A Different Blue (19 page)

“Wh-what?”

“I just need, I mean, I don't want my pee sitting in there with my name on it. Can I have it please?”

The nurse stared at me like I was crazy. Then she tried to reassure me. “Everything is completely confidential. You understand that, right?”

“I want to go now. Will you please give me my pee?”

The nurse stood and opened the door, her eyes darting back and forth like she was looking for something to taser me with.

“And there is no such thing as completely confidential!” I pushed out of the little room, purse in hand, on a mission to find my labeled sample. I suddenly felt as if my life had narrowed to that label, to my name on a white sticker, pressed to a pee sample. I was crossing the Rubicon. This was it. And that label was all I could think about.

The nurse seemed shaken but didn't argue with me. She handed me my sample, and her hands trembled. I took it and ran, like a thief at a convenience store, hoping nobody could identify me, knowing the likelihood of getting away free was slim to none, knowing my problem had just gotten ten times worse. Yet, like the thief, I felt amped on adrenaline, buzzed at the decision I'd made. Euphoric with the power I had to flush my life right down the tubes . . . or protect a life, whichever way you looked at it. Speaking of flushing, I still gripped the urine sample close to my chest. I set it on the dashboard in my truck and stared at my name under the dim dome light.

Blue Echohawk. Date: March 29, 2012. Time: 5:30 pm. Beyond the interior of my truck, it was dark already. In Vegas in the winter, the sun set around five o'clock. It was fully dark now. I looked at my name again. I thought of Cheryl's words to me that awful day when drowning had seemed to be a more palatable alterative than living without Jimmy.

“
He didn't even know your name. He said you just kept saying Blue, Blue, Blue. So that's what he called you. It kinda stuck, I guess.”

Blue Echohawk was not my name. Not really. Maybe I had been named Brittney or Jessica or Heather. Maybe Ashley or Kate or Chrissy, God forbid. '
I'm nobody. Who are you?'
The poem taunted me. It suddenly bothered me that I could have a child, and that child would not know
her
mother's name either. The cycle would continue. I pulled the sticky label from the sample and stuck it on my shirt, needing to declare who I was, if just for my own piece of mind. Then I threw the cup out the window and begged Karma to forgive me, knowing it was gross and that I would be stepping in dog poop or vomit soon because the universe would demand retribution in kind.

Chapter Thirteen

I found myself in front of Wilson's house. There was construction debris piled to the side, and it looked as if the roof was being redone. Light shone from all the windows and the wide front stairs were lit in the soft glow from the light shaped like an antique brass lantern that was hung by the door. I climbed out, not knowing what in the hell I was doing but desperate for companionship. For safety. I didn't know where else to go for either. Mason would have to be told, but I wouldn't be telling him tonight.

There was a little intercom by the door and the sign that said Pemberley. The intercom was new. I pressed it once, wondering if an alarm sounded inside the house. I pressed it once more, and Wilson's voice came through the speaker, sounding ridiculously like a stuffy English butler. It was such a perfect complement to the house that if I had been in any other state of mind I would have laughed hysterically.

“It's Blue Echohawk. Can I talk to you . . . for a minute . . . please? I don't need to come in. I'll just wait out here . . . on the steps.”

“Blue? Are you all right? What happened at school?” The concern was evident even through the intercom, and I bit my lip to hold back a sob. I shook myself briskly. I didn't sob.

“I'm fine. I just need . . . to talk to someone.”

“I'll be right down.”

I sank to the step, waiting, wondering what in the world I was going to say. I wouldn't tell him I was pregnant, I was sure of that. So why was I here? The sob rose up again, and I moaned, wishing I knew how to let it out without coming completely undone like I had in the dark hallway of the school, listening to Wilson play, two months before.

The door opened behind me, and Wilson plopped down beside me on the step. He was in jeans and a T-shirt again, and I fervantly wished he weren't. His feet were bare and I looked away, suddenly overwhelmed by despair. I needed a grown-up – an authority figure – to reassure me, to tell me it was all going to be okay. Wilson in jeans and bare feet just looked like another kid without any answers. Like Mason or Colby, like a boy who wouldn't have a clue what to do if he were in my shoes. I wondered if his feet were freezing and decided I needed to get to the point.

“Remember when you told us about Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon?” I blurted out.

Wilson reached over and touched my jaw, turning my face toward him.

“You look knackered.”

I wrenched my chin free and pushed his hand away. I rested my head on my knees.

“Blue?”

“No, I'm not knackered, or knickered or whatever the hell that means.”

“Knackered means exhausted, knickered means something else entirely, but I'm grateful you are neither,” Wilson said dryly. I made a note to find out what knickered meant.

“So . . . Julius Caesar, eh? You needed to talk to me about Julius Caeser?”

“You said he knew when he crossed that river that he wouldn't be able to go back, right?” I prodded.

“Yes?”

“Well what if you crossed the Rubicon . . . and you didn't know it was the Rubicon. What then?”

“I assume we are speaking hypothetically.”

“Yes! I messed up! I can't fix it, I can't go back, and I have no idea what the crap I'm going to do.” The sob broke from me once more, and I covered my face, regaining control of myself almost immediately.

“Ah, Blue. It can't be that bad, can it?”

I didn't answer, because that would require telling him how truly bad it was.

“Nobody died.”
Not yet
. I pushed the guilt away. “No laws were broken, I'm not suddenly growing a mustache, I don't have terminal cancer, and I haven't gone deaf or blind, so yeah, I guess things could be worse.”

Wilson reached over and gently swept a strand of hair from my eyes. “Are you going to tell me what the problem is?”

I swallowed, fighting for composure. “I have tried to change, Wilson. Remember when we talked about redemption? That night my car wouldn't start, that night we were rescued by Larry and Curly?”

Wilson grinned and nodded, tucking my hair behind my ear. I tried not to shudder as his fingers touched my skin. He was trying to comfort me, and I welcomed it, wishing I could lay my head against his shoulder while I unburdened myself. He pulled his hand back, waiting for me to continue.

“That night . . . something happened to me. Something I've never felt before. I was heartbroken and sick inside. And I prayed. I cried out for love, not even knowing that love was what I asked for. I needed to feel loved, and it was just . . . just poured down on me. No strings, no ultimatums, no promises required. Just freely given. All I had to do was ask. And I was . . . changed by it. In that moment, I felt . . . healed.” I looked at him, willing him to understand. He seemed engrossed by what I was saying, and I felt encouraged to continue.

“Don't get me wrong. I wasn't perfected by it. My trials weren't even taken away. My weaknesses weren't suddenly made into strengths, my struggles weren't any different. My sorrow didn't miraculously become joy . . . but I felt healed all the same.” The words poured out of me, words that described a feeling I had pondered over and over since that night. “It was as if the cracks were filled, and the stones around my heart were broken up and swept away. And I felt . . . whole.”

Wilson stared at me, his mouth hanging open slightly. He shook his head as if to clear it and rubbed the back of his neck like he didn't know what to say. I wondered if I had made any sense at all, or if he would start insisting I was knackered all over again.

“That is possibly the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.”

It was my turn to stare at him. His eyes held mine until I turned away, embarrassed by the praise I saw there. I felt his eyes on my face, clearly pondering what I'd said. After a minute he spoke again.

“So you have this incredible experience. You call it redemption. You've obviously thought about it a great deal . . . and now you're convinced that you've messed up so badly that, what? You can't be redeemed again?”

I hadn't thought about it that way. “It's not that . . . not really. I guess I just believed that I had moved beyond my old self. And now . . . I find that I can't escape the mistakes I've made.”

“So redemption didn't save you from consequence?”

“No. It didn't,” I whispered. And that was it. Redemption
hadn't
saved me from consequence. And I felt betrayed. I felt like the love that had been poured over me had been withdrawn before I'd had a chance to prove I was worthy of it.

“So what now?”

“That's why I'm here, Wilson. I don't know what now.”

“And I can't advise you since you won't tell me what the problem is,” Wilson plied gently.

When I didn't respond he sighed, and we sat, looking out over the street at nothing, our thoughts filled with things we could say, but saying nothing at all.

“Sometimes there is no rescue,” I concluded, facing what was before me. I still didn't know what I was going to do. But I would manage. Somehow.

Wilson propped his chin in his hands and eyed me thoughtfully. “When my dad died, I was lost. There was so much that I regretted about our relationship, and it was too late to fix it. I joined the Peace Corp – mostly because my dad told me I wouldn't last a day – and spent two years in Africa working my arse off, living in pretty primitive conditions. Many days I wanted to be rescued from Africa. I wanted to go home and live at my mum's and be taken care of. But in the end, Africa saved me. I learned a lot about myself. I grew up – found out what I wanted to do with my life. Sometimes the things we want to be rescued from can save us.”

“Maybe.”

“Are you going to be all right, Blue?”

I looked at him and tried to smile. He was so serious. I wondered if he had been less so when his dad was alive. Somehow I doubted it. He was what Beverly called a mensch. An old soul.

“Thank you for talking to me. Cheryl's not great with heavy conversation.”

“Did you try Mason or Colby? They seem well-suited to solving the world's problems.”

I giggled, the laughter easing the tightness in my chest.

“I've made her laugh! Brilliant! I am good.”

“Yeah, Wilson, you're good. A little too good for the likes of Blue Echohawk. But we both knew that.”

Wilson agreed, acting as if my comment was in jest. Then he stood, pulling me to my feet after him. He walked me to my truck, tucked me inside, and pinched my cheek like I was five and he was one hundred and five.

“Six weeks, Echohawk, and the world is yours.”

I just shrugged and waved, the weight of that world heavy on my shoulders and farther from my grasp than ever before.

Graduation was held on a late May morning out on the football field. It meant plenty of seats on the hard bleachers for family and friends and relatively bearable temperatures. I say relative because it was 90 degrees at ten am. I was extremely nauseous and the heat didn't help. I considered ditching, but wanted my moment. I wanted to wear my cap and gown, receive my diploma, and silently give the bird to all the haters that rolled their eyes when I walked by or thought I would drop out before the end of sophomore year. But I had made it. Just barely, but I had. Unfortunately, I ended up racing for the bathroom minutes before we were supposed to line up to make our entrance. I threw up what little was in my stomach and tried to breathe through the aftershocks, my stomach heaving and rolling like an angry sea.

I gathered myself together, rinsed my mouth, and dug in my purse for the crackers I had started to carry everywhere I went. I was almost four months along. Wasn't the morning sickness supposed to ease up by now? I ate a cracker, gulped a little water from the faucet – trying not to wonder how much chlorine it contained – and fixed my makeup where my eyeliner had smeared and left black smudges under my eyes. Then I slicked on some lip gloss, re-attached my sneer, and walked back to the cafeteria where all the graduates were gathered, only to find that they had left to make their entrance without me. I sank down at a lunch table and began to ponder why my life sucked so much. There was a lump in my throat that pounded with the ache in my heart. I couldn't go out there now. I had missed it.