Satellite: The Satellite Trilogy, Part I

by Lee Davidson

  “Oh, you think it’s funny?” he says to one of the laughing girls, rocketing up and chasing her across the field.

  “I wish they’d just get together, already,” one of the guys says, while Ryder’s target squeals in the distance.

  “Seriously. He’s all Hannah talks about,” a girl’s voice adds.

  Shoot! I haven’t read the book!

  I drop my backpack from my shoulders, retrieve the assignment book, and skip ahead until I reach the newly titled page, “The Present.” The paragraph narrates what’s going to happen—or rather, some of what has already happened (snowball fight). Ryder will be receiving a call. After that call, it is essential that Hannah goes with him.

  I flip to the next page, and another situation is explained. Instead of reading it, I fold the corner down and close the book. In the distance, Ryder is already on the phone and flattening the snow where he paces.

  Damn! I’m across the field in less than a second.

  “I’ll be right there,” Ryder says urgently before shoving the phone into the pocket of his thick coveralls. He takes off running.

  “What’s going on?” Hannah asks, sprinting behind him.

  “I have to go!”

  “What is it? I’ll come with you.”

  Block, you moron! Block!

  I hastily drum up the blue filter and bring it in as quick and tight as possible. “Haze!” I shout.

  Take her with you. Take—ahhhhh!

  As I experience the excruciating current, my thoughts can only focus on one thing: I must stop the pain. My muscles are in knots. Think, Grant—think!

  “Block!” The electrocution halts the instant the word flies from my mouth. Relief spreads through my burning muscles. Does blocking have to be so ridiculously painful?

  Ryder stares at Hannah in a daze and then yells, “Fine, but we need to go now!”

  Whew, success.

  They run back to his snowmobile and Hannah jumps on behind Ryder, wrapping herself around him as the engine roars to life. They jet across the field, leaving the others staring, open-mouthed, at their hasty departure.

  My feet move under me, leaping to soar above the snowmobile. I easily keep pace above them, even around the sharp turns.

  Flying is a rush, no doubt, but being on one of those machines has to be even sicker. Having Tate’s warm body hugged around me the way Hannah is holding Ryder would be the cherry on top. The closest Tate and I ever got to this kind of fun in Missouri was ATV riding, but we never reached speeds like this. Letting my imagination go, I can almost hear Tate’s shrill of excitement in my ear.

  Ryder doesn’t hit the brakes until the trail opens into the parking lot.

  “Whoa, what’s going on?” a man working on one of the machines asks when Ryder nearly takes him out.

  Ryder cuts the engine. “I think my dad had a heart attack,” he says, running to his car with Hannah two steps behind.

  While Ryder and Hannah argue over who’s going to drive, I hurl myself through the side panel of Ryder’s car and land almost gracefully, though my knees bend awkwardly into my chest to keep from ghosting through the front seats.

  In the passenger seat, Hannah strips off her heavy coat and hideous rainbow sock hat. I realize she’s the same blonde girl from Ryder’s past, although she’s much more…developed.

  “Mya drove Dad home from my grandparents’ house about an hour after I left. She said he collapsed in the kitchen after they went inside. An ambulance took him to Portsmouth Regional,” Ryder explains while driving the Shelby like it should be driven.

  “He’s not—” Hannah starts to ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  I do.

  “He’ll be all right.” Hannah tries to sound convincing.

  No, he won’t.

  “He’s all I have,” Ryder says, his voice pleading.

  I pull out the book and open to the marked page. The paragraph says that Ryder is going to insist on driving. Hannah needs to drive instead. Panicked, my eyes shoot to Ryder and back to the page. The words disappear and new text emerges. I read as fast as I can, which isn’t impressive.

  New scene: I must make Ryder stop the car before running through a red light. A handwritten sentence follows:

  Please do try to keep up with your reading, Grant. We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.

  —S

  I look ahead to the stoplight. At this speed, we’ll be there in no time. I concentrate on my energy and the blue filter clouds my vision. “Haze!”

  Red light. Red light. Red light.

  Even though I know it’s coming, there’s no way to prepare for the torment. The bolt electrifies me. This time, however, it’s easier to remember what I’m supposed to do.

  “Block!”

  The pain subsides, but my muscles tremble. I hope this guy’s not going to be like his mom in the blocking department.

  The tires squeal and the car’s back end fishtails when Ryder slams the brakes. When we abruptly stop, an SUV passes an inch in front of us.

  Hannah finally closes her mouth, then opens it again and yells, “Get out!”

  “You’re not hurt, are you?” Ryder asks, as if he didn’t hear her.

  “I said—get out!” Her door squeaks open and she storms around the back of the car. “Get out!” she demands, jerking his door open.

  Ryder’s expression morphs from disbelief to frightened before he wisely obeys. When Hannah falls into the driver’s seat, he gapes down at her. She stares narrowly back until he goes around to the passenger side.

  I can’t help but laugh. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was watching Tate.

  I read during the rest of the drive, not eager to make another mistake. Scene three, Cliffs Notes’ version: go to the hospital and keep Ryder calm.

  When I flip ahead for more, the next page simply says “break” and the pages that follow are blank. I look at my calimeter and internally deflate. The notches are nowhere near each other.

  It’s dark when Hannah drops Ryder off at the emergency doors. I jump out of the side of the car and land on my feet. I’m getting better at maneuvering, especially through objects, though it still seems ridiculous. I jog beside Ryder into the hospital.

  “I’m looking for Troy Beckmann,” he says to an old woman at the front desk.

  A girl’s voice rings from down the hall. “Ryder!”

  We both turn to Mya. She’s the spitting image of Willow, minus the dreadlocks and tattoos. How had I missed that before?

  “Oh, Ryder!” She collapses to the floor and covers her mouth with her hand.

  Ryder closes the distance. “What’s going on? Where’s Dad?”

  “They tried.” Her whole body is shaking. “They tried to save him.”

  “What?” He falls to his knees as if he’ll hear her better from down there.

  “They did everything they could. They tried…” She trails off and sobs into his shoulder.

  Hannah’s voice sounds far away. “Ryder?”

  No one answers.

  “Ryder, what’s going on?” Hannah asks again.

  “He’s gone,” Mya whispers. “Dad is gone.”

  Thinking about my own dad, I blink back stinging tears.

  11. If I hear that one more time, I’m gonna hurl!

  “No! Where is he?” Ryder bellows and sprints past the child-sized hand turkeys lining the hallway. “Where is he!” he yells again. His shoes squeak on the linoleum when he flies around the corner and runs into a supply cart.

  Now more familiar with the process, I concentrate. “Haze!”

  Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.

  It takes longer for Ryder to accept my persuading this time. The shock hits me, but my adrenaline burns away some of the pain.

  “Block!”

  Ryder, almost to the twin elevators, smacks his palms against the glossy-painted cinder-block wall. He turns and slides down it until he’s sitting.

  “Ryder!” Mya shouts, running to him. S
he kneels at his side.

  When Hannah kneels, too, I cringe. Seriously, do people not realize hospital floors are contaminated with more than just dirt?

  While Mya and Ryder sob together, I wonder what the scene after my death was like. Did my parents or Tate break down like this? I hope they were able to keep themselves together. The thought of them crying over me—without being able to console them like I would when they broke down during my harsher bouts of cancer—is haunting. Tate would know better than to sit on the floor, at least. She saw me hurl in too many places.

  Ryder stares through Mya. “What are we going to do?” he finally asks.

  After a long time, Mya answers through her tears. “We’re going to survive. That’s what Beckmanns do.”

  Mya helps Ryder up and we take the elevator to the second floor. The walk down the hall is a quiet one. Mya grabs and squeezes Ryder’s hand before they disappear into one of the rooms. I step around Hannah, who’s parked herself on the germ-laden floor, and enter cautiously with a plan: keep my eyes on Ryder. Ironically, I hate death and don’t particularly care to stare it in the face (I guess I should stop looking in mirrors). My plan of course fails, and—like a car wreck—I can’t help but look immediately at Troy’s corpse. Surprisingly, he doesn’t look so bad. My grandpa was way more pallid and emaciated.

  I missed details about Troy in the flashbacks of Ryder’s recent past. The creases around his eyes are deeper, and his hair is even grayer. He and Ryder share many features, including their sharp noses and olive-colored skin. Unlike Willow, who is widely inked, he has just one visible tattoo: Willow, in script, where a wedding band should be. It figures that it’s purple. I’d bet money it was her idea.

  I wonder if Troy’s joined Willow yet—if there’s some kind of protocol on how soon they are reunited. Ryder and Mya’s devastation, which has taken the form of loud sobbing, must be a stark contrast to Willow’s emotions. Will she realize how screwed up her kids are going to be from losing their dad?

  When the sobs increase, I go to work on calming Ryder, since he’s now beating Mya in the emotional department. Ryder falls off the cliff when a pastor comes in and prays over Troy’s body.

  Four blocks later, after things have calmed a bit, I back out of the room and slide to the linoleum next to Hannah. Screw my hospital floor rule; I’m wiped out. I close my eyes and listen for any signs of a freak-out while my arms and legs twitch. I’ve never been much of a texter, but Hannah’s rhythmic tapping relaxes me. She clicks away on her phone with the skill of a master thumb wrestler.

  An hour later, we both leap up and Hannah jams the phone into her pocket.

  “I thought you’d left,” Ryder says in a grating voice. His eyes could use some Visine, stat.

  Hannah shakes her head. “I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

  “Thanks, but you should go.”

  “I can stay. I don’t mind.”

  Ryder finally persuades her to leave. I’d leave too if I got to take his car.

  “You’ll get through this,” Hannah whispers as she hugs him.

  “Will you tell the guys?” he asks quietly into her shoulder.

  She agrees, and they say good-bye.

  “Come on, kid.” Mya, clearly exhausted, drags Ryder down the hall to the coffeemaker.

  God help us. She’s Willow incarnated.

  Ryder and Mya stay through the night, chugging coffee, signing papers, and trying to grasp the nightmare. Lucas and Lennon make a quick visit. Lennon is one of the cutest kids I’ve ever seen, although that’s not saying a whole lot, as I don’t know many people under three feet. I see a lot of Willow in Lennon, especially in his eyes. Willow’s parents stop by, too, and are both as broken up as Ryder and Mya. I’d guess the couple to be in their upper seventies; they seem to get around well, considering. Willow shares her mom’s compact size, though Willow’s intellect and smart mouth are clearly passed down from her dad.

  It’s far beyond lights out by the time Mya drives Ryder home. I sit much more comfortably in the minivan than Ryder’s backseat, though Mya is obviously not someone who cares about cleanliness. Lennon must eat all three meals back here. The quiet, dark drive reminds me of heading out for an early morning hunt, as five in the morning is about spot-on for deer season. After Mya parks her mom-mobile, I follow her and Ryder into the fully lit house.

  “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” Mya asks.

  “Seriously, sis, sometimes you can be so annoying.” Huh, I wonder who she gets that from.

  “I guess you might as well get used to the empty house. It’s yours now.”

  Ryder drops his coat on the kitchen table. “What?”

  Mya slowly turns the pie plate on the counter in a circle, talking to her hands. “Dad updated the will after my wedding. Lucky break for you. I tried talking him into leaving it to Lucas and me. He didn’t buy the ‘It’s nicer than our house and your grandson would love the extra room’ bit. I was a little surprised—you know how he usually caved with Lennon.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She shakes her head.

  “But you have a family. You need it more.”

  “That’s what I said. But you know Dad.” She makes mock quotations with her fingers, scrunches her face, and uses a stuffy voice. “It’s good for you and Lucas to work your way up. Handouts don’t build character.” The voice isn’t anything like her dad’s, but the effect works because Ryder half laughs.

  “This is really mine?”

  “Unless you want to trade.” Her joke lacks enthusiasm.

  “And live in that matchbox of yours? Fat chance.” Ryder buries Mya’s neck under his arm, and she leans into him.

  “What are we going to do without him?” Ryder asks a minute later.

  “We’ll figure it out.” She wipes away a tear. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow around eleven. Nana and Gramps will be here later tonight. Try to get some sleep and call if you need anything. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  The door clicks behind her, and Ryder stays frozen in the kitchen for fifteen straight minutes while I watch the second hand of the wall clock make its rotations. I jump a foot in the air when he yells, “You can’t be dead! You’re all we have!” The next thing I know, his fist is pummeling repeatedly through the yellow wall.

  I stare like an imbecile as he pounds away until it occurs me that I should probably be doing something to stop him. I focus and command the haze in under a second, a new record for me. Of course, this would have been more beneficial ten seconds ago.

  Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.

  And…there it is. Ouch!

  “Block!” I yell, freeing my paralyzed muscles.

  Ryder finally shows mercy by backing away. He bends over and pants while staring at the peppered drywall. I’m no doctor, but I’d take a stab and say his hand is broken; his knuckles are already the size of a golf balls.

  Ryder walks into the living room, wiping his eyes with his good hand, and pulls the curtains closed to block out the peeking sliver of sun. Please fall asleep soon, is all I can think when he slumps into the tan recliner. My muscles hate him right now.

  I unhitch my bag and fall onto the pink sofa, which is as comfortable as it is wretched. I’m sensing a pattern here. The photograph collection across the room is a little over the top. In addition to pictures of Ryder and Mya at various ages, there are also wedding photos of Mya and Lucas and tons of pictures of Lennon.

  Set apart from the other frames are the photos of Willow—at least, I think that’s Willow. I can’t be sure because she looks so…normal. It’s strange seeing her inkless and dreadlock-free in the photos, looking so alive I expect her to move. What a waste of a potentially great family.

  After four and a half hours of sobbing fits, not quite ramped up enough to be worthy of a block, but frequent enough to be tiresome, Ryder finally gives into sleep. His thunderous snores are louder than his car. After an hour or so, they lessen into qui
et, shallow breaths, until the ticking mantel clock is the only noise in the room.

  Still staring at the Beckmann’s wall of memories, I wonder what it would have been like to have a family with Tate. My meager carpenter’s salary never would have given Tate the life she deserved, even if I had taken over my dad’s company. Still, Tate insisted she didn’t need or want material things, always trying to convince me that we were meant to be together. And, after a while, I stupidly believed that. This makes me feel like a fool. I’m glad her dream of kids didn’t die with me, but to think of her with someone else…I just can’t.

  From our many conversations about kids, one specific discussion pops into my head. Following a day of bad fishing (bad for me, anyway—she caught seven), I was jabbing her about the fish biting her line out of pity.

  “You’re a sore loser,” Tate had teased.

  “Am not.”

  “Are too. And so what? It still counts. You keep biting as well, by the way.”

  I threw the tackle box in the bed of my truck and hopped onto the tailgate beside her. “True, but not out of pity,” I said, nipping her bottom lip.

  She laughed and then stared across the lake for a few minutes. “Look how cute he is,” she said, pointing.

  A guy a few years older than us was trying to coax his two-and-a-half-foot kid into holding his own fishing pole.

  “Oh, come on. I’m better looking than him,” I said, to which she slapped my arm. “The poor guy has to keep up with two fishing poles. It’s like fishing with you,” I joked.

  “Ha! More like fishing with you.” She looked down at her swinging legs. “Do you think we’ll be like that?”

  “I hope you’ll be more helpful than her,” I said, watching the boy’s mom laugh at her husband trying to wrangle their son.

  Tate turned her head and gave me a look that said she wanted a real answer.

  “Don’t you think we should get through the wedding first?” I don’t think she caught the hitch in my voice. Even then, I somehow knew the cancer was going to rip away our chance of a family.

  Her face remained even. “I’m serious.”

  That’s what scared me, but I played the part. “Babe, you want eight kids! Not that I don’t look forward to making that many with you, but”—I beat on my truck for effect—“construction salary, remember? We’d need a motel to house them all. And don’t even think I’m sharing our room with them. I have too many reasons to keep you to myself in the dark.” I bumped my shoulder against hers and wore my best game face, because inside I was splintering apart.