Clear

by Jessica Park

  I look down. “Something like that.”

  “And we both know that Costa drives like a maniac and can’t be trusted to follow directions. So, here’s the deal. You’ll take our SUV, and only you are allowed behind the wheel. Sam’s truck has no backseat, and frankly, I don’t trust the cars you and Costa have.”

  “Thank you. For everything.”

  Felicia stands up and starts to walk past me. Then, she stops and lifts my chin. “I know how much you two love each other and how strong you are together. Take care of my son.”

  For the first time in days, warmth and hope run through me. “I promise, I will.”

  She leans in and hugs me so hard that it almost hurts. Her concern is as great as mine.

  Sam, her son and the love of my entire world, is now my responsibility.

  When I get back to the house, I find Costa heating up some broth on the stove.

  “Where have you been?” His clothes are wrinkled from sleeping on the couch.

  I don’t remember the last time any of us slept well. “Is Sam up?”

  “Just woke up a few minutes ago. He’s hungry, but I’m starting him on something really light because I don’t think either of us feels like cleaning up his puke again.”

  “I hear you on that.” I toss my keys onto the table. “Meet me in the bedroom. I have an idea.”

  Costa raises his eyebrows. “Sounds sexy. I’m there.”

  I laugh, and it feels wonderful to have even a moment of distraction. “History will not be repeating itself.”

  “You never know,” he calls after me.

  Sam is half-sitting against a pillow, and he shuts his eyes when I walk in. “I’m so sorry, Stella. Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I can’t even look at you. You must hate me.”

  I take a pillow and sit beside him. “Sam, stop.”

  “What I said to you yesterday…I wish I didn’t remember, but I do…every awful word.”

  “That was you detoxing and trying to get what you thought you needed. I know you didn’t mean it.”

  “There’s no excuse. I’m so sorry.”

  “Will you look at me now? Please?” I ask.

  Slowly, he does.

  “Do you see that I’m fine? Really. I’m here. I’m okay.”

  Weakly, he lifts a hand to mine. “I love you. Always.”

  “And I love you, too. Always.” I assess his appearance and notice that he’s gotten at least a little color back, but he still looks pretty wrecked. “And I have a plan.”

  “Room service!” Costa says cheerily. “I have the high-class bouillon you ordered, sir.”

  “I think I asked for a turkey sandwich.”

  “Persons who are prone to vomiting all over the place do not get sandwiches of any variety. They get the aforementioned high-class bouillon prepared by a world-renowned chef. Me.”

  Sam laughs silently. “Fine.” He reaches for the bowl but drops a hand. “Sorry. I’m just so tired. Give me a minute.”

  Costa pulls over a chair to Sam’s bedside. “I gotcha.” He lifts a spoon to Sam’s lips. “I know you’ve always dreamed of me spoon-feeding you. Today is your lucky day.”

  Sam takes another sip. “Thank you, Costa. Really.”

  “You got it.” Costa runs his hand through Sam’s hair and gives him more broth. “So, I heard something about a plan?”

  I take a breath. “Yes. I’ve been trying to figure out why it’s been so tough to get this vision power. We’re all focused on seeing Toby, right? So much of death tripping seems to be hooked into emotion and…ties, connections. I think that we might have a better chance if we tried at the last place Toby was.” I pause while this sinks in. “At the Bishops’ cabin up north.”

  Costa keeps lifting the spoon to Sam, and I wait out the quiet while the idea settles.

  “I don’t know,” Costa starts.

  “I can’t imagine either of you wants to go back there, but…do you see that this might work?”

  Sam finally speaks, “It’s up to you, Costa. What do you think?”

  He clears his throat and swallows hard. “I…I think it’s a good idea.” He is on the verge of crying, but he stops himself. “I have some of Toby’s things at my place. I’m going to bring those up. It could help.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “It’s a great idea. Pictures, clothes, toys…anything of Toby’s. The more familiar things at the cabin, the better. Doesn’t that just feel right? We’ll go up there, let Sam heal completely, and try again. If we’re all in the right frame of mind, we’ll have a better shot.”

  Costa nods, his eyes shining with tears. “Thank you. It’s really smart. Death tripping really is about mood.”

  “It’s going to work. It will.” I know I’m right about this. I have to be. “Sam, just rest some more, and I’ll pack us up. Costa, get your stuff, and we’ll meet back here in a few hours.”

  Sam groans. “Work. I have to work. My parents—”

  “I talked to your mom. She gave me the key to the cabin and her car.”

  “I don’t want to know what you said to her.”

  I smile. “No, you don’t.”

  Sam swings a leg off the bed. “I can help pack.”

  “No, you can’t,” I say firmly. “You stay in bed until we roll you into the backseat of the car, okay?”

  Sam sighs but agrees. “I’m so useless.”

  “You’re anything but.” Costa pats his hand. “I’ll be back.”

  I help Sam finish the rest of the broth and then insist that he sleep a little more. He’s too tired to protest, so I tiptoe around his room and gather clothes for him before heading to my place to do the same. I look up the cabin location online, and it should take us just under three hours to get there. Whether it’s a rational thought or not, I feel the need to leave as soon as possible. As much as I love Watermark, we’re all suffocating here right now.

  Costa scowls when I inform him that I’m driving, but I’m not the thrill seeker out of the bunch. The last thing I’m up for is Costa drag-racing north. He pouts while we help Sam into the backseat. While I’m a big believer in always wearing seat belts, I relent this one time and agree that Sam is better off lying down across the seat and being comfortable.

  “If we have an accident and he dies”—Costa winks—“we can just start this detoxing fun all over!”

  “Shut up,” Sam grumbles as he falls against the leather seat.

  Felicia and Micah handed over a luxury SUV, and I won’t deny that it’s a treat for me to get to drive a fully loaded car. The GPS befuddles me though. Costa finally gets irritated with my inability to properly enter the address in Willow, Maine, and he slaps my hand away. As I’m pulling out of the driveway, he starts blasting music.

  “We’re not listening to Bret Michaels!” I insist. “It’s not happening.”

  “Technically, this is Poison. But fine.”

  “Corby,” Sam says hoarsely. “Corby.”

  Now, it’s my turn to slap Costa’s hand. “Put on Matt Corby, or I’ll find a way to kill you for real.”

  “Okay, okay. Sam’s the boss.”

  Sam pulls a blanket over himself. “I hate Springsteen.”

  Costa laughs. “Close your eyes and rest, buddy.”

  But under his breath, Costa starts humming “Born to Run,” and I giggle despite myself.

  The drive is smooth with little traffic midweek, and we get to the town of Willow in good time. Sam has slept nearly the entire drive, and he only awoke moments ago. He says that he has enough energy to come into the local market with us. We really have gone from one small town to another, but the upscale grocery store has a very nice selection, and we load up two shopping carts with fresh produce, meat, and pantry items. Also, we pick up enough liquor to get the three of us through the next few weeks. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.

  “Hey, remember that guy who sold seafood from that stand on the side of the road? We should stop th
ere, too,” Costa says enthusiastically. “Are you getting hungry, Sammy?”

  I’m happy that Sam nods.

  “A little.” He coughs hard. “Good crab.”

  “Totally. I could be up for a crab and shrimp boil.” Costa gathers a few more ingredients that we’ll need.

  “Firewood,” Sam says. “Cold at night.”

  He’s still so pale, and I can see that this walk through the store is exhausting. I want to get him to the cabin as soon as possible, so I hurry us along until Costa stops. He’s staring at a shelf. Sam and I move to stand on either side of him.

  Costa shoves his hands in his pockets. “Guys, it’s okay. I just…I don’t know if I should bother buying diapers and wipes and Cheerios and stuff. A sippy cup. I shouldn’t…I mean, that’s dumb. I don’t even know how old he might be, if he’s aged. You know, if he’s even still down there.”

  Sam takes a package from the shelf in front of us and puts it in his cart. “He used to like these.”

  Costa brightens. “Applesauce. I forgot.”

  “And yogurt.” Sam is starting to labor hard.

  “Blueberry.” Costa puts an arm around Sam and helps him stand.

  “And peach.”

  I promised Sam’s mother that I would take care of him, so I’m officially calling time on this shopping trip. “I’ll get the yogurt and some of these other things. You help Sam to the car. Right now, please. Maybe we’ll run out later to get the seafood?”

  “You got it. I’ll go after we get settled,” Costa says.

  The drive from the market to the cabin is about twenty minutes, and Sam is passed out cold for the short ride. Costa signals me to make a right at a small red sign, and we drive through evergreen trees that form a tent of foliage over us. The dirt road ends, and I park the car.

  This cannot be right.

  “Costa?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where’s the cabin?”

  “What do you mean? It’s right here.” He squints at me. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “What the hell is wrong with all of you for calling this a cabin?”

  I blink at the log—I don’t know…log mansion in front of us. Apparently, they all think that just because it’s made from wood that it’s considered a cabin. It’s not. Cabins are small rustic vacation homes. Unless the inside differs radically from the outside, I don’t expect to walk in and find a vintage stove and dishes from the sixties.

  Sam rouses from the back. “It’s not that big.”

  “How many square feet?”

  “I dunno.”

  “How many bedrooms?”

  “A few.”

  “You’re delirious,” Costa says. “There are six along with a library and a hot tub and—”

  “She gets the idea.” Sam pulls himself up. “I need some water.” Before we can help him out though, he opens the door and retches out the side. “Now, I really need some water.”

  Costa gives Sam a hand with getting to the house while I punch in the alarm code that Felicia gave me. I unlock the big front door, and I take a step inside. My mother has money for sure, but her house became a cold, sterile pretentious prison after my father left. This house? This is a home.

  I wander in awe through the main living area, an open-concept wood wonderland connecting the kitchen, living room, and dining area that invites warmth and comfort. Above me are high ceilings with rafters crossing the width of the house and lights hanging from long spindles. Cushy couches and floor pillows are positioned by the grand fireplace, and a picture window and sliding door overlook the lake.

  Of all places to detox one death tripper and strategize to save the son of another, this one ain’t too shabby.

  Costa practically carries Sam into the house and across the room toward the staircase. He slows, however, by the big window, and both he and Sam eye the lake with trepidation. As glorious and posh as our surroundings are, this is not a vacation. It’s where Toby died, and I’m quite sure that despite Costa’s singing the praises of this house moments ago, he and Sam are consumed with painful memories.

  I help Costa get Sam to the foot of the stairs. “I know the past is everywhere,” I say. “But the future is everywhere, too.”

  IT TAKES SIX DAYS for Sam to fully heal and death-trip again.

  Costa hands him a bag of pills and says, “Don’t ask. It’ll be fast.”

  Sam and I sit together and talk about Toby. We use the words see and vision about a hundred times. Then, Sam takes the pills, and I hold him on the couch until he stops breathing, until his body turns into glittering dust and sinks into the cushions and through the floorboards. Although I know he’ll come back, and I know this death isn’t permanent, I cannot help the ache and loss that I feel.

  Costa joins me on the couch. “He’s focused and prepared. He’ll surface quickly. This isn’t a trip that he’ll drown in or prolong. His surge will be short, too, I’m guessing.”

  “We didn’t bring the sandbag,” I point out.

  “So, either I’m getting the shit beat out of me or—”

  I smile. “Why don’t you make dinner?”

  I want Sam’s surge this time because I also have steam to burn off. The pressure and importance of trying to get this vision power has taken its own kind of toll on me even though it’s hardly comparable to what the boys are going through.

  Costa rolls his eyes. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll be in the bedroom.”

  I go upstairs to our room where I strip off my pants and crawl into the king-sized bed. I’m surprised at how tired I am, so I use Sam’s trip as an excuse to nap. I’m probably only out for a little more than an hour when I’m awoken by Sam pushing up my shirt.

  He’s breathy and hot, and I run my fingers through his hair as he travels his mouth over my stomach and to my breasts. I keep my eyes closed and focus on the sensation of his touch, how connected we are when we make love. Sex during his surges amplifies everything I feel for him, and today is the first day we’ve had sex since this tripping with a purpose started.

  I arch my back and groan when he pulls down my underwear and moves on top of me. Right now, I don’t want or need a lot of foreplay. I just need Sam inside me. My hands go to his ass when he enters me, and I lift up and pull him hard against me, making both of us let out sounds that I’m sure cut through the music Costa is playing downstairs. I couldn’t care less what he hears right now. That’s how much I’m glued into the chemistry between Sam and me.

  His rhythm starts hard and fast, and he pulls out nearly all the way before thrusting back in, over and over until we’re both ready to change the pace. I bend my knees and tuck them under his chest so that he gets even deeper. I love when we do this because Sam keeps himself pressed against me, grinding slowly and lifting his cock up inside me. I finally open my eyes to take in how he looks when he does this.

  Only, when I do, he’s not there, except that I feel him. I close my eyes again and then look. I know I’m awake.

  Something is massively wrong with me. Again.

  “Sam?”

  “Baby…” he breathes heatedly.

  I reach out into the empty space above me until my hand stops on where I know his chest is. I move my palm up against his skin and feel my way to his shoulder. Then, I touch his face, feel his lips sucking on my fingers. I can feel everything.

  I just can’t see him.

  Sam is invisible.

  “Look down,” I tell him.

  He stays inside me, but his pace slows as understanding creeps through him. “Holy…shit.”

  “I know,” I say, tightening my muscles around his cock. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

  He doesn’t. Later, I roll him onto his back and feel my way to straddling him. I don’t know where his hands are going to move, when he’s going to take my nipple between his fingers, when he might sit up and rock his hips into me before grabbing my hair by the roots and pulling my head back so that he can kiss my
neck and suck on my skin.

  It’s only after we’re done—when we’re both sweaty and panting, recovering, and while I’m draped over an invisible Sam—that reality strikes.

  “It didn’t work,” Sam says softly.

  “It worked for me,” I start. Then, I realize what he means. “Oh. Damn it! The vision power. Why didn’t it work?”

  Under me, the skin on his arm begins to show through. I sit up to watch as his form slowly becomes visible. It’s as though long thin strokes individually take their turn over his body, and I’m once again fascinated by the fantastical nature of his powers. Some nonexistent artist is painting him right in front of me.

  When he’s fully back, Sam looks over his own body. “So…that was fucked up, huh?”

  “Yeah, a little bit.”

  “But we got closer,” he says. “Invisible? Vision? Not that far apart really. They’re in the same family.”

  I sigh. “I guess so.” But this is a defeat, and my frustration is hard to contain. “We’re missing something. I have no idea what, but we’re fucking missing something.”

  “I’m sorry. I know this is really surge-y of me, but I have to eat.”

  He pats my back, and I climb off of him and the bed before grabbing my robe.

  “Death tripping makes for terrible bedside manners,” he says apologetically.

  “It’s okay. I get it.”

  “You all right?” Sam pulls on jeans and a T-shirt.

  “No, not really.”

  “I know you’re frustrated. But I think this invisibility thing is a good sign. It’s progress.”

  “Progress isn’t good enough. You’re doing your part. You’re death-tripping. I’m the one doing something wrong. Apparently, I’m the worst power augmenter ever.”

  “Stella, stop. This is not your fault. You are doing more than anyone could, and you’re doing it well.” He does a little dance in place and shakes his body until he disappears. “Check me out! I can go all invisible on your ass!”

  I laugh in spite of my crummy mood.

  Sam repaints himself and takes me against him. “I smell good things wafting up here. I gather you put Costa to work?”