Chaos Theory (3 page)

Four

When I return, Mrs. Cabot isn't at the ER front desk. Waiting room people pace or are collapsed in chairs with their heads down. I'd done both so many times waiting on word about Grandma. This town needs two hospitals. This one has too many memories. One couple looks up at me and their grief-stricken faces turn horrified. Looking down, I see Daniel's blood all over my coat and probably all over my face too. I can smell it. Great.

The ER doors are locked from the other side. Luckily, a grinning doctor comes out—good news for someone. She recognizes me, letting me through. “He's back in the same room.”

Before turning the corner, I hear Daniel say, “Kami isn't involved. She followed me. That's all.” I freeze in place.

The responding voice is deep and gravelly—Gravel Voice. “Then why does she have the drugs? We have to get them back. We account for every pill and the name of everyone who touches them. That is our agreement. You told us you didn't know your supplier's name, and you didn't recognize him in our mug shots. You told us you don't have any way to contact him. Okay, I'll buy that. But you were supposed to tell me when you had your next meet. That's our agreement. We don't charge you if we get your supplier.”

Daniel is a snitch for the cops! I try to get my head around that one.

“This looks bad, Daniel. It looks like you're making a deal behind our backs.” Gravel Voice demands, “And why does this Kami have your drug stash?”

Daniel gets mad at Gravel Voice. “I couldn't pick them up! I keeled over. Kami grabbed them. Talk to her. Tell her what's going on. She'll give them back. She's smart. She'll keep quiet.” He stumbles over his next words, “And it wasn't a planned meet. I was just there to do my thing with my board and ran into trouble.”

Silence. Then more silence. I look around, but pastel scrubs are all busy. No one notices me listening to a conversation that I obviously shouldn't be hearing.

The gravelly voice sharpens. “Okay, I can buy that, but if this Kami isn't interested in drugs, then why did she follow you? Face facts, Daniel. She's heard the rumors and wants to buy.”

Me? Buying drugs? That kind of rumor kisses MIT goodbye.

“It's not like that.” Daniel says, but he could be more convincing. “She saved me. Without her, I'd be in surgery.”

“Listen, Daniel. You weren't supposed to go without me. I'm your backup. We can't trust anyone. Besides, it's too dangerous. Look what happened tonight. If she's not part of the drug scene, keep her out of this. And you don't ever do this again, unless you notify me. If you don't keep me in the loop, I can't keep you safe.”

So Daniel's half-sister
had
used
his
drugs. Inside my coat pocket that small baggy turns radioactive. Not waiting for Daniel's answer, I shove my way back through the ER doors and scan the waiting room like an injured animal looking for a bolt hole.

My logic brain wakes up with a vengeance and says,
Get out of here.
But first I have to get rid of those drugs in my pocket
.
How? Just hand them to She-Who-Wants-to-Buy-Drugs guy and say,
Sorry misunderstanding. Leave me out of it
, isn't going to happen. I don't want him recognizing me. Mrs. Cabot is back on gatekeeper duty.

I mentally tick off my goal: Give the drugs back without being seen and make it crystal clear I'm not involved with drug schemes and never will be. How?

I ask Mrs. Cabot, “May I have an envelope and some tape?”

With a perplexed look, she gives me both. I nab a bunch of those HIPAA privacy notices printed on stiff paper and head into the ladies' bathroom. Someone is in a stall crying. Not everyone is okay back in the ER rooms. Memories of Grandma crowd in as I duck into the last stall, lock the door, knock down the toilet-seat lid, sit on it, and pull out the baggie with the loose pills inside.

Mrs. Cabot will take care of everything. I'll ask her to give them to Daniel, but can't just put the drug baggie into the envelope. Mrs. Cabot will feel them and tell everyone. Taping the loose pills onto a stiff privacy notice and folding it several times for good measure, I fold that inside another privacy notice. The bundle goes into the envelope. I test it and can't feel the pills inside. Now what?

Simple and clean; Gravel Voice is going to see this. I pull the pill bundle out again and write on it;
Here are your damn drugs. STAY. AWAY. FROM. ME. Find your own way back to your car.

I am not kissing MIT good-bye over Drug Guy—snitch or not.

Leaving the bathroom stall, my bloody coat reflects in a floor-length mirror. I yank the parka off and cram it through the floppy garbage can lid. It doesn't fit into it well. For some stupid reason, it's like stuffing it into my chaos locker. Then I scrub my face and hands, getting rid of blood traces. My hair's covered too, but it will have to wait until I can wash it.

Legs trembling, I walk up to Mrs. Cabot and hand her the sealed envelope. “Can you get this to Daniel?”

She gives me a saccharin sweet look as I head for the exit. Maybe she doesn't remember the green paint. She calls after me, “You can't go without a coat. Did you throw it away?” That's proof that I'm not the first person to stuff a bloody coat into a hospital waste bin. “You'll freeze to death. It could have been cleaned.”

“No, I don't want it. I don't want anything to do with any of this. It was all a huge mistake.” I run out the front door despite the falling snow and freezing temps.

EB fishtails as I peel out of the parking lot, shivering in the cold. Her heater is a here-again, gone-again system. Most of the time in winter, it chooses not to work. It's a gone-again night. Mrs. Cabot is right; no coat in subzero weather is stupid and dangerous.

At a nearby discount store, I buy one and some mittens. In the checkout lane, I reach into my backpack for my wallet and my hand closes on Daniel's. Crap! The guy just won't get out of my life! How is he getting home without taxi money? Our town does have a taxi—one. He hadn't called his mom or dad from the hospital; he won't do it now. I pay for the coat, rip off the tags, and slide it on with Daniel's wallet still in my hand.

Outside, snow is treacherous underfoot and I trudge to EB, climb in, and turn her on. Wouldn't you know it, this time the heater blasts into my face. As EB warms, I open his wallet: driver's license, shiny new high school ID, a worn-out one from his old academy, some money, and a credit card. Logic brain says,
Don't see Daniel. X him out of my life.
Stupid brain says,
Just give it to Mrs. Cabot.

Five minutes later in the hospital parking lot, I see Daniel getting into a black SUV with She-Wanted-to-Buy-Drugs. It's the unmarked cop car. Like our one taxi, we have one unmarked. Everyone knows what it looks like.

Before getting in the passenger side, Daniel looks up and sees my car stop under the street light. EB's blinding electric blue must be screaming out. He leans down, obviously says something, closes the door, and watches his handler's car pull away.

I drive up to him. EB's tires make that crunching sound on the deep snow. For a moment, we look at each other through the windshield. Then Daniel climbs in, hugging his injured side. He gives a painful gasp as he settles into the seat. He can go without a seat belt; I'm not fastening it for him.

He says, “You had my wallet. I couldn't hire a taxi, so I asked that guy if he'd give me a ride.”

LIAR.
“This is it, Daniel. I drop you off and we're done—your car or home?”

“Car.”

I let him have my best you-are-a-fucking-liar look. “So you'll drive high? They gave you drugs for the pain, right? Oh, wait. Maybe you used your own.”

He has the good grace to turn away and stare out the window before he says, “Home. It's south of town. After my DUI, she moved back from Branson.” Branson's near Des Moines and probably why we never met for martial arts class back when I was taking lessons here.

Home is a nice condo association south of town, but it isn't Jamison rich by a long shot. So he lives with his mom, not his wealthy dad. When I pull up to it, he tries to say thank you.

“Don't. It's over, Daniel. You got my note and the drugs?” He nods. “Then get out of my car.” As he does, I see his wallet on the armrest beside me. “Wait.” He turns back and I throw it. Catching it, he exits out of my life for good.

***

Mom and Dad aren't home—not surprising. My game nights are date nights for them. I hit the shower and the water drips red from Daniel's blood. Then I make hot chocolate, curl up on the huge armchair, and press play on the TV remote. Daniel haunts me, but around midnight I shift to Gavin wanting to ask me out. On the TV, Cary Grant struts his stuff in the end of
North by Northwest
. Gavin's chin is like a young Cary Grant. He's over-the-top-to-die-for attractive in a conservative straightlaced kind of way—Robert Pattinson prep-school sexy, and definitely not in my RL league—more fantasy league. Sure, I'd flirted, but I never thought he'd bite.

Then Direct TV pops up an old
Die Hard
movie—
yippee kay yea,
and I can't find the remote. I'm too tired to move. Daniel's a dead ringer for a younger Bruce Willis. Not handsome or sexy, but still hot. My gut wrenches as Willis walks over broken glass in his bare feet. I appreciate the reality of that scene. After seeing Daniel beat up for real, TV/movie reality will never be the same. You don't jump up like nothing happened.

Mom and Dad come home. He says goodnight to me, kisses Mom, and heads upstairs. They're always doing that. Kissing. Touching.

Mom makes popcorn and we watch the rest of the movie. “How was the game?”

Ouch. “I didn't go.”

She gives me the mom look.
‘What gives?'

Now what? The easy route is my Sandy lie—
I'm sick
, but I'm not doing that. Lying is one of our few rules. In return, they don't judge my occasional stupidity. They even try to hide their parents-know-best looks.

Avoidance. Yeah, go for avoidance—the softer lie. “Mom, what do you do when things get completely weird?”

Mom chews on her lower lip just like I do. Must be genetics. That might be a good science project—what is genetically hardwired and what behaviors are learned? Yeah, anything besides thinking about Daniel, ER rooms, and illegal drugs.

She says, “What kind of weird? Is it time we visit the doctor about…”

“Oh, God. No!” She's referring to getting me birth control pills when I'm serious about a guy. That would be simple compared to this. “Someone is involved in some really bad stuff and he could get seriously hurt. I want to help him, but…I don't think there's anything I can do.”

“Oh. Maybe Dad…” Dad's the touchy feely; Mom likes the practical stuff like birth control.

“No, not Dad. He'll go on and on about what is morally right and what isn't. Then what's legal and what isn't. He'll insist I tell him and I can't do that. It isn't my stuff to share.”

“But if this friend could get hurt, aren't you obligated to tell us?”

I think about Gravel Voice, Daniel's handler. “No, not this time.”

Everything explodes inside—memories of the smell of Daniel's copper and brass gory blood, the sounds of his groans and of boots smashing into flesh, the weight and feel of the drug baggie, and the gravel rasp of She-Wants-to-Buy-Drugs' voice. Like a five-year-old, I climb into mom's arms and bawl. Side by side, we lie on the sofa while she holds me tight and strokes my back, not saying a word. I love her for that.

When it's over, I use another tissue to wipe away tears and snot. I hadn't broken apart like this even after Grandma died. Then she says, “You're growing up, Kami. You'll have secrets, but I'm here when you want to share. Just promise me one thing?”

It comes out like a planned speech. While I cried, she decided what to say. “What?”

“Think how you'll feel if something happens to your friend? We're here to help.”

Crappy
, but what can Mom and Dad do to help? Daniel's dealing drugs, but he's working with the police. Anything we do can screw it up. Mom waits, hoping I'll share my secret. I don't. I know her well. She's going to tell Dad. They'll give me space to work it out, maybe a week—no more. And then there'd be a TALK. I hate TALKs.

The TV moves on to
Late Night
recast of Craig Ferguson. We laugh at whatever he says—funny or not. It's good to be in Mom's arms; they're warm and safe. Why hadn't I ever climbed into them after Grandma died? Sage…Thud. Sweet honeysuckle…Thud.

Blizzard warnings for a late Saturday into Sunday storm scroll across the television. Everything will shut down for twenty-four hours once it hits.

“There goes our ride on Sunday,” I say. Sundays we ride. Mom owns a quarter horse named Suzy and boards her at a nearby stable. They aren't my thing. I ride, but not well—still, once a week, I'm happy to share her big beast passion. It's our together time.

She says, “Lessons will close down early tomorrow. How about we go Saturday instead and try to beat the storm?” Saturdays, the stable arena is booked. Early morning is the hunter/jumper lessons; late morning, the newbies have beginning lessons; and then, in the afternoon, the Western students show up for lessons and ring work. Evening is an older crowd hanging out. Mom's right. Tomorrow with the blizzard, it would clear out early.

“Sure,” I say and snuggle down into her vanilla warmth and love.

Five

The cold bites at my nose while we saddle. Outside, the bright sun cuts through the tree-lined path to the public riding trails along the river. We follow the snow-trampled prints of other horses. My rented ride's a long-legged, bay school horse named Henry. Suzy has a shorter stride but the bay's so lazy, I have to push him to keep up.

The river we're beside is the same one from last night, only eight miles north. With that thought, mental images flash of Daniel's broken body. Remembered sounds of a human body pummeled distract me.

Mom and Suzy plow down the riverbank through the drifted snow and onto the solid ice. Henry follows with reluctance. I have to pound him a bit with my heels. Surprised, he skitters on the ice past Mom to the other side. Laughing, I leave her behind. As I squeeze my legs, Henry, like a young colt new to snow, leaps up the far bank. On the opposite riding path, I let him out. His long legs leap, but then his pace slows. As snow starts to fall, Mom and Suzy catch up.

Reaching a large open field beyond the trees, I slow Henry to a jog. A girl I don't know well is there riding an Arabian lesson horse. She's a freshman named Trish, Swaps-Stall-Cleaning-for-Ride-Time. She has trekked the gray through the snow, making a giant fox and geese circle with four spokes cutting across it. With a whoop, Mom sends Suzy into it. Like a little kid, she yells out, “I'm the fox!” Trish laughs and cues the gray into a canter, racing away from Mom on the tracks. I kick lazy Henry into the center point, spinning away from whatever direction Mom heads. She leaves off chasing the fast gray and races for me in the center. Surprised, Henry stumbles in the snow and Mom swipes at my helmet. Thump.

“You're fox!” She screams.

Henry takes off at a run. He almost plows into the caught-off-guard gray and I swing a hand at the freshman's arm. Thump. Now she's fox. With a great deal of skill, she slides the Arab into a stop with snow plowing up all around her, rolls back, and races past me for Mom and Suzy. Henry, once more the tired old fellow, saunters back to the center and do our best to stay out of their way as the faster and younger horses chase each other. Snow that started as a wisp turns to a trickle and then a steady shower.

Tired of the game, we work our way, three abreast, along the riding path back into the woods. Fresh snow has filled the frozen riverbed. Mom frets. “I hope we didn't leave too late.”

“Me too. I don't want to share a stall with Henry tonight. He'll forget I'm there and step on me.”

Mom laughs, but she pushes Suzy into a trot, breaking a snow path for us to follow.

Swaps-Cleaning-Stalls-for-Ride-Time and the Arab fall in beside me. “Your mom is cool.” She pulls out her phone and reads her texts. “Yep. My mom's ticked. The city stopped plowing. She's worried about how to get me home. Our car is in the shop and not working. Usually I walk it, but in this mess…I'll probably have to sleep in the common room.”

I'd been kidding about sleeping in a stall. The stable common room is heated with a small diesel oil stove, but even cranked up, the damn thing makes you Mercury—boiling on one side, freezing on the other. Students do get caught in storms and have to sleep over, which is why the stable owner, Peggy, keeps some ratty-smelling sleeping bags in the supply closet.

Entering the stable yard, the wind picks up to white out conditions, and Peggy is waiting for us. She doesn't say hi or smile. She shouts through the wind, “You're the last.”

Thank God Mom's with us or Peggy would give us hell. She opens the extra-wide human door with its window rather than the big sliding doors. She's already locked those down against the weather. We dismount, leading the horses through and out of the cold wind. The storm's roar gives way to metal roof creaks. Horse hooves thump on the aisleway. There's a special smell when you enter a stable—hay, wood shavings, underlying astringents from horse liniment, and yes, horse hair and manure, but it's not an overwhelming gag like cattle or hogs give off. It's kind of sweet and earthy.

We set to work unsaddling the horses and bed them down. Swaps-Stall-Cleaning-For-Ride-Time looks scared. I say, “Hey. If we get our cars out of here, I'll take you home, okay? If not, we'll be sleeping right next to you.”

With a nervous grin, she sends off a text to her mom.

Mom and I came in two cars, assuming that if the blizzard held off, she'd stick around to gab with other riders. When it's time to leave, Peggy leads the way in her big dually pickup, making it down the curving drive and then plowing up the rise to the county gravel road. Snow spews out behind her. She waits for us, safely out of our way. Her tail lights wink through the blowing snow and the open barb and chain-link sliding gates. The two panels are rarely closed. Mom's SUV struggles, but she guns it, making it out. Trish and I grin at each other as I floor it too, sending EB roaring up the little hill. Like the trooper she is, EB charges through the snow, although her for-once-pumping-hot-air heater abruptly stops working in spiteful retaliation.

Through a frosted window, Swaps-Stall-Cleaning-for-Ride-Time waves to my mom and we head for her home through unplowed streets. I follow her instructions to a 1970s duplex. The front porch light is on.

“Geez, how are you going to get inside?” The snow's drifted up to the door handle, and the attached single-car garage looks like a postcard from Switzerland.

“There's a side door. I'll get in.” As she picks up her riding helmet from the floorboard, she stops and reaches for something, turning it over in her riding gloved hands. “What are you doing with Julia's photo?”

“What?” I pull off one of my winter mittens and take it from her.

“Julia Jamison. That's her school photo from eighth grade. What are you doing with it?”

What an innocent face. Most school photos are stupid and ugly, but this girl's an angel. Her curly blond hair caps her head like a halo and she has one of those Irish noses that tip up. Her eyes are the kind of blue in fairy tales. They're Daniel's eyes. Not only does she look pretty, even in a school sweatshirt, but you can tell she'd been bubbling with laughter when they snapped the photo.

This little girl died from an overdose using Daniel's illegal drug stash? How could such an angelic face like this commit suicide?

How does Daniel live with what happened?

Trish starts crying. “What are you doing with it? You don't even know her.”

“I don't know,” I stutter.

She jumps out of the car saying,
 
“You're just like them. All those crazy people that came to her funeral bawling. They didn't know her! They didn't care!” Then Trish takes off through the deep snow.

I turn the school photo over and read the inscription,
 I love you Daniel and will miss you! I hate Dad for sending you away!
 
Every inch of the photo's back is covered in tiny X's and O's. It had obviously fallen out of Daniel's wallet when I'd thrown it at him.

***

Sunday, I hole up with Mom and Dad, spending all day thinking about Daniel and Julia. At 8 p.m., I phone Peggy to get Swaps-Stall-Cleaning-for-Ride-Time's phone number and then punch in the numbers to call her. Finding Julia's photo in my car has thrown her. She tries to put me off.

“Why ask me about Julia? She's gone. I don't want to talk about her. You didn't even know her!”

“You're right. I didn't.”

“You had her school photo in your car. What kind of sick person are you? Leave her be.” Trish speaks faster and faster, ending that last bit like an accusation.

Afraid she'll hang up, I say, “Trish, it's complicated, but I promise I don't have some morbid fascination with death or anything. I have a reason.”

I want more data about Daniel's sister. Trish has answers. “Listen, I know this hurts, but can we talk? Wednesday night at the stables, okay?” Then, there's silence for a long time. “Trish, I'm just trying to figure out what happened. Don't you have questions too?”

Trish's sob is painful to hear. She says, “Yes, but she's gone. We'll never have answers. I don't think we can have answers. She's dead, Kami. For most of my life, she was my best friend and she's dead. Nothing is going to change that.”

“Please talk with me, Trish. Wednesday night, okay? I'll help you clean stalls and feed. Afterward, we'll have plenty of time to talk.”

Trish sniffs and clothing rustles. I imagine her wiping her eyes and nose with her sleeve. “Okay. And Kami?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm only doing this because I had fun with your mom. You've been going out there every Sunday for years. You've never said more than hi.”

It's my turn to be quiet. Yeah, I can overlook the social niceties like that. “I'm sorry.” And mean it. Heck, in my mind she's She-Who-Swaps-Stall-Cleaning-For-Ride-Time. “Wednesday night, I'll be there. And thank you, Trish.”

On my desk, Julia's angel eyes sear my soul.