Dream Smashers (19 page)

The ground must be fascinating because her
eyes don’t leave it. “Yeah. Tell me about it.” Her voice isn’t
hers; it’s a tired person’s voice. She must have just got back from
her grandmother’s or something. Maybe her parents made them spend
the whole weekend there. Of course she came to see me first. I’m
sure that once I tell her about Jacinda, she will snap out of it
and be her spiteful self again.

“Okay. So where do I start?” I sit back down
in my rabbit hole. “Well, first, I’ll start with church. Angel
totally started crying and she told me that she doesn’t do drugs.”
I pause, waiting for her reaction, for the Rainy I know to bust out
laughing or swearing or telling me how retarded I am for believing
her enemy, Angel.

She stands silent, shuffles her feet, and
then sighs.

“Okay, well, anyway. My mom showed up after
church and asked me to lunch.”

Still, nothing. Not a single peep. She
doesn’t even look at me. Just stands there like, well, like a big
dork-head that totally isn’t listening to me.

Maybe she’s mad at me for hanging out with
Angel or something. Rainy has never been mad at me enough to stop
talking to me. She must just be tired.

“Um, okay. So, my mom took me to lunch
yesterday and she told me that I have to move to Montana with her.
Can you believe it? Like, she thinks she can boss me around now and
shit. Who the fuck does she think she is?”

Nothing.

Her total disregard gets under my skin. “I
know, right? Yeah, I totally agree—I knew you would
understand.”

Silence.

“What the fuck Rainy? Hello? Are you even
listening to me?”

She looks up from the ground, and down at me.
Something fiercely sad lives behind those eyes, the eyes that once
were my best friend’s. Once, they were filled with humor, ‘tude and
strength. Now they are filled with dark secrets and
sadness—hopelessness.

Her jaw clenches, her fingers spasm like cat
claws. “You know what?”

I don’t answer.

“This is going to be a big shock to you so
I’m glad you’re sitting. I am so sick of listening to you. That’s
all I ever do is listen to you whine and complain about how crappy
things are for you!”

“What?” I whisper. I’m not sure where that
came from. From outer space, that’s where. From Mars or Venus or
Pluto or whatever strange worlds that mean nothing to my existence.
From out of nowhere.

“You’ve got it so good, Autumn. So what if
your mom’s a damn junkie? Get over it and move on.” She doesn’t
yell. There is no malice to her words. They are just words with no
meaning—emotionless. “Sure, your grandpa died. They do that, you
know? Old people die but you still have your grandma. And guess
what else? She loves you. And that’s more than I ever had.” She
says these words out of cruelty. She can’t actually mean them.

I stand and brush the dead leaves and dry
moss from my jeans. “You’re just mad that I have a new friend. Boo
hoo. What the hell did you expect? Did you think I was going to
have only one friend for the rest of my life? I’m sorry that it was
Angel who was there for me that weekend you got shipped away for
fooling around with Ace and smoking pot. Actually, no, I’m not
sorry. Angel’s turned out to be a totally cool friend. It’s too bad
you can’t be nice to her. So don’t get pissy with me.”

She sighs. “You haven’t even asked me how I
am. It’s always about you, isn’t it?”

Silence.

“Aren’t you curious as to why I wasn’t at
school yesterday? I mean, come on, have I missed a day of school
since I got back?” Her voice shakes, the first sign of emotion
since she got here.

“I called and you didn’t answer or call me
back,” I say as a matter-of-fact. I’m not going to give her the
satisfaction of making me feel guilty. “Well? Are you going to
continue or what?”

“Forget it.” She turns to walk off.

“What? No you did not just turn your back on
me!” I take several long strides to step in front of her, stopping
her. “Tell me. Why did Mommy and Daddy let you stay home yesterday?
Are you sick?” I say this last part with an oh-poor-me-whine,
immediately knowing it is too much, but too proud to admit it.

She doesn’t say a word. Instead she brushes
past me and lets out what sounds like a growl.

“Rainy!” I yell after her. “Rainy! I’m sorry.
God! A little sensitive aren’t you? I thought you were Miss
Tough-girl. You, the one with the answers to everything all the
time is actually walking away? I guess you aren’t so tough after
all. Are you feeling a little sorry for yourself?” I stick my
bottom lip out in a pout, not knowing why, because she faces the
other direction.

She stops and turns around.

“I’m waiting,” I say.

Nothing.

If I were tough, I’d kick her. But I’ve never
been in a fight my entire life. In fact, I’ve never stood up to a
single person outside my mother just lately. This is the first
fight that Rainy and I have ever had. It feels more like a break-up
than a fight though.

“Are you going to tell me, or what?” I
demand. “Or are you just too good for me?”

Sadness disappears from her eyes, replaced by
rage, scorn, hate. She stomps through the forest refuse toward me.
For an instant, I want to run, but I don’t. I stand my ground,
waiting for her calm explanation that never comes in words. Instead
it comes in the form of a fist, straight for my face, hard and
fast. It hits my right jaw.

The blow forces me back a couple of steps. I
stumble. Stunned and hurt, I don’t move any further. She quivers. I
cry, but not a loud cry, a silent one, and not on purpose. If I
could help it, tears would never leave my body, but they do, and
she keeps hers intact, deep within her eye sockets.

“For your information,” she forces her words.
“Mommy and Daddy let me stay home,” she mimics my tone, “…because
my brother is dead.” She goes monotone. “Ace killed him. Stabbed
him with that stupid fucking Rambo knife.” Then, a few escape.
Tears. Before they can slip past the cheek bone, she wipes them
clean with a rough hand. “And to make sure he did the job right, he
stabbed him a few more times and dumped him in the street.” She
turns to stomp off.

I don’t stop her this time. I can’t. What she
said paralyzes me. Like she injected me with anesthesia drug, but
I’m still awake during open heart surgery. But the anesthesia
doesn’t work. I feel the pain. And I can’t move.

James doesn’t lie in the street, bleeding to
death. I do. My heart slows, but never really stops. It beats,
rhythmically, in my ears.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.

***

For most of the time I knew him, James had
always just been my best friend’s big brother. Nothing more. With
as much time as I spent at his house, one would think that there
should be more of a bond between us, a friendship at the least, but
there wasn’t. He rarely spoke more than a few words to me, to
anyone for that matter, until he returned from rehab just recently.
Then, he was a different guy. A nicer guy.

He even saved me from his killer.

I met him on a Saturday. He sat on the floor
of his bedroom, his back propped up against the bed, and a handheld
video game that seemed glued to his fingers owned his attention.
After Rainy introduced me, he said, “Hey,” without removing his
eyes from the game.

Rainy skipped down the hall to her own room.
I lingered a moment longer in the doorway to James’ room, his
world, to see if he would move.

He seemed all alone. I had been too shy to
say anything to him, so I watched him play his game. When he
finally looked up at me, his eyes startled me. They were iron bar
doors, holding back all kinds of fierceness, and in between the
gaps oozed emptiness. They forced me to look away. Or so that’s how
I remember it.

We spent plenty of time together, at family
events, play dates, holidays, dinners, anytime I went to Rainy’s
house, there he was. I had a secret crush on him from first to
sixth grade. I used to fantasize about him asking me to the
sock-hop or Valentine’s dance.

He never did.

We had one year of junior high together. He
had been in ninth grade when Rainy and I were in seventh. Rainy
stayed home one day with the flu. The thought of enduring choir
without her sickened me, so I skipped class and hung out behind the
bleachers on the far side of the track. That’s where I found
him.

His denim jacket couldn’t have been warm
enough. His nose and cheeks had turned pink against the cold air,
and he rubbed his bare hands together.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey.” He nodded his head then reached into
his inside pocket to pull out a pocket knife.

I sat next to him. “It’s cold today.”

“Yep.” He carved a small hole with his knife
into an empty soda can.

I thought he had artistic skills until he
brought out a small plastic baggie with dry, green bud in it. I’d
never seen marijuana before that day.

I think he knew or maybe he sensed my
nervousness about him smoking it, because he rubbed my arm, as if
to tell me it was okay. He didn’t offer me any, and for that I felt
thankful.

Rainy used to tell me stories about him. She
once told me that he rescued a dog from a kid with a baseball bat.
The kid hit the dog once and that’s when James went berserk. He
actually grabbed the bat and hit the kid with it. That kid never
walked down our street again.

Another time, when Rainy got in trouble with
her parents, James stood up for her. He took the blame for the
missing five dollars Rainy had swiped from her mom’s purse. He took
the beating too.

After hearing these stories about how heroic
he had become, I sometimes wished that James would rescue me from
all the dream smashers.

And then, that day at the dance club, he
did.

Now I wish I could have rescued him.

***

I’m not sure how long I’ve stood here. The
light has disappeared. The rain continues to fall. And James is
still dead. No one jumped out from behind a tree to announce a
hidden camera or to point a finger and laugh at me. James died,
murdered, and I treated Rainy like crap. And here I am, still sorry
for myself when in fact I should console my friend.

But I can’t. So I run instead.

I run through the forest in the dark until it
blurs into a meadow with the rain beating me down, giving me
everything I deserve and less some. Breathing becomes caustic,
melting my lungs. If I could, I’d quit and allow the liquefied
lungs to drain out of me into the rain.

In the far field ahead, elk startle from my
trampling. An entire herd runs away from me. If I wasn’t so empty
I’d be moved by their beauty. But it doesn’t evoke a single
feeling, other than intensifying my pain.

Finally, from exhaustion, or lack of air, or
lack of lungs for all I know, I fall. Muddy ground cakes my head
and hands and arms and legs and feet and face like thick frosting.
The tears stop flowing while I lie in the mud, allowing the rain to
hit my face. Cool and prickly against my skin. When I tilt my head
just right, the drops go down my nose and throat. I hold my breath,
counting to see how long I can go without air. Sixty-two. Yep, my
lungs have liquefied.

The rain stops. Sounds of the field fill the
air: ribbits and swooshes and caws and hoots, even a few grunts and
slops. The slops sound too close so I exhume out of the mud. Two
stray elk stand several yards away.

A warm breeze pulls goose bumps out from my
wet skin. I fall back to my knees, only natural to do so. Mud
softens the landing like pillows beneath me. I look up to the sky.
The clouds relent and so do I. And then, I do something I’ve never
done before.

“Dear Jesus. I know you’re there, so if you
have a minute, can you hear me out? Please forgive me. I’ve got,
like, a million sins and stuff. I’ve been a horrible friend and
daughter and granddaughter.” My throat catches on tonsils or acid
or whatever it is that burns throats just before tears flow. “I’ve
hurt so many,” I blubber. “So, uh, please, please, please help me
be better.”

I try to remember what Evan said, but can’t
remember exactly. Something about giving my burdens to Jesus or
something like that. I want to give them to someone, to anyone. I
can’t handle them anymore. “I don’t quite understand what it all
means, but I know that I need you. Please.”

CHAPTER FORTY

Evan’s late. Only by five minutes, but five
minutes late means five minutes less he has to spend with Autumn.
People living in the Northwest should know how to drive in the
rain. Many prove that theory wrong whenever they get a
downpour—braking inappropriately, not signaling, driving too fast,
running red lights. The weather becomes a switch that turns safe
drivers into crazy drivers. Thus, the frustrations of being late
ensue.

He pulls up to Autumn’s house, shades drawn
and lights out.

Knock, knock.

No one answers the front door.

Ding dong.

No Answer.

His mind races—back, remember. They agreed to
meet today. Maybe she forgot.

Sometimes in life, panic sets in for no
apparent reason. Panic of being stood-up, panic that a watch isn’t
correct, panic that one has the wrong day, panic that maybe she’s
hurt, panic that maybe he’s overreacting and she’s just running
late. All of these reasons cross his mind, but none of them ease
the questioning and none of them are justified. It’s only five
minutes.

He’ll wait. But not in the rain.

He picks up the Runners’ Magazine sitting in
the back seat and flips through the pages to pass the time.

Pressure builds in his chest. Worry seeps
through his ribs even though he blocks it away with articles on how
to increase speed and where to buy proper foot wear. He wipes steam
from the window. The windshield wipers can’t keep up with the clear
liquid clogging the vision through the glass. Not a person in
sight.