Some Are Sicker Than Others (44 page)

“Mommy, who are you talking to?”

“Larry! Larry!”

“It’s alright sweetie. Everything’s okay. I’m just talking to your father.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, sweetie.”

“I wanna talk. I wanna talk. Gimme, gimme, gimme.”

“No sweetie, not now, it’s bedtime.”

“Gimme, gimme, gimme!”

Cheryl sighed and came back on the receiver, her voice trembling it was so full of rage. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Okay, then put him on.”

“Please, don’t say anything that will upset him.”

“I won’t. Jesus Cheryl, just put him on. Please.”

She sighed again, only this time longer, then finally surrendered and handed Larry the phone. “Hello? Daddy, is that you?”

“Yep, it’s me, buddy. It’s daddy.”

“Daddy!” The kid shrieked so loud that Dave had to pull the phone away from his ear. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

“Whoa, calm down, buddy. Not so loud. You’re gonna make me go deaf.”

“Daddy, where are you? What are you doing?”

“Didn’t mommy tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Dave snarled. That figured. She didn’t even tell him where his own father was. “Well,” he said looking around the foyer, trying to find the right words to describe this place, “I’m in a sort of a hospital.”

“A hospital?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow! What’s it like? Did they give you ice cream?”

“What?”

“Ice cream? Did you get ice cream?”

“No, buddy. No ice cream.”

“Aw, that stinks.”

“Yeah, it does. Listen,”—Dave took a deep breath and leaned forward, his hand on his forehead, his elbow on his knee—“I need to talk to you about something. It’s pretty important.”

“Okay.”

“Do you remember that night, before the volleyball game, when we went up to that place in the mountains?”

“The mountains?”

“Yeah, the mountains. Do you remember?”

“Hmm…” The kid paused for just a moment. Dave could sense the wheels beginning to turn in the kid’s head. “Um…no, not really.”

“You sure? Think real hard now. I think it was snowing and there might’ve been a lake or something around there.”

“Oh. You mean the chuckleboard place.”

“The what?”

“The chuckleboard place.”

Dave narrowed his eyes and looked out across the foyer, trying to figure out what the kid was trying to say. Shuffleboard? What was he talking about? He didn’t remember taking the kid to any shuffleboard place. Then, all of a sudden the images came back to him, like a freight train smashing into his brain—the long, narrow board that looked like a miniature runway with the triangular patterns at each end inscribed in the wood…and those little, flat discs that were shaped like hockey pucks that would float down the runway with the slightest, little push. Of course, that’s where they were, up in Nederland, at that bar near the reservoir, O’Reilley’s, right? He’d taken the kid up there to show him how to play shuffleboard. It was the only bar around Boulder that had one of those long sand tables. Oh Christ—how could he have forgotten? He was up there all day drinking and playing. He must’ve blacked out from all of the crack and whiskey shots.

He covered his mouth and leaned forward, lowering the phone against his knee. Oh Jesus. What did he do? What the fuck happened? What time did they drive back? What time did they get back home?

“Daddy? Are you still there?”

He looked down at the phone—it was talking to him, the kid’s voice a small, distant plea. He picked it up and shook off the images then pressed the receiver against his ear. “Uh…yeah I’m still here, buddy. I remember now. We were playing that game you like—that shuffleboard game.”

“Yeah, I love that game.”

“I know you do, buddy. Say, you wouldn’t happen to remember how long we were there, would ya?”

“Hmm…” The kid paused again and room fell dead silent, as Dave tried to choke back the nausea from his throat. “I’d say we were there for a pretty long time.”

“Was it dark when we left?”

“It sure was.”

“Oh okay, good, good. Now, do you remember if anything happened on the ride home?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know like maybe we a hit a tree or ran something over?”

“You mean bumper cars?”

“What?”

“Bumper cars. You said we were playing bumper cars.”

“I did?”

“Yeah. Don’t you remember?”

“No, buddy, I guess I forgot.” Dave laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh…who were we playing bumper cars with?”

“The pirate ship.”

“The pirate ship.”

“Yeah, the pirate ship. Don’t tell me you forget about the pirate ship too, daddy.”

“Yeah, I guess I did.” He chuckled again. What the hell was he talking about? What pirate ship? “Uh, what pirate ship are you talking about, buddy?”

“The one that sank in the water…”

Oh Jesus.

“…They were trying to steal our treasure so we rammed it with our cannons.”

No, no, no…this wasn’t happening…this wasn’t happening.

“…It sank really fast, and then you said that the British were coming so we had to get out of there quick or we’d be taken prisoner.”

Immediately, Dave began to feel a tightening sensation, like a giant-sized wrench clasping around his throat. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t speak, and the wrench kept getting tighter, and tighter and tighter until it felt like his head was gonna explode. The images began to flash in frenetic succession like some kind of violent electrical storm going off in his head—the crack, the bar, the shuffleboard, the shots of whiskey, the snow on the windshield, the bend in the road. He could see it all now so very clearly, like a dark veil had just been lifted from his face.

They were going down Canyon road when it all happened, back towards Boulder, back towards the house. It was pitch black out and the snow was bombarding the windshield like a million cotton balls materializing from the dark. Larry was in the passenger seat, playing with the cassette player, singing along loudly to that same god damn song. But on this particular night, Dave was in no mood for any kind of singing, especially with the snow on the highway, the crack in his bloodstream, and the ungodly shots of liquor sloshing around in his gut. He had to concentrate. He was trashed beyond recognition. He had one eye that was barely open and the other was so bloodshot it looked like it had been stung by a wasp. He screamed at Larry to turn down the volume, but when the kid didn’t do it, he reached over and punched out the tape. The only problem was…as he reached over to hit the eject button, the car slid across the centerline and ended up on the wrong side of the highway. When he looked back up, he saw a pair of headlights, like two giant flashlights shining into his face. He instinctively slammed down the brake pedal, but missed the brake and, instead, slammed on the gas. The Volkswagen shot out like a missile, colliding with the other car’s front right headlight. There was a swirl of lights and a blast of thunder, metal on metal, glass on asphalt. The other car spun across the highway, rolled over the guardrail, slid down the ravine, and disappeared into the dark. His Volkswagen ended up on the other side of the highway, one tire on the road, the other on the snow. Dave sat there for a moment trying to regain his composure, his fingernails dug deep into the steering wheel’s vinyl. He looked over at Larry—the little shit was enjoying it, laughing and nodding like he was at an amusement park. “Whoohoo!” he shouted, his hands raised above him. “Let’s do it again.”

“No,” Dave said, “let’s not.”

He pushed open the door, stepped out onto the shoulder, and looked over the hood out at the reservoir. The other car was out there, upside down, sinking in the water, its headlights pointed up like two spotlights signaling for a rescue. He snapped his head around and peered down both ends of the highway, but there was no one coming, they were completely alone. When he turned back around, the other car was gone, swallowed up by the water, its headlights growing dim as it sunk beneath the ice. He stood there for a moment, debating his options, feeling as the fear crept into his heart. He had to leave…there was no other option…if he didn’t leave now, they’d throw him in jail. He was probably more than ten times over the legal limit. He wouldn’t be able to walk a straight line to save his ass. Besides, maybe someone would come by and see there was an accident and stop and help and pull them from the car. Or maybe they got out on their own already. Maybe they were already out and swimming towards the shore. Oh no—what if they were already walking up the embankment? What if they already saw him and spotted his car? Oh Jesus, he had to leave. He had to get out of here. He couldn’t just wait around for them to call the cops. Panic set in like the jaws of a Rottweiler clamping down on the soft flesh of his arm. He spun around quickly and ducked into the Volkswagen, nearly crushing his bad leg as he slammed the door of the car. Larry asked him what was happening and he told him to just shut up, sit there, and be quiet, then gave him some line about pirates and bumper cars. Then, he checked his mirror and turned over the ignition, shifted into gear and sped off down the road.

He left them. He left them out there to die like road kill, trapped under the ice of the Barker reservoir. But why? Why didn’t he try to help them? Why did he just leave them out there to die? He could’ve called someone. He could’ve gone in after them. What kind of fucking coward was he? A girl died and he killed her. He ran them off the road and left them there to drown.

An intense heat began to rise inside Dave’s stomach, all knotted and twisted like a lump of smoldering coal. He looked down at his hand clutching the receiver—it was red, the blood swelling through his fingers, white on the knuckles, but red everywhere else. He went to hang it up, but it slipped from his fingers, bounced against the floor, and spun around like a top. As he tried to stand up, he fell back against the sofa, like a drunk trying to get up from an icy pond. He looked around the foyer—everything was spinning, like he was on a merry-go-round at the park. The walls were moving, the floor was spinning, and everything inside him was pushing up against his gut. He couldn’t do this. He had to get out of here. He had to leave. He had to run. But where? Where could he go? If he left now, they’d throw him back in prison…they’d lock him up with those animals and throw away the key. But maybe that’s what he deserved. Maybe that was his sentence. Maybe that was his fate. No. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He’d rather be dead than have to go back to that place.

He took a deep breath and pressed his palms into the cushions, then straightened his back and straightened his legs. He got up from the sofa and walked out across the foyer, holding his stomach like he was nursing a knife wound.

When he got outside, he surveyed the patio, then zipped up his jacket and pulled on his hood. Everyone was outside, still sitting at those green picnic tables, laughing, smoking, and playing their silly board game. He kept his head down and tried not to make eye contact, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ground. Where was he going? What was he doing? He didn’t know—all he knew was that he had to get away. He had to go some place where no one could follow him, some place quiet where he could just think and be alone.

He staggered across the yard and down the icy pathway, around the side of the house and towards the back gate. He grabbed the handle and pulled the gate open, but just as he did, he heard someone shouting his name. He looked over his shoulder. Oh fuck, it was Angie, yelling and waving at the top of her lungs. “Dave! Wait up! Wait for me!”

Angie caught up with him at the outer edge of the driveway and pulled him to a halt in front of the porch. She was out of breath and panting, snot bubbles like winter green bubble gum respiring from her nose. “Dave,” she said, her hands on her knees, trying desperately to catch her breath. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

“Angie, I am not in the mood right now. Please, just leave me alone.”

“What? What do you mean you’re not in the mood?”

“I mean, I can’t deal with this right now, okay? I need to be alone. Please, just leave me alone.”

Dave shrugged her off and went to march forward, but Angie reached out and grabbed the back of his hood. “Wait a minute Dave. What about Sarah? What about Larry? What about our plans to become a family and move away?”

Dave stopped and tilted his head backward, his breath spiraling up towards the full, yellow moon. He had to do something. He couldn’t allow this to continue. He had to put a stop to this delusion before it got out of control. He took a deep breath then turned around to face her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked her dead in the eyes. “Angie,” he said, as calmly as he could muster, “I need you to listen to me very carefully, okay?”

“What is it baby? What’s the matter?”

Dave his clenched his teeth. “Don’t call me that,” he said. “I am not your baby. I will never be your baby. I will never be your anything. Do you understand me?”

“What?” Angie looked at him in utter confusion, her forehead wrinkled like a wet, polyester shirt. “Dave, what is the matter with you? Why are you acting like this?”

She reached out and tried to touch him, but Dave quickly swatted her hand away. “Don’t do that.”

“Ouch!” Angie pulled away in astonishment, holding her hand like she was holding a pet bird. “That hurt. Why’d you do that? What the hell has gotten into you?”

“Angie, I don’t know where you got this crazy idea about me and Larry and your daughter all going off to live together. I mean, maybe it’s my fault, maybe I put you onto it, but it’s not real. Okay? It’s just a delusion. It’s some crazy, half-cocked fantasy that you got cooked up in your little head.”

“Dave, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying, we are not a family, Angie. We never were and we never will be. Do you understand me?”

Angie just stood there completely frozen, like someone who’d just fallen into catatonic shock. Her chin was dropped open like a Christmas Nutcracker and her eyes were as black and glassy as a doll’s.

“Look Angie,” Dave said, stepping forward, touching his hand against her cheek. “I lied to you. I was the one who put your daughter in danger—not Cheryl, not the cops. It was me. I’m responsible. I was driving that bus under the influence. I was smoking crack and drinking all day.”