Damaged (22 page)

“I love him,” Terry says breathlessly, hands clasped at his chest.

“Terry, don't talk so loud,” I whisper-shout.

He doesn't hear me. His eyes are glued to the rider being led out of the area by the bikini woman, the fence flanked by adoring fans.

“I'm starving,” Hunter announces. “Let's go get some food.” I have to shake Terry out of his daze and pull him to his feet.

After a lunch of corn dogs, French fries, and nachos and an unwise ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl, we lie on our backs in a grass field by the stables, trying to stop the spinning. The clouds are fluffy sculptures above us, morphing into animals, faces, entire landscapes.

“The good news is I don't think I'm going to puke anymore,” Terry says.

“I'm not there yet,” I groan, squeezing my eyes shut with a new wave of nausea.

“This is almost as bad as a hangover,” Hunter says.

“This reminds me of being a baby,” Terry says.

“You don't remember being a baby,” I say.

“Sure I do. I remember lying in my crib like this, looking up at the ceiling.”

“That's impossible.”

“I had one of those light show things that make stars spin around in the dark.”

“Sounds like a bad acid trip,” Hunter says.

“Terry, what are you talking about?” I say.

“You know, those things people put in baby nurseries. Like there's a lightbulb inside a box, and the box has all these cutouts of stars or animals and stuff on the sides, and there's a motor inside that makes it spin around and the light shines through and the cutouts dance around the room. Like shadow puppets.”

A bluegrass band starts playing somewhere in the distance. A woman's voice calls out bingo numbers.

“The lightbulb is like your brain, see?” Terry continues. “And the cutout patterns around it are like all the stuff your subconscious wants you to see, all your fears and self-hatred and misery and mistakes, and maybe sometimes if you refuse to see them, your brain does something to force you to. Like it turns the lightbulb on and puts on a light show so you can't ignore it anymore. It projects all the stuff around you so you'll see it, except it gets all distorted and warped and magnified as it wraps around the furniture and walls and your stuffed animals and everything, so it turns out way bigger and scarier than it really is. But the light show isn't real. All it really is is shadows.”

Someone somewhere yells, “Bingo!”

“Frankly, I don't know what babies see in those things. I think they're terrifying and I'm practically a grown-up.”

“Terry,” Hunter says. “You have a fascinating mind.”

Terry reaches over and grabs my hand. Again, I feel an uncanny, instant comfort. I turn my head and his pale blue eyes are looking right at me. He speaks to me directly when he says, “If you're lonely enough, even a ghost will keep you company.”

I shiver as Terry's eyes bore into me. I have to look away.

“I think you need to stay off the sugar for a while,” Hunter says.

My heart pounds in my chest. For a moment, I feel weightless, airborne, as if I've been picked up and thrown. Terry is still looking at me, his eyes warm and somehow ancient. His hand squeezes mine, and for some reason that's the thing that breaks me. Just that simple gesture and my eyes are waterfalls. Tears pool in my ears. If I stay on the ground like this, I will drown. The sadness will wash me away.

“I need to walk,” I say. I sit up too fast and am instantly dizzy.

“Good idea,” Hunter says. I wipe my face clean before he has a chance to notice the tears.

“I'm going to the stables,” Terry says. “I'm going to see if I can get that cowboy's autograph.”

“Are you sure?” I say, feeling a fierce need to protect him, to wrap him up and keep him safe. But there's also another feeling, like all the rules I'm used to have been turned upside down—maybe his presence is making
me
safe.

“I am always sure of everything I do,” Terry says proudly. “Grandma said I was born without the self-doubt gene.”

“I'm not sure if that's a blessing or a curse,” Hunter says.

Terry shrugs, then leans over and kisses me on the forehead. “You'll be just fine,” he says, then skips away.

Hunter and I walk around the rides, the air light with laughter and the smell of popcorn. I worry for Terry. I worry about his enthusiasm, his confidence, his hope. We live in a world that eats people like him. How can he not know that? How can he think he is safe among all these people who will never understand him? I don't feel safe, and I've been playing their game perfectly my entire life.

The paint on the rides is peeling. The metal creaks with years of travel, of being dismantled and put together again, city after city. Are there inspections? How do these people know the rides are safe? How can they trust their children to these rickety contraptions run by strangers?

“Kinsey, what's going on with you?” Hunter asks me as we pass the merry-go-round, all the smiling, unassuming kids who have no idea how dangerous the world is.

“Nothing.”

“I thought we agreed you were going to stop with that shit.”

I sigh. “Just something Terry said.”

Hunter laughs. “Everything that comes out of that kid's mouth is nonsense. What could he possibly have said that upset you so much?”

“He's said things,” I say carefully. “Things I don't think you heard.” I search Hunter's face for signs he thinks I'm crazy, for a signal that I should either stop now or continue, but he's barely listening. He's looking at the row of carnival games. He doesn't want to hear my crazy theory that Terry is psychic, that he knows things about Camille. About me.

“Hey, let's play a game,” Hunter says, pulling me in their direction.

“Those games are expensive.”

“It'll be worth it, I swear.”

“But they're all rigged.”

“Oh, Kinsey, where's your sense of adventure?”

Hunter takes me to a booth with a bunch of balloons stuck to the wall, manned by a pockmarked guy with stringy red hair and a stained Confederate flag T-shirt. “Five dollars for three tries,” the guy says without enthusiasm. “If you get all three, you get one of the prizes on the first level here.” He points to the smallest row of cheap stuffed animals that probably cost a penny to make in China.

“You may not know this,” Hunter says to me as he hands the guy his money and collects his three darts, “but I am quite the dart champion. Eli had a dartboard in his basement. I could get a bull's-eye even after a six-pack and a couple of joints.”

“That's really something to be proud of.”

“So,” Hunter says, ignoring my sarcasm. “Let's make a bet. You decide what I have to do if I lose.”

“Drive the rest of the way to San Francisco.”

“Really, that's the best you got?”

I shrug. I'm obviously not finding this as amusing as he is. “And if you win?”

He smiles. “If I win, I quit drinking. For good.”

I search his face for a sign that he's kidding, that he's just screwing with me. But his smile is genuine.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“You could just lose on purpose.”

“That's true. I could.”

The game attendant yawns. He has no idea how important his stupid dart game is right now.

Hunter takes a dart in his fingers, aims, and throws. He pops a blue balloon.

“Good job,” the attendant says. He could not be any less excited.

Hunter aims again. A red balloon explodes.

“The moment of truth,” Hunter says. “Pick a color.”

“Yellow,” I say.

He makes a big production about aiming, repositioning himself several times. “Yellow, you say?” He rocks back and forth on his feet. He turns around. Turns around again.

“Come on!”

He smiles, aims, and pops a yellow balloon.

“Congratulations,” the attendant says in a dreary monotone. “Take your pick of these wonderful prizes or play again for the next row up.”

“What do you think, Kins? Should I try again?”

“Let's quit while we're ahead.”

“Then pick the prize,” Hunter says, throwing his arm around my shoulders. “Will it be the rubber snake, the inflatable beer can, or this blue bear-looking thing?”

“The bear,” I say. “The one with the pink nose.”

The attendant hands it to me and I can't help but smile. This is the best five-dollar piece of crap I've ever gotten.

“You should name him,” Hunter says.

“How about Terry Junior?”

He laughs and squeezes me against him. We walk like that back to the grassy patch to meet Terry, Hunter's arm around my shoulders like we could be any happy couple at the fair. Hunter could be any boy who won his girl a prize. I could be that girl.

We find Terry sitting on the grassy patch with his backpack on. Even from several yards away, I can see him bouncing on his seat, unable to sit still; he's practically vibrating. He jumps up when he sees us, as if there are springs under him.

“Look what Hunter won,” I say, holding out the cheap blue bear. “We named him after you.”

“I'm honored,” Terry gasps.

“What's with the backpack?” Hunter asks.

“Oh!” he cries, overcome with emotion. He grabs my shoulder for balance. “You won't believe it! Dreams do come true. This is a magical place. I knew it the second I saw the sign on the freeway.”

I have no idea what he's talking about, but I look at Terry Junior in my hands and have to agree.

“I got a job! With the rodeo! I start
right now
!” Terry says, grabbing both our hands.

“Did I leave the car unlocked?” Hunter says.

“I'm a stable boy!” he exclaims. “Doesn't that sound
sexy
?”

“Wait, you're leaving us?” I say. I'm shocked by how sad this makes me. Wasn't it just a few hours ago that I couldn't stand Terry?

“Was our stuff okay?” Hunter says.

“I get to help take care of the horses and the cows and feed them and brush them and go on the road and hang out with the cowboys,” he says as he unwinds his scarf from around his neck. “With
my
cowboy. Jimmy. His name is Jimmy.” Terry is breathless, love struck. “I met him. He
likes
me.”

“How did all this happen in less than an hour?” I say.

“I told you this place is magic,” he says. He holds out the slightly moist pile of scarf. Without it wrapped around his thin neck, he is suddenly transformed, an ugly duck turned into a swan, almost beautiful. His black hair makes his pale skin porcelain. His glasses enhance his long curled lashes and bright blue eyes. His long neck makes him regal, elegant.

He dumps the scarf in my hands, makes a nest, and plops Terry Junior in the middle.

“I want you and Terry Junior to have this.”

“Terry, I can't. It's from your grandma.”

“She'd want you to have it.” Something tells me not to object. “It's a good luck scarf. I got my wish. Now it's your turn.”

I throw my arms around him and squeeze him tight. He's so thin, but not fragile like I first thought, not brittle like a bird.

“There he is!” Terry cries when I let go. I turn around and see the handsome rodeo cowboy, riding toward us on a big black horse. He waves and Terry bounces over to Hunter for a hug good-bye. Hunter looks confused, half his mind still worried about the car, not comprehending the surreal scene in front of us: the cowboy offering his hand and pulling Terry onto the horse, Terry wrapping his arm around his waist, the cowboy tipping his hat to us, Terry waving like a beauty queen in a parade as the horse takes them into the sunset, the sky an explosion of orange neon behind them, their entwined figures receding into its flashy brilliance until all that's left is the romantic afterglow.

“Did that just really happen?” Hunter says.

“I'm not sure.” I look at the cheap blue bear nestled in the homely scarf in my hands, and I don't think I've ever held anything so valuable.

My heart aches a little as I realize I'll miss Terry. But maybe that's okay. Maybe he was supposed to touch my life in exactly this way, bless it with his special magic, then move on to share it with someone else.

Maybe Terry found his cowboy. Maybe they really did just ride off into the sunset together. Maybe I was wrong and the world isn't as cruel as I think it is. Maybe there are happy endings, even for kids like Terry. Even for Hunter, and even for me.

The next five hours are too quiet without Terry. There are no decent radio stations in the middle of nowhere and neither Hunter nor I want to talk. It's not an unpleasant silence, but it seems heavy with meaning, full of things that need to be said. I can't stop thinking about what Terry said on the grass. I can't stop wondering if what he said was more than nonsense, if loneliness alone can make somebody crazy.

Terry Junior sits on the dashboard facing us, his calm smile unchanging, watching over us with his shiny black plastic eyes.

Wyoming is rugged in a way Michigan is not, even the Upper Peninsula. Everywhere we've been so far—Wisconsin, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, even South Dakota—seems so tame in comparison. It feels like an entry to somewhere wild and primal. The farther we drive into the harsh scrub, the farther from civilization I feel, the farther from everything familiar. The huge sky surrounds us on all sides and there is no turning back.

We camp for the night in a place whose sign said it was an RV park and campground, but it is really just a big, empty, dusty parking lot. A few broken-down RVs seem to have set up camp a few years ago and aren't going anywhere. One is wheel-less and up on blocks. Another has pots of faded fake flowers outside the door. An old dog is chained up to a fence and is too depressed to even bark at us as we park on our designated concrete slab. The night is lit by the blinking light of televisions inside the RVs.