Damaged (13 page)

No. He would not do that. I'm letting the crazy voice win. I cannot listen. I cannot believe her.

I enter the bright bustle of the museum lobby. Sunlight streams through the wall of windows. People stand in line for tickets. People stand in line for bag check. And there, in the corner away from the crowds, is Hunter, still here.

I'm relieved as I approach him. I want the magic of our last conversation back. I want him to replace my fear with ­happiness. But as I get closer, I realize that's not what's in store. He's on the phone, his face red and contorted in anger.

“Mom, what did he do?” I hear him say. I stand a few feet away, far enough to give the false impression of privacy. I know I shouldn't be listening, but I can't help myself.

“Did he hurt you?” Hunter says. My heart drops. I take a few steps away, but not far enough.

“Mom, please,” he pleads, his voice low and strong and steady. “Tell me the truth. You don't have to protect him.”

Silence as he listens.

“I'll come back, Mom. I'll come back if you need me to.”

Silence.

“Do you promise? You're not just trying to make me not worry?”

He turns around and looks at me. I try to send him all the kindness I can through my eyes. I try to replace all the feelings I have from my run-in with Camille with concern for him, for his mother, for this woman I never met and this boy I barely know. If I think about them, I don't have to think about Camille. If I care about them enough, I don't have to think about myself.

“Okay,” Hunter says to the phone. “I love you, Mom.” My heart breaks a little. “I love you,” he says again, then turns the phone off and puts it in his pocket. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, like he's trying to create stillness, silence, just for a second, like he's trying to regain his bearings. When his eyes pop back open, he says decisively, “Let's walk.”

It seems somehow inappropriate that it's such a beautiful day. The sky is blue and the temperature is perfect, flowers are blooming everywhere, and everyone we pass seems to be smiling more than they should. I stay quiet as we wander south through Grant Park; I figure Hunter should be the one who decides when we're ready to talk again.

After several minutes of walking, Hunter finally breaks the silence. “You know what's crazy? My dad's here somewhere, like right around here. My mom says he left Wellspring yesterday. His office is close to here, in one of these high-rises. And his new condo is somewhere downtown. I've never even seen it.”

I don't say anything. I just keep walking, matching my footsteps with his.

“It's weird to think he could be blocks away right now. We could run right into him by accident.”

He stops walking. “Oh, this is Buckingham Fountain,” he says. We're standing in front of a giant ornate fountain, surrounded by tourists taking identical photos in front of it. “It's one of the largest fountains in the world.”

“You don't have to be tour guide right now,” I say.

He smiles, turns around, and starts walking in the opposite direction. “Let's go this way.”

After a few moments, I say, “What would you do? If we ran into him?”

Without a beat, Hunter says, “I'd kick his ass.” But then he sighs a sad laugh and says, “Or I'd probably run away as fast as I could.”

We walk the entire length of Grant Park north into Millennium Park. It's a place I've heard about my whole life, this great oasis in the big city, this triumph of green space in urban planning. Despite the expanses of grass and flowers and growing things, something about it strikes me as sad, the way everything is perfectly planned and manicured, the trees so evenly spaced, the bushes carved, the flowers bunched in measured arrangements. Something has been lost by taking out the wildness, something true. In taking out the variables, in making all this life a little more convenient, it's lost some of its soul.

This seems profound. It is something I'd like to talk about with Hunter, something I know he'd understand. But right now, I'm enjoying our silence. Maybe talking isn't always the best form of communication. During our walk, we've managed so many light touches of the hand or bumping of shoulders, which neither of us acknowledges. I don't know if these nearnesses are accidental. All I know is I like them. All I know is the closer I am to Hunter, the farther away I get from Camille, the farther away I am from the part of myself that needs her.

We approach a giant globular silver structure that I immediately recognize as the famous
Bean
sculpture. We walk around it like all the other tourists, watching our reflections morph in and out of the curved mirrored surface. We walk under it, into the cavelike tunnel that opens up underneath. We stand in the middle, looking up at the bulbous ceiling. It's hard to find ourselves among all the other distorted faces, but there we are, flipped upside down, our mouths stretched into grotesque grimaces, our eyes swirled like scrambled eggs, our noses and ears ripped apart and glued where they don't belong, everything unrecognizable, everything deranged, everything made ugly and inhuman.

“That's the real me,” Hunter says softly, looking up at his distorted reflection. I lean into him, my shoulder pressed against his. I circle my fingers around his wrist, for a brief moment, then let go.

We keep walking.

After another gourmet meal by Eli, we stay up late talking, drinking tea, and playing board games. I want to get used to this new version of Hunter, this one content with spending the evening sober, this one who laughs and tells funny stories. We're leaving tomorrow morning, and I want to take this Hunter with me.

After a particularly exhausting laughing fit, Hunter says breathlessly, “I can't remember ever having this much fun sober.”

“Well, you haven't given it much of a chance,” Eli says.

“True,” says Hunter. There's silence for a few moments in the wake of these statements, but it's not entirely uncomfortable. I remember friendship like this, when you trust someone so much you can say or hear anything. The ache of missing Camille thuds dully in my chest.

Discussion of tonight's sleeping arrangements ends up a little awkward. This whole time, Shelby had assumed Hunter and I were a couple, so she's excited to tell us about the full-size futon in the spare bedroom that she made up for us. I don't know why sleeping next to each other on the bed seems so different from in the tent, but it does.

“Oh, um,” I say.

“Crap,” Eli says. “Shel, I guess I forgot to explain their relationship. Or lack thereof.”

Hunter pretends to look out the window.

“We're not together,” I say. “We're just, um, friends.”

“Oh,” Shelby says, her face turning a bright shade of red. “I'm so sorry. I just assumed— You guys seemed so—”

“It's okay,” I say.

“I'll sleep on the couch,” Hunter says.

“No, it's okay. You can have the bed. I'll sleep on the couch.” I don't say anything about enjoying how we slept last night. I don't say anything about being afraid to sleep alone.

“No, you should have the bed,” Hunter says. “I want you to have the bed.”

“No, really, it's fine. I'm fine sleeping on the couch.”

“Oh shit,” Shelby says. “Look what I started.”

“You get the bed and that's final,” says Hunter, and I sense an edge to his voice. “I'm being chivalrous.” He grins. “You being the weaker sex and all.”

“Oh thanks,” I say. “You're so kind.”

Not the ground. Not a tent. Not a couch. Not even a bed.

Sand, but more like dust.

Sky, but more like wasted breath.

Your head on a cloud, a makeshift pillow. Your face, an eyelash away from mine. Your smile, a sickle that cuts through time and mourning.

“I miss you,” you say.

“I miss you, too.”

“I don't believe you.”

I feel the movement of your words on my skin, but there is no heat to your breath, no smell. Just the displacement of air.

“I'm sorry about what I said earlier,” you say.

“It's okay.”

There are two of me, one who wants to be with you and one who wants to stay here, solid, where light does not shine through me, where I make shadows instead of getting lost in them. The world of you has a hole inside where wind passes through. A hollow place. A wound that does not heal.

We are in the place that does not heal. From white to black to red. The night cut open like a scar.

“I knew I was dead,” you say. “I knew my body was on its own. I was somewhere else, above it all, watching the whole thing. I saw Hunter leave me there and save you.”

My eyes are your memory. We watch the scene as you narrate: a dead girl and one almost, a brave boy who no one sees.

“I saw him run through fire,” you say. “You were out. He thought no one saw him, but I did.”

“I see him,” I say.

White. This nothing world. This place of waiting.

“You think you do. He looks up at you with those eyes of his and you think he's showing you everything.”

Black.

“Aren't you tired, Kinsey?”

I am a cloud but I feel like mud, like tar, like quicksand, like some­thing that wants to be solid.

“Just surrender, Kinsey. Just stop fighting. Aren't you tired of fighting?”

“Yes.”

“Come with me.”

“How?”

“You know.”

“No. I don't. I don't know.”

“Leave him.”

“I can't.”

“He doesn't love you, Kinsey. Don't be stupid.”

Wind. Tiny pieces of glass. Too many cuts to measure.

“I never said he did.”

“You can't trust him. He'll let you down like everyone else. He's just using you. There's only me. There was only ever me.”

You are the wind, the hand caressing my hair, your voice like morphine. It is almost you. I am almost taken.

But still. “Maybe you're wrong,” I say.

“Oh, Kinsey. You're so naive.”

“Maybe you're lying.”

The warm breeze turns sharp. The caressing turns to pulling. The soft white turns cold, harsh and buzzing like fluorescent lights. The air pinches my skin. Your sweetness turns sour. Rancid.

Black.

“You're pathetic, Kinsey.”

Black. Red. Red. Red. We are in the fire, burning. We are in the car, trapped. You are holding me hostage. I look forward into flames and cracked glass. I will not look at you.

“You can't do anything by yourself. That's your big, pathetic secret. Your big lie. I'm the only one who knows the truth. You've fooled every­one else, haven't you? They all think you're so strong, so inde­pendent, so smart. ‘That Kinsey, she's going to do something with her life. That Kinsey's going to get out of this stupid little town.'”

Your blood pools around my feet. I will not look at you.

“Just because you were quiet and got good grades, because you acted like you were so much better than everyone else, you tricked everyone into thinking that meant you were so focused, so serious, so mature. But I knew what it really meant. I knew how scared you were, how terrified of failing. I knew why you didn't talk. I knew it was because you were so afraid no one would like you if they really knew you. And guess what, you were right.”

Red.

“Shut up,” I say.

“What are you going to do without me? How can you go to college with some stranger as a roommate, reminding you it was supposed to be me? It was only ever supposed to be me. I took care of you. I was the only one who ever did. Who's going to take care of you now? Not your mom. She's too crazy. Not Hunter. He's too drunk to even take care of himself.”

“He hasn't gotten drunk in two days.”

Your laugh shakes the windshield, the maze of cracks spreading like rivers.

“Two days? Wow, what an accomplishment. Do you realize how pathetic you sound?”

The cracks are veins in the window, throbbing with red. Your blood is up to my calves now.

“Shut up,” I say again.

“I don't blame you. He's hot. Whatever. Have some fun. But I feel so sorry for you, Kinsey. Two days sober and you think he deserves a medal? Two days sober and you're ready to fuck him?”

“Fuck you,” I say.

Your blood is up to my knees. I will drown before I burn. You laugh and the windshield shatters; shards of glass circle me like a blizzard.

“You think he likes you? You think you're something special?”

Glass in my mouth, crunching in my teeth, cutting me from the inside.

“You're not special.”

“You're not Camille.”

Glass in my throat, my lungs. Your blood up to my waist now, warm and thick and poison.

“Stupid girl,” you say.

“Shut up!”

Finally, I turn to you. Your face is gone. It is only a hole filled with meat. You are nothing but cruel, desperate flesh. I reach for you but you grab my wrist, grab my throat. So many hands, strong and hard and freezing. All your warmth, drained out. I am bathing in it, stuck in your blood like tar. You squeeze my throat and the glass cuts. I too will be headless soon.

“Look at me,” you say. I stare at meat. I stare at nothing. I close my eyes, feel your hand around my throat, feel my breath sucked away, and I become your pain.

“There's only me,” you say. “There will only ever be me.”

ELEVEN

No light. No breath.

Invisible hands around my neck.

Cold hands. Yours.

Pain where your thumbs press tight.

I am absorbing your death.

Oh god, not this again.

I jump out of bed. I gulp down air, filling my lungs back up with life. But it hurts, this living. Every breath bruises; every molecule of air stings and cuts.

Would it hurt less to not breathe? To just quit this world where no matter what I do, I can't outrun pain? Is that it? My only option? To join Camille where she is so she will stop chasing me here?

No. I am in Chicago and it is almost morning and just hours ago I was happy. That was real. That was not a dream or a hallucination. My throat aches too, but that is not all there is. Pain is real. But there is more than pain.

I open the bedroom door. I stumble down the hall into the living room. I watch Hunter sleep in the last of the moonlight and I am instantly calmed.

I sit on the arm of the couch, trying to match my breath with his, trying to find the rhythm of this rare peace. What is it that makes me feel so much safer when I'm near him? Why can't Camille find me when we're together? Why can't she hurt me when he's around? It can't be what she said, that the connection I've felt with him the last few days is just an act. If it is an act, wouldn't she be able to break through it? Wouldn't she be able to find me even when I'm with him?

Hunter's face is so still, so calm. It makes me happy he can find relief in sleep, that he can take a break from his usual brooding turmoil. I wonder if it will last for a while after he wakes up. Which Hunter will it be today? The surly asshole, the one with the scowl and the sharp tongue? Or will it be the boy who hides behind him, the one who tucks his hair behind his ear so I can see his eyes, the one who talks in a soft voice and admits how lost he is?

It would take only a few steps for me to reach his lips. I could wake him up with a kiss.

What am I thinking? It's before sunrise and I'm in the dark staring at a sleeping guy like some kind of creepy stalker. I have to get moving. I have to get out of here before I do something crazy.

So I throw on my running clothes and make a quick trip to the bathroom. I do everything as fast as I can; I do my best to avoid looking in the mirror. But just as I'm leaving, I catch a glimpse of myself that makes me stop. Are those bruises? Did Camille really strangle me? There are faint red-purple marks on my neck. They could be anything. A rash. I could have scratched myself in my sleep. They could be anything.

This is crazy. I'm going crazy.

If I run hard enough, maybe I will forget all of this.

I scribble a note that I'm going for a run and leave it on the kitchen counter. As soon as I get out the door, I start running. I know I should warm up first. I know my muscles and joints need to take it easy after so many days on the road. I know my ankle is still not 100 percent. But I don't care. I need this. I need to feel my breath sting from something other than fear.

Maybe I should be scared running through the streets of downtown Chicago when it's still dark, but there's so much else to be scared of. I run by dark huddles in corners. ­Mysterious cars slow down as they pass me. But I keep running until I find the lake, where the sky is starting to lighten purple in the east, somewhere close to what used to be home.

The water laps the shore as I fall into my rhythm. I pass a few other crazy early-morning runners, but they're all decked out in hundred-dollar tech shirts, blinking safety lights, and ergonomic water-bottle carriers, when all I've got is a ratty sports bra, stained T-shirt, and pair of secondhand basketball shorts.

“Pick up the pace, Cole.”

Really, Camille? Out here? While I'm running? While I'm doing one of the only things I have left that makes me feel safe?

“Aren't you going to say hi?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the figure of Camille running beside me, and it feels so normal, like we are just two girls going for a run together. Am I getting used to this? Are these appearances of hers just part of my life now?

But I know it can't really be her. Camille would never run. The real Camille had an aversion to exercise. Unless you count riding a horse exercise.

“You're not talking to me now?”

“You're not real,” I say.

“Those bruises on your neck would disagree, don't you think?”

I run faster. If it's really Camille, she won't be able to keep up with me for much longer.

“Sorry about that, by the way.”

“Whatever.”

“
‘Whatever.'
God, Kinsey. You sound like such a teenager.”

I pass a runner who seems to be making an extra effort not to make eye contact. I guess it's probably wise to avoid people who appear to be talking to themselves in downtown Chicago before sunrise.

“Speaking of wounds,” Camille says. “You know what I've been wondering? I'm curious—do you remember anything about being in the hospital after the crash?”

Another runner passes. The sky turns a lighter shade of purple.

“No? I guess you were pretty doped up. Not that you needed it. I mean, you barely had a scratch. But I guess they wanted to give you a chance to take a little nap before finding out you just killed your best friend.”

“I had more than a scratch, Camille. I had two bruised ribs and a concussion.”

“Yeah, but I was dead.”

I trip on a crack in the pavement and barely catch myself from falling on my face. The sun peeks out of the lake. The figure of Camille seems to fade just a little.

“No one came to visit you, you know. I mean, your mom showed up because she had to sign some papers and stuff, but she was complaining the whole time. Even your grandma didn't come. She just gave your mom a check to pay for the hospital bill and the cab ride there. If it was me in there, the whole school would have shown up. The whole town probably.”

“Death isn't good for you, Camille. It's turned you into a conceited bitch.”

“I'm just telling the truth. Did you know my parents didn't even visit you? Kind of surprising, huh? After all those years of treating you like family. They'd never admit it, of course, but they were pissed, Kinsey. Oh sure, later they hugged you and cried and told you it was an accident and not your fault and they love you, blah blah, but they hated you those first couple of weeks. They wished it was you who died instead of me. Everyone did. They still do.”

I run as fast as I can. I run faster than I should. I run until I hurt, until I find a new pain to push this pain away. I run until I can no longer hear the echo of Camille's cruel laughter. But still, the tears come. The sun rises and I leave the ghost behind, but my eyes won't stop. My breaths turn into sobs. My legs turn into noodles. All of my strength, all of my speed, is suddenly gone, and I collapse, just barely making it to the grass. I hug my knees to my chest, the morning dew soaking through my shorts. I try to catch my breath, but it is impossible through the tears. I am hyperventilating. I am gulping sadness.

It should have been me. It should have been me who died.

The sky is too beautiful. I do not deserve it. I do not deserve this sunrise or this grass or this breath. I do not deserve the beautiful boy and our meandering road trip and treating my days like they're endless, as if happiness and freedom and time are some bottomless pool that never runs out. How could I be so stupid? Of course it runs out. It ran out for Camille. It's running out for Hunter. It will run out for me.

We have to get to San Francisco. No more of this wandering around, acting like we have all the time in the world. All we have is a destination and we must get there. We must focus. It is the only way to stay in control. Above all, I must stay in control.

I stand up, a little wobbly. I check my ankles and knees and hamstrings and am relieved to find no major pain. I dust myself off and break into a steady jog—a reasonable speed for a reasonable person. I will pretend to be a reasonable person, someone with the security of a destination, and we will make it to San Francisco as planned and everything will be under control.

When I get back, I do my best to act like nothing's wrong. I take the fastest shower of my life, then join the others for breakfast. This is our last morning with Eli and Shelby. In a couple hours, it will be just Hunter and me again.

We look at the map over smoothies and scrambled eggs. Hunter traces some crazy route through South Dakota and Wyoming. “Don't you want to see Mount Rushmore?” he says. “Yellowstone?”

“I want to get to San Francisco,” I say, a little too harshly. “The most direct route is through Iowa and Nebraska. We can take the eighty all the way through.”

“Iowa and Nebraska?” Hunter says. “Where's the fun in that?”

“I think it's time for us to start thinking about efficiency instead of fun.”

I try to pretend like I don't notice Hunter's face drop or Eli and Shelby exchanging surprised looks. “But—” Hunter starts to protest, but I stop him.

“It's my turn,” I say. “You've been choosing the way long enough. I want to get to San Francisco.”

“That's bullshit.”

“How sweet,” Shelby says. “They're learning to compromise like a real couple.” I want to smack her. Eli attempts an awkward laugh. How can they act like there is nothing wrong with what we're doing? What about Camille? Why doesn't anyone think about Camille? How can Hunter act like we're on some stupid vacation together—as if we're friends, as if we mean something to each other? Has he moved on that fast? Has he moved on to
me
?

I've single-handedly destroyed the blissful vibe of our little group, but that's not surprising. I was never easygoing and likable like Camille. I'm the one who ends conversations. I'm the one who makes things awkward. But I don't care. I don't need to be liked. All I need is a destination. All I need is to get there.

Hunter and I pack up our stuff. Shelby hugs us good-bye and runs off to work. While Hunter carries our bags to the car, I thank Eli for the food and letting us stay at his place, but before I have a chance to finish, he wraps me in a bear hug and whispers, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For taking this trip with Hunter,” he says. “For believing in him. He really respects you, you know? You bring out the best in him.”

I can feel myself blushing as I pull away. I don't want to think about that right now. I don't want my mission to be complicated by emotions.

Hunter returns and Eli embraces him. I hate long good-byes. I hate all this sincerity and earnestness. Why can't we just leave? Why can't we skip this part?

I hover by the door while Eli and Hunter say their good-byes. I try to pretend like I'm not listening. Hunter says how great it is to see Eli so happy, so stable and successful. “Honestly, I never would have imagined,” Hunter says. “I mean, you were the most fucked-up of all of us. No offense.”

“I got lucky,” Eli says. “It could have gone all kinds of ways. I could have ended up like Caleb and just disappeared. I could have ended up dead.”

“Or you could have ended up like me. Going nowhere. With no future.”

“Fuck that, Hunter. Don't start with that self-pity shit. You could do anything.”

Hunter chuckles sadly. “I've got so much potential, right?”

“You're the smartest person I know,” Eli says. “And that's your fucking problem. You're so smart you won't listen to anyone else. You won't admit when you need help.”

“Shit, Eli. I think I liked it better when you were a loser like me.”

“You're not a loser.
She
doesn't think you're a loser.”

I pretend to be looking at my nails and oblivious to the fact that Eli is talking about me.

“Yes, she does,” I can barely hear Hunter whisper.

“Hey,” Eli says. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I love you, man.”

“I love you, too.”

“Now get out of here. You've got a pretty lady waiting for you.” Eli catches my eye and winks, and I know he knows I heard everything. “Call me anytime,” he says to Hunter. “I mean it. About anything.”

“All right.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.”

“Don't lie to me. You know I can kick your ass.”

“I promise.”

As we walk to the car, Hunter says out of nowhere, “Let's go to the aquarium.”

“What?”

“Shedd Aquarium. Have you ever been? Have you ever seen a fish besides a trout or perch?”

“Isn't it expensive?”

“My treat.”

“But we need to get on the road.”

Hunter stops walking and looks me sternly in the eye. “Listen, Kinsey. I'll give you Iowa and Nebraska. The least you can do is give me a couple hours at the fucking aquarium.”

Hunter drives us there in silence and pays way too much for parking.

“We could have walked here from Eli's house,” I say.

“Shhh,” he says. “Can you stop complaining for one second?”

As tense as things are between us, it's impossible not to be impressed by the exhibits. The whole aquarium is like a real-life Animal Planet show. I even get to touch a stingray. The fact that Hunter is sulking and distracted and texting on his phone the whole time hardly even bothers me.

“There's a café a couple blocks away where we can get lunch,” Hunter says as we step back out into the bright, sunny day.

“It's already almost two,” I say. “We really need to get on the road.”

“No,” Hunter snaps. I have no idea why he's so on edge. Was it the conversation with Eli? Can he really be that mad at me about skipping South Dakota? “We're having lunch at this café,” Hunter says, and that makes it final.

The café is nothing special, just a nondescript downtown lunch place with standard sandwich, soup, and salad choices. I know it couldn't have any sentimental value for Hunter. It isn't the kind of special hometown place that would hold any kind of nostalgia. I have the weird feeling that Hunter is stalling, that there's something he's not telling me, something he's trying to hide.