Future Imperfect

by K Ryer Breese

  Like in a movie, Borgo picked my chart up, flipped through it. “Twenty-four,” he said. “Looks like almost ten this year.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  Dr. Borgo laughed. “I like to stay on the edges. Honestly, it’s risky for me to talk to other physicians, other researchers, about this. They assume, before I even get into the meat of it, that I’m a quack. That people like you don’t exist. I’m at peace with that. Not looking for fame.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Just knowledge, Ade. I’m fascinated. Curious.”

  “Me too.”

  And he told me about research that had been done in Canada in the mid-70s. About how the government had recruited people like me, people with divination skills, to lead some new armed force and how it all fell apart and was buried because of the precognitor’s addictions. He told me that it’s a quirk of nature. He told me that my ability, in the minds of most scientists, is a parlor trick, even if it’s real. He said, “Space-time continuum’s a bitch, you can see but you can’t change. Ever heard of Cassandra?”

  I shrugged.

  “Greek mythology. What you’ve got, I’ve been calling the Cassandra syndrome. The god Apollo gave Cassandra, daughter of King of Troy, the ability to see the future because he thought she was beautiful. Nice gift, right? Wrong. She wasn’t interested in him. So like any pissed-off immortal Apollo cursed her something terrible. His curse? No one would believe her predications and she couldn’t ever change them.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’ve got. But nothing about a high in that.”

  Borgo smiled, “The high’s a modern addition.”

  And later, just before I left the hospital, he gave me an illustrated book of Greek myths. He told me to call him whenever I wanted. He told me that he would help me so long as I kept him in the loop. He said, “Stop by my office from time to time and let me run some tests. Just humor me.”

  That’s when I told him about my vision, about Harold. I asked him if he thought I could stop it. If he thought I could change things.

  He just said, “Sorry, Ade.”

  “Well, I’m going to try.”

  “Best of luck. See you soon.”

  I’ve seen Dr. Borgo a whole bunch of times since then and he never asked how it went with Harold. I’m glad for that. What he did do was hook me up to all sorts of machines. He did blood tests. Breathing tests. Sleep tests. He talked the school district out of placing me in special ed twice. This guy, my own personal mad scientist, is the sole reason I’m still in school.

  But maybe not anymore.

  Right now, the look on his face is super grim.

  Right now, my own personal physician in crime tells me that he’s read over the MRI of my head and that it looks ugly. Very ugly. He tells me it’s serious. Says, “Ade, feel on the back of your head, a few inches back from your left ear.”

  I try. “There’s a ton of gauze.”

  “A lump?”

  “Lump?” I go and feel, probe. Each touch and my skull is jumping. Definitely a lump. “Yeah. Lump detected.”

  “The docs had to drill a hole in your head to relieve the pressure.”

  “Pressure?”

  “And repair a blood vessel.”

  “-”

  “Yeah, Ade. You were knocking on death’s door.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “Not like this. This, this was you just about ending up a vegetable. They thought you might be paralyzed. You almost got a colostomy bag. And I would be willing to bet that if you’d have had so much as a pin or a feather hit the top of your head, you’d be dead. Kaput. You came as close as you probably ever will and honestly, despite the fact that I am still in awe of what you can do, if I ever see you like that again, I’m gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Gone. You can get someone else to talk to your principal.”

  FOUR

  I got home from the hospital with my head wrapped the way Vauxhall’s was at the party.

  My mom dropped me at home ’cause she had to go to the church. Some emergency. Some lost soul had shown up desperate and Mom heard the call. When she heard the call, she had to go. Just had to.

  Being at home alone, after everything, I was on edge.

  On edge in a way I haven’t been before.

  The phone calls.

  The masked dude and his threat.

  It was almost too much. I half expected a cat to come caterwauling out from my bedroom and give me a heart attack right there. Blow my blood pressure up so high I’d have some red geyser coming out of my neck. Or maybe it would be an old man with a sinus problem and a cell phone and a knife. Or a Mexican wrestler with his greased-up arms ready to just crush my bones on the living room carpet. So I was tiptoeing around. I was eyeing every door. I was reminding myself of where my baseball bat was. Of where a tire iron might be found.

  I was ready for the cat.

  The geezer.

  The luchador.

  What I found was Jimi Ministry.

  He was sitting on my bed, once again wearing my clothes, my jeans, my sweatshirt, and he was tattooing himself. He had one of those little tattooing irons, the ones with the little needle that buzzes up and down like a dentist’s drill, and he was sitting on the couch, feet apart, grounded, putting little final touches on a bicycle remarkably similar to the BMX I got when I turned eight in black ink on the skin of his left arm. When I stumbled in, my mouth open, he stopped and looked up at me calmly. Said, “You’re dreaming.”

  And then he got up, pulled the sleeve of my sweatshirt down over his inky arm, and walked out the front door. Left the door wide open and I watched him make his way to his car, just loping along like he didn’t have a care in the world, and not looking back once.

  I know that I freaked out.

  I did pinch myself, as if that would help, but really I couldn’t decide if what I saw was happening then or later. If it was really happening right there in my house or if I was seeing something that wouldn’t happen for twenty years. And yet that didn’t make sense either.

  None of it made sense. Hence the freakout.

  I ran outside after Jimi, hands all whirling in the air, and I was shouting. Shouting all sorts of crazy stuff. My head hurt. Hurt bad. I limped back inside and then passed out on the floor of the kitchen staring into the grill on the air vent over by the washing machine.

  It’s night now.

  I’ve been drifting in and out of sleep. The way my head feels, the way my eyesight is all fuzzy, I’m half convinced that I imagined the whole Jimi thing. I’ve been told that it’s amazing what you can see if you want to bad enough. You can make yourself see just about anything.

  Fact is: I’m losing it.

  Fact is: I’ve lost it.

  Looking at myself in the mirror, my swollen face sticking out pink bulges between the bandages, my head looking twice the size it should, I decide that maybe the Buzz isn’t worth it.

  Glorious as it is, maybe it’s just not worth all the damage.

  As much as I love it, Dr. Borgo’s right. Even though I don’t ever see myself jacked up in the future, maybe it’s because the damage just takes longer and I haven’t seen that far out yet. Maybe just beyond the horizon of what I’ve seen, I’m serious effed in a wheelchair and drooling and shitting my pants. Maybe just a few seconds after the furthest I’ve seen there’s me rolling on the ground as my brain just dribbles out my head.

  ’Course, there is another possibility.

  Maybe what Borgo’s right about is convincing me. Could it be that the reason I don’t see myself messed up in the future is because I quit right now? Because I will never go to the ER again? Because I won’t have another concussion? Dr. Borgo didn’t say it as fiercely as he could have: I need to stop because this isn’t a life.

  FIVE

  Set up in bed, Mom brings me a bouquet of flowers that she found on the porch.

  Who would ever send me flowers?

  My first guess, and alread
y my head is swimming, is that it’s from the phlegmy old dude who’s been calling. I’m not sure why, but that’s the first thought that comes to my head. I even go as far as worry that the flowers might be poisoned. Read about that once in a magazine, these poisoned flowers that killed some reporter in Russia. But that’s stupid, right?

  My second thought, well, it’s most likely Paige. Or Belle. Maybe it’s Belle trying to send me a message. What would the message be?

  Ah, but there’s a card.

  The message is written backward, so I have to get up and hold it up to the mirror on the back of the door to read it. Even though the handwriting’s pretty, I’m guessing the message is nasty. If it’s from the geezer prank calling me, then it’s gonna be a nasty limerick or a curse. That’s it. It’s going to be a curse. Belle cursing me.

  Only it’s not.

  The note, it says: Negative Woman fell in love. Her powers, the negative energy, got out of control and she was worried she’d hurt the man she loved, so she gave her powers up. Really, they left her. Negative Woman was pissed at first. But then, she realized she didn’t need the negative energy, she realized she was better off without it. That made her very happy. What would make you happy, Ade? Love, Vaux.

  Once again, I’m sure I’m still unconscious. I’m sure this isn’t happening now.

  What would make you happy, Ade?

  The room isn’t as plastic as it should be. There aren’t any black-light blues.

  Love, Vaux.

  I do pinch myself. Hard. Really really hard. And it hurts. Hurts enough for me to know that this is real. That this is right now. Jimi was in my house just hours ago tattooing himself. Vauxhall wrote me a letter. This is the moment right here.

  Love, Vaux.

  The future has come.

  We are going to be so in love.

  I’m saying it right now: I’m quitting.

  No more concussions. No more Buzz.

  Being with Vauxhall and not being brain dead would make me happy. Knowing that I don’t need the Buzz because Vaux is kissing me would make me happy. Not having an overripe melon head would be nice. Not having to shit in a bag would be wonderful.

  After a few painkillers, with the last birds singing outside and Mom rustling in the kitchen, I have a revelation.

  I realize that I don’t know a single person living in the now. The here.

  Me and Vaux have it the worst. Her and me, we’re chasing down highs everywhere but now. Her stuck in the past and me racing into the future. Neither of us caring about anything else. And I think about my mom and how she’s in the future too. Her life is all about the distant prospects. The Rapture. The Return. She loves me dearly, but in some ways, really in many ways, I’m just a looking-glass into that distance. And Paige, I think about how she just longs to leave high school and her parents and find someplace that will accept her for who she is. And Jimi, him hunting down his dad like his dad was a stray dog that bit him, obsessing over something that might never ever happen. And I think of everyone at Mantlo, everyone out for the next big thing, the next big score. All of us, we’re not living for right now. For all of us, life is just one step to something better.

  Not for me now.

  Not anymore.

  SIX

  I’ve been “sober” now five hours.

  This is, naturally, when Vauxhall calls my cell. I answer with a squeak, must be the concussion or maybe the fact that my throat is sandpaper dry. Vauxhall says, “Hey there, you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m a pro at this.”

  “That’s really sad, but I get it. I know why you-”

  “The high. Buzz, that’s why.”

  “Not me?”

  I’m silent for a few breaths though I don’t mean to be. It’s telling.

  Before I can say anything, Vaux says, “Let me make it up to you. Will you go see a movie with me next weekend? Saturday night?”

  “You and Jimi?”

  “No, just you and me and maybe two friends. A double date.”

  “Double date, huh?”

  “Yeah. I’ll pay.”

  “Okay. I’ll drive.”

  “Great. Hey, can I ask you a question? Did you see anything? I mean the last time, the time you went to the hospital? I’m not going to tell Jimi or anything, I’m not… Just so you know.”

  Closing my eyes tight, I relive the hit, the spin, the future, and then tell Vauxhall what I saw. I tell her all the details, down to the color of the masked man’s mask. I say, “And he turned to me and told me something kind of poetic and that was it. Over.”

  “What exactly did he say?” Vauxhall is fast to ask.

  “Uh, it was like denying the past to-”

  “Change the future?”

  “Yeah, right. What? Is that some movie quote or something?”

  It’s Vauxhall’s turn to be quiet and it’s all static for what feels like a whole movie’s worth of time. Then she says, “I saw him, the scary guy in the mask. When Jimi was a kid. He was there ten years ago. Jimi’s sure it was his dad.”

  “What?” My head starts to hurt. A headache creeping up.

  “I didn’t think much of it other than it was really strange.”

  “Messed up is what it is. How is that even possible?”

  “I don’t know, but Jimi is keen on it. He thinks it’s his dad.”

  “His psycho dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How? How could he…” I clear my throat. My head is pulsating, I close my eyes tight to push the pain back inside. “You gotta get rid of that guy, Vauxhall. Seriously.”

  She says, “I can’t, Ade. We have-”

  “He’s using you, Vaux.”

  Vaux laughs, it’s all uncomfortable. “I’m helping him.”

  “He’s dangerous, Vaux. This dad thing… I’m worried about you.”

  “Every day, he gets better. Every day, I help him see and help him-”

  “Don’t lie to yourself, Vaux. You do it for the high.”

  Vaux goes cold. She says, “Okay, I’m going to hang up now…”

  Only she doesn’t.

  We sit in silence for as long as it takes for a plane to fly overhead, for the rumble in the sky to go dead. I say, “You are so much better than Jimi. Deserve so much more. Vauxhall, you’re incredible. I’ve been in love with you for two years now. I’ve been drawing pictures of you ever since I saw you. Been trying to come up with your name. Trying to remember every detail about you. I’m going clean for you. Stopping for you. Doc’s making me take the next week off from school to recover, but when I get back, I want… I want you to go clean with me.”

  And that’s when the line goes dead.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ONE

  Dr. David Gore -

  I don’t know why you’re insisting on doubting what I’m telling you. And I find it really offensive that you’ve taken to calling Dr. Borgo a “quack.” What’s that about? What if I called into question the degrees you have listed on your business card? The FRCSC thingy after your MD, for example? Or how about your FACS? Whatever that means.

  Fact is: You just don’t like the fact that you’re stumped by this.

  I also take offense at your suggestion that I’m a paraphrenic. I had to look up what that actually meant though I was sure right off the bat that it wasn’t good. And it certainly isn’t. Couldn’t have you just called me a schizophrenic? Or said I was delusional? I think you need to take a moment and do some (what Dr. Borgo would call) old-fashioned self-exploration.

  Anyway, your attempt at trying to ruin my day has failed.

  Later.

  Ade Patience

  P.S. I’ve been considering keeping your name in my mind the next time that I happen to receive a concussion, just in case I can see something about your future. You know, something juicy.

  TWO

  Paige keeps her fourth-grade class photo on her dresser.

  When you look at it you can’t believe it’s th
e same person. The Paige in the photo looks like someone who’d been kept locked away for years. Someone who never saw sunlight. Who was fed with a tray slid under the door. The Paige in the photo is blond to the point of hurting your eyes. She looks off to the side, her eyes so milky blue you’d swear she was albino.

  The Paige I know today is nothing like this feral girl.

  She is lively and popular and she’s dyed her hair black. Now when people take pictures of her she looks right in the camera and gives this big smile. Now it’s the smile that’s blinding and not her old weird ghost face.

  I’m over at her place, it’s one in the morning, and I’ve spilled my guts, and I’ve informed her that I’m done. That I’m ready to stop the concussions and quit the Buzz and mostly it’s because I just want Vauxhall to myself. “I want her to go cold turkey with me. I mean, she can have sex with me and all, but not-”

  “That wouldn’t be cold turkey for her, then.”

  “All right. All right. You know what I’m saying though, right?”

  “That you don’t like her being with Jimi?”

  I nod.

  “That you don’t want her to be a slut.”

  I nod.

  “That’s romantic,” Paige says. “In a junkie sort of way.”

  “I’m ready for this. To stop. It’s the first time in a long, long time.”

  “And you’ll stay clean how?”

  I shrug. “I just won’t need it.”

  “And Vaux?”

  “We need to convince her.”

  “We?” Paige sneers. “Actually, you need all the help you can get. You talked to her? It’s been almost a week?”

  I say, “You know she avoided me all week. Said hi via text maybe twice. You know, the verbal equivalent of that little arm punch like you do. That let’s-be-friends-right-now arm punch. That I’m-totally-uncomfortable arm punch.”

  Paige looks disgusted. “I don’t give you arm punches.”