The Banks of Certain Rivers (23 page)

I’m not being deceptive, really. I just don’t know how
I’m even going to begin telling her.

I am not ready. For any of this.

On this run I push myself. There’s a good reason to push, I’d
say. The day is cool, the sky a uniform gray, and I run hard. My
mouth is dry, I push myself, I breathe in gulps, and through the
effort of propelling my body over the earth I’m able to get a
small handle on what’s going on. I stopped running for months
after Wendy’s accident, and it just about finished me. Pushing
myself here, gasping, I decide that, no matter how far down this
video thing sinks, no matter how bad it all gets, I cannot let myself
stop running. I can’t.

Arthur is up on a ladder at the beach house, pounding beneath the
eaves with a hammer. He yells something, probably a greeting, or
maybe an invitation to stop and chat, but I wave and keep going. I go
north, beyond our beach, beyond Leland’s now-busy complex, and
back to the sandy ruts I’d discovered back on Sunday. Up
through the cedars and left at the highway and, without thinking,
onward to Wendy’s facility.

I’m winded when I get there, and I need to take a moment out
front to catch my breath. The breeze is chilly, almost damp, and I’m
wishing I’d thought to bring a light jacket along. When I get
too cold outside and my breathing has calmed enough for me to go
inside, Shanice seems surprised to see me.

“Take a personal day, Mr. K.?”

“You could say that,” I respond, and I manage a smile.
It’s hard not to smile in the vicinity of Shanice. In Wendy’s
room, on the table next to her bed, I find a giant arrangement of
white carnations. It’s huge, like a floral shrub, really, and I
duck back into the hall to ask where it came from.

“A little girl passed in hospice last night,” Shanice
tells me. “Her parents wanted us to have her flowers over here
in long term. Lord, there were more flower arrangements than people
in that room. And there were a lot of people.”

“You guys do a good job,” I say. “Wendy is pretty
lucky.”

I go back into my wife’s room and take a seat next to her bed.
I lean back, close my eyes and reach through the sheets for her limp,
dry hand. I play with her wedding ring and graze my fingertips over
her knuckles. There is nothing. No squeeze back, no flinch from my
brushing tickle to her palm. I slide my fingers up to her wrist, and
press to find her pulse. It takes a moment, but there it is: the
barest throb, steady and unstoppable. There’s life in there,
faded; a facsimile of existence like the carnations in the room.

Your wrist is so tiny, Wen.

So many nights were spent by Wendy’s side at first. Nights in
recliners, cots, or pillows stacked on the floor. Sometimes Chris
would be at my side, or sometimes half-asleep he’d make his way
into his mother’s bed and nestle up beside her among the tubes.
It was like he knew, but he didn’t know. He’d speak to
her, he continued to speak to her, waiting for an answer, long after
I’d quit trying. There were flowers in the room back then, too.

Only once we returned from Wisconsin, and Wendy was settled into her
new home, did Christopher’s darkest period begin. Mike was with
us most of the time, Kathleen was there a lot of the time, and
Carol’s presence was continuous and calming. Christopher’s
first therapist was adamant we get him back into school and return
some sort of order to his life. My family agreed with this, and
through my fog they encouraged me to agree with it as well. His
teachers at the middle school were more than understanding, and his
fellow students were beyond sympathetic. Where Chris had never had a
girlfriend before (he’d always been more interested in sports
than members of the opposite sex), now we had several girls calling
the house to speak with him each night. His tragic mantle, obviously
unwanted by him, had a sort of mythic appeal, and the girls in his
class fought for the chance to bring him saccharine comfort.
Allegiances shifted like the dunes, and breakups came every other
day.

To the world, my son seemed normal. He carried himself in a way
suggesting he handled his burden well. But a rage built inside him, a
justifiable anger at the hand he’d been dealt; his mother, who
adored him more than anything, and whom he adored in return, was
gone, but not really. Alone, there was fury. His guitar was smashed
against the floor. Drinking glasses were thrown into the sink with
such force that shards flew and scattered into adjacent rooms. He’d
hit things, breakable things: walls and mirrors and framed photos
hanging in our hallway. And all the time after, eyes filling with
tears as he stared down at his sliced-open knuckles or a rip in his
shirt, he’d ask:

“What happened?”

“What did I just do?”

Eventually it subsided. The summer after his almost-fight with Steve
Dinks he got beyond his brooding anger and was back to something like
his old self. Chris was Chris, older, physically bigger, and with an
unfairly earned comprehension of sorrow and loss. And an
understanding too that time can be misplaced, rage can cause blank
spaces or ellipses in our own personal timelines that only those who
were around to see can document for us. Those missing spaces in his
memory frightened him, terrified him, and he got himself together to
avoid ever having to feel that terror again.

At the time, to be honest, I couldn’t relate. At all. I’d
comfort him, for sure, saying things like: “Everything’s
okay, Chris, I understand.”

I understand
, I’d say, but I didn’t at all.

Now, confronted by my own impossible ellipsis, my own lost time, I
finally understand. Confronted by that same terror, I can only ask
myself:

What happened?

“Mr. Kazenzakis?”

I open my eyes to see Nurse Irina standing over me, the light behind
her forming a halo through her bleached-white hair.

“You spoke out loud,” she says. “In your sleep. You
are having dreams, I think.”

“I….” I blink and glance around the room. “I
must have dozed off,” I say. I’m still clutching Wendy’s
hand.

I make it back
home
just past three. A drizzle started as I left Wendy’s place, and
now, shivering in my kitchen, I’m soaked and cold with flecks
of sandy mud splattered up my shins. I heat a mug of water in the
microwave for tea and peer out the window. Lauren’s car is
still there. I drop a green tea bag into the mug and take it to my
bathroom, leaving it on the edge of the tub while I take a very long,
very hot shower. My hands are against the tile wall while the water
drums on my head, and I wonder:

Did I do it? Or did I not?

Am I completely crazy, or is someone screwing with me?

In either case, will I keep my job?

I run the shower until the water turns tepid and I have to shut it
off, and I take my robe from the hook on the door and go to the guest
room. I almost watch the video again, but I stop myself. What purpose
will this serve, other than twisting me into an even tighter
emotional knot? I check my email, and there are more messages in my
school account, hundreds more. Some of the subjects and email
addresses are gibberish, letters picked at random, and others have
cryptic words. I find one from a Port Manitou student account with a
subject of OUCH and click it open. I immediately wish I hadn’t;
it’s a picture of a bloody body in a crumpled car against a
tree. “Jesus Christ,” I sputter, closing the thing as
fast as I can. Who is sending me this? I’ll mention it to Peggy
when she calls—
if
she calls—as promised with an
update. I’d like to think she’s looking out for me. And
just as this thought is passing through my head, my cell rings from
back in my bedroom where it’s still in my pants pocket. I fish
it out and see the name on the display reads: ‘Hammil the
Mammal.’

“Kevin, what’s up?”

“Coach.”

“Did you see the video?”

“Yes I saw it. Was it real? Please tell me it’s not real.
That had to be right after I left Friday.”

I sigh. “Jesus, Kevin, you know I couldn’t have done
that, right?”

“They sent out an email saying we shouldn’t talk to you.”

“What the hell are you doing talking to me, then?”

“They asked us to tell them anything we might know about what
happened last Friday. Do you want me to say anything?”

“The only think I want you to say is the truth, all right? You
tell them exactly what happened, the way you remember it.”

Kevin pauses. “I don’t think you did it. The girls don’t
think you did it either. They’re pretty upset about the whole
thing.”

“Are you still having practice?”

“We cancelled today, but Cassie and Amy went ahead and said
we’re meeting up tomorrow. What should I have them do, Coach?”

“Take them through Old Town to the river, then along the bike
path back to school. Don’t tell any of them you talked to me,
okay? Don’t get yourself in a mess too.”

“The kids in my classes can’t decide what they think
about it. They go back and forth. The freshmen and sophomores…I
just can’t….”

“Don’t get too worked up about it. Take the girls out
tomorrow, give Cassie some room to lead. Keep her in line, though.
Don’t let her get too pushy with the younger athletes. And
don’t tell anyone you called me!”

“All right, Coach. We’ll talk soon.”

I could linger here on my bed and forget about everything, but now
I’m ready to tell Lauren what happened, so I find some jeans
and a sweatshirt and throw them on. When I go to the kitchen window,
though, I see her car is gone, and the rain is coming harder. The
world outside is gray, and more leaves seem to be on the ground.

I’ll call Lauren tonight, I guess, but this seems like the sort
of thing that should be explained in person. As I consider what I’ll
say to her, Cassie Jennings’ Subaru comes up my drive. Behind
the sluggish back and forth of the wiper blades I see Cassie and Amy
Vandekemp up front with some unrecognizable silhouettes behind them;
the car moves close to the house where I can’t see from this
angle and the grumble of the engine stops. Footsteps on my front
porch and my doorbell rings. A knock, and a knock again.

I’d be happy to see them. My spirits would be lifted. Just
hearing their chattering, muffled voices out front is uplifting
enough.

I keep still, and don’t move toward the door. A last knock
comes, their footsteps file away, the car coughs to life and they
roll off down the drive.

It would have been nice to chat with them, but they don’t need
to get themselves involved.

Christopher is gone at his leadership thing, and the night is mostly
quiet. Earlier than I need to, maybe, I start some water for pasta
and warm up a loaf of bread in the oven to be ready for Chris when he
gets home later. Alan texts me three times, and three times I ignore
him. Lauren texts me too, writing: “Understand if things are
tough, let me know you’re okay?” I drop to the living
room chair and call her back because I need to hear her voice. I need
to tell her. Thankfully, she’s quick to answer.

“How did it go?” she asks.

“Not so well. It’s sort of still going.” It’s
not such an untruth, is it?

“Oh, Neil. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine. I haven’t felt sick once. I do think my
boobs are bigger. Have you noticed if my boobs are any bigger?”

I don’t have the first idea how to respond to this levity. So I
don’t.

“I’m just joking around,” Lauren says, reacting to
my non-reply. “I’m trying to cheer you up.” Out in
the living room, the landline rings.

“I’m sorry,” I say. My eyes are closed, and I’m
rubbing my left temple with my fingertips. “Something else
happened today—”

“Pregnancy can cause increased libido, too,” she adds
brightly, cutting me off. The answering machine beeps; there’s
no message, just a click after a long silence.

“Maybe I have noticed that,” I say. “A little.”
My landline rings again.

“Thought so,” she says. “It’s more than just
hormones, you know. You have a little to do with that, too.”

“Lauren, I—” The answering machine picks up, and I
cock an ear to listen.

“Mr. Neil,” a monotone voice says. “I need you to
pick up, Mr. Neil.”

“Do you need to get that?” Lauren asks. I tell her I
should, and she says: “Go answer. Everything will be okay.”
I hang up, and immediately grab my landline handset.

“Hello?”

“Oh, Mr. Neil, you’ve done something very bad, haven’t
you?” The voice is choppy, almost robotic, and vaguely
accented.

“Who is this? Are you a real person? Who are you?”

“Very, very bad. And who am I? Or who are we? There are many of
us. And you’ll be hearing from us, Mr. Neil. All of us!”
The call ends with a click. I look at the phone’s display to
see the name BALLS, INC. on the display, with a spoofed number of
000-000-0000. I put the phone back in the charger and cross my arms,
staring at it. Assholes.

I keep my arms crossed and stand in a daze.
Everything will be
okay
, she said.

God, if only that was true.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Sent: September 11, 3:40 pm

Subject: A Thought

_____________________________

So, I’ve been thinking about
this. If we move your mom into the spare bedroom here, we can rent
out the farmhouse. It would probably take me a month to get it in
shape to rent (probably even less than a month if I’m not going
to be at work), and we’d get maybe a third of what we need to
pay for you to stay in Long Term. Or, I could spend a couple months
and get everything finished here with the remodel, move in with your
mom, and rent our place out for a little more (I think it would go
for quite a bit more actually with the view from the deck).
Conservatively, I’d guess that would cover about half. I’ve
got my savings, and there’s also Christopher’s college
money, which would keep you there for at least the next three years
(or maybe even longer if he goes somewhere with a scholarship).