by Kyle Dane
“You ready?” I ask Hayvin. “Need to get my stuff.”
“You go, I’ll be here,” Hayvin responds. She can see I’m troubled at the idea of leaving her alone while I trek to my shelter. “I need to say goodbye.” She tilts her head to her Florida group.
“K,” I agree. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
∆∆∆
Thirty minutes later, I’m inside my mountain shelter shuffling swiftly through my things, determining what to take and realizing I’ll have to orphan the majority. Two duffle bags—one for clothing and gear, another for food and water—are almost filled to maximum capacity. As I pack, I come across the picture. Reverently, I reach for the frameless memory, a happy moment of Mom and Dad looking super vibrant, both smiling as if they just won the lottery; it’s her pregnancy picture.
Why am I thinking of Capitol Hill? Yes, all of the sudden, while I stare at Mom’s hands gently settled on her belly, which is enlarged by the preborn version of me, a clear visual from Capitol Hill penetrates my thoughts: the crazy woman and her hand-biting rat. The odd memory now turns into a sobering metaphor...I was the rat. The way I treated Mom was equally hurtful, cruel, and uncaring. And Mom...she’s the crazy woman. Crazy for being so dang loving and long-suffering in her willingness to put up with vermin such as myself—the true love of a good parent.
My heart groans as I accept my guilt as a hand-biter. But also, as I focus on mom’s joyful smile beaming off the photograph paper, my soul is filled with warmth that tells me something I think I’ve already known. She forgave me a long time ago and would be no less proud of me now than she was during her most patience-tested years of my adolescence.
The hopeful feeling of forgiveness sculpts a light grin onto my face and a prayer onto my tongue, “Mom…if you can hear me…I’m...sorry. I’m...so very sorry. You were always more than I deserved. Wish I told you when you were here.” As I talk, I wrestle tears. “I’ve met someone…a girl…Hayvin. She-she’s pretty awesome, you’d like her. This may sound crazy, but I’m headed to Florida with her. Don’t know how long it’ll last or what’s in store for me, but I promise I’ll respect her, treat her good…the way Dad treated you...the way I never did. I miss you guys.” I end the random but meaningful prayer before I’m unable to keep the tears pinned into submission; didn’t allow even one to fall.
I pack the picture and hustle outside. The thought of Hayvin’s potential capture by the Tyros Clan compels my legs into a sprint down the mountain and back to the city. She’s just fine, I’m sure, but still...if anything happens to her, it’s on my head.
∆∆∆
I stop running outside the Safe House, squeeze through a handful of people, and walk in. To the worst of my fears, Hayvin’s nowhere in sight. Not in the sleeping chamber, the lounge, the cafeteria, nowhere. Nor is anyone visible from her Florida group. Not good. The most horrifying thoughts now plague my mind...that Hayvin was in fact taken by the Tyros. I practically teleport back outside.
“Hey! Man!” someone yells as I accidentally bump into him.
“Come on…come on…Hayvin,” I vocalize. She’s not outside, either. The bakery? They’ve taken her to the bakery, I just know it. I have to…
“Ruko?” Hayvin’s voice is behind me.
“Hayvin!” I whirl around. Her body’s there too. Immediate relief.
“What’re you doin’? Thought we were meetin’ inside?” she asks, completely oblivious to the brief yet extreme trauma I just went through.
“I was inside. You weren’t there,” I reply through stressed puffs of air.
“I was in the bathroom. Wasn’t gone more than a couple minutes,” Hayvin explains. “Didn’t see you inside, so I thought I’d peek out here.”
“Well…I’m…I’m glad you’re okay.” I flash a quick smile and start to walk into the building, realizing I dropped one of my bags in the Ruko-freak-out episode.
“You good?” Hayvin checks, worried about the worry on my face.
In a short note, I answer, “Yeah, fine.”
“Hey…”
I stop.
Hayvin approaches and connects her hand to mine, then her eyes shine a ray of happiness I don’t get. “I like this,” she says.
“Like what?” I ask, wondering what could possibly be likable about the stressful possibility of Hayvin’s abduction.
“Having someone who worries about me,” is Hayvin’s sobering answer that flushes away my frustration and causes me to realize that...I like this too—having someone to be worried about. It's a frightful thing, maddening even, but yes, I like it. What's happening to me?!
Ruko! You've all but kicked me out of your head, lately, your warning voice of realism. But mark my words...you’ll regret it.
∆∆∆
With luggage loaded in hand, Hayvin and I walk to a nearby car carrier. In the same way abandoned homes are readily available to anyone interested, so are cars up for grabs; just aren’t many living people to do the grabbing.
“That one,” Hayvin says while pointing at a glossy white Absorber.
“Nice choice,” I agree. The Absorber is actually the best selection we could make, because it’s a hybrid model primarily powered by sunlight that can hold a charge for several days. Used to be super expensive, way beyond the reach of my parents’ wallet, but money’s irrelevant these days.
After snagging the key from inside the dealership, I see that Hayvin has already loaded the car with our stuff.
“Here you go.” I go out of my way to open the passenger door for Hayvin as if she were royalty entering a carriage. A confused glance fades into a thankful smile when she finally gets into the car; apparently she's not used to such red-carpet service. I’m equally unaccustomed to giving it, but I did so anyway. Why?
I walk to the driver side of the vehicle, stunned at my alien-like deed of service. How'd I know to do that? Dad comes to mind. He’d always open the door for Mom. Always. Yes, I remember now. Even after years of marriage, he’d still do it. I guess I subconsciously paid attention to his example to the point of creating a gentleman inside myself I never knew I had.
With the push of a few touchscreen buttons, a preprogrammed, very detailed hologram map from Utah to Florida pulls up. I look at Hayvin, myself, the supplies in the back, the Absorber that carries us, and am filled with a calm reassurance that I’m doing the right thing. Maybe the worst is behind me from here on out. Farewell, Utah.
CHAPTER 12: HAYVIN'S HABITAT
A three day drive to Hayvin’s Florida home almost ends as we plow through the final night. Kinda sad the trip’s almost over. Next Red-out is in a couple days, so no doubt I’m eager to get off the public highway and onto Hayvin’s farm, but it was surprisingly nice cruising the freeway on a long road trip—windows down, sun shining, miles of road stretching without speed limitations. It all seemed to be reserved especially for Hayvin and me.
Forty-nine. That was the number of cars I counted. Hayvin saw an additional sixty-seven during times I was more interested in sleep than her silly counting game. Turns out I fall asleep easily as passenger of a moving vehicle. Too easy. Caught myself a few times waking up with my head shot back and mouth wide open. Speedily, I'd close my mouth and hope Hayvin didn't notice, but each time, she'd unhesitatingly make a comment like, “Just in case you were wonderin'...the inside of your throat still looks great.” She'd smile. I'd cringe. Embarrassing. Felt good, though, to catch up on rest. Siesta rhymes with fiesta for a reason.
Hayvin’s at the wheel. I'm sprawled out in the fully reclined passenger seat, half-conscious, surrounded by night darkness. As I drift in relaxation mode, I continue to recap the excursion and gravitate to Hayvin with my every thought as if it’s becoming second nature. Learned more about her, including the detail of being three years older than myself, which makes me feel kinda macho in a weird way. Her energized personality—a side to her that’s showing more and more—threw boredom out the car window, fastball style. Games she'd come up with. Jokes she'd ra
ndomly crack. She's the most positive, fun, life-loving person I've ever met, aside from Mom and Abbud. All three got the same freaking happy gene my DNA was denied.
Hayvin's peppy, cheerleader spirit even managed to cheer me up when I was stuck in a random funk of depression; she, unknowingly, reminded me of my dad and the depression fled. It happened when she announced her decision to change into the abandoned carpool lane, “Ruko...time to go swimming.”
“Hm?” was my confused reaction. “Swimming?”
“Yeah...in the carPOOL lane!” Hayvin shouted then erratically jerked the car into the far left lane so fast I thought we were going to flip. Gave me whiplash but also a pleasant flashback.
“No way. My dad said the same thing to me, once,” I revealed, completely stunned at the coincidence. Hayvin definitely fun-ified the journey into a memory worth remembering, which is a pretty big deal given that my life’s memory bank has long been bankrupt of any good memories.
∆∆∆
Hayvin now turns down a dark, narrow road of dirt.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! The bumpy terrain causes the Absorber to rattle spontaneously as if it were having a seizure. I wake up a bit more, while remaining reclined. Geez it’s dark. I raise my seat a tad and see walls of tall trees—closely grown together—towering at both sides of the car, and at the top, they bend down and reach across the street, connecting their branches like giant, interlocked fingers. The result is a tree tunnel that kills off any starlight. Literally, the only illumination is coming from the Absorber’s headlights. If they go out, we’re screwed. And I’ll be pissed.
I try to discern the environment’s geography. Woods. Nothing but endless black woods stretched across continuous flat ground as far as my alarmed eyes can make out. No mountains. Not even a small hill. No homes. No buildings of any kind. No sign of human life whatsoever.
What kind of trees are these? Giant spider webs—that’s what they look like—drape down from the thick limbs of the spidery-shaped trees. Hundreds of trees, probably hundreds of years old. I imagine Lashers lurking in the shadows, prowling for a passerby to kill.
Water? To my astonishment, I see the glossy shimmer of dark water sitting quietly at the forest floor. My rising paranoia defends itself by pulling up the conversation when Hayvin told me about alligators living in practically any body of water—a creature I've only ever known from TV. The man-eating lizards could literally be just feet from me. To say I feel out of my element is an understatement. Feels like I’m in a different country.
I look to Hayvin, hoping to find comfort in her equally uncomfortable face; the face of a driver who made a seriously wrong turn and is spooked just like me, but she confidently drives forward like nothing is abnormal. In fact, she looks happy. Relaxed. As if she was basking in the soothing water of a hot spring.
“Ruko? You good?” asks Hayvin with a grin of amusement.
“Yes…fine,” I insist in a sleepy tone, trying not to act awkward. The bumpy road smooths out into sandy dirt on which the car softly glides.
“You just look…” Hayvin continues.
“Ahh! Shhhhhhoot. What was that?” I’m now sitting completely straight. My nervous hands grip the dashboard.
Hayvin starts laughing. “It was a deer. There’re lots of em.”
The stupid animal came out of nowhere and leaped across the Absorber’s hood, scarcely avoiding a collision with the car. With the forest tunneling so closely to the road, it was impossible to anticipate the surprise attack.
We wind around the next bend and Hayvin yells, “Look! A panther!” I can smell the sarcasm in her comment. She’s making fun of me. Like my mother would do.
I’m shocked at how well Hayvin navigates these confusing country back roads; she switched off the hologram map a while ago. She’s truly a human GPS with a photographic memory. Not my strong suit.
Ten additional minutes of creature-spotting pull us deeper and deeper into uncharted woodlands. We’ve seen opossums, an armadillo, more deer, a bobcat, and now, suddenly, the first sign of humans comes into view—a man-made structure.
“Is that…” I try to ask, but Hayvin’s quicker.
“Yup, there it is…home,” she answers with a hint of sadness. Coming home may not be as easy for Hayvin as I originally supposed. Guess it’d be hard for me, too, if I went back to California. Being in the home I was raised in, without the presence of the people who did the raising, just wouldn’t be the same.
As we approach, we pass a large, prehistoric-looking shack on the right side of the road, which has completely collapsed in the middle. Plant life of all kinds entwines itself into the ancient, wood ruin. A couple palm trees scathe the shack walls. One stands straight up. The second dips its bushy head to the road, forced down by a crooked spine.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It was my great, great, great grandparent’s home,” Hayvin explains. “Our family’s lived on the farm for generations. That was the first original home, but a hurricane destroyed it and we decided to leave it to preserve the history.”
“That’s cool,” I reply.
The narrow road opens up into a large field, like a river pouring out into a lake. As we leave the trees, the night light grows brighter. To the left is an orange, rusted tractor a smudge less ancient than the wind-blown shack, but definitely not modern by any means. Its tires are deflated and cracked, resembling the wrinkled skin of an elephant. The tractor sits next to a shed with connecting gates made of large metal bars that are vertically spaced about a foot apart. Inside the fenced area are a couple feeding troughs. Must be where they corralled livestock. Long, grassy weeds have overgrown the entire space and mark the age of its long ago use.
Hayvin pulls onto the cement driveway of her family’s ghost home. The Absorber comes to a complete stop, but Hayvin solemnly idles in place with her hands remaining on the steering wheel. She doesn't budge or say anything for several seconds.
“Hayvin?” I ask, troubled by her behavior.
“Before the Red-outs, we had Golden Retrievers,” Hayvin tells. “Luka and Traci were so loving. They’d always come runnin’ and waggin’ their tails when I came home from town.” A couple tears stream as Hayvin talks, along with short microbursts of laughter. “Used to tell Mama I didn’t need a shower cuz Luka and Traci licked me clean.”
As her words fall out, I try hard to pick them up. To be a good listener in the way I perceive she wants me to be.
“When things changed, we heard that keepin’ dogs was bad cuz Lashers could find you easier. Mama didn’t want to take any chances...so she drove them a few miles away and let em’ go. I always imagined them being eaten by coyotes.”
Hayvin stops talking, and now I must say something or come off as a total jerk. But what do I say? I’m not proficient at comforting, most especially when I’m in a bad mood. My body aches from being inside this car for way too long, I’ve got a killer headache I just noticed—probably not drinking enough water—and thanks to the subject of death and grief, the memory of my own pain is bobbing to the surface of my brain. My brutalized parents.
I hurry out of the car, not a word of response to Hayvin’s story. Outside, I’m serenaded by a loud chorus of bugs and croaking frogs. I walk to the trunk to unload luggage. Wow. It’s humid. Now I know why Hayvin’s skin is so healthy—the air in Florida is a natural moisturizer.
Hayvin now exits. While on her tiptoes, she stretches her arms and fingers upward into the sky as if reaching for an invisible something. “Awww,” she breathes with an open mouth. “Humidity…I’m in my natural habitat…I love it!” She livens up dramatically, pushing away the sadness of her dogs’ absence.
I follow behind Hayvin who moves along a crooked walkway laced with bushes on both sides.
“Ahh!…shhhhfrrreak.” I’m startled by a small jumping object that I almost stepped on: a brown ground toad. I’m almost tempted to drop my bags and catch him but restrain the child inside me who once loved playing with frogs.
The walkway leads to a large front porch with a sofa swing hanging by two chains. Above the front door of the house is a sign that says, “Kes Family Farm. Life Lived. Life Loved.”
“Kes…is that your last name?” I ask Hayvin, realizing I don’t know her full, birth-given label.
“Haha. Yeah. Can’t believe we’ve never told each other,” answers Hayvin.
“It’s short,” I point out.
“What about you? What’s your last name?” Hayvin reciprocates the question I should’ve seen coming. Dang it. I wasn’t thinking.
“Long,” I answer. “And terrible.”
“Ruko Redneckville?” Hayvin asks with a smirk.
“No."
“YankeeDoodle? Unibrowunicorn?” Hayvin tries a few more sassy guesses.
“Not telling you. That secret’s staying with me,” I insist.
“Fine, I’ll just keep guessing till I get it,” Hayvin promises but backs down, for now. She lowers her bags and slides over a ceramic pot with a dead plant that reveals a hidden house key...and another frog. This one jumps from the backside of the pot and sticks to the front door.
I spotlight the frozen frog with my flashlight, and as soon as I do, it starts climbing up the door like it’s putting on an acrobatic show just for us. Vibrant, green skin contours to every muscle and tendon of its athletic body like a spandex suit. The way the frog’s glossy, toned legs with suction-cup toes carry him up the door is more than captivating. I almost wish I were a frog. They have cool abilities, not a care in the world, and Lashers aren’t interested in murdering them.