Wild Reckless Read online

  “Can you get to a pharmacy?” she asks, and Owen rubs his fists on his eyes, nodding yes and breathing regularly for the first time since I’ve seen him this afternoon.

  “Here, this is for buprenorphine, it will help him through the worst of it,” my mom says, tearing a page from her script book and handing it to Owen. He reaches slowly, their hands touching as she passes this gift on to him. When his hand begins to tremble, she brings her other hand up and holds on tightly, squeezing.

  “What is she giving you, O? Owen? What did that woman give you?” his brother’s face is pushed deep into his pillow, his body barely covered with the sweat-soaked blanket, but he’s trying to move. His strength has waned so much that the only thing he seems to be able to control is his neck and mouth. “Owen!”

  Owen looks from my mother then to me, finally moving along the floor to kneel in front of James, pressing his hand firmly on his back, like a weighted blanket, his brother’s shivers stopping temporarily under his touch. “I’m going to get you medicine. She’s giving you medicine that’s going to make you feel better. You need to let me go, James. I’ll be right back,” Owen says, standing slowly.

  James’s eyes follow every movement as the three of us move out of the room. When we’re in the hallway, Owen turns quickly and wraps his arms around my mom, surprising both her and me. She looks at me over his shoulder and brings her hands slowly up his back to embrace him, holding him to her and telling him it will be all right. But I can tell in her eyes that she doesn’t believe it.

  She’s lying.

  I wait with my mother in the hallway as Owen leaves, and then when the door closes we both slide down the wall, our legs falling in front of us, on opposite sides, and we look into each other.

  The light seeping in through the windows is growing dimmer with every passing minute, and more than twenty pass before either of us says a word, my mom the first to break.

  “I’m sorry, Kensington,” she says, barely a whisper.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for,” I say back.

  “I do. I’m weak,” she says, her eyes blinking slowly, her lips parted and waiting to find the courage to say the rest. “He wants to work through it.”

  My heart is on fire, burning with flames that have engulfed my chest. But this is not the place to yell, to rile up the broken man, Owen’s suffering brother, in the room next door. So instead, I stare at her, waiting for her, daring her to finish, to tell me the rest. Say it! I’m screaming inside.

  “Don’t,” I finally say back, my voice louder than it should be, so I hold my breath after, listening to the door, hoping James hasn’t found the strength to move.

  “He’s all I know,” she says back, her eyes drifting down to the knots in the wood floors, to the glue holding the planks together.

  I can’t sit here, and I can’t understand how this woman who is so brave, so strong, can be so pathetic. Even the thought that my mother is pathetic stings my soul, and it breaks my heart. I stand as the tear finds the corner of my eye and I wipe it quickly with my sleeve, not wanting her to see. All of this—she says all of this—and still, I don’t want to hurt her with my reactions.

  “Learn something else,” I whisper. “If he’s all you know, learn something else.” I can’t look at her when I speak, so I move to the top of the stairs and climb down a few to sit in the middle and wait for Owen to return home.

  My mother’s phone rings, and I can tell it’s the pharmacy. She recites several numbers, giving her consent as a nurse practitioner, then responding yes to a few questions before hanging up. We don’t speak again, for the next twenty minutes, and when Owen joins us again, our interactions are forced and rehearsed.

  “I’m sorry it took so long. They don’t really trust my family at the pharmacist’s,” Owen says, his lip curled up on one side, his attempt at a joke. I smile back, to comfort him.

  My mom helps coax James into taking the pill, assuring him that it will make him feel better. Within seconds, he looks utterly passed out.

  “He’s going to sleep for days. He’ll wake up here and there, but not a lot. And…” my mom pulls her top lip into her mouth, pausing, “he’s probably going to mess himself. You’ll want to change the bed every morning and night. I can come back when your mom is home, explain things to her.”

  “Can he be left alone?” Owen asks, looking down at his hands that are folded in front of him. I can see the guilt taking hold of him.

  “Don’t think that’s selfish…to want to take care of your things. It’s not. You’re allowed to put yourself first,” my mom says, the irony of her words to Owen striking me—making me snicker to myself. I cough and do my best to cover up my slip, but she notices anyhow, her eyes sending me apology after apology.

  “Andrew is here. But…I don’t want this to be his problem. If I have to miss my game…” Owen starts.

  “I’ll stay. I’ll stay until your mom comes home,” my mom says. Owen shakes his head no, but my mom insists. “I’ve dealt with far worse. Go…go to your game. Take Andrew. I will stay.”

  “Andrew’s sick. He’s probably asleep,” Owen says, his body wavering between staying and going.

  “Go,” my mom says, this time sternly. Owen nods and looks to me, and I nod in response. I take his hand as we walk down the stairs, and I never look back at my mom.

  Our ride back to the school is silent, but Owen’s hand is in mine the entire time, his thumb wearing a line over my knuckles with the constant rubbing. We get to the school with little time before his game, and when Owen finally looks at his phone, he sees dozens of missed calls from Ryan and House.

  I walk with him quickly to the gym, kissing him once hard and fast on the mouth when we reach the locker room entrance, then I move into the gym and take my place in a top corner of the bleachers, hoping that Elise doesn’t notice and join me.

  I want to be alone.

  When I don’t see her, I finally let myself relax, my muscles aching from how hard they worked to keep my body moving for the last two hours.

  Owen must feel worse than this. I can’t imagine. His eye doesn’t look good, the bruise turning blue. No one seems to question Owen having a bruise on his face, though. I wonder how many times people assumed his bruises were from a fight when it was really from restraining James.

  Through it all, his play—it’s flawless. This is Owen’s court, and this is the one place he can go and be master—everyone looking to him, every decision his. He commands the court, running effortlessly, his legs never showing fatigue. The way he passes, the way he sees the game, several seconds before his team, before his opponents. He would mock me for making this comparison, but I swear he plays chess out there.

  Even when he’s not the one scoring, he’s the reason our team scores. At one point, a guy on the other team pushes him, backing his body into Owen, dribbling into him, trying to dominate him. But less than a second later, the ball is in Owen’s hands, and he’s breaking to the other end, finding House who takes his pass and slams the ball.

  The Owen out here is different from any other Owen I know; yet all of those Owens are still in there. I see them. There’s a moment—at halftime—when he’s drinking from a water bottle, House’s elbow leaning on him, and he spits some of the water out in laughter.

  My mom gave him this—a small break from the chaos and nightmare at home.

  It makes me forgive her weakness for the moment.

  Owen is pulled from the game with five minutes left, the coach opting to sub in other players, thanks to our sizeable lead. And as much as Owen is still invested in the game, this rest—his body being idle—lets the bad start to creep in again.

  I wait at the bottom of the bleachers for Owen to walk out, and one-by-one everyone leaves, until there’s only me, a few students I don’t recognize, and a man in a blue-and-white sweater, an expensive-looking briefcase at his side.

  Owen finally exits the locker room, the exhaustion hitting him, his body dragging as he slides his fe
et to me, his bag with his uniform slung over one shoulder, his hair still wet from his shower. The closer he gets to me, the faster his steps come, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m going to need to catch him when he reaches me.

  “Owen Harper?” the sweater man says, stepping out from the edge of the bleachers. Owen shakes his head quickly, his guard up instantly.

  “Yes?” Owen says, stepping to the other side of me, pulling me in to him close, his squeeze tight.

  “I’m Lon Mathison. We haven’t met officially, but I’ve sent you a few letters,” he says, reaching his hand out to Owen. Unlike other times, when Owen hesitates, he doesn’t here. Though his body next to me is rigid, and frozen, his arm manages to work, moving out toward our new acquaintance, shaking his hand.

  “Right, yes…nice to meet you. Were you…I’m sorry, here for the game tonight? I didn’t know you were coming,” Owen stammers, looking to me and back to Lon, his brow wrinkled.

  “I’m heading to Wisconsin, actually. A few appointments, but I figured…you know, Woodstock was sort of on my way,” Lon says, his voice coming out in a singsong way, his head bobbing from side-to-side. “You really handled that team from Union tonight. The Kellis brothers are supposed to be pretty good defenders. Didn’t seem to slow you down though, did it?”

  Owen blushes from the compliment, pursing his lips in a tight smile. It’s the same face he makes anytime someone compliments his play. It’s more than humble; it’s almost like he’s afraid to admit to being good, afraid if he acknowledges it, his talent will disappear.

  Or maybe he’s afraid people will notice.

  “Well, I plan to send a few more letters. So, maybe just hang on to this,” Lon says, flipping open his wallet and handing Owen a card. I glance quickly, reading “DePaul University” before Owen slides it into his back pocket.

  “Right, well…thanks for coming out,” Owen shrugs, his hand back in mine, his thumb tapping over mine, his anxiety absolutely boiling.

  Lon nods once, then looks to me, but doesn’t bother with introductions. He’s out the door and pulling away in his car by the time we exit the building. We make it all the way to Owen’s truck without him bringing it up.

  “So…DePaul, huh?” I say, trying to get something out of him.

  “Yep,” he says, his answer short and clipped. Great, I’m getting this Owen again. I stare at him, waiting for him to break, to share more. Instead, he stops hard at the light, then turns to me. “Look, Kens. I don’t want to talk about it. That guy, he’s all dreams and opportunity and shit. And I’m just not feelin’ it.”

  He reaches his hand over to my arm, holding it tightly, his eyes penetrating me.

  “That’s nothing on you. I just need to get myself ready to go back into war. Please understand,” he says, my stomach falling to the floor of his truck, my heart stopping and my mouth watering with dread. I force it all—all of those feelings—down deep, hiding them from him, and I pull my lips in tight, hoping that somehow a smile is produced, and I nod.

  “Okay,” I say, cupping my hand over his.

  His phone buzzes and he pulls it from his pocket, tossing it to me as the light turns to green. “It’s a text, from House. Read it to me?” he asks, and I open it and recite House’s words.

  “You and your chick in for Sasha’s? Nick scored some PBR,” I read aloud.

  “Pabst,” Owen says, noticing my eyebrow rise at PBR.

  “Ah,” I say, opening the reply, my thumbs ready to type.

  “Just type back ‘James.’ He’ll know what it means,” he says, and I do what he asks. Seconds later, House replies:

  Sorry bro.

  I put Owen’s phone away, and grab his hand again, and I hold it until we get home. His mom’s car is back in the driveway, and the lights are on in my house. We both have places to go, places with things that need to be tended to—things we both would rather ignore. But all I want to do is sit here, in his truck, in the dark driveway under the thin fingers of winter branches of the giant trees in our yards. Owen seems to want the same, because we both remain motionless for minutes, never breathing a word, until the first tiny, white flake hits the glass of his windshield.

  “Look,” he says. “It’s snowing.”

  Owen’s eyes close, and his face is washed in pain. I kiss him and let him go inside, then walk to my own cage, locking the door behind me, dragging my feet past my mother who is asleep on the couch, a book in her lap. I kick off half of my clothes, leaving only my underwear and giant sweatshirt for warmth, then I pull my blanket from my bed and curl up by my window, watching the snow cascade down as I wait for Owen to come to bed.

  He never does. And eventually, I succumb to sleep.

  Chapter 17

  My dad is at the house again this morning. He was staying at a hotel in Milwaukee before, but he moved to a bed and breakfast in the center of town. This all feels so weird, like he’s…visiting.

  An unwelcomed visitor.

  The first few days this week, I asked my mom what was happening. She said he was just coming over for coffee and breakfast before work, making an effort to be friendly—assuring me that was it. I stayed in my room the entire time. I refuse to acknowledge him. I know he leaves when she does for work, though. I asked Owen to make sure of it for me, and he did, once or twice, driving back by my house while I was at band. My dad’s car was always gone.

  I heard him pull into the driveway this morning, watched him walk up to the backdoor with a box of donuts in his arms. My father never bought donuts. Not once. Not even when I was a little girl and had slumber parties.

  Willow is coming over, helping me pick out something nice to wear for the dance after the final football game. I’m going with her and Jess and Elise. Owen and Ryan both don’t want to go. Ryan, because he just doesn’t like dances, and Owen because he doesn’t seem to like much of anything lately.

  His brother has been with him for five days, and yesterday, I saw James come outside. He was wearing a pink pair of sweatpants and a large gray T-shirt, his mom’s clothing I think. He rushed to his car, dug around in the backseat, then swore a few times before going back inside.

  He looked terrible.

  I quit asking Owen about it. His answers are always short, resentful. I don’t blame him. I hate his brother for doing this to him, for doing this to his family. Owen’s mom was able to fix her schedule at work, and for the last two days, she’s been able to be home with James when nobody else is. It’s not a permanent thing. I don’t know how long it takes someone to get off of heroin, but I’m guessing three days is kind of fast.

  When I hear Willow’s car skid over the dip in the driveway, I call her.

  “Hey, lemme guess, you heard me bust my axle on your stupid driveway,” she says, her engine cutting off both over the phone and out my window.

  “If you were a cat, that sound would basically be the bell around your neck,” I joke.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she says, her voice muffled as she stuffs her phone in the crook of her neck. I hear the door slam closed in the background.

  “So, when you ring the doorbell, I’m not coming down,” I say.

  “Another fine morning with good ol’ Dad, I see,” Willow says.

  “Yes. And don’t get a crush on him,” I say quickly. “I like you, and I don’t want to make another voodoo doll of a former friend.”

  “First of all, gross! Your dad is okay looking, for fifty, but he’s not my bag,” she says. “And second, voodoo dolls?”

  “No comment,” I say back, kicking the cutout photo of Gaby I made the other night under my bed. I poked my red pen through the eyes to make her look like the devil. It made me feel better for about five minutes.

  “Okay, hanging up, about to ring the doorbell. See you in a sec,” Willow says, ending our call. I crack my door open just enough to hear the drone of the conversation happening downstairs. My father is talking about his latest set, some new cellist playing in their symphony. My mom is pretending to be interested. S
he’s always pretended to be interested. I can envision it, her head propped on her hand, the nodding and the ohs and uh huhs. I never really stopped to pay attention before, but I’m more aware now, my perspective…different.

  I bet he’s sleeping with the cellist.

  The doorbell rings, and I can hear snippets of my mom’s conversation with Willow, when I notice the shadow of two people climbing the stairs, I leap from my door to my bed, crossing my legs and grabbing the closest magazine available. It’s the most cliché move possible.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Ward,” Willow says, her eyes wide at me in apology that she led my mom up here with her. My mom’s not the enemy. She’s just disappointing.

  “Thanks, Mom. You can go now,” I say, my tone clipped. I’m being a bitch. I’ve been one for five days—ever since I found out my father was trying to woo my mother, and she admitted that she was considering it.

  My mom lingers at the doorway, her eyes glaring at me. She looks pissed, but her resolve dissipates quickly the longer she stands there. Because I’m right.

  “Your dad brought donuts…” she starts.

  “Not hungry,” I say, flipping pages on the dog magazine, pretending to be immersed in the cute puppy faces on the pages. It’s something we got free in the mail, from a shelter. If I had access to my father’s checking account, I’d send in a donation for ten thousand dollars.

  “Right, well…” she says, but I look up at her, my eyes snapping to hers, challenging her. Well what? Well, I should really come talk to him and think about forgiving him for the unforgivable, because he brought donuts and that proves he’s a good person? I don’t know what she’s expecting, or what he is for that matter. But I’ve come to terms with the idea that my father is only my father genetically from now on.

  My mom closes the door finally, discouraged.