Blink Once (23 page)

Allie and I were in sort of a new place. Not boyfriend and girlfriend, that was for sure. But not exactly just friends either. When we had been broken up before, we didn’t hang out, we didn’t speak at all. But this time, everything was different. I understood that whatever romance had been between us was gone, but sometimes, like while watching her face when she was reading the description of the movie, I would get this hurt in my chest and an uncontrollable urge to grab her around the waist, squeeze her, tickle her, be the way we used to be. Close. But then the memory of everything that had happened would wash over me, and the feeling would pass. I knew that what I really craved was that contact, to be close to someone, the girl I loved, but that girl wasn’t Allie. I didn’t want Allie that way anymore, and I didn’t think I ever would again.

Even though Allie said she was leaving the second we put the movie on, somehow we convinced her to hang out for part of it. She had to be home early, and I got the feeling she was happy to leave about twenty minutes into the movie—she was watching it behind her hands most of the time anyhow. Mike was staying over.

When the movie was done, Mom set up the guest
room for Mike but he hung in my room pretty late, just talking. There was something I’d been meaning to ask him, a favor, but I didn’t want anyone else to know about it, so I waited until I knew Mom was asleep. “Can you drive me somewhere next Friday?”

“Sure,” Mike said. “No problem. I’ll pick you up after I get out of school.”

“That’s the thing, it needs to be during the day, so …” I hated to ask Mike to skip school to be my chauffeur, but he was the only person I could trust.

“Where do you need to go? To do your workout?” Mike acted out lifting some weights—he liked to tease me about physical therapy, claiming that I was just trying to bulk up now. He called it “hitting the gym” and was always asking to see my arm muscles.

“No, I need to go and see someone.”

“Okay,” Mike said. “But you’re going to need to tell me where if I’m driving you. I mean, unless you think I can drive blindfolded.”

“It’s going to sound weird, and I can’t really explain it all to you, but … I need to see someone who’s in prison.”

Mike looked like he was trying to process what I had just said. “You know someone in prison?”

“No, I don’t know him. Look, I can’t tell you more. I know it sounds weird. And I know I’m asking a big favor, but this is just something I need to do. Are you in or not? I’ll pay for gas.”

Mike thought about it for a second. “You know, every time I think you’re back to your old self, you do something so freaky….” He shook his head. “I don’t know about this.”

“I’ll explain everything later,” I told him. But deep down, I knew I probably never would. “I just need to check something out. Then I can tell you more.”

“You’re sure you’re okay, like, your brain and everything? This isn’t some delusion or whatever, like you had before?”

I sat staring at him for a second, and I almost opened my mouth to tell him the truth. I wanted to tell someone—about Olivia, about the fact that she was real, about the dreams I’d had, about Thomas Mason. But Mike looked so worried, I knew if I shared it all with him now, he would think I was insane. He would probably end up telling my mom, and then I’d be back where I started.

“I’m okay,” I assured him. “Really. It’s just that, I’m trying to start over here, get back on track. Does that make sense?”

It seemed to be enough of an explanation for Mike. “Is this, like, a relative or someone you never told me about?”

I nodded. “Something like that, yeah, I’m just—I’m not sure I’m ready to tell everyone about it yet. Okay?”

“I think I get it.” Mike got up off my bed. “Yeah, shit, I’ll do it. Of course.”

“Thanks, this is important to me and I’ve got no one else to ask.”

He gave me a close look and I tried my best not to
appear overly anxious or crazy, just normal. “Okay, I’ll see you in the morning.” He left and closed the door quietly behind him.

In the morning, while Mom made pancakes, we were back to our regular selves, joking around at the kitchen table. “You should slow down on the carbs,” Mike pointed out as I took my third plate of pancakes. “Seriously, you’re looking a little puffy.”

I looked down at my baggy jeans and loose T-shirt. You could still count every rib. “Maybe I should go back on the liquid diet?” I joked.

Mike gave me a serious nod as he shoved a huge bite of syrup-covered pancakes in his mouth.

“Boys, I don’t like that talk even as a joke,” Mom cut in, putting some more hot pancakes on the table between us. “In fact, I’m getting you a glass of milk,” she said, moving to the fridge. “Mike, would you like one?”

Mike just rolled his eyes at me. I guess I had done a good job convincing him that I was okay, and that this favor was something I needed to do to move on. I just needed to be sure. When he left that morning, we made a plan to hang out midweek, after school on Wednesday, so I knew everything was cool.

On Friday morning, we started out early, right after Mom left for work. Just in case something crazy happened, and
she got home before us, I left her a note explaining that I’d gone over to Mike’s after school let out. Hopefully, though, she would stay at work all afternoon like she’d said she was going to do.

I had printed out directions to the prison, which was almost an hour away. Mike came prepared with snacks and a new mix of tunes. If I hadn’t been anxious about where were going, it actually would have been a fun road trip. I noticed that Mike talked about everything but where we were headed, and why, as he drove along the highway. Mike mentioned a party at Cindy’s house this weekend. “It’s tomorrow, do you think … ?” He gave me a skeptical look, knowing that my mom had been treating me like a five-year-old lately.

I shook my head. With all the medications I was taking, I couldn’t drink. Not that it held any interest for me. Escaping from reality was not a priority right now—I felt like I just returned to it. “Yeah, not this weekend. If I get caught today, I might be grounded for a while anyhow,” I joked.

As we got closer to the exit we’d need to take, Mike got quieter, less animated. His hands were tight on the steering wheel and he looked tense, leaning forward in his seat. “So, uh, how long do you think you’re going to be in there?” he finally asked.

“Not long,” I said. From what I’d read online about the
prison, weekday visiting was pretty light. On weekends, it could take hours to get through because that’s when everyone came. We drove up to the visitor’s gate and a guard leaned out, startling us both. “Hello, gentlemen, can I help you?”

Mike looked to me, terrified. I leaned over him to answer the guard. “We’re here to … visit someone,” I said quickly, hearing my voice go up. I sounded like a scared little kid.

“Have you been here before?” the guard asked.

Both Mike and I shook our heads. “Park in lot B, enter through the south gate.” He pointed toward a huge parking lot just inside the fence.

“Thank you,” Mike said politely, and put the car back into gear. Just then, my cell rang: Mom. I had to tell her quickly that I was fine and everything was okay. Not a lie, but I also didn’t mention that I wasn’t at home or where I was. “I’m probably going to be at the office until about two or so, then I’m showing a house—do you think you’ll be okay until then?”

I told her she could work later if she wanted to, that I was absolutely great and actually enjoying the alone time, which I think made her feel better. “Then I’ll see you for dinner tonight,” she said cautiously. “But you call me if anything comes up.”

Mike peered out at the prison through the windshield.
“Please tell me that you don’t need me to come in there with you.”

“No, you can hang here. I really won’t be that long.” I checked to be sure I had Thomas Mason’s prison ID number and my wallet in my back pocket before I got out. “See you in a few,” I told Mike. He looked terrified, like just being this close to the prison meant you were about to get arrested. He was probably just thinking about the underage drinking he had done and gotten away with—not to mention other illegal stuff.

“Hey, where are your leg things?” Mike noticed as I climbed out of the car that I had left the bulky braces at home. I barely needed them anymore.

“I’m supposed to take a day off now and then,” I lied. “Something about making my muscles stabilize on their own.”

Mike pulled his sleeve up and made a muscle with his arm. “Stabilize this,” he joked. But I could tell he was nervous. When I reached the entrance door to the prison, I turned to see him looking down at his phone in the car. He would be fine.

There was a line of people inside waiting and I joined it, trying to look calm and also trying to look older. You had to be eighteen to visit someone in prison without a guardian, and I wasn’t. I had my fake ID with me—the one that now said I was twenty-two years old. It might be good
enough to fool the cashier at 7-11, but I wasn’t sure it was going to cut it here. The photo wasn’t even me—it was some guy who had gone to my high school a few years before, repeated senior year, and now worked at the Best Buy in town. He had made a little business of occasionally “losing” his license and getting a new one. I was one of a few fake Derek Mitchells in our town. His hair was short, buzzed in the back, just like mine was now, and about the same color. I hoped it would be good enough.

When I got to the front of the line, the guy behind the window asked me who I was there to see. I passed him the piece of paper with the name and ID number on it. “Sign in,” he slid me a clipboard with a sheet of paper on it. I signed the name Derek Mitchell and slid it back to him. “ID,” the guy said. I took my fake out of my wallet and pushed it over to him. I could feel sweat forming on my forehead but I didn’t dare wipe it off. The guy looked at the license and, without ever looking up at me, slid it back. “They’ll call you from the waiting room,” he said. I followed where I had seen other people before me in line go, into a small room off the main entrance with a sign outside that read HOLDING.

The room had rows of plastic seats and I took one, looking around at the other folks who were there with me. They were mostly women—young, like girlfriends, and older, like moms. There was only one other guy, and he looked
like someone’s grandfather. I wondered about who they were here to see. Husbands, boyfriends. Sons. The thought sent a shudder down my spine. Thomas Mason was someone’s son. There might be a woman in here who was visiting him. A girlfriend. A wife? I blocked the thought from my mind. Who could marry a guy like that? Who would ever want to be with him, after what he had done? Then I stopped myself. What if he wasn’t the guy—the one I had been having dreams about? I was pretty sure he would be, but I hadn’t really prepared myself for the chance that my dreams had been just that: dreams.

I put my ID back into my wallet and noticed that my hands were shaking. What was I doing here? This had seemed like a good idea—like something that I had to do—when I was looking up Olivia’s case. But now that I was here, sitting in this prison, waiting to see this guy, I felt like I had made a disastrous mistake. I could get up and walk out—I didn’t have to do this. But I knew I wouldn’t. As scary as it was, I needed to see him. I just needed to be sure, for myself, for Olivia. If he was who I thought he was, then it was real. Then Olivia and I
had
been together, in some place that no one else could understand or touch. It was proof. Because there was no way I could have ever seen this guy before, known what he had done to her, what he looked like. It was impossible. Unless Olivia had shown it to me.

“Mitchell for T. Mason,” the guard called out. “Mitchell for T. Mason.”

It took me a moment to register that I was the “Mitchell” he was looking for, and I stood on shaky legs and made my way to the door on the opposite side of the room. The guard led me through to a long, narrow room with a piece of glass running down the middle. There were small booths set up on either side of the glass, like library cubicles with chairs, and each had their own phone attached. It was exactly like I had seen on TV shows, and that was comforting for some reason.

The guard pointed vaguely down to the end of the row of cubicles and checked something off on his clipboard. “You’ve got twenty,” he said to me as I moved passed him.

“Yeah, thanks,” I murmured, trying to act like I did this every day. I stepped slowly to the space he had pointed out, but somehow I already knew what I would see.

The long, dirty hair, wild eyes, and pockmarked face. I knew it well. I knew it would be him.

And it was. But the hair was gone, now replaced with a crew cut. The skin was raw and broken out. Even though he had to be thirty now, his skin looked like a teenager’s. And his eyes were the same. Maybe worse than I remembered.

I pulled out the plastic chair and took a seat. As he reached for the phone, I noticed the small tattoos on his hands, letters, something written in the space between
his thumb and first finger, and a cobweb over the back of his hand. I pictured those hands around Olivia’s neck. I picked up my phone and held it to my ear.