My Books > Secrets > Sample Chapter

The car is traveling very fast. I look across at Dad. He’s staring fixedly ahead, and that’s right, that’s what you should be doing when you drive a car. Only . . . only I don’t think that Dad’s watching the road. He sees something else. I see it too. The body. The dirt falling on his face. I’m scared. I was scared before. Scared by the dead body. Scared more by what Dad did, and what he saw, and what he felt. But this is worse. The car is going faster and faster, and suddenly I know, I know we’re going to die, too. He wants us to die. I’m too scared even to scream, and then I look ahead, and there’s a huge truck rushing toward us, and the car is sliding across the lane, toward the truck, and I scream.

***

I blinked. The scream still echoed in my ears, but the vision had gone. I looked around the garden, at the dead fronds of the tree fern hanging across the steps, at the jungle wilderness at the bottom of the gully. I had been . . . where had I been? Nowhere, dickhead! I shook my head, trying to clear away the last traces of—what had it been? Hallucination? Or memory? It must have been an hallucination. But the conviction gripped me, He meant us to die.

I shuddered, and pushed my trembling hands deep into my pockets, and headed back to the house.

A car door slammed. I heard Kathryn’s voice, loud and high. “You always believe her! You never believe what I say! Or care!” The back door slammed.

I sang softly, “Nobody loves me. Everybody hates me.”

Becky said, “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“It’s not your fault, Becky. Kathryn’s just . . .” There was a pause, and then a sigh. “Going through a difficult time, I guess.”

I moved a few steps and stopped in the shade of the magnolia tree. Becky came around the corner of the house. She went to the clothesline and stood on the upturned concrete tub to hang up her swimsuit.

I called softly, “Hi, Becky.” Enjoying her start of surprise.

“I didn’t see you there,” she explained unnecessarily, stepping down to pick her swimsuit off the ground.

I moved swiftly and pegged the swimsuit on the line for her. “Kathryn would’ve abused me for doing that.”

Becky grinned. “And she would’ve had to hang it up herself.”

Mom came around the corner. “Oh Paul . . .” she stopped abruptly. “Mike, I’m sorry. I thought you were Paul for a second.” She stopped again.

Becky said, “Mike does look ever so like Daddy now.” She skipped off happily. Mom grimaced, then shrugged.

“You were always very like your father.” Why shouldn’t I be? “I guess you’re growing up.” She turned away.

I followed her into the house. Why was she upset? Because I was like Dad? Or because I was growing up? Neither made any sense. I got a drink of water, watching Mom out of the corner of my eye as she moved around the kitchen. Listening to her, I realized her voice was quite different when she was talking with Becky. Far more relaxed.

“I said, what time are you going out? Mike?” Her voice edged with tension.

“Seven. Seven?” I tried to gather my thoughts. “Yeah, about seven. That okay?”

Mom nodded. “What are you going to see?”

I shrugged. “Lin’s choice.” I forced myself to relax, to act normally. “Hope it’s better than her last choice. Of course, she probably thinks the same about the ones I pick.”

“Why do you keep going to the movies if you don’t like the same ones?” Becky asked curiously.

“Well, not for the movie!” I glanced at Mom and wiped the grin off my face. “We just like to do things together, Becky. Like you and Kerry. Sometimes she chooses the game, and sometimes you do, eh?”

Becky gave a satisfied nod and returned to her snack. Mom smiled at me approvingly and turned away to open the pantry. “Pasta for dinner?”

Becky agreed enthusiastically. I put my empty glass on the bench and started to move away. Mom opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it again. I left the room quickly. What’s she afraid of? For she was afraid. I could taste the unmistakable metallic tang of it in the air.

I remembered my sisters’ shock the other morning, the taste of charcoal on my tongue, the smell of it in the air. I pushed the thought away, turning my mind to Linny. But even that brought no pleasure. If only I could be sure that I was going to behave normally. I don’t know why I went off like that at school. I don’t know what happened to me just now. I don’t know why I do anything anymore. How do I know it won’t happen when I’m with Linny?

I banged open the bedroom door with my fist. Because it won’t!

***

It was nearly midnight by the time I got home. I walked fast to my room. Leaning against the door I forced myself to breathe more deeply, dragging the air down as far as it would go and releasing it slowly. Eventually the frantic dance of my thoughts quieted. I walked across to the window and stared out at the trees. The world stilled, focused on the green. I leaned forward, my forehead pressed against the glass.

This is weird. I couldn’t move. I could hardly breathe. My whole being yearned toward the trees. The world receded, and thought vanished.

***

A figure appeared at the window. I jumped back, startled. We stared, surprised, at each other. Then Dave climbed over the windowsill and slid his feet to the floor. “Thought you’d be asleep.”

I grimaced, scratching my head. “Just thinking.”

He moved farther into the room. I shut the window so the sound of our voices wouldn’t carry out into the garden. Turning around, I leaned back against the sill.

“Still not sleeping?” He shed his shoes and climbed into the other bed.

I slid down to squat against the wall. “I haven’t been home all that long actually.”

He clasped his hands beneath his head. “It’s two in the morning.”

I frowned. Had I been staring out the window for two hours?

“Lin’s mom give you hell?” His voice teased, hiding the concern.

“I got Linny home on time. I just . . . I went for a run.”

“You and Lin have a fight?” Dave’s voice was even quieter than our usual middle-of-the-night murmur. Giving me the option of not hearing him.

I slid the rest of the way to the floor and drew up my legs. Resting my chin on my knees I thought about whether or not to answer. “Not a fight, exactly.” I stopped, then admitted, “I got a bit overexcited.”

He chuckled. I wondered whether I should tell him how totally out-of-control I had been. How the smell and touch of Linny had driven me so crazy, I nearly hadn’t stopped.

I took a deep breath, my heart racing. No, I don’t want to talk about that. I don’t even want to think about that.

The silence lengthened. It was a good time to talk and Dave was the only person that I could imagine talking to about it, but . . . It’ll make it more real if I talk about it.

Standing up, I turned back to the window. The moon and stars were hidden, the sky dense with cloud. I looked at the dark mass of bush and saw each tree clearly, as if it were day. For a fleeting moment I saw other trees, another sky. So bright, so many stars. I shook my head violently, trying to shake out the vision. Looking around the room, I searched for . . . I didn’t know what. Something to anchor me.

There was a poster on the ceiling over my bed. A bunch of guys and a ball. I couldn’t remember who they were or why I’d liked the poster. I looked down at the shaggy rug at my feet, and the blues and greens swirled in a pattern that snagged at my mind. The dusty beige caught at my throat like a memory of drought. Looking up again, brown eyes stared at me with concern, and I moved on fast. I saw posters of men in white on bright green fields playing a game I couldn’t name. Bulky men in red and black in a blur of motion, smacking their hands and leaping high in triumph. Men with helmets on their heads, men with sticks in their hands . . . Posters all over the walls, and the colors were too bright, too many, too . . . much. And I didn’t know who they were or what they were doing.

I ran my fingers through my hair and breathed in. “Can you stand to hear me burble on at two in the morning?”

A grin in Dave’s voice. “Saturday tomorrow.”

I felt a sudden relief. Sitting down on my bed I drew myself back until I was against the wall. “I’ve been having these dreams. About . . .” My throat seized up. I choked. They didn’t want me to talk about them.

Not to him, the voices murmured. Enemy.

I tried to argue with them. He’s not an enemy. He’s a friend.

Enemy!

Friend! Best friend. Brother.

We are your brothers! The voices were furious.

“Mike? You okay?”

I lifted my head, and swallowed. “Yeah, sure.” My voice sounded strangled. I cleared my throat. “Sure,” I said again, more easily.

Dave looked unconvinced, but characteristically didn’t push the issue. “Dreams?” he prompted.

“Yeah, dreams.” I ran a finger around the suddenly constricting neck of my shirt. “Uh, I keep having these dreams, y’know? About . . . weird things.”

“Scary?”

I flushed. “I’m not staying awake over some nightmares, if that’s what you mean.” I lowered my voice again. “They just . . . they’re weird, but they seem so real.” Oh shit, it’s true. Saying it does make it more real. I drew my legs up close to my chest and hugged them tightly. Oh shit.

“Mike?” The voice didn’t sound like Dave’s. It wasn’t his daytime, inexorably cheerful, well-aren’t-I-a-likeable-chap voice. It was the voice that I had first heard when we were six, and again a few times, a very few times, since. It was his middle-of-the-night voice.

I snapped, “You shouldn’t be so damned empathic!” And felt his shock, and the flood of hurt and anxiety, none of which was visible in his face. I rubbed my forehead. “I’m sorry, Dave. I don’t know what the hell I’m feeling half the time. Or thinking, or wanting, or . . .” I broke off. Lowering my voice again, I said very softly, “I don’t know who the hell I am.”

Silence.

I pulled myself off the bed and started pacing, fast, around the room. Stopping by the window, I felt an accustomed yearning. I needed to run. Again. I slammed my hand against the window frame, welcoming the pain. My heart was racing again, increasing the nausea in my gut. Damned if they’re going to tell me what to do! I forced the words out, past the constriction in my throat. “The other day in English . . . nothing made sense! I didn’t know where I was, or what anything was. I didn’t even know you!”

“You went with me.”

“Yeah, well, I trusted you. Even if I didn’t know who you were. I could smell you could be trusted.” I stopped again. Now that sounded stupid.

I’m going crazy.

I didn’t realize I had spoken aloud until Dave said, “We’re all a little crazy, Mike.” He paused and then added, “I’d be even crazier than I am if it wasn’t for you.”

I knew how hard it was for him to say that. Staring out the window, I tried not to think, not to feel. And there was green all around me. A bright, vivid green, backlit by sunlight. A smell of . . . I didn’t know the name, but I knew the smell, as familiar to me as . . .

No! There was nothing there. I told myself that, and willed myself to believe it.

He is my brother, I reminded myself. As real as the sixteen-year-old staring at me with worried eyes, I saw a small, stocky six-year-old in bright red track pants and matching T-shirt, his brown eyes big and solemn, watching me with an intensity that didn’t mask his confusion and fear.

I feel his small thumb press against mine, our blood mingling. A surge of joy.

His voice, high and very soft, says, “We’re brothers now?”

“Forever,” I assure him. And his scent is cinnamon and sun-baked thyme. His happiness matches mine.

My hand pressed hard against the window frame, and my nails gouged at the wood.

Dave said, “Mike?” His voice was very soft, and though deeper by far than that piping voice ten years in the past, I could hear the six-year-old in that voice. I turned my head, leaning one shoulder against the wall, and focused on my best friend, my brother. Willing myself to see only him, the person he was now.

I said, “I keep thinking everyone’s an enemy. I keep thinking there’s something I have to keep secret, and I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid they’ll guess it.” A breath. I made myself say it. “You. I’m afraid you’ll guess it.”

“Do you think I’m your enemy?” Dave’s murmur was barely audible.

I shook my head, not looking at him. “Sometimes,” I admitted, contradicting the gesture. Taking a deep breath I made myself look back, face him. “If I had a secret, I’d trust you with it. You know that. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Paranoia doesn’t.”

The chill in my middle spread out. “It’s not just dreams,” I admitted. “I have them when I’m awake too.”

“Hallucinations.” His voice was soft, eyes not quite looking at me. I could taste his fear.

“Yeah.” I ran both hands through my hair. “Hallucinations and paranoia and losing touch with reality.” I swallowed. “Could cannabis do this? Or would it have to be something . . . harder? Could someone do this to me without me knowing?”

“I don’t think cannabis would cause hallucinations. The other things . . . thinking people are your enemies, being confused about who you are, being angry and . . . irrationally violent . . . yeah, that could be cannabis.” His voice was expressionless, impersonal.

“Could someone get it into me against my will? Someone in the family?”

“It’s possible, I guess. You can bake it into food, you know. Not that it’s a good idea. It’s too hard to measure proper dosage.”

“I don’t think they’re worried about that,” I said grimly. Dave breathed in sharply, then got himself under control again.

“Cannabis makes you sleepy though. Your problem’s the opposite.”

“Chrissake, Dave, don’t feed it to me bit by bit! Just tell me what you think!” I started to pace around the room again, feeling the fury rise in me like a whale’s waterspout, trying to damp it. I didn’t want to deal with whatever my anger would do to Dave.

“You’ll wake your sisters,” he warned softly. He waited until I had settled back against the wall, then said, “Well, looking at your behavior . . . I’d guess amphetamines. You don’t sleep, you don’t eat, you think everyone’s out to get you, you’re moody,” he hesitated, then added even more softly, “Amphetamines can cause hallucinations. And voices? Sometimes users hear voices. And they can be really itchy. You’ve been scratching yourself a lot lately. And . . . your eyes can become more sensitive to light. You always seem to be wearing sunglasses lately. Your eyes bothering you?”

“Yes!” I pushed my hands into my hair and jerked them hard into my scalp. “Yes, the light hurts my eyes! Yes, I’m itchy all the time. And yes, I hear voices! They tell me you’re not my brother!” I pushed myself off the wall and dropped back onto the bed. “Shit!”

After a while I said, “I don’t believe them, you know. When they tell me that.” It was an apology.

“I’m scared too.” He said it so simply, and yet it was the first time in his life he’d ever admitted to being scared. To me, at least. And I was damned sure there was no one else in the world he’d ever be that honest with. I looked at him. He met my eyes steadily. Eyes the color of peat, so different from the gray eyes in my dreams, eyes that reflected my own fear back to me. He’s tough, I thought. Tough enough to bear the crap he’s had to bear. Maybe he’s tough enough to help me face this . . . whatever it is.

Maybe he’s not.

I didn’t doubt Dave’s loyalty, but I didn’t know if he could deal with this craziness in my head. I was damn certain he couldn’t deal with the rage. I had a sudden vivid memory of myself and Marshall confronting each other in the corridor and pushed it aside angrily. “Maybe that’s what wrong with Kathryn.” I didn’t want to talk about me anymore. Not sure whether it was for Dave’s sake or my own.

Dave looked bewildered. “Lost me on that one.”

“Maybe she’s so angry all the time because she’s scared of something.”

“Not scared. Resentful.”

I raised an eyebrow, at the calm certainty in his voice more than anything. “Yeah, what makes you an expert?”

“I’ve known your sister all her life.”

“Me too. Hasn’t done me any good.” I gave a bark of laughter that held no amusement. “That girl’s a complete mystery to me. If I said ‘have a nice day’ to her, she’d probably hit me.”

“So would I.” Dave grinned. “But Kathryn’s problem’s not so hard to guess. She’s the middle child, eh? Cute little sister that everyone likes. Big brother that parents fawn over.”

“They don’t fawn over me.”

“No,” Dave agreed, still smiling, but his eyes were serious again. “But you’re the one they care most about.”

I stared at him. “You’re crazy!” The word pulled me up short, but I forced myself past it. “Mom and Dad dote on Becky.”

“We all dote on Becky,” Dave said amiably. “They enjoy Becky, but . . . you’re the one they worry over.”

“You’re cr—” I clamped my mouth shut on the word, and shook my head. “You’re talking bullshit. My dad—”

“Watches you. All the time.”