by Gregory Ashe
Neither of us said anything. A machine beeped, and then it beeped again, and Tom Selleck made a wacky shot behind his back and caught a bad guy right in the chest, and outside, the wind brushed the buffalo grass and stirred the sage into silver glimmers. “You’re supposed to rope steer.”
He laughed. It was a wet laugh, almost a cry, and didn’t open his eyes. “You’re such an asshole.”
“I’m terrible at plumbing.”
“Ok, Vie.”
“I don’t know how to fix a sink.”
“I get it.”
“Unless I can solve it with Draino, I am totally, absolutely lost.”
Austin was crying now, his eyes still shut, and he wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand.
“I . . . need you. I love you. And I need you to take care of me. Not because I’m an overgrown kid who can’t cook anything besides Top Ramen—although, to be totally honest, I can’t. And not because I can’t live without you, although it would be pretty fucking hard. I need you to take care of me—a little, just sometimes, anyway—because that’s part of who you are. You’re this amazing guy who makes sure other people are ok. And I love you. I love that part of you. I love how you make me feel. I love that you care that I’m ok.” I drew a breath and ran my hand across my chin, felt my lips against the back of my hand, tried to pull words from the thunderstorm in my heart. “But I don’t want that to be the only part of you I get to see. And I don’t want you to feel claustrophobic. I want to get to know all of you. And I want you to yell at me when I’m messing up. And I want you to tell me when you’re not happy. And I want you to grow and be the best person you can be. And if it’s not always going to be with me—”
He sobbed and then wiped his mouth with both hands and said, “Just shut up, please.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know, and now I’m telling you I don’t want you to talk like that. I don’t ever want you to talk like that.” One hand clenched over his chest again; he was trembling, and pain drew tight lines in his face. “Vie, can we . . . can we do this another day? I’m sorry I started this. I’m sorry I made you say things that you probably weren’t ready to—”
“One more thing. Maybe we weren’t doing so well because I didn’t know how you felt. I didn’t know you were . . . trapped, I guess. Into always being supportive, always being protective, always taking care of me. I should have known. But there’s something else. Those times you asked me, those times you knew something was wrong and you wanted to talk about it? I should have told you.”
My eyes were hot. The chrome railing blurred into a long bar of white light, and I had to blink and breathe through my mouth and chafe my palms on my knees. “I’ve been really, really unhappy. I think . . . I think I’m depressed. Or I’ve got depression. I kept telling myself it was just about my powers and Urho and the Lady and about my dad and about my mom, but it’s more than that I think. It’s something in my head. Something’s wrong, and I’ve felt so shitty for so long, but I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want you to think it was because of you, so I just kept telling myself everything was ok. I kept telling myself everyone felt like this, and I never want you to think I wasn’t happy with you because—”
Austin’s eyes were open: bloodshot, swimming in tears, blue-green like perfect water. “Come here.”
I got up, the motions jerky like all my joints were steel. “I’m going to get help. I promise. I’m going to see a doctor and I’ll take something and I’ll even go see a shrink if you—"
“Vie, please come here.”
I took another of those tin-man steps. My knees cracked against the bed. “I’ll get better, Aus. I promise I’ll get better.”
Austin blinked his eyes clear and patted the bed beside him.
I sat down.
He kissed me.
And then I was crying so hard I couldn’t hold myself up. I tried to. I knew this boy had just gotten stabbed in the chest, and I knew I should stay upright and not collapse onto his shoulder like a fucking maiden in a medieval fairytale, but I just couldn’t do it. I cried for a long time, and he ran one hand across the back of my neck, and he whispered in my ear, telling me it was going to be ok, and after a long time, after a really long time, I stopped and sniffled and managed to scoot back a few inches.
“Are we in a fight?” he whispered.
I shook my head.
He looked like he might say something, but the pain made him gasp, and his fist spasmed above his chest. He wasn’t going to get any more pain meds for a while, and I couldn’t stand seeing him like this. I slipped my hand around his. I opened my second sight, and I flowed across the connection between us until I floated in the darkness of his mind. Sleep. He needed to sleep and rest and heal. And I thought of the last night I had slept beside Austin: the smell of his hair, his breath on my neck, the sticky heat where our legs tangled, the coil of bedding that I had shoved to my waist. I remembered the way I had counted my heartbeats that night like I was counting the cars on a train, a train slipping off into darkness, and then I had slept. I felt the memory echo inside him, and when I returned to my body, he was asleep, his face turned to the pillow, his breathing even, the rigid lines of pain melting.
I dragged the chairs into a makeshift cot, and I slept too.
It was the same dream that had followed me for the last few months: snow lying heavy on the ground, fog lying heavy above the snow, the trees laying heavy limbs above me, their broad trunks marching in every direction. Urho came behind me—that vicious, insane wolf that was the manifestation he took in dreams. He was hunting me. And if he caught me, he would tear me apart.
Part of me was awake enough to know that this was only a dream, that Urho was dead, that terror and trauma and months of nightmares were the reasons for this dream. But even knowing that, I was still afraid. I ran, my breath a bonfire in my chest, my legs slowing until they froze, as heavy as snow and wood. And the wolf came behind me. The wolf was as fast as ever. And the wolf darted between the trees, crouching, coiling, launching toward me, jaw open, fangs tearing at flesh—
“Hey, hey, hey, stop. Vie, stop. Vie! It’s ok.”
The words dragged me out of the dream, and I flopped on my makeshift cot, mopping my face with my sleeve. Austin leaned on the chair, the plastic bending along a white crease as he supported all his weight on it, but Austin’s attention was on me. He pushed sweaty hair back from my face. A cool, callused hand lay against my cheek.
“That was one hell of a nightmare.”
I dropped onto my back, falling away from his touch, and covered my face. He didn’t move. His breathing was labored, though, and I could hear the barbs of pain in it.
When I trusted myself, I wiped my eyes and said, “It’s stupid for you to get out of bed like that.” Then I got up. “Come on. You need to lie down.”
I helped him back into the hospital bed. The strain of moving, of standing, showed in his face. As I tucked the blanket around him, I talked. Just stupid stuff. Stuff I couldn’t keep from coming out of my mouth.
“It’s just a dream. Sorry I woke you. It’s just—I thought they’d be over. Gone. Now that—well, after what happened. Anyway, you shouldn’t have gotten up.”
Austin caught my hand when I pulled back.
I took a breath, and then I kept going. “And I’m sorry I said it was a stupid thing for you to get up because I know you were trying to help. But sometimes I think you’re so worried about me that you don’t take care of yourself, and that really starts to fuck with my head. I don’t know how to think about it, much less talk about it. So I say stupid stuff. Like I tell you you’re stupid for helping me. Or I—or I show up in your hospital room and yell at you. And I guess I’m just trying to say I know why you came up to the cabin at Chapee. I know why you didn’t talk about how bad the cut was, because you were worried about me. I guess I’m just trying to say, I’m sorry.”
“I do worry about you.”
&
nbsp; “You don’t need to.”
“I love you.”
“You don’t need to do that either.”
That surprised a laugh out of him, the first genuine one I’d heard in this room, and he squeezed my hand. He squeezed hard. Some of it was for me; some of it was for the pain. “I’m sorry about what I said.”
“You don’t need to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. Kaden’s right: I should get out of your life.”
“Vie,” he said, and tears hooked along the purple shadows under his eyes. “You are my life.”
I bent and kissed him, and he tasted like medicine and sweat and, underneath that, the familiarity of his mouth. When I broke the kiss, his fingers tightened around mine, and he gave me a smile. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to get excited.”
“I was just checking.”
“Checking?”
I ran a hand up his thigh. “Making sure everything still works.”
“Playing doctor?”
I slid my hand higher. “Something like that.”
I kissed him again.
When I pulled back, pain shone in his face like the edge of a sword. I disentangled our hands. “I’m going to go. You’re going to get some sleep. I’ll come back tomorrow, and we’ll . . .”
“We’ll take tomorrow when it comes.”
I nodded. “Day by day.” And I wished it didn’t sound like an echo.
When I stepped away from the bed, Austin said, “The nightmares. You’ve been having them for a while?”
“A few months.”
“Every night?”
I started to shake my head; then I made myself tell the truth. “Almost.”
With obvious effort, he scooted to one side of the bed and turned down the sheet.
“Aus, you need to—”
He patted the bed.
“You’re hurt, and you’re in pain, and the last thing—”
“No orgies.”
I blinked. “What?”
“No reverse cowgirl. No peek-a-boo.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Reverse cowgirl?”
“We’re going to sleep. That’s all. Sleep.” He smiled, and it was fragile and shy and laced with fear. “Please? Tonight? I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
“Tonight,” I said, already kicking off my sneakers.
As I settled in next to him, smelling his skin, the plastic rustle of the hospital gown, the sponge-bath soap, all of it, he dragged up the sheet up over me. And then he pulled my head to his shoulder. His arm went around me.
“Your chest,” I said.
“Tonight.” His hand ran up and down my back, and I remembered the way he had stroked Hannah. His nails scratched lightly, pleasantly through my shirt. My next breath came out easier. And the next even easier. He had some magic in his hands: animals and little kids and even feral things like me.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you. Now get some sleep.”
I slept. And I only had one dream that night: a high meadow, and the sun breaking on my face, and Austin.
THE LETTER CAME THREE months later with E. Bradley and no address in the envelope’s corner, and my name and address printed in jagged, nervous scratches in the center.
Dear (A smudge of gray graphite where Emmett had scribbled out a word.) Vie,
Somebody in group said I was an asshole for calling you tweaker all those times. I told her I knew I was an asshole. She said that wasn’t the only reason, and I said I knew that too. It’s a hard habit to break.
I’m ok.
How are you?
(A long, scribbled out section.)
I hate this. I want to talk to you. I want to—
(More scribbles.)
Do you know what a twelve-step program is? I guess you do. The one here, at this place, has amends as step eight. So I guess I’m on step eight. Only really, in my head, I think I got stuck somewhere around step three because I don’t think I believe in God. I guess I believe in something because something brought you to Vehpese. Something good. Something amazing. So I guess I believe in that. But I’m not sure I believe in God.
I put you on my list of amends. Then I took you off. I put you on again. I took you off again. Jerry says I should leave you on, and he’s pretty cool, and Dana, that girl in group, says I should get my balls cut off because of how I treated you, and Jerry told her you can’t say things like that in group.
(Another scratched-out paragraph.)
Can I start over?
This place is pretty nice, and before you ask, I’m not going to tell you where it is. I just don’t think I could—
(Scratches.)
It’s kind of like a spa, I guess. I wear slippers all day. And the clothes are basically pajamas. And there are a lot of waterfalls and they play New Age music and they have jasmine in the gardens. I like to sit out there at night. I can see the stars, and they make me think about home. I think about you a lot when I’m out there.
I didn’t scratch that part out. Are you proud of me?
They tell me I’m supposed to make amends for people I hurt because of my addiction. They don’t tell me what I’m supposed to say to the person that is my addiction. I guess most people can’t write letters to coke or meth. I mean, they could, but it probably wouldn’t help very much.
You know the first thing they told me when I got here? You never stop being an addict. And you know what I learned writing this letter?
They’re right.
(A long paragraph followed, scribbled out so vigorously that the paper had torn in places.)
Here’s what I want to apologize for:
I’m sorry I lied to you.
I’m sorry I hurt you.
I’m sorry for the way I left you. The way I left us. But I still think it was the right thing to do.
I’m sorry for all the other stuff I did. If you want to send me a list, I’ll apologize for all of it. Kind of joking. Kind of not joking.
I hope you and Austin are happy. If you guys broke up, then I hope he has a blowout case of herpes, and I think you should revenge-fuck Kaden. I know you think he’s straight, but that kid is definitely bi.
I almost scratched out that stuff above, but I’m going to leave it. I want you to know what I really hope, the thing I really want, is that you’ll happy. And well. I hope you kept your promise. I hope you’re doing what you need to be doing so you can get better. Because I am.
(A scribbled-out line.)
(A scribbled-out line.)
(A line scratched out so hard it creased the paper.)
Well, fuck, I keep writing it and keep scratching it out and I guess I’m going to write it again and just send this stupid thing. I love you.
Emmett
PS—Are you going to college? My parents want to put me in a final year of prep school, but I think I’m just going to do my GED and start at the community college.
PPS—I know, I know. I asked you questions and I didn’t give you a way to write back. I guess I’m still an asshole; group can only do so much.
PPPS—Want to hear something weird? Guess who I saw. Jim Spencer. He’s—
(Long, deep scratches.)
He’s having a really hard time, I guess. He said he left Vehpese without telling anyone. He said he can’t be there anymore. He said he heard I was here, and one day he just needed someone to talk to, and he showed up, and I basically had a heart attack. He’s been coming a lot since then. We’ve been—
(Scratches.)
I know I said I didn’t want to tell you where I am. I still don’t. Knowing you, you’d probably try to hitch a ride, and you’d end up with a serial killer, and I’d be responsible for you getting your skin made into a dress or something like that. But I miss you so much it’s crazy. And I want to know you’re ok. Jim said if you email him, he’ll print it off and bring it to me, and then I can write you back. He might be a cool guy except he’s
twenty-five or something so he’s basically an old man. He promised not to read whatever you wrote, and I actually kind of believe him. I’ll put his email address at the end. It’s up to you, but I hope you’ll write.
Write me. Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease. Ok. I’m going to say it again before I go all chickenshit. I love you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deepest thanks go out to the following people (in alphabetical order):
Justene Adamec, for her extensive reading (and re-reading) of the final manuscript, for her insight into Vie and Emmett’s evolving relationship, for pointing out the parts that didn’t make sense, and for being the first to catch the broken nose that was really a punch to the stomach!
Austin Gwin, for the incredible amount of support and encouragement he provides over email. Austin identified sections of the book that dragged, helped me see why, and—as usual—put his finger on a problem that I could feel in my gut without being able to name. And I’m sorry (again) for accidentally bringing back a hated nickname!
Cheryl Oakley, for pointing out the fundamental weakness in the book’s ending—and for managing to do so with kindness and a wealth of generous ideas to resolve the issue. If you enjoy the epilogue (or if you hate it, but you needed to know a little of what happened with Emmett), thank Cheryl!
Tray Stephenson, for catching so many of my typographical (and other) blunders, for emails full of good humor and encouragement, and for many kind words along the way!
And Jo Wegstein, who disassembled and reassembled so many parts of this novel: for providing expansive feedback on topics ranging from asphyxiation to the physics of boys who vanish from motorcycles. Jo’s insights into the characters, the plot, and the array of technical problems that this story posed have made the book what it is today, and I am deeply indebted to her—and I probably owe my life to the fact that she’s a patient person, especially after the hundredth run-on sentence she caught!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works at www.gregoryashe.com.