by R.E. Rowe
Reizo said he’d meet me, but it’s midday now and I’m worried. Something must be wrong. Ow! A pain shoots down my right arm. I take a deep breath and shake my hand. Weird. I tighten my fist and then loosen it. I’m beginning to doubt it’s a cramp.
My thoughts shift back to Reizo. Shy, but bold, his sweet sideways smile. His lips.
Summer Affair is what I’m calling my newest painting. I’m using mixed media for this one. Pastel lines over acrylic paint, charcoal over oil pastels. Reizo inspires me to try new things. Experiment even.
My painting shows a series of waterfalls flowing down 3D cliffs into a moat surrounding a medieval castle. Inside the castle tiny people stroll. Reizo and I dance in a courtyard. A string quartet plays near the courtyard.
My mind drifts backwards in time as I paint.
There was no warning the day my heart gave out. None. I ran as the third runner in the 4 x 400 meter relay. As soon as I finished the handoff, the pain stabbed my heart. It was the most pain I’d ever felt. I collapsed and rolled.
The coaches told me later I ran a 53.2 third leg. Not bad. Rah. My team finished second—go Bears.
Coach Reese and Coach Thomas saved my life. They tag-teamed me with their CPR training, managing to keep blood flowing through my veins until the paramedics arrived.
My sports career came to an abrupt end. So did friendships with my athlete friends. But it wasn’t their fault. Seriously, who wants to hang with an ex-track star? Before long, most people around school called me broken-hearted.
Cell phone videos hurt the most. Over twenty surfaced showing me doing a face plant and roll on the track. Totally embarrassing. Lucky for me, Mom did the lawyer thing. She enlisted her law partners to get all the videos removed as soon as they appeared. I have no clue how she did it. Eventually, the videos were gone, but people still talked. That was when they renamed me from broken-hearted to smiling Aimee. Why does everyone get a nickname anyway?
I put my brush in the Mason jar and stand up to walk around. My shoulder aches, the pain spreads. My heart? I exhale in one burst of breath and shake out both hands as I pace around the pond.
Where could Reizo be?
WELCOME TO THE CLOUD
Login: general
Password: *********
How may I be of service, General?
>>system status
running..............
Cloud: I am done with system check.
>>report
System Online
Cloud Memory: Online
Upload Status: Unstable
Download Status: Unstable
Pairing Status: Unstable
Experience bell curve status: Deviating
Error rate: Above Norm
>>special status update
Password: *********
15 Followers Active
89 Followers Lost
13 Enforcers Active
56 Enforcers Terminated
475,349 Innocents Lost
Warning: Unrest building
>>search special status
Password: *********
18 Followers Active
>>logout
Good-bye General
Login:
chapter twenty
White walls. Florescent glow. The smell of cherry-scented sanitizer fills my nose.
I hate Dr. Stewart’s office.
After thirty minutes of waiting in the exam room and staring at the crooked red rose on the wall, I’m ready to puke on his linoleum floor.
I am alive. I am dead. Dreams strive. Feelings shred.
Waiting. And waiting. Jerk. He always makes us wait.
The sun rises. The sun sets. The dark prizes. The unpaid debts.
Finally, the door opens with a rattle, causing Mom to jump. She sits up straight in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to the examination table, where I’m dangling my legs.
Doctor Stewart rushes in and talks fast. “Good morning.” He studies my chart in one hand and uses his other to shake Mom’s hand without looking at her. Stewart completely ignores me, as usual. Stewart—zombie med pushing idiot.
“Just play along,” says Honesti. “If you don’t—”
“I ain’t sittn’ through another interrogation,” says Bouncer. “This is America. We all got rights, ’cept for Reizo, that is. He don’t deserve any.”
The idea of voices in my head having rights is ridiculous. I nearly laugh, but stay stone-faced.
The time passes. The light goes. Lifeless masses. Spirit froze.
“Sorry for the delay,” Dr. Stewart says. “We had an emergency on the second floor of the facility.”
I know what that means. I’d been one of those emergencies last year. Stewart locked me up in that hole for four days. On that day, Stewart acted like he wanted any excuse at all to keep me. When I yelled back at Bouncer in the middle of Stewart’s ridiculous exam, the doctor took the opportunity to hold me for observation.
Being stuck inside Willowgate was hell. When I tried to voice my objection to being held against my will, the doctor’s staff forced me into a ten-by-ten waiting room, with two others hugging themselves in matching white straitjackets. They said I was unsafe. After that experience, group hug has a new meaning.
I’m determined not to say a word to Bouncer or Honesti. Nope. I won’t make that mistake ever again.
Why should I care? Why do I cry? Spirits glare. Hopeless sky.
Dr. Stewart rolls up his chair, puts on his glasses, and sits directly in front of me. He looks up, finally making eye contact. Cold blue eyes shift behind bottle-lensed eyeglasses. Stewart reminds me of a praying mantis. Not the cute, fun kind, but more like a mad scientist bug, with the power to lock me up forever.
I imagine a bug in front of me, preparing to kill me.
“Reizo?” Stewart asks, his voice loud. “Reizo?”
The doctor’s face comes back into focus.
“Sorry,” I utter.
“You better get your act together,” says Honesti.
“If that’s possible,” says Bouncer.
“How are we feeling?” Dr. Stewart asks.
We?
“Fine. I’m fine. Really, I’m fine,” I say, rushing my words, glancing at the rose as if to ask it for help. “Feeling just great.”
“You’re blowing it!” shouts Honesti.
“Grab his pencil and stab his hand,” says Bouncer. “Make a run for it.”
Shut up! I want to yell, but swallow hard instead. I clench my teeth as Honesti and Bouncer argue. I force myself to think of Aimee, her blue eyes and sweeping bangs, the sparkles on her pinky fingernails.
My breathing slows.
“Very good.” Stewart scans the paper on his clipboard. He glances up at Mom, and then turns to me. Stewart’s radar locks on. “You had a difficult night recently. Is that right, son?”
“Days? Nights? Flip him the birdy, boy,” says Bouncer.
I want to yell back at Stewart. Tell him I’m not his son. But I don’t say anything. My dad is dead. Dr. Stewart knows it too. I figure the doctor is just trying to push my buttons. My breath catches in my throat. “I—”
“Yes, he did,” says Mom. She stands up and huffs. “We really must be going, Dr. Stewart. Now, is there anything else?”
Dr. Stewart takes in a long breath as he gazes at Mom. “I understand, Miss Rush, that this has been difficult. I promise, just a couple more questions, yes?”
Mom sighs. “Okay, but we’re running late.”
My chest feels as though it’s being crushed. Rapid breathing. Sweaty forehead. I try to calm myself, but can’t.
“Son? Go ahead and answer Dr. Stewart’s questions.”
Breathe. Don’t blow this exam.
I think about Aimee’s smile, her soft touch, and kind words. My breathing slows again.
Better now.
Aimee is probably waiting at the pond. Oh hell. I need to keep my act together.
I turn to Dr. Stewart a
nd concentrate, taking my time with each word. “Well, I did have a small problem. I’m pretty sure it was from lack of sleep. Mom gave me a sleeping pill. I feel better now. Back on track.”
Mom smiles, but her right cheek twitches.
I struggle to focus on Stewart’s face, my eyes shifting. If I look away now, Stewart will know I’m lying. He’ll know I’m off his meds.
I visualize the pond and stare at the mole on Stewart’s large nose. I think about painting. “Really, Dr. Stewart. I’m feeling better. Thank you, sir.”
I force a large smile and repeat my poem to myself.
I am alive. I am dead.
Dreams strive. Feelings shred.
The sun rises. The sun sets.
The dark prizes. The unpaid debts.
The time passes. The light goes.
Lifeless masses. Spirit froze.
Why should I care? Why do I cry?
Spirits glare. Hopeless sky.
“Good. Very good.” Stewart takes my blood pressure. “Your pressure is a little high, but not bad.” The doctor listens to my heart. “Good.” He moves backwards and scribbles something on the chart. “Are you experiencing any new problems or issues you wish to speak about?”
Hell no. It’s totally a trick question, but I’m not sure how to respond. I hesitate while I weigh each possible response and every reasonable outcome.
Mom starts to answer, but Dr. Stewart holds out a hand to stop her.
“Speak to the hand, huh. More like speak to the fist.” Bouncer starts to sing, “Stop in the name of love.”
I hide my smile.
“Stop it,” says Honesti. “Good, Reizo. Stay focused. You’re almost done.”
“Really. I’m feeling good today.” Another total lie, but I sound convincing.
“I’d like to keep you for a couple days of observation.”
My heart skips.
“Oh no,” says Honesti. “Not the straitjacket.”
Dr. Stewart continues. “If you promise to stay in bed for three days, I think we can agree to let you return to your home. It is quite unfortunate, but all the rooms at the hospital are full. We have one or two for special cases. But I think you will do as I ask and stay in your own bed for three days, yes?”
“Yes sir,” I say with a fake smile and fake respect.
At the same time, Bouncer and Honesti say, “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll make sure he stays in his room,” Mom says. “Not a problem, doctor.”
Stewart scribbles something on a small piece of paper. “Let us up the dose for two weeks, then taper back to the regular dose.” He glares at me. “I have something else I want you to take, but only for three days.”
“Sure. Whatever you think.”
There’s no way in hell I’m taking another one of his meds. I’d love to force Stewart to take some of his own medicine. Literally.
“Good.” The doctor stands up, pulls out a handful of pill samples from his pocket, and then hands the samples to Mom. “Stop the normal sleeping pill for three days. Have him take these, along with his other meds. One pill each day at breakfast time. He’ll feel quite relaxed.”
Mom nods. “What are they? Psychotropic?”
Dr. Stewart raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed with her question. But I’m not surprised. Mom understands the lingo.
“No, no. Just something to relax him a little more for a few days.”
The doctor turns to leave and I want to punch the air in triumph.
“Gag him,” says Bouncer.
“I wish someone would gag you,” says Honesti.
“In your dreams, baby,” says Bouncer.
“Don’t baby me,” says Honesti.
I push the noise as far to the back of my mind as I can.
The doctor abruptly stops and gives stares at me.
I deliver a quick innocent half-wave, like I do when my teachers get suspicious. “Thanks Doc, for everything. I really mean it.” Gag me.
“Bullcrap,” says Bouncer. “You’re so full of it.”
Stewart relaxes and continues to the door. “I’m glad you are feeling better, son.”
Screw you, Doc. I’m not your son.
“He really is,” says Mom.
“I want to see you in three months. Yes?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“You’re doing great,” says Honesti.
Before Stewart walks out of the exam room, he stops once more. “We’re on track with your treatment. I’ll send my report to the court and a copy to your parole officer. The front desk will set up your next follow up.”
Dr. Stewart turns and leaves the room without looking back.
Mom smiles and lets out a loud burst of breath, as if she’s been holding it in the entire appointment. “That went well,” says Mom, studying the pill samples. “I’ll make sure you take one of these every day before I go to work.”
“Are you really going to take the pills?” asks Honesti.
“Sure he will,” says Bouncer. “Why not? But they won’t help his sorry ass.”
Three days? Screw that.
I told Aimee I’d meet her at the pond, but I don’t have her phone number. Without a way to contact her, she’ll surely think I’ve blown her off. I groan.
As I follow Mom out of the room, I straighten the crooked rose picture.
chapter twenty-one
A day passes. Then another. And another.
How can he be so busy?
I’m changing the name of my castle painting. Summer Tragedy—an oil paint pond with 3D acrylic waterfalls in its middle. I paint over the people and the dancing. I fire the string quartet and turn them and their stage into a hedge.
I feel numb as I sit back, shifting my gaze from my painting to the vegetation around the pond. Did I say something wrong to him the other night? I allow my mind to drift and explore the feeling I get from the oak trees baking in the sun. Somehow, they give me strength.
As I begin to relax, I notice a glint of silver near the bushes where Aggie came through the other day. Maybe Uncle dropped something?
A pain shoots down my right arm when I stand. It takes a moment to catch my breath. I grab my water bottle and swallow a gulp of water, then rub my shoulder. But the ache persists.
When I reach the shiny silver, I realize it’s not a coin. I squat down to take a closer look, still rubbing at my shoulder. The silver is a piece of metal stuck in the ground. Aggie must have scuffed the dirt that had covered it.
After I brush it off, I quickly realize it’s a three-foot metal square with a handle. I grab the handle and pull.
Nothing.
I pull harder. Still nothing.
My shoulder aches, but I ignore it and grab with both hands. It doesn’t budge. Whatever the thing is, it’s buried deep.
I dig around the outside of the three-foot square to try and free it. I feel another pain under my collarbone—this time more intense, aching deep inside my shoulder joint.
A little rest at Uncle’s place is what I need before I go home for the day. Calling Mom will just freak her out and cause her to overreact. I gather up my supplies.
The bushes rustle, which is weird because there’s no wind. I suddenly feel hot, as if the sun is shining brighter.
“Ames?” a familiar voice says.
Reizo? My stomach tightens. And then I see Reizo. I smile on the inside, but frown on the outside. He’s wearing his tight jeans.
“Aimee?” His voice shakes slightly.
I feel calm energy radiating from him and look away.
“Hey,” I grumble.
“Sorry for not showing up. I was stuck at home for a few days.”
I ignore him and continue putting paints in Uncle’s old tackle box. “Did they catch you or something?”
Reizo chuckles. It sounds forced. “Nope. No way anybody could catch me.”
When I don’t say anything, he clears his throat and continues. “Just a medical thing. Not a big deal.”<
br />
Another pain shoots through my shoulder and I collapse to my knees. Oh God, it hurts. I clench my teeth and rub my shoulder.
“You okay?” he asks, standing above me.
Obviously I’m not, but what do I say? I try to relax and take in a long deep breath. “I think so. I’m having weird pains. I should go back to Uncle’s house.”
“Let me help you,” Reizo says, but I’m already on my feet.
“Ow.” I grimace. The pain is becoming more intense. There’s more going on than just a muscle pull. It must be my heart again. I’m sure of it now. I put down the paint supplies. “I think I’m getting worse.”
Reizo frowns and reaches out to help me stand. His touch is warm, but the pain in my shoulder keeps stabbing at me. I stumble again and groan.
“I’m picking you up,” he says.
“No—” Before I can finish, Reizo picks me up in his arms and jogs toward Uncle Pete’s house. God, he’s strong.
Another shooting pain goes deeper. “Ow.”
“Hang on,” he says, moving faster. His breathing is heavier as I bounce in his arms. But he hangs onto me tight.
The pain throbs, stabbing at me. I close my eyes and groan.
I feel Reizo’s concern for me. His jog turns into a run.
How he’s managing to run with me in his arms, I have no idea. I’d pictured our first embrace way differently than this one. I’d imagined sitting on the grass in front of the pond as he held me. Feeling his electricity. Kissing his lips gently, then not so gently.
Before long, we’re on the front porch of Uncle Pete’s sprawling, one-story ranch-style house. Reizo puts me down on the bench, struggling to catch his breath.
“Shut up,” Reizo whispers. He raises his voice. “She’s in trouble. Not now!”
Is he talking to himself? “What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He knocks on the front door, but Uncle Pete doesn’t answer. “Where could your uncle be?”
“Probably in the barn around back.”
“Do you have your cell phone?”
I reach into my blue jeans and groan as I pull it out. He snatches it and dials 911 before I can object.
“We have an emergency. My friend Aimee De Lucca is having chest pains.” Reizo listens for a moment, and then turns to me. “Describe the pains.”
“Stabbing shoulder pain, running down my arm, and in the chest.”
He relays the information to the 911 operator. “She has a history of heart problems,” he says, and then turns to me. “What’s the address here?”
A history of heart problems, that’s me, broken-hearted Aimee. My breathing is shallow and my face feels damp, clammy.