Temptation: A Novel (34 page)

97. Dream or Reality

“My dear boy.”

I feel something wet placed against my forehead. I open my eyes and see a woman, a wrinkled but pretty face, calm and comforting.

“Iris.”

She smiles at me.

“I thought you were dead,” I say.

“And I thought you were alive.”

I feel immobile, out of breath, weightless.

I’m dying or almost dead and this is my out-of-body experience.

“Where am I?”

“In good hands,” she says.

“Your hands.”

“No. But good hands.”

“Where—am I?”

“On the edge of a mountain upside down crying out in pain and terror.”

But I’m not doing that now. Or am I unconscious?

“I guess you wanted to do it your way, didn’t you?” Iris tells me. “I wish I’d had more time. But the evil ones surprise us all, don’t they.”

“Am I dead?”

“No, Chris.”

“Lily?”

I don’t get an answer. I can’t really see where I’m at—if this is a dream, I can’t tell what I’m supposed to be looking at. I see a big flower—a sunflower. A window behind it. Trees. Lots and lots of trees.

“Chris, listen. There is a place, one of the places I told you about—it’s tucked away behind an old church in the middle of everything. But if you go looking—if
you
go looking—you’ll find it.”

The room is growing dim.

“And then what?”

“Then you’ll find me,” Iris says.

I go to say something, but I can’t. The lights go out, and I suddenly find myself in that place she was talking about, screaming in terror.

Then whatever dream or reality I’m in turns black. Again.

98. A Lost Battle

We all know what happens after this. The whole guy waking up in the hospital after a car crash scene. I’ve seen it a hundred times on TV, and I’m only seventeen. We’ve all seen it, so there’s no need for another scene like that again starring me.

The thing nobody seems to know is how I got to the hospital. I should know because all I had was a concussion and some cuts and bumps and bruises. There is the fractured rib, but they say that will heal on its own. They ask if I play football, which is funny because I almost make a joke about being a cheerleader. But my head can’t think fast enough to make a joke like that.

There’s also that really deep gash on my thigh. The one where I lost enough blood to knock me out and get me close to death.

I want to ask if a thin, elderly lady carried me in on her back, but I don’t.

Mom doesn’t have an answer, and the doctors and nurses don’t know.

Some cops—not Solitary cops, but actual regular-looking policemen—come in to ask me about the accident. Another person—a woman—does the same. I mention that Lily’s car was hit from behind. I don’t get into specifics. Of course not. I don’t know who was driving the truck that hit us, but I have an idea.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know who did it, or at least who ordered it.

Mom is pretty shaken up. She doesn’t leave my side except to use the restroom, and she makes that quick. I tell her not to tell anybody, not to call Dad. I tell her that I’m fine.

Except, of course, that I’m not.

When I close my eyes, I can still see Lily’s body. Not next to me in the car. No. I can see her body mangled by a tree a dozen yards away from the crash.

I was wearing my seat belt. Lily wasn’t.

I remember more about those moments sitting trapped in a sideways car with a tree branch jutting through the window and against my thigh. Feeling warm and cold at the same time. Looking over to see Lily. This once beautiful, breathing figure full of life. Now discarded like someone’s trash.

In the hospital, then back home, the images of Lily remain.

There should be some kind of better ending. A more climactic ending. A more hopeful ending.

At least Jocelyn found hope.

But Lily …

I hear a thousand different statements from everybody. But the one that stands out the most is one from Dad.

There’s a battle going on. Over your mother and you. For your lives. For your souls.

I think back to that new gold dream that I thought had accidentally walked into my life and swept me off my feet. I think back to the entire summer and the beginning of the school year.

Think I lost this battle, Dad.

But as the saying goes, maybe there’s a war to win.

I just have to figure out how to get on the battlefield.

99. Elegia II

I sink back into school and homework and the crowd for the rest of November. I shut down again. I’m getting pretty good at that. Even Kelsey tries to comfort me, but I shrug it off as no big deal.

Both of us know better.

She seems to understand and gives me space. Guys who are emotional turtles do the same. Harris. Brick. Others.

And speaking of turtles, Newt goes back into his shell. The accident has freaked him out again. Too close and too real and too final.

As each day passes, I find that I miss Dad. That I wish he were here.

Those fairy tales he used to talk about sure sound good right about now.

I can’t even understand this gigantic sky full of sadness and anger. It covers everything.

I just want a little blue to shine through.

I want a little light streaming down on me.

I want some truth to believe in.

When everything seems so hollow and empty, how in the world can I ever hope to feel full? Growing up sure doesn’t seem like the solution, ’cause I have parents and uncles and great aunts and countless others who show me time and time again that age doesn’t equal happiness.

Listen to you.

I know. I hate wallowing around, but there’s nobody else to talk to.

Sighing just isn’t enough anymore. And the answers that I desperately wanted and finally got … well, they sure aren’t enough either.

I need something more.

I need something real.

I need something whole to fill this empty hole.

More than music that drowns out, or silence that ignores, or pain that bleeds.

I find myself wishing Dad hadn’t left, wishing he could be around to share a little more with me.

100. Whatever You Need

For a second, I look at the table full of every kind of Thanksgiving dish I could ever imagine, then I glance at Mom sitting across from me. This is surreal.

I remember my last Thanksgiving, eating turkey sandwiches in our cabin with Jocelyn. This is pretty much as opposite as you can get, and not just because of the food. I mean, there’s turkey
and
ham. But no, that’s not the reason.

It’s because of the people at the table.

Kelsey sits next to me, then her brother sits next to her. Keith has brought his girlfriend to the dinner as well, a pretty and talkative girl named Diane. Kelsey’s parents, Jack and Ruth, are on the other side of the table.

Ah, such a family affair.

I neglect to tell them that my quasi-girlfriend-that-turned-out-to-be-an-actress-for-hire just died a few weeks ago.

Maybe Jack and Ruth don’t need to know stuff like that.

It took a lot for me to accept Kelsey’s invitation, and it took Mom even more. But Mom does fine answering questions about life back in Illinois, about her work at Brennan’s, all while trying to steer the conversation back onto the Pages and, unfortunately, onto me.

Maybe it’s because I’m nervous, or because I haven’t had a real, true appetite for weeks, but I end up having three platefuls of food. Turkey and ham and gravy and mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes and macaroni pie and stuffing and cranberry sauce and green bean casserole and corn bread.

“Save some room for our pecan pie,” Mrs. Page tells me.

I nod, my mouth full.

My mouth has been full the entire meal.

Maybe it’s because I don’t want to talk. I just want to stuff my face.

The same reason people like Mom end up drowning their sorrows. I guess you can eat them away too. Then twenty years later wind up on a reality television show where some angry drill sergeant of a woman whips you back into shape.

“Get enough?” Kelsey jokes when I finally finish my third plate.

“I won’t lick the plate, I promise.”

“What’d you think of this good ole Southern cooking, Chris?” Mr. Page asks me.

“I like it.”

“You’ll have to come over more than once a semester,” Mrs. Page tells me.

I smile and nod. “Yes, definitely.”

Kelsey gives me that look of hers, the one that says everything. The big bold blue eyes that can’t help sharing her thoughts.

I privately nudge her.

Then something deep inside nudges me.

Remember, Chris.

There’s no way of not remembering.

I’m reminded of the reason I haven’t been eating over here every weekend.

This is a good family. And Kelsey’s a good girl.

And all along, I’ve thought the same thing. A good girl like her shouldn’t be involved with someone like me.

Will she be next?

I try to turn off the voices. But I did that earlier in the summer. And that didn’t work out so well for me.

“I didn’t tell them,” Kelsey says to me as we walk Midnight. She insisted that I bring her with us.

“Didn’t tell who?”

“My parents. About Lily.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

It’s a good thing, since I never told my mom either. There are plenty of others around school who found out what happened, but Mom has been living in her own little bubble since coming back from rehab. I figure it’s best not to add any more heaviness to her world.

“I figured you didn’t want it brought up.”

I nod.

“But there I went and brought it up. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Kelsey stops by the side of the road as Midnight sniffs something. It’s cold out, and we’re wearing light jackets. The leaves have long since turned colors and are now mostly off the trees. The coming season is sort of how I feel deep inside.

“Did she have any family?”

I shake my head. I’ve asked a few times about family members and about a funeral or something like that. Sheriff Wells didn’t have any answers. Whoever was contacted in Georgia about Lily’s death didn’t want anything to do with me.

So I guess the other familiar scene—the one where the grieving boyfriend wears a black suit and stands by a graveside—won’t be in the film either.

“It’s so sad,” Kelsey says.

I nod.

“You know what I’m tired of?” I say without hesitation.

“What?”

“Being sad. It’s like—ever since the stuff with my parents happened, it’s all changed. Everything. And I’m just so tired of this—this sad stuff.”

We walk for a while. “Can I share something if you don’t tease me?”

“I’m not in a teasing mood,” I say.

“You always tease me.”

“Okay, I promise I won’t.”

“Our pastor shared this Sunday. He talked about being thankful in times when there’s a lot
not
to be thankful for. People without jobs. People dealing with hurricanes or floods or something awful like that. He read a verse where Jesus says for anybody who’s tired and heavyhearted to come to Him. That He’ll give you rest.”

“And how’s He going to do that?”

“I told you—no teasing.”

“No, I’m serious,” I tell her, not in a defensive tone like I might have a year ago to my father. “How exactly does it work? Is it a Zen-like thing?”

Kelsey only smiles, shaking her head. “I don’t think it’s a Zen thing.”

“But how? Because I know that people who believe that still have bad stuff happen to them.”

“I don’t know. I just know—when I pray for something, when I turn over my worries and doubts to God, I can feel a strength inside of me.”

“But is it just because you believe the prayers are going to help out? So it’s like something you did?”

“No, it’s not anything I did. I just—I just believe that it’s God giving me the strength.”

For a while I don’t say anything.

“Sorry for bringing it up,” Kelsey says.

“Don’t be. I’m just thinking. “

“About what?”

“I don’t know.” I sigh. “I wonder if God would let me take Him out for a test drive. Does it work that way?”

Kelsey gives me a humored look.

“Yeah, maybe not,” I say.

“Have you ever tried praying?”

I nod. I think back to my last prayer. It was more of a cry for help as I lay dying in the car.

Who saved me then? Did God really hear my prayers?

I was saved, but Lily wasn’t. So not all my prayers were answered.

“Pray for God to show you,” Kelsey says.

“For God to show me what?”

She shrugs. “Whatever you need to be shown.”

I like talking to Kelsey. And really, if I think about it, I always have. She’s like visiting a favorite place alongside a river. No matter when you get there, you always find the experience enjoyable.

“Thanks for inviting Mom and me today.”

“Thanks for coming.”

I want to tell her more, like thanks for being patient with me, especially through the crazy past few months, but I don’t.

I think Kelsey knows I’m thankful that she’s here.

And I hope she knows that I need her around.

The only question—the question that always remains—is for how long.