Solitary: A Novel

by Travis Thrasher

  Then I go to the door and open it.

  Jocelyn stands at the door, a dark beauty in light blue. She wears a loose, long dress that falls down to her ankles and a jean jacket covering it. Her hair is bound together and falls to one side of her shoulder. I probably stare too long at her, because she laughs and makes a face, wondering if I'm going to let her in.

  "Oh, yeah, come on in. Sorry."

  Jocelyn enters and I'm a bit lost, wondering what to do, if I should take her coat or start eating or sit on the couches for a while and talk.

  She gives me a hug. I awkwardly put one arm around her but feel nervous and unsure.

  "Thanks for doing this," she says.

  "You haven't seen what I've done."

  "You invited me over. That's enough."

  "Hope so, 'cause lunch isn't going to be anything special."

  She laughs and walks over to the couch. "So your mother is working?"

  "Yeah. Not that she would care if you came over. I just would rather-I'd rather keep it my own business."

  "I told my aunt I was having lunch with Poe."

  "In New York?"

  "She doesn't know Poe's up north." "What's your aunt doing?"

  "She's probably hanging all over Wade. And he's probably half bombed by now."

  "Sorry."

  "That's fine. I'm not there, nothing to be sorry for."

  I stand in front of the couch she's sitting on. "Your bruise keeps getting better. I can barely see it."

  "Makeup can do wonders. And in the case of my aunt, so can denial."

  I don't notice that much makeup Jocelyn doesn't wear that much.

  "Can I, uh-you want anything to drink?"

  She laughs. "Such an adult thing to say. Yeah, I'd like a cocktail, please."

  "Well, not sure-"

  "Kidding. Anything you have is fine by me."

  I get two cans of Diet Coke, and she takes one. I sit on the chair across from her.

  "I don't have a disease, you know," Jocelyn says.

  "Yeah, I know."

  "Then come over here."

  I sit next to her on the couch, and she moves her body to face me. She sips her soda and smiles.

  "What?"

  "Isn't this nice?" she asks.

  "What?"

  "Nobody around. Just you and I."

  "Yeah."

  "You wanna know what I thought the first time I ever saw you?"

  "Sure."

  "I thought, `Uh oh. He might be dangerous."'

  "Yeah, really dangerous."

  "I just hoped that you fit how you looked. And acted."

  "And how was that?"

  "I hoped you weren't another arrogant jock."

  "Definitely not a jock," I say.

  "You're a soccer player. Definitely a soccer player. But you're also definitely not arrogant."

  "Guess that's a good thing."

  "I'd prefer insecurity any day."

  I look at my can of soda, then the surrounding room.

  "You get so nervous around me, you know that?"

  "Yeah," I say. It feels good to admit it.

  "You don't have to be."

  "You know what I thought the first time I saw you?"

  "What?" she asks.

  "I thought that you were the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

  "Stop."

  "No. I mean it. And I still feel that way. Even more so. I thought that you-that there would be no way, you know. No way for you to be interested."

  "I told you. I'm complicated."

  "And I've told you, I don't care."

  "I like that. Some things you're not so sure about. Like sitting next to me on the couch. But other things-like that. You're very certain."

  I look at her and don't look away. "I'm very certain, Jocelyn. Very."

  This would be a great time to kiss her, but I don't. I guess she would let me. In fact, I know she would. I can see it in her eyes. But I'm still-I'm hesitant.

  For lots of reasons.

  The moment passes, and she doesn't seemed fazed.

  "You know, I don't smell a turkey."

  "Yeah, well-I had to improvise. I have turkey, it's just the kind you get at the deli in slices."

  "Awesome," Jocelyn says. "So we're going to reverse things and have the turkey sandwiches first."

  "Yeah, sorry."

  "I love it. That's the best part of Thanksgiving, when you're stuffed and you're not exactly hungry, but you have a fresh turkey sandwich at nighttime."

  "Yeah, but you're probably not stuffed."

  "I'm not hungry either," she says. "My mind is preoccupied with other things."

  "Is that a good thing?"

  "A very good thing. He's a very good thing. And he doesn't even realize it."

  I feel warm and brush my hair back and have the urge to dive behind the couch.

  "Plus when he turns red, his ears do as well."

  "Okay, I think I'm going to keep getting things ready so I don't continue to look like a fourth-grade boy."

  "You're cute when you blush."

  "That doesn't help."

  I stand and move toward the kitchen and hear her laughter.

  It's a glorious sound.

  We sit on the floor in front of the crackling fire eating our sandwiches and potato salad and chips. It's a pathetic meal, but Jocelyn acts like it's the best meal of her life. She sits cross-legged with her dress spread out over the ground like a tablecloth and watches me as I talk about the school back home and stuff with my family. I suddenly find myself talking about my parents, a subject I never discuss with anybody.

  It's a freeing thing, opening up like this and being listened to. Not judged or critiqued.

  "What ultimately did it?" Jocelyn asks.

  "Depends on who you ask. My mom blames God. Well, not even the God, because she doesn't believe in one. Just the idea of God. She blames God because my dad suddenly changed his life and his beliefs and didn't seem to have much time for what my mother and I wanted."

  "I don't get it."

  "Yeah, I don't either. It's just-he quit his job. Felt `called' to do this and that, all while my mother ends up having to carry the load. It was too much. They argued all the time. My dad wanted my mother to find faith. But you can't force someone to believe."

  "I know," Jocelyn says. "I know too well."

  "The whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth."

  "I can imagine."

  "It's crazy-I'd never say this to Mom or Dad or-well, I guess to anybody. But it almost seems like-like it would have been better if my mom had found my dad cheating on her."

  "What? Are you kidding?"

  "No, listen. I know-that would've been bad. But this was like, like Dad lost his mind. He found God and then abandoned his family. I don't get it. Mom doesn't get it."

  "You said she was the one who ended things."

  "Yeah, because she couldn't deal with him following God. At least, if he was following some other lady, that would make more sense to me, because she's there. God-who knows?"

  "There's this Christian radio station I listen to a lot. I like the music. They've got these commercials or segments that are different people reading psalms. It's kinda cool. They always make me want to-I don't know-find out more, figure things out myself But I guess-well, that's a problem in itself. How can we `figure out' anything? Faith is still about believing in something you can't see."

  "Faith gives me a headache," I say.

  "It shouldn't. It should set you free. At least that's what somebody keeps telling me."

  "Who's that?"

  "Just someone-someone who believes. A very strong Christian who's been reaching out-probably trying to save my poor, wretched soul."

  "I don't think you have a poor, wretched soul."

  "Oh, I do," Jocelyn says.

  I study her face to see if she's joking, but she's not.

  "I think we all do," she says.

  "Hey, speak for yourself."

  She slid
es over and finds my hand, taking it in both of hers. She studies it for a long time. Outside the sun has disappeared behind storm clouds. I see the light of the burning fire flickering over her face.

  "What are you thinking?"

  "Chris-I don't want you falling for me, okay?"

  I start to ask what she's talking about, but she continues.

  "Just-I want you-I want things to be like this, okay?"

  "Okay. Me too."

  "No, just like this. Like friends. Like really close friends you can tell anything. Or almost anything."

  "That's cool."

  "No, you don't understand. I don't-I've told you this. I don't want you getting hurt."

  "You planning on leaving anytime soon?"

  She smiles a beautiful, sad smile and grips my hands harder.

  "You know the one thing about faith that makes it look-well, that makes it seem so appealing?" she asks.

  "What?"

  "It's this idea that we're not alone. That someone is up there who knows."

  "Yeah, but does that mean He is looking out for us?"

  She shakes her head. "I don't think it always works out that way."

  "I don't either."

  "But someone knowing everything-to me that's a pretty cool thought."

  "Why?"

  "Because then you know you're not totally alone."

  "You're not alone, Jocelyn."

  She looks at me, those hazel eyes so full.

  "I think we're all alone. No matter who we are, we're alone."

  Jocelyn's been gone for a couple of hours, and I can't stop thinking about her.

  I can still see her hazel eyes looking up at me.

  I can still smell her slight perfume.

  I can still feel the kiss on the edge of my cheek before she left.

  I can hear the sound of her engine starting, my face and hands and heart all feeling a warm kind of numbness.

  I forget how quickly time passes as I check my email a hundred times. I forget that my mother's late. I forget to take out the stuff I should take out for dinner.

  When the door opens and my mom comes in, I'm upstairs and suddenly realize what I've forgotten to do.

  I tear down the stairs, but instead of seeing Mom I see the same cop who was drilling me about the gun in Principal Harking's office.

  I try to stop halfway on the stairs, but my momentum causes me to stumble on the last few steps and fall on my butt.

  An annoyed look stares down at me.

  The door opens behind the cop, and my mother comes in, her face white and her eyes red and swollen.

  "You okay, Mom?" I ask.

  Another cop, this one probably twice the age of the first, with a thick, gray goatee, walks in behind her. I don't see any weapons in hand, nor do I see handcuffs or anything like that.

  For a moment I have a strange thought.

  The gun upstairs. They're going to search the house and find the gun upstairs.

  Mom gives me a hug and tells me in a not-very-convincing voice that everything's fine. She walks over to the couch and sits down.

  The first guy, the one I met at school, casually walks through the house and looks around.

  "Hey, Kev, get the lady something to drink," the older guy says in a way that sounds like he's used to giving orders.

  "Mom?"

  "I'm Sheriff Wells," the goateed guy says as he shakes my hand. "You're Chris, right?"

  I nod.

  "Your mother had an incident downtown after work, but she's fine. We just thought it might be in her best interest to bring her home."

  The other guy brings her a bottled water. He doesn't seem very interested in introducing himself.

  "That's Kevin, a deputy with poor manners, but he sure does what he's told."

  "I'm fine, really. It's okay." Mom sips her water.

  "What happened?"

  "Nothing."

  "Mom?"

  "Someone wanted to scare your mother-that's what we think happened," the sheriff says. "Someone was waiting for her when she got off work."

  "Who? Where?"

  I feel like I'm on my bike riding downhill without brakes.

  "We don't know. Someone was waiting in her car and drugged her."

  "What?"

  "She's okay. Someone doused a rag or something with chloroform. It's harmless, just knocked her out for a few minutes."

  "Did anything happen-"

  "I'm fine."

  "They didn't take anything that we know of," Sheriff Wells says. "We brought her to the doctor. She wasn't harmed. We don't really know why someone did this."

  "Looks like you guys are having a bad start to your stay in Solitary," the cop named Kevin says in a Southern drawl. It sounds mocking.

  "Shut up, Kev. Listen, Chris, do you know of anybody who would do something like this?"

  I shake my head.

  "Nobody at all? Any other run-ins you've had recently?"

  "Just-what I mentioned when I went into the principal's office. Gus Staunch at school has been after me."

  The sheriff cursed, then slowly shook his head. "Gus wouldn't do something like this. His father would tear his hide. No. Wasn't Gus. That I know for certain."

  The way he said that makes me think the sheriff knows Gus, and knows him well.

  "Anybody else?"

  The only person that comes to mind is Jocelyn's step-uncle.

  But why would he do something like that?

  I shake my head.

  Mom looks to be in a daze. I don't know what to say or do.

  The sheriff asks me a few more questions, then stops when he sees Kevin walking up the stairs.

  "Where're you going?"

  "Just taking a look around."

  He curses at the guy and tells him to get back down. Kevin follows like some trained, expressionless dog.

  "Look, Chris, you keep a watch on your mother, okay? Here's my card-that's got my cell phone on it. Anything funny happensanything-you call me, okay?"

  I nod.

  "Never heard of something like this happening around here, so can't understand if it's some locals Navin' fun or if it's something else. So you keep me in the loop, you got it?"

  Once they leave, I ask Mom to tell me what happened, but she tells me just as much as the sheriff did.

  "One minute I was sitting in the car, and the next I was lying sprawled out on the passenger seat, my head throbbing. I must have been out only a few minutes, but I had no idea what happened."

  "You didn't see anybody?"

  "No. I just-I could feel something warm. Like-I don't know. I don't remember."

  But I think she does remember and just doesn't want to tell me.

  I go over to the door and make sure it's locked.

  "Maybe we pass on dinner tonight?" Mom says.

  "I can make you something. Anything."

  "Maybe soup."

  I nod.

  "It's okay," she tries to convince me.

  "Uh-huh."

  "Come over here and sit by me."

  When I sit down, Mom puts an arm around me. We watch television for a long time, not saying anything.

  I can't tell which one of us is more scared.

  The email is waiting for me like a coiled snake ready to bite.

  Even before opening it, I know.

  As I awaken my computer it's almost like something else is awakened inside of me.

  Something in the far reaches of my soul that I've never known or felt or even touched.

  The email doesn't have a sender, just like the other.

  It's simple, just like the other.

  But this one is different.

  Everything is different.

  CHRIS:

  THAT WAS JUST A WARNING TODAY. WORSE THINGS

  WILL HAPPEN IF YOU DON'T LET THINGS GO. STAY AWAY FROM THE GIRL AND WE'LL STAY

  AWAY FROM MOMMY. WE WON'T SAY THIS AGAIN.

  I glance over it several times.

  Words like warning and worse and
will and won't stir something deep inside.

  I tremble. Not out of fear but out of anger.

  I want to see the sender, want to see his face. I want to look at the "we" behind this.

  I was going to send Jocelyn an email, but I don't.

  Not out of fear.

  I'm too angry to do anything else right now.

  And maybe, just maybe, that anger is covering this deep ocean of fear my little paddleboat is drifting over. Maybe. I don't know.

  I know I have to calm down.

  And then come up with a plan.

  Be smart, Chris.

  Because they're watching. Whoever they are.

  They're watching, and they know.

  It's Friday, and there's no way that Jocelyn has any idea of how Thanksgiving turned out for me. I awaken that morning too early for anyone's good and can't stop thinking of Jocelyn and my mother and this place. I hope that the rest of Jocelyn's holiday was uneventful.

  I vow to find out and find out soon.

  I know that someone is watching me. One person, several people-I don't know.

  I think of the email I got and consider again telling Mom or the cops. I think of Sheriff Wells's words: "Anything funny happensanything-you call me, okay?"

  Would I call the email funny? How about freaky? How about a quarter past frightening?

  I don't know if I can trust the sheriff. I know that withholding information in the movies usually ends up getting a character in hot water, but I just don't know if I can afford to tell him. Something might happen to Mom, and I can't risk that. No way.

  Then there's the issue of telling Mom.

  I don't want her to worry.

  Yeah, I know I'm the son and I'm sixteen and I can't do everything. I don't even have my license. But I don't want her worrying, and I'm still a bit nervous that whoever sent me this email will really do something bad.

  I try to figure out how they might be watching, whoever they are.

  Cameras in the house? Bugs that can hear everything we say? How about spies in the woods? It would be more than easy to hide out and remain concealed in the trees.

  And what about those footprints on the deck?

  If someone knows my email, then maybe they're monitoring that.

  Same way with the phone.

  I'm not a techie, and neither am I James Bond. No need to go crazy or obsessed or overboard.

  But someone drugged Mom to make a point.

  I change clothes quietly.

  Point taken, thank you very much.