Damaged (5 page)

“Are you following me?” I stay, still walking, trying not to flinch from the sharp pieces of gravel stuck in my sandal.

“That's rather presumptuous, don't you think?” he says, driving slowly beside me as I walk.

“Why were you at this beach? Why were you in town yesterday?”

“Maybe
you're
following
me
.” He grins, and he transforms for half a second into someone shockingly handsome. Camille always talked about that grin. It made her stupid.

“Where are you going?” he says.

“Home.”

“Don't you live, like, really far away?”

“How do you know where I live?”

“Because I was in the car when Camille picked you up that night. Jesus, you're paranoid.”

That night. He said “that night.”

“Let me give you a ride,” he says, like we are having a normal conversation, like he didn't just bring up the main thing I refuse to talk about.

“I can walk.”

“I'm sure you can, but I don't see why you'd want to when you have a perfectly good offer of a ride.”

I stop walking. My feet and shoulders hurt and I haven't even walked a mile yet. “Are you drunk?” I say.

“Depends on how you define drunk.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

He shrugs, smirking, as if I am the pathetic one for asking such a question. “You were drunk yesterday,” I say. “When I saw you in town. You were drinking out of a paper bag.”

“That was yesterday. Maybe today I am a new man.”

I squint and inspect his face. He does the grin again, and for a moment I think I see what Camille saw when she looked at him and forgot anything else existed. My shoulders sag under the weight of my backpack and I imagine for a brief moment walking the ten miles home in these flip-flops, which are already rubbing a blister between my toes.

“Okay, fine.” I open the door and get in. Leather seats, air-conditioning, buttons and touch screens and lights everywhere. “Nice car,” I say, but I know it comes out sounding like a criticism.

“I know it's a little ostentatious,” he says. “But the stereo's killer.”

“This is your car?”

“Technically, it's my dad's. But he usually drives the Porsche in the summer.”

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

He laughs. “No, I think it's as ridiculous as you do. I was hoping to get a laugh.”

“Do you know how to get to my house from here?” I say, all business.

“You know I'm on your side, right?”

I turn and look at him. “What?”

“You don't have to treat me like an enemy.”

“I'm not treating you like an enemy.”

“Oh yeah, this is how you treat everyone.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You don't have to push me away, you know.”

“You don't know anything about me.”

“It's not going to hurt you for us to be friends.”

“I don't want to be your friend.”

“Ouch.” He looks away and for a moment I think I might have really hurt his feelings. But I don't care.

I sit in the cushy leather seat, looking straight ahead, gritting my teeth. Part of me wants to jump out of the car right now, but the part of me that wins is the one that wants a ride home. We turn onto the road that goes to my house. I am almost there. After I slam the door behind me, I will never have to talk to Hunter Collins again.

“Why are you wearing long sleeves?” I say.

“Are you the fashion police?”

“It's like a million degrees outside. You're the only person in western Michigan who's wearing long sleeves right now.”

“Is it weird being in a car with me?” he says, like we're having two completely different conversations.

“When you assume things about me and try to pretend there's a friendship where there is none—yes.”

“This is the same road,” he says. “Just a couple miles up is where the accident happened. You can still find glass and little pieces of metal. Have you seen it? The big white cross on the side of the road someone put up? The pile of wilted flowers and ratty old teddy bears?”

I don't say anything. I don't want to say anything. I don't want either of us to say anything. I want him to stop talking.

“Say something,” he says. He doesn't get it. What is wrong with him?

“Why are you talking about it?”

“Why aren't you?”

“Just take me home.”

We drive in silence for the next two miles, in the opposite direction of where the accident happened. I push him out of my mind. I keep my eyes on the road, adding up the numbers on mailboxes in my head. When he pulls up outside my house, I grab my bag and get out without saying anything. When I slam the car door, it's not as loud as I hoped it would be.

“I have created a masterpiece!” Mom declares when I enter the kitchen. The counter is covered with cutting boards and the rejected parts of vegetables. The smell of something baking fills the room and I am suddenly grateful.

“What is it?”

“Eggplant, heirloom tomato, basil, and zucchini tart, with a dollop of cashew cream and toasted almonds. You're just in time.”

I set my bag down and wash my hands, get plates and silverware and glasses out.

“To what do I owe this honor?” Mom says.

“I'm hungry.”

We eat and I listen to Mom rattle on about her day. She manages not to say anything mean for the whole meal. I'm glad she's in a self-absorbed mood tonight. She doesn't want anything from me. After dinner, she says she's going to paint.

“But you haven't painted in forever,” I say.

“I know, isn't it wonderful!” For now it is. But I know what this mood inevitably leads to. I know it is only temporary.

Alone in the house while Mom's in her studio, I can't figure out what to do with myself. I call Grandma to see if I can use her computer, but she comes up with some excuse why her whole house has to be off-limits because she's tired and doesn't want company. I watch TV until boredom morphs into exhaustion. Alone in the dark house, my sleepiness gets the best of me, and I start imagining the walls are closer than normal, the ceiling lower, like they are slowly closing in on me, moving when I blink. Strange sounds seem to emanate from the corners, from places just out of sight—a soft knocking here, a muted creak there. I decide that hallucinations are probably a good indicator that I need to go to sleep. So I read in bed until I can't keep my eyes open. I turn out the light, relieved this stupid day will be over as soon as I fall asleep.

In the place between awake and sleeping, the thought drifts through my mind—is life nothing more than this? Just killing time with distractions until it's over?

“Kinsey, you didn't have to be so mean to him.”

I am holding the car together with my hands. My muscles tense as I keep it from flying apart. It is up to me to keep everything together. Always.

“He's a good guy. Really. Give him a chance.”

The mannequin of Hunter is in the backseat—lifeless, stiff plastic. He cannot help me. The thin metal in my hands buckles.

“Slow down, Camille!” I say. “The wind is too strong.”

But I know you can't do that.

“Just try. You're not even trying.”

This is how fast we were going. This is how fast we will always go.

“Wait!” I say. “I was the one driving. This is not how it hap­pened. Let me drive.”

But you know I will try to change things that cannot be changed.

“Camille!”

The lights. Like two holes in the night. I lose my grip and the ceiling goes flying, the metal like wings. Hunter flies away with it. My hands are bleeding. More parts fall away until there is no car left, until it is just you and me and wind and light.

“Who's driving?” I scream.

No one.

“Step on the brakes!” I scream.

There are no brakes.

Just light and wind and me screaming, me thrashing about. I am running through space to nowhere. I am always running. I run but I don't move. The light comes closer until it is all that is. The light and the screams and the wind and the metal. Then the crash and the float and the flying away.

“I should have been the one driving,” your voice says into the light. I cannot see you. I cannot see anything.

“You were drunk,” I say.

“But still. You killed me.”

THREE

From white to black, like
smashing into a wall.

Flying through infinity, then cold and hard and way too still.

I am a lump of gravity.

I suck in air.

My muscles tense, full of needles.

I have been running. I am running. I need to run.

Shadows everywhere. Outlines of furniture. Stationary things.

Something in the corner.

A shadow in the shape of a body.

A shadow that could be solid.

The figure moves. An arm goes up. Reaching for me.

Everything in my body is ice.

“Camille?” I whisper.

Wind blows through the open window, curtains flutter, and the figure is gone.

My eyes adjust to the dark. My water glass and lamp are knocked off the table. Broken glass swims on the floor. Like the aftermath of a fight.

“Fuck this.”

I jump out of bed. I pull on shorts and a sports bra and T-shirt and running shoes. The clock reads 3:52 a.m.

Don't drink water. Don't eat. Don't stretch. Don't think.

Just start running. Just move. Just go.

It is already warm in the darkness. The lightning bugs blink on and off. My feet crunch the gravelly pavement. I close my eyes and feel the mechanics of my body. My bones and muscles are the only things I can trust.

Run. Just run. If you run fast enough, nothing can catch you. If you run long enough, everyone else will give up.

* * *

Mom is sitting at the kitchen table when I get home. I am drenched with sweat, panting hard. She is stirring soy milk into her tea. She raises an eyebrow at me. Keeps stirring.

“Do we have any canned beans?” I pant. I need protein and that's the closest I can get in this house.

“Sometimes I wish you were just a pothead,” she says. “That I could understand.”

“Mom, do we have any beans? Or some of that fake taco meat maybe?”

“You're so pedestrian, Kinsey. I named you after a sex doctor and this is what I get.”

She's in one of her moods. I knew it was coming. I have to eat fast to get out of here as soon as possible. I grab a box of cereal, the least healthy thing I can find that still says “organic” so Mom will allow it in the house. I fill a mixing bowl with nearly half the box.

“Are you anorexic?” she says.

“You're asking me this as I'm about to eat five servings of cereal?”

“How long were you running?”

“I don't know. What time is it?”

“Almost seven.”

“I guess about three hours.”

“Three hours! Are you insane?”

“I walked part of the time and I stretched in the middle. Calm down.” I fill a huge glass full of water and gulp it down. I fill it again.

She sighs and shakes her head. “You run too much. It's like an addiction. It's a sign of mental illness.”

Over the years, I've developed a thick skin to protect me from her judgments. Usually they just roll right off me; at worst, they're a mild irritation. But right now, I'm raw and jagged and unprepared, like my protective walls have crumbled. Maybe it's lack of sleep. Maybe it's the long run with no food or water. Maybe I'm losing my mind.

Instead of ignoring her and walking away like I always do, I want to fight. Anger mixes with adrenaline from the run and fills me with a dark electricity. I slam my glass down on the table. “Seriously, Mom? You ran out of things to judge me about, so you picked practically the healthiest things a person can do for their body? Are you really that desperate to bring me down to your level?”

A wicked grin spreads across her face, like she's thrilled I'm finally playing her game. “My level?” she says. “I'm an artist living on my own terms in a society that breeds nothing but sheep.”

“You live in a shack, Mom. You don't even have a job.”

“Somehow I raised a sheep.”

“You're being a bitch.”

“Baa,
baaaa
.”

“Very funny.”

“You're running on a treadmill.”

“I run to feel free.”

“A sheep and a hamster.”

“Mom, stop.”

“What are you running from, Kinsey?”

“Shut up.”

“What are you running from?”

“Shut up!” I pick the glass up and throw it on the ground. I want a crash, I want shards of glass flying, I want her to bleed. But it doesn't break, just lands with a sad thud and rolls around in its puddle.

“Pathetic,” Mom says. She starts laughing, cackling like a cartoon witch. I grab the cereal bowl and take it to my room. My head pounds with anger and dehydration. My eyes sting with what could be the beginning of tears. It's been so long since I cried, I don't remember what it feels like. I get to my room, slam my door, and sit on my bed. Close my eyes. Take deep breaths. Force the pain back in. Force my eyes to dry. She won't get any tears from me today. No one will. Ever.

* * *

By the time I get to school, I feel almost normal, except for a headache and a slight cramp in my left quad. Today's Friday. Only Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of next week left, which are unofficially optional for seniors, then high school is over for the rest of my life. I hand in my final English paper, which I finished days ago. And that's it. No more papers. No more tests. Everyone else is giddy, swept up in the ritual of graduation like every year before them. Sheep, my mom would say. But I wish I felt as they did, wish I could find the motivation to smile and hug and sign yearbooks. But I feel strangely empty and lost, like something has been taken from me, like I'm mourning the loss of homework assignments and studying, like all of a sudden I have nothing left in the world.

I have one class left, but I leave school early. I've never cut class in my life. But I'm not the only one today; cars full of seniors pour out of the parking lot, on their way to the beach, on their way to get ready for parties I will not go to. For a moment, I panic. I don't have a shift at work tonight. Bill said three in a row was no good, especially since I'm working all day Saturday and Sunday. He insisted I have Friday off, so I could “have fun with my friends.” Little does he know.

I use the pay phone at the gas station across the street to call Grandma. She answers in her usual exasperated tone. I tell her I'm coming over to use the computer. She lectures me about my manners but ultimately agrees when I lie and say I need to do research for a final paper that counts for half my grade. “Fine,” she sighs. “At least you're doing something with your life.” She may be an old bitch, but at least she has some of her priorities straight.

When I get onto the country road, I stick out my thumb. The first car stops to give me a ride. I am very aware that in the real world, this particular form of transportation is considered dangerous. But this is not the real world. This is a place where nothing happens. The driver is an old lady who lives a half mile down the road from me. She babbles about her grandkids while I stare out the window.

I knock on Grandma's door. She doesn't like it when we enter without knocking. We don't even have keys. I think she's secretly afraid Mom will steal her stuff and try to sell it. Grandma doesn't even bother to come to the door and greet me. I just hear her gruff voice from somewhere inside call, “Come in.”

I open the heavy front door and enter. Somehow it's about twenty degrees cooler inside. The blinds are all drawn and everywhere I look it's dark wood and velvety colors Grandma describes as “merlot” and “indigo.” Even though a house cleaner comes every week, it still seems dusty, like the air is thick with years of accumulated boredom and repressed feelings. I don't know how she lives in here alone. It's the most depressing place I've ever been.

“Hi, Grandma!” I say, attempting to sound somewhat cheerful. I figure I owe her that much for letting me enter her dungeon. I hear a grunt of acknowledgment from somewhere deep in the house, but nothing more. I walk up the creaky grand staircase to the computer room. Sickly red light streams in through stained glass windows and paints my skin. All the angles and dimensions of this place seem somehow off, and I feel dizzy for a moment, unstable, like the staircase is rippling beneath my feet, like everywhere I look are fun house mirrors that warp the world into twisted versions of itself.

The feeling passes as quickly as it came on; I take a deep breath and remind myself that lack of sleep can bring on impaired balance. I look around to reacquaint myself with reality, but even though the world has stopped spinning I am still in the same haunted house. It's still cold and dark and full of whispers. I can't believe my mom grew up here. No wonder she's so crazy.

The computer room doesn't fit with the rest of the house, which is why I like it. It's a small room with a big window, which I open wide to let as much air and sunlight in as possible. The walls are plain white instead of covered with ornate wallpaper, and the shiny laptop and printer sit on the desk like they could actually belong to someone in this century. The browser is still open to the same thing I was looking at the last time I was here, something about extracurricular activities at the University of Michigan. I click in the upper right hand corner and start typing:

how to stop nightmares

Dr. Phil's site says something about dreams reflecting unfinished business from your life, how repeating traumatic events is normal. Thanks a lot, Dr. Phil. He says talk about it with someone. Not going to happen. Next.

Everywhere I look says basically the same thing: anxiety, stress, emotional issues, traumatic experience. All the suggestions seem so stupid: avoid eating close to bedtime, don't drink caffeine or alcohol, don't watch scary movies, spend time in nature, think happy thoughts, try to take charge in the nightmare and turn it into a happy dream, and if none of that works, see a therapist. The longer I search, the weirder the websites get. It's astounding how many people claim to be certified dream interpreters. What kind of school issues these certifications? I also come across quite a few magic spells. Who are these quacks? I want step-by-step instructions that have been endorsed by major medical schools. I want something certain. I want something scientific. But there's nothing like that. No one has a real answer. The Internet is full of people claiming to know things they don't actually know.

I close the laptop and feel a sudden gust of cold wind. I look out the window but the leaves on the trees are still; there isn't even the slightest breeze. I rub my eyes and realize suddenly how exhausted I am, and apparently so out of it that now I'm hallucinating temperatures and air movement. But a little tiredness I can deal with. Sleep is something I can control. And that's when it comes to me:

The only real way to avoid nightmares is to not sleep at all.

* * *

“Someone called for you,” Mom says when I get home.
“A boy.”

“Who?” I say, even though I already know who it is, though I have no idea how he got my number.

“He didn't say. But he had a low voice. Very manly. Sounded cute.”

“How does someone
sound
cute?”

“Same way someone
sounds
like a bitch,” she says. “For example.”

I open the fridge and say nothing.

“Oh, and Camille's mom called,” Mom says. “Again.”

My throat closes up and guilt spreads through me like poison.

“What is that woman's problem?” Mom says, her voice sour. “Can't she take a hint? How many times does she have to invite you over for dinner before she realizes you're never coming? Her kid dies, and now she's trying to adopt you? It's creepy.”

It takes all of my strength not to jump across the room and strangle her.

“I'm going out tonight,” Mom says. “Don't wait up.”

“Whatever.”

“What are you doing?”

“I don't know.”

“You're not working?”

“Nope.”

“It's the last Friday night of high school, and you don't have plans?”

I pull a jar of peanut butter and an apple from the fridge.

“God, Kinsey, why don't you just kill yourself right now?”

Before I have time to even realize what's happening, my arm retracts and my shoulder shifts back, like some kind of involuntary muscle memory left over from when I used to play softball. I throw the apple and it barely misses her head. It thuds against the wall behind her.

For a moment there is complete silence while Mom's eyes grow big and her mouth drops open. I freeze. I make a quick mental note of where the kitchen knives are in case I have to defend myself from her attack. I wait for surprise to morph into fury, but instead her body relaxes and her face opens into a big cruel grin, and she erupts into her cackling laugh she reserves especially for me when she thinks I'm a big joke.

“You think you scare me?” She picks up the half-smashed apple from the floor and tosses it back to me. I catch it. “You were going to eat that, weren't you?”

I say nothing. I feel the wet pulp in my hands.

“It's still half-good,” she says. “You don't want to waste food, do you?” She walks over and pulls it out of my hand, holds it up to my face. “Here,” she says. “Eat it.” She pushes it against my lips.

I back away. “No,” I say.

“Come on,” she says, getting closer, pushing the apple even harder against my teeth. My face is wet with it. The sweet smell makes me sick. “Eat it.”

“No!” I shove her and she stumbles a few steps back. She smirks and tosses the apple at my feet.

“Nice to see you're not a total wimp.”

Neither of us moves. Neither of us is willing to be the first to look away. My eyes burn into her and I can hear nothing but the fire in my head growling
I hate you I hate you I hate you
.

Finally, she looks away, breaking the spell. She walks in slow motion to the kitchen table and picks up her purse. “I'll wait for my ride outside,” she says, then struts out the door. Her moves are exaggerated, like she has to remind herself how to walk.