by Erica Sage
How does shit like that happen?
“Like this,” I said. “Being a stupid ass.”
Ninja took no offense. He was clearly of the mind that ignorance was bliss.
The bird’s cry woke me. I looked at my watch; not even an hour had passed, but I grabbed my backpack, threw it over my shoulders.
Ninja stood in the exact same spot. I led him beneath a tree branch, where he stood as I climbed up the branch and onto his back. On the first try.
We walked on, and I was thankful for the tree as a new landmark.
Now that I’d rested, now that I’d cleared my head, I noticed that it had cooled. The sun was closing in on the horizon, and I was getting worried I wouldn’t make it anywhere before dark. But I had to. It couldn’t be much farther. It wasn’t like I was literally in the middle of a desert, in the middle of nowhere. We’d passed buildings on our way into camp. We’d driven through dusty towns with houses decked with peeling paint and trailer homes.
But I didn’t see any then.
Kree, the bird called, and I wondered if he was following me, waiting for me to die like the old woman under the tree. Or now like the old man.
The thing about the Wave, the thing that killed the man and his wife and others who had gone before and after them, was not just the heat or the perilous cliffs you can fall over if you’re not paying attention, or if it gets dark. It’s that people get lost. It all looks the same. There’s no clear way to go. There are no landmarks. There are no guides pointing you in the right direction. There is no clear path.
You do not know the Way.
It’s the price you pay for wanting to go where man has not gone.
It’s a little dangerous, it’s a little scary. You might not make it.
Your senses must be keen. You have to pack well and pack smart and listen to your instincts.
You have to be willing to take the risk.
I saw a f lash of something on the horizon, but I couldn’t discern it because the sun was right there about to touch down. It had to be someone or something. It wasn’t one of the imps behind the bushes; it was still a bit too far off. But I knew I was going the right way. I knew that was zombie camp up ahead, and I was going to make it in time for dinner.
Surely a rehab facility would take pity on me.
Ninja walked on, his hooves kicking up more dust, scraping hard on the sharp stones. I watched for that f lash, and it didn’t take long before it came from different points. The sun was catching on a whole line of metal. It was a chain-link fence with three lines of barbed wire at the top.
I hopped off Ninja. “Follow me.”
I walked the perimeter, knowing it would lead to the entrance. If I didn’t find Natalie in one of those buildings, I still needed water, or to call my parents, or to get a ride back to Eden Springs. I needed a horse trailer.
Now that I’d found this place, I knew I wasn’t going to have to spend the night alone in the desert, likely being eaten alive by yet-to-be-discovered desert carnivores. Not that I didn’t trust Ninja to kill everything that approached, but …
We didn’t get very far along the fence before I saw a swatch of color on the ground up ahead. A big piece of plastic, like a tarp, or a coat.
Or a backpack. It was Natalie’s backpack. I walked quicker, worried that she’d dropped it, worried what that meant.
“Natalie?” I called out.
And then I saw legs, and I saw her shorts, and I saw her lying there. With earbuds in. Her eyes were closed, her head rocking back and forth. I’d thought she was dead or seriously hurt, and here she lay on the desert f loor, jamming to a song that I could actually hear through the buds.
I shook her shoulders, called her name again, and her eyes popped open.
“What—” she practically yelled, sitting up quickly and yanking out the earbuds. “Holy crap, Nick. You scared me.” Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks red. She’d clearly been crying.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she snapped. Which meant she wasn’t. Those were the only words I really understood, because that was my standard answer to everything.
“What the hell is that?”
“A donkey.”
“I see that.”
“His name’s Ninja.”
“What are you talking about?” Natalie tossed her iPod down on top of her backpack and stood up. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re mad?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Her eyes blazed anger.
“I found the box. I know who did it.”
“That has nothing to do with me.”
“It has to do with all of us,” I said.
“How’d you even know I’d be here?”
I handed her her confession.
“You read our confessions?”
“Well, no, not really. I was looking for mine and—”
“But you read them.” Her eyes were daggers. “You read them.”
“I didn’t want to know that stuff. I just wanted to get mine. And then I saw yours and—”
“I don’t care. You read it!”
“And then I took it out so that no one else could!” I shouted back. “I could’ve taken mine. I can explain the whole thing, but listen. I got yours out to save you.”
She scoffed. “To save me?”
“Well, yeah. I mean—”
“Have you met yourself?”
“Not save you, but save you from—” Shame. Everyone’s shame—mine, Diana’s, Charlotte’s, Matthew’s, my parents’, Holly’s. Natalie’s.
“If I were you, I’d worry about saving yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“How about calling your sister a bitch? Let’s start there.”
“How do you even know about that?”
“Everybody knows everything about everybody!” She threw her hands up in the air.
“People didn’t know that stuff in that box. I didn’t know about your brother. I didn’t know you were planning to run away. I didn’t know—”
“You weren’t supposed to!”
“I know I wasn’t supposed to!” I shouted. “I just didn’t want you to lose the chance to go to your school. My confession is still in that box. I left mine in to save yours!”
“Look, Nick.” Her voice was steady and cold. “This may surprise you, but not all of us feel so dismal and hopeless and melancholy or whatever it is. We have hope. We have something you don’t want to believe in. You might think we’re fools, but we’re doing okay. We’re not all wallowing in self-pity.”
“Self-pity?” Rage f lared in the marrow of my bones. “You think what I feel is self-pity? You think I’m wallowing? My sister killed herself, Natalie. She shot herself in the head.” I ran my hands through my hair. “You wanna know where she got the gun? Me. I gave her the gun.” I was breathing hard. “Yep, that’s what happened. I handed her the gun and the bullets, and she shot herself. That’s my confession: I KILLED MY SISTER.”
Natalie’s eyes widened, and her mouth moved as if to speak.
“And you think I feel ‘self-pity’? No. I fucking wish that’s what I felt. I feel self-loathing. I hate myself. And when my parents find out—they’re not going to survive. So I can chalk up their impending divorce to me too. And your God and this camp can screw off with your crosses and your mud pits and your Magic Hillbilly Jesus and your she-devils and rap songs and family dinners served by second-class citizens. I’m done!”
I threw my hands up and whipped around, walking quickly away, back into the darkening desert from which I’d come.
From which we had come. Me and Ninja. Who I left behind because I was mad, and let’s face it, he doesn’t walk very fast.
The rage roared through my skull, loud and thick and pulsing, and I hated that I’d walked twenty miles to—what? Save her? And I’d just told her. Gawddamn it, I’d just told her the thing that I swore I’d never tell. And I’d shouted it at her. I’d thrown it at h
er, every word bludgeoning and true and sharp. And now it was out there, and she knew. And the trees knew, and the earth knew, and the whole gawddamn world knew!
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I shouted. And the rage kept coming. From the pit of me, from my stomach, from my bowels, from my chest, from my throat. It was everywhere, and it was pouring out.
And then the bird came again. Kree, it screamed with me.
“Go away!” I shouted at the bird. I picked up rocks, chucked them into the darkening space. I threw them at the bird I couldn’t see, that wasn’t there.
Something stirred behind me—a footfall, the kick of a rock. Like it had that afternoon. I looked over my shoulder, but there was nothing there. At least nothing I could see in the dusk.
“Go away!” I shouted. “Leave me alone!”
Why was I here? How did I get here?
I tripped on a large piece of shale, caught my balance.
“Ugh,” I growled.
I was hearing things, but I couldn’t see a gawddamn thing. Not even the stones in front of me.
Echoes of rocks kicking up behind me. I spun around. It was too dark. I could see, but not enough. I walked on, the drag and scrape of the rocks, my breath, the bird, my words, something in the bushes—all the sounds tumbling around like a crazy chant of craziness.
You’re going mad. I heard these words, but not my words. Not my voice, but in my head.
“I am mad!” I was pissed. I was incensed. I was furious.
Madman road, I heard.
I stopped moving. Listened. Listened inside my head. Nothing. Outside my head. No sound. No bird. No voice.
“What do you want?” I shouted.
We’re all mad here, the voice said. And this time, I knew who it was. I missed that voice, but it couldn’t be real. Diana was dead. I don’t even know if her dead body had a mouth and a tongue left after the bullets ripped through her face.
“Leave me alone,” I said. “Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone,” I chanted.
The bird cried, Kree.
“Just go,” I said, to the bird, to the voice, to the footsteps behind me. “You left me.” The words tumbled out, a mumble, half in my head, half out of my mouth. “You left me here, and now you want to call me mad, sending some bush-rattling creature or some bird. Whispering in my head.” I rattled on.
You’re talking to yourself, her voice said.
“I’m talking to you!”
But I’m not there. Nobody’s there. Just you.
And you made it that way! How could you leave me?
I left myself.
Yourself? You’re so selfish.
You’re mad at me?
Of course I’m mad at you! “Yes, I’m mad at you,” I said out loud at the nobody in my head, at the trees, at the earth, at the sky. “I’m fucking mad at you!” Then I shouted into the sky. “I’m mad at you both!”
“I’m mad at you,” I pointed in front of me, like she was there, like the Diana in my head had a space on this earth by my side.
“And I’m mad at You,” I pointed up at the sky. “You want people to believe in You, stop being such an unfair asshole.”
You’re seeing it wrong, Diana said.
The bird cried, and I hoped I was near the tree.
I’m going to die out here, and I’m not going to see you in heaven.
Is that what you’re afraid of? Because I was gay? Because I died by suicide? Like Charlotte said. You think God makes a heaven only just big enough?
I’m not going to see you in heaven because I can’t look you in the face.
Because of what happened with Leah? So, you kissed her. So, you loved her. How could you not?
No, I loved you!
So, it’s not shame?
No, it’s your face! I can’t look you in the face. Your literal face!
Because of the gun.
Yes, the gun I gave you! Why did you let me give it to you?
How many bullet holes are in your head anyway? How many shots did you fire into your skull? Did you miss? Where’s your face? Where’s the top of your head? Where’s your jaw?
“Why were there two bullet holes in the car?” I shouted.
Silence.
“Did you do a practice round?”
Silence.
“Did you mess up the first time?”
Silence.
“Did you put the gun in your mouth?”
Silence.
“Did you put it to your temple?”
“To your forehead?”
“Under your chin?”
“Did you hear the sound of it when it went off? Did it hurt your ears? Did you feel the bullet go in before your brain exploded?”
I was crying. I could feel the tears pouring down my face.
Did you think for one second about buying your own gun? Did you think about what you were doing when you walked into our house? Did you even think of me for one second?
I stopped. I looked up at the sky. “Why are You punishing me?” And I knew I was yelling at Diana. But I was also yelling at God.
I didn’t do anything to You! Is it because I don’t believe in You? Is this Your jealous revenge? The dark night of the soul?
Kree. The bird’s bullet-cry was close. The tree was visible.
I was sweating. The anger in my head beat inside my skull. The yelling hurt.
I didn’t want to talk in my head anymore.
It’s called prayer.
And that’s the last thing my sister said to me inside my head.
I reached the tree, slid down the trunk. The bark lifting my shirt and scratching the skin off my back. I was out of breath, exhausted, bitter, bitterly exhausted. I leaned my head back.
“Man, oh, man, she’s a mad one.”
Jack.
He sat up in a branch, his back to the trunk.
“Get away from me.”
Jack rolled onto his stomach, slipped down from the branch, and hung there for a moment. Then he dropped to the ground and walked behind the tree.
“Did you hear that bird?” He came around the trunk with a bottle in his hand. “That, my friend, is an instrument of heaven. That sound, so pure, so sharp.”
“Seriously, I can’t do any more madness.”
“You seem undone.”
“Really? I seem undone to you? I’m in the freaking desert in the dark with a man who’s been dead for half a century while my dead sister talks in my head!”
“But you did it.”
“Went mad like all the great ones before me? Yeah, I did.”
“Yes, yes. And no. You said it all out. You told the truth. You told it out.”
“So? It doesn’t make it go away.”
Jack set down a bottle between us. “Have some wine.”
“I don’t want wine.” I unzipped my backpack and reached in for my sweatshirt and sweats. “I’m not getting drunk with you.” I pulled on the extra clothes.
“The wine is for forgiveness.” Jack reached into his pocket for his pack of smokes. “And it’ll warm you up.”
I sighed, reached for the bottle, put it to my lips. It was lukewarm, like the beer had been, but it seemed okay. It tasted like my grandpa’s barn, all wood shavings and damp earth. It wasn’t bad. It was rich and warm.
“I thought you might want a sip,” he said.
I returned the bottle to an even spot on the ground.
Jack crossed his legs. “It’s time to put your cross down now, Nicolas.”
I shook my head.
“This isn’t about Jesus. Or it is, if you want it to be. It doesn’t rightly matter. But, you’re a boy, you’re not meant to carry anything. You got some guilt, some shame, some thing you did in this world that’s got you believing you’re some heavy sinking stone, not worth the freedom of lightness, weightlessness. That’s some bull. Put your damned cross down.”
“I can’t,” I muttered.
Jack softened his voice. “Your role in whatever goes down on this earth’s alre
ady dead. You carrying on like you own a bit of any of that is indulgent and, frankly, selfish. You can’t do anything more than what’s already been done for you, so drop your tiny bitch-ass cross.”
“Bitch-ass cross? Seriously? From beatnik to gangsta?”
He blew his cigarette smoke in my face. “Don’t change the subject.”
I put the heels of my hands to my face. “Did you see Natalie’s face when I told her?”
“Yes. Shocked.”
“Disgusted,” I said through my hands.
“That was hurt. Hurt for you. Horrified for the story.”
“It’ll kill them.”
“Kill who?”
“Whom.”
“The Great Editor avoids the question.”
“My parents. Leah. Anyone who knows me.”
“No, the truth never kills anything. The truth only grows things. It connects things. It is your bridge.”
He took a sip of the wine, wiped his mouth, and handed the bottle to me. “Now take one more sip of that liquid forgiveness.”
I could use forgiveness of any kind. So I did as Jack said. I had a few more sips than I should’ve.
I lamented leaving Ninja behind. Jack made jokes about being a smart-ass.
And then Jack and I talked a good long time about my sisters, his brother, my parents, his parents. His wives, his daughter, his friends. We talked about religion and regret, forgiveness and friendships.
When we got tired of the serious, I took out Sixty Scenes of Sexy.
What happened to the Great American Novel, he wanted to know. Did anyone aspire to that anymore?
We squinted in the moonlight so we could read parts aloud to each other. We mostly laughed, though he did get morose a couple times, indignant that this was what the American reader craved. But then we’d find a sentence, a paragraph, read it aloud in accents of varying sophistication, and we’d fall into a fit of giggles. The laugh-till-you-cry kind. The kind that stole our breath. The kind that threatened to kill us with the absurdity of it all. The kind that left us spent and determined to sleep.