Okay, turn it on. Hopefully, we haven’t missed it.
Caleb’s secured hand reached the remote’s cable tied to the bed rail, and pulled it until he could reach. He thumbed the power button.
Yeah, fifty-four, if you please.
Caleb sighed, his frustration coming out as he jabbed his sore fingers against the remote. The television changed to a show he recognized. One of Wes’s favorites. A host offered colorful commentary on videos from the Internet. At the moment, the overgroomed twenty-something was interviewing a disheveled loon, spouting some nonsense about the Mayans and alien visitors.
No, ignore this guy, sorry. Just hang tight a minute.
As the interview wrapped up, the host returned to the green-screen studio. His voice was emotive but vapid, as if he didn’t believe his own words. “Next, the miracle from Texas. If you haven’t seen this one yet, I need to warn you—this video is graphic. If you are squeamish, I urge you … look away … now!”
Yep, this is it. But don’t worry, it’s not that bad. And you need to see this.
The television showed a fawn and its mother walking along a road. The doe stopped, staring back to the camera. It flicked its tail in a white warning, stamping a front leg onto the road. As the fawn stumbled forward in the frame toward its mother, a warbling sound filled the scene. Unable to discern what it was, Caleb increased the volume.
Murmurs and coos filled the hospital room. Children off-camera, excited to see something from the wild misplaced in the middle of their sleepy town. Behind the deer, new stores occupied former workshops and warehouses. The shoulder of the road was asphalt crumbling back into nature. This was a place a lot like Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. The ground was dust, but the sun landed less harsh on everything. The sky was deeper, more blue. The foliage was softer, more abundant, and more green.
The fawn nuzzled its mother, evoking more sounds of wonder and pleasure from the children. It was a lovely scene, and Caleb smiled. His smile faded as the video halted, and the grinning head of the host appeared in the screen's corner. Around bleached teeth, he explained, “A group of kids are walking to school, and they find this mama deer and her baby wandering through the quaint streets of Utopia, about ninety miles west of San Antonio in the Texas Hill Country.”
The talking head’s expression darkened, his voice tainted with suspense and hesitation. “But all that … is about to change.”
Caleb jumped at an indecipherable shout of warning, the volume of the television too loud. A sudden jolt of the camera. The screeching of tires. The blur of children shoved into and out of frame. The tail end of a car swerved across the screen. The camera followed as it broadsided the fawn. The young deer’s hindquarters twisted against the rear of the car as the animal flopped in an uncontrolled tumble. The car heaved over the fawn with a dull whomp and the tiny animal disappeared.
The fawn rolled out. Its momentum carried it across the road for several turns. Waves of pavement flowed as the person holding the camera broke into a run. The video stabilized on the broken animal. Its hind legs and hips bent at the wrong angles. Blood gushed from wounds across the animal’s hindquarters. A sound rose above the squealing children. A frantic bleat, staccato pain and panic. The camera panned up the road, catching the mother doe as she disappeared around a stone building. The sounds of children crying brought the camera back to the fawn. It lay prone in the dirt, panting as it bled.
The video paused, the talking head reappearing in a corner of the picture. His face full of concern that didn’t carry to his voice, the host said, “... but this tragedy is only the beginning.” His eyes widened with incredulity. “You won’t believe what happens next!”
The program resumed, and the sound of the children’s cries faded. The view tightened on the mauled animal as it hollered in pain. Clambering at the ground with its front legs, the baby deer tried to convince its broken rear half to move. To get away from the throes of a painful death. Above the sobs and whines of the children, a woman off-camera hissed in a scolding tone, “What are you doing!”
The camera zoomed out, revealing a dark-haired boy approaching the dying fawn. His pixelated face turned to look out of frame, his hands held in ambivalent fists at his side, shoulders pulled close to his neck. He turned back toward the deer on the ground, which had stopped moving save for its rapid breathing. Other voices floated in from off-camera. Grown men chattering in confusion. Someone asking if everyone was okay.
“Bleep!” the woman yelled. The boy’s name. They censored it. The video centered on the boy as he stood over the fawn. The voice of the woman offscreen became insistent. “Get back here right now or sure as sin, I’ll break out the hickory!”
He stooped over the deer with his hands open, placating the wounded animal. The fawn’s breath became frantic at his approach, its eyes wide with fear. Children hushed as the boy bent over the fawn. His body blocked everything from the camera except the animal’s head, which eased to the pavement in resignation. Another kid’s voice arrived from off-camera, his voice derisive, “What’s the weirdo doing?” A man’s voice, disgusted, screeched, “Naw, kid, don’t touch that!” The animal’s head heaved once, releasing its last breath in a sputtering cough.
The video stopped again as the host’s voice interrupted. “What on earth is this kid thinking, approaching a wounded animal like that?” The talking head appeared, full of attractive concern. “Doesn’t he know how dangerous this is? That might be a baby deer, but it could kill him with one kick to the head! But hang on a second, because you’ll never expect what the boy does next!”
Caleb sighed in frustration, “For fuck’s sake, get on with it.”
I know, I know, just hang in there, here it comes.
The voices in the video muted in disgust at the sight of the boy lying over the deer. The woman’s voice broke the silence with a stern warning, “Bleep! Stop!” Hands appeared in frame, grabbing at the boy like a bird of prey. As she snagged his T-shirt, a murmur rose from the children. The fawn moved on the ground as hands pulled the boy out of the camera’s view.
The broken animal raised its head. It stretched its legs—all its legs—and heaved itself into a seated position. Its back legs folded beneath it. It panted, regarding the moment.
Then the fawn stood, to a chorus of adult gasps. People clapped and cheered. Censor tones covered expletives. The bloodied animal stumbled a few tentative steps up the road. With each step, the fawn moved with more confidence. As it approached the stone building, its mother poked around the corner, stamping the ground with her front leg. The fawn quickened into a wobbly gallop, and the video blurred as the operator zoomed in on the reunion. Above the excited and dismayed murmurs of the children, a man’s voice said, “Praise Jesus!” Another asked, “Holy bleep, do you smell that?”
So? What do you think?
Caleb muted the television as the host’s perfect jawline began flapping again. He shrugged, unimpressed. “A fake video?”
I get why you would say that. But what if it’s real? What would you do if I told you it was real?
Caleb scoffed, grunting as he turned off the television.
I’m serious, Caleb. That kid is the real deal. What do you think that means for everyone?
“I don’t see how that could be,” he replied. “People fake this stuff all the time. I could find a dozen of these on the web right now.”
You saw the deer, right? Did it look fake?
Caleb swallowed. That was the thing—the video didn’t strike him as contrived. Watching it felt like observing something natural. Something he shouldn’t be witnessing. The pain was visceral, the details too mundane. The deer’s mottled blood was rusty, not thick and red like it was in the movies.
This couldn’t be happening. “Are you … are you serious?”
Yes.
Caleb flushed, his breathing quickening. “There’s no way.”
What if there is?
Caleb stiffened, f
ending off the flirtations of hope. “No. I mean … Could he …”
You asked me what I want from you. You asked me what you need to do. It’s simple. Get to that boy, Caleb.
He blinked away tears. How could this be happening? Where the hell was this coming from?
Live long enough to get to that boy. Find him. Then your life can have the purpose you want it to have.
Incredulous. There was no way this could be real. Why Caleb? Why now?
You, because there is no one else. Now, because you have no time.
Caleb’s hand covered his mouth. This feeling—this seed of hope germinating. It shocked him. That it would find purchase in him after everything he’d been through. Ivy’s epic death, his own pain, the indignities of treatment and hospice, and arranging his own end. “I can … I can survive this?”
Get to the boy. That’s the tricky part. You’re sick, and you can’t do it by yourself. You need help. And, Caleb ...
The click of the door grabbed Caleb’s attention. Irene skulked into the room, her expression tired and broken.
Move on this as soon as you can. You’ve got maybe four days left in you.
Chapter 16
Irene
Irene was eager to get back to the hospital.
She’d stayed with Dad overnight. Between her brother’s bullshit and the anxiety of Dr. Cass’s attention on her father, Irene was physically and emotionally wrung out. Despite that, the hospital rabble wouldn’t let her sleep. In the morning, Dr. Pav arrived to pull together Dad’s discharge. Irene used that time to run back to Dad’s house and take delivery of the Final Release equipment. The hospice nurse ran through setups and protocols, which took a few hours. After that, Irene ate some leftover posole and passed the hell out on the couch. She needed the food and sleep, but napped longer than she wanted. When she woke, several texts from Dr. Pav waited for her. Dad was ready to come home.
She negotiated Dad’s BMW into a parking space. The sun was approaching the horizon, and she wanted to get him home before they gave up the day. Those feelings intensified as she walked toward the hospital entrance. The important building was diminutive. Shanty. Sun-worn, ramshackle, clinging to the edge of town. Scrub and desert threatened to swallow it up, reclaim the lot. Hell, the parking lot contained fifty spaces. Grocery stores back in the suburbs of Boston were bigger than this.
Walking through the automatic doors, Irene heaved her backpack onto her shoulders. This would be the last time she would need to come here. Dad would come home, and they would settle in for his Final Release. She wasn’t sure if that made her happy or sad. Without giving it more consideration, Irene was grateful. She appreciated the help from Dr. Pav, his willingness to placate Dr. Cass and social services. As she passed through the entrance, Irene smiled. He might still be with Dad right now.
The smile waned at the prickling stimuli of the hospital. The revolting chemical cleanliness. The squeaks of her shoes against the floor tiles grated her ears. She hated this place. She always had. Irene had good health, but she’d been here enough times to develop an aversion. Once was her fault, a severe bout of food poisoning after ordering seafood at a restaurant in the desert. Every other time was because of Wes. Either he needed medical treatment or someone else did because of him. The last time she was here, he’d fractured her jaw during an intervention. Irene opened her mouth, feeling the joint pop.
Her feet carried her around the turn to the wing that housed Dad’s room. In the last twenty-four hours, this walk had become another mind-numbing pattern to her. She queued up the sequence in her mind, a hypothesis to test against her memory. First would come the elderly woman. Once she caught sight of Irene, the woman would call out to her. Irene passed the door, and screams rattled from the room, “Help me! Please help me! They’re gonna kill me!” Hypothesis confirmed.
Four more steps to the happy giggly couple. Irene listened as she passed the doorway. He was reading to her, from a magazine.
Six more steps to the silence of the stoic room. One or two corn-fed boys. Bowl-cut hair. Eyes locked on the bed as they tried to figure out how to fix their problem with their muscles.
And then, the last four steps to Dad’s room. The door was halfway open, and Irene stopped at the threshold. A voice was coming from the room. Not her father’s. Someone whose lips sputtered from uncontained emotions. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen. …”
Wes. What gumption. How dare he come back after the shit he tried to pull! She had warned him: Stay away. Do not impede Dad’s plans. He couldn’t help but put his own wants first. A fire lit in Irene’s gut, and she pounded the door open with the side of her fist. Teeth bared, she entered the room tensed to fight. She hissed, “I fucking told you …”
A stranger, about her age. Brunette instead of Wes’s dirty blond. His face shot up to her, his eyes round and wet with grief. Who the hell was this?
Irene looked to the bed. A child prone on the sheets. Bandages swallowed most of the tiny body and head.
“Ma’am?” The baritone voice boomed from the hall, and Irene turned. A police officer gestured her out of the room. “You can’t be in here.”
“Sorry, wrong room, I guess.” Her pattern-seeking brain was still recovering from the trauma of the last few days. Not surprising, considering she’d had one actual meal and three hours of sleep.
Skirting past the officer, Irene checked the room number. A quick stab of panic and doubt hit her. Her father should be here, in this room. “I’m sorry, sir?” Irene captured the officer’s attention as he placed himself in the doorframe. “Can you tell me where they moved the previous patient?”
He shook his jowled face, frowning. “Check with the nurses’ station,” he said, pointing down the hall with his chin.
Irene moved that direction, peeking into the rooms she passed. Her father wasn’t in any of them. At the counter, a woman was hanging up the phone. Her pale eyes met Irene’s and widened. She rose from her chair and leaned toward the counter. With a thin smile, she asked, “How can I help, dear?”
“My dad’s been moved to another room. I need you to tell me where he is.”
The nurse nodded. “Sure, honey, what’s the name?”
“Caleb Allard.”
She sat back down, typing on her computer. The woman’s eyes probed the screen as her fingers poked at the keyboard like it might bite them off. Irene considered rounding the counter and running the search herself.
“And you are?” the nurse asked, her eyebrows accenting the question.
“Irene Allard. His daughter.” After a moment of silence from the nurse, Irene added, “And his medical power of attorney.”
The nurse nodded, raising her face to Irene. Her smile was warm and calm as she said, “Sweetie, this says we discharged him. About ninety minutes ago.”
“Discharged?” Irene couldn’t hide her confusion. “On his own?” She shook her head, scanning the hallway for her father. “What the hell is wrong with this place?”
The nurse’s lips tightened as she looked back at her computer. “No, of course not,” she said. Her warmth had dissipated. “According to Dr. Cass’s notes”—she tapped the screen with a finger—“she released Caleb Allard into the care of his son. Wes Allard.”
HIGHWAY
Chapter 17
Wes
The El Camino topped out at sixty-five miles per hour. Any faster and the vehicle shuddered and threatened to come apart under them. Wes took that into account when he penciled out the trip from Truth or Consequences to Utopia. South on I-25 to I-10, then east into Texas for a wide stretch. A few country roads later and they’d be there. The numbers comforted Wes. About 650 miles from here to there, and they were looking at ten hours in the car. Easy math. A nice round, clean number. It was a sign that this was the right thing to do.
The call from Pop had surprised Wes. He answered the phone blubbering and apologizing. Then he pulled out the letter he’d written i
n rehab, in which he took responsibility for his choices. His behavior. Where he’d written his promise to never drag his family into his personal struggles again. Before he could read it, his father had interrupted him with those three magic words.
“I need help.”
And Pop hadn’t asked Irene. He came to Wes.
Once Pop explained what was happening—the voice, the video, this miracle healer boy—Wes realized why he hadn’t called his sister. Irene would have scrutinized everything. Analyzed every detail. “How could the video be real? How do you know it wasn’t staged? What evidence suggests they shot it in Utopia?” Once she had worn those paths to dirt, she would attack Pop’s intellect. Belittle him until he was too tired to argue anymore. “How could you believe this tripe? Why would you be so special? How can you think this is a solid plan? What do you do when you get there and there is no boy? You’re just sick, let’s go home and die—that would be easier on me.” Irene’s head had no room for wonder. She thought about things too much. Dad was out of time, and thinking about things wasn’t doing the things. Wes would do the things. Wes would make this happen for Pop.
As they pulled away from the hospital, Pop insisted they call Irene and let her know where they were going. Wes disagreed. She would freak the hell out over this, demand they come home. Hell, he’d already turned off their phones because she was lighting them up with calls and texts. As a compromise, Wes agreed they would call her after they were on the freeway for an hour or two. Dad didn’t want Irene to worry, and Wes didn’t want that either. A nervous Irene was a mean Irene. Although, if he was honest, the thought of his sister freaking out for a little while gave him some wicked pleasure. Besides, he wanted to get some miles in. Some distance from her. As soon as the car hit the freeway, Pop passed out. That had been an hour ago.
Wes sighed. Las Cruces was approaching. He might as well eat this shit sandwich while it was still fresh. He rummaged through the small plastic basket zip-tied under the dashboard. He found his flip phone by feel, flicked it open with his thumb, powered it on, and ran down his contacts to find Irene’s number. Wes took a deep breath and made the call.
Season of Waiting Page 8