The Indifferent Children of the Earth by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 29, Tuesday 27 September
Worse than the smell of blood is the too-clean smell of antiseptic. As I walked through the hospital, that was all I could think. The way they mask something deeper. Pain, maybe. Sickness. Loss. Burying all those things under layer after layer of bright, chemical safety. The way blood can be wiped off steel, apparently gone, but leaving traces, poisoning the metal.
The hospital halls, long and shining white, filled with abandoned gurneys and wheelchairs, like the ghosts of so many dead and forgotten, swallowed me up. I barely noticed the doctors and nurses, the patients and loved ones, who swirled around me—flotsam on a flooded river that I no longer swam in. I was alone, apart.
Dad’s words echoed off the cheaply painted walls, bouncing back and forth between the sounds of hospital—nurses’ voices pitched low and soothing and lying, doctors’ pens scratching out answers, and underneath it all, the sound of pain, a low, universal moan that set my teeth on edge. Your mom tried to kill herself.
Why? What had happened? It didn’t make any sense to me; she and Dad, even when grieving, had seemed to be coping. She had been so active, first with me in the hospital, then with the move, and most recently with the garden. Always busy. I had thought she and Dad just were trying to avoid me; oh, they couldn’t have known I was responsible for Isaac’s death, but they blamed me nevertheless. For having survived when Isaac hadn’t. And now I knew that, for my mom, this was a world she couldn’t live in. That thought broke something in me. How could I blame her? This was a world that I didn’t want to live in either. But to know that I had brought her to this point, that my selfishness with Christopher had caused this chain reaction of death, it welled up inside me like a hurricane.
A nurse directed me to my mom’s room, her voice that even measure of practicality that most nurses used. The way the nurses had spoken to me when I woke from the coma. The way they had spoken to me when I wouldn’t eat, and they had told me, in those flat, emotionless tones, that they would put a feeding tube down my throat if I didn’t eat. I still don’t know if that was a lie, but it was enough to make me eat, at least until they released me from the hospital. Funny that lately, I had been eating so well. All that food weighed in my stomach, days and days of accumulated treachery, threatening to revolt. I stopped, almost collapsed against one corner, my cheek pressed to a metal plate. Cool and grounding. I swallowed, tried to keep myself from vomiting against the smells, the memories.
When I entered Mom’s room, I didn’t know what to expect. She was lying there, eyes closed, those dark-as-earth eyes hidden from me. All their secrets hidden as well. Her long, beautiful dark hair fell over one side of her face, another barrier between us. Thick white bandages around both forearms. Dad, sitting in a chair by her side, looked up when I walked in. He looked so much older tonight—his shoulders slumped, new lines around his eyes, cheeks sagging. He came over to where I stood in the doorway and wrapped me in a hug.
And then he started to cry.
We stood there, like that, for a long time. Me, stiff, uncomfortable, never more fully aware of the guilt that cut me off from my dad. Him, crying, clutching me tight, oblivious to what I had done, to how I had destroyed our family.
When I cried, I cried for myself.
After a while, Dad stepped away, wiped his eyes, offered a weak smile. “She’s going to be ok.”
“What happened?”
We sat down in matching chairs next to her bed.
“I hadn’t seen her since the morning, and it was already afternoon. I . . . I went outside, to look for her, and I found her in the flowerbed behind the great room. There was blood on her wrists, so much blood, but I couldn’t tell how long she’d been there. I called the ambulance, tried to stop the bleeding. I don’t know, I don’t know what happened. I thought moving here, I thought moving would help us. Make it easier.”
“It’s not your fault, Dad,” I said.
“I should have known,” he said. “The way she was spending so much time in the yard. I thought when she stopped crying herself to sleep that things were getting better. I ignored the way she drew away from us, how she started locking everything up inside. I should have talked to her. I should have done something.”
“Dad,” I said, my voice cracking. “It’s not your fault.”
He glanced at me, his eyes red. “What are you talking about?”
“This,” I gestured to the bed, and then between the two of us. “All of this, it’s my fault.”
“What are you saying?”
“Isaac—” I almost bit my tongue, forcing the words out. They needed to know. So they wouldn’t blame me. “It’s my fault, Dad. Isaac’s death is my fault.”
“Oh my God,” Dad said. He put one arm around my neck and pulled my head against his shoulder. “Don’t ever say that, Alex. It was not your fault.”
I shook, so bad I could barely keep the words tripping off my tongue, but I made myself speak into his chest, into that smell of typewriter ribbon and deodorant and something that was just my dad. “I did, Dad, I did. I killed him. He followed me there, that night. I snuck out, I wasn’t supposed to go, Isaac told me not to go. I was going to meet Christopher. And I went anyway, and he followed me. He shouldn’t have been there; I could have saved him, could have stopped all of it, and I didn’t.” I kept talking, rambling through the same phrases again and again, trying to explain as best I could without telling him about quickening, about the focus Christopher had crafted, about why I should have stopped him long before that night. Eventually my words just became sobs, and my sobs became ragged breaths, until finally I realized I was calm. Not at peace, really. But like being in the wake of a great storm.
Dad lifted my head, his hand still on the back of my neck, and kissed me on the forehead. “You dear boy,” he said, looking me in the eyes, speaking soft and low. “Your brother loved you more than anything. He would have followed you into hell itself. Isaac never would have blamed you for anything that happened to him. It was his choice that night to follow you, and he did it because he loved you. Don’t take that away from him by claiming it was all your fault. Isaac is at peace now, God bless him. You have to let the dead go, Alex, and you have to worry about the living.” He glanced over at my mom, then back at me. “I don’t think any of us in this family are particularly good at that, but we need to start. Tonight. No more guilt. No more hiding. No more holding onto the past.”
He let me go then, and I sank into my chair. My throat and my eyes were burning, but I looked at my dad with newfound respect. I didn’t feel better exactly, but I did feel relieved. Like a bridge had opened up between us, a way back to somewhere, something we had been once. Inside, though, there was a great deal of numbness, like a raw wound that would hurt only when touched.
“You need to go home, get some sleep,” Dad said.
“I want to stay with Mom,” I said.
“I know, Alex. But right now, you need to go home and sleep. She’s going to sleep through the night; she lost a lot of blood, and I’m pretty sure the doctors are keeping her sedated. Besides, they’re going to keep her for a few days for observation. So go home, eat something, sleep. In the morning, she’ll be awake and you can talk to her. Besides, I need you to bring me a change of clothes.”
I realized that his clothes were covered in dried blood and—now—had a large, wet patch where I had been crying. “Alright. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
“Drive safe,” Dad said.
I turned and started out of the room, but at the doorway, Dad’s voice stopped me.
“Alex,” he said.
I looked back at him.
“I mean it. No more hiding.” At my confused look, he shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “I know your brother and I weren’t always accepting about Christopher, but I don’t want you to feel that you have to hide things from me. If your friend Mike is going to come over, he doesn’t need to come through the window, and you don’t need to keep him hidden up in
I stared at him, my face red. Somehow, the entire tone of our conversation had shifted, and suddenly I felt a very familiar mixture of embarrassment and frustration with my dad. I didn’t know what surprised me more—the fact that he knew Mike had been coming over, or that he thought that—
“Dad, Mike and I aren’t—” I stopped, trying to figure out how to say this. “We’re just friends.” Doubt remained on his face. “I’m dating Olivia.”
“I know,” he said. “But I’m just saying, you don’t need to hide anything from us.”
“Night, Dad.”
“Goodnight, Alex. Drive safe.”
The drive home, along those long stretches of corn and shadow and moonlight, with nothing but the whip of the wind in my ears and the rumble of the motorcycle underneath me, kept thought at bay for a time. I just was. Existing in the fractions of time that, although discrete, blended into the drawn out passage across an endless expanse of night, as though I cut through some invisible barrier between the dome of stars above me and the land that, in its flatness, hid itself from me, but all the while holding me, locating me, fixing me in place even as I moved.
When I got home, I went through the always-unlocked front door, to the kitchen, where I grabbed the phone and called Olivia. Her cell phone went straight to voicemail, so I called her house.
After perhaps a dozen rings, someone finally picked up the phone. “Hello.” The voice was unrecognizable.
“Hi,” I said. “Is Olivia there?”
“Hi Alex, it’s Shane,” the voice said. He was so hoarse, or perhaps so congested, I hadn’t realized it was him. “Olivia’s not feeling well, so she’s gone to sleep early. I’ll tell her you called.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Oh, and Alex,” Mr. Weir said.
“Yes sir?”
“I’m so sorry about your mom. Please let me or Cheryl know if there’s anything we can do to help.”
I felt a knot in my throat; somehow they already knew. “Thank you,” I said.
I hung up the phone. That was the curse of a small town; everyone already knew your business. Sometimes, they knew it before you did. But this was the first time I had been confronted with the full reality of that fact. It made me irrationally angry; I had wanted to tell Olivia, had wanted to hear that calm, unwavering optimism in her voice. I needed her right now—needed to feel my love for her, to remind me that there was still something good in my life. Instead, I’d gotten her dad, and his calm awareness of my family’s problems.
Taking the phone with me, in case anyone called, I went upstairs. I gathered a change of clothes for my dad, packed it in a bag with some toiletries, and then went to my room. After a quick shower, I pulled back the covers and started to climb into bed. And then I saw the note.
Heard about your mom, I’m really sorry. Give me a call if you need to talk.
No name, but the sloppy, masculine handwriting and the fact that it was in my bedroom gave away the author. Mike.
I hesitated, glancing at the phone on the desk. A part of me wanted to call Mike, wanted to be near him, although I knew it would just leave me more confused. What I needed, what I really wanted, was Olivia. The way she smelled, the way it felt when I stood close to her, close enough that every breath I drew seemed compressed, as though the air were denser near her. The feel of my hand moving up her thigh.
But she was sick, and already asleep, and I was alone and hurting. I picked up the phone and dialed Mike’s number.
The same raspy voice answered. “Hello.”
Before I could speak, I heard a rustling, something rasping over the speaker on the other end, and then Mike’s voice, even and hovering on the edge of depth. “Hello.”
“Hey,” I said.
“Do you really not have my cell phone number?” was all he said. And then he hung up with a click.
Irritation flickered to life; I knew it had been a mistake to call him. I didn’t know what I was thinking; things were great with Olivia. I liked her; she liked me. She was perfect for me, actually. And Mike—well, he barely gave me the time of day when I wasn’t teaching him something about quickening. I was being an idiot, letting memories of the past, of Christopher, shape my relationships in the present. I needed to be like Isaac. I wanted to be like Isaac. Mike was just a friend. And that was ok—I needed friends. Hell, I needed a brother. Maybe Mike could be a brother.
“You alright?”
Mike stood in the bathroom doorway behind me, the silver traveling focus dangling from one hand. There had been no sound, no light. Not even the faint ruffle of disturbed air. All signs of competent traveling. He was getting better. His normally carefully combed blond hair was matted in the back, the swoop of hair over his forehead disheveled. Mike wore a pair of gym shorts that looked slightly too small and a stained t-shirt. It was tight across his shoulders, revealing the outline of his well-developed chest. He was barefoot. It looked like he had just gotten out of bed.
“What time is it?” I said.
He shrugged. “Close to midnight, I think.”
“God,” I said. “No wonder Olivia’s dad didn’t sound very happy to hear me. Did I wake your mom up?”
“No,” Mike said. He took the desk chair, spinning it around to sit down backward and face me. “She’s usually up nights even if she’s not working. Claims it’s easier than switching her sleep schedule.” He just looked at me, those light blue eyes transparent. The last glimmers of a recent quickening still swam under his skin, as though he had light running through his veins instead of blood. It reminded of Christopher, of the way he had looked before I killed him. “Want to talk about it?” Mike added.
For a moment, I thought he was talking about Christopher, and I was speechless.
“It’s cool if you don’t,” Mike said. “I just thought that’s why you called.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t know. There’s nothing to say, really. I just—” I stopped. I didn’t know why I had called him.
“Didn’t want to be alone?” Mike offered.
I swallowed, ran one hand across my eyes.
“Do you have a sleeping bag or something?” Mike said.
“What? Why?”
“I’m going camping,” Mike said. He shook his head. “I’m going to stay the night, genius. So do you have one, or are we going to share your bed?”
That thought made me swallow against the dryness in my mouth. “Yeah, down in the garage. On some shelves along the wall.”
Mike hopped up from the chair and trotted out of the room. I just sat there, staring into space, too numb and tired to think. He came back soon enough, moved the chair, and unrolled the sleeping bag on the floor. I tossed him a pillow, and then, in the space of a few breaths, we were in the dark, with nothing but our breaths to indicate life. Sleep would not come.
“I told my dad tonight,” I said finally.
“About your brother? What’d he say?”
“That it wasn’t my fault. That Isaac had gone there that night because he loved me, and that when I tried to take responsibility for that, I was denying Isaac’s sacrifice.”
“Is he right?”
That question was like sandpaper against the open wounds of my soul. “He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t know what I did, why it’s my fault. I could have stopped it, could have saved him. And I didn’t.”
“Did you want him to die?”
“How the hell can you ask that?” I said, practically shouting. I turned on my side and glared through the darkness at where I imagined Mike was. “Of course not. I loved my brother. He was . . . God, he was probably my only real friend. It’s not like it’s easy to be friends with other people when you’re a quickener.”
“So why do you want to say you’re responsible for his death?”
“Because I am!”
For a few seconds, only the irregular beat of my heart answered me. When Mike did speak, it was with that smooth, edge of depth voice that seemed to find a hollo
I really was crying now, but silently, in the dark. Alone. “No.”
“In any of the decisions that led up to that night, did you think or intend for him to be hurt or die?”
“No.”
“That night, did you actually kill him? Did you hit him with a quickening blast, or pull the trigger, or do whatever it was that caused his death?”
A long, trembling breath that seemed to carry my soul with it, out into that darkness, until there was only the rise and fall of my chest, empty inside. “No.”
“Then you need to let this go, Asa,” Mike said. “Because you’re a great guy, and you shouldn’t be carrying around so much guilt. And because some days I’m worried that you’re going to crack and be the one in the hospital bed. If I’m lucky. And if not, that I’ll be standing at your funeral, and your parents won’t even really know why I’m there.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“What?”
“Why are you here, tonight? Why are you staying here?”
“You called me,” he said. For some reason, at the time, it was a perfectly satisfactory answer. After a time, when I felt myself drifting on the edge of sleep, he started speaking again. “My dad used to hit my mom. Me too, sometimes, but mostly my mom. That was when things had gotten really bad, when he’d started drinking a lot more. God, I hated him so much, and I was so afraid of him. Afraid of that smell, the way it crept through the house. Afraid of the sound of the key sliding against the door, fumbling for the lock. Afraid of him not loving me.”
He paused, drew in a deep breath. “And you know what? I didn’t do anything to stop him.”
“How old were you?”
“Nine.”
“God, Mike,” I said. “How can you blame yourself for that? You were a kid.”
“Kind of the question I would ask you, right?” Mike said. “We’re all too good at carrying guilt around. Anyway, even after my mom got the restraining order, and then the divorce, I was afraid. And full of hate. But deep inside me, I still wanted my dad to come home. And I blamed myself for his drinking, for his leaving. For the way he had hurt my mom, even the way he hurt me.”
“Mike—”
“Just listen, Asa,” he said. “I know I’m not responsible for any of that. But some days, it’s hard to believe it.” There was a sense of causality to those words, as though they carried the weight of some hidden explanation, some logic of the soul that was hidden to me at the time. Then, with what sounded like a smile, Mike added, “Plus, as you said, it’s hard to have real friends when you’re a quickener.”
“What happened to your dad?”
“He’s still here in town, sometimes,” Mike said. “He’s a trucker, but he lives here when he’s not on the road.”
The darkness of sleep was closing over me again. I rolled over, warm, comfortable, and realized, with the hazy realization of those last moments before dreams, that I was at peace. My last thought was to ask him what had happened with Ashley, why they had fought, but it slipped away from me under the thick and shifting sands of sleep.