Broken Identity (14 page)

Drake’s conscience was getting the better of him. He laid another T-shirt down. Three left. He didn’t need all this, and yet all the while, Andrew kept pulling out his wallet and slapping down a wad of dollar bills at every checkout. Of course, he was probably wealthy enough to afford such purchases, but why should Andrew spend good money on him? Hadn’t he given him enough already?

On the drive back to Andrew’s house, Drake stared at the bags of new belongings that sat between his feet as they bounced and stirred with the movement of the car.
Enjoy it while it lasts. Remember what you’re running from.
He moved his gaze to his hands.
You’re fooling yourself. You think you’re free now, but you’re not. Not really. You’re just as handcuffed as if there were metal chains on those wrists.

But he had a job now and a place to live. The risk of being found out wasn’t high anymore. He wasn’t on the streets where he could be caught like all the other narrow-minded criminals. He had a plan, and he was going to keep it.

When Andrew looked his direction, he took the opportunity to ask again if he could be taught how to run the yard equipment before supper so he could get the mowing finished before nightfall. That way, at least if he got some work behind him, he wouldn’t feel as bad about taking so much from Andrew without giving a little back first.

“Let the yard wait until tomorrow,” Andrew said, slipping his driving hand lazily to the bottom of the steering wheel. “Don’t sweat it.”

“I just wanted to pay you back for some of this.”

“Consider it paid tomorrow. I’m not worried about it. Really.”

Drake fell silent. Andrew simply stared out the windshield, keeping his eyes trained on the road, but not paying much attention to it.
Why am I doing this?
he kept asking himself. Was he taking it too far? A normal reaction—even for a generous person—might have been to give Drake a few bucks, a pat on the back, and a polite goodbye before shutting the door in his face, hoping in the back of his mind that he would forget the address and never come back. But Andrew’s approach to the situation had been anything
but
normal. He had seen plenty of homeless teens walking the streets. What made this time different?

This time, God was in it. Andrew was certain of that. There had been no audible voice from above, no angels encircling him as a sign from Heaven; he just had that knowing feeling deep inside his heart that told him he needed to help this person. It had to be God.

One thing Andrew didn’t have to be concerned about anymore was whether Drake was an alcoholic or druggie. If so, Drake would have gone straight for the money instead of staying at his home with no pay. Andrew had set the test, and Drake had passed it without even realizing it. That put Andrew’s mind at ease and gave him one more reason to want to help.

Drake found it challenging to fall asleep that night. The air was too cold, then too hot. The ceiling fan was too loud, while at other times it seemed oddly silent. Shadows cast into the room from the outside began to sway as the breeze turned into a gushing wind that rattled the siding and made the house creak.
Leave me alone!
he wanted to scream. He pulled the covers closer to his body and shivered. So now the air was cold again. Whatever.

He rolled over on his back and tucked his hand underneath his smooth pillow, letting the gentle breeze from the ceiling fan drive back the black strands of hair from his sweat-soaked face. He was consumed with thoughts of his dad.
They must’ve found him by now. If nothing else, the neighbors probably phoned the cops about the horrible smell, if two days is enough to…I never meant for this to happen. It should have never gone this far. Too much time has gone by now. I’ll bet the cops have my picture already and are combing the streets looking for me. I wonder how far news like that travels. Does Andrew know? Will he know?

Drake couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that all this strange kindness being offered toward him lately was all somehow part of a setup. A sting operation, perhaps, set up by the police knowing that he would be just the type to fall for it. But could he afford to leave now and toss an opportunity like this out the window just because he got scared and decided to run? He wasn’t stupid. He knew his chances of finding a job with benefits as good as Andrew had offered him were one in a million, especially in a big city like this where most jobs demanded more than a high school education to make a living. If he left now, it was over. Done. No turning back.

But then again, if he stayed, it could still be over.
Let’s look at my options. Leave and live the rest of my life on the streets and probably sell drugs just to get by when the money runs out, or stay here, get caught, and likely get thrown behind bars for the rest of my life.
Just thinking about either one gave him a throbbing headache.

Ah, Drake, why’d you have to go get yourself into such a mess? You had a life—maybe not the greatest in the world and filled with more bad than good—but at least you had something. Now, you may just lose everything.
He closed his eyes. Tired. So tired. If only he could sleep, he would fall into a deep, long sleep. He wasn’t even sure if he would ever want to wake up. As long as he had peace.

The bright glow from the rising sun roused Drake from a sound sleep. He lay there for a while, just breathing, thinking. It was still early if the digital clock beside him was right, so he was in no rush.

Why did he have to dream so much? When he was younger, all he dreamt about was scuba diving in the Pacific ocean, climbing trees, playing baseball, or riding ostriches—mainly because he had watched so many re-runs of the
Swiss Family Robinson.
But now…now all he dreamed about was getting into fights—his dreams were filled with knives and guns that were more often used on him than the other way around.

Dreams were stupid, only meant to scare. And the scenes didn’t come from movies anymore, even from the horror movies he had dared to watch occasionally. No, these dreams were the result of a scared, tortured heart that refused to heal.

Drake shuddered as the memory from last night’s dream came back to him in blurry fragments. This time, he saw the blood. He saw his dad lying motionless on the floor, cold and lifeless, just as he had left him. There was no gun aimed at his chest and the shadows were empty. His eyes were completely focused on the wound on the back of his dad’s head that continued to pour blood—blood now more black than red.

He was a murderer. And the dream was all too real.

What’re you doin’, Drake? Think this is something you just run away from and eventually forget? This is going to stay with you for the rest of your life. People are looking for you, and when they find you, it’s bye-bye world and hello iron cage. This house may seem great and all now, but you better have a backup plan somewhere in the back of your head if you find they’re on your trail.

Drake eventually mustered up enough strength to rise from bed and turn the blinds upward to deter most of the sunlight. The carpet on his bare feet felt warm and soft where it had stayed in the sunlight for so long, so he sat on the edge of his bed with his feet touching the floor.
So what’s it gonna be, Drake? Leave or stay?
He studied the room. Not particularly large or elegant, but remarkably clean and neat for a room that had rarely been used. White curtains, a muted-green bedspread, a dresser with a round pearl mirror above it, and a few devotional books along with a Bible stacked atop the nightstand made the room simple yet impressive all at the same time. Drake couldn’t recall if the books had been there the night before or if Andrew had recently placed them there in hopes that he might pick one up.
Yeah, fat chance.

Drake stared down at his feet and exhaled. There he was doing that same routine again—looking down while all his emotions eroded away more of his soul. He looked up at the ceiling just for the change in scenery.
It’s your choice, man. Your gamble. Your life.

He wished it weren’t so difficult to decide. He had all he could ever hope for here, yet he was trying to find something that would make him give it up. Why was he doing this to himself? Couldn’t he just be content and put his mind at ease?

He decided he was too tired to answer that age-old question. After considering the pros and cons of both options, he concluded it best to stay here and lay low until he actually had some tangible evidence to make him leave.
I’ll stay here for now, but if I start suspecting anything—even so much as a second glance from anyone—I’m outta here.

After lunch, Andrew led Drake outside to the shed and showed him the equipment he would be using to do the yard work. “It’s really not that hard once you get used to the way it runs. I will tell you, though, the back left wheel doesn’t roll as smoothly as the other one, so you may find at times you have to pull harder toward the right to keep it straight. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Drake said, trying it out for himself while the engine was off.

Andrew showed Drake the steps to start it, stop it, and shut it down. “Now you try,” he said, stepping out of the way.

Drake double-checked the throttle level and handle bar switch before slipping his finger through the metal loop. He yanked the cord back three times until he heard the engine rev up and felt the machine vibrating under his grasp.

“Good!” Andrew shouted over the noise. He waved his hand and motioned for Drake to turn it off. “And that’s basically all there is to it. I’ll fill up the gas for you before you mow every time, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

“And I start the weed eater up the same way, right?” Drake said, already beginning to sweat as the blistering sun bore down on him. He wished he hadn’t chosen to wear a black shirt.

“I’ll go over the weed eater separately with you, but basically, yeah, the same steps,” Andrew said. “But don’t worry about using that until you’ve had at least an hour of rest after mowing.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” Andrew said, shading his eyes as he peered up at the sky. “This may look like a small yard, but it’s no picnic to mow. Watch out for tree roots above the ground, flowers, bushes, and especially rocks, though I haven’t seen that many in the yard lately.”

“Lately? Wouldn’t they be out of the yard by now? I mean, if you’ve been mowing—”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But my neighbor—” Andrew raised his arm and pointed to the right, “has a child who loves to play cars in the dirt near the fence and, for some strange reason, throws any rocks he finds over his shoulder—”

“Which wind up in your yard,” Drake said, finishing his sentence for him. “Just go over and tell the little brat to stop, then.”

Andrew would hardly call the child a brat. “I’ve mentioned it to his father, but I see no real harm in it. It’s good to see kids having fun.”

Drake just nodded, not really understanding Andrew’s reasoning but hardly caring anyway. “At any rate, I’ll be careful and watch out for the rocks.”

Andrew patted Drake’s shoulder before walking away. “Don’t wear yourself out!” he called over his shoulder.

Drake rubbed the palms of his hands together.
Here goes nothing.

Drake had the front yard mowed in less than twenty minutes, but already his shirt was soaked with sweat and the palms of his hands rubbed raw. The smoke from the engine kept blowing in his face every time the wind changed direction and made the yard and everything else around him seem blurry. Back at his old house, his yard was nothing but hard dirt and rock with the exception of a patch of thorns and weeds at the end of the driveway, and neither he nor his dad had even touched a mower in all the time they had lived there.
Well, I’m touching one now, and it feels like it’s glued to my fingers from sweat.

Drake pushed the mower around to the back of the house, his mouth parched and forehead sticky. At least back here he would have some shade under the trees. As he guided the mower to the right, he noticed Ronnie sitting on the bottom step on the back porch, almost as if he had been waiting for him.
Lucky me.