by Jenn Bennett
That’s weird. When we were kids, he was super smart. “Bleak and dark. Very on-brand for you,” I say with a smile. “But I doubt photography will be a much-needed skill in the coming apocalypse. No one who’s struggling will give a damn about what I can do.”
“We need art to remind us that the struggle is worth something. That will never change.”
“Sure you’re not a thinker?”
“No one in this town would accuse me of being a brain,” he says, a little humor behind his eyes as he flips back through my portfolio. “I’m surprised how funny some of your photos are. And sad.” He points to a picture I took of a yard sale sign in Pennsylvania: THREE DAYS BEFORE WE’RE HOMELESS. PLEASE BUY SOMETHING. “That’s heartbreaking.”
“Yeah,” I say, scratching my arm. “Mom bought a bunch of stuff from that woman just because—how could you not? No one plans to be evicted. That’s not part of the dream.”
“No,” he says soberly. “A lot of stuff in life isn’t. They don’t tell you that part, do they?”
I shake my head.
“You should shoot people next to the signs,” he says. “That would be interesting.”
“I hate shooting people. People are complicated. The lighting … the baggage.” I laugh a little, but I’m sort of serious, too. “Maybe my father could give me more experience with portrait photography.”
He hands me my portfolio. “Definitely see why you’d want to apprentice with him, for lots of reasons. He’s become a big deal over the last few years, yeah? But …”
“But what?”
“I’ve read stuff about him online. My opinion? He sounds a little bit like an asshole.”
“Oh, he is,” I say, smiling.
“But he’s the king, yeah? Guess that’s his prerogative.”
“Right,” I say, and then more firmly, “Right.”
“He’s probably a decent guy underneath all the gruff … right? All that talk about him evading child support and stuff is just gossip.”
“Of course.” Why is he questioning this? It’s making me uncomfortable. And he knows all this stuff, anyway. Mom didn’t ask for child support. She didn’t want him to have anything to do with me for years. I think the first time I met him was when I was three? But that doesn’t mean he’s a bad person.
I guess he realizes he’s being weird, because he backs off a little and says, “Hey, you gotta trust your gut. Don’t listen to me. I don’t know anything.”
“He’s my father,” I say.
“He’s your father,” he repeats with a shrug. “Bet you going out to LA will send your mom through the roof, though, right? Two birds, one stone.”
“That’s not the point,” I argue. “I’m not trying to stick it to my mom. This is just about me improving my craft. Photography is everything to me, and—” And of course it’s more than that, but I feel funny spilling my guts to Lucky about my yearning for a real family, so I change my mind and simply repeat, “It’s everything.”
He raises both hands in surrender. “Listen. If I had that opportunity and your talent, I would be dreaming up the same plan as you. A good teacher is important. There’s stuff you just can’t learn from watching videos online. I can tell you that from personal experience.”
“That’s all I want.”
“Then follow your dreams. Go big or go home. I mean it. All jokes aside. Even the bad ones.”
I don’t know what to say to that. He’s actually being nice to me? I don’t think I trust it.
There’s too much of a mess between us for niceness.
I can’t think about it too much, how good it makes me feel, so I don’t. I just zip up my portfolio and jump to safer subjects. “I want to help pay for the window.”
“Already told you—”
“You told me not to go to the police and turn myself in, but right now I’m talking about giving you money to help pay off the window faster. Two can pay it off faster than one, right? And I’ve got a subscription service online for my photos, and my patrons are a little down right now, but I’ll be getting some money from that in a few days. And I’m making money at the bookstore. I mean, it’s not boat-mechanic money, apparently,” I say, teasing.
He laughs and does an imitation of his father, using dramatic air quotes. “ ‘It’s good fucking money, Lucky. No matter what happens, people will always need their boats repaired, and none of these pretty boys want to get their hands dirty.’ ”
“ ‘There’s always money in the banana stand,’ ” I say using air quotes back at him.
We both laugh.
Then Lucky says, “Really. You don’t have to.”
“But I do,” I say, looking him straight in the eye so that he understands. He may have pride, but so do I. And I can’t let him do this for me. “I’m losing sleep. I’m not a good liar, as you keep pointing out, and I’m terrible at keeping secrets. It’s literally making me sick.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“We used to be friends,” I add. “I’m assuming that’s why you took the fall for me. So if you care anything at all for me, then let me help pay it off. For old time’s sake.”
He stares at me, watchful eyes slowly blinking as his fingers lightly trace the bottom of his empty coffee cup. My pulse speeds wildly, and for a moment, and I’m not sure if I can hold his intense gaze. A wary part of me wants to look away, as if he’s some sort of dark sorcerer, casting a wicked spell on me with the power of his mind.
My phone buzzes against my hip, breaking the spell. I dig it out of my pocket. It’s Evie.
“Hey,” I say, grateful for the distraction. “What’s up?”
“Aunt Winona isn’t answering,” she says, frazzled. “I need you to come get me.”
“What’s happened?”
“I’m at the hospital. I’ve been in a wreck.”
MEMORIAL COUNTY HEALTH CENTER: An ultra-boring white-and-blue sign is situated near the entrance of the main rural hospital in Beauty County, Rhode Island. The cookie-cutter building looks like every other new American hospital. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 8
Panic spreads through my chest. Without thinking, I stand up before pulling out my chair and painfully bump my thighs on the underside of the coffeehouse café table. “Evie?” I say, massaging my leg. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay,” she insists. “Just scraped up. Nothing broken.”
She’s okay! Oh, thank God. “Wait … You wrecked the Pink Panther?”
“No. Aunt Winona took it when we closed the shop. No idea where. She said she had to run some errand this afternoon. Can you try to call her? Maybe she’ll answer you. If not, can you call a car to take you here and pick me up? I’m at Memorial, the hospital north of town? I don’t want to be here anymore, cuz. Please. You know I hate hospitals, and the nurse keeps asking when my mom is coming to pick me up, and I already told them she’s in Nepal, and I just … I want to go home.” She sounds as if she’s on the verge of tears.
“Stay there. I’ll come get you one way or another, fast as I can,” I assure her, hanging up.
“What is it?” Lucky says.
“Evie’s been in a wreck,” I tell him, dialing my mom’s number. “I don’t know how. She doesn’t have a car. She said Mom took the Pink Panther on an errand—”
Is it wrong to want to strangle your own mother? I mean …
“—and she can’t get her to answer. Evie’s okay, I think?” I continue telling him. “She says she’s just scraped up. But her dad died in a hospital, you know? And she gets really freaked out about them, like super phobic, so I need to go get her, or at least calm her down—what the hell? Why isn’t my mom answering her phone? Now I’m going to have to call a taxi or a car or something?”
“Hey,” Lucky says in a calm, firm voice. “Evie’s okay?”
I nod. I’m out of breath. Gotta relax. Gotta slow down and breathe.
“All right. That’s the most important thing. My bike’s park
ed right there,” he says, pointing. He pulls out a ring of keys from his pocket. “I’ll take you.”
I blink at him, still holding my phone. “I don’t have a helmet.”
“You can wear mine. Don’t argue. This is a onetime emergency, and your head is more important than mine.”
I don’t see how that’s true. “How will we get her home?”
“She’s freaked out, yeah? Then she needs you there. Get there, calm her down, call a car or get in touch with your mom. But you’ll get to her faster this way. Come on.”
Sounds logical. And I’m too worried to question it. I grab my portfolio and follow Lucky across the deck of the creaking ship while he makes a phone call. I think it must be to his father, because while we’re heading down the plank back to shore, he briefly explains what’s transpiring in a hushed voice and says he’ll call back after we get there.
Once we cross the Harborwalk, I spot the red Superhawk a few yards away, parked on the street. He retrieves his helmet from a locked compartment behind the seat that has the same decal—LUCKY 13—and hands it to me, offering to stow my portfolio in its place. The helmet is ill-fitting, and I have trouble with the strap under my chin—my hands are shaking a little—until he helps me adjust it.
“All right?” he asks.
When I nod, he throws a leg over his bike and gestures for me to straddle behind him. The seat barely accommodates two, so I’m forced to fit my legs around his. I try to lightly hold on to his arms, but he moves my hands to his waist. “Keep your feet on the pegs—yep, that’s right. Steer clear of the wheel and exhaust. It gets hot. I’ll hold up a hand to signal when I’m stopping. Don’t fight curves. We won’t fall over. Lean on me if it makes it easier. Got it?”
“Have you carried, uh, passengers before?”
“Many,” he says, slipping on a pair of narrow sunglasses that fit like goggles around his eyes. “If you get freaked out, tell me. Try to relax.”
I’ve never ridden on the back of a motorcycle. I don’t even know how to ride a regular old bicycle, for the love of Pete! But it’s too late now. He twists the handle, and we lurch onto the street. I hold on like grim death, hugging him as we speed away from the Quarterdeck Coffeehouse.
The hospital isn’t all that far away. Lucky takes side roads out of the harbor area, avoiding the tourist traffic and picking his way over to the main highway out of town. It’s so unsettling and strange on a bike, surrounded by bigger cars and trucks. It’s as if they all have armor and we’re naked as fools, dangerously exposed to the air and the sun and the thunderous sounds of the road.
We glide over hilly asphalt, and my stomach dips as if I’m on a carnival ride. I loosen my death grip on his torso and give in to the impulse to lean against his back. He’s solid and steady, and the sun warms the leather of his jacket, which is somehow a comforting scent.
We cross a multilane bridge over a river outside of town, and the motorcycle’s tires bump rhythmically over the bridge’s seams as the landscape changes to trees and flat countryside. After a couple of miles, Lucky slows as we round a sharp curve and approach black skid marks that lead off the road.
Was this where the wreck happened? A metal road sign is flattened, but there’s no sign of a car. I wonder if it was hauled away or if this is some other accident. I forgot to ask who she was riding with when she wrecked. Maybe that Vanessa girl from Barcelona.
Everything feels surreal. The skid marks. This bike. The solid feel of Lucky’s body under my arms … similar to the boy I used to know when we were younger, but very different now. Familiar, but strange. I hold on a little more tightly.
The landscape changes again as we approach an unincorporated community outside of Beauty, and after we pass a gas station and a couple of strip malls, a rural hospital comes into view. Lucky pulls into the ER parking entrance, slides the bike into an empty spot near the door, and shuts of the motor while I release my death grip on his waist. I can’t get off fast enough.
“Whoa, now,” he says as I wobble off the bike. My legs feel numb, and he’s gripping my shoulders to help me stay vertical. “Get your sea legs under you before you try to walk.”
“I’m okay,” I tell him, tearing off the helmet.
“Sure?” he says, retrieving my portfolio from his bike’s storage compartment, which I immediately grip to my chest as if it’s a security blanket.
“My pants are hot, and all my bones are still shaking.…”
He nods. “You get used to it.”
“I’m never getting on that thing again.”
“Never say never, Saint-Martin.”
“Oh, I’m saying it. Never.”
He stows his helmet without comment and says, “Come on. Let’s find Evie.”
The hospital is shiny and quiet. From the looks of things, it must have been built recently. The ER waiting room is practically empty, just a scattered few people, and most of them seem to be in the flu/cold group of emergencies, rather than the I-sawed-off-a-finger group. A nice man at the check-in desk looks up Evie’s name in his computer and, after making a phone call and logging our IDs, directs us to the second floor of a different wing.
Honestly, I’m utterly thankful to have Lucky with me. It strikes me that he was in the hospital five years ago when I left Beauty, getting skin grafts and healing from all his burns. For a moment, I worry that Evie’s not the only person who may have a hospital phobia, but when I try to catch his gaze, he seems to be okay.
Maybe he’s not thinking about it. Maybe it’s just my guilt.
After walking in circles, we finally find the right area; however, a nurse has to question two other staff members to track down where they’ve put Evie.
“I thought she wasn’t hurt?” I tell the nurse.
“She’s fine. Her friend is another story. Who are you? I thought she said she was calling her guardian to pick her up.”
Of course my mom is MIA.… Strangle, strangle, strangle. “I’m her cousin.”
“All right. Let me get you to her.” The nurse leads us to a private hospital room and turns to Lucky. “You all know one another, right? Family and close friends only.”
Lucky shoots me a questioning look, asking me with his eyes if I want him to bail.
I really don’t want him to leave. “We’re friends,” I say, hoping he’ll stay.
“Yes,” Lucky says. “We all know one another.”
Good. I’m relieved.
The nurse nods and tells me, “I’ll get the paperwork to release your cousin. In the meantime, keep it quiet in here, because her friend needs rest. Doped up pretty good, so you may hear some wild things. Fair warning.”
What friend? Vanessa? Her other friend from the party?
I look at Lucky. He looks at me. And as we step inside, I suddenly understand.
On the far side of the room, Evie sits under a bank of windows. Her eyes are closed as if she’s catnapping in a beam of sunlight, Cleopatra eyeliner smeared, and she’s curled up in a ball in a visitor’s chair—the kind that a spouse would sleep in while keeping vigil over their sick loved one. One of her forearms has been wrapped in a narrow, light gauze, and it looks as if a small cut on her face has been taped up.
Next to her is the person we were warned about.
Hooked up to a monitor and bolstered by pillows, Adrian Summers reclines with his eyes closed on a hospital bed surrounded by IV stands. Lacerations cover one side of his face. One arm is heavily bandaged. His left ankle is wrapped in stretchy green bandages; it’s propped up by a couple of pillows.
“What the actual fuuu—” Lucky whispers.
Evie’s eyes blink open. “Josie,” she says, leaping up.
I race to her, and we embrace. She clings to me as if the world is falling apart. From the looks of things in here, maybe it is. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I whisper. “Is anything broken?”
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” she mumbles into my neck near my ear. “Just cuts and scrapes. Thank God you came. I couldn’t
call Vanessa. She’s going to kill me when she finds out.…”
I pull back to look at her and ask, “What happened?”
“Nature. That’s what,” Adrian says in a scratchy voice.
I release my cousin to look at him. His eyes are bloodshot and swollen, and it’s pretty clear that he’s been medicated to the moon and back. “Deer ran out in the road. Swerved. But the bastard ran into my side. Luckily Evelyn got out okay.”
“I tried to help him out, but … ,” Evie says, still gripping my hand tightly.
“Stop,” he tells her. “It was a big ass deer. I couldn’t have lifted it myself, and the paramedics got there fast, so it’s all good. Well. Except for the broken ankle, five stitches on my arm, and all this glass in my face. But I’m in Morphine City right now, so it’s hard to care about that too much.”
“He will,” Evie says. “When it really hits him that he can’t row at Harvard.”
“Just for summer practice.”
“Maybe not for fall, either. You heard the doctor,” she argues. “Six weeks on crutches.”
“There’s more to Harvard than rowing. I just need to convince my dad of that.…” He pauses, frowning, and I follow his gaze behind me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Lucky stares at Adrian, arms crossed. “Visiting a dumbass.”
“He drove me here,” I say.
“Well, he can drive himself back home,” Adrian says. “He’s a felonious deadbeat who threw a rock at my family’s business. I don’t want him here.”
Lucky snorts. “That makes two of us, bucko. Though it’s a little entertaining to see you on your back.”
“Screw you.”
“Like you screwed yourself?” Lucky says. “Guess you’ll have to wait a little longer for that Olympic medal.”
“Bet I get one before you finish vocational school, grease monkey.”
“Oh-ho-ho, that cuts!” Lucky clutches his chest dramatically. “It’s so tragic that I actually have to work for money instead of paddling a canoe for gold medals or waving at the Victory Day flotilla crowds from the deck of the largest yacht in the harbor while good ol’ Daddy Warbucks buys me Italian sports cars that I wreck.”