Curse (Blur Trilogy Book 3), Page 4

  I hide the limp from my sprained ankle as much as I can as we head to the kitchen.

  A bowl of fruit and a sweating glass of orange juice are waiting for me on the table.

  She asks me to tell her what happened and how I ended up in front of that truck.

  And, while I grab some milk and cereal to go with the fruit, I tell her about the deer I saw last night and reassure her that I’m good and that the doctor gave me the sling just to keep the swelling in my shoulder down.

  Then I take a seat, snatch an apple from the bowl, and crunch into it.

  But I still haven’t mentioned the boy in the road.

  I’m not sure how to bring that part up.

  After making some coffee, she settles into the chair across the table from me.

  On the surface, everything might appear pretty normal here: just the two of us having breakfast, a teen guy and his mom eating quietly together. But there are all sorts of doubts and unspoken questions lurking here between us.

  As we eat, I realize it’s not going to get any easier to tell her about the blur so I decide I might as well just go for it.

  “Mom, I saw something out there last night. Out on the road.”

  “The deer?”

  “No. A blur.”

  She pauses with her coffee cup halfway to her lips. “Of what?”

  “A boy. I tried to save him. The truck was coming right at him.”

  “And that’s why you ran in front of it?”

  “Yes.”

  Slowly, she lowers the cup. “And were you able to save him? Were you able to get there in time?”

  I shake my head. “He disappeared when I reached out to pick him up. That’s when the truck hit me.”

  “Daniel, you could have . . . That accident could have been fatal.”

  I get the sense that she chooses to put it that way since it’s not as blunt and doesn’t carry the same weight as saying that I might have “been killed.”

  “I couldn’t just stand by and watch him get run over, Mom. I was sure he was real.”

  She lets that sink in. “Did you recognize him? Do you know who he was?”

  “No. He looked like he was maybe in kindergarten. Nicole, Kyle and I searched online but we couldn’t find anything about boys who were killed by trucks recently.”

  “Your grandfather was killed out on that same road. With the deer and the logging trucks it’s . . . I can’t even imagine if . . .”

  Huh.

  I’d forgotten about that. Grandpa did die out there, right near that very spot.

  That boy in my dream had said something about everything beginning there and that he never meant to go.

  Was he talking about Grandpa?

  “Daniel, we need to find a way for you to tell what’s real and what’s not. We can’t have you running in front of trucks.”

  Last year when the blurs first started, I’d tried pinching my arm to see if I was asleep or not. Then I tried touching the people in the blurs to see if they were real, but I found that, in time, neither of those approaches was foolproof.

  In fact, once, when I was in an old abandoned lighthouse on an island in Lake Superior, I saw a man hanging from the end of a rope with a noose around his neck. His body banged into my shoulder, and when I touched his boot, it felt completely real.

  But it wasn’t.

  It was all in my head, and I still haven’t come up with a surefire way of telling fantasy from reality in the things that I see or hear or touch.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “I’ll have to figure something out.”

  Before it happens again, I think, but I keep that part to myself.

  After breakfast I check in with Dad, then I wrap my ankle, elevate it on the couch, and ice it. When you play high school sports, you learn pretty quickly that you’re supposed to treat sprained ankles with RICE—Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation.

  Twenty minutes on with the ice.

  Twenty off.

  While I’m icing it, I answer texts from people in my class asking how I am. I know they care about me, but they’re also curious about what I was doing out there on the road and how I ended up in front of that truck.

  And those are not details I want to get into.

  I tell them I was confused, that I saw some deer—which was true—but I don’t bring up the boy.

  I know that Kyle and Nicole wouldn’t go around sharing the details of what happened, but still, in a town the size of ours, when a couple of people hear about something, it usually doesn’t take long before everyone has heard about it, so keeping the blurs a secret hasn’t always been easy.

  Last year, one guy in particular, Ty Bell, seemed to figure out that something was going on and gave me a hard time about it—although it was never really clear how much he knew and how much he was just speculating.

  However, now he’s in jail for wolf poaching and for trying to physically assault Nicole, so he’s out of the picture.

  Even with time off for good behavior, which—knowing him—isn’t very likely, he’s going to be locked up for years.

  And, honestly, I don’t know of too many people who are going to miss him.

  I’m answering a text from my basketball coach telling him that, yes, I’m still planning to go to the camp—even though I haven’t actually cleared that with my parents yet—when I get a text from Nicole, offering to come over.

  Sure. You want some lunch? I text her.

  That’d be awesome! See you soon.

  Mom is gardening out back, so I whip up some mac & cheese and slather it with BBQ sauce for Nikki—one of her favorite new meals since she gave up meat last spring after doing a report for school about what happens at meat processing plants to downed cows.

  Barbecue sauce is still a yes.

  Beef, not so much.

  Honesty, the BBQ sauce is pretty tasty on there and when we’re done, Nicole joins me in my room, but pauses just inside the door when she sees my walls.

  “You put up my sketches.”

  “The other day I was looking through that sketchbook you gave me and I realized I didn’t really want to leave them in there where I would only see them once in a while.”

  “And you hung them right next to your Mavs and Packers posters. I feel special.”

  “Yeah. You made it to the Wall of Fame.”

  She sits at my desk, slides my journal to the side and sets her cell phone in front of her.

  I pull out my laptop, then prop myself on the bed, elevating my ankle on a pillow. “Let’s see if we can figure out who that kid is. The one I saw last night.”

  “What are you thinking? I mean, we didn’t see anything in the obituaries.”

  “My grandpa died out there in a car accident. In my dream, the boy mentioned something about that being where things started. Grandpa’s accident might have something to do with it. Besides, maybe the boy didn’t die. Maybe in my blur he disappeared right before the truck would’ve hit him because, in real life, he survived.”

  “Hmm.” She contemplates that. “I guess we could look through news about recent accidents, especially anything to do with logging. Who knows how specific your blur was—and we should probably go through the Internet history on your computer, see if there’s anything that might have prompted you to have that blur.”

  I’m not psychic, so my blurs always come from things I’ve been exposed to. So, figuring out what those things might be—even if the stuff has only been registering in my subconscious—has usually been a good place to start in deciphering them.

  We spend over an hour searching, but don’t find anything specific that seems like it would have caused me to see that boy out there.

  We’re able to locate the news report about Grandpa’s wreck, but he just hit a patch of ice and crashed into a tree. There were no logging trucks involved.

  Only as we review my search history do I realize the amount of research I did on hallucinations and the antipsychotic drugs I was prescribed but haven’t been taking
.

  I had no idea I’d visited so many medical websites.

  Last year, the doctors weren’t sure what was causing my hallucinations.

  One of them thought it might be a form of palinopsia, which is when you keep seeing, as she put it, “recurring images or hallucinations that reflect echoes of what you’ve actually witnessed or experienced.” Others thought it might have to do with some sort of temporal lobe disorder, but those were all guesses. Shots in the dark.

  They ruled out a brain tumor and prescribed the antipsychotics in case it might be a form of schizophrenia, but really, they had no idea what was happening.

  When I met with the last doctor, he couched everything in technical jargon and Latin terms and assured me that I could control it with medication.

  I didn’t want to say the word “crazy,” so I put it like this: “Basically, you’re saying I’m mentally ill.”

  He scratched at his beard for a moment. “I’m not sure it would be helpful at this point to think of yourself as ill. We’re still not sure what’s causing the hallucinations and headaches.”

  “But people who aren’t mentally ill don’t have them.”

  “Let’s hold off judging this until we have a little more information.” Then he smiled in a way that I could tell wasn’t really a smile, and patted my shoulder condescendingly. “Alright?”

  Still bothers me to think about that.

  I don’t mention any of this to Nicole.

  Eventually, we put the research aside and start talking about the trip to Atlanta.

  “Have you thought at all about the camp?” she asks.

  “I’m still planning to go.”

  “Your mom and dad are cool with that?”

  “I haven’t exactly brought it up yet. I’m hoping to talk with them tonight when Dad gets home. I’ve sort of been waiting for the right moment.”

  “Practice on me. I’ll be your mom.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “Okay. Um. Let’s see . . . Hey, Mom, my shoulder’s feeling better.”

  “Nope. No good.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “You don’t want to just jump into things like that. Talk about something safe and noncontroversial first.”

  “Like what?”

  “Hasn’t anyone ever coached you on how to talk to your parents when you want something?”

  “I guess I usually just wing it.”

  “Alright, so start with a compliment or by talking about something she likes, or offer to do a chore. Soften things up. Ease into it. Let’s try it again.”

  “Hey, Mom. Your hair looks nice. The vegetables you grow are quite tasty. May I skin a potato for you?”

  “Skin a potato for you? Seriously?”

  I shrug. “I like potatoes.”

  “Okay, forget all that for a second. Let’s just move on to the camp.”

  “So, it’s feeling better, Mom. My shoulder is.”

  “That’s good,” Nicole replies in a very motherly way. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “I think it’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure it will, as long as you rest it.”

  “I mean for the basketball camp.”

  “Dan, how are you supposed to play basketball with a dislocated shoulder—and don’t tell me it’s not dislocated anymore. You know what I mean.”

  “Well, it’s not my—”

  “Don’t say it’s not your shooting arm.”

  I stare at her. “How did you know I was going to say that?”

  “I’m your mother.”

  “Okay. But, Mom, there’s a lot riding on this camp.”

  “There’s a lot riding on you recovering before football season too.”

  Ah.

  Now I have her.

  “You told me last week you weren’t all that excited about me playing football.”

  “I’m excited about you pursuing your dreams and being successful at whatever you do, and that’s not going to happen if you don’t take care of your shoulder and give it the time it needs to heal.”

  “This isn’t fair. You’re better at being my mom than she is.”

  “Just trying to keep it real.” She leans over and pats my leg reassuringly. “I’m sure it’ll go fine. I’ll be praying for you that it does.”

  Considering how strong of a believer she is and how seriously she takes prayer, her comment doesn’t surprise me at all.

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  After she leaves, I spend the rest of the afternoon giving more RICE to my ankle and when Dad shows up at six with an extra large pepperoni and jalapeño pizza from our favorite local pizzeria, Rizzo’s, I know it’s time to talk with them about letting me go to the camp.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mom, who’s normally a fan of spicy food, decides against the jalapeños tonight and is picking them off her pizza and setting them aside. Dad adds them to his slices almost as quickly as she can remove them.

  It seems like they’re both in a pretty good mood, so I say, as nonchalantly as I can, “This is good pizza.”

  Mom agrees. “Yes.”

  “I mean, really good pizza.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I like pizza.”

  “Rizzo’s is the best.”

  “I like potatoes too.”

  “Okay.”

  “And peeling them makes me feel pleasant.”

  They’re both staring at me now. “Peeling them makes you feel pleasant?”

  Okay, transition time.

  “Almost as pleasant as my shoulder is feeling.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s great.”

  “My ankle too.”

  “You’ve been staying off it?”

  “Yes, and I’ve been icing it all day.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  We eat for a few minutes. She asks Dad about his day and he mentions that most of it was spent filling out paperwork, but I’m not really paying too much attention to that. Instead, I’m waiting for a lull in the conversation. When it comes, I say, “So, I’ve been thinking a lot about next week. About the camp.”

  “It’s too bad you’re going to have to miss it,” Mom replies. It sounds like she really is commiserating with me. “I know how much you were looking forward to it.”

  I glance at Dad, who has yet to say anything about all this. I’m not sure if he’s on her side or is just biding his time.

  “Actually, I think I’ll be good to go.”

  “Daniel, you were just in a serious accident. You need time to recover.”

  “My ankle will be alright in a couple days and it’s my left shoulder instead of my right one, so it’s not my shooting arm. I’ve dislocated it in football before—no big deal. Besides, there’ll be a lot of coaches at this camp. It’s a good chance to get noticed.”

  I wonder if Mom will bring up me pursuing my dreams like Nicole did earlier when we were practicing, but instead she just asks, “Does it hurt when you move it?”

  “My shoulder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I mean it’s . . . Yeah. It’ll be sore for a while.”

  “And you should rest it in the meantime.”

  “LeAnne.” My dad finally speaks up. “He’s a tough kid. He can handle it. I think he’ll be alright.”

  “It’s not about if he can handle it or not. It’s about what’s best for him. Four to six weeks of rest. That’s what they recommend. Not one week, and then back to playing basketball for five hours a day.”

  The five hours a day part is probably about right. “I’ll be careful and I’ll wear the sling whenever we’re not on the court.”

  “You could dislocate it again if you’re not careful.”

  “But I will be careful—I just said I would, and . . . ” I can hear myself sounding argumentative and that’s not going be good for my case, so I just stop mid-sentence.

  Mom pries a tiny sliver of jalapeño off her pizza and plunks it down o
n the side of her plate.

  During football season last fall, she was living in the Twin Cities with her sister. Her year away from Dad and me isn’t something we talk about much, or at least not something they talk to me about much.

  When she was gone, Dad and I had to get used to managing things on our own, and we learned to do alright. Now, with her back, finding a way for everyone to agree when we’re making major decisions doesn’t always work out so well.

  There are cracks in every relationship. Things might look good on the surface, but there are always fault lines there where it’s hard to see.

  So now, I wonder if her reaction is about more than just my shoulder.

  “How about we see how things go this week?” Dad suggests. “We don’t have to make a decision right this minute.”

  She goes for another jalapeño.

  “How does that sound? Take a few more days and then evaluate how it looks?”

  “I can’t believe you would be in favor of something like this, Jerry. Don’t you want what’s best for him?”

  “What kind of a question is that?” His voice is steel. “Of course I do. You know that. I’m just saying that we don’t need to decide tonight.”

  “And I’m saying we already know what’s best for him. Rest. It’s just a matter of whether we’re going to be unified in supporting our son’s recovery.”

  “Okay, that’s not even fair.”

  She pushes her chair back. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I think I’m finished.” She might be talking about the meal or the conversation—it’s not clear.

  She rises and walks out of the room.

  I wait for Dad to say something, but he doesn’t. He just stares at the doorway she disappeared through.

  He knows how big of a deal this camp is to me, how important it could be in getting a scholarship offer—something all three of us know I’m going to need in order to afford college.

  He’s silent.

  The seconds tick by.

  Finally, he glances at Mom’s remaining jalapeños, but leaves them on her plate rather than putting them onto his own. “You better do everything you can to rest that ankle and shoulder this week.”

  “I will.”

  Then he finishes his slice, dumps Mom’s unfinished pizza and jalapeños into the trash, and leaves me alone in the kitchen.