Coming Undone: A Novel

by JD Salyers

  He starts to slide.

  His hands go everywhere, wanting the leg, finding grass and mud and finally, another small tree trunk, the only solid thing he can feel anywhere.

  Except for that pain. That pain is solid as a train engine slamming a concrete wall. A breathy, hoarse scream escapes his lips, but he barely hears it.

  He curls instinctively into a ball to keep from rolling down into the water, and also to reach his leg. He cradles it against his body, and there, through his pants, he can feel that the strong straight line of his familiar shin is...not. It's got a ridge that wasn't there before. When he touches it, knives scrape through his brain and all the breath leaves his lungs. Even touching the bone above or below the ridge hurts like fire.

  Still now, against the steep bank, with his undamaged leg levered outward to hold him, he closes his eyes.

  Unsure. In pain.

  Climbing this bank just got a hell of a lot harder.

  He can't forget what he's doing - Jakey - but he can't do anything more until he gets up to the trail and gets some help. He knows enough to make a temporary splint with his belt and a couple of strong limbs, and that might - might - get him back to the camp.

  So much for the adventure. So much for one last weekend.

  Anger flares. In pain or not, he doesn't need to be laying here in the dark, in the mud, feeling sorry for himself. That's helping no one. He calls out as best he can, but he knows immediately that no one will hear him. The blackness all around him and the water swirling below conspire to swallow up any noise, even if the rain and wind let up. The camp is a good thousand yards up the mountain, even if he was at the foot of the trail, which he isn't. In fact, he isn't sure now how far down river he's come. He can't remember.

  All he knows is that he's too far - too far from the camp, too far from the boys, too far from safety.

  The damp cold is seeping into his clothes, making him ache.

  15

  Peter slashes through the brush, not paying attention to the cuts he's got to be getting on his bare arms. James follows behind, not ready to start calling for help just yet. In his mind, Jakey is just around the corner. Behind a tree, out of sight but close. Playing with some of those sticks he found earlier. Anything. Anything that means he's safe. That means he's just lost track of things. He's three. Three-year-olds wander. Their worlds are full of wonder at every little thing, and they are driven by some innate curiosity to investigate. James knows this, Janice had explained it to him so many times.

  Jakey is possibly the most curious of all of them. James can't get a thing done when the kid's around, but he's come to grow fond of the interruptions, instead of impatient. Jakey reminds him of Peter, when they were young boys themselves. Always fiddling with something forbidden - Dad's tools, an adult-looking book, some strange contraption that he found in the vast woods behind their house.

  Their mother always said, "Curiosity killed the cat," and took those things away from him, but James was pretty sure that if it did, Peter would just poke the dead cat with a stick. When they were teens, it was James's job to cover for Peter, and James gets the feeling that Jakey, one day, will need the same protection from his own mother.

  As soon as they find him. A million thoughts flash through his mind as he follows Peter through the woods - Jakey being cold, Jakey scared and lost. He doesn't want to think about any of them - he just wants his boy, safe, warm and tucked into his little Pooh Bear sleeping bag. He stumbles into Peter's back and keeps from falling with a hand on his little brother's shoulder.

  Peter has stopped in a clearing, probably the same clearing that Dad and Jakey had hunted for firewood. It isn't far from camp, and they came from this direction. He's shining his light in a slow arc, calling for Jakey. James steps around him and walks the circle of the clearing, looking toward the edges in case Jakey is hiding, playing a game.

  Please God, let him be playing a game. Let him jump out in a minute and yell, "Scaboob, Daddy!" laughing his little heart out. He's done it a hundred times, and James always pretends to be scared.

  But there is no jumping, no giggles, no little Jakey laughing. James swallows and makes the circle again, and then again, until Peter says, "James, he isn't here."

  He stops and looks at the sky, blinking against the rain.

  "Maybe Dad has him," Peter suggests. "Maybe Michael." His voice is flat; even he doesn't believe that. Somebody would have called for them.

  "They would have yelled. They would have come to find us." James shakes his head. "We need to keep looking."

  "You need to make some phone calls."

  "Not yet."

  "James..."

  "I said not yet."

  "We don't have time, you idiot!" Peter yells, walking over to look James in the eye. "He can't survive out here. It's getting later, and cooler, and darker. There are animals...."

  "We did. We survived out here just fine. You got lost for hours, and you lived." James does not want to think about this. He does not want to imagine -. Damn it.

  "I wasn't three, either!" Peter yells back. His hand curls into a fist, and for a second James thinks his little brother is going to punch him. It wouldn't be the first time.

  "Hey! You two!"

  They turn and see Michael stepping through the trees, carrying a familiar, wiggling bundle. When Peter shines the light too close, Michael holds out his free hand and squints, almost losing the bundle in the process.

  James, strangled with relief, runs for him, Jakey's name on his lips. Pulls his son into his arms. Michael lets him go, saying, "This kid's heavy."

  "Daddy!" Jakey's tiny fists push against his chest. He wants down. James catches a knee just above the belly button, but he ignores it.

  "No, sir. You're staying right here." James hugs him tight, which makes the wiggling worse. Jakey has no idea what fear he's caused.

  Michael is grinning. Peter is beside them now. "Where was he?" James asks.

  "Hiding. In the back of my truck." Michael chuckles. "He was squeezed in behind the toolbox, but he couldn't stay still. When he heard me get close, calling his name, he started laughing."

  "Holy shit," Peter mumbled. "You serious?"

  James gaped at the older man. "Are you saying he made it all the way back to where we parked?"

  "Apparently. Unless Bigfoot just dropped him off there." Michael snorted laughter. "He's just like you two were, so don't look at me that way."

  James hugs Jakey tight again.

  "Down, Daddy," Jakey complains.

  "Nope. You're goin' right back to bed, son."

  "Not sleeps."

  "Yes, you are. You just won't lay still long enough to fall asleep. Let's go."

  James heads back through the woods, stepping carefully and thanking God that Jakey is fine, that he's here, that he's safe. He has no idea how the toddler could have gotten so far without getting lost, or worse. James thinks about the coyotes they heard earlier, and then he pushes the whole idea out of his mind.

  "Dad's back at the camp?" Peter asks. He says it easily, more of an assumption than a question.

  "No, not yet." Michael's voice is just as easy. "He'll be along in a few minutes, I bet. He knows Jakey couldn't have gone too far without...you know."

  James knows. It's the other thing he doesn't want to think about. Jakey falling in the water. Jakey being swept away, maybe gone forever.

  "It's been - what? Twenty minutes?" Peter asks.

  "Something like that. I wasn't looking." James wasn't, but now he does. It's nearly three in the morning, which he always thought of as the darkest hour of the night, even though he has no idea if that's true. Probably not. But when he was small he heard his grandmother say that, "Bad things always happen in threes." Except he thought she said, "Bad things always happen at three," and it kind of stuck in his head. Even now that he knew better, it was a visceral reaction.

  It had borne out, too. Peter had gotten arrested as a teen - at three a.m. in a stolen car. Janice had gone int
o labor with the baby at three, too, after one of the most difficult pregnancies their doctor had ever seen, or so he said. When Dad didn't come home from work once, when James was fourteen, they had gotten the phone call at three - he'd been electrocuted on a job, and it had been touch and go for a while, his life hanging in the balance. The very grandmother who'd planted the idea in his head had died at three, too. That phone call had come at three fifteen, and he could still hear his mother's wails in his imagination.

  In any case, the superstition is holding steady, but everything had worked out and he doesn't have to place that heart-wrenching three a.m. phone call to his sweet, strong wife. The relief is so great that he could cry.

  The camp feels deserted when they make it back, even though the fire is still blazing and James can feel the heat of it from twenty feet. Peter checks the tents, probably for random animals, and turns when he gets to the one Michael shares with their dad. "He's not here," he says, looking more wild-eyed than he really is, because of the fire.

  "He'll be along in a minute." Michael hitches up his pants and sits down on one of the coolers. It rocks a little under his weight.

  "You don't think we should go look for him?" James asks.

  "He was coming to these woods before you boys were born," Michael answers. "Give him a minute."

  "He's right," James says, even though he doesn't really believe it. What Michael said was true, but what is also true is that Dad wouldn't lose touch like this. He should have checked in by now. But maybe he's over-reacting, too. He doesn't trust his own instincts, they're too frazzled. "I'm going to put this one to bed," he says, lightly jostling Jakey, who - in spite of himself - is falling asleep across James's arm.

  "Make sure he stays there this time," Peter teases.

  James nods and heads for their tent, unease warring with relief in his chest. By the time Jakey is asleep, he tells himself, Dad should be back. If not, I'll leave Michael to stand guard over the kid and go looking myself. I'll drag Peter along if I have to, even if I have to wake him up.

  Getting Jakey into dry clothes is hard. He has to peel the wet cloth off his body and then wrestle Jakey into something warm and dry. It doesn't take too long after that - Jakey is as exhausted as a kid can get, and it takes maybe ten full minutes for him to be so sound asleep that James can't wake him. He's got his right hand tucked under his left arm, the way he likes to sleep, and James just lays still for a moment, glad to be near him.

  But there is still no sound of Dad coming back to camp, and the uneasiness is crowding out the relief. He gives the sleeping bag, inside his own, a final tuck and crawls back outside into the firelight.

  Fog is moving in, he notices. If he wasn't worried before, the pale ghost of vapor is a sign that they need to find Dad and get him back to camp before conditions get worse. The odds of him being hurt are slim, but if he is, getting him back up the steep trail is going to require two of them and a lot of luck. Peter is sagging in a camp chair. Michael is nowhere - probably in his tent.

  "Peter," James says, walking over to nudge his brother.

  Peter's head lolls and then lifts. "What?"

  "We've got to find Dad," James says.

  Peter rubs his bare arms and looks around. "He's not back yet?"

  James just shakes his head. "Come on."

  "What about Jakey?"

  "Michael?" James calls. "Hey, Michael."

  The tent rocks, then Michael's head emerges from the open zipper. His face is wrinkled and grumpy. "What?"

  "Dad's not back. I need you to keep Jakey while we go find him."

  "Huh," Michael grunts. "Fine." He disappears again, then emerges again, dragging his sleeping bag. "Fine, but I'm sleeping between the kid and the door. When you get back, don't stomp my head coming in."

  "I promise. Thanks." James gives him a half-smile, then turns his attention back to Peter. "Let's roll, little brother."

  Peter gets up and goes into his tent, coming back with a windbreaker. He swings it around his shoulders and pulls up the sleeves. "Do you really think this is necessary?" he asks.

  "What do you think?" He and Peter had danced around the truth when they were discussing it, but they both knew. They both, without saying so, consider this their Dad's last trip.

  He wasn't sure why. All he knew...all he knows now...is that there is something fragile about their father that wasn't there before. It wasn't there at Christmas, and it wasn't there last summer. Hell, the three of them were still tossing the football around in the yard last summer, like his dad wasn't sixty. Like there wasn't a care in the world.

  James doesn't want to go, he doesn't want to let Jakey out of his sight again at all, but they can't just ignore that their Dad isn't back. James can't imagine Landon hurt in the woods, but he has to accept the possibility. Landon is experienced, but he's not invincible. And, as much as James hates to admit it, his father is getting older. No, not older. Old.

  Peter cocks his head, rubs an eye, and nods. "Yeah. Let's go. He headed for the river, right?"

  "That's what he said."

  "Well, he shouldn't be too hard to find, then. It hasn't been that long."

  16

  Landon lays perfectly still, breathing hard, and stares at the sky. The rain is still coming down, washing across his forehead and cheeks, down to trickle along his neck and into the collar of his shirt. He doesn't have the energy, at the moment, to even shiver.

  The fire in his leg is subsiding a bit - either that or he's somehow getting used to it - but he knows he can't just stay here. He's got to get....

  Where? Where was he going?

  Wherever it was, it's important. A momentary panic rises in his throat, but he pushes it away. He's in trouble, and he needs to get out of the rain. Think, Landon. Think.

  He's in the woods, near a large river. He doesn't need to turn his head to ascertain either of those things. The trees overhead are swaying, bowing to a coming storm, and he can hear the river. The sound of it thrashes against his eardrums like a dark band, slicing through every thought.

  The memory, the useful information, is right there, like a star that you can't see unless you turn your head away. When he tries to pinpoint it directly, it blinks out, away from his mind. It's infuriating, or it would be if he had the energy to be infuriated. For now, all he can muster is irritation.

  The boy. There was the boy. Chubby cheeks, an elfish grin, laughter. His son?

  Maybe. The image slides away and he physically twists, as if he can catch it in his hands. The pain slides up his body again, making even his memories seem unimportant.

  He's out in the elements, for some reason, and he needs to get to cover. This much he knows, from being on the ridge.

  Is that where he is?

  He can't be sure, and that's the most frustrating thing of all. He spent years there, climbing those mountains with his boys and his wife...Marilee? He sees her face, but her name is gone.

  Anyway, he should be able to recognize this terrain, except that he doesn't. It is as foreign to him as the landscape of the moon. As foreign as his own mind, apparently. Maybe he's in shock. Maybe not.

  How poetic. In spite of the fire in his body, he snorts over the absurdity of it. Thunder booms overhead. No, not overhead. More to his east, still far enough that he could nearly ignore it, if he wanted.

  Which he doesn't. Thunder means lightning, lightning means storms, and storms mean that wind whipping the trees is likely to bring a few of them down on his already shattered body. Even if he's lost his mind, he knows this much.

  Of course, he hasn't lost his mind. He's being melodramatic now, and he can't afford melodrama, or any other kind. His mind might be pudding, but it's still in there.

  If he can get onto his belly, he can get a start on getting out of this mess. Gritting his teeth, he pushes off with his right hand on the mud and tries to roll over. Not only does the right side of his body scream for him to stop, but his hand, instead of supporting him, slides badly with the smallest bi
t of weight, and then he's buried to the wrist in muck. He tries again.

  This time things work, sort of. He manages to get onto his side, but his body punishes him for it with teeth in his hip and thigh and calf. The whimper that escapes his throat isn't something he'll ever be proud of, but he doesn't actually care. In fact, he'd whimper like a sick pup if he thought that would bring him something resembling help, or a swift death. Whichever.

  He stops to breathe again, then heaves himself on over, grabbing a tree to help. He's feet down, on a steep bank, with water soaking through his clothes from the mud underneath and the rain overhead. If he wasn't in shock, he might be before long. He doesn't think he could afford that, so he needs to do...something. Knowing how he got here would go a long way toward helping him figure out his next steps. Hell, knowing where here is, exactly, would be a Godsend of information, compared to what he knows right now.

  The storm, the river. These were his points of knowledge. He thinks about this and a small piece of information slips into place.

  Storms come from the west.

  He doesn't know how he knows this, or if it's even true, but it's something to work with. Now, what to do with that tidbit?

  Something hurts. Not the things that already hurt. This is new, different. Since he rolled. He makes sure he's stable, and feels underneath his ribs, and pulls out a flashlight. It clicks on. Hallelujah.

  OK. He tries to keep pressure off his right side and manages to heave a little, enough to get a better look around. Not that it helps. There is a wall of brush up the hill about five feet, and a fast-moving river. The river scares him. Another three or four feet and he would have drowned instead of clinging onto the bank. The river is wide enough that he can't see the other side - the darkness and the rain just strangle the beam to nothing, like they're pinching it shut with cold fingers.

  Should he follow the river? He had to have been here for some reason, even if he can't remember what that reason was, so maybe if he figures out where he was going, and goes that way, the action will jog him back to reality.