Close to You

by Kara Isaac

  He lurched up off the couch and started hopping toward the bathroom. A cold shower—that would be a good place to shock him back to his senses, which clearly he’d left behind in the paddock when he fell off that blasted horse. Of course. That was it. He’d taken another blow to the head; the second in two weeks. An undiagnosed concussion was what was wrong with him.

  His shoulders relaxed. That had to be it. He didn’t have feelings for Allie—not real ones. He just had a few neurons that had gone AWOL on him, shaken loose in the fall. A shower and a good night’s sleep would get them back in line.

  Despite his best attempts, the sad excuses dropped away hollow. He didn’t have a head injury. He was just flat-out crazy about the girl.

  Limping into the bathroom, he opened the shower door and twisted the cold tap on full. Time for a dose of reality. Sure, he was attracted to her. Sure, he liked her a lot, but that was it. Nothing more, nothing less. Going to the other side of the world for a few weeks and finding “The One” wasn’t reality. It was fantasy. In a few weeks’ time, it would just be a memory. As long as he didn’t step out of line and do something that would load him with even more regrets.

  He let the door swing shut. Propping himself up against the bathroom sink, he stared at himself in the mirror. He looked haggard—evidence of the sleep he hadn’t gotten since his fight with Allie.

  He didn’t want to be that guy he’d been with Nicole ever again. The one who squashed what he knew to be right in the name of convenience and pragmatism. He wanted the next girl he kissed to be more than something. He wanted her to be everything.

  God, help me. The three words wound their way up from somewhere deep, quieting his troubled thoughts. He’d made such a mess of his life at this point, it would actually take divine intervention to make the crooked paths straight.

  I was afraid of what it would mean. His uncle’s words came back. That pretty much summed it up: he liked to be in control. He operated by logic, what he knew and could see. Relinquish control of the steering wheel? Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t know how.

  You’ve spent the last decade in control and where has it gotten you? The question bounced around his head, its truth striking at him.

  I do believe. Help me overcome my unbelief. The words echoed up through the decades. Ones from a Bible story that had made no sense to his eight-year-old self, but now captured him.

  The sound of his phone ringing split the moment and jerked him back to reality. Beth’s ringtone. Turning off the water, he grabbed his cell from his pocket. One day he’d tell her about how her little brother went to New Zealand and almost lost his mind. She’d love it.

  “Hey, sis.”

  “Hey.” Her voice was tense. “You somewhere you can talk?”

  “I’m in my room. What’s up?”

  “Actually, it would be better if we Skype. Can you do that?”

  “Sure. Just give me a couple of minutes to get set up.”

  Exiting the bathroom, he hopped back across the bedroom using the backs of furniture for support. He pulled his laptop out of his bag and hooked it up to the hotel’s Wi-Fi.

  They must have received the foreclosure notice. That had to be it. He looked at the date. May 12. Surely not. Andrew, the bank manager, had gone to school with his parents. He promised he’d give them until at least the end of May.

  His hands roamed through his hair; there had to be a way to buy them some more time.

  The familiar sound started trilling and he hit the button before it could squawk out more than a few notes. It took a few seconds for the video feed to flicker onto his screen but when it did, he saw four people scrunched into the screen. His sister and parents up front, with his brother-in-law in the back, the top of his head cut off by the edge of the screen.

  Beth’s eyes were red rimmed. His sister would be taking this hard. She loved the farm with every atom in her being—in a way he never understood.

  “Surely we can convince them to give us more time.” The words were out of his mouth before he even realized it. “I mean, the economy is bad, there are farms for sale all over the place. There’s no way they’d get for it what they want. We’ll convince them it’s in their interests to hold off for now.”

  The faces on the other side of the screen registered a combination of confusion and understanding.

  His father spoke first. “Son, this isn’t about the farm.”

  “Then wh—”

  His question was drowned by his sister bursting into sobs, then clasping her hands over her mouth.

  “I’m afraid your mother has some bad news.”

  “Wh—”

  Suddenly he knew without any of them saying anything. The big C. All of his grandparents had died of some form of it.

  “No.” He shook his head. “No. No.” Like maybe if he said it enough, it wouldn’t be true. The pizza churned in his stomach.

  She was only in her late fifties and lived the epitome of a healthy life. She’d never smoked and rarely drank; she exercised and ate well. She wouldn’t touch anything marked diet, adamant it wasn’t “real” food.

  “What kind?” Jackson forced himself to ask.

  “Ovarian.”

  The same as his grandmother. “Can’t they just . . .” His voice trailed off. It wasn’t the kind of question a son ever wanted to ask his mom, but surely doctors could take them out? It wasn’t like she needed them anymore.

  Assuming they’d caught it before it had spread further, but even if it had, they had gold-plated health insurance. That was the one thing he hadn’t failed them on. He sent them a check every year to pay for it; it would cover the best treatment there was.

  “Has it spread? Where have they referred you to? Do you have a treatment plan yet?” The questions tumbled out of him. “I’ll get online right away, do some research as to the best places. I’m sure I know some people who could make recommendations.”

  For a second the silence coming from the other end of the connection was so eerie he wondered if someone had accidentally hit MUTE.

  “Hello?”

  His mom shook her head. “We’re sorry, Jackson. We’re so sorry.” Her voice shook.

  “Sorry? For what?”

  “There were some bills that needed to be paid and . . .” Her voice cracked and then broke.

  “I don’t understand.”

  His father, normally a man of few words, was now one of none. It was Beth who finally managed to pull herself together enough to talk.

  “The last check for insurance you sent . . .” Then she broke too, but not before what she was trying to say started seeping in.

  He looked at his parents. “You didn’t pay it? You don’t have health insurance?” He could barely force the words out.

  “We . . .” His father looked away for a second and swallowed. When he turned back, his face appeared to have collapsed on itself. “We have some. We just downgraded.”

  “You downgraded.” He repeated the word stupidly, still not able to absorb it. He had chosen that package specially—had it tailor-made even, back when he had an insurance broker to make sure the policy would cover not only this exact scenario, but all the others that had seemed most likely. An accident on the farm. Heart problems, which also ran in the family.

  “Does it cover anything?”

  His father’s face seemed to collapse even more. “It did. But between all the tests and the specialist visits and everything else, it’ll be maxed out soon.”

  “What do you need for treatment?” He couldn’t even bring himself to ask what the so-called urgent bills were that might end up costing his mother her life. If it turned out the money had gone to call the vet or fix the ancient tractor again—when he’d tried to buy them a new one last year—he might lose his mind.

  “We—”

  “What will it cost for treatment?”
<
br />   His father’s face seemed to drop even lower. “Almost a hundred thousand. At least.”

  Maybe they could send her to India. Or some other second- or third-world country. He was sure he’d read an article somewhere about how cancer treatment was much cheaper in some places because the government wouldn’t let the drugs be patented.

  “Jackson, I’m not going to India. I want to be here, in my home, with my family. We’ve placed it in God’s hands.”

  He hadn’t even known he’d been speaking out loud until his mother’s voice cut through his thoughts.

  “Did you consult God before you decided to spend your health insurance money on something else?” His words came out demanding, harsh. He wanted to reach across the ether and pull them back. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “It’s okay. You have every right to be angry.”

  He stared at the screen. His sister and brother-in-law were now partial figures in the background.

  “When?”

  His mom shook her head. “Jackson, it’s okay. You can’t—”

  “When would you need it by?”

  His father sighed. “The doctor said to have the best chance of success, she would need to start treatment within the next month.”

  “Okay, then.”

  This was his fault. If he’d done right by them, they never would have been put in the position where they felt they had to make the choice they had. His family would’ve had enough money to pay for the stupid vet bill, or electricity, or fertilizer, or whatever it was.

  If he’d sent them even a quarter of the money he’d squandered on designer suits, buying a nice condo, and being seen at the right places to woo more investors, this wouldn’t have happened. Instead he’d justified it all as an “investment” so he could eventually write one big check and cure all their financial woes, instead of just helping them keep their heads above the water.

  He was going to fix it.

  No matter what it took.

  Twenty-Five

  QUIZ NIGHT. THE NIGHT ON the tour when everyone’s true colors inevitably revealed themselves. In Allie’s experience, not even the most introverted and shyest of participants could hold back when their reputation as a true Tolkien aficionado was on the line.

  The two teams sat around tables that had been set up in the private function room at the hotel, replete with after-dinner snacks and drinks. At the table to her left sat Team Frodo—Louis, Ethel, Sofia, and Elroy. To her right was Team Sam—Jackson, Mavis, Hans, and Esther. It was her policy to split up people traveling together as much as possible. In her experience, it only stoked the competition and made for a much more interesting night.

  Of course, everyone was fully costumed for the event.

  For her part, Allie wore the same Tauriel outfit she’d worn for wilderness day. It was her little slice of rebellion, since the true believers would hate it.

  As a group, they’d spent the day on some more traditional Queenstown tourism activities. Everyone had taken to the Shotover Jet with gusto. Even though she must have done it fifty times, the childlike thrill of being ricocheted at high speed across the rushing water and the craggy canyons never dimmed. Though how Duchess Kate had managed the entire thing on the royal tour without so much as a hair getting out of place was beyond her. Then she’d taken Louis and his harem wine tasting and for a gondola ride while Kat took Elroy, Hans, and Sofia bungee jumping and skydiving with Esther tagging along to watch.

  She tried to catch Jackson’s eye. The poor guy had opted to spend the day in his room with his foot up and looked to be in a bit of a funk about it. She had spent the day trying to rid her mind of the memory of his arms around her and being cradled against his chest.

  “All right, everyone, all phones and electronic devices in the box.” She pointed to the container sitting beside her and watched while everyone walked up and deposited their various devices in the box—a policy instituted three months previous after a quiz night had turned into a brawl over accusations of cheating.

  Stacking her question cards into a neat pile, Allie gave them a good shuffle in front of everyone, the unbending cardboard digging into her palms.

  “So this is how it works: I’ll ask a question. Questions have different point values, depending on difficulty. A team has fifteen seconds to agree to an answer. If a team gets it right, they get the points. If they get it wrong, it passes to the other team for a maximum of two attempts each. We alternate who gets the first attempt. First team to fifty points wins. Each person from the winning team gets to choose their prize from the memorabilia brochure on your table.”

  She’d deliberately split the wilderness winners, Louis and Esther, to make sure as many people in the group as possible had the chance to win something.

  Elroy looked like he was about to start asking questions, so Allie hurried on.

  “Before anyone asks, the questions and answers have been vetted by well-qualified Tolkien experts who all agree the answers are correct. Needless to say, where books and movies conflict, books always trump. Judge’s decision is final, and no correspondence shall be entered into.”

  Louis raised his hand.

  “Mr. Duff?”

  “We were wondering if we could make this a true head-to-head?”

  “In what sense?”

  “Well, you still score to teams, but instead of the team answering it, we should go individual-to-individual. That way you can score both by team and individual so there could be not just a winning team, but also an individual champion. No extra prize, just pride.”

  Allie looked around the room. “What do you all think? Everyone would have to agree for it to happen.”

  Louis’s table, where everyone had obviously already been prepped, let out an enthusiastic roar, while Team Sam paused to contemplate, Jackson’s face losing color.

  Hans spoke first, his heavily accented English filling the room. “I accept the challenge.”

  Esther spoke in Elvish. “I am confident in my abilities.”

  Allie fought the urge to roll her eyes. “One more rule—since some people in the room aren’t fluent in Elvish, official answers in English only.”

  She looked at Mavis. Given that both sisters had spent most of the day simpering over Louis, she was pretty sure what her answer would be. Sure enough, she nodded. “While I don’t claim to be the expert, it would certainly be interesting.”

  “Jackson?”

  Jackson’s face bore the look of someone who had shown up at a funeral, only to discover it was his own. Little beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and he licked his lips. As if he had any choice now.

  He looked at her with desperate eyes and she sent him a mental shrug. What did he want her to do to save him?

  “Sure . . . why not . . .” His voice jittered.

  Oh dear. It was going to be like watching an unarmed man get sent into the Coliseum to take on the gladiators.

  * * *

  What was the name of the German blimp in the 1930s that had burst into flames and plunged to the ground? The Hindenburg, that was it. It was like Jackson was on his own personal version of that, watching the fire creep nearer and nearer, waiting for the moment when he went down in a ball of hot fury.

  It was made a hundred times worse by the sympathy that folded Allie’s face; she was the only other person who knew what was coming.

  He steeled himself. He couldn’t afford to let her affect him at all. In any way. Not when there was now so much more at stake.

  At his table, Hans and Esther had both assumed what he took to be their competitive poses—hunched over with focused faces—while Mavis sat serenely. It wouldn’t surprise him if one of the sisters blew them all out of the water. In his experience, it was always the quiet, unassuming ones who were the real threat to be reckoned with.

  At least Allie structured the questions to start wi
th the easier ones—maybe then he’d have a chance of at least getting a couple right before his pride, dignity, and chances of getting the money from his uncle went up in smoke.

  The draw had Sofia against Mavis first, then him facing Elroy, Louis battling Esther, and then Ethel against Hans. A question to each.

  The fellowship, in their wisdom, had also decided competitors had to stand in front of Allie, so there was no chance of their team helping them.

  “Okay, for an easy one point. Sofia, what does the ‘J. R. R.’ stand for in J—?”

  “John Ronald Reuel.” Sofia fired the answer out before Allie had even finished the question.

  “Correct.”

  He let some breath leak from his chest. That wasn’t so bad—even he could answer that one. A little light of hope found a spark.

  No one from the other team so much as murmured approval as Allie scored a point next to Sofia’s name on the board.

  “Mavis. Where was J. R. R. Tolkien born?”

  No hesitation from Mavis. “South Africa.”

  “Correct.”

  It sounded familiar. He might have gotten it.

  Sofia and Mavis returned to their seats. His legs felt like logs as he stood and walked to face off against Elroy, who had a smug, all-knowing look on his face.

  “Jackson, one point. What is the name of the region in which the Hobbits live?”

  His brain stalled. Seconds ticked by. He had read this somewhere. He knew he had.

  “You have got to be kidding me.” Esther’s weedy voice echoed from behind him.

  “Five seconds, Jackson.”

  Elroy’s face was a study in disbelief; he was clearly unable to fathom how Jackson hadn’t already spat out the answer.

  A word suddenly flashed before him on a page. He didn’t have time to question it. “Eriador.”

  One side of Allie’s mouth lifted in a half smile. “Correct.”

  “Elroy, one point. What is the name of the tower that holds the Eye of Sauron?”