fucking heart was about to explode. He extended his hand and grabbed the doorknob, but just as he opened it, Monty stopped him and said, “Hey, Dave?”

Dave did an about-face, his hands pressed up behind him, like a prisoner about to face the execution squad. “Uh…yeah, kid?”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For listening.”

Dave’s heart split into two pieces, like a log on a stump being split by an axe. His hands became clammy and his stomach turned to liquid and all the blood from his brain seemed to drain down to his toes. Jesus Christ, he couldn’t fucking do this. He had to get out of here. He had to find what the fuck was really going on. He swallowed his spit and pushed the sickness downward—down his throat and back into his gut. Then, he lifted his head and nodded at Monty and forced a smile and said, “You’re welcome, kid.”

Chapter 31

The Call Home

DAVE cursed to himself as he stomped down the steps of the detox trailer, through the side yard, and around to the back gate. His heart was pounding, his skin was crawling, and his stomach felt like it was about to jump out of his fucking throat. But he had to hold it together…he couldn’t afford to lose it…not here, not now, not in front of all these people. This wasn’t real…it was just a coincidence…a stilly, stupid delusion he’d dreamt up in his head. There was no way in hell he could’ve been the one responsible. No way in hell he could’ve been the one who caused that girl’s death. Christ, he would’ve remembered something like that, wouldn’t he? Hitting a car, running ‘em off the road into a fucking reservoir? Jesus Christ. He’d sure as hell better remember something like that. That kind of shit doesn’t just happen every day. Well then where in God’s name was he? Why the fuck couldn’t he remember where he was that night? Come on, Dave, think, think, think. He had to be somewhere. But where? Was he at the store getting groceries? No. Was he at the park walking the dog? Hell no. Well what about the high school? Did they have practice that night in the gymnasium? No, of course not. Not on a Sunday. Not on the night before a god damn match. Then where? Where in God’s name was he? And why the fuck couldn’t he remember anything?

“God damnit!”

When he got to the patio, he went right for the payphones. But wait. There were a bunch of patients swarming around them, playing their stupid, god damn board game. He couldn’t talk there. Everyone would hear him. Everyone and their mother would be able to hear every single word he’d say. Well then where else could he go? Were there any other payphones? How could he find out what was going on if he couldn’t talk to Larry?

He swung his head around looking for anything that resembled a payphone, but quickly came to the realization that there weren’t gonna be anymore out here. The only other one was inside in the front room foyer next to all the counselors’ offices by the main staircase. But he wasn’t allowed up there in the front foyer, was he? No, only the counselors were allowed in that room. Fuck it. This was a god damn emergency. If anyone gave him shit about it he’d tell ‘em to just fuck off.

He took a deep breath and grabbed hold of the patio door handles, then slid them open and stepped into the meeting hall. He turned towards the kitchen and made his way up the staircase past the bathrooms and into the hall. When he got to the front foyer, he stopped and peeked his head over the saloon-swinging doorway, making sure no counselors were there to give him any shit. There weren’t. Thank God. He pushed open the doors and staggered into the foyer, his eyes darting around looking for the phone. He saw it. It was sitting beside the couch on a glass coffee table underneath the shadow of an unlit lamp. He went to it quickly, planted himself on the sofa, picked up the receiver, and held it to his ear. As he punched in the numbers, he began to feel a sharp tingling, the pain from his leg piercing into his sciatic nerve.

The phone began ringing, but no one answered it. It rang once, twice, three times, four. Then, the machine picked up. “Shit!” He slammed it down into the cradle, then picked it up and dialed again. “Come on Cheryl…pick up the phone…pick up, pick up, pick up.”

This time she picked up almost immediately. “Hello?”

“Hello? Cheryl?”

There was a slight pause then she recognized who it was: “Dave? Dave is that you?”

“Yeah Cheryl, it’s me.”

“Dave? What—what are you doing? Why are you calling here? Is something the matter? Are you okay?”

“No, Cheryl. I’m not okay. I’m pretty far from okay.”

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

“Look Cheryl, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Okay? Are you listening?”

“Yes, Dave, I’m here, I’m listening. What is it? What’s going on?”

“I need you to go get Larry.”

“What?”

“I need you to get him and put him on the phone. Can you do that for me? Can you go get Larry?”

“No Dave. Absolutely not.”

“Cheryl.”

“I’m not going to go get Larry. He’s asleep for Christ’s sake.”

“Well then wake him up. This is important God damnit.”

“No, I will not wake him up. He doesn’t want to talk to you. He’s afraid of you. He’s afraid of his own dad.”

“Don’t say that, Cheryl. Please don’t say that.”

“Do you even realize what you’re doing to him? Do you realize the hell you’re putting him through? He had to sit there and watch as his own father got arrested in front of a busload of high school girls. Do you know how humiliating that was for him? Do you realize the irreversible damage that did?”

“I know, Cheryl, I’m sorry—”

“Bullshit. You do not know. You don’t know a god damn thing. All you care about is your own self-centered ego…your own pride…your own vanity. Do you know what it’s like for me to have to walk around in public after your picture’s been posted all across the front page? And what about your daughters? Huh? Do you know what it’s like for them to have to walk back into their middle school when everyone knows that their father is a god damn crack head?”

“Cheryl, please, I don’t wanna do this with you right now. I just wanna talk to Larry.”

“Well, you’re not going to talk to him, Dave. You shouldn’t even be calling here. Your counselors said you weren’t supposed to use the phone for an entire week.”

All of a sudden, Dave could hear someone’s voice in the background, a sleepy whimper on the other end of the phone. “Mommy? What’s going on? Why are you yelling?”

“Oh great,” Cheryl said. “Now look what you’ve done.”

“Who is that? Is that Larry?”

“Do you realize how long it took me to get him to bed?”

“Larry, is that you? Larry! Larry!”