by Kyle Dane
“You what?!” I react.
“I’m so sorry I scared you,” the girl apologizes and hurries over to me. “Let me help you up.”
I glare at her extended hand. Now her face.
Don’t let her help you. She’s the reason you’re on the ground in the first place. It’s not like you’re down here doing ab crunches!
“Please,” the girl cautiously yet boldly implores. Her eyes are so uniquely beautiful. Sincere.
I gulp my pride and accept the help, but instead of uttering a thank you, I milk out hostility, “You have no reason to be here. Go home.” I turn and start to walk. Not sure where I’m going, but have to move. This is all my fault. Why’d I ever approach her at the gym?!
“Ruko...I’m sorry for pushing you away yesterday. I didn’t mean…”
“No,” I butt in. “It wasn’t you. I left because…” I search through a spinning tornado of words and thoughts, trying to find the right ones to say. “...it was the right thing to do. With the way things are...the world we survive in.” I look away briefly, because I’m suddenly, strangely, on the verge of tears. But with focused efforts, I manage to repress the watery weakness. “There’s no point, alright? So go home.”
Believing the girl will convert to my hard-to-rebuttal message and walk way, I turn around, tightly fold flexed arms, and stare out into the valley, completely confident she’ll leave. As long as Lashers and death exist, love, friendship, and happiness cannot. Nothing real or lasting, anyway. It’s a gimmick I won’t fall for.
To my astonishment, the girl remains stationed in a state of pondering. I don’t look at her but know she’s still there, because I don’t hear her leaving. A few seconds pass. Finally she moves but in the wrong direction. She’s walking towards me! Why? What’s she doing?!
“Ruko,” the girl beckons in a delicate tone.
The corner of my eye sounds the alarm that my personal space is about to be violated as the girl’s hand reaches for mine, as if she was actually going to touch it. But she wouldn’t, right? No way. Would she? She gets closer.
Stop her! DO NOT LET HER TOUCH YOU!
A heat wave rushes to my head. I’m in fight or flight mode—but do neither. I just freeze. It’s not like I’m going to hurt her, a girl. Or should I? Where are the Iron Bells?
The girl targets my fiercely constricted arms and—with a gentle touch—loosens them to a more relaxed posture. She looks into my eyes in a very serious, kind way and says, “You’re not alone.”
The soft words have a surprising effect in softening me, at least enough to coerce my return gaze in a crazy feeling of comfort. Of home. Of desire. We remain silent, yet it’s as though we’re having a clearly understood conversation, and the leafy ruble of banished feelings now freely floats upon my heart’s surface in an inexplicable takeover. Same sickly condition that manifested itself at Meilos but drastically accelerated. Am I being hypnotized? Is she a vampire? Are vampires real? A witch, maybe? These days, anything’s possible.
I still don’t say anything, though.
Hayvin fidgets.
“I guess...I guess I’ll let you get back to your fishing expedition. Gotta go catch, the big one,” she taunts with a mild smirk—her final effort to break the ice around me.
I try to remain hard, hold onto the hate with everything I’ve got, trying to intimidate her away, but then all at once I crack. “Haha,” a subtle laugh escapes my mouth, as I'm unable to resist the comedy of it all. “Geez, I can’t...can’t believe you were listening to me the whole time.”
“No stress. I know the feeling of needing to talk with someone...even if it’s just yourself,” the girl comforts. Now she smiles. “Besides, they say it’s a sign of genius intellect. So...own the crazy.”
“Hayvin, would you...like to come with me? Fishing? Got an extra pole,” I spontaneously invite. Hayvin. The name takes root into the soft soil of a defiant Ruko who rebelliously welcomes the desire for companionship.
“That’s what I was plannin’ to do whether you invited me or not,” Hayvin stalkerishly says. Her reply creeps me out but also makes me feel good. “Plus, my schedule’s pretty clear today. Not like I got school or work.” She keeps smiling.
I’m taken back by the naturally happy person she seems to be, from the way she says things, to the expressions on her face. But why would such positive energy waste its time on negative me—follow me all the way to my shelter, a journey that’s no cake trail.
“So, you actually followed me yesterday and remembered how to find me today?” I check to see if that’s really what happened.
“Sure did,” Hayvin proudly confirms.
I’m shocked by her inhuman mapping memory. It’s not easy to locate my mountain shelter even after several visits. And more striking is the fact that I didn’t catch her tracking me, which is a difficult feat to pull. Who is this girl?
She’s a mystery...one I’m eager to unravel.
CHAPTER 8: FISHING FOR HOPE
With a brand new beginning to a dramatically changed day, I head to the lake. However, the three-mile hike into the mountain turns out to be awkward. Very. I lead the way. Hayvin’s close behind. I’ve hiked this trail hundreds of times—alone—and vowed to keep it that way, but now everything’s suddenly different, and I don’t know what to do. How to talk to her. What to say. Emotions keep transitioning back and forth from the warm thrill of puppy love to the frostbitten regret of grumpy old dog syndrome.
Nonchalantly, I check behind me. Yup, she’s still there, which means this isn’t a dream. Not a joke. How’d this happen?! My brain freaks from the split-second decision it can’t remember making.
Ruko stop this nonsense before it deepens! Abandon her!
My war-torn conscience overloads my brain's software, causing it to shut down for much needed installation updates. Who knows how long this process will take to complete, but until it does, I’m left to walk with a desolate screen and mute tongue. I'd be useless conversing right now.
∆∆∆
An hour later, the lake becomes visible along with my usual fishing spot.
“Wow. So beautiful!” Hayvin proclaims. Then, she does what I’ve been unable to do the entire hike; she initiates an actual conversation other than sporadic blurbs about scenery. “What kind of fish are in Utah lakes?”
“Umm…” I think for an awkward amount of time—the update hasn't completed yet. My brain’s software finally functions sufficiently to open an answer file. “In this lake there’s trout, largemouth bass…” I realize I’m wrong about the bass, don’t know why I said it, but don’t want to look dumb so I move on. “…and salmon. That’s it.”
There’s an uncomfortable, tongue-tucked pause. Is it my turn to ask something? Yes, I sense that she wants me to say something more. I must be coming off like the purest breed of jerk right now—can almost taste the tension in the air. “Sorry,” comes my appeal. “Not very good at this conversation thing. Don’t do it much.”
“You don’t talk to people?” Hayvin asks.
“Naw, not really,” I answer.
“Soooo…when you came up to me at the gym?” Hayvin tries to reconcile my dual behaviors.
“Thaaaaaat wasn’t me…was someone who looked like me,” I say in a short laugh.
“I gotcha.” Hayvin smiles. She seems to do that a lot: smile. I’ve almost forgotten what it looks like on a human’s face. “Well, for whatever reason you went out of your comfort bubble, I’m happy you did. And you’re doin’ great, by the way. Talkin’,” she says, which encourages a conversation question to finally crawl out of my mouth.
“Have you…ever had smoked rainbow trout?” I ask.
Hayvin shakes her head. “Never. Is it good?”
“Oh yeah. You’d love it. Maybe we’ll get lucky today. What kind of fish are you used to seeing in Florida?” I ask.
“Big,” answers Hayvin. “We’d go deep sea fishin’ on the Gulf of Mexico, my dad and me. My brother Klay sometimes went. Mama never liked t
o fish, so she’d stay home with Meemee and work on the garden.”
“What’s a Meemee?” I ask.
Hayvin’s taken back. “You don’t know what Meemee means? I thought that’s what everyone called their grandma,” she explains.
“Ohhhh, haha, grandmother. That-that's funny,” I judge.
“Why’s that funny?” Hayvin’s almost defensive.
“Um...because...I just...uhhhhh, sorry.” I reveal nothing intelligent, and so the dialogue awkwardly ends yet again because of my stupidly-awkward self.
Hayvin and I sit, side by side, on grayish-white boulders near the moving water of a wild river that keeps this part of the lake from freezing over, making fishing possible this time of year. Baited hooks are cast about thirty feet in front of us, anchored at the bottom by split-shot sinkers, waiting for hungry fish. They love ground grubs. I collected several the other day by digging up someone’s lawn. They burrow deep into the Earth during winter, but aren’t inescapable to the determined bug hunter. I actually prefer lures most of the time, but that requires intensive casting and reeling—more focus—so I figured bait fishing would be best for conversation’s sake.
“So, there’re big fish out there in the Gulf?” I reinitiate.
“Yes sir. And then the Suwannee River…that’s filled with all kinds of monsters. Sturgeons grow up to sixteen feet long with spiny bones on their backs that can cut through you like broken glass,” Hayvin tells. The more she talks, the more I’m consumed by her. Every word is a hook that reels me in.
“Really? That’s crazy,” I respond. I notice an irregular energy in my voice, an audible manifestation of what I think is a form of genuine joy. It’s not fake. Not forced. But real. Odd to hear the sound coming from me.
“Yeah. They’ve been known to kill boaters by jumping out of the water and slicing right through people as they speed by,” Hayvin adds.
“Geez,” I reply. Morbid story but intriguing.
Hayvin runs with the bewilderment on my face. “Plus, we’ve got gators. Those’er what you really gotta watch out for.”
“Alligators? You’ve got alligators where you live?” I almost don’t believe her. But she does live in Florida, a world that’s practically a documentary right out of the animal discovery channels I watched as a kid. “That’s cool. Sounds like an exciting place to grow up,” I say.
“It was great,” Hayvin affirms.
“How do you like Utah?” I ask.
“I like it. Mountains are absolutely gorgeous. Cold, though. But I’m getting used to it. Long hair was brutal back home during the summer, but here it’s perfect. I like yours, by the way, your long hair. Not many guys can pull it off.”
I realize she’s complimenting me, but I’m not used to compliments, so the thank you that should probably follow, doesn’t. “Not me. I hate it.” Comes my honest opinion.
“Oh, really? Why don’t you cut it, then?”
“Uh...the cold, like you said, it’s great for it. That’s why I keep it long,” I utter the impulsive lie. “What do you think of the dry air?” I change subjects.
“Haha, no kidding, my skin feels all crusty in the morning, like I’m breaking out of a hard shell just to wake up,” answers Hayvin.
“If only they had giant bottles of lotion to sleep in at the Safe House,” I jest, but only feel mildly confident with the joke attempt.
Hayvin chuckles, as a courtesy I’m sure.
“I assume that's where you've been staying, right? The Safe House?” I check.
“Yes.”
“So why’d you leave Florida?”
“I’m gettin’ a bite!” Hayvin jolts, and now we both stare at the end of her motionless pole. “I swear I just felt somethin’,” she insists. Our eyes don’t blink.
After a few seconds, the tip of the pole dips down to the water and bobs back up—definitely a bite.
“What do I do?!” Hayvin dramatically asks.
We stand up.
“Just-just wait for it. The fish is taste-testing the bait. You don’t...you don’t want to pull too soon,” I instruct.
The fish hits again, harder this time.
“Oh my gosh, what do I do?! ” Hayvin asks.
I smirk inside at the dramatic animation. Pretty sure she’s just playing me, acting like a novice. Whatever’s on her pole right now is probably a minnow in comparison to the heavyweights of the Gulf she’s accustom to catching. She’s flirting with me? Que chido. I oblige to coach on.
“Wait…just wait for it.”
Again, the pole dips down but this time it starts vibrating.
“Now.”
Hayvin pulls up. The fish is hooked. As it speeds away, a familiar sound alerts me that the line is way too loose, so I step behind her to tighten the reel. As I do, our hands accidentally touch.
“K, just-um-just be patient...you-you’ve got a...” Her skin is so soft. Warm. Hard not to be distracted. “...you’ve got a fighter, so just let him swim around a little and-and give him slack but not too much. Reel him in nice and slow. You’ll get him,” I instruct.
Our hands are still touching, mine halfway on top of hers. She doesn’t move away. I don’t either. It’s crazy being this close to another person, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't care for the feeling. The warmth of her body heat radiates off her skin and merges with my own to better combat the cold. Don’t want to disconnect.
Having lost all interest in the fish, I secretly stare at Hayvin in a quest for understanding. Interpretation. This whole situation is still something I’m unable to wrap my brain around, but, despite the obscurity, one thing seems clear: life is warmer with two people. And not just physically. Her flammable presence is igniting something fiery within my heart that I can’t describe.
“You...smell good.” Hayvin acknowledges my aromatic hygiene—and the flame brightens. Guess me putting on cologne every day—the habit that’s seemed loco for so long—had a worthwhile purpose after all.
“It’s called Diamond Rain,” I proudly explain.
“I really like it.”
The third wheel at the end of Hayvin’s rod reminds us he’s still there as he jumps out of the water and flips us off.
∆∆∆
After a few minutes of reeling and wrestling, a large trout is now swimming in the shallows, attached to a stringer through the gills. We sit with poles in hand, ready for round two.
“I can’t get over how pretty it is out here. Lovin' the mountains.” Hayvin blurbs again about the scenery as being something to admire.
Why? I don’t get what she’s so tickled about—it’s just a lake. Looks exactly the same as it always does: a cloudless blue sky, sun beams dancing across rippling water, green pines that put off an odor like a fireplace on Christmas Day, the backdrop of snowcapped mountain ranges rolling on as far as the eye can see. Nothing’s changed. And yet, somehow, as I more closely observe, I’m beginning to agree with Hayvin. It’s pretty out here. Never noticed before. It's like I'm glimpsing the world through a new set of retinas, the best detail of which my eyes unanimously concur to be the girl sitting next to me.
“What made you leave your home?” I re-ask, determined to find out what fortunate event brought us together.
For the first time all day, Hayvin hesitates to speak despite the invitation to do so. She looks down at the ground in a sad stare as though the dirt did something awful to her. She opens her mouth. “There’s nothin’ left for me in Florida. My dad…he and my mom were divorced. He lived out of state and completely disconnected from the family. My two older brothers, Klay and Johno, lived on their own. I don’t know if they’re alive or dead. Meemee...was old. She passed a year before the Red-outs started. I’m glad for her. Better off never knowing all this. And, she’s finally back with Papa, her husband who died years earlier. They're together now.”
“How’s that? They’re together?” I question, wondering if I heard Hayvin correctly.
“Yes. Life after death is something I believe in. Gi
ves me hope. Comfort. I can’t imagine those two beautiful people separated, at least not permanently. They were so in love. Did everything together. Were married for sixty years and had no intention of stopping there. In my head, I see them walking hand in hand in Heaven through a gorgeous garden of hibiscus flowers, her favorite. It's a place I imagine to be like Earth but better...filled with only the good parts, none of the bad. No more death. No Lashers. No contention. No inequality. No war. That’s how I hope it is,” Hayvin shares.
I admit that her faith system is tempting to believe, to desire—a place of continual relationships, peace, love, and goodness...yeah, that’d be fantastic. But even if it were possible, I don’t believe it’s possible for me to undo my contrary way of thinking that’s been so concretely molded by the hope-shattering life experiences I’ve suffered. Hardened by the hardship.
“Anyway, for a long time it was just me and Mama surviving on the farm, you know?” Hayvin adds.
“And where’s she?” I probe.
“She’d been sick for months with cancer. I knew it was comin’. And a few weeks ago, she finally passed. But I-I still talk to her, in prayer...I believe she hears me. And I’m happy for her. She’s in a much better place. They all are.”
The topic of death lets loose images of my mutilated parents. I start to feel frenzied inside, and so I try to bleep out the discussion of past events by focusing on present circumstances.
“And now you’re here, huh? Came to…” I throw a rock into the lake upon asking the question. “…escape the pain is that it?” The presumptuous words come out in an irritable, coarse way.
“No. I came to face it,” Hayvin calmly responds. “Florida was home. Leaving was the hardest thing I ever did. Most painful. But I made a promise before Mama passed that I’d leave the farm. Sure, I could’ve stayed. We could grow almost anything. Hunt off the land. Farm was off grid, a couple miles from the nearest neighbor and several miles from the nearest town. Lashers never came close to our property, that we knew of, anyway. So yes, I could’ve spent the rest of my life there, comfortably. But I would’ve been alone...a life of...comfortable misery. Mama once told me that, ‘enjoying a minute with someone you care about is far better than enduring an hour alone.’ She was trying to teach me that life’s about more than just surviving. If we milk out our days as long as possibly at the expense of family and happiness, then that’s not living. It’s...dying with our eyes open. We need to enjoy not just endure.”