Tillis says, “What’s that?” when the blast deafens me, hurling me back. Thick smoke makes everything go black, and suddenly I’m on my knees, reaching, groping, yelling . . .
Something crashes and startles me awake, and I realize I’m on the floor under my end table. The lamp that was there is in a dozen pieces on the floor.
I’m soaked and shaking, and I hate my life like I hated it then. I sit back on the floor, an elbow on my knee, and I try to get a grip.
When I can move again, I take a shower, trying to wash the images out of my mind, trying not to loathe the fact that I’m still breathing. I pray that God will fix this.
I get out of the shower and look at my bed, and though my body is still tired, I don’t dare go there. I won’t sleep again tonight. I can’t take that chance.
I don’t fear Keegan, but I do fear sleep. I want to avoid it until I can’t take it anymore.
I can’t go on like this.
I finally call my shrink and make an appointment.
I’m late for my appointment with Dr. Coggins, and I hope she hasn’t given my slot away. When I check in, she comes out pretty quickly and ushers me in.
“I can’t sleep,” I say before she even takes her seat. “It’s bad.”
“You can’t fall asleep?”
“No, I can fall asleep, but I can’t stay asleep. And I dread it, like it’s life or death, like it’s . . .” My voice trails off, and I try to find the words.
“Night terrors?”
“Yeah.” I feel like an idiot. Aren’t night terrors something little kids have when they’re afraid of monsters?
“That’s common, Dylan. Tell me what you see. Is it the original trauma?”
“Yeah, that, and a few other things. My murdered friend seems to work his way in. I just can’t quiet my brain. It goes there no matter what I do.” I get up, pace across her office. “So I avoid it for days until I can’t anymore.”
“You can’t do that, Dylan. You have to sleep.”
“I know that, but it’s not worth it.”
“I can prescribe you something.”
“No, I don’t want drugs. But . . . you said something about that patch thing. Is it voodoo?”
“No,” she says. “It’s science. Researchers at the University of California, Los Angeles, are studying this. It’s called trigeminal nerve stimulation.” She gets up and goes to her cabinet on the wall, pulls out a small case. She lays it on the table and opens it, then takes out the device.
I sit back down and try to figure it out.
“The device has a nine-volt battery. It’s wired to the patch. You put the patch on your forehead, and it sends these small electrical currents to the largest nerve in your brain—the trigeminal nerve. The device sends a little current to some of the forehead’s cranial nerves that are connected to the amygdala and prefrontal cortex, where mood is regulated. It calms your brain so it’s not dragging up all those traumas.”
“When do you wear it?”
“Just while you sleep. They’re studying it with military veterans, and some of my patients participating in the study say it helps with depression and insomnia. Some even say it helps with cognition. A quarter of them stopped having any symptoms. Some have reported improvement; some haven’t. I can probably get you enrolled in the study, if you want to try it. You’re a good candidate.”
I don’t have time for a lot of paperwork and waiting to get started, but I guess I don’t have a choice. “Yeah, I’ll try it,” I say.
She knows me too well, so she makes me fill out the paperwork right there in her office. They’ll call me and ask some questions, she says, then if I make the study, they’ll send me my own patch.
I don’t know how I’ll survive until then.
22
CASEY
My new job seems easy enough. I’m tasked with loading the UpDown Seat into a box, sealing it up, and getting it ready to mail. There are three others who work on that task with me. Because of some press they’ve gotten in the last few weeks in some kind of geriatric magazine, they have more orders than usual, which is why I was hired. We work in a big warehouse that’s pretty noisy, because in one corner they’re working on parts of the hydraulic lift that makes the seat what it is. In another corner they’re using molds to make the plastic parts. By the time it gets to us it’s all put together, and we have to put it in a clear plastic bag, then in the box, then in a shipping box. It gets pretty tedious and my back hurts, but I do my best even though it’s the least amount I’ve ever been paid. But I can’t expect more than minimum wage. I just hope it’s enough to help me fill back in what I’ve already spent of my cash.
There’s kind of a family environment here, and every couple of hours the people doing the hydraulics take a break, so it gets quiet and we can talk. Blake, the inventor, is hands-on, making sure nothing is overlooked. He jumps in wherever he’s needed. But Cole is different. He works in the office most of the time, and from time to time he walks through, looking distracted. I can’t help looking for the sadness in his eyes, wondering if he’s still contemplating suicide.
At lunch in the break room, I get to know my coworkers better. I find out that one of them, Alice, is a gluten-free vegan about my age, who has a weakness for bologna. It seems that her doctor has her on the G-free diet, but she eats the meat like candy that she’s sneaked into her car. The two other people in my area in charge of packaging are Trey, who dropped out of high school in the tenth grade, and Sully, who’s around thirty-five and used to work offshore on an oil rig, until the economy turned and he couldn’t find work. Though they’re pretty quiet and focused when they’re working, they relax a little at lunch.
“So does anybody know how Cole’s wife is doing?” Alice asks the guys at our table in a whisper.
I look up.
“She came by here to talk to him the other day,” Trey says. “I saw her when she left and she was crying.”
“Do you think he did it?” Alice asks.
Trey shrugs. “I don’t know him that well, but he seems like a decent guy.”
I want to ask what they think he did, but it seems like none of my business, so I look down at my food.
“How do you get over this, if it’s not true?” Alice says. “You can’t just move on. People are going to think he did it for the rest of his life.” She glances at me. “It’s Cole. He’s only been working here a couple of weeks, since he lost his job as a vice-principal.” She glances to the side, making sure none of the family are lurking nearby. “They’re saying he molested a seven-year-old girl at his school.”
I catch myself before I gasp, and then I remember that line in the suicide note, where he mentioned a false accusation. “What has he said?”
“That he didn’t do it and his lawyer is working on clearing his name.”
“He goes to my church,” Sully finally says. “I’ve been on mission trips with him. He’s for real, man. He couldn’t have done it.”
“But isn’t that how it goes?” Alice asks. “I mean, people who do that are never the ones you think.”
“But I’ve seen him with his kids. He has a seven-year-old. No way he did that.”
I finally have to ask. “Did he get fired, or did he just resign?”
“Got fired, I heard,” Sully says. “And it’s been all over the papers and local news.”
“You know, the weird thing is that they usually keep the identity of a child abuse victim private, but this family has been giving interviews. They outed her themselves.”
“He must be really depressed,” I say, glancing toward the door. “Is his wife sticking by him?”
“Seems to be,” Alice says. “But it’s got to be hard.”
About that time, Cole comes into the room. He stands in the doorway for a moment, looking around as if he’s forgotten why he came in here. He has dark circles under his eyes, and his skin has a gray pallor. He looks like he hasn’t had much sleep in days.
He meets my eyes, then q
uickly looks away, then back again. I look down at my sandwich and take a bite. I wonder if he realizes I saw the note. He finally leaves the room and doesn’t come back.
When I get off work, I go into my room, crawl up on the bed, and turn on my computer. I look up reports of the accusations against Cole. As my coworkers mentioned, there are several articles that have interviews with Nate and Tiffany Trendall, the parents accusing him and suing the school.
I watch the interviews they’ve done on the local news, astonished that they went into such detail about their child’s abuse. Doctors have confirmed that she was molested.
I hear knocking on the door and I get up and open it. Little Caden is holding on to the doorknob, wanting to close the door. I smile and let him close it, then he knocks and opens it again. He’s delighted by the game as he stands on his toes, opening and closing my door. “Caden, what are you doing?”
“I told you he loves doors.” Lydia is sitting in a chair, legs crossed in a yoga pose, and she’s on her phone texting furiously. I bend down and speak to him, throw his ball, and let him run after it and bring it back. He seems starved for attention, and she’s not interested in giving it. It’s a small thing, playing with a child, but it means a lot, and it makes me miss my little Emma even more.
He brings me a book and I ask Lydia if she minds if I pull him up onto my bed and read it to him. She says it’s okay—without looking up from her phone—so I pull him up. He gets into position, snuggled next to me, eagerly waiting for the story to begin. Because I don’t see him following every word of the book, I abbreviate the words and concentrate on the pictures. He sucks his thumb as he listens.
Before I’ve finished the story, he demands “milt,” which I’m pretty sure means milk. I go to the door and try to get his mother’s attention. “Lydia, he’s saying he wants some milt.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s bedtime,” she says without looking at him. “I’m going out. My mother is keeping him. I’ll make her get him some milk and put him to bed.” She finally puts her phone in her pocket, then grabs Caden and takes him downstairs. I’m relieved because he’s wearing me out after I’ve worked all day, but I don’t want him to know it. I hope his “milt” lulls him to sleep.
23
CASEY
By Sunday morning, I wonder if my time following Candace Price has been wasted. I’m bored following her as she zips around town for home showings and goes out every night to clubs. I haven’t yet found anything that will help my case against Keegan. Maybe they’ve broken up. I wonder if I should even keep trying.
It’s quiet in the house. Lydia and Caden, and even Miss Naomi, are still sleeping. Loneliness hits me like the flu, and I think I’ll shrivel up and die before tomorrow comes when I can get back to work. My spirit feels dry, like drought-dead fruit, and I’m hit with the sense that I need to attend to it. Churches all across town are meeting this morning. I’ve only been to church a few times in my life, mostly for funerals and weddings. But I feel like I owe God something, since he’s answered some of my most urgent prayers lately.
I get in the car and drive around to some of the churches I’ve seen on the way to work. I’m drawn to a small one, but then I realize that I might attract too much attention if I go there and they’re not used to visitors. I decide on a bigger church with hundreds of cars in the parking lot. A sign out front says “Visitors Welcome.” Maybe I can get lost in the crowd and not be noticed. The sign says the service starts at 10:30, so I wait until 10:35 and go in, hoping no one will pay attention to me or speak to me if I’m late.
I don’t know Episcopal from Baptist, and when I sit down, I can’t remember which one this is. From the back row, the huge room looks like a theater. The people in front of me are dressed nicer than I am. For a moment I think of slipping back out, but then the singing starts, and I decide I’ll wait a while longer.
The congregation is sitting when the choir opens with a song I’ve never heard, and the sound is soothing and calming. The music director turns to the audience, indicating we can sing along. I pick up on it after the first chorus and find myself singing. I don’t remember when I’ve sung as an adult, except to the radio. It’s nice. Halfway through the song, someone near the middle of the room stands up, as though he can’t contain himself. Slowly, others pop up, then more, then finally the rest of the crowd is on their feet, including me.
I like the feeling that comes over me, and I wonder if that’s God.
The guy at the front leads them into another song, and I watch the lyrics on the screen.
What can wash away my sin?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
I don’t sing to this one. I just study those lyrics. How can blood wash away anything? The thought is a little disturbing.
Oh, precious is the flow
That makes me white as snow.
No other fount I know,
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
As we sit again after the song, I pull out a pen and a notepad and jot down those words. As performers sing solos, I think through each line of this verse. The flow of blood, making someone white as snow. I don’t get it, but I really want to.
They sing a few more songs that don’t tax my understanding, then after the offering, all gets quiet as the preacher takes the podium. He tells a joke, then a story, and my mind drifts to those in front of me in the pews. I see a family—a husband and wife and two children—and a little girl leaning against her father, and suddenly I miss mine. We never did church when I was young, but I would have liked sitting on a pew next to my dad, his arm around me. I wonder if he and Mom ever talked about taking us.
I wonder if he lives on now . . . somewhere.
I tune back in as the preacher gets to the meat of his sermon. It’s mostly clear to me, as he talks about Sunday Christians who change on Monday morning. I think of Miss Lucy, who was the same all the time. If I ever decide to convert, I want to be like her. I think of Dylan, who talked of God in our email. I doubt he’s a Sunday-only Christian.
My gaze travels again and snags on a familiar face in the third row from the back, down to the right of me. It’s Cole Whittington with his wife and his daughters, who look about five and seven. His wife sits shoulder-snug to him.
I wonder if it was her idea to come, or his. It would be so easy to stay home as people judge you for the worst accusation ever made about you. The fact that they’re here says something about them. I’m not sure what.
But as the sermon ends and we sing another song, I see him wiping tears. I feel bad for him and hope that he isn’t considering suicide again. I can’t see his wife’s face from this angle because he’s blocking her, but I see him reach into his pocket for a handkerchief and hand it to her.
Something about that moves me.
The family gets up and leaves quietly after that, clearly avoiding the others. There are a few announcements, then the congregation is told to hold hands for the closing song. I take that moment to slip out too. I get to the parking lot and see Cole and his family pulling out.
Instead of going back to Miss Naomi’s, I go to Candace Price’s house and watch her again. Her father’s car is back, and there’s no activity for a while. Sitting in my car and using my phone as a hotspot, I go online to look for more information about Cole’s accusers. I guess I’m still obsessed with his plight. I really need a hobby.
24
DYLAN
I’m pulling into my apartment parking lot after church when I see my buddy Dex is waiting for me in his van. I pull up beside him and open my door. He rolls down his window.
“’S’up, dude?”
I get out and go around the car to fist-bump with his hook. “Dex, how long you been waiting?”
“Half hour or so. You got a girl or something?”
“No, man. Church. You should come with me someday.”
“Yeah, someday.”
I wait as he gets out of his van, wearing shorts, and limps to the steps, one leg perfect, the othe
r a tangle of steel rods. He has papers rolled up and sticking out of his back pocket.
“Still don’t have elevators, huh?” he asks as he pulls himself up with his left hand.
“They’ll never get elevators here. But I could move.”
He laughs. “You’d do that for me, wouldn’t you, Pretty Boy?”
We get to the second floor, and I unlock my door. I wish he wouldn’t call me Pretty Boy. I wasn’t Pretty Boy when we hung out on post, eating in the same mess hall. He was the pretty boy then, the one all the girls went after, the one who was once Mr. July in a calendar that women hung on their refrigerators.
But I’m Pretty Boy now because I have two legs and two arms. How I escaped injury is a question I’ll never have answered. Every time he refers to me that way, I wonder if it’s because he resents my surviving unscathed as much as I resent it.
We get into my apartment and he goes to my fridge and takes out a bottled water. “So how’s the job?”
“Okay.”
“I’ve been following Keegan,” he says. “This guy is interesting. He gets around.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s in and out of businesses all day. Not just going to crime scenes.” He tosses a report of his observations down on the counter. “I went into one establishment when he was in there and saw him taking cash. Seemed to be a little fear there. Owner didn’t want to cross him.”
“Which one was that?” I ask, studying his report.
“Catalina Convenience Store,” he says, pointing to it. “I didn’t want to go in any others, because I’m sorta recognizable.”
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