Uncanny Day (7 page)

Was it smart to avoid Rick and Tracy like this? Would I be able to convince Dean, or would he turn me in again? More and more questions attacked my mind as the wind picked up.

Then I heard a noise, a sharp thwack from below my perch. It came again and again and then finally a crack. I knew exactly what it was. Dean was blowing off some steam, just as I knew he would be.

The weather was perfect for it, and Dean used the time to gather his thoughts. It was a sort of solitude for him, chopping wood out in back of the house, a labor by choice to focus on something other than the moment at hand.

I took a quick step over to the porch roof and stopped. From there I could see the silver edge of the business end of the axe aimed up and then disappear from sight. The sound that followed was a quick thud that would make trees scream.

Moving across the porch roof quickly but quietly, I drew closer. I could hear Dean breathing. He wasn't mumbling to himself or cussing up a storm, like I had been ready to do. He was calm and simply letting the breath flow out of him with every overhead swing.

I let my feet dangle from the edge of the awning. Dean was positioned with his back to me, his work illuminated by a few floodlights that shone from the side of the house. Thick steam came off the top of his head in the growing darkness of night.

I watched Dean work. It made me regret my words to him. Here I was, ready to run away from my problems, and here was Dean. Doing what? Chopping wood outside. I'm not saying I wanted to start laying bricks or anything, but this guy wasn't feeling sorry for himself or stewing about the situation. He was coping with it in his own way. I was sure that in maybe ten minutes he'd quit, and, like he always did, try to talk things out with me. The least I could do this time was start the conversation.

I waited for Dean to relax and not be mid-chop when I called out to him. No sense in startling him and making an emergency room visit, although the thought did play over in my mind. I still couldn't believe he had blurted out and told his parents about my nosebleeds. I could feel my body start to tense up. Taking a deep breath, I let it go.

“You know, if you ever quit baseball, I'm sure lumberjacking is in your future.”

Dean did jump at the sound of my voice. See? Body parts would've been flying.

“Holy crap, dude. I'm chopping wood, for goodness' sake.”

“I know. I waited.”

Dean shook his head and leaned the axe against a fresh pile of stacked wood. His breathing was heavy, and his words puffed out like a chimney. “What are you doing up there?”

I shoved myself off the roof and hit the ground. The landing rattled my teeth.
Note to self: don't do that again
. I stood slowly and answered, “Nothing.”

“Sure, right.” Dean gave me an eye of interest, a sort of I-know-what-you're-up-to angled look.

“You're looking to take off again?” Dean asked. I realized he knew me pretty well.

“I'm not,” I said, kicking a piece of wood through the grass. Dean nodded, just like his dad would.

“Listen, man, I was in the wrong back there. My bad. I just… I just want to be sure you're making the right decisions.” I didn't say anything. He went on. “First of all, I want you to know I don't fully agree with you reconnecting with your dad.” He looked up at me now, his clear blue eyes cutting through the night to mine. He broke the gaze.

“After what he did to you…” Dean's words trailed off. Then he captured another thought. “But I do think you should see somebody about those nosebleeds.”

I nodded. Dean was right. I had no clue what was going on with the blood. I guess I could admit I was a bit scared to find out.

Dean walked over to me and took a seat on the porch steps. He grabbed a water bottle and chugged down a few swallows then spit into the grass beside him.

“We had this foster kid staying with us once. Maybe it was a few years back. I think I was in seventh grade.”

I sat down next to Dean and listened.

“This guy was a little more messed up than you. Bad home, background, all that junk.”

I shot him a look. “Oh, what? He could summon demons from hell or something?”

We both laughed.

“No, he just had a bad attitude toward everything. He made rash decisions and got into trouble—a lot. You'd think with your foster dad being a cop, you'd try to stay out of trouble.” Dean was looking off into the night sky now, letting memory fuel his words. “Anyway, one day this kid and I got into it over a pack of cigarettes. It got physical, and we started wrestling each other. And when I say wrestling, we weren't faking the stuff. We'd gotten so pissed off at each other that we started throwing stuff, just whatever we could grab. We'd forgotten about the lit cigarette.” Dean's expression turned serious, and his eyes glossed with tears.

“Man, I don't know how it happened.” Dean wiped his forearm across his face. “Somehow a fire broke out. Everything went up so fast. I tried to contain it. See here.” Rolling up his right sleeve, he bared his shoulder. A wicked melted scar ran over his skin.

“It got me before I could get out.” He rolled his sleeve back as more steamy breaths came in and out of his mouth. “You would never believe how fast that house took to the flames, the whole place just gone in a matter of minutes…everything.” Dean's voice wavered and trailed off.

Holding back tears now, Dean took another drink of water. I let him hang for a few seconds, considering that retelling the story was hard enough.

“What about the other kid? Did he make it out?” I asked.

Dean nodded.

“Yeah, they pulled him from our house. He was charged with causing the fire and was in juvie for a few months.”

“Wow, that's intense,” I said, my thoughts replaying my own actions. They were selfish and rash. All the Mitchells wanted to do was help me out—maybe Dean most of all.

Dean brought the conversation back around to the present. “I'm not saying you have to explain everything to them.” He looked at me again. “Who knows what's going on up there?” He tapped the side of his head and returned his eyes to the ground. “There could be a tumor or something else crazy growing like a weed and you'd never even know it,” he said.

Goose bumps rose on my forearms, not because it was cold but because the thought had never occurred to me. A tumor. My thoughts flashed to Stephanie.

“Stephanie Daniels is alive,” I blurted out.

Dean whipped his head to me, mouth open. “Whoa. Is she okay?”

“She's in a coma,” I replied.

Dean ran his hands through his hair. “That's major. How did you find out?”

I broke our eye contact and answered, “Kate Huddy told me.”

The name went on like a lightbulb in Dean's mind. He knew what I was going to ask next and spoke. “Look, man. I didn't tell her anything, and for the record, I barely even talk to her in general. Maybe some school stuff for the paper, but that's it. I don't think she likes me very much.”

I put my finger up to cue my next words. “Specify what you didn't tell her.”

Dean shrugged his shoulders. “Dude, come on—you know me. We're brothers. I didn't tell her
that
!”

I sighed in relief. How could I have read so much into what I had seen in Kate's notebook? I was becoming more paranoid lately and needed to lighten up. “Good. Because she and I are going to the dance together.”

Dean threw his head back and let out a laugh that alarmed a few neighborhood dogs. Then he held up his hand. I slapped it.

“We've got to tell Mom and Dad all this!” Dean said.

The words were said so naturally, just as if they were true. We both knew better. I saved the awkward moment and hefted out a laugh. We both rose to our feet.

“First, I need your help.”

Chapter Seventeen

I WAS HIT IN the face with the sterile smell of white, if that's even possible, as Dean and I entered the Murray Regional Hospital. The place was pretty nice, and I was sure the pins-and-needles feeling was just nerves.
This is going to be just like reading a football player's mind—quick and easy,
I thought. But I couldn't shake the feeling of the last time I'd been here, in the ER with broken ribs. I had been so totally out of it that I didn't really remember much.

“This way,” Dean said, angling down a hall and stopping at an elevator directory. “We need to be on the third floor.”

I nodded, taking a deep breath.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Dean asked me for the tenth time.

“Yeah, it's my decision,” I said. I had to be firm with myself.

Dean and I loaded ourselves onto the elevator, rode it up, and got off on the third floor, the Intensive Care Unit. A nurse sitting at a semicircle desk looked up at us.

“Can I help you boys?” she asked.

I almost turned around and ran. Why was this so hard? Dean noticed my hesitation and answered, “Yeah, um, we're here to see Stephanie Daniels.”

The nurse looked us over. “It's sort of late and past visiting hours, you two,” she said, a stern look on her face.

Dean gave her one of his charming smiles. “This is her boyfriend,” he said, slinging an arm around my neck. I did my best to look sheepish.

She sighed and looked at her watch a second time. “Have a seat in the waiting room and I'll go check for you,” she said, either defeated or tired. She pointed to a door in the corner of the hallway. Inside, Dean and I took seats across from each other.

“Nice save,” I told Dean.

“The perfect cover,” he replied.

He was right. I was here for Stephanie, but that pins-and-needles feeling wasn't because of her. Sitting in that waiting room, I was the closest I'd been to Dad in months. The Murray Institute psych wing was a just a mere elevator ride away. I'd seen the location on the directory. Even being in Dad's vicinity made me shudder. I supposed there was a part of me that knew this when making the choice to come here. What did I expect? Dad was just going to jump out of nowhere, wielding a knife, wildly swinging at me, trying to finish the job he'd started that night? Ridiculous as that sounded, I felt like I was stepping into some kind of trap.

The ward nurse appeared at the door of the waiting room carrying a stack of charts. “You've got five minutes, and just you,” she said. “I don't need any problems.” Without the full use of her arms, she motioned with her head. “Room 203, just down the hall there.”

I thanked her and stood. I looked back at Dean and he gave me a thumbs-up.

“I'll be here,” he said, supporting me. It didn't help much. My anxiety began to ramp up even more for what I was about to do. I started thinking about how much I just wanted to leave now, to run back to the car and abandon this bad, stupid idea.

I began to move down the hallway. A reason—I needed to give myself a reason. What was I doing this for anyway? Guilt, I guessed. It was a relief that she wasn't dead, of course, but deep down I felt responsible for what had happened. I might have even been the last one she talked to before the accident. I owed it to Stephanie to try.

Room 203—I made it. Loitering outside the door, I heard the sound of monitors and machines beeping and wheezing from within, but I couldn't see Stephanie. A dark, thick curtain hid her from view. Wait a second—what if her parents were in there? They most likely would be. What would I say to them?

Hi, I'm Nolan. The guy who stole your daughter's belief in true love and crushed it, only to find out that the guy she likes really does like her in return. Too bad she's in a coma now. Rotten luck.
Rotten luck? Who says that?

This little outing had turned into an embarrassment, yet one thing had stuck in my head. Greg really did like Stephanie. Heck, maybe even loved her. That was between them. I knew the truth—Stephanie did not. That was when my original idea hit again. I imagined seeing Kate's cute face lighting up as if she'd thought of it herself.

If I could extract information from someone's mind, why couldn't I plant information? It reminded me of that one movie—oh, what was it called? The one where the team broke into someone's dream to plant an idea? It didn't matter. My plan was ready and my avenue was set.

Just then a hand drew back part of the curtain and a young guy came around it wearing dark-blue scrubs, almost running into me.

“Oh, howdy. You here for Steph?”

His question was so casual and nonchalant—cool, even. His hair was all gelled up, something that looked like it took him hours each morning to perfect. He pressed his hand against the side of his mouth as if telling me a secret.

“You're the boyfriend…right?”

I was just as shocked at his statement as I'd been when Dean said it, but then again, it was the perfect cover. I nodded and the guy gave me a wink.

“I gotcha. Perfect timing, too—her parents are getting something to eat. You've got her all to yourself.” He leaned down a bit more and said, “That is, if you don't mind me in the room. I've got to make some checks.”