Dive smack, p.21
Dive Smack, page 21
And then I chuck it. I just let it rip. Starting with the night our house burned to the ground in front of my eyes with my mom trapped inside.
I describe how the flames shot through the darkened windows turning our house into a demonic jack-o’-lantern against the midnight sky. Thirteen-year-old me being carried out by a fireman, then watching him return to the blaze in a heavy coat with neon stripes. Luanne the paramedic who took my vital signs, gave me a juice box, and then injected me with something that made me sleep for hours. The Southern accent I heard today when she said ’kay and darlin’ that tripped extras in my memory. I describe her uniform, the sirens and flashing cameras, the gusts of heat, smoke, even cold. And then I confess to the guilt I feel over having a grandfather who was the Ellis Hollow fire chief but knows nothing about the box of matches I lit that night. At least as far as I can tell since we’ve read the article.
By the time we get to Bumblebee I’m segueing into the affair that caused the fallout between my dad and Uncle Phil, and how dumb I was to think it was because of me. I fill her in on the night terrors that started after the fire and how my dad had to call on Uncle Phil to help, even when they weren’t on speaking terms. I even reveal a few things about the dream states and freak-outs that are making me smack, including a repeat description of the girl with dark hair and tattoos who showed me it was okay to jump.
Iris listens through all of it without asking questions.
I pull the article out of my practice duffle and hand it to her without looking myself. She doesn’t look as horrified as I thought she would. She looks sad. For me. And this time, I accept the pity being offered without feeling ashamed. Because maybe everything isn’t always as it seems.
I rip off the tape and gauze stuck to my inner elbow and stare at the puncture. “I keep trying to convince myself the entire night was a dream—a nightmare—but that won’t justify what I did, or fill the hole that fire left in my life. And I think holding all of that in was making me lose my grip.”
Iris touches the swollen side of my face where I hit the water, her eyes red-rimmed. Then she pulls me in for a hug so tight and unexpected I worry my protective shell might crack. I haven’t cried since my mom died. I won’t. Guilt tells me I’m not allowed. I focus on the scent of her hair. Floral and minty, same as the beach towel she gave me on Monarch Night, and it helps clear away the darkness that’s been swirling in me as grotesque as the bruise on my back that everyone can see.
She pulls away and takes my hand, folding and unfolding my fingers like she’s counting my options until she’s only flipping my index finger. Down to one.
“I think you should go in there and ask your uncle why he had that nurse drug you. Or better yet why that nurse was being so sketchy.”
I shake my head, lips pressed tight.
“Why not?”
“Because I found that earring I gave her at Uncle Phil’s house. It used to belong to my mom. You heard Derek say Luanne was my uncle’s favorite pet. If he gave them to her, then maybe they’re both lying, about something. It might be better to ask my grandfather about it first. He knows the most about what happened during the fire.”
“So what’s your plan? You’re not thinking of taking off, are you?”
“No. I want to go back in there and feel him out.”
“Okay. Good. I think you should. Is there anything I can I do to help?”
“Just keep looking through the archives for a follow-up article about my mom’s suspension.” I check the time on my phone. “Shit. We have to get back.”
We race to the building and let ourselves inside. Derek is pacing the floor in exam room 212, biting his nails.
“You gotta be kidding me,” he moans. “I almost came looking for you two. Dr. Maddox called five minutes ago, asking about the holdup.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I went to the kitchen to get you a bagel because you felt sick after having your blood drawn.”
“Did he buy it?”
“Hard to tell. He paused for a long time, then told me to move you along. So move along, junior.” He flaps his hand to rush us through the door and we follow him to the fifth floor where Uncle Phil and his staff have offices. He waits while I sign in at the receptionist desk.
“Dr. Maddox is the third door down on the left.” He gives Iris a wink. “Pleasure doing business with you, French Fry. Come back real soon.”
“Don’t count on it, Shrek,” Iris says.
He turns with a chuckle and leaves through the stairwell.
Iris and I only take a few steps before Uncle Phil’s voice spills into the hallway from his office. I hold my index finger over my lips, hoping he’s with Luanne, then take Iris by the hand and inch us closer to the open door.
Uncle Phil says, “How is this time different?”
“She nearly escaped our secure ward,” a man with a nasal voice replies. “She even set one of her favorite cohorts loose to prove her beliefs. They took a new orderly down in the process, which is neither here nor there. The real news is that under a measurable amount of prodding our inpatient divulged a few things that suggest she may be developing a variation in her ability we didn’t anticipate, one that further connects her to the outpatient in our study. A form of remote messaging.”
There’s a pause that makes me hold my breath.
“I have some recent revelations to add to that discovery, as well. I’ll come find you when I through here,” Uncle Phil says. “Let’s increase her dosage of Philomax. In the last month alone the drug has proved its ability to raise levels of perception. If we see another jump we’ll know we’re really onto something.”
Iris is squeezing my arm so hard her nails are biting into my skin through my shirt.
“I’ll do that then,” the other doctor says. “But only slightly. We don’t want to eradicate our progress by having her cross over into phantasm.”
“In the meantime, I’ll see what else I can squeeze out of our outpatient.”
The other doctor shows his rat-like face a moment later, his steps arresting when his beady eyes land on Iris and me, caught in the act of eavesdropping. My choices are to make an excuse or turn and leave. But we don’t have to do either because he tugs an earlobe and nods nervously at us then walks away with his eyes on the floor. When he reaches the exit door, he turns his head to consider Iris and me one more time before leaving.
Untimely awkward detection averted.
Uncle Phil’s voice stops me from taking my next step forward.
“Sorry about the intrusion,” he says. “Dr. Aldridge may be brilliant, but he lacks boundaries when it comes to our research. You were saying?”
“I was saying, your nephew thought he recognized me when I drew his blood.”
Luanne was in the room the whole time. I squeeze Iris’s hand, wondering if her heart is beating as hard as mine.
“The boy merely asked for some juice. Perhaps to deflect his attention from the needle you were putting in his arm; I can’t be sure.”
“He asked specifically for a purple juice box,” Luanne injects. “After asking questions about my contact lenses and my life before Green Hill. I hope sending me in there wasn’t your way of testing your theories. I didn’t sign up to be a pawn in your memory game.”
“Didn’t you?” Uncle Phil snaps. “Maybe I can refresh your memory. You were offered a position as head research RN, knowing who my patients were, and jumped at the opportunity. Not to mention the handsome salary. Do I have cause for concern here as your employer? This is the second time your past has influenced your judgment. Theo was bound to meet you, eventually. But I can’t help but wonder now, based on your wary expression, if I suddenly strike you as a man who hasn’t thought through his endgame.”
There’s another pause in the conversation that lasts three blinks.
“Not usually. But you might want to keep a closer eye on your little rook. I felt something from him.”
“You felt something?” Uncle Phil makes a sound like a laugh, a chortle. “The patients must be rubbing off on you. Theo’s questions sound like standard abreaction. I am the leading authority on posthypnotic amnesia and can assure you any memories that are resurfacing are intentional on my part. Cancellation of hypnotic assignment is specific to certain triggers.”
Triggers. Like something in a person’s mind palace? Jeezus. Chip was right.
“His simple questions may have yielded simpler answers had you handled them more deftly,” Uncle Phil adds. “Instead of panicking like a schoolgirl.”
“I think you’re underestimating that kid. He’s sharper than any tack I’ve ever seen. And the girl he brought with him was just as wily.”
“Enough,” Uncle Phil says tersely. “Perhaps it’s you whom I’ve underestimated. I have Theo under excellent care and control. As for the girl who accompanied him here today, that’s another matter entirely. One I intend to deal with separately and resourcefully. Now, if you don’t mind, I am expecting him to enter this office any minute. And I believe you have the afternoon rigmarole to oversee.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” The subservient Southern sarcasm she flings at Uncle Phil isn’t lost on me. “But let me leave you with this.” There’s a blip of silence. “Your nephew thought I dropped it.”
I hear her coming and pull Iris back to the reception desk where we tuck into a small waiting area, listening to the click-clack of the nurse’s shoes. The sound grows faint enough for me to chance a peek around the corner and I see Luanne disappear into the same stairwell as Derek.
“No fucking way am I going in there.”
My annoyance with Uncle Phil starts to roll across my skin like a bad rash. I thought he’d keep our conversations out of his workplace since I’m not his patient but I guess I was wrong about him on that too.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I can’t fake not knowing who she is or what I overheard. If she and I were bound to meet anyway, then why the hell is she being so cagey?”
Iris has her hand wrapped around her throat like she’s choking. “Theo, Philomax is the name of the drug my mom was taking.”
“Are you sure?”
“I found them in her coat after she died. I didn’t know what they were and couldn’t find anything on the internet so I threw them out.”
I rewind the conversation we heard between Dr. Aldridge and Uncle Phil. “They said the drug raised a patient’s levels of perception. Do you know what they meant by that?”
Iris shakes her head.
“I’m sorry, Iris. I shouldn’t have brought you here. I wasn’t thinking—about your mom, and the stuff you told me about Uncle Phil.”
“I agreed to come,” Iris says. “I wanted to, but now—I think I’d like to leave.”
I scan the waiting room, forging an exit plan, then approach the receptionist’s desk. “Excuse me. Can I borrow a piece of notepaper?”
“Sure thing. Give me one sec.” The receptionist pushes her clear pink eyeglasses up with one finger, spins her office chair to a set of drawers, and riffles through her supplies. She glides back with exactly what I need and I write a note to Uncle Phil saying something came up and I had to cruise. Then I take Iris by the hand and we get the hell out of Dodge, using the badge we bought from Derek the Creeper.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Come-Out: Coming out or kicking out of a rotation to stop a dive’s momentum to ensure vertical entry into the water.
GP IS carrying an overflowing recycling bin to the curb when I get home. The necks of at least a dozen liquor bottles stick up in all directions like the back of a dinosaur. If he didn’t drink them all today, I might have a chance at getting some answers about the fire, at best. At worst, he’ll confirm my beliefs about Luanne Cole. Any answers will be better than none.
“Thought I might have to send the dumb dog out after you,” he says.
I’m not sure who he means until I spot Belly sitting on the stoop, tongue lolling like she’s run a million miles.
“How long has she been here?” I grab my duffle from the truck and follow GP into the house with Chip’s dog on my heels.
“She showed up about twenty minutes before you, barkin’ and whinin’ like a baby. I called Chip to let him know. Said his Mom would come by and get her later. I think he called her your girlfriend, unless he was talkin’ about someone else.”
“He was talking about the dog.”
Belly starts licking the hurt side of my face the minute I drop my duffle and crouch to unlace my shoes. I pick up a weird pine aroma and sniff her fur, but she smells the way she always does, like chlorine and wet dog. I stand and look for a new air freshener and notice our kitchen is clean. Not two guys living together clean, but shiny sink and mopped floors clean.
But that’s not the weirdest part.
Dinners is on the table. Roast chicken with potatoes and green beans. GP is watching me, his rough hands folded around a cup of coffee. I realize for the first time in months he’s freshly shaven, wearing a clean polo shirt, but neither of those things mask the discomfort on his face.
“Whatcha starin’ at? Ain’t you seen a man without a drink in his hand before?”
“Plenty. But their names never started with Bruce and ended in Mackey. You cooked?”
“Of course I cooked. A man can’t spend thirty years in a firehouse without learnin’ to cook a thing or two.”
“Why?”
“Why? Christ. You like it better when I’m drinkin’?”
“No. It’s good. I’m just asking why the sudden change.”
“Not to get too sentimental or anything, but I got the feelin’ my grandson needed me to clean it up a little. That and Curtis might have given me a hard kick in the ass with an old boot labeled reality.”
There’s something GP’s not telling me. Something that finally convinced him to give up his beloved Jack Daniel’s, which I doubt has anything to do with me asking for help with our family history.
“You gonna eat?” he says. “I ain’t got all night. Curtis is on his way to bring me to an appointment.”
“What kind of appointment?”
“The none-of-your-business kind.”
Nice to know the lack of drinks hasn’t taken the cranky out of him. I take a bite of the chicken and close my eyes, surprised by how good it tastes.
“Your coach called. Said you got into a slap fight with the pool.” He wiggles a finger at his cheek and takes a bite of his dinner.
“Guess you can see who won.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
“Not really. I’d rather talk about Luanne Cole.”
GP’s fork hovers near his mouth. “Luanne Cole?” He questions her name like he can’t put his finger on whether he knows her.
I leave the table to dig into my duffle for the newspaper articles then toss them onto the table in front of GP.
He coughs uncomfortably for a few minutes, then clears his throat and pores over each one, getting the gist of everything I know.
“This is what you came up with for your project?” His voice is reserved calm behind clenched teeth.
“No. Should it be?” He adjusts my curiosity with a stern look. “Someone left them on my truck.” I don’t go into detail about Les because it doesn’t change anything.
GP places everything on the table with shaking hands and leans back. “Kid, you better take a seat.”
“Just rip the bandage off, GP. I’ve had a weird freaking day.”
“It’s about to get weirder so strap your ass back in that seat. You said you needed a goddamn interview for your project. Wanted to know about your mom and her side of the family, right? Well, here it is.”
I blow out a noisy breath. I’m way past giving a shit about this project. But I sit, fingers laced on top of my head.
“You got your own ideas about any of this?” GP asks.
“Yep. And they’re not mutually exclusive,” I tell him. “I’m pretty sure Luanne Cole was the paramedic on duty the night our house burned down.”
“Could be.” GP covers his mouth and gets a faraway look in his eye. “I can have Curtis look into that to be sure.”
“And I think she’s in a relationship with he-ain’t-your-goddamn-Uncle-Phil. I saw her leaving his house wearing a pair of mom’s earrings.”
I slip him the half-lie knowing he’d probably go ape-shit if he knew I went to Green Hill.
“I ain’t too happy about you going over there. But the news about him and her don’t surprise me one bit. The question you oughta be asking yourself is why, because Phil Maddox only clings to people that can get him what he wants till he don’t need ’em anymore. He was always strangely ambitious, even as a kid, but motivated by the wrong things. Control. Jealousy. Recognition.”
I think about the way Uncle Phil said, I am the leading authority on posthypnotic amnesia. Like it wasn’t up for debate. Did he just like the idea of being able to do something Dad couldn’t? Up until I figured out he was messing around with Mom, I only ever saw him as good.
“I need to be in control as a diver,” I press. “And sometimes I get jealous of other guys on my team. Those things aren’t necessarily bad motivators, are they?” Even after everything I’ve learned, part of me still wants to justify his actions.
“Phil always took his jealousy and ambition to a different level. He was willing to do things most normal people wouldn’t.”
My patience snaps. “Is that it? You’re just gonna give me a bunch of anecdotes about why you don’t like Uncle Phil?”
“No, that ain’t it, smarty-pants. But there’s no such thing as black and white when it comes to the stuff you just slapped on my table. So you might want to cool your jets. As much as you favor your mother in the looks department, that fire in your eyes—the one that says you’re gonna burn it all to the ground and ask questions later—you picked that up from someone else. And it ain’t conducive to getting what you want.”
