Last Summer (2 page)

My body abruptly jerks back as if an unseen
force pushes me. Escape? Nobody’s holding you prisoner, Dad. Last I
checked, Mom and I aren’t guards, and our home isn’t Alcatraz. I
lean closer to the door when his voice becomes more restrained.

“Fine. You know what? I’ll see what I can do
. . . Yeah, give me a couple of days to figure something out . . .
I’ll call you, all right? . . . I miss you, too. Bye.”

Crap!
I pad lightly down the hall to
my bedroom. His door swings open just as mine closes. Releasing a
long, dejected sigh, I will my legs to move toward the bed, where I
collapse, burying my face in my pillow.

Several minutes tick by before I pull myself
together. After all, I kind of saw this coming, didn’t I? I mean,
it’s obvious he’s had someone else. So, why is it tough to hear him
actually speaking to her? Maybe it’s the fact that he’s abandoning
our
family vacation for some cheap skank he probably met at
an office party. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s leading us on, not
just Mom, but me. Or maybe it’s the fact that our summer house
evokes loud memories of a time not so long ago, when a father was
in love with his family, and a daughter was in love with her
life.

Why can’t he just file the divorce papers
and liberate himself?

Ugh. Screw this. I unzip my luggage case,
finding exactly what I need—gym clothes. Settling on a pair of yoga
pants and a tank top, I snatch my iPod and sneakers, and head
downstairs. Dad’s nowhere to be found, and Mom’s staring out at the
tranquil abyss of the lake water.

“I’m going for a run. Be back later,” I tell
her as I slide open the glass doors leading to the rear deck.

“Okay, honey,” she murmurs, too absorbed in
whatever weighs on her mind to notice I’m leaving, to even
look
at me.

I shake my head. This summer is going to be
dandy.

Cranking up the volume on my iPod, I scroll
through the list of albums, settling on
30 Seconds to Mars
.
Rock has the perfect effect on me when running. All my anger, all
my aggression just . . . vanishes. I can free my mind in the warm,
humid air with the help of music.

On this occasion, I take an alternative
route. Sometimes change is good; it challenges the spirit. Dodging
overgrowth and sticks, I sample my surroundings. All is quiet on
the lake so far. By this time next week, everyone will be on the
water. I wish we’d take the boat out one last time, but clearly my
dad will bail on us at the first opportune moment for his sleaze of
the week.

I shake my head to dispel the idea of him
being so hurtful. How can he treat us like this and get away with
it?

My feet stop before my brain fully registers
why. Looming in front of me is the abandoned cottage Jessica and I
frequented as kids. I can’t believe someone hasn’t bulldozed the
place after all these years. Tentatively, I take careful steps
forward.
It’s not like the place will collapse due to your
arrival, Chloe.
The house is exactly how I remember it: chipped
paint, missing shingles, shattered windows. It’s as if I’m stuck in
a time warp. Like, I’ll turn around and Jessica won’t be far
behind.

My hand pushes the front door open, and the
hinges groan under exertion. I wipe my fingers, now coated in a
thick layer of dirt, on my pants. Surveying the property, the first
thing I notice are the missing floorboards. I make a mental note to
watch where I step. The furniture from a different era sits
sheathed under once-white sheets, which have now darkened to a rich
russet. In the corner is a skinny, three-legged, round-top table,
most likely used at one point to hold a vase filled with
brightly-colored flowers. But that might be my imagination
talking.

Finding an area in the middle of the living
room floor, I tap my foot on the wooden beams to test my weight.
They don’t budge.
Good.
Sitting down, I close my eyes,
imagining Jessica and I are back in our perfect little world, in
our perfect little cottage. Moonlight was the only form of
brightness so we could see. Her lips would curve into a wicked
grin, one that meant she was ready for another fearsome night.
She’d begin dishing out her imaginative tale about a man who
obsessed over dead children, about killing them and eating them for
breakfast—way too morbid for our age, which made the account that
much scarier. And when she’d land on a terrifying element of her
story, she’d flick on the flashlight, illuminating her face in a
bright but creepy beam. I’d squeal, even though I knew it was
coming, eventually; I just didn’t know when.

“And they never knew what became of him,”
she’d always say at the end of her stories.

I smile to myself. “What
did
become
of him, Jessica?” I ask in the here and now. Opening my eyes, I
shriek. A boy, not much older than me, stands a few feet away. His
short brown hair is disheveled, and his jade eyes cut into
mine.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Who’s
Jessica?”

Two
•
Chloe

S
crambling upright,
the floorboards protest under my weight. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t
know anyone lived here. I was just . . .” My voice trails off.
“Wait—
do
you live here?”

He bypasses me without a response, drops his
belongings in the corner of the room, and then directs his
attention at me. “Not permanently, I don’t. Who the hell would? I
mean, look at this place.” He points toward the crumbling ceiling
with both index fingers in an obvious attempt to tell me,
Yes,
you have lost your mind
.

“Oh.”

“I’m a squatter,” he offers. “I move from
place to place whenever I feel like it.”

Hmm. This is strange, and awkward. “So, are
you from around here?”

A short laugh spouts past his lips. “Oh, no,
no, no. I don’t do the personal shit.”

“Well, you could at least tell me if I need
to call someone for you. A family member, maybe? A friend?” I cross
my arms over my chest. “You can’t stay here. This place could drop
at any minute; it’s not safe.”

He chuckles and raises one eyebrow. God, he
has a pretty smile. “And you give a damn because . . .?”

Okay, I lied. His smile isn’t that pretty.
“Um, I give a damn because I have a heart and care about humanity,
which is more than I can say for you, apparently.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender.
“You’ve got me. You know exactly how I feel about the whole of
society. Now, can you go? I have . . . needs to take care of and
you’re only making me itch.”

I purse my lips.
Don’t do it, Chloe!
Don’t say it!
“You’re a jackass.” The words are out before I
can stop myself from saying them. Turning on my heel, I storm
through the front door and out to the lawn. I can’t believe the
nerve of this guy! He doesn’t even reside in that house, yet he
more or less kicked me out. I should call the cops, but something
about the way he said he has needs just unravels me.

A little snooping won’t hurt, will
it?
Ducking low, I noiselessly trek to one of the windows at
the back of the house. Okay, this may not be the best idea I’ve
ever had, and I probably won’t make a great private investigator,
ever
, but what the hell.

A couple of windows down from where he
placed his belongings is where I want to be. That way, if he
catches me, I can run. So far, though, I can’t see anything; the
glass is too cluttered with grime. I move down to another window.
This one has better visibility than the last and—
oh, my God!
The answer smacks me across my face as a sharp breath rakes over
the tips of my teeth. For a moment, I stand mesmerized by the way
he ties off his arm and lights up a spoon, then fills a syringe and
injects himself. His head falls back in bittersweet suffering, eyes
closed, as he lets the needle drop to the filthy floor. I feel like
I’m having an out-of-body experience as I watch him. He’s so . . .
so . . .
free
. Relaxed. I know that feeling; I’m that way
with running. It’s a distraction, a way to unshackle my mind.

Taking a careful step back, I realize I
can’t stand here and watch him forever, even though I want nothing
more than to run inside, throw my arms around his neck, and tell
him everything’s going to be all right. Although this is a serious
wake-up call by the universe, I have to get home. I sincerely hope
Mom’s still not standing at the kitchen doors when I return. I’ve
seen that look on her face before; it’s followed by Lifetime
movies, potato chips, and a bottle of cheap wine. Which, I hate to
say it, may be a good thing for tonight, because I plan on cooking
up a little something-something myself . . . and it’s not
drugs.

I bound back the way I came, back to the
summer house. Inside, my suspicions are more or less confirmed when
I see Mom curled up on the couch, under a throw, flipping through
TV channels.

She glances toward me. “Hey, baby. How was
your run?”

“Good, Mom.” Well, as good as it can be when
one finds a drug addict living in a deserted house. I study the
kitchen and living room, and realize Dad’s not here.
Of
course.
“Where’s Dad?” I hate to ask. God, I really, really do.
It’s not so much the fact that I care where he’s at, it’s that I
know
he’s sneaking around. And, quite frankly, I’m certain
Mom knows, too.

“He, uh . . .” She clears her throat. “His
friend Dan called and wanted to meet up for a beer or two. He’ll be
home later.” She smiles sweetly, but the full effect doesn’t reach
her eyes.

Oh, she knows.

“You going to watch a movie?” I ask.

Without looking at me, she replies, “I
haven’t decided yet. There’s nothing on, really.” And then she
turns, facing my way. “Why? Is there something in particular you’d
like to see?”

I shake my head. “No, I think I’m going to
take a shower and rest. I’m drained from the drive.” Her emotions
wane a bit, so I quickly add, “Rain check for tomorrow?”

“Sure, baby,” she murmurs, twisting to face
the TV again.

Whew! That was close.
I dash upstairs
to my bedroom, dig through my luggage case for some clean clothes,
and sprint to the shower. Soaking under hot water and letting my
mind melt together with the heat, I concoct a plan. Towel-drying
myself, I slip on some sweat pants and a T-shirt, and glare at
myself in the mirror.

“You can do this, Chloe,” I say, narrowing
my eyes at my reflection. “Don’t be a pussy. Don’t back down.”

There. Done. Nothing like a little
self-motivation to get the ball rolling.

In a little bit, when the effects of my
mom’s wine have taken hold, and when the drug has run its course in
that poor, strange boy, I’m going to take him some food. He can
stand to gain a few pounds. Not that he’s bone-thin, but still.
Whatever happens when I confront him, I’m going to hold my own. He
needs some serious help, and I can’t be this innocent bystander who
does nothing about it. That’s like watching a kid being bullied,
and pretending I don’t see the taunts and jabs happen. More than
that, if I turn my back on him now, I’ll always be faced with
what-ifs:
What if
I didn’t help him and his life turns
tragic?
What if
there was a sliver of possibility I could
turn him in the right direction?
What if
I could at least
say I tried, even though he discarded my reasons?

You’re doing the right thing
, I tell
myself. I mean, what if nobody’s bothered to help him? Worse, what
if he doesn’t have anybody
to
help him? No parents, no
friends, no nothing. The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
I steady my breath and concentrate on my mantra:
You can do
this. You can do this. You can do this.

Obviously, he’s very stubborn. And
irritating. And ridiculous. Who sleeps in a ramshackle home,
anyway?

Someone who doesn’t have a home,
my
intuition chimes in. Yes, of course. But what about homeless
shelters, other places to seek refuge? I shake my head. I know
nothing of that lifestyle. I can at least say I tried, even if he
refuses my little peace offering for calling him a jackass earlier.
But what if he chose this life? What if he
wants
to be
homeless and drug-addicted? Surely not. Surely my mind is being a
Negative Nancy.

I head downstairs to the kitchen, rifling
through the cabinets to see what all Mom bought. This boy needs
real
food, sustenance. Nourishment for his wrecked body.
Okay, we have bread, but do we have sandwich meat? Opening the
fridge, I search the lower drawers and—
yes, we do!
Cha-ching! I feel like I’ve won the lottery, although I’m not
entirely certain why I’m so excited about this. I have the distinct
feeling I’ll be rejected.

Grabbing a jar of mayo, I spread it on both
sides of the bread, followed by lettuce, tomato, cheese, and
turkey. Mom bought some Nacho Cheese Doritos at the
store—
yum!
—so I cram them into one Ziploc bag and shove the
sandwich in another. I scan the inside of the refrigerator,
settling on bottled water and snatching one for the road. Glancing
over my shoulder to see what Mom’s doing, I realize she’s in a daze
while watching one of her fictional TV shows. Can’t say I didn’t
see that one coming.

“I’ll be back in a bit, Mom!” I call as I
rush out the back door.

My stomach’s knotted up so tightly I’m
certain a Boy Scout would have a field day trying to untie it. I
deepen my breaths, inhaling and exhaling in a slow, rhythmic
pattern.
Don’t chicken out!
Yeah, yeah. That’s the last
thing I want to do. In my very limited experience with loners, they
tend to either like being isolated or secretly want somebody to
notice them. Maybe this neglected guy just needs some
reassurance.