Future Flash

by Kita Helmetag Murdock

  “You’re home early,” I say, sitting down reluctantly.

  “I know. It’s just the past couple of days . . . Look, I’m a little bit worried about you is all.”

  “Me? You’re worried about me?” I glance at the thick stubble on his cheeks and darkening circles under his eyes.

  “Yeah, I know, I’m not doing so great myself. But this is about something else. You’ll think this is ridiculous, but I need to ask you again about that drawing . . . You said you drew it because of a television show you saw. Is that really why?”

  “Did Mrs. Whipple call you again or something?”

  “No, it’s not that. I’ve just been thinking about it. I want to understand why you did that, Laney.” He puts his hand on top of mine, his eyes searching my face.

  “What were you reading when I came in?” My voice sounds too high pitched to be my own, almost disconnected from me somehow.

  “Huh?”

  “That yellow sheet of paper. What was that?” I’ve taken a leap off a diving board. My stomach reels trying to catch up with the move I just made.

  The muscle twitches in Walt’s jaw. “That paper? That was nothing.”

  “The picture was nothing either,” I reply. Walt looks hurt but at the moment I don’t care. “I made a mistake, that’s all. And by the way, you should know about making mistakes!”

  “I’m not just asking to bother you, Laney. I—”

  “Then don’t ask. Can I go out to the tree house now?”

  Walt nods, gazing down at his hands. I slam the door on the way out and climb up the tree house ladder. The painting is still there, exactly where I left it.

  My heart is thudding in my chest. The yellow paper. Walt still has the yellow paper. I look at the painting and realize that the yellow sheet of paper on the stoop next to me is the only thing missing to make the painting of that long ago evening complete.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE WEEKEND DRAGS BY. WALT SPENDS MOST of it slumped on the couch in front of the television watching football and home improvement shows, and I spend most of it in my tree house, flipping through art books and drawing pictures of Frida curled up on my pillow, wishing my thoughts weren’t so jumbled in my head. On Sunday, I’m tempted to try knocking on Lyle’s door again, but decide it’s pointless.

  When Monday finally arrives, I’m relieved to see Lyle in his seat as I walk into the classroom. He’s facing away from me, staring out the window. I resist the urge to run over to him. I want to yell at him for not letting me in his house but also to make sure that he’s okay. I need to know that Axel was lying about running into him.

  When I reach my seat, I intentionally let my backpack slam against the desktop. Lyle turns toward me. Axel was telling the truth.

  Lyle’s right eye is nearly swollen shut. The lid is shiny and purple. The scab on his chin has been opened again and is patched with a blood-soaked gauze pad and tape. He stares at me for a second with his good eye and then looks away before I can say anything.

  I glance over at Axel. He flashes me a huge grin. The classroom has taken on a dream-like quality and I feel as if I could float away if I don’t hold onto something tightly. I grip the sides of my desk to steady myself.

  “Good morning, class!” Mrs. Whipple calls from the front of the classroom. “Have a seat please, Laney.” I sink down into my chair. I need to tell someone about Lyle. But first, I need to talk to him. Recess. I can talk to him at recess. Once again I find myself staring at the classroom clock.

  Mrs. Whipple opens her attendance book and begins to call out names, even though she could easily glance around the classroom and see that all thirteen seats are filled, avoiding the process entirely.

  When she gets to Lyle, she looks up and then pauses.

  “Lyle, what happened to your eye?”

  The entire class turns in his direction.

  “My bike,” he mumbles. “I fell off my bike again.” The skin under his freckles burns red. He sneezes twice, wincing after each one.

  “Well goodness, try to be more careful!” Mrs. Whipple studies him for a moment longer and then continues down the list.

  The morning drags. My constant glances at the clock catch Mrs. Whipple’s attention.

  “Laney, is there somewhere else you’d rather be today?”

  Anywhere. I’d like to be anywhere else. I don’t respond.

  I think about Salvador Dali’s paintings of melting clocks and imagine our classroom clock sliding down the wall and into a puddle on the floor. It could happen. Nothing feels real today.

  At eleven o’clock, the recess bell finally rings. I decide to wait to approach Lyle until everyone is outside. I find him leaning against the school building, hugging his knees.

  “Hey,” I say, sitting next to him on the asphalt.

  “Go away, Laney.”

  I wasn’t expecting that. I blink back tears.

  “Are you mad at me about the painting? Because I’m sorry about that. I know I acted crazy. If you knew why, you’d understand, I promise, but—”

  “You have all sorts of excuses for things don’t you, Laney?”

  He won’t face me so all that I can see is the side of his face and the mound of his swollen purple eye.

  “I didn’t know you were so mad about that. I tried to come over to your house. You wouldn’t let me in!”

  It’s no use blinking, the tears are running, and if I’m not careful, all of the emotion and fear from the past couple of weeks will come pouring out and I’ll never stop crying. I press my hands against my eyes. My stupid hands. I wouldn’t be sitting here if I hadn’t had to grab Lyle’s hands at the gym that day.

  The other kids are shouting to each other on the playground around us. Axel’s voice is the clearest, calling to someone to throw a ball.

  When the tears finally stop, I wipe my cheeks and pull my hands away.

  “I thought we were friends,” I say to Lyle. He tilts his chin toward the sky, leaning the back of his head against the brick wall, and takes a deep breath in and out.

  “I think you should stay away from me,” he says slowly.

  “I should? Or you want me to?”

  “Listen. It’s better if you do. It’s not a good idea to hang out with me. They’ll all hate you, too, if they see you with me.” He faces me, his tone kinder but still firm.

  It’s not funny, but I laugh. Maybe I’m relieved at his reason.

  “Do I look like I fit in here, Lyle?” Three girls in pink sweatshirts and blonde ponytails walk past us. Lyle and I both look from them to my black T-shirt, jeans, and the drawings on my shoes. “They don’t like me anyway. You’re my first real friend since kindergarten.” I think of Tabitha and Carmen, though I’m not sure if Carmen counts anymore. “At least the first real friend that’s my age.”

  Lyle leans his head back again. He doesn’t tell me to go away again, but he doesn’t ask me to stay either.

  I take a deep breath. “The last time I was friends with someone my age, it ended really badly, so I’m kind of hoping that doesn’t happen here.”

  “What happened then?” Lyle asks.

  “I was friends with Axel in kindergarten. He was actually nice back then. Before he turned into his awful self.”

  Lyle snorts. “I definitely wasn’t expecting you to say that you were friends with Axel.”

  “Yeah, well, he was really different then. And he’s hated me since then anyway, so it’s not like being friends with you is going to make it worse.”

  Sitting this close, I can see the varying colors of purple around Lyle’s eye, edged in a yellowish green. Green ochre.

  “He did that to you, didn’t he?” I know the answer, but I need to hear it from Lyle.

  The wiry muscles in his arm tense beside me.

  “You need to tell someone about this. I will if you don’t.”

  It’s the wrong thing to say.

  “Stay away from me, Laney. I mean it. It’s none of your business,” he says, loud
enough to be heard over the bell signaling us to return to our classroom.

  “Lyle—”

  He stands up. “Sorry if you have bad luck with your friendships, but we’re not friends anymore. Okay?”

  I watch the back of his gray T-shirt as he walks into the building.

  “Good luck without me, Lyle Bertrand,” I say. I know he can’t hear me and I don’t mean it anyway. Who was I kidding to think that I could protect him? What is my big plan anyway, to stay with him and watch out for fires? To threaten Axel? From now on, I’ll worry about protecting myself. And I’ll stay as far away from Lyle as possible.

  After school, I rush out the door. I want to leave before Lyle does. I don’t want to worry about whether he’s walking or biking and if Axel is following him.

  Frida jumps out from behind the grass when I start down the path. I scoop her up in my arms.

  “Tabitha’s right to prefer cats to people,” I tell her. She purrs in response and then wiggles to get down.

  Frida weaves in and out of the grass in front of me as I walk. It’s too quiet, leaving my brain too much room to make its own noise with thoughts about Carmen and Walt and Lyle and Axel. I pick a piece of grass and try to remember Lyle’s instructions. I blow on it, but it sounds like a tire leaking air.

  I’m grateful when I finally arrive at Tabitha’s. I half expect her to be laying on the lawn chair on her back porch covered in cats, but the porch is empty. Even though I know it’s silly, I’m momentarily disappointed. I could use an afternoon with Tabitha, chatting while sipping lavender tea.

  I lift the amethyst-colored flower pot to find the key. A crackling in the bushes next to the porch breaks the silence. The bush shakes violently.

  I freeze, one hand holding the flower pot, the other holding the key. I hear the crackling noise again, louder this time.

  “Who is that?” I ask. Frida tilts her head at me.

  “Who is that?” I repeat. The bush continues to shake.

  “Who’s in there?” I cling tightly to the flowerpot.

  The crackling stops and footsteps pound on the dirt behind the bush. It’s the sounds of someone running away.

  I stand up on one of Tabitha’s porch chairs, peering over the bush. There’s nothing but dust and dry grass. Was I imagining things? The bush quivers and a small black cat steps out from under it, shaking dust off her fur.

  “Silly cat, you scared me,” I say. I try to convince myself that I only heard rustling. Maybe I imagined the footsteps. My heart bangs against my chest. I step down from the chair and lean toward the bush. Caught in its branches is a half empty bag of Doritos.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE NEXT MORNING, I CAN’T GET OUT OF bed. It’s as if the stress of Carmen leaving, the hidden painting in the tree house, the future flash of the fire, and the possibility that Axel followed me to Tabitha’s has melded into a hard knot in my stomach. I try to sit up but feel as if a bowling ball is pressing against me. I can’t budge. Walt clamors around the kitchen, banging pots together to make coffee and eggs. Usually that’s all it takes to get me out of bed.

  “Laney!” Walt calls when I don’t appear.

  “Mmmph,” I groan in response.

  Walt opens my door, holding a steaming mug. “You getting up today?” he asks.

  “I can’t,” I tell him, staring at the ceiling. There’s a crack in the shape of a lopsided heart. I never noticed it before.

  Walt sits on the bed next to me. He presses a warm hand to my forehead.

  “Do you feel okay?”

  “My stomach hurts.”

  “You think you need to stay home?”

  I nod. Walt wrinkles his brow.

  “So, here’s the thing. I have a meeting with a potential client today for a huge house project. Normally I’d just take the day off and stay here with you, but I don’t know if I can miss—”

  “It’s okay. I’ll be fine here.”

  “Are you sure? I hate to leave you alone.” He hesitates. “I could try calling Carmen.”

  “No, really, I’m okay. It’s not so bad. I just need to rest a little.”

  Walt leans down and kisses my forehead.

  “I’ll call the school to let them know you’re sick. And I’ll call you later to check up on you, okay?”

  When I hear the rumble of Walt’s motor as he drives away, the weight lifts a little bit. I try sitting up again and find that I can. Something scratches at the windowsill. Frida is balancing on the ledge, her breath making white clouds on the glass. When I open the window, a blast of cold air follows her in. Frida jumps down onto my bed and curls up.

  I’m feeling well enough to get dressed so I pull on my jeans and shirt. When I reach for my sweatshirt, I remember my favorite old sweatshirt, balled up in the back of the closet. I dig it out and inspect it. The blood is gone, but I still think of Lyle.

  “Forget about him,” I say out loud, pulling the sweatshirt over my head.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, I take a sip of the lukewarm coffee Walt left in his mug and nearly spit it out. I eye the plate he left for me, but the thought of cold scrambled eggs turns my stomach. I give up on breakfast. Crossing my arms on the table and resting my head on them, I picture Walt reading the yellow paper that day when I came home from school.

  Then it occurs to me. The yellow paper is somewhere in the house.

  I stand up and scour the kitchen. Cabinets filled with mismatched plates and cups; a junk drawer stuffed with dried out pens, spare change, and Walt’s Magee Construction business cards; a shelf piled with Play-Doh cans; and a fridge that’s too empty since Carmen stopped coming for dinner. There’s no place for Walt to hide anything in here. I walk through the living room, past the empty stove, past my Sleeping Beauty drawing, past the television and the sagging couch. Every object in our house is suddenly suspicious—a potential hiding place. My room and the bathroom are out. That leaves Walt’s room.

  His door creaks when I push it open. I whip around, but of course Frida is the only one to hear the noise. She yawns and stretches on my bed. A cloud must be passing over the sun because the house becomes dark and then bright again.

  I look around Walt’s room. The walls are covered in framed drawings and paintings that I’ve made for him over the years. The bowling ball weight expands in my belly for a moment. Walt has always been good to me, has always loved me. He has also always respected my privacy. I think about my tree house and how he has never once asked to come inside since he built it for me. I can’t imagine him going through my things without asking me first.

  Over his bed is a framed painting that’s nearly as wide as I am tall. I made it when I was nine years old on the back porch while Carmen and Walt sat in chairs talking and watching me, responding to my questions about whether Carmen wanted to be wearing a red or blue dress (red) and whether Walt’s eyes are closer to gray or blue (gray). In the painting, Walt stands to one side, his baseball hat on his head and his tool belt around his waist. I’m in the middle holding his hand. Carmen is holding my other hand and I’m looking up at her, a huge red smile on my face.

  I remember that day and the way the wind kept blowing the paper I was painting until Walt put a rock on each corner to hold it down. Then suddenly I remember something else.

  I remember Walt leaning back in his chair and saying to Carmen, “She’s such a talented painter. She gets that from her mother.”

  I stopped painting when he said that, holding a paintbrush coated with yellow paint in my hand. You can see the drips coming down from the sun on the painting now, where I held the wet brush over the paper for too long.

  “My mother?” I asked him, not turning around.

  “Oh, I meant my mother,” he said. “My mother was quite a painter.” And yet Walt had never talked about his mother painting and I’d never seen anything she’d ever done. Of course, she had died when he was young and he never talked about her much, so maybe this was something new I didn’t know. But later, when I asked if he h
ad kept any of his mother’s paintings, Walt looked confused.

  “My mother? An artist? She was a great lady who could run a farm and chop wood like nobody’s business, but I don’t think she ever picked up a paintbrush, Laney, unless maybe it was to paint the side of a house.”

  I take a step into his room. Then another. Soon I am pulling open the drawers of his dresser, pushing aside white undershirts and heavy flannels. Like me, he doesn’t care much for variety in clothing, so it doesn’t take long to find that there’s nothing else in there. The trunk at the end of his bed contains two wool blankets and some sweaters. I shake out the blankets and run my hand along the wood at the bottom, getting nothing but a splinter in my palm for my efforts.

  With my heart pounding, I sit down on his bed and look at the bedside table. A phone and a lamp sit on top of the table. I’ve never opened the drawer. If it’s not in there, my search is over. I can’t imagine anywhere else it could be.

  I pick at the splinter in my palm, not sure which I’m dreading more—finding the letter or not finding the letter. After a hard tug, the splinter comes out.

  The knob on the drawer stares up at me like an accusing eye. What am I waiting for?

  I wipe my sweaty hands off on my jeans and reach to grab the knob. This is it. I pull on the drawer. It sticks. I have to wriggle it, holding onto the lamp with one hand so it won’t crash to the floor. I give the drawer one more tug and it comes flying out, hurling me backwards. The contents of the drawer scatter across the room and land with a clatter on the floor. Keys, ChapStick, two pens, and a faded yellow envelope.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I DON’T BOTHER WITH THE DRAWER OR THE other contents. I grab the envelope with trembling hands. The paper inside is torn slightly along the creases and nearly rips when I unfold it. There are grease marks on the sides of the page. The ink is smeared, but still legible.

  I read:

  Dear Walt,

  This is Elaine. She is our daughter.