by Lane Hart
And then there’s Aden.
While he’s in the shower, I convince Brede to call the doctor on his brother’s phone to try and find out what’s going on with him.
“You’re right. There’s nothing but that same number in here and the one 9-1-1 call from the night we were back at Roger’s house,” Brede says as he scrolls through the call log. “Here goes.”
In our bedroom with the door shut, we put the phone on speaker.
“Aden? What’s going on?” the deep voice asks with a heavy exhale, as if he’s expecting the worst.
“Hi, um, this is actually Aden’s brother, Brede.”
“Right, of course. You miss your brother, which I’ve told you is natural. And since you were twins, you miss the connection with him even more, but remember, you’re Aden…”
“What the fuck?” Brede interrupts. “This really is Brede, Aden’s brother, and my girlfriend Blair.” He motions for me to say something, so I do.
“Hi, Dr. Allen, is it?” I ask.
“Take me off speaker, so I can just talk to Blair,” the man says.
Brede raises an eyebrow but does as the doctor asked, offering the phone to me.
“Okay, you’re not on speaker,” I tell him.
“Blair, are you in danger?” he asks.
“Ah, not at the moment.”
“Has Aden hurt you?”
“No. I mean, once he tied me up and left, and then the other day he didn’t stop touching me until I knocked him out. I’m starting to think he has…issues.”
“Yes. And I wouldn’t usually break doctor-patient confidentiality, but you could be in danger. Aden’s been relatively harmless in the past, but there’s no way to predict the future.”
“He’s not really a federal agent, is he?” I ask, and Brede inches closer to me to try and hear the conversation.
“No, but the fact that you believed he was for any length of time goes to show you just how convincing he can be. Aden suffers from delusions of grandeur and Dissociative Identity Disorder caused by…trauma in his childhood. Do you know about his history?”
“Um, yes, he told his brother that he was sexually abused by his foster father.”
“Wait. You’ve actually met his brother, or is it Aden pretending to be his twin brother?”
“No, his brother Brede is right here. He’s the one who called you. Aden’s in the shower.”
“Are you absolutely sure that you’re dealing with two different people?”
“Yes. Brede is covered in tattoos, and Aden doesn’t have any,” I explain. “There’s no way he could pretend to be Brede.”
“Oh, well, apologize to Brede since I assumed he was Aden.”
“Sure, and can I put you back on speaker now so he can hear you too?” I ask.
“Go ahead.”
I hit the button, and Brede squeezes my shoulder in thanks.
“So, doc, is my brother nuts or what?” he asks.
“As I told Blair, your brother suffers from several psychological issues. Because of the abuse he suffered, he has Dissociative Identity Disorder. It’s a coping mechanism. He pretends or thinks he really is a different person with unique thoughts, memories, an entirely different identity because he doesn’t want to remember his tragic childhood.”
“So, it’s easier for him to pretend to be someone else?” Brede asks.
“Yes. Although seeing you again has probably caused a bit of chaos in his life, since your presence will force him to remember who he really is, instead of continuing to deny it to himself.”
“Which is bad?” I ask.
“There’s no way for me to know how he will cope, but I think you could help him remain more stable by playing up his Aaron Burroughs identity, which is the most morally responsible one. Aden also suffers from delusions of grandeur. He believes he’s in a position of power, the law enforcement agent persona, because he wants to help your father, who he claims is innocent of murder. And that’s the only way he knows how to help since he’s unable to actually rescue him.”
“My father is innocent,” Brede growls. “Blair’s father killed her mother in front of her and then framed my dad.”
“Oh, well, that’s what Aden has always told me as well, but you can see how it was hard for me to believe him when…”
“Everything he says is a lie,” Brede finishes, hanging his head and swiping his palms down his face. “Fuck! Now we’ve got to start from the beginning to try and figure out how to get my dad released. We thought Aden was helping, and now Blair’s father is dead.”
“Wait, did Aden kill him?”
“No, his new wife did. It’s a long, complicated story,” Brede explains.
“Sounds like it,” Dr. Allen remarks. “How about this, I do have real connections in law enforcement. I’ve been an expert witness in several federal cases. Let me see if I can find someone who is willing to hear you out.”
“That would be great,” Brede says. “We don’t know what else to do.”
“Do you have a phone number that I can call so I’ll know I’m talking to you and not…”
“My batshit crazy brother,” Brede mutters.
“He’s not crazy,” the doctor tells us on an exhale. “He’s been through hell, and his brain is just trying to cope the only way it knows how – by trying to forget.”
Brede grabs Roger’s phone and gives him the number for it before we disconnect the call. Then we put Aden’s phone back in his room before he realizes we’ve been on it.
…
Brede
I finally get my brother back after all these years and he’s certifiably crazy. My girlfriend is too. Guess it’s only a matter of time before I end up in the loony bin right there with them or worse, serving a life prison sentence with my dad.
In fact, I’ve never felt more like a mental head case than I do today, having to say a final goodbye to the man and woman who raised me. The guilt and sadness are an enormous weight bearing down on me. But a part of me knows that this is the punishment I deserve.
After killing men for years without a shred of remorse, now I’m getting it all at once, making the days almost unbearable.
I think back to when Paula and Jim first brought me home. If I could go back in time, I would pull that angry, scared little shit I was up by his collar and shake some appreciation into him.
Of course, when I think about going back in time, I think of Blair. What if I hadn’t taken the call from Roger? What if I had killed her on sight that first day? Would my parents still be alive? And the most fucked up, selfish part is, if I was offered a ride back in the Delorean with Doc right now, I can’t admit to myself that I would do a damn thing differently. Which, of course, makes me feel even more like a fucking asshole for wanting to be with Blair when I don’t deserve her. If she could pick the worst man in the world to end up with, it would be me. Or my brother. Both of us are neck and neck for that title.
The memorial is a small gathering of friends and neighbors that I watch from the cheap POS van Blair bought with cash. It takes all of my restraint not to lose my shit because I can’t be inside the funeral home, honoring my parents’ memory. All because I’m a murderer, and my past is finally catching up with me. While I’m drowning in mourning, I’m also miserable knowing that I can’t give Blair the normal life and family she deserves, not while every cop in the country is looking for me. We’ve talked about fleeing to Mexico, but that only seems like an even shitter option than hiding in the states. The only good news is that the media hasn’t mentioned any of my tattoos because I didn’t have them in the army, and I’ve always been careful to keep them hidden. So it’s just my face and Aden’s, of course, on the television that everyone is looking for.
I’m antsy from the lack of control in my life and would love nothing more than to find and kill the woman who orchestrated the murder of my parents and then turned me in. The problem is I’m no longer getting messages on Roger’s or Dalton’s phones, so I have no clue if she’s bac
k in the country. Nadia and Blair’s father weren’t supposed to return until this past Friday; but for the next few days, we need to lay low and give the manhunt for me time to die down a little more. Next week we’ll probably try to head to North Carolina and take that bitch out. For all we know, she’s got the entire Lexington Police Department guarding her, waiting for me to show, so we need to be careful and not barge into that town with guns blazing.
“You ready to go inside?” Blair asks once there’s no longer a line of people going in or out the front of the funeral home. “I’m sorry, but the, um, funeral director said they have another service to get ready for.”
“Yeah, okay,” I agree.
“I’ll stay and keep an eye out,” Aden offers, and I pat his shoulder in the driver seat as thanks.
As soon as Blair and I meet at the front of the hood, I grab her hand and pull her inside, tugging the bill of my baseball cap down to make sure my face is hidden. It seems wrong to be dressed so casually in jeans and a tee going to honor Paula and Jim’s memory. It’s just one more reason I hate being on the run, looking over my shoulder at every turn.
The idea of ending up in prison for the rest of my life keeps me up at night, only because I don’t want to leave Blair. I would rather die than put her through that shit, the once-a-week visits and not having me be an actual part of her life. Inside, I would go insane worrying about her, knowing I should be with her, protecting her and our family…
Standing in the room of empty chairs, I say a silent thank you to the smiling faces in the framed photo Blair brought by yesterday. It’s a picture of Paula and Jim on their wedding day, forty some years ago. A memorialization of the day they vowed to spend the rest of their life together. Now, they’re together in death.
Hearing her sniffles, I glance down at Blair, who’s still clasping my hand. She shouldn’t look so sexy in her sleeveless black dress on a day like this, but she does.
“Ready?” I ask her as she wipes her eyes with a tissue. It’s sweet that she’s so upset just because she knows I am. And even though she didn’t know my foster parents long, I think she loved them.
“If you are,” she replies, so I tug her by her hand toward the door. “Ah, Brede?” she asks.
“Yeah, baby?” I ask.
“Don’t you need to take the urn and photo with you?”
“Shit,” I grumble before leading her back to the front of the room where the bronze urn sits with a weeping angel decorating the top. How can something so small look so…important? Knowing that’s all that is left of my parents is like a tidal wave of reality smacking me in the face. Drowning me.
“Do you…do you want me to carry it?” Blair asks. With my silent nod, she lifts the container and holds it against her chest like she thinks it’s something precious too, before tucking the photo in the crook of her other arm. And that small, respectful gesture, after the shittiest week of my life, is what makes me crumble.
Not wanting Blair to witness my breakdown, I storm through the funeral home and find the men’s room, where I slip inside and lock myself in a stall. There, I rest my forehead on the back of the door and let myself finally cry for the first time in ten years.
Tears cascade down my face like a roaring river, reminding me of the night they took us from our home and told us our father had been charged with murder. I didn’t think anything could hurt as much as that day, but I was wrong. He was taken away from us, but still breathing…still alive…
“Brede?”
Aden’s voice drifts through the stall door. He was supposed to be keeping watch from the van. Swiping my damp face over the sleeve of my arm, I have to clear my throat to answer.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?” he asks. What sort of fucking question is that? “Sorry, stupid question,” he says from above me.
“Jeez, what the fuck?” I exclaim when I look up and see his head leaning down over into my stall. Before I can reach for toilet paper to dry off my face, Aden catapults down into the small space. Then, his arms are around me, pulling me to his chest for a hug that makes me feel like a child, but that I’m grateful for nonetheless.
“It’s okay to be upset. They were good people. Great ones, and I mourn the loss of them even though I only met them one day. I wanted more time with them, the foster parents I should’ve had.”
My head nods my agreement against his shoulder. For a crazy man, he sometimes makes a lot of sense.
“Now, when you’re ready, there’s a beautiful woman out there who’s worried about you. And we need to figure out how the fuck we’re gonna kill that bitch who did this and keep your ass out of prison. Blair will lose her shit if you get arrested.”
“She might be pregnant,” I admit to Aden when he pulls away. His face is tight and tense from our brief touch, but he let me hug him me anyway.
“What?” he asks. “You’ve been fucking her bareback this week?”
“Ah, no, not this week. Last. She didn’t take the morning after pill.”
“Oh,” he mutters, his forehead creasing in confusion. “Oh! So she might be…with mine?”
“Yeah, could be either of ours.”
“Fuck that!” he exclaims, shoving my chest. “You know if she is, it’ll be mine. I’ve always been a stronger swimmer.”
“Bullshit,” I tell him with a smile and shake of my head. “Seriously though, are you sure you’re okay with it? Because I’ve been doing some research; and since our DNA is identical, a test won’t tell us which one of us is the father.”
“Man, I’m not going anywhere, and you and her better not either,” he says before he flashes a smirk. “You can pretend the kid’s yours all you want, even though you’ll know in your heart that it’s mine.”
“Good,” I tell him. “After we take care of this shit, we’re gonna be a family. We’ll get dad out, and then we’re gonna live like we should’ve years ago.”
“Damn right. With Blair’s dress as evidence and her testimony, I think we can still do this, even though the asshole is dead.”
“Where is her dress?” I ask him.
“Oh, I sent it and Blair’s video statement to the agent in charge.”
“Right,” I say, stabbing my fingers through my hair. What the fuck has he done with the damn thing?
The dress is the only evidence we have, and it’s probably lost in the wind because my brother thinks he’s a federal agent.
Chapter Fifteen
Blair
Brede is quiet on the way back to the hotel, so I silently hold his hand in the back of the used van. At least the vehicle is ours and we didn’t have to steal it, even if the brakes squeak and one of the sliding doors doesn’t open.
It’s nice to have something normal, although we’ll probably have to trade soon because Brede’s still a fugitive and we need to stay on our toes.
I wish we could just live our lives like normal here, but Brede will never let that bitch get away with killing his parents. Their urn sits beside me now on the seat since Brede still won’t touch it.
When Aden parks, we get out, but Brede doesn’t follow him toward the hotel entrance.
“You mind going for a walk?” he asks me.
“Sure,” I tell him since it’s a beautiful summer day. “Do you want Aden to take the urn up with him?”
“No,” Brede answers. “Just the picture.” He hands the eight by ten photo of Paula and Jim to Aden and tells him, “We’ll be back in a little while.”
With a nod and a wave, Aden goes inside. Brede and I walk in silence for a few blocks, until we come up to Waterfront Park.
Sighing heavily, Brede finally takes the urn from my arms. I had worried he would keep avoiding it, pretending the ashes of his parents weren’t inside. He tucks it safely in the crook of his elbow with his arm wrapped around it, and then takes my hand again, leading me down to the water.
“Wow,” I say as I take in the view. Before everything went to hell, I remember going to the beach with my parents every summ
er. I loved playing in the surf and sand. This is the most water I’ve stood in front of since then.
“The Ohio River,” Brede says as he looks out over the calm surface. “We used to come here and watch the fireworks on the Fourth of July, and go over to Louisville Slugger Field to watch the Bats play.” He nods over to the stadium.
“Sounds like great memories,” I tell him, squeezing his hand in mine.
“Yeah, they were,” he replies. “I can’t carry them around. It’s too hard.”
Letting me go, he opens the top of the urn and steps to the edge of the walkway to dump the contents into the river. A light breeze picks up the swirling fragments before they die down and float to the surface of the water.
I hear Brede’s shaky exhale that sounds partially like relief mixed with regret.
“I don’t know what to do with the urn,” he says, looking down at the weeping angel, reminding me of the tattoo on his forearm. “Maybe I’ll sit it on the mantel at the house.”
“What are you gonna do with the house?” I ask him.
“Fuck if I know,” he mutters, taking my hand in his again and turning us back toward the road to start the trek to the hotel. “Part of me wants to sell it, but there are a lot of happy memories there, better than the ones in Lexington.”
“Then why don’t we live there?” I ask him. “Unless it’s too hard.”
“Really?” he asks, coming to a stop, an almost grin on his face for the first time in a week.
“Yeah. There are two bedrooms, right? One for us and one for Aden.”
“Aden,” he grumbles, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Did you fuck him?”
“Ah, what?” I ask in surprise, since he knows I did.
“While I was gone. While I was mourning my fucking parents, were you fucking him?” he growls, confusing me with his line of questioning.
“No, of course not. We didn’t know where you were, or what had happened, but he didn’t touch me. Well, not until the day I ran away from the hotel and found you at their house.”