Undercurrent (13 page)

“Because you’re the only guy who calls me that,” he says, glaring at me.

“Calls you what?” I ask.

“That name.”

“What name?”

I wait. The man looks pretty unhappy before finally saying it out loud: “Floss.”

Hearing this, I almost laugh—because I immediately think of “butt floss,” something Cole and I used to call thongs and really small bikini bottoms. The day at the water park, one of us was constantly yelling: “Butt-floss alert! Butt-floss alert!”

But I don’t laugh. Because laughing is only going to get me murdered. So I come up with something else: “That sounds like autocorrect for ‘Ross,’ dude.” From his blank expression, I can tell he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “You know, when your phone changes the word it thinks you’re spelling wrong? I’m sure it happens a lot. Honestly, I didn’t text you.”

It’s a good excuse, I think, and very possibly the actual case. But Ross doesn’t look like he’s buying it. However, just at that moment, the sheriff starts walking up the street, eyeing us both intently.

“Yeah, so, good to see you’re okay,” Ross says, way too loud for a normal conversation. “But I gotta go. I’m still on shift at the distillery—just had to come into town for some supplies. All right, see ya, kid. Great you’re up and around.”

Ross heads off in the opposite direction from the sheriff, who has come to a complete halt and is watching us suspiciously from about twenty feet away. I decide to play things the only way I know how: with complete innocence. Nodding politely to the mustached cop, I continue on down Main Street. And even though I don’t look back, I can feel his eyes on me.

I’m glad when the road bends, and I’m off Main and out of sight. Being on foot gives me a lot more time to see just how much the town has changed from my memory. It’s true what Ross said—this is an ugly town now, with porches that badly need paint jobs, rusty cars on blocks, strewn garbage by the side of the road, and a pitted and cracked roadway that I follow all the way to the bridge.

When I get there, I see it again—the falls are brown, a curtain of falling sludge. I have to agree with Ross: Who on earth would go out of their way to see this disgusting view?

I stop on the bridge and stare out at what looks like the overflow from a giant sewer pipe. What happened to the crystal water that almost seemed to reflect the world back at you? I look for the lower observation deck. It’s still there, but it appears uncared for, swallowed up by tree branches.

High above, the footbridge glints in the light. That’s where it happened—where I fell and everything changed. Where everything was lost. Maybe I should head up there again and jump this time.

I stare at the water churning over the black rocks. I shudder, picturing my broken body among them. Just then I see something down there, bobbing up in the froth. It’s blue and looks kind of like a piece of a sleeping bag. Tossed around for a moment, the unknown object disappears back into the foam.

I blink a few times. Did I really see that? Up ahead I notice a person standing at the river’s edge, holding out a long pole and trying to hook something in the water.

It’s Mr. Schroeder, I’m almost sure. Yes, there’s the rain jacket and a flash of the same gray shoulder-length hair. Shivering in the breeze, I watch him for a while, but he doesn’t seem to be having much luck. So I head across the bridge, back to the south side. Here the sidewalk soon runs out, and I’m hugging the shoulder, air sucked around me as each car passes.

I look back and see a pickup heading toward me. All of a sudden, I hear it accelerate. The truck is barreling down on me.

“Hey!” I shout. “Hey!”

I jump out of the way, but there’s very little room against the wall of sheared rock by the side of the road. As I press up against it, the side mirror barely misses my head.

“Idiot!” I swear after the speeding vehicle. “Are you trying to kill me?”

That’s when I glimpse the bumper sticker:

KEEP HONKING, I’M RELOADING!

Actually, I know that idiot. It’s Ross. And I think he did just try to kill me.

“Cal, are you okay?” my mother asks as I come through the door. “You look as white as a sheet.”

I can imagine. “I’m fine,” I tell her. “I had a close call on the road.”

“Oh no,” she says. “Somebody speeding?”

“Yeah.”

“I wish the sheriff would do something about it. Someone’s going to get killed on that road someday.”

Not likely, I think. He’s too busy watching me.

I follow Mom into the kitchen. My heart is still pounding as I sit down at the table. But at least I’m warming up.

We’re having dinner late, I find out, because Dad is catching up on some work. I bet he is. With Mr. Holden back from overseas, the whip will be getting cracked again. I’ve seen the way my father behaves around his boss a couple of times. It’s embarrassing and nothing like the way he acts at home. Master distiller or not, he’s just another employee, like that psycho Ross.

Mom’s reading a magazine. There are frosted cupcakes on the cover. “Can I ask you a question?” I say. “Do you remember that guy from the distillery? The one who worked on our house for a while?”

“Sure, I remember. What about him?” she asks. But she doesn’t use his name either. And I can tell by the clench of her jaw that she doesn’t like talking about him.

I go on anyway. “Why did you say he was a creep that time at the supermarket?”

It was actually on the very same day I had mistaken Mr. Schroeder for his twin brother. She made the remark under her breath, when she spotted Ross in the parking lot. Mom didn’t think I heard—and I didn’t feel comfortable enough to ask. But I knew she’d already talked Dad out of hiring him again, and that it was an uncomfortable subject.

“Do we really have to talk about this?”

“I want to know what happened. What he did.”

She sighs. “He made a pass at me, that’s all,” she says.

Whoa. Now I’m pissed. It’s one thing to try to run me over—but that big oaf harassed my mother? I picture his face and imagine kicking it in.

“Calm down,” she says, seeing my expression. “It happened only once, when you and your father were out of the house.”

“What did you do?” I demand.

“Well, when he wouldn’t take no for an answer, I just got in the car and left. What else could I do?”

“Call the police?”

“Cal, really.”

“Christ,” I mutter. “I’ll kill him!”

“Don’t even
think
of doing anything about it,” she orders. “This stuff happens sometimes. And it was a while ago. So drop it. I don’t want to make things at your father’s workplace any harder.”

Any harder? For a second I wonder what she’s talking about. “Why? Because of Cole punching out Mr. Holden’s son?” I ask.

My mother looks like I’ve thrown my plate at her. “Cal, is that supposed to be some kind of weird joke?”

What am I thinking? “Sorry,” I say, feeling terrible. “I don’t know why I said that. It was a dream I had last night. Never mind.”

Mom goes quiet and begins poking around the fridge. Uncomfortable, I sit there for a moment, but when she still doesn’t speak to me, I finally head upstairs. Passing by the door of the guest room, I stop and listen to the machine humming for a while—and to the awful breathing.

I retreat into the bathroom, locking the door. I stand there, looking at myself in the mirror before counting the same four toothbrushes over the sink. Which one is Cole’s? I wonder. How often do they brush his teeth?

I look at my father’s bathrobe, hanging from the back of the door. Maybe he never even left. Maybe he stayed to help care for Cole.

If so, are my parents even the same people? The question makes me uneasy. Because I don’t know anymore. But then again I don’t even know who I am.

I look at myself in the mirror. My face is the same. My eyes are still green, and my bottom teeth are still scrunched together. I still have the same Harris nose.

That’s how I look, but that’s not me.

I remember my father lecturing me that people are defined by the choices they make. At the time, I made a face, wondering if he’d pulled it line for line out of one of his cheesy self-help books. But after choosing to slam a kid’s head into a locker over a few stupid words, I have to ask myself: Who am I?

I don’t really know. As far as I remember, the only other choices I’ve made were unimportant. What to have for breakfast. What to have for lunch. Should I wear shorts or bring a jacket? Should I pick science or music or art?

But maybe that choice tells me something. For instance, I know I’m the guy too afraid to take a few lessons and switch to music, even though I wanted to and it would have meant seeing more of Willow. Why? Because I’m too scared to make mistakes out loud.

So instead I took art, where I can hide all my efforts under a blank piece of paper if I have to.

Because I’m a coward. That’s what that choice meant.

Callum Harris is a coward.

I take a leak and head back to my room. Closing the door, I notice all the trophies stacked up on the shelves again. I stand there looking at them. They’re mine, I need to start telling myself. They’re all mine.

And why wouldn’t they be? I went over the falls and survived. That’s right, bitches. I went over Crystal Falls.

A little while later, there’s a knock on my door.

“Are you hungry?” my mother asks, holding a grilled-cheese sandwich. “Dinner is going to be late.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

She puts the plate on my bed and then turns to leave.

“Wait,” I say, stopping her. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said before. It wasn’t a joke. I don’t know what it was. It just came out of my mouth.”

“It’s all right,” my mother says. “You’ve been through a lot. I’m just worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” I assure her.

“Okay,” she answers, then moves toward the door again. But I don’t want her to go.

“Wait,” I say. “I want to ask you something.”

“What’s up?”

It’s harder than I expect. She’s standing there looking at me.

“What’s up, Cal?”

“What’s going on with you and Dad?”

“What’s going on with us?” she repeats, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you guys okay? That’s all.”

“Cal, you gave us a really big scare,” she answers. “It was awful. We never imagined going through anything like that ever again. But everything turned out fine. We’re relieved.”

“No,” I say. “I mean are the two of you okay—with each other?” I don’t know how to ask this question, to find out if my father is sleeping here, living here. “With Dad here, in the house?”

Mom looks puzzled for a second. “Well, you know it’s been hard these past few years as a family, caring for Cole, coping with what happened. But we’re all right, I guess—the best we can be, under the circumstances. Why? Does it seem like something’s wrong?”

“No,” I say, although something is clearly wrong here, just not what I remember.

“Then why are you asking?”

“Are you still mad at Dad?” I ask. “For bringing us here?”

“Mad? Over what?”

“Well, everything was fine before he took that job. And then everything went bad.”

Mom sits down on the bed, careful not to disturb the plate. She brushes strands of gray hair away from her cheeks; in the lamplight I suddenly see the creases of exhaustion that have taken over her face.

“Yeah, I was unhappy when I first found out. This town is so far away from the people I care about—my friends, my family. But what could I do? Tell your father he couldn’t follow his dreams? I just hoped things would work out and that we would be all right.

“But after your brother’s accident happened, none of it seemed to matter anymore. We’d already bought this house, and we really needed the extra money and benefits to properly care for your brother. So there was no choice anyway. We had to move.”

“But you don’t want to be here. In Crystal Falls.”

“No,” she admits. “No, I guess I don’t. I just don’t really think about it anymore.”

“And you don’t want to be with Dad anymore.”

“Cal!” she says, shocked. “Why would you say something like that? I love your father.”

I know she means it. I know she never stopped loving him. But I can’t forget what Cole and I both lived through: the two years of bickering that broke them down. Once they started pulling apart, there was nothing that could bridge the gap. So when my father moved to the other side of town, finally putting a real-life gorge between them instead of an imaginary one, it wasn’t much of a surprise to me.

But for my brother, it was a different story. He became even more moody and sullen. And then there was the whole football fiasco. Both events took a big toll on him—he never seemed the same after.

But none of that happened in this world, I remind myself. What happened here was much, much worse. A tragedy that can’t be undone.

“What if nothing had ever happened to Cole?” I ask. “Would you and Dad still be together?”

Mom sighs. “Oh, I don’t know, Cal,” she says. “All I know is that it happened, and that your father and I are partners. It’s that simple. We can’t afford to think about anything else now.”

It all makes perfect sense. But I don’t know what else to say. Because as hard as I try, I don’t feel a part of it, this painful family history. Everything still feels like a dream to me, something I hope to wake up from at any moment. So even though I feel like I should be reaching out, hugging my mother or holding her hand, I just sit there.

Suddenly she turns, her eyes full of tears. “Is that why you did it?” she asks.

“Did what?” I ask.

She chokes up. She’s having trouble speaking. “Tried to hurt yourself,” she finally says.

So that’s it. She still thinks I threw myself over the falls on purpose. That’s why she’s so upset—she thinks I’m just like her brother, Uncle Bud. “Listen, Mom,” I say slowly. “I didn’t jump, I swear. I would never . . .”

My mother won’t let me continue.

“Your father and I know things have been hard these past few years, dear. We know you’re angry and depressed. And that’s why we tried to get you help. But instead of making an honest effort to help yourself, you were only ever interested in being disruptive and playing games.”