Lost in the System Page 13

  “Believe me, Mr. Burns. We are covering Every. Possible. Angle. Even the painful and frightening ones. We want to bring David home safe and sound. I get you’re scared. I’m glad you shared this with me and not Lydia. She doesn’t need any added stress. I doubt this possibility has crossed her mind.”

  “I hope it never does.”

  “Your mouth to god’s ears,” Diaz says with a light chuckle. “I know you feel useless right now, but you being there for Lydia does more than you know. Plus, I don’t know if you believe in prayer, but I do. David can use every bit he can get. The Bible says the prayer of a righteous man avails much.” Righteous? That word may describe Burnsey, but definitely not me.

  I glance up and notice the girls walking out of the library.

  “Lydia is coming. I need to go.” I hang up as they approach the car. Talking to Diaz accomplished nothing. I don’t feel any better. I’m not sure what I was hoping for. Benny hit the nail on the head. “Useless,” that’s what I am. Impotent’s an even better word. What is the Father thinking? What has all this frantic running around today achieved except a weighted stone slowly sinking down my throat?

  “The librarian recognized him,” Maddie reports, breaking me from my self-pitying thoughts. “But hasn’t seen him since this weekend. She let us hang up the flyers, though. Do you mind taking me home? Mom texted and says its time.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  I drop Madds at home and, once again, I’m alone with Lydia. I want to hold onto my time with her as long as possible. It’s completely selfish. There’s so much on her mind, but after today I’ll be gone. I won’t ever see her again. It kills me to admit it; I want more of her.

  “Have you eaten today?”

  “A little. Mrs. Granger brought me over some sweet rolls. Very thoughtful of her. Although…I haven’t been that hungry.”

  “You should eat whether you want to or not. I bet you’re not sleeping well. You need the energy and stuff.” Argh. Stuff, really! He’s an English teacher. I’m sure he could come up with a more sophisticated word than stuff. “Let me buy some supper before you head home.”

  “Okay. I’m not ready to go back there anyway. It’s too empty. Too quiet, without David.”

  “Don’t you have friends or church people coming by?”

  “Most of my friends graduated, moved away. Those who are still here live way out beachside. I work so much. We haven’t really been able to get connected in a church. David won’t go without me.”

  “Sounds lonely.”

  “I’m too tired to notice,” she says blithely.

  How does she stay so positive?

  We hit up a local pizza place called Al’s. It’s too late for the lunch crowd and too early for the dinner rush, so we have the place to ourselves. Normally, I would hate the quiet. But I crave the chance to be alone with her, even if she thinks she’s hanging with a chubby English teacher.

  “What do you like?” I ask.

  A shy smile crosses her face. “A little bit of everything. Dad used to call it ‘Garbage Pizza.’ But I’ll eat whatever.”

  “A woman after my own heart.” I mean it. Food, one more thing we have in common. The waitress stops by, and I order a large with everything and a couple of Cokes.

  Lydia picks at her food at first, but once she has a few bites, exclaims, “I’m ravenous. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.” Then she really tucks in. Between bites, all of her pent-up worries come tumbling out.

  “I don’t resent it; the way things are. I really don’t. Every once in a while, I wish things were better for both of us, but I love my brother. I love taking care of him. He’s all I’ve got. Do you think he thought I resented him? Do you think I made him go?”

  “It’s obvious you’ve made a home for David. He knows that, too. If he ran away—and I’m not sure he did—it wasn’t because he thought you didn’t love him or want him. It’s clear in everything you do for him. I have a friend whose mother died when he was quite young, twelve. He had no one. No family. No sister. I think he would have loved to have someone like you in his life.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Bounced around from place to place.”

  “Foster care?”

  “Something like that.”

  “How is he now?”

  “Bitter and angry,” I say with a grin, like I’m making a joke. “He’s surviving.”

  “That’s not much of a life, just surviving.”

  “No, it isn’t. That’s my point, though. David isn’t just surviving with you. He has a life. You do things, plan concert trips. It’s not an environment to run away from; it’s an environment to run to.”

  “Things must be better for your friend now. He has you.”

  “Yeah,” I say, sardonically. “I’m his only friend.”

  “Why doesn’t he have more?”

  “He has a hard time trusting people. He’d like you, I think.”

  “You should introduce us.”

  “He’s not from around here.” Sniff. “Oh, look at the time. I better get you home.” A lost look envelops her face. Nice one, Smullian. It got too real, so you had to be a jerk.

  “Are you sure there’s no one who can stay with you?”

  “No. Don’t worry. I’ll be okay. God is with me.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “He hasn’t failed me yet.”

  Has she lost her mind? I’m able to control my tone, but not my tongue. “How can you believe that after everything that’s happened to you?”

  “At first, I freaked out. Gut reaction. Then God sent me to Second Corinthians. Paul writes about how God comforts us during trials, so we can comfort others. After my parents and brother died, there were times the grief was so heavy I felt weighted to the bed. My muscles couldn’t bear up under the load. It was God’s strength that got me off that mattress, so that I could get David off his. It was just like Second Corinthians says. God comforted me; I comforted David. That experience is getting me through this one. I know God is there. He’s carried me before; he’s got me now.”

  “I don’t think I’d see it that way. I’d be wondering why he let it happen to begin with.”

  “God’s word doesn’t say he prevents the bad stuff. It says he helps you through it. He’s our strong tower and place of refuge. For him to be those things, must mean we need protection and refuge from something. I know for sure he’s sheltered me through some pretty bad storms. God didn’t make that car lose control, and whatever’s going on with David, he’s not behind that either. But he’s right here beside me right now.” She pauses and takes a sip from her soda. Then she looks at me with those penetrating blue eyes. “I’m kind of surprised you’re asking these questions. David said you’re a believer.”

  Good thing I am a master of excuses. “I was just playing devil’s advocate, so you’d provide your own encouragement. It would sound pithy and cliché if I said those things.”

  “It worked. I do feel better. David is lost somewhere, but he’s not alone. And neither am I.”

  Her logic confounds me. Her parents and brother have died. Her other brother is missing. She had to drop out of college and works at a flarppy diner, probably getting sexually harassed multiple times a day by truckers and Uber drivers. Yet she says god is with her? It’s insane. I’d say god has abandoned her, if I believed in a concept as obtuse as a god.

  We ride back to the school in a somewhat companionable silence. I drop her at her car, a sad, gray VW bug convertible that was cute in its younger days but is now long in the tooth and needing to be put out to pasture. She tosses her purse in the passenger seat and walks around the car. I watch her go, not ready to leave.

  “Thanks for the help and the encouragement tonight,” she says with that perfect smile. I try to memorize the contours of her face, the lilt of her voice. I’m going to be somewhere else tomorrow, and I’ll never see her again. This morning getting the neth out of Jax was my number one goal, but not now. For th
e first time in 779 days, I don’t want to be somewhere else tomorrow. I want to still be here in this flarppy town with these people. I give her a sort of half-salute, half-wave and roll on.

  When I get home, I drop into bed, and I immediately think about David. The candles don’t make sense, and Bronwen is a big red flag. I fear that he is somewhere alone, frightened, and in pain. As bad as my life was, I never had a situation like I believe David is in now. I had some tough breaks and close scrapes, but I made a way for myself. I guess Lydia would tag that as the support during the tough times. I’d say it was self-sufficiency and ingenuity on my part.

  I wrestle my thoughts clear of David, only to have them land on Lydia. Yet another thing I have no power over. Why me? What’s the point? There is nothing I can do.

  “Father—” I jump from the bed and stalk to the bathroom.

  “No, you are not going there, Smullian O’Toole. Have you lost your mind? Praying?” I dig through Burnsey’s cabinets until find what I need. I gulp down half a bottle of Nyquil and head back to bed. Numb the thoughts, black out the dreams, and, hopefully, be rid of this whole situation tomorrow.

  PART FOUR

  PIT OF DESPAIR

  I wake up and nausea, my old friend, yells for me to get going. I start to rise, but, when I move, pain explodes in my right leg. The sensation annihilates my thoughts, and only searing agony exists. After an eternity, it recedes. The stabbing after-shocks trigger my gag reflex, and I don’t even have time to turn my head before I’m vomiting. Bile burns up my throat and out of my mouth and nose. There’s not much of it and, pretty soon, I’m just dry heaving. The convulsions wake up other pains in my host’s chest. I take ragged, shallow breaths because each intake awakens a new fresh hell in my torso. The nausea of biotransposition combined with the pain drives me to the edge of insanity. I grit my teeth and will them to stop. Caustic bile threatens to rise again. I fight it back, not wanting to set off more fireworks.

  I’m not sure how long it takes, but the pain eventually dulls to throbs, and my nausea lessens to a manageable level. I am finally able to achieve some cogent thought and assess my situation. It feels like I’m in the bottom of a well. I can’t say looks because I can’t see anything. No light penetrates the blackness, and I have to fight an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. I brace myself against the pain and produce a weak, “Hello?”

  No one answers. I’m not surprised. Wherever I am, feels empty. I don’t hear any scratches or skitters or hesitant breaths. The only sounds are mine. I am alone trapped in a pit somewhere, and there is no one to help me. I’ve gotten myself out of plenty of scrapes throughout the years, but I can already tell this one is beyond my ample skills. Dark. Alone. Hungry. Based on the lack of output currently stinking up the front of my guy’s shirt, I figure he hasn’t eaten in at least a couple of days. Not only that, his mouth is practically glued shut from an absence of saliva. Add thirst to the growing list of things that indicate I’m up drak’s creek without a paddle.

  Broken, literally. Based on the pain, I can use that word properly and without any hint of exaggeration. I gently inspect his torso. Muted aches emanate from his back, and when I apply mild pressure to the area, the volume cranks up. I jerk my hand away. When I was fourteen and stole that Toyota Ring Jumper T15 and had my first off-planet joy ride, the guys from the ring of chop shops I worked for taught me a lesson about bringing unwanted attention on the gang. I had walked away from wrecking the T15 without any injuries. But my mentors broke a couple of my ribs and drove the point home by breaking my left hand.

  And people wonder why I like to stay footloose and fancy free. Letting people in your life always gets you hurt one way or another. But I digress.

  No doc needs to assess these ribs; they’re broken for sure. But it’s the leg I’m worried about. I know it’s fractured. The crazy pain exhibited earlier is all the diagnostic info I need. The question is how badly? Palpating the area to find out means moving, which is not high on the good idea list. Unfortunately for me, bad ideas usually serve more as a challenge than a deterrent, and I’m naturally overrun with curiosity. Mind over matter, Smullian my boy. Go to your happy place and the pain won’t find you there.

  My happy place is the Jalpur Way Station. An entrepreneurial genius built it in the middle of seven different interstellar trading routes. People and aliens from all over the known universe pass through there at some point. Drinks are cheap, and so are the women. Marks arrive in droves, so the cash flows like water. I try to bring up the image of my favorite Jalpur bar, but it doesn’t materialize. Instead, I find myself in Lydia’s living room with its cheery curtains and thrift store couch. She’s there too, sitting beside me.

  I try to focus on the blue of her eyes while my fingers gingerly make their way toward my host’s shin. The gentle prodding sends off some more fireworks, and I scream in response. The exhalation of air, of course, riles up the ribs again, and I sit panting weakly waiting for it all to be over. I take my mind back to the living room and try to picture Lydia again. She quickly jumps into focus, a pleasant smile on her face.

  “I’m up the creek without a paddle,” I tell her in my mind.

  “You can do this, Smullian. You’ve been in tough scrapes before.”

  “Not like this.”

  “They’ve all prepared you for this moment. You can do it.”

  I steel myself and go back to the leg. Low on the shin, a fever burns. My host has an infection brewing along with a nasty break. Inspecting further down I hit an obstacle, his ankle bone jutting out of the skin. The pain reaches an ethereal level, and I float away.

  I lean back and prop my feet on the ottoman. Lydia leans against me. Her hair smells clean, like a spring day. It’s not too flowery or pungently sweet. Simple, clean like her. Her body seems to melt perfectly into mine. She fits. There’s no awkward angles, just two separated pieces gliding together.

  “Dance Nation?” she offers.

  “Or you could give me a nice dental drilling. It’d be less painful.”

  “It’s art. It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s reality television, the lowest form of ‘art.’”

  “Sure, it is. What do you call UFC?

  “Trained athletes meeting on the field of battle.”

  “You just described Dance Nation,” she says, playfully slapping my chest. She settles against me again. “Dead Company?”

  “Definitely, Dead Co.”

  Ugh. She’s domesticated me. It’s so terrifying, so repulsive, so—wonderful. ‘Me’ of olden days wouldn’t have understood the pure bliss of this connection. How could he? He never connected with anyone—a brace against heartache, against defeat, against living. But he was wrong. Because connection is far more pleasurable than anything he’s experienced in his miserable life.

  I come to and, at first, I’m confused. Where did Lydia go? Then reality fades in, and I remember I’m in hell or some Serbian prison. No, not Serbia, it’s too hot and muggy. South American prison? I have no idea how long I’ve been out. The room is brighter now—sunlight filters in from somewhere. I look around. Good news, I’m not down a well. I see joists and beams as well as drywall. I look up, and there is no ceiling. Beams indicate where the floor should be. Above that is another floor. Dim sunlight pushes through the unfinished portion. A building under construction? Where are the workers?

  I risk moving my head and look around me on the floor. To my right is a white candle burned low, wax puddled around it on the floor. Next to it rests a sketchbook and a pencil. On the left resides two Gatorade bottles, one with blue liquid in the bottom third and the other filled with a yellow liquid that definitely isn’t Gatorade. The truth hits me hard. This is not South America. I’m much closer to the one place I’m starting to consider home.

  “No!” I hurl into the emptiness. “He deserves better than this.”

  I’ve been in some pretty awful places, but this one is the worst. It might even be hell. As far as I can tell, there is no way o
ut. Abandoned places usually have insects and rats, but I don’t see any. Wherever this is must be pretty well boarded-up. On a positive note, the light from above casts all the cheer of an overcast day, and the rancid odor of vomit mixed with excrement perfumes the room. No one should die here.

  “This is the closest thing you’ll have to a tombstone,” I mutter, picking up the sketch pad. The owner had written precisely on the back cover:

  Property of David Hawthorne

  Father to the fatherless, defender of widows—

  —this is God, whose dwelling is holy.

  Psalm 68:5

  II

  I know that Lydia and, probably, David would say that their god, this Father to the Fatherless, hadn’t abandoned them, but was in fact helping them, and that’s why I’m here. But if that’s really the case then it just goes to show that their god may be “all-powerful,” but he is, I hate to say, a moron. All-knowing doesn’t describe someone who sends me as a white knight. If he’s real, what is he thinking? I’ve never helped anyone in my life. I’m sure not good. There is nothing that qualifies me as the hero, but this god is using me to play the role. It’s not smart and may be a little nuts. There are much better choices right here, right now in this century, in this city. I know because they’ve hosted me. Any of them, including Buttoned-down Marvin, are better choices for this little operation.

  I’m already doing the only useful thing I can do for David. As much as I hate to say it, it benefits him that I’m here. He’s in a subconscious state. The pain, the hunger, the thirst are all vague sensations to him right now. Today, he has a modicum of relief. But what about tomorrow when I’m gone? I don’t know a lot about Christian philosophy, but I’m pretty sure hell is supposed to come after you die. David is living it. Some almighty Savior up there. If this is how he treats his followers, I sure as neth don’t want to be one of them.

  I sit and fume for a while at the injustice of it all. Lydia and David being so faithful…yet here they are stuck in this horrifying situation. David’s basically on his deathbed, accompanied only by pain, writing out scriptures to the god that let this happen.