Obscura Burning

by van Rooyen, Suzanne

  “Whoa, Professor. I’m not spending what might be my last days alive cooped up in the ass end of nowhere so you can document me. Keep your compensation and government grants and convoluted science.” This guy doesn’t know any more than we do. He’s got his terminology and equations, and that’s it. At least I get part of what Obscura’s trying to show me. That there’s another way, a third option where I don’t have to lose any of them.

  “Let’s go.” I tug Mya off the bar stool and head for the door.

  “Please, Kyle, reconsider my offer. Be smart here. Action-reaction. You live in both realities—do something rash and you could upset the balance.”

  “And what? Bring about Armageddon?”

  “You make light of what we cannot possibly understand.” The prof shakes his head sadly.

  “Are you sure you wanna leave?” Mya asks as I open the door.

  “I just want this to stop. Prof here just wants it to continue so he can see what happens, right?”

  The professor opens and closes his mouth like an obese goldfish, but doesn’t disagree.

  “Thanks anyway, Professor Cruz,” Mya says with a wave.

  “Wait!” He waddles toward us. “Here, call me if you’d like to tell me anything more, or if you need my help.” He hands me a card with his number and e-mail address on it. “And be careful, please. You might be the key to all of this, Kyle.”

  “Me and everyone else who’s shifting.” It can’t all be my fault.

  “Make the wrong choice, and you could end up destroying us all. Every choice comes with consequences, even unintended ones.”

  How very fucking sage, Prof. Who’d have known that sex and a bottle of tequila could destroy the world? “I’ll take my chances.” I pocket his card and follow Mya out to the Chevy.

  It’s a long drive back to Coyote’s Luck.

  * * *

  “You really think there are other people going through the same thing as you?” Mya asks once we’re out of Ponderosa.

  “Why not? Anything is possible.”

  “You should get on that forum. Maybe talking to other people in the same situation will help.”

  “How? Won’t change what’s happening to me.”

  “Might make it easier, knowing you’re not alone.”

  I am totally alone. Some Aussie jumping cities isn’t going to help a speck of dust when I switch into the reality where I’m strapped down in the loony bin. There’s no reality-shifting solidarity.

  We drive in silence for a while before Mya has to loosen her tongue again. “So, you’ve got a plan to stop Armageddon?”

  “I think so.” I turn up the AC. “If I can influence the realities, then maybe I just need to choose one.”

  “Which reality are you going to choose?” She keeps her eyes on the road.

  “I don’t think it’s that simple. I caught a glimpse of something else, of a reality where Danny and Shira are both alive.”

  “So you think there’s a third option?”

  “I don’t know, but if I could just go back to when this all began. That fight with Danny. Maybe I don’t have to be such a dick. Maybe I could change things and nobody has to die. Get that third reality.”

  Mya chews on her bottom lip, taps the steering wheel with her thumb. “You think if you can go back to that time, that you’d remember all of this and know enough to change it?”

  “Well, I remembered when I was back there just now.”

  “But that’s like a flash. Might not be real. Could be Obscura messing with your head, showing you what could’ve been? If you really go back to that time, you think you’ll remember these two different futures and be able to change something?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And which future would that leave me with?” She glances at me. “This third option show you what happens to me, or your parents?”

  “No.”

  “So what if this third reality relies on something like me dying, or New York getting nuked or a tsunami wiping out the whole of the West Coast?”

  “I don’t have all the answers here.” Mya’s starting to make me feel damn uncomfortable. Why do I have to be the one to choose anyway?

  “Which reality were you in before this happened? Was Benny alive or dead? Was your father drunk or sober?”

  This is so much more complicated than I imagined. Drumming my fists against my skull, I try to remember the details of my life before the fire. It feels like reaching into a dark closet, hands groping for something you think is there, something you can’t see, that you just have to feel for and hope your fingertips recognize.

  But I come up empty-handed. “Why the hell can’t I remember?”

  “You really don’t remember whether your dad was drinking or not?”

  “I remember general things that I guess are true for either life. I don’t remember the specifics that would define it as one reality or the other.”

  “Maybe you don’t remember because it doesn’t exist.”

  “What do you mean?” I’m frowning and the expression still feels odd on my scarred face, too tight around my eyes.

  “Forget it.” Mya waves her hand to dismiss the comment.

  “No, I want to know. You think I don’t exist? Like this is some epic dream?”

  “The prof said that we might’ve all shifted when Obscura first showed up. How do we know if any of this is real then?”

  I’m saved from further contemplation by my ringing phone.

  “Hey, Shira, what’s up?” I answer. Shira’s polite and friendly as always. She doesn’t ask me where I am, doesn’t mention how I ditched her at the community centre. She’s just calling to see if I’ll meet her at her trailer or at the cemetery for the memorial tomorrow.

  I’d forgotten all about it. Promising to meet at the cemetery, I hang up.

  “You haven’t told her about any of this, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you should. Maybe she can help.”

  “With her incense and feathers?”

  “Don’t be a cabrón, Kyle.” Mya’s pissed with me and I have no idea why.

  “Whoa, I was joking. Why you getting upset?”

  “Upset?” She chuckles. “I’m not upset. I’m just really astounded by your complete lack of consideration for anyone but yourself.”

  “Um—”

  “I get it, this sucks for you shifting between realities, but you don’t even think about what it’s like for anyone else. In that other reality, that other Mya has to deal with Ben and his stupid friends every summer. Poor girl’s a freakin’ vegetarian. And Shira’s mom? Ever think about her, having lost her only daughter? Your dad’s a drunk. I’ll bet you never even considered what that’s doing to your mom.”

  Driving my mom to sleazy motels and into another man’s arms.

  “And now you’re like, ‘Oh, I’m going to choose which reality I want to live in’ and screw everyone else who gets fucked over in the process.” Her voice cracks and she backhands a tear off her cheek.

  Anger simmers and I’m about to launch into a tirade about how it’s my life being screwed with by a planet, how everyone is just plain oblivious, but I bite my tongue. Mya’s right. I haven’t considered anyone else is this equation.

  “I didn’t ask for this to happen to me,” I say.

  “I know. But it is happening. Can’t change that. Just gotta deal with it.” Her voice is softer now, but she still doesn’t look at me.

  “I’m sorry, Mya.”

  “What for?”

  “For dragging you into this. Might’ve been easier on you if you’d never known.”

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “What?”

  “Harping on about things in the past you can’t change. You have to deal with the present.”

  I spend the next hour staring out at the dry expanse of New Mexico as it trips through juniper woodland into desert scrub. Maybe if I killed myself in both realities, I’d end up back on April 5 before al
l this craziness. Or I’d just be dead and none of this would be my problem anymore.

  “How the hell am I supposed to choose anyway?” I ask, under my breath, not expecting her to answer.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t.” She glances at me out the corner of her eye. “Maybe you should let the right reality choose you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Shira’s dead

  They’ve put tubes across my face, little vents blowing oxygen up my nose. I’m still strapped down. Guess they’re not risking another staff member’s face.

  Voices at the door.

  Dad’s standing there with a police officer. After everything I told them, they’re still going to pin this on my dad?

  “Dad,” I croak. My throat is so dry. He shakes hands with the police officer and strolls into my room wringing his hands.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say, and he barely looks at me as he marches straight to the window. “Why are the police here?”

  “There were assault charges against you. Nicholas Vasquez. You broke his nose.”

  “He’s one of the guys that attacked me.” My voice jumps up an octave.

  “His folks have agreed to drop the charges if I pay for his medical bills.” Dad’s seething, sifting saliva through his teeth as he paces alongside the bed.

  “Dad, he and Benny attacked me. They should be paying my medical bills.”

  “That’s not what the Gonzales kids say.” Dad’s about ten seconds from putting his fist through my face, and I’m strapped down, helpless. I’m already bracing myself.

  “Speaking of,” Dad continues, “apparently I owe Mr. Gonzales almost two thousand dollars in damages for his daughter’s car. Know anything about that, Kyle?” He stops pacing, keeping his back to me with hands on his hips.

  “I’m sorry. I…” Tumbleweed in my throat, and the cup of water beside my bed is impossible to reach. “I was going to pay it off from working at Black Paw.”

  “Yeah, you’ll pay it off all right. You know how much this little stint in the hospital is costing your mother and me?”

  “Costing Mom,” I say before I can stop myself. Dad turns then, eyes full of fury glaring at me.

  “I just don’t understand it.” Dad rubs his hands over his face. He looks awful, haggard, like he hasn’t slept in days.

  “I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”

  “And were you trying to destroy this girl’s car?”

  “That was an accident.”

  “And falling out your window?” His expression softens, a little. The crow’s feet around his eyes cut deep grooves in his skin.

  I take a shallow breath, wincing as it bubbles in my chest. “You’d been drinking.”

  “Did I do this?” Dad takes a step closer as he gestures to my face.

  “Not this time.”

  “Not this time? Sweet Jesus.” He pulls the chair up to my bedside, sits leaning his arms over the railing they’ve got me fastened to. “You took off out the window because you thought I’d come after you?”

  “I guess.” It’s hard to shrug with both wrists tied down. Dad studies my face a while, and I can’t meet his gaze. I keep eyeing the water cup, but I don’t want to ask for his help in case that sets him off. There’s whiskey smoke on his breath.

  “Are you thirsty?”

  I nod and he unstraps my wrist. I flinch at his touch. This gentle person sitting beside me is a complete stranger.

  “Thanks,” I say between sips of water.

  “I hear you punched a nurse.”

  “An orderly.” I grin, and Dad smiles back before tousling my hair. He hasn’t done that in years.

  “I’m so sorry, Kyle.” Dad’s never really apologized to me, not even when he broke my arm. He made sure I took care of the cast, got it off at the right time, but he never actually acknowledged the fact that he’d broken it.

  “For what?”

  “I haven’t been the best father.” His eyes glisten with tears. I’ve never seen my dad cry either, didn’t think it was physically possible. I’m battling not to tear up myself.

  “You and your mother deserve a hell of a lot better than this.” He starts pacing again. “There’s something I need to tell you, son.”

  Now I’m worried.

  “I got a job.”

  “That’s great, Dad.”

  “Driving trucks up and down the trade route.”

  “So you’ll be gone a lot.” Maybe life would be more peaceful without him at home for a while.

  “I’ll be gone, son.” He stops at the window, rubbing the back of his neck as he shakes his head. “Your mom and I are getting a divorce.”

  “What?” Ice shoots down my spine, crystallizes my veins. All I can think about is my mom at the motel with some other guy. Maybe Dad already knew. Maybe it’s what chased him down a whiskey bottle every night.

  “It’s been a long time coming. This just put the lid on it.” He moves away, back to the window, arms folded across his chest. I wonder what Reverend Davis will have to say.

  “This? You mean me being in the hospital?”

  He looks at me for a long moment.

  “You trying to kill yourself, Kyle. I’ve been a terrible father. I don’t deserve you or your mother. I don’t expect you to understand now, but this is for the best.”

  “So I’m the reason you’re getting divorced?” I’m testing him, I want him to say no, that it’s all Mom’s fault and not mine.

  “No, this isn’t your fault.”

  “But if I hadn’t taken those pills, you’d still be sitting at home happily married and drunk?”

  “Son—”

  Why can’t he just admit that Mom cheated on him?

  “No, I get it.” A pride thing, easier to blame it on me and my self-destructive tendencies. “While we’re sharing, Dad, I need to tell you something too.” Dad’s leaving so it’s not like it’ll matter. Being gay is the least of the sins in this family.

  “More mashed-up vehicles?” He’s trying to be funny.

  “I’m gay.” There’s a weight that lifts off my shoulders as soon as the words leave my lips. Dad’s face turns gray.

  “What?” Now it’s his turn to look surprised.

  “I’m gay. Homosexual. I like having sex with boys.”

  His hands curl into fists and I wonder if he’d hit my already bruised face in hospital with nurses just a few paces away.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “This that Daniel’s influence?”

  God, déjà vu. I’m sick of repeating myself. “He’s my boyfriend.”

  My dad’s next words are a string of vile expletives. He shakes his head at me. “Boyfriend?”

  “You’re leaving. Why do you even care?” I ask, as Dad starts pacing.

  “I have a right to know who’s sleeping with my son.” There’s a vein throbbing at his temple.

  “Yeah? And who’s Mom sleeping with?” I crossed the line. My dad doesn’t fly into a rage and throttle me. I wish he would. Rather that than the look of defeat on his face.

  “Excuse me.” A polite voice at the door. “Sorry for interrupting, but I have a meeting scheduled with Kyle now.” A woman dressed like a schoolteacher with a clipboard. Her face seems familiar, but I can’t place it immediately. She reminds me of someone else, but the drugs have made things blurry.

  “You my shrink?” The pain in my chest tightens and it has nothing to do with my ribs.

  “Hello, Kyle. Remember me?”

  The puzzle piece slots into place. Amy, the psychologist from the community center.

  “I’m just here to ask you a few questions,” she says.

  Dad runs his fingers through his hair. “See you later, son.” He leaves without looking back at me. That’s his good-bye.

  I don’t think Dad’ll be coming back to see me anytime soon. The shrink settles on the chair beside my bed.

  “So, Kyle, how are you doing today?” She smiles.

  Why couldn’
t I have been the one that died?

  I curl on my nondisplaced side, knotting my fingers in the sheet as I press my face into the pillow. Tears turn the fabric soggy within seconds. My shoulders are shaking, every sob driving a spear through my ribs. I can’t remember the last time I really cried. Maybe the first time Dad hit me; I was only five and pissed myself.

  I’m crying now, great hiccupping, snot-filled, gurgling sobs in front of this prissy know-it-all. I’m just a file and sheaf of notes to her. She’s probably put out that my emotional meltdown is affecting her schedule.

  There’s a hand on my shoulder and soothing words whispered in my ear. I pull away from her, but she stays beside me.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Kyle,” she says. Maybe this shrink does have a heart. She’s sitting on the bed beside me, slicking back my hair. At least she doesn’t lie and tell me it’s all going to be OK, because it’s not. I wish the world would end right this instant.

  Of course, whoever’s up there listening doesn’t give a rat’s ass, so instead of the world ending, instead of shifting, I’m left in the damn hospital bed.

  Amy doesn’t ask any questions. She waits for me to recover, leaves me unrestrained curled up around the pillow in a fetal position, and promises to come the next day when I’m feeling better. She closes the door behind her and leaves me alone.

  I try to sleep, to shift, but nothing works. Gingerly, I get out of bed, wheel my IV crane over to the window, and stare out at a half-empty parking lot.

  In the bathroom, cold water makes my face less puffy, my eyes less red from crying. I just get back into bed when the door opens and Danny rolls in accompanied by the young nurse.

  “Hey, cielo.” He smiles.

  The nurse raises her eyebrows at my free wrists.

  “No trying to escape or beating up hospital staff, I promise.”

  She smiles, a nervous tweaking of her lips before checking my drip. She makes a note in the chart before leaving us together.

  “I brought you lunch.” Danny passes me a brown paper bag. His mom’s chili con carne packaged in Tupperware, complete with napkin and plastic cutlery. He also brought me a drawing book and some pencils.