Solitary: A Novel (36 page)

"I meant what I said," I tell her as I gaze into the dark forest in front of us.

"I know you did."

Just as I'm wondering if she feels the same way-if she's going to tell me how she feels Jocelyn answers my wandering thoughts.

"You can't imagine what your kindness has meant, Chris."

"I'm not being kind. I'm just-I'm just wanting to be with you."

"I know. Wanting to be with me versus wanting me-there's a difference, you know."

"I'm not saying that I don't want you," I say.

"I know. I'm not an idiot."

"Yeah."

"You're a good guy, Chris. Don't ever forget that."

She moves her head to look up at mine. I slowly move down to kiss her.

We stay there for a long time.

The howling outside the house sounds like it comes from some possessed animal. A werewolf or something. I hear it and scramble out of bed, noting my alarm clock reading two in the morning. I look out my window but see nothing but darkness. There's a faint tapping of hard snow as if it's trying to get inside for warmth.

A storm's coming. I don't need a forecaster to tell me that.

I hear the scream again, and this time it jerks me completely awake. I grab for any kind of clothes I can find on the floor and tear down the stairs.

Forget werewolves.

I know that sound, and I know I have to get outside.

My hands shake as I slip on my winter coat and try to zip it but can't. I put on the shoes I left by the front door and don't find it surprising that the door is already opened a crack.

I think about the muddy prints I saw on the deck. About the eyes that watch me. That watch us.

That watch my mother, who's outside right now, who's having a nightmare and screaming.

If thats why she's screaming.

I turn on the outside light and step onto the deck. Wind whips against my face and neck. I round the deck and head to the back of the woods.

Should've brought a flashlight.

But sometimes it's better to stay in the dark. Sometimes it's better not to know exactly what you're going to find.

The screech comes again. It's directly in front of me.

Then I see it. A ghost in the middle of the woods. A specter floating and haunting these woods.

It's Mom, wearing nothing more than a long white nightgown.

"Mom," I call out, but my voice seems to wilt in the wind and the woods.

She's just standing there, her hands over her eyes.

I wonder if I'm the one dreaming.

This can't be real, can it?

"Mom," I say as I reach her.

I see her hands move and her eyes look out at me.

Then they grow larger.

The scream she lets out scares me.

I reach her just as her eyes are rolling back in their sockets and her body is starting to collapse.

My mother balls her hand to try and stop the shaking. She's got a couple of blankets over her, a cup of hot tea in the other hand, a face pale and distressed.

I'm sitting across from her like a parent with his child.

I'm not ready for this kind of responsibility.

I need to go out to a party and drive a car into a tree or something.

Mom sighs, takes a sip of tea.

So far we haven't exactly spoken.

"I don't know what to say," she says as if reading my mind.

"It's okay."

"I just-I keep things from you because I don't want to alarm you. It was so much easier when all of us were together."

I nod. She doesn't need to say anymore. Three is better than two any day.

"I've been having nightmares. Ever since coming here. That's why I've been acting so crazy. I don't know what to do."

I see her eyes tear up, and I feel absolutely and positively helpless.

My body seizes up, even though it wants to go around the table and put my arms around her.

That's not the cool thing to do. But more than that, I don't want to show how utterly sad and scared I am.

"I don't know what to do," she says again.

"What are you dreaming about?" I can't help but ask.

She shakes her head, looks away.

"Mom?"

"Nothing. Just-nothing good."

She sips her coffee and looks out the dark window.

Part of me wonders what haunts her.

Yet another part of me prefers not to know.

Like I said, sometimes it's better to stay in the dark.

That way you won't know what's hiding inside it.

I'm thinking of her when she calls.

It's Saturday afternoon, a few days after the incident with my mom. She's in the laundry room, not working today. It's snowing again, just like it's been doing on and off for the last few days.

When I hear Jocelyn's voice, I just know.

I know it's time.

I know that something's up and that something's wrong.

All by the way she says "Chris."

"Hey."

Panic streaks through her voice. "You have to come. I'm scaredhe won't let me leave-"

"What-whoa-hold on. What-who are you talking about?"

"Wade. My aunt's gone, and he's been drinking all day. He went out to his truck for something, but I know he'll be back and-"

"You can't get to your Jeep?"

"He took my keys, Chris. He said my days of teasing him were done, that he was finally going to do something about it, about me."

I think of what Newt told me, about what guys said about Jocelyn and Wade at school.

"Jocelyn-just wait, okay? I'll be there."

"Chris-"

"Listen to me. Everything's going to be okay. My mom is home, and I'll get there right away."

I pause for a minute.

"Jocelyn?"

I don't hear anything. I repeat her name and realize the other end is dead.

I curse and hang up the phone and start to run to the laundry room to ask my mom if I can borrow the car.

Then I realize that's crazy.

She's not going to let me borrow the car when I don't have my license and can barely drive.

Instead I sprint up the stairs.

I take the gun out of hiding.

I slip it in the back of my pants and suddenly worry about it going off and shearing a portion of my backside.

I walk a little more slowly down the stairs. I yell out to my mom that I'm heading out, then I take her keys with me.

The drive-if what I'm doing can actually be considered drivingseems eternal. It's like a motion picture of memories hits the windshield as I'm heading to Jocelyn's as fast as I can.

As many friends as I had back home, I never had someone that I cared about this much.

That I loved.

Never someone I felt as open and honest around.

So now I find her, and she's a troubled soul. A troubled soul in a troubled life. And I'm heading there now, driving toward trouble.

The gun resting on the passenger seat is heading for trouble too.

I think of everything that's happened since I've come to Solitary. All the warnings and the threats and the dark signs and the omens and the nightmares.

I wonder why I'm here, and if there's some gargantuan conspiracy against me. Or against Jocelyn and me. Or against my mother.

Or maybe against all of us.

Light snow is falling, and I can feel the slippery road underneath making it more difficult to speed.

I grab the steering wheel like a man trying to strangle an intruder.

When I pull into the long drive, I go as fast as I dare and park behind the two cars there.

For a long second-a very long second-I sit there and look at the house and then at the handgun.

What are you doing, Chris?

Then I take the gun and climb out of the car, ignoring the voice of reason and heading toward the voice that needs me.

These are the things you don't expect will happen to you when you're sixteen years old.

Stepping up to the house of the girl you love holding a heavy gun in your hand.

Thinking of knocking, then instead trying the handle and finding it open.

Walking into a house uninvited, scared of what you'll find and pumped full of fearful adrenaline.

Hearing screams from the back, screams that you know belong to Jocelyn, screams that sound midway through something gone bad.

Tearing through a living room toward a hallway and then toward a slightly opened doorway where the screams are coming from.

You would shake if you weren't so determined. You would stall if you weren't so enraged.

Your foot kicks open the door, and the scene isn't surprising, but it's shocking nevertheless.

You see a figure clutching at her chest with bare arms, her shirt open and torn, her hair wild, her eyes tear filled, hate filled.

Jocelyn is screaming. Her jeans look like they have blood splattered on them. Her neck and shoulders bear the marks of nails scraping against the flesh.

You don't need to know any more.

Inside the bedroom with its large king-sized bed, the man with his back to you is shirtless, wearing only boots and dirty jeans.

A tattoo of a black-winged vulture covers his back.

And as the door slams against the side of the wall, he turns around.

Glowing embers stare back at you. Blood is smeared under one nostril and against his cheek. His fists curl.

These are the things you don't think will happen to you when you're sixteen years old.

But age and sense and peace and love don't exist in a place like this.

"Get away from her," I say.

The voice coming out surprises me, but I don't have time to stand and evaluate it and wonder how I feel about it.

"You really gonna use that?" Wade asks, his mouth and lips sickly wet.

I'm standing maybe ten feet away from him, pointing the gun at his head. "Don't make me."

He laughs at me and curses as Jocelyn screams out at me to stop.

"Don't make me laugh, little boy."

He takes a step, and I think for a split second and decide to go for it.

I press down on the trigger.

The gun is aimed at the wall and takes out a chunk of a dresser.

Jocelyn screams again; Wade curses and holds his head.

"Jocelyn, get out of here," I say.

Her shirt is ripped, hanging open, and I feel embarrassed so I look away.

"She's not going anywhere."

I point the gun back at him. "I don't think this is the first time you've hurt her, but I swear on my life, it's the last."

"You better swear on your life because it ain't going to be around much longer."

Jocelyn moves past Wade, and he puts out an arm, sending her back into the wall. She crumbles to the floor.

I aim and fire the gun again. It roars to life. A bullet hits the edge of the bed.

I fire a third time, and this bullet finds its way to Wade's lower leg.

He howls and drops like a poached animal as Jocelyn stands up and runs out of the room.

I look at the writhing figure on the floor and want to say something brilliant, something a tough guy might say in a movie. But I have nothing. I'm scared of him attacking me, scared of him dying, scared of what's going to happen to me.

We exchange a glance. Even though I'm scared, I don't back down.

He sees it in my eyes.

He knows what I'm capable of doing.