Symptoms of Being Human (18 page)

I JUST DRIVE.

My body is on fire with tingling. My chest is tight, my vision so severely tunneled it's like looking through the wrong end of a telescope. I can't tell if I'm going five miles per hour or fifty.

They know.
Everyone
knows. My father . . . I still hear the rage in his voice; I feel it in my body like a physical blow. A punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of me.

So I just drive.

I drive without thinking, tearing west down Imperial Highway. Over the train tracks. Toward Bec? I don't know. I reach into the cup holder where I stash my phone, thinking I'll call her, call someone—but my phone isn't there. I've left it at home. I don't even have my ID.

The lights are out at Bullet Hole, and it's quiet in the parking
lot. I rattle the door; it's locked. I look around for something to break the glass, and then I realize how stupid that is—there's no one inside anyway. I run back to the minivan.

The clock on the dash reads ten minutes to midnight. It's Tuesday. Of course Bec isn't here; she's at home. And she's probably asleep—but I have nowhere else to go. I pull back onto Imperial and speed toward her house.

The streetlights on her block are still out, and her house is dark when I pull up. There's an old green pickup in the driveway. Erik's? I don't know. I reach for the keys to turn off the van, thinking I'll get out and go knock on Bec's window—and that's when the truck in the driveway roars to life. I flinch at the growl of the engine. A single headlight illuminates the garage door in a splash of orange.

“Hey!” a voice shouts from inside the truck.

Panic surges through me.

I peel out from the curb, make a sharp right, and step on the accelerator. I'm barreling the other way down Imperial now, pedal to the floor, not knowing where I'm going, not caring. The streets are almost empty; I pass no one. I check the rearview, looking for the truck—but I only spot one headlight, maybe a motorcycle, far behind me.

The buzzing in my head grows louder. My ears fill with the sound of static, like rushing water; the panic rises. And rising with it, a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach—a low, hopeless knowing: whatever I was hiding, whatever I was protecting, it doesn't matter now.

The tires thump as the minivan crosses the train tracks again. I think of Andie Gingham—

And suddenly, it's so clear to me why she wanted to jump.

The water seems to envelop me, rising to my mouth. I'm breathing in shallow, ragged gasps. Frantically, I roll down the window to try to get some air. The buzz of the engine echoes against the concrete freeway underpass. My body thrums with electric tingles. My vision blurs. I have to do something. I have to go somewhere.

At some point, I turn. I pass the old hardware store. I pass the closed furniture showroom with the painted message: EVERYTHING IS GONE.

I'm not even sure what I'm doing when I pull up behind the crumbling, windowless three-story building—the movie-night spot where Bec used to come with Gabi before the football crowd took it over—I just shut off the van and get out. A stiff autumn wind picks up, scattering the dead leaves piled against the Dumpster, then swelling to a gust that rattles the rickety fire escape.

The parking lot is deserted. There's no flickering glow from the courtyard. There's no Bec; there's no one at all. I'm alone.

I think of my dad's hands, folding his tie in on itself. The gap my mother left between us on the couch. I hear blood pumping past my ears. A fresh wave of cold tingles washes over me. I shake my head. I can't think about this. I have to do something.

Anything.

I glance up. Overhead, the sodium street lamp blinks intermittently, and I see the glint of new metal against the rusting frame of the fire escape. The ladder has been retracted,
and someone has wrapped a brand-new steel chain around it, locking it in place, far out of reach.

And suddenly, I want to get on that roof. I
need
to get on that roof. I walk over to the Dumpster and start to drag it toward the ladder—but it stops short, jarring my arms almost out of their sockets; it's chained up, too. I look around for something else to stand on—a milk crate, a pallet, anything—but there's nothing.

Panic rises in me like cold bile, threatening to drown me.

I run back to the van, climb in, and start the engine. I inch toward the building until bumper touches brick, then shut off the motor and get out.

Heart pounding, I climb up the van's shallow hood and reach for the ladder. It's still three feet above my head. I take a deep breath, bend my knees, and jump.

My fingers barely brush the cracked and rusty surface of the lower rung, and then I fall. My foot comes down at an angle and I slip, falling sideways, my hip slamming into the hood just before my head knocks against the windshield.

My vision goes black.

When I come to, I hear laughter. The sound of an old engine idling. Doors opening and closing. Heavy doors. The truck from Bec's driveway—it must have followed me here. I open my eyes, and I'm blinded by a flood of orange light.

A voice says, “Look who it is.”

I squint. My vision is blurry, but I see two, maybe three silhouettes moving toward me, casting long, low shadows in the throw of a single headlight.

“Looking for your girlfriend, you queer fuck?”

My stomach clenches; I recognize that voice. I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the light. There are three of them. A broad-shouldered guy with stringy hair stands closest to me. Next to him is a smaller kid. The glare of the headlight casts an auburn halo around his head and whites out the lenses of his wire-rim glasses. Behind them, lingering close to the truck, is the tallest of the three. I see him in silhouette, his arm posed at an awkwardly formal angle.

“I asked you a question,” he says. He steps into the spill of the headlight, and I see that his arm is in a cast. Panic grips me.

It's Jim Vickers.

I try to swallow, but my throat is dry. Maybe they just came here to drink. Maybe they'll only harass me, and then let me leave.

“I'll . . . I'll just go.” I turn, intending to roll off the hood and put the van between them and me.

“Wait up,” Vickers says, his voice eerily gentle—and then a hand grabs my ankle. My heart spasms in my chest. I roll onto my stomach, trying to pull myself away, but he yanks on my foot, pulling me back toward him. My fingers grip the gap between the hood and the side of the car. I can't let him trap me. I have to get free.

Vickers grunts, yanks harder on my leg. One hand slips, but I regain my grip. “Cole,” Vickers says. “Help me out.”

I feel a hand grab my other ankle. I struggle to kick, but the hands are too strong.

“Oh, come on,” Vickers says, almost laughing. They pull hard, and my palms make a squeaking noise as I'm dragged
backward across the hood. My toes touch asphalt, and then someone slams my face down on the warm metal, bending me over the hood.

“You have the right to remain silent,” the long-haired one says. There's laughter. I struggle to stand, but the hands push me back down.

“Hurry up, you guys,” a third voice says. “I don't want to get caught.”

“Shut up, Grady,” Vickers says. “Anybody want to take bets on what we got here? I got ten bucks on chick.”

“That thing is too ugly to have a pussy.”

Another laugh. Then Vickers says, “One way to find out.”

I feel a hand grip my upper thigh, and I scream. Another hand covers my mouth. I thrash on the hood, kicking wildly.

“Grady, get over here.”

The third boy moves forward.

“Pin the arms.”

My arms are pulled apart and pinned so that I'm spread-eagled on the hood. Someone takes a fistful of my hair.

And then his face is against my neck. His dry lips on my skin. His breath reeking of beer.

He whispers, “Not so tough now, are you? Fucking freak.” My head is slammed against the hood again. Stars pop in my vision. I feel my body slacken.

He presses against me harder. Stubble abrading my cheek, foul breath in my face. His hand grips my thigh, then moves up to reach between my legs.

“What do you got down here, huh? What do you got for me?”

I find just one word. “Please,” I say. My voice sounds weak, thin. “Please.”

He turns his head. “Kill the lights.”

Someone lets go of my arm, but I don't thrash. I don't cry out. I just hold still. The headlight goes out.

His thumb hooks the waistband of my underwear.

I feel the cool night air against my skin. I focus on the smooth, warm metal beneath my cheek. I stare at the windshield, watching the reflection of the flickering sodium lamp appear and disappear.

And then, all at once, everything lights up.
Camera flashes
, I think, vaguely.
They've come to take pictures
.

But the light doesn't fade.

And then he's off me. The hands release me, and I hear footsteps moving away. Doors slamming, the truck reversing, then peeling out on the crumbling asphalt. I want to move, but my whole body is numb. I just stay there for a moment, spread across the hood, and then I feel my shoulders start to shake. But it's not me crying. It's some other Riley. I roll onto my side and slide down the side of the van to the pavement.

And then a huge hand touches my shoulder. And I scream.

“Riley, it's okay. It's okay.” It's Solo's voice.

I look up. Solo and Bec are standing over me.

“You're going to be okay.”

I SIT IN THE PASSENGER
seat of Solo's car with my arms wrapped around my knees. Bec tries to hold my hand from the backseat, but I don't want to stop hugging my legs. Solo tells me they're taking me to Park Hills Community Hospital.

I thought there was a special place at hospitals for things like this. There isn't; I sit in the waiting room at the ER. Solo talks to the woman behind the counter, and Bec holds my hand. There's an old man with an oxygen tank sitting across from me. Against the far wall, a baby is screaming. A woman in a brown sweater tries to make it stop. I let go of Bec's hand to cover my ears, and I close my eyes.

I'm in a big room with ten other beds. I'm concealed from the other patients by a thin blue curtain—but the random shadows
moving beyond it only make me feel more exposed. Finally, the curtain is pulled aside and a tall woman enters. She has a long, dark ponytail and a red blouse under her white coat. She tells me her name, Dr. Amala, and asks permission to examine me. I feel myself nod. She pulls on a pair of blue silicone gloves.

She frowns as she works, as though she's cleaning up an unpleasant mess.

My mother arrives before the police. I don't want to see her.

Officer Dinning is polite and gentle, but it doesn't matter. I hardly feel anything. I feel like a mannequin, like the parts being poked and prodded and inspected don't even belong to me.

I have to lie down for the swabs. My stomach cramps.

I'm okay until the police officer starts taking photographs. When the first flash goes off, I flinch hard, knocking the exam kit off the metal cart and scattering its contents on the floor.

Doctor Amala recites some soothing phrases. A nurse heaves an exasperated sigh as she collects the spilled contents and hurries off to get a fresh exam kit.

Officer Dinning waits while I regain my composure. “You okay?”

I nod, but I keep my eyes closed for the rest of the photos.

I think I talk to my mother. I don't remember what we say.

Finally, they offer me something to make me sleep. I take it.

I hear my father's voice, and I open my eyes. He's leaning over me, his face puffy. When our eyes meet, he lets out a breath as if
he's been holding it for a long time. He squeezes my hand, but says nothing. I drift back to sleep.

When I wake again, I'm in a different part of the hospital. The lights are off and the room is empty. There's a window, but the blinds are drawn. I can hear the hum of machines and the sound of arguing voices in the hallway. I try to sit up, but a sharp pain in my abdomen stops me—so I lie back and fish around for the bed's controls. I find the remote and raise the bed until I'm in a sitting position. My head aches, and I reach up to inspect my face. There's a big square bandage on my left temple and another on my cheek. My lips are chapped, my tongue thick. I turn my head to look for water and realize my whole
head
is thick. Whatever they gave me to put me to sleep has left me extremely groggy.

There's a plastic cup on the table next to the bed. I reach for it and miss, knocking it to the floor with a clatter. The door opens and my father and a nurse rush into the room. I squint as the lights come on.

My dad leans over me and takes my hand while the nurse pours me another cup of water, which I sip through a straw.

“Hey, Riley,” Dad says.

I can't look at him.

“I'll be right outside if you need anything,” the nurse says, then leaves, closing the door behind her.

“How are you feeling?” my father asks.

I start to answer, but I can't find words. I shrug. He nods.

“Your mother is here,” he says. “She's sedated. When we heard, she—well, we both . . .” His face goes hard. “Jason Solomona
spoke with the police. They told us what happened. I mean, everything they could.” Dad frowns, shakes his head. “Riley, I'm so sorry.”

I want to nod. To say, “It's okay.” I
expect
myself to. But something stops me, and I just look at him and take another sip of water. His eyes sadden, then go dull.

“What can I do for you?” he asks. It comes out a whisper, almost a prayer. I've never heard my dad's voice sound like that—weak, almost helpless. Anger courses through me, heating my face and making my whole head throb. What right does he have to be weak? To not know what to do?

But I can't say any of this. Not out loud. So I just shake my head and close my eyes. After a while, a nurse comes in to give me another sedative.

When I wake the next day, the grogginess is gone, but I'm sore all over. My head throbs, my legs ache, and there's a deep heat in my abdomen, as though I've swallowed a burning coal.

I open my eyes, blink, and then my mother is at my side, straightening my blankets and brushing hair from my forehead and fluffing my pillow and a hundred other things at once, the rustle of her clothing like the flapping of moths' wings. It doesn't feel like care, it feels like correcting, as though I should have straightened the blankets myself before she came, and fixed my own hair, made myself presentable so she wouldn't have to see me like this. As she pulls away to look at me, she fixes me with a soft expression of compassion and remorse, and I suppress a sudden urge to reach up and slap her.

She leans forward and presses her lips to my forehead. It's
how she used to tell whether I had a fever when I was little. Now her lips feel cold and foreign on my skin, and I just hold still until she's done. When she sits back, her expression hasn't changed, but something underneath is gone. The look is somehow emptier.

“How are you feeling, honey?” she asks.

“Okay,” I say, fishing for the remote. Mom finds it first and offers it to me. I snatch it away with more force than I intend.

She flinches. “I'm so sorry I wasn't here when you woke up.”

I shrug. “I don't remember it, anyway. I was too doped up.”

She smiles. I bite back the urge to tell her it's a lie. “Do you have my phone?”

She shakes her head. “I'm sorry, in the rush to get here, we just . . .” Then, off my look of disappointment, “I'll have your father bring it.”

I nod. “Are Bec and Solo still here?”

“Solo stayed until three, but we finally persuaded him to go home and get some sleep. He promised he'd come back today.”

I nod. “What about Bec?”

She shakes her head. “I'm sorry, honey. I haven't seen her. But they weren't letting any visitors in, just family. I'm sure she'll be here later.”

I nod, but I'm not sure at all. Something about the way Bec acted when we got to the hospital, the way she avoided my eyes, makes me think she won't come.

“Can I have some more water?” I say. Mom smiles and refills my cup, and then we talk. Not about me, or about what
happened, or about anything important. We talk about hospital food, and how it rained last night for the first time since June, and she promises to bring my laptop and some Blu-rays since I'll probably be here for one more night. It's all so fake I can hardly stand it, like taking a bite of rice and finding that your mouth is full of hot plastic. I just want to spit it all out, to throw it up and scream at her.

And then she looks at me, and her face sort of contorts, as if someone is stabbing her. And I don't know if it's for me, or for her, or just because she can't hold in everything she's feeling for another moment. But for that split second, she's my mom again. Like before the election. Before Pineview. Before everything. And I stop talking. And she smiles at me. And I start to sob.

She comes to me, and I drop my water cup on the bed and just let the tears come. She wraps her arms around me, and I feel the tepid water spreading out on the blanket, wetting my leg and soaking through her sweater. I feel her powdered cheek against mine, her earring pressing into my face. The sobbing goes up and up until it becomes a frantic shuddering, and before I know it, a nurse is pulling us apart and injecting something into my IV, and the world goes fuzzy, then white.

I wake up again in the late afternoon. Mom is scrunched up in a plastic chair, fast asleep with her head cocked uncomfortably to one side. When my dad sees that my eyes are open, he nudges her and they pull their chairs up next to the bed.

“You slept for a long time,” Mom says.

“Must be good stuff they're piping in,” Dad says. He leans in as if to disconnect my IV. “Can I have a hit?”

I don't feel like smiling, but I try. The effect on my parents is palpable. My mom lets out a little laugh-sob and covers her mouth. My dad's shoulders relax.

“How are you feeling?” he says.

“I feel like if someone asks me that one more time, I'm going to start throwing things.”

My parents look at each other. My mother licks her lips, and my dad clears his throat. “Riley, we want you to know that—”

I cut them off. “Can we not . . . not right now? Not in here?”

My mom's face falls. My dad looks relieved.

“Okay,” Dad says. “Yeah, of course.” He glances at the door. “Riley,” he says. “The police want to take a statement.”

“No,” I say.

“Riley, sweetheart, the longer you wait, the more chance they'll—”

“No!” It's almost a shout.

Mom puts a hand on Dad's knee. “Okay, honey,” she says. “Not till you're ready.”

“Thank you.”

Dad glances at the door. “I don't know if you're up for visitors, but Jason Solomona is out there waiting to see you. If you're ready.”

“Yeah. I want to see Solo.” I run a hand through my hair and touch the bandage on my cheek. I turn to Mom. “Mom, can you . . .”

“Of course, honey.”

Dad leaves, and Mom grabs a handful of paper towels from the bathroom, wets them, and wipes my face. After fidgeting with my hair for a few minutes, she shrugs and smiles as if to say it's hopeless. She helps me adjust the bed to a sitting position, gives me a cherry-flavored antacid from her purse, and kisses my forehead again before leaving and closing the door behind her.

Solo peeks his head into the room and looks around. When his eyes land on me, they widen for just a second, and then he recovers himself and pushes open the door. He's carrying a brown shopping bag.

“Okay if I come in?” he asks.

“Yeah. But can you turn off some of the lights?”

Solo finds the switches and flips off one bank of fluorescents. “Better?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He pulls up one of the chairs, sets down the shopping bag, and puts his elbows on the bed. I flinch a little, and he withdraws.

“Sorry,” he says, his face going pale.

“No, it's okay. I'm just twitchy today.”

Gingerly, he leans against the bed again, and this time I don't flinch. He starts to say something, but I cut him off.

“Please don't ask how I'm feeling.”

He digs into his pocket. “Actually, I was going to ask if you want a Starburst.” He holds up a fistful of pink candies and flashes me his goofiest grin.

“Yeah,” I say.

There's an uncomfortable silence as the two of us chew our Starbursts. Finally, I break it.

“Did Bec come with you?”

Solo starts to speak, then stops and shakes his head.

“What's wrong?”

“Last night, after they admitted you, she . . . she said she was sorry, and that she had to go.”

“Have you talked to her today?”

“I've called her and texted her about a million times. She's not answering.” He shrugs. “I don't know what's going on. Maybe it was all just too intense for her. I mean . . .” He trails off, looking embarrassed.

A cold, gray ache creeps into my head.
She's disgusted.
That's the thought that comes into my mind. I know it's probably wrong, but I think it anyway.
She knows what happened, and she's disgusted by me.

“I don't want to talk about it.” I say it suddenly, and more fiercely than I intended.

Solo's eyebrows go up. “Okay.” He shifts in his chair, then glances around the room as if inspecting it. “I just came to make sure the hospital kitchen is meeting your culinary needs as a vegan.”

I roll my eyes. “I don't think the hospital kitchen is meeting anyone's culinary needs.”

Solo laughs, then reaches into his shopping bag and pulls out a stack of DVDs. “I have all the
Harry Potters
, the first four discs of
Battlestar Galactica
, and season seven of
Doctor Who
.”

“What, no
Star Wars
?”

Solo sighs. “I wanted to bring the original, unaltered
Episode IV
, in which my namesake shoots first, as our Lord and savior intended.”

“Why didn't you?”

“I only have it on VHS, and my dad's old VHS player broke halfway through the summer.”

“Well, I've never watched
Doctor Who
.”

Solo drops his jaw, then covers his mouth in mock concern, as though I've just told him I have a terminal disease. “We're going to get through this,” he says, laying one big hand on my arm.

I know he's joking about me not having watched
Doctor Who
, but it sort of lands on me wrong—and all of I sudden I'm crying again. I pull my arm away and cover my face.

Solo doesn't touch me, but he leans in close. He speaks softly, but his voice isn't pitying or sad; it's just matter-of-fact. “I think this is going to happen for a while,” he says. “Things making you cry for no reason. There's nothing wrong with it. My mom says crying is just your body expelling all the bad stuff. Like a sneeze. Like your soul sneezing.”

And just like that, my sobs turn into laugher. It's a sort of horrible, hysterical laughter, but it's better than crying.

“Soul . . . Soul Sneeze . . . ,” I say, gasping for air, “is the name of my new punk band.”