Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (49 page)

The first thing I did was touch base with Justin and ask him to postpone all of Samuel’s appearances until further notice.

“What’s going on, Kaye? You wouldn’t believe the speculation running rampant in all corners of the media. Samuel’s lucky that guy in the Toulouse-Lautrec shirt at Boom Boom didn’t call the cops.” Heh, if he only knew. “Now there are photos surfacing online of a crazy person who looks an awful lot like Cabral being carted out of a Red Sox game. I need to know what to tell these people.”

“On the record, we’re not confirming anything, other than Samuel is under the weather.”

“Off the record?”

“It was him, Justin. Samuel’s…not well. He’s at Mass General.”

“I figured as much. I had a hunch in LA, but after yesterday, I was sure.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Yeah. This is gonna come out, beautiful. No stopping it now.”

Mother of Tom.

Next, I spoke with Molly to give her a heads up in case they too started getting calls.

“What are you going to do about Jerome?” Molly asked.

I groaned. “I don’t have the slightest clue. Put him off as long as possible. He was willing to risk Samuel’s reputation to take down Caroline, so I don’t want him handling something this personal.”

“Let me deal with Jerome,” she said gently. “You have enough on your hands.”

Thank goodness for friends.

Lastly, I made that promised call to Patrick.

“Saw the Internet,” he said right off the bat. “Would you like me to bring Nat? It sounds like you could use a female shoulder.”

I smiled a bit for the first time today. “That would be really nice. I want you to meet with Ace Caulfield to sign an NDA first, then we’ll talk damage control.”

My mother kept to herself, shuffling the pages of a
Reader’s Digest.
I slipped my phone into my purse and sank into my chair, but I couldn’t let exhaustion claim me—not yet. The television program was in commercial break. I cringed when the evening news ran a promo. The highlight?

“
A man was arrested for disrupting a Red Sox game today, after jumping onto Fenway Park…with a cremation urn. More at ten.”

The police had the urn, but Samuel’s backpack rested in my lap. Every time I shifted, his old college papers inside rustled and sang. I glanced at my mother; she still read her magazine. I stuck my hand through the zipper and yanked out the first paper I grasped.

The lack of punctuation and paragraph breaks were difficult to read past, but I soon found Samuel’s patterns. I read on…lots of pain…more crackling bones…bloody handprints on the pavement, walls…a woman shrieking. No, it was a little boy shrieking. It was so dark; I felt I was intruding on a very personal nightmare. My face reddened. I shoved the paper into the pack and zipped it away again.

My knee-jerk reaction was to be scared by his words. I could see why Alonso had been worried for my safety that night in the brownstone. But even in the height of his mania, Samuel had never physically hurt me—not once. Through his madness, I’d seen moments of lucidity…love, security. I
knew
, deep down, these hellish thoughts would never leave this page. That’s all they were. Thoughts. Bad dreams, remnants of a scary childhood, and I could no more fault him for having them than I could blame myself for my own nightmares.

“Kaye, have you called the Cabrals yet?” Mom asked, not looking up from her magazine.

“No.”

“Don’t you think you should?”

I stared at my hands.

“You can’t do to them what they did to you.”

I was saved when Dr. Tran entered the waiting room, clipboard in hand.
Finally.
She was a slight, middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair and shockingly, a grip that could win arm-wrestling trophies. She stared at Mom, who tossed down the magazine and pushed up from her chair.

“I’ll head downstairs and pick up dinner from the cafeteria.”

The doctor waited until my mother was gone before peering at me over square glasses. “Ms. Trilby, I understand you have power of attorney for Mr. Cabral.”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to discuss his medication with you. His current prescription regimen is Depakote and Zoloft, treating a Bipolar II diagnosis. Do you know if he’s been taking them?”

“Every day, as far as I can tell.”

She jotted something on her chart. “It’s the antidepressant we’re concerned about. Blood tested negative for illegal substances that might exacerbate an episode, so that leaves us with his prescribed meds.”

“No drugs?” I asked, just to be sure.

“No drugs,” she said, and I exhaled in relief. “Not illegal ones, anyway. His physician in New York indicated Mr. Cabral’s last medication adjustment was in April, when the low dose Zoloft was added to combat the depressive end of his disorder. Can you give me a picture of what his demeanor was like before and after the medication change?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve only been familiar with Samuel’s moods since May. The past few months, he’s been…mercurial. Mainly normal. But when he has moods, they’re more hypomanic than depressive. I suppose you’d call him edgy? Nothing has been as bad as today, though.”

“We’ll need to observe him for a time, consider a new diagnosis.”

“New diagnosis?”

“After a full-blown manic episode like today’s, we’ll look at Bipolar I, as well as a medication adjustment. My early suspicion is the antidepressant aggravated the mania and caused the mixed state he seems to be experiencing. Dr. Vanderbilt and I are in agreement here.”

“When you say ‘mixed state,’ you mean…”

“When mania and depression occur simultaneously. It’s very distressing for the patient and a dangerous combination—impulsiveness combined with despondency.”

The implication sank into my tired mind. “I see. I think you’ll want to speak with Samuel’s father. He’s better acquainted with Samuel’s history than I am.”

“Just so we’re clear, Ms. Trilby, his treatment decisions ultimately lie with
you
, for the time being. He’ll need inpatient care for at least a week, which we can provide here at Mass General, followed by a strict regimen of outpatient psychotherapy. You can look at psychiatric hospitals here in Boston, New York—”

“Wherever’s the best.”

“There’s New York Presbyterian, John Hopkins in Baltimore, UCLA…”

East coast or west coast. Frick. Home grew fainter and fainter. Well, like Nat said, it was all about priorities. Samuel was my priority.

And he needed his parents.

I stared at the contact screen for a full five minutes.
This isn’t seven years ago. He won’t cut you out again. He can’t cut you out.
I touched the folded piece of paper in my pocket for comfort—my odd little birthday present—and dialed.

“Cabral residence,” answered a warm, familiar voice.

“Sofia,” I sighed, “I’m calling about Samuel.”

Chapter 15

Boogie

Skydivers will often gather
to cut through the air, hackey sack,
and simply jump together.

Hydraulic Level Five [working title]
Draft 2.36
© Samuel Caulfield Cabral & Aspen Kaye Trilby
36. Mountaineering

“D
O
Y
OU
K
NOW
H
OW
F
AST
you were going around that curve, miss?”

Aspen peers up at the Bear Creek sheriff through the Jeep’s open window, his aviator glasses hiding his eyes. His wife was Aspen’s favorite grade school teacher and they have watched her grow in their small town aquarium, but that doesn’t seem to matter when one has broken speed laws.

“Just answer the question, Aspen.”

“Yes,” she groans, her head dropping to the steering wheel. “But in my defense, you know I never speed.”

“Let’s keep it that way.” He passes her a slip of paper through the window, lips quirking. “I’m going to let you off with a warning this time. Have a safe drive, and tell Caulfield to behave.”

“Thanks, sir.” She stuffs the flimsy carbon paper in the glove box, waves to the sheriff, and creeps onto US 36 toward Estes Park. As she drives around pine-lined curves, she glances at the patrol car in her rearview mirror until he finally U-turns at the edge of the National Park, well out of his jurisdiction. Her mother must have put him up to it.

Aspen’s mother has lingered on the periphery her past few weekend visits to Bear Creek—an odd thing for her normally non-invasive parent—watching her and Caulfield as if she expected some sort of massive screw-up from the pair. It unnerves Aspen, and though she appreciates her, she is glad to be returning to Caulfield.

But if she’s honest, she also feels a nameless unease simmering in her marriage, and as much as she explains it away, it bubbles higher and higher as summer temperatures climb. It nearly boiled over two days ago, the night before she left for her weekend trip to Bear Creek. Caulfield stayed behind in Boulder to cover a downtown gig. He’s been moody…everything about him is flat, from his voice to his eyes to his demeanor, and she isn’t certain she can write it off as stress.

They had sex before she left, and Caulfield buried his face in the pillow beneath her head. Then he raised himself to kiss her forehead. She tried to see his eyes, but he kept them closed until she was nearly frantic for the intimacy of a locked gaze. So she nudged his shoulder, again and again, gasping and pleading until his lids fluttered open. Instead of a fervent blue peeking between long brown lashes, it was dull. Flat. Distant.

At last, Aspen admitted there was a problem, and she was terrified it was too big for her to fix. After sex, she choked and cried in the shower, hoping the pounding water would obscure her tears. But still, she saw Caulfield through fogged glass, hovering in the bathroom doorway. He gripped the knob, then turned and calmly closed the door.

They took their cues from each other. This time, the cue was to keep their eyes closed…

Rocky Mountain National Park is upon her before she even realizes she’s flown past the old Stanley Hotel. She pulls into the entrance, where she meets Maria and Lacy for one final jaunt up into the tundra before classes start.

“Hey, old married lady.” Maria grins as they pile into the car. Lacy smacks Maria’s arm and turns to Aspen.

“Her day is coming too, and then you can give her twice as much grief.”

Aspen flashes her season pass at the Park entrance and begins the meandering climb up Trail Ridge Road. “Do you have somebody in mind?” Aspen hopes her friend will finally see what’s right in front of her, especially since Esteban will soon be deployed.

“I just can’t fathom being married yet. No offense.” Maria catches herself. “The idea scares the crap out of me.”

Aspen shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I wouldn’t recommend getting married young, especially if you’re not ready for it. It’ll save you a lot of uncertainty. Just don’t break anyone’s heart, okay?”

“Totally, especially since people change so much in their twenties. That’s what my stepsister says all the time, and she’s been married twice already.” Lacy misses the implication, but Maria does not. She narrows her eyes at Aspen.

“Are you and my brother having problems?”

“Do you really want me to tell you about your brother’s sex life?”

Her deflect works and Maria makes a face. “
Ave María Purísima,
I don’t want to picture that twerp pounding into my best friend. Ugh! And there it is in my mind, anyway.”

Aspen sniggers, and the tension eases as the air grows thinner and the breeze chills. When they reach their favorite overlook, she zips her fleece up to her throat and tromps toward the rail.

The whole sweep of the Rockies lay before them in feathered greens and blacks, light and shadow, each mountain peak climbing into the clouds. The sky is a fanciful blue, so like Caulfield’s eyes. The encroaching range is still all crackled ice. Just beyond it is the crown jewel—Longs Peak. Even now, at the end of summer, patches of snow furiously cling to its rocky zenith.

Aspen breathes in air touched by pine and ice. “I’ve circled Longs my entire life, and I’ve never set foot on it. Not once. How is that possible?”

“Maybe you should just commit to climbing it,” Maria says, her words revealing an understanding Aspen’s never given her credit for. “If you start training now, you could be ready next summer.”

“Maybe.” Her eyes water as wind blasts and dries them, but she can’t turn away. More than anything, she wants to own the mountain that has watched her wander around its feet like an ant, skirting and side-stepping, but never climbing. In the years to come, she’ll hike to its summit three times, calves aching and lungs wheezing. She’ll chuck snowballs at her climb team. She’ll pitch tents in its enclaves, dodge its marmots and break fingernails against its deep-rooted trees. But there, at that moment on Trail Ridge Road, she can’t fathom having the courage to do any of this.