Never Wake (24 page)

The man seemed dumbstruck. “Look, son, I’d be happy to talk to you about this on the way.”

“Where are we going? You said we have twelve hours.”

“Yes, but it’s not safe for you to stay here.”

“Not safe?” Jakes voice grew tremulous. “Mister, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know, son. I wish I did.”

It was a lie. Jake knew it the instant the words were out the man’s mouth.

“All right, I’ll come with you, but I want to get a few things from the house first.” Jake turned away before the man could protest. He carried the bat high on his neck. He could hear the man hesitate, and then follow behind him. He looked back when he entered the house, but he didn’t stop; he continued toward his room.

He watched the man through the crack in his bedroom door. The man had a look of disgust on his face as he stepped over the food wrappers and dirty dishes on the living room floor. Jake forced himself to wait, loving the way energy surged through his muscles. He rocked from one foot to the other. He would need to do this fast because he had to pee. Come on, come on.

Mr. White Shirt hesitated, perhaps two seconds, and then began walking toward the bedroom door. Jake had to take a step forward in order to keep him in his line of sight. Jake waited until the man had his hand on the doorknob to Mother and Father’s room before he crept out of his bedroom. The man turned the knob, and the door swung open without a sound. Jake wished with all he had that he could see the look on the man’s face when he caught sight of the bed. His right hand started for his crotch but he forced it back on the bat. He shivered as his need to pee reached just the right pitch.

“Hey,” Jake whispered.

The man whirled around as if he had screamed the word, his eyes wide and his lips drawn back in silent horror.

Jake swung the bat as hard as he could. The resulting thwack would have made Father proud.

“Emma?”

“She can’t hear you, Darb.” Her father’s voice sounded tired and old.

“You don’t know that. Emma, we want you to wake up, sweetheart. There’s so much you’ve missed.”

Emma tried to turn her head toward her mother’s voice. What were they doing here? The last postcard she received was from the Fiji Islands.

“We’re so sorry.” Her father was talking to her now.

Sorry. What could they be sorry about?

“I know you don’t want to wake up. I know you’re afraid, but that man can’t hurt you anymore. He’s dead. They killed the bastard in jail.” Her mother’s voice had taken on an angry quality that Emma had grown accustomed to hearing after her grandmother’s death.

“You shouldn’t tell her that.”

“Why the hell not, Mark? Dr. Dunham says this is all psychological—that she’s afraid to wake up. Maybe if she knows he can’t hurt her anymore, she’ll feel safe enough to come out of it.”

“You know it’s not that simple.” The tone of her father’s voice told Emma that they had had this very same argument many times before.

“What would you suggest? You think we should just let her waste away in this damn bed?”

Her father’s voice had risen with his frustration level. “I don’t know. Maybe we should get another opinion.” Emma heard the scrape of fabric and imagined her father standing up and pacing. “Where is Dr. Dunham? We haven’t seen him in days. Are we supposed to just sit back and wait?”

Mom? Dad? What the hell are you talking about?
The thought was there, but her mouth wouldn’t move. Emma tried her fingers, then her toes; her throat tightened as she realized that she could neither move nor speak.

“Dr. Dunham is one of the best. If he says this might work, we have to at least try.”

“He hasn’t told us what this is, Darby. What if these drugs are hurting her?”

“And you don’t think leaving her in this bed isn’t hurting her? She would hate being stuck here all alone. Not seeing anyone. Not interacting.” The anger in her mother’s voice was obvious now, and Emma stopped struggling to speak and waited for her father’s reply. His lack of one seemed to be all the validation her mother needed.

“Emma, wake up, darling. Your father and I are right here waiting for you.”

A deep aching chasm in her heart seemed to open wider. How could they, the two people responsible for bringing her into this world, be so wrong? She had separated herself from the rest of the world.

They didn’t know her any better than they’d know a stranger. Had that been her fault? Maybe her mother had been right to be jealous of the gift. Maybe she had spent so much time with her grandmother because they had that one thing in common. And maybe she had more in common with Troy than she thought. Maybe Troy wasn’t the only one holding on to the best parts of herself for someone no longer living.

A wave of anxiety flooded though Emma. Where was Troy? Why didn’t she hear her voice? Feel her presence? For that matter, why couldn’t she feel her parents’ presence? Was she awake? Was this a dream?

“Please come back to us, Emma. We need you.” Her mother’s voice cracked and Emma felt the dig to her heart again. The one time she remembered seeing her mother cry was at Ida’s funeral. She had looked like a little girl—a little girl who had just lost her mother. Not like the socialite, globe-trotting woman that Emma had grown to tolerate.

Damn it, this makes no sen
se.

“Honey,” Mark said.

“No, don’t ‘honey’ me. I don’t understand how she could just check out like this. Just leave us to worry.”

“Darby, listen to what you’re saying. You’re getting yourself all worked up.”

“Why shouldn’t I be worked up? That’s my daughter lying in that bed.”

“She’s my daughter, too,” her father said.

“She should have listened to me. I told her to get rid of that damn clinic. It killed my mother and now it’s trying to kill her.”

“Your mother had a congenital heart problem. It had nothing to do with the clinic.”

“And what about, Emma? Are you going to tell me that her being attacked had nothing to do with the clinic? She wouldn’t have been in the same breathing space as that man if not for that damn clinic.”

“Darby, she might be able to hear you.”

“Good, I hope she does hear me because…” Emma heard a soft sob that clawed at her heart. “I just want her to wake up so I can tell her how much I love her.”

“I know you do, and I wish I could make that happen for you.”

Her mother’s tears pulled at her. She had never remembered her mother sounding so tired. She wanted to open her eyes, tell her she was there, that she was fine.

But Troy needs me, too, and she’s alone.

“Darby, why don’t you go for a walk? I’ll have you paged if she even so much as blinks.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Yes, you should. You haven’t been outside in days.”

“You’ll have them page me?”

“Of course.” There was a moment of quiet where Emma pictured them kissing goodbye. They never left each other without a kiss, but it was always on the cheek. She had never caught her parents in an impromptu embrace. Their relationship, like their kiss goodbye, was habit; only they hadn’t admitted it yet.

“It’s Daddy, sweetie. I hope you can hear me. Your mother—she’s blaming herself because you two were never close.” He paused as if trying to figure out what he would say next. Emma realized that those few short sentences were the longest he had spoken to her in years. “I don’t know how anyone could be as close as you and your grandmother, but Emma, your mother loves you. We both do.” He choked up then and Emma thought perhaps he was holding her hand.

“Emma?” The voice was soft, female, and scared. Finally, Troy was there.

“Emma, can you hear me? You don’t have to be afraid, okay? I’m not going to leave you alone. I’m going to stay right here with you.”

Alone? Doesn’t she see my father?

“Your mother and I miss you, honey. She’s just—”

“You should see the sunset,” Troy was saying, her voice was deep and thick with tears.

Emma felt the misery settling over Troy. She was scared. More like terrified. Why couldn’t she just wake up and tell them that she was okay? Why couldn’t she just fucking wake up? She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t open her eyes, and she couldn’t move anything. Terror ripped through her. Was this what was happening to all those people lying in the streets?

“I was thinking about maybe building you a bike. Would you like that, baby?”

The endearment sent a shot of adrenaline through her. Troy had never called her by an endearment before. She was doing it now because she thought Emma couldn’t hear her.
I can hear you, Troy. I’m here, I’m awake
. She screamed it, but nothing came out.

Standard, Oregon, Years ago

The Boy would have been less surprised if his grandmother had been the one that came strolling through the door of the teachers’ lunchroom. He had been expecting Pam, not Hoyt, and not carrying four pizza boxes along with a bag of clean clothes, either.

“Your teacher called and said you needed dry clothes. How’d you get that shiner?” Hoyt handed him the paper bag while glaring at his face.

The Boy told him the truth because he had overheard Ms. Carter tell the story when she had called his house. He had been beaten up and he refused to say who did it. He had wet his pants during the beating. What he didn’t tell Hoyt, or anyone else for that matter, was that this wasn’t the first time he had done either of those things. The difference was this time it happened at school, and he couldn’t change out of his dirty (often pissy) clothes before anyone saw them.

When his story was finished The Boy expected Hoyt to get mad, but all he said was, “Go change out of them clothes.”

The Boy hurried into the small bathroom and began taking off his wet pants. He was shaking and it wasn’t because of the clammy underwear he had just pulled off. He didn’t want to make Hoyt madder by taking too long, so he dropped his wet clothes in the paper bag and shoved the bag beneath the sink. He did take the time to wash his hands before opening the door and walking back out to the teachers’ lunch room.

Hoyt was standing in front of the long table looking down at the pizza boxes as if he were trying to make a difficult decision.

“What kind of pizza you like, boy?” He hadn’t expected that. He expected Hoyt to beat the names of the bullies out of him. He kind of hoped he would. He wanted them to get in trouble; he just didn’t want to be called a snitch. “Piss boy” was bad enough.

“Just cheese,” he said under his breath, and waited for the look of utter disgust that always came across Hoyt’s face when he didn’t ask for pepperoni.

“That’s what I thought.” He opened a box and turned it toward The Boy. “How many can you eat?”

“Two, sir,” he said politely, not believing that his daddy could be so kind. Hoyt nodded. “Take three and put ’em on that plate there,” he said.

The Boy was quick to do as he was told. He waited, unsure as to what he should do next. Hoyt placed four slices of combination on a plate and set it aside.

“All right, so this is what you do,” Hoyt said slowly. His hand was going to his belt and The Boy looked away, tears coming to his eyes. He was going to get whupped ’cause he’d peed his pants. ’Cause he had embarrassed Hoyt. He cupped his crotch roughly. The pressure began to build.

“You’re gonna go out there and invite those boys that beat you up in for a pizza party. Don’t invite no friends, you understand me?”

“Yes sir.” That would be easy; he had no friends.

Hoyt unbuckled his belt and he felt the first real prickle of pee come out. He shifted from one leg to the other. It would hurt more if his legs were wet. He knew that from other times.

“You got to pee again, don’t you, boy?”

The Boy hesitated and told Hoyt he did have to go. He hoped Hoyt would let him go relieve himself before he whipped him. Wet legs only made it worse.

Hoyt chuckled and put his hand on the back of The Boy’s head. “You’re just like me. I always had a weak bladder. Your grandmamma used to try all kinds of home remedies to get me to stop wetting my bed. Even went so far as to invite the most popular boys on the block over to the house for a sleepover.” Hoyt rocked back on his heels and the belt buckle clinked against one of the buttons on his Levis. “Nah, that ain’t true. She went to their mommas and asked them. They came over kicking and screaming and you know why she did it?”

The Boy shook his head unable to picture his grandmother doing anything besides sitting in her rocking chair.

“She did it so they would tease me when I wet the bed. And I did wet the bed, and they did tease me. It didn’t stop me, though. I didn’t stop for another two years. Only then, I had to deal with wetting the bed and everyone and their momma knowing about it.”

The Boy started to feel sorry for Hoyt. He knew how it felt to be teased and not be able to escape.

“I got her back. Got them all back. The boys who teased me and your grandmother.” Hoyt’s voice was so conversational that The Boy had almost forgotten that he was about to get a spanking until the clink of Hoyt’s belt reminded him.