Twisted (8 page)

21

Something very peculiar is happening, but I haven’t a clue what.

I do, however, know one thing. I’ve got a bad case of the creeps, and it’s drilling deeper under my skin.

What was Donny Ray doing by that window?

Then there was my pen.

Which seemed to move from one place to the next completely independent of my will or awareness. I have no memory of removing the thing from my pocket or even dropping it. Much more unsettling is that it ended up in a violent patient’s hands and could have been used as a shank—an error with repercussions I don’t even want to consider. His reminding me of it only added to all the strangeness.

I reach my floor and see Adam stepping out of his office. He takes one look at my dazed expression and says, “Whoa. What happened to you?”

“There’s a problem in Alpha Twelve,” I say, winded and trying to slow my spinning thoughts.

Adam throws me a look of confusion.

I give him one back.

He says, “I was actually asking about your forehead.”

“Oh, that.” I glance up and down the hallway. “I kind of had a car accident last night.”

“
Kind o
f
?
Looks like you did one hell of a job at it. Why don’t you come in and let me have a look?”

I’m in no condition for this right now, but he isn’t leaving me much choice, so I follow him inside his office. He points me to the visitor’s chair.

I lower myself to sit, then explain about the accident. But not about the vanishing rain, and definitely not about the boy and his ball. I trust Adam but don’t want to alarm him, let alone create awkwardness by making him doubt my mental stability. I’m still convinced my audiovisual distortions were brought on by stress, then exacerbated by the two knocks to my head.

He narrows in on the cut above my brow. “You worried about it?”

“A little. I can’t seem to shake this headache.”

“You could have a concussion.” He reaches into a pocket for his penlight, clicks it on, and says, “Look straight ahead.”

He checks my pupils, then administers a few coordination and balance tests.

“You seem okay,” he says after finishing. “If there’s a concussion, it’s probably minor and should resolve itself. I don’t see any cause for concern.”

“Great, and thanks.” I gently run a finger over the wound. “Jenna’s been worried.”

Adam is staring at me again. He nods toward the top of my head. “Trying something new there, sport?”

“Huh?”

“The ’do.”

I look away from him, scrub a hand through my hair. “It’s no big deal. I just moved the part.”

When I turn back, Adam is now giving me another look—it involves one cocked brow and one emerging smirk. I give him a look back, but mine’s not so jovial.

He takes the hint, raises his hands in surrender, and makes a negligible attempt at taming his smirk. “So what’s this about Alpha Twelve?”

“Something very strange was going on.”

“Strange is kind of how they roll down there, right?”

“But it was uncharacteristically so. I walked onto the floor and everything was eerily quiet. Not a peep from any of the patients—they were all so subdued, then Nicholas Hartley whispered to me.”

“Nicholas who?”

“The guy we saw that first day. You remember.”

“I was too busy watching Jeremy for signs of life. Anyway, what did he say?”

“Something about ‘that sleep of death’?”

Adam shakes his head, confused.

“Strange, don’t you think?”

“If you ask me, it sounds like just another day at Loveland.”

“But he also said my first name.”

Adam shrugs. “He could have heard Jeremy say it, right?”

“And none of the patients would so much as look at me. They were in some sort of weird and altered state. I’ve been on that floor more times than I can count, and I’ve never seen them so subdued.”

“But you’re not there all the time, right?”

“Well, no . . .”

“Besides, since when is it a problem if the patients are quiet instead of unruly?” Adam’s smile is amused, and now I feel silly for even bringing it up.

The conversation stalls. Then he says, “Did you see Donny Ray while you were down there?”

“I did,” is all I offer.

“And? Anything new with him?”

“Just his entire attitude.”

“Really . . .” He straightens his posture. “Like, how?”

“Like he seemed a lot more comfortable than the first time we saw him.”

Adam crosses his arms over his chest, leans back in his chair. “Couldn’t keep the scared puppy routine going for very long?”

“Maybe.”

“Can’t say it completely surprises me.”

“I’d imagine not. It sounds like you’re pretty close to a decision about him, anyway.”

“Actually, I’ve already reached one. I’m just finishing up my eval.”

“Already?”

“Well, yeah. It’s kind of a no-brainer from my end. I’ve gone through all the tests and Ammon’s notes, and I’ve concluded my physical exam of Donny Ray, which answered any remaining questions.”

I look at his computer screen, then back at him. “So, you’re going to say he’s malingering.”

Adam laughs. “You look more surprised than you should there, buddy. What’s up?”

“No . . . nothing, really. Just seems like you turned it around pretty fast.”

“With only five days left ’til deadline, time is a luxury, partner.” He taps his watch. “You saw Jeremy cracking the whip.”

“I figured maybe you would have consulted with me, first.”

Adam gapes at me.

“Sorry . . .” I try waving off my concern. “Guess I’m just feeling pressured because you got done so fast.”

But to be honest, because of all the mixed messages Donny Ray has been sending, I feel even further away from the truth than before.

And I’m still slightly irritated by how Adam just minimized what I saw in Alpha Twelve.

He squares his focus on me. He knows me all too well, can easily detect when something is bubbling inside.

“Chris,” he says with a sidelong look. “Is there anything else going on that you’re not telling me?”

“No, why?”

“You seem—I don’t know—a bit high-strung?”

“I had a car accident last night,” I remind him.

“Right . . . right. Of course,” he says with a smile, but the slightest trace of hesitancy strains it.

He knows.

Knows what?

“Oh, jeez.” I check my watch, but the action feels a little too abrupt and perfunctory. “Didn’t realize how long I’ve been here. Better get busy on that evaluation.”

I don’t wait for Adam’s reaction as I head for the door. But after turning back to smile my good-bye, I catch the fretful look on his face.

22

I was wrong.

The tree looks worse at night, and drawing closer, I could swear the big ugly thing is staring at me, its gnarled roots bulging from the ground like giant arteries full of poison, waiting to wrap themselves around me.

Devour me.

As my car’s headlights hit the trunk and our shadows cross, a brittle sensation claws through my intestines. At first, I’m unable to name it, but as the road curves away, and the unsavory and magnetic draw diminishes, my emotions take shape.

I feel anger.

Anger so gritty, so carnal, that I can taste the rancidness on my tongue. Anger that grabs hold and shakes me, anger that refuses to let go; and in that instant, I come to an agreement with myself.

I hate that Evil Tree.

Hate it more than I’ve ever hated anything before. A new brand of hate, caustic, corrosive as battery acid. Hate running deeper than those roots could ever reach, farther than those branches could ever stretch.

I know the feeling is mutual, that we share an understanding, this tree and I.

We are mordant and dangerous enemies.

And that once this battle is through, only one of us will be left standing.

23

Before entering the house, I strike a deal with myself to leave today’s stress at the door. Home is my safe harbor, my distant shore, and I won’t let what happened at Loveland rob me of that. I’ve worked too hard at drawing the line. I’m not going to stop now.

Jenna catches sight of me, and her expression falls. I get a little wobbly and wonder whether my attempt to appear calm is perhaps too transparent. Then I’m relieved to see she’s actually looking at my forehead.

I tell myself to settle, that everything’s fine, that allowing her to see me flustered will only bring on more worry about the accident.

I kiss her on the cheek. “Looks better, right?”

She pulls back to inspect the wound. “Still not great, but yeah, better. A little time is what it needs.”

“Not sure the guy playing bongos on my head got the memo.”

“Oh, dear. Did you have Adam take a look?”

I open the fridge, reach for a soda. “He said everything’s fine.”

When I turn back, Jenna’s expression softens with observable relief. She smiles, but then the corners of her mouth sink appreciably.

“Something wrong?” I ask, unsteadiness making an unwelcome return visit.

“What did you do with your hair?”

Oh, God. Not this again.

I break from her gaze, move to the counter, then mindlessly thumb through a stack of mail. “I just changed the part.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know. Trying something different, I guess?” I glance back at her. “Why? Don’t you like it?”

Her shrug is tentative.

This morning, my style adjustment seemed reasonable, but now, in retrospect, it feels sort of silly.

“No Corvette next,” I say, trying to create diversion through humor, “I promise.”

My joke falls flat. Jenna’s smile seems obligatory.

“Gosh,” I say, then head quickly into the dining room, “I’m really hungry.”

I make it to the dinner table without further conflict, helped in part by my son, who’s stirring up trouble of his own.

The food skirmish continues.

At the moment, he’s practicing his spatial reasoning skills, carefully manipulating the items on his plate to create an illusion of emptiness. His least favorite, the peas—but typically any vegetable—are exiled to the outer rim of his plate, circling it like a pretty wreath. His second least favorite, the rice—but as a rule, any starch, except for spaghetti or macaroni and cheese—has been expertly spread out and distributed with near-perfect symmetrical balance.

“I can still see the peas, sweetheart,” Jenna says with a patient smile.

“Peas suck!” my son shouts.

Jenna frowns, and I’ve got to cut off any argument at the pass. With a stern look as my warning, I say,
“
Devon, there are better and nicer ways to state your likes and dislikes. Mom works hard to prepare dinner for us each day, and it hurts her feelings when you say things like that.”

“Sorry,” he mutters. Not the most earnest apology but hopefully enough to facilitate peace.

Jenna still looks mildly irritated. I offer her a warm smile of diplomacy:
He’s just a kid.

She rolls her eyes:
Boy, do I know.

Our smiles broaden. Mission accomplished.

Until less than four minutes later when, with his plate still full of food, Devon gleefully announces, “Okay. I’m done now.”

“No,” Jenna says, “you are not
.
”

“But Moooom!”

I’m about to step in again when a wave of pain chisels through my head, so severe that it makes my teeth chatter. I close my lids and try with everything I’ve got to endure the agony.

Jenna and Devon are still debating, but I can’t hear any of it. I’m too busy trying to ride out this bone-crushing agony. A few deep breaths later it eases, allowing me back into the moment. Devon offers Jenna his signature scowl, then gives the plate his signature grimace. He goes back to rearranging—but not eating—the food. Jenna scolds. He whines. The collective tone grows more heated by the second. With evident frustration, my son finally makes a token attempt, forcing himself to eat a single pea, while holding his nose and squinting at the offending vegetable.

“I ate it,” he says.

“Not one pea. All of them.”

“Mom!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

My wildly inappropriate profanity leaves me thunderstruck. I heard it but have no idea where it came from. I look at Devon, his eyes wide and brimming with tears.

“Chris!”

I swing my head toward Jenna. Before I can respond, a blinding flash of white light goes off, followed by the sound of shattering glass, which scares the bejesus out of me. As the light fades, my wife reappears, but her expression has changed. Though she apparently didn’t see the light, she clearly observed my reaction to it, and her face now mirrors my confusion.

“I’m so sorry,” I offer, voice sheepish, mind reeling further into disorder and uncertainty.

The lines on Jenna’s face deepen. Devon is stunned into silence, staring at me with unfamiliar—and heartbreaking—fear.

I’m just as appalled by my behavior. No, I’m horrified, because the words shot out so fast that my conscious mind never had a chance to see them coming. It felt like somebody else was talking. Now, in addition to the shock, I’m frightened.

I look at Jenna.

I’m also in deep trouble.

“Wow,” she calmly says to Devon but keeps her eyes pinned onto mine. “Daddy’s very upset right now. Everything’s going to be okay. Why don’t we set you up with a movie so that he and I can talk about it?”

My son makes tracks toward the staircase, but, to my surprise, Jake stays behind. Much like last night, he’s lying on the floor, head resting on paws, same desolate look painted across his face.

Staring at me.

And I’m even more confused, but lately that seems to be the flavor of the day. Jake follows Devon everywhere but now seems to be detaching from him, and I don’t understand why.

“What the hell was that all about?”

Jenna’s voice jars me from bafflement, and all I can manage is, “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you
don’t know
?”

“It means what I said.”

“That’s not acceptable,” she replies, the heat of her glare nearly scorching the hairs on my arms. “We had an agreement, Chris.”

“I know.”

“That we would never speak that way in front of our son, especially directly
to
him, and especially not
that
word.”

My own anger unexpectedly flashes red. “You don’t have to recite the rules to me! I’m not a child. I didn’t forget!”

“Well, apparently, you—”

“I slipped, okay?” I slam my fist on the table with such force that silverware rattles and dishes clank. Jenna falls silent, and I know in an instant, without a shade of doubt, that I’ve managed to turn this mess into a disaster. And the worst part is that, with all the rapid-fire distractions going through my mind, I can’t remember how it all began. I start to apologize again, but before I can finish, Jenna gets up and leaves the room.

And here I sit, off-balance, bewildered, but most of all, deeply troubled.

Seconds later, I’m climbing the stairs. Though I don’t understand what just happened, I can’t leave my son feeling lost in it.

When I reach Devon’s room, he’s in bed and watching his movie. He looks up at me, but before I can speak, my face goes bloodless and my stomach shrinks into a rock-hard knot.

Sloppily scrawled across my son’s blanket is one word.

MUD.

Written in mud.