Under Currents Page 3

  Sweet, she thought again, and put a smile on her face.

  She kept it in place when Eliza opened the door looking just damn beautiful in winter-white pants, red cashmere sweater, her hair in soft, dark waves to her shoulders.

  And her eyes, the same sharp Walker green as Emily’s, showed only mild annoyance. “Emily. We weren’t expecting you.”

  Not Emily! Merry Christmas. Come in.

  But Emily kept smiling.

  “I got your message about Zane, and dinner tomorrow. I tried to call you back, but—”

  “We’ve been busy.”

  “Yeah, me, too. But I felt so bad for Zane, so I made Mama’s famous cure. Chicken noodle soup. How’s he doing?”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “Eliza, it’s cold. Aren’t you going to let me in?”

  “Who is it, sweetheart?” Graham, gilded, handsome—in cashmere, of course, his sweater a silvery gray—stepped up behind Eliza. He smiled, but as Emily noted often, it didn’t really reach his eyes.

  “Emily! Merry Christmas. This is a surprise.”

  “I made soup for Zane. I wanted to bring it by, see him, before I pick up Mama and Daddy from the airport.”

  “Come in, come in. Let me take that.”

  “It’s hot. I’ll just take it back to the kitchen if that’s okay.”

  “Of course. That’s very sweet of you, the soup. I’m sure Zane will appreciate it.”

  She carried it back, with Graham beside her, past the magazine perfection of holiday decor. “The house looks amazing.” She set the pot on the stove top. “Why don’t I take Zane up a bowl, sit with him a few minutes. Bet he could use a little company.”

  “I told you, he’s sleeping.”

  She glanced at her sister. “Well, maybe he’s—”

  “And contagious,” Graham added, slipping an arm around Eliza’s waist. “I couldn’t let you expose yourself, especially when you’re going to be in close contact with seniors.”

  She didn’t think of her parents as “seniors,” and the word just pissed her off. “We’re all healthy as horses, and he’s going to come to dinner tomorrow anyway so—”

  “No, he won’t be well enough for that. He needs rest,” Graham said—serious doctor voice.

  “But if you wanted to move dinner to my place—”

  “Better for everyone,” Graham said cheerfully. “We’ll stop by, have dinner so your parents can see Eliza and Britt, but we won’t stay long.”

  She actually felt her jaw drop. “You’re going to leave Zane alone? On Christmas?”

  “He understands, and for today and most of tomorrow, he’ll sleep in any case. But we’ll be sure to add your chicken soup to his medication, and my care. I know what’s best,” Graham continued before she could object again. “I’m not only his father, I’m a doctor.”

  The thought, even the thought of Zane spending Christmas alone, sick, in bed, made her ache inside. “It’s not right. Couldn’t we, I don’t know, wear masks? He’s just a kid. It’s Christmas.”

  “We’re his parents.” Eliza’s tone took on an edge. “We decide. When and if you have children, you’ll decide what’s best for them.”

  “Where’s Britt? At least—”

  “In her room. A Christmas project.” Graham tapped his fingers to his lips. “Top secret apparently. You’ll see her tomorrow. Again, thank you so much for thinking of Zane, going to the trouble to make him soup.”

  He stepped away from Eliza, put a firm arm around Emily, and turned her around, walked her back to the door in what felt like a damn frog march. “Tell Quentin and Ellen we’re looking forward to seeing them tomorrow.”

  “I—I can bring his gifts over tonight so he’ll have them in the morning.”

  “No need. He’s fourteen, Emily, not four. Drive safely now.”

  He didn’t physically shove her out of the house, but it amounted to the same. Tears of anger and frustration stung her eyes as she walked back to her truck.

  “It’s not right, it’s not right, it’s not right.”

  She said it over and over as she got behind the wheel, drove out of the development.

  But she was only the aunt. She could do nothing.

  * * *

  Zane’s alarm clock read six-forty-five. At night, he knew that much. He’d spent more than twenty-four hours locked in his room, and his face and belly hurt so bad he’d only managed some patchy sleep. The pain wouldn’t stop, and raw hunger added to it.

  He’d eaten the other half of Britt’s PB&J in the early hours of the morning. Just after eight, his mother brought in dry toast and a small pitcher of water, another ice bag.

  Bread and water, he thought. Prisoner food.

  Because that’s just what he was.

  She hadn’t said a word to him, nor had he said a word to her.

  Now it was nearly seven at night, and no one had come. He worried about Britt. Was she locked in her room, too? Sometimes he—Zane wouldn’t think of the man as Dad anymore—locked them in. But only for a few hours, and they had TV or games or something to do.

  He’d tried to read—they hadn’t taken his books. But it hurt too much, gave him a terrible headache. He’d dragged himself into the shower because the hurt made him sweat, and he couldn’t stand his own stink.

  With the water running, his face throbbing, he’d cried like a baby.

  His face looked like Rocky’s after a few rounds with Apollo Creed.

  He had to get stronger. Micah’s dad lifted weights. He had a whole room in their house for them. He could ask Mr. Carter to show him how to lift. He’d say how he wanted to build himself up some before baseball season.

  And in three and a half years, he could go away to college. But how could he go away to college and leave Britt?

  Maybe he should go to the police, tell them everything. But the chief of police played golf with his father. Everybody in Lakeview respected Dr. Graham Bigelow.

  It hurt to think about, so he thought about baseball. He held a baseball under the covers, stroking it, feeling the stitching, like a kid cuddled a teddy bear for comfort.

  He heard the lock click, and with hunger gnawing like a rat at his belly, felt relief.

  Until he saw his father. He saw him in the backwash of the hall light. Tall, well muscled, carrying a tray and his doctor’s bag.

  Graham walked in, set the tray on the bench at the foot of the bed. He walked back to the door, flipped on the lights—God, they hurt his eyes!—shut the door behind him.

  “Sit up,” Graham said briskly.

  Trembling again, Zane pushed himself to sitting.

  “Any dizziness?”

  Be careful, Zane thought. Be respectful. “A little, yes, sir.”

  “Nausea?”

  “A little. Not as much as last night.”

  “Have you vomited?” Graham asked as he opened his medical bag.

  “Not since last night.”

  Graham took out a penlight, shined it in Zane’s eyes. “Follow my finger, eyes only.”

  It hurt, even that hurt, but Zane did what he was told.

  “Headache?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Double vision?”

  “Not anymore, no, sir.”

  Graham checked his ears, his teeth. “Any blood in your urine?”

  “No. No, sir.”

  “You have a mild concussion. You’re lucky considering your behavior it isn’t worse. Put your head back.”

  When he did, Graham pressed his fingers to either side of Zane’s nose. Pain exploded, a nova burst. Crying out, Zane tried to push the hands away. Graham reached in his bag for tools, and fear sweat coated every inch of Zane’s skin.

  “Please. Please, don’t. It hurts. Dad, please.”

  “Put your head back.” Graham closed a hand around Zane’s throat, squeezed lightly. “Be a man, for God’s sake.”

  He screamed. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t see what his father did. Even if he’d opened his eyes, he wouldn�
��t have been able to see through the red mist of pain.

  Tears ran. He couldn’t help them either.

  When it was over, he simply curled into a shivering ball.

  “You can thank me you won’t have a deviated septum. You can thank me,” Graham repeated.

  Zane swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. “Thank you.”

  “Use the ice. You’ll remain in your room until we leave for the resort on Boxing Day. You had an accident on your bike. You were careless. At the resort, you’ll remain in your room in the suite. When we return home, you’ll have had an accident while skiing. You were careless, not quite recovered from the flu, but stubborn. If you deviate from this in any way, it will go very badly for you. I will go to court and have you locked away with all the other misfits. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Though Zane kept his eyes closed, he knew Graham loomed over the bed, tall, golden, smirking.

  “Next week, you’ll write to your grandparents thanking them for whatever gifts they had the poor judgment to buy you. Those gifts will be donated to charity. The gifts your mother and I selected for you will be returned. You deserve nothing, so nothing is what you’ll receive. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” It doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. Please go away.

  “Your computer will be returned for schoolwork only. I will check it nightly. If in a month’s time you’ve shown proper remorse, if your grades don’t suffer, if in my judgment you’ve learned a valuable lesson, the rest of your things will be returned. If not, they, too, will be donated to someone more worthy. If not, I’ll rescind my permission for you to play baseball, not only this coming season but ever again.

  “Do you understand?”

  Hate. Zane hadn’t known he could feel so much hate. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll be looking into military academies as an alternative for your education if you don’t straighten up. Your aunt sent the soup. Be sure to thank her for it when—and if—you see her again.”

  At last, at last, he left, locking the door behind him.

  Zane stayed as he was until he thought he could ride over the waves of pain. He’d known his father could be mean, could be violent, that he could slide on the mask of the perfect husband, father, neighbor over what was under it all.

  But he hadn’t known, or hadn’t accepted until that moment, his father was a monster.

  “I’ll never call him Dad again,” Zane vowed. “Not ever.”

  He made himself get up, sit on the bench at the foot of the bed. He picked up the bowl of soup.

  Cold, he noted. Just one more piece of mean.

  But you lose, you fucking bastard, he thought as he ate. I’ve never tasted anything better in my whole life.

  When he felt steadier, he took another shower since he’d sweated through his T-shirt. He made himself walk around the room, walk and walk. Getting stronger had to start sometime. He wished he had another bowl of soup, but settled for icing his face.

  He heard Christmas music drifting up from downstairs, walked to the window. He looked out over the lake, saw the lights glimmering on the other side. He could pick out his aunt’s house, thought of her and his grandparents celebrating Christmas Eve. Did they think about him?

  He hoped they did. Sick with the flu, and isn’t that a shame?

  But they didn’t know, didn’t know, didn’t know. And what would they, could they do if they did? Nothing against a man like his father. If Dr. Graham Bigelow said his son fell off his bike or hurt himself skiing, everyone would believe it. No one would believe a man like that would beat on his own son.

  And if he tried to make them, what would they do anyway?

  He couldn’t go to military school. He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t leave Britt.

  So he needed to pretend, just like his parents pretended. He’d pretend he’d learned a valuable lesson. He’d say yes, sir. He’d keep his grades up. He’d do everything he had to do.

  One day he’d be strong enough or old enough or brave enough to stop pretending.

  Still, who’d believe him? Maybe his aunt would. Maybe. He didn’t think she liked his father very much—or his mother either. He knew they didn’t like her, because they said stuff about her all the time.

  How she’d never amounted to much, how she couldn’t even keep a husband. And lots of stuff.

  He heard the piano, felt some relief. Britt was okay if she could play the piano.

  Maybe he could get proof. He could get Micah to show him how to set up like a hidden camera or something. No, no, he couldn’t pull Micah into it. If Micah told his parents, they might say something to his parents.

  No baseball, ever, military school, another beating.

  Not brave enough.

  But he could write it all down.

  Inspired, he went to his desk, found a notebook, pens, pencils. Not yet, he decided. One of them might come in again before they went to bed. If they caught him, jig up.

  So he waited, waited, lay in the dark with his baseball for comfort and company.

  He heard his father call out: “Sweet Christmas dreams, Britt!”

  And she called back. “Good night.”

  Moments later he heard her whisper at his door, “I couldn’t sneak in. I’m sorry. I heard you yelling, but—”

  “It’s okay. I’m okay. Go to bed before they catch you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  He heard her door close. He slipped into sleep for a while. His mother’s laughter woke him. Coming upstairs, muffled words as they moved past his door. Staying where he was, eyes closed, breathing even, because he couldn’t trust them.

  And he was proved right when a few minutes later the lock clicked. The light from the hall reddened the back of his eyes. He kept them closed, but not tight—that’s how they knew you faked it.

  Even after the door shut again, the lock clicked again, he waited. One minute, two, five—he counted it off.

  When he felt safe, he crept over to his desk, got the notebook, a couple of pens. Just in case, he took them and the little flashlight Britt had left him back to his bed.

  If he heard the lock click, he’d have enough time to shove everything under the blanket, lie down again.

  In the little beam of light, he began to write.

  Maybe nobody will believe me. He says they won’t. He’s too important, too smart, so they won’t believe me, but my English teacher says that writing things down can help you think and to remember stuff. I need to remember.

  On December 23, 1998, when my sister Britt and me—and I—he corrected—came home from school, my mother was on the floor. My father was hitting her again and when I tried to stop him he hurt me really bad.

  He wrote for more than an hour.

  When he grew too tired to write more, he got a coin from his bank, used it to unscrew the air vent. He hid the notebook inside. Put the pens away even though he’d run one out of ink.

  Then he crawled back into bed, and slept.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Zane followed orders. The pain eased; the bruises faded. No one at the resort questioned Dr. Bigelow’s bike accident explanation, or his orders for Zane to remain undisturbed in his room during their stay. No one in Lakeview questioned Dr. Bigelow’s skiing mishap explanation.

  Well, Emily sort of did, wondering why Zane had been allowed to ski when he’d been recovering from the flu, but it didn’t change anything.

  Life went on.

  If he’d learned a valuable lesson, it was to be careful.

  He kept his room clean and tidy without prodding, did his chores without a murmur of protest. He studied, more out of fear than interest. If his grades dropped, he’d face punishment. If his grades dropped, he’d lose baseball. Baseball became not only his passion, his life’s dream, but his future escape.

  When he signed with the majors, he’d leave Lakeview and never look back.

  Everyone acted as if December 23 never happened. Everyone inside th
e house in Lakeview Terrace lived the lie. He passed his father’s tests—he was smart enough to know they were tests. The quick shoves or sharp slaps for no reason—and the satisfied look on his father’s face when Zane kept his eyes on the ground and said nothing.

  At night, inside the quiet of his room, he wrote the truth.

  January 12. Graham shoved me into the wall. He said I sulked through dinner and didn’t show my appreciation. I asked Micah’s dad not to tell anybody he was showing me how to lift weights, that I wanted it to be a surprise. He doesn’t talk to Graham anyway. I don’t think he likes Graham very much. He said not to “sir” him every five minutes because it makes him feel like he’s back in the army, and since we’re working out together I should call him Dave. He’s nice.

  March 2. I’m getting stronger!!! I can curl 15 pounds, 12 reps, 3 sets. And today I bench-pressed 75 pounds and did 36 push-ups. I’ve gained 5 pounds. Dave says it’s lean muscle mass. We have our first preseason game tomorrow, and Coach said my arm’s a rocket! I think that’s lean muscle mass, too. I got a single and a triple in practice, two RBIs. We’re so totally going to trash the Eagles tomorrow! Eliza said to empty the dishwasher. I said sure. Graham slapped me. You don’t say “Sure” you say “Yes, Ma’am,” you Worthless Little Fuck. Then he slapped her because she didn’t correct me and called her Stupid Bitch. I saw how Britt was maybe going to cry and gave her a look so she wouldn’t. No point in her getting slapped.

  He wrote every night, detailing his ball games, his progress in the gym, his father’s abuse.

  He wrote of his pride and the thrill when the Lakeview Wildcats took the championship. Of how proud his father acted during the game, and how casually he criticized Zane’s base running, his fielding on the way home. Of how Dave Carter gave him a high five and called him champ.

  By his fifteenth birthday that summer, he stood at five feet eleven, weighed in at 128. When Dave called him a lean, mean fighting machine, he didn’t know that’s what Zane aimed for.

  On the night of December 23, he woke from a nightmare in a cold sweat. He’d dreamed his father found his notebooks and beat him to death.