Читать книгу Ananda - Scott Zarcinas - Страница 10

AS HE SLEEPS, Michael is aware of two things; firstly, he knows it is the night before the appointment at the fertility clinic; secondly, he knows he is in the middle of a frightening dream. In it, everything is in black and white. He is running down the street. His legs are heavy and his chest is burning. He thinks he is being chased, but he’s not sure; he can’t see anyone behind him, but he feels fear, terrifying fear. Suddenly, he trips and falls. A black shadow looms over him. He tries to get up, but he can’t. He can’t move. He can’t run. He can’t do anything. He screams, but no sound comes out. Then he feels horrendous pain, as if he’s being stabbed in his stomach, as if his whole intestines are being wrenched out. He knows he is going to die. The black shadow is watching. He looks up at it and screams in horror. The shadow has no face.

Michael woke with a fright and sat immediately upright. The back of his throat was stinging sharply, like a bad case of tonsillitis, though he knew it was probably because he’d been breathing harshly through his mouth, like someone who’d been running, while he slept. He put his hand over his heart and felt it thumping against his ribs. He could feel sweat on his brow. Taking several deep breaths, he glanced at the clock on the bedside cabinet. It was 5:29 a.m.

Angie continued to sleep quietly, oblivious to his recent fright. Slipping out of bed, now wide awake, he went to the bathroom. His hands, he noticed, were trembling. It had to be one of the worst nightmares he’d ever had, even worse than those he suffered as a child after he and Jude saw Billie die, when he’d wake up terrified and screaming for his dad to come and comfort him. He glanced at his fatigued reflection in the mirror and tried telling himself that it was only a dream, that it wasn’t real. It took a minute or two, but it seemed to work. His mind began to calm and his hands lost their shivering tremble.

After relieving himself, he filled the bathroom sink with hot water. Steam misted the mirrored doors of the cabinet above, which was good because he didn’t want to look too closely again at his bleary eyes and haggard face. He opened the cabinet and reached for his razor. The blades looked blunt, so he removed the disposable head and tossed it into the bin beneath the sink. He was surprised to see it land near a crumpled blue box and a white, plastic object that on first glance looked like a small toothbrush. He bent down and removed the box and object, only now recognizing what it was, a home pregnancy kit. At one end of the plastic tester he spied a reading. It was negative.

He knew Angie used to test her urine every month like clockwork when they first began trying to conceive, but the sight of the pregnancy tester confused him. Angie hadn’t bothered to do it for the last six months or so, when she came to realize that the likelihood of being infertile was more probable than possible. Why had she tested it last night? Was there something she wasn’t telling him?

The thought that Angie was withholding something troubled him the whole time he showered and got dressed. The image of that pregnancy tester lying in the bin beneath the bathroom sink simply wouldn’t leave his head, and by the time she arrived in the kitchen at quarter to seven, dressed and ready for work, he was in a rouseable state of skepticism. She had, after all, arranged the clinic appointment behind his back. What else had she been up to that he wasn’t aware of?

The cuffs of his blue shirt were rolled half way up his forearms, as if ready for a fight, and his freshly washed long hair was hanging loose over his shoulder, occasionally falling in front of his face as he finished the last spoonfuls of his cereal. Angie seated herself at the table with her usual cup of coffee, paying no particular heed to him. She seemed neither surprised nor pleased that he had risen before her. She just stared outside through the windowpane sliding door, interested only in gauging the weather. He followed her gaze, glancing quickly outside. Several fluffy cumulus clouds were rising with the sun over the hills in the east. There was nothing of interest for him, just the same shit, different day, so he turned back to Angie with the intent of confronting her with the news of his earlier discovery in the bathroom.

Angie didn’t give him the chance to speak. “Don’t forget we have the clinic appointment today,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Five o’clock.”

“You know I don’t like hospitals,” he said, and then, almost as an afterthought, added, “Miss Schmetterling had a fit when I asked her if I could miss tonight’s teachers’ meeting. Are you sure I have to go?”

Angie rolled her eyes and sighed. “Yes. We’ve discussed this all before and we don’t need to go through it again. You’re my husband and we’re in this together. If you don’t meet me at the hospital, it’ll be a total dereliction of your duty.”

“Christ!” he said. “This is emotional blackmail.”

“Don’t you blaspheme!” she said, and slapped her palms down onto the tabletop. Tears formed in her eyes. She pushed herself up from her chair, knocking the underneath of the table with her upper thighs, and before Michael knew what was happening she was out of the kitchen and crying. He heard her footsteps hurry down the hall to the front bedroom.

He threw his hands in the air. “Christ!” he said, pushing the chair back and standing up. “Angie, I’m sorry,” he yelled after her. “I didn’t mean it, you know that.” He waited for her reply. There was just the tic-toc of the grandfather clock. “Angel, come on!”

This was getting ridiculous, he thought. This whole thing was getting out of control. He couldn’t say anything anymore without her running off crying. Staring at the ceiling, not knowing what to do, he absently ran a hand through his hair. He just wished the whole situation would go away and they could get back with their lives, the way they used to be when they just got married, happy and carefree, like when they used to find the time to go for dinner at their favorite restaurant, Piccolo Diavolo, and spend a romantic night together, or like when they used to go away on weekends to his father’s holiday house in Serena and relax and enjoy each other’s company. That was all he wanted, nothing more. He just wanted the marriage to get back to normal.

He followed her out of the kitchen, and as he walked around the dividing bench he glanced at the refrigerator’s only two magnets, yet more reminders of Angie’s deceased parents: JESUS LOVES YOU! and GOD GIVES WHAT’S RIGHT– NOT WHAT’S LEFT!

“Yeah, sure,” he harrumphed, glaring at them. “God gives you nothing but shit and then complains that no one is grateful for it.”

He wandered slowly up the hallway. Deciding to let Angie keep her distance, he stopped before entering the front bedroom and leant against the doorframe. The curtains to his immediate left had been pulled open and light was streaming through the window, forming a bright square on the quilt in the center of the room. It was the only room in the house they had attempted to renovate. Angie, he recalled, had made all the decorating decisions. The result: purple. The whole room was one shade of it or another – lilac, mauve, lavender, violet – the walls, the linen, the curtains, the quilt, all were purple, even the bedside alarm clock and lamp. The only things not were the bare wooden floorboards (Angie had insisted they rip up the horrid blue carpet, at least in this room), the sliding mirrored doors of the built-in closet, and the oak dressing table at which Angie was now perched.

With her back to him, she was sitting on a stool directly ahead, peering into the dressing table mirror and rubbing foundation makeup into her cheeks and forehead. A cosmetic case sat open like a mini painter’s satchel to her left. It was brimming with assorted lipsticks, eyeliners, brushes, creams, mascaras, and lots of things Michael didn’t recognize. In the reflection he could see her face. She was trying her best not to cry and the whites of her eyes were streaked with red. He felt a tug of guilt and apologized for what he had said in the kitchen.

Angie sniffed and applied a touch of moon dust coloring to her cheeks. Then she put the mascara brush down and began touching up her eyes with black eyeliner. She was deliberately silent while she worked, making him wait for her reply, and only after a minute or two did she turn around and face him. “If you’re truly sorry,” she said, holding his gaze, “you’ll be in the lobby of the hospital before five o’clock this evening.”

She turned back to the dressing table mirror and removed the lid to a tube of red lipstick. As she slid the lipstick across her lips, they were transformed into soft, alluring petals and Michael suddenly understood why bees were so attracted to flowers. After a few seconds, she puckered and smacked her lips gently together, then stood the lipstick on its end next to the cosmetic case and turned around.

“How do I look?” she asked.

Michael was about to reply when suddenly, as she stood up, Angie doubled over as if she had just been delivered a punch to the stomach. Her face was contorted – mouth gaping, eyes wide – and despite the recently applied makeup her skin had turned ghastly pale. He stared at her, momentarily immobilized with fright. Angie groped for the dressing table, the other hand clutching her lower belly. The tube of lipstick was knocked onto its side and it rolled off the table onto the floor next to her briefcase. Angie didn’t seem to notice. She wobbled precariously, teetering like a toddler just learning to walk. Without a second to spare, Michael broke free from the paralysis of his initial shock and rushed over, catching her just before she fell.

Angie didn’t speak. She didn’t seem able. She just leant into his embrace and grabbed hold of his arm. He was horrified. He didn’t know what to do or how to help, other than just hold on to her and hope the pain would quickly pass. His mind was racing. What was happening? Did he need to rush her to the hospital? Should he call an ambulance?

After a minute, her wrestle-like grip began to relax. To his relief, she was soon standing erect once again with the color returned to her face. He stood by as she took several deep breaths and pursed her lips, blowing the air slowly out of her lungs. When she finally met his eyes he could tell the worst was over. “Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded, re-gathering her composure. “I’ll be all right,” she said, after a moment. “Don’t worry, I get it all the time.” But her attempt to play down the seriousness of what had just happened only made Michael worry even more. She seemed to sense his unease. “It goes away by itself. It’s just a little stomach cramp, that’s all.”

Her smile was weak and unconvincing, and he knew by her reticence that she was withholding the truth. She patted his arm in a poor attempt to allay his concerns and reached for her briefcase beneath the dressing table. Before leaving, she kissed him on the lips and reiterated their plans to meet after work. Michael knew he had no choice but to let her go. She left him standing alone in the bedroom, confused and worried.

LATER THAT DAY, Michael stood motionless at the blackboard with his back to the class. His hand was raised where it had stopped in mid-sentence, a broken piece of white chalk firmly fixed between thumb and forefinger. He had been in a daydream, lost in his own world. He had no idea how long he had been standing that way and was busily trying to figure out how he had managed to misplace his memories and what he had been saying to the class.

They were obedient and silent, damn good kids he reckoned. All he could hear was their shuffling bums on the seats and the anxious pacing of someone walking past the classroom in the corridor outside. It sounded like Norman’s footsteps, heavy and discordant, like a clumsy elephant constantly tripping over itself. Running a chalk-covered hand through his hair, he tried to pick up from where he had left off. Only he couldn’t remember.

Suddenly, the image of Angie floated in front of the blackboard like a vision of the Holy Mary. He remembered this morning’s incident in the bedroom, her face contorting with agony, her body doubling over as if she had been stabbed in the stomach, and it made him sick with worry. Despite her words of consolation, he knew Angie was covering something up. She said that she was fine, but she wasn’t; he had seen the alarm in her eyes flashing as brightly as lightning. For whatever reason, she was holding back. Knowing this was more terrifying than the mysterious pain itself. He reckoned he hadn’t felt so frightened since the day he saw Billie die.

He remembered that day clearly. The sky had been blue and cloudless above Serena, another piping hot day in the summer of ‘75. Michael was playing backyard cricket with Jude, who lived two blocks around the corner and often came over to the house to play, especially during the school holidays. They were both in their swimming trunks (Jude’s red, his yellow) and their eight-year old bodies were tanned and supple. Michael was holding the bat, a new Slazenger he had just got for his birthday, and Jude was tossing and catching the tennis ball, readying himself to pitch it down. Michael knew all Jude wanted to do was hit him in the head with the tennis ball. All he wanted to do was hit the ball over the fence with his new cricket bat. That’s the way it always was that summer.

Jude’s end was the clothesline. Michael’s end was the back wall of the house, where he was tapping the bat on the ground and waiting for Jude to deliver the ball. They were separated by no more than fifteen yards. They were also as far as they could get from his mum’s precious vegetable garden in the bottom corner of the yard. Hitting the ball into the vegetable garden was instantly out, no questions asked, followed by an immediate change of innings. Michael really wasn’t too concerned about that. He was going to hit Jude a lot further than the tomatoes and the cucumbers – he was going to hit him over the fence and out of the yard.

Michael tapped the bat on the ground and watched his cousin. Jude had a knowing grin on his face. He was wandering near the edge of the vegetable garden at the top of his run-up, which Michael thought was ridiculously long. It was obvious Jude wanted to cause some serious harm with the ball. Michael wasn’t worried. He tapped his Slazenger on the grass again and waited.

Jude wasted no time. He ran in and delivered the ball as hard as he could. Michael watched it hit the grass and take a nasty kick, jumping straight for his head. There was no time to take a swipe with the bat. He jerked his head backward, but the ball seemed to follow him, chasing him like a large demented wasp. It shot barely an inch past his nose and clattered into the wooden boards of the back wall. He had escaped instant humiliation by the barest of margins.

Michael picked up the tennis ball and threw it back to Jude. After a brief flurry of words, something to the effect that Michael couldn’t hit the ball if he tried, Jude went back to the top of his run-up. Michael tapped the Slazenger on the ground, talking to himself and making sure he concentrated properly this time. The last thing he wanted was to be brained by a bouncer from Jude; he’d never hear the end of it. Jude ran in again and sent down another fast delivery, which Michael swung at and missed. The ball passed just over the top of the rubbish bin and thumped into the wall again, much to Jude’s obvious delight.

Jude mocked him once again. Michael threw the ball back and gritted his teeth, saying nothing, hoping to wipe the cocky smile off his cousin’s face. Jude ambled to the top of his run-up for a third time, strutting with confidence. Michael wiped the sweat off his brow with his forearm and tapped the Slazenger on the ground, thinking that if Jude bowled another bouncer he was going to hit it so far Jude was going to get a sun burnt palate watching it pass over his head. Jude steamed in and fired down his fastest ball yet, thundering it straight for the spot between Michael’s eyes. This time Michael saw it coming, and he got into position early. He stepped back, lifting the bat high, and then connected beautifully with a perfect pull shot. He watched the ball sail in a high arc over the backyard fence and out of sight. In baseball terms, it was a homer. In backyard cricket terms, it was six-and-out. But he didn’t care; the stunned look on Jude’s face made it all worthwhile.

Jude mumbled something Michael couldn’t quite hear and stormed over to the corrugated iron fence, pressing his eye against a rusty hole to search for the ball on the other side. The next door neighbor’s house belonged to an old man in his seventies who lived with his wife and retarded son. They had a Great Dane called Belvedere, which roamed their back garden like a sentry but was as harmless as a mouse. Sometimes he escaped by digging a hole beneath the fence and then went charging around the streets of Serena scaring the willies out of little old grannies until his owner managed to recapture him. Michael liked Belvedere. He threw biscuits and chunks of meat over the fence for him whenever he could, but for reasons he never knew, Jude always seemed wary of him.

Over by the fence, Jude was visibly excited by something he could see through the hole. Gesticulating wildly, he shouted for Michael to come over. Michael dropped the bat and rushed over to join him, eager to see what was happening on the other side. Jude peered through the hole again, and then took his eye away from it, looking directly at Michael with an expression of utter disbelief.

“Someth’ns wrong with Billie,” he said, hushed and afraid. Billie was what he called the Great Dane because he couldn’t quite manage to say Belvedere without tripping over his tongue. “I think he’s dyin’, Mikey.”

Not knowing what to expect, Michael quickly peeked through another rusty hole. The midday sun had heated everything it touched like a devilish King Midas, so the act of pressing his cheek to the fence was like laying his face onto a barbeque hotplate. He ignored the pain to see what Jude was raving on about. What he saw made his skin crawl. Belvedere was lying on the ground writhing in agony, foam drooling out of his mouth like washing suds, eyes rolled back and his legs and tail and body shaking feverishly. Billie was dying, that was for sure.

Five minutes later, Michael pulled his eye away from the hole, the skin of his right cheek and eyebrow scalding red. Billie was twitching no more. If this was death, he thought, it was horrible. He suddenly felt dizzy and he had to suppress the violent urge to vomit. His breathing was short and shallow and he desperately needed to sit down.

Jude, on the other hand, was positively joyous. His blue eyes were gleaming and the smile on his face was as broad as the fence. He was jabbering excitedly, as if it were the best thing he had ever seen.

Michael was suddenly furious. With every word Jude uttered, he could feel his head begin to throb. Hitting him over the head with the Slazenger would have had the same result. He clenched his fists and swallowed hard, then did something he had never done before – he punched Jude flush in the face, a right hook that connected with his cousin’s jaw as well as his bat had connected with the ball. He immediately regretted what he’d done. His hand now hurt like hell.

Michael braced himself for the expected retaliation. They were going to have their first punch up and he was not looking forward to it. To his surprise, Jude did nothing at first, just gaped in shock, then gently rubbed his jaw and glared at him. Coldness washed over his face. Michael was about to say something, maybe even apologize, but he saw something in his cousin’s eyes that was as frightening as watching the death of Belvedere – seething hatred. His voice suddenly evaporated like sweat in the midday sun.

“You’ll regret you ever did that,” Jude said, then turned around and sulked away.

Michael watched him disappear around the side of the house, rubbing his jaw. Later that night, Michael lay in his bed tucked beneath the faded yellow sheet, feeling quite lost, feeling quite ashamed at witnessing the agonizing death of an innocent animal. The skin on his scalded cheek had formed into an ugly blister, but at least his hand had stopped throbbing. In fact, he didn’t seem to feel any pain at all, only sadness, horrible sadness.

His dad was sitting at the end of the bed, seemingly at a loss for the right words to say. Billie had apparently been fed a steak laced with rat poison, something called warfarin, but which Michael initially heard as wafin. It had caused a massive bleed inside Billie’s brain called a stroke. That’s why he’d been fitting and drooling.

Whatever the reason, Michael hoped he’d never have to see such a horrible thing in his life again. He recalled the chilling words Jude had said earlier that day: Someth’ns wrong with Billie, I think he’s dyin’, Mikey.

Seeing the Great Dane die wasn’t the only thing that was worrying him, though. He knew Jude wasn’t going to forget this incident. Not for a long while. Not ever.

The school bell sounded the end of the final period, shaking him from his memories. Michael jumped, and for some reason absently rubbed his fist. He turned and faced the class. They were patiently waiting for him to say something, their faces staring up at him like sunflowers tilted toward the sun. He knew what they wanted to hear, so he quickly gave them permission to leave.

The volume in the room immediately turned to full. The children gathered their bags and packed their books away, then began streaming out of the classroom into the corridor and merging with the children exiting the other classrooms. A little girl in a bright floral dress ambled up to him. Her name, for some reason, eluded him. She was a cute kid, a real daddy’s girl – blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect lips. Pointing to the blackboard, she asked him what he’d written.

He turned around, at first quizzical, then wide-eyed and incredulous. On the blackboard, in large white letters, was a message that seemed to have come from beyond the grave, as if it had been spelled out on a ouija board:

Something’s wrong with Angie.

I think she’s dying, Mikey

Michael staggered back, grabbing a steadying hold of his desktop. He read it again, his mind stumbling over the words like a dyslexic. The little girl asked him another question, but he was still too stunned to answer.

Suddenly, a mental image flashed before his eyes, of Angie drooling and twitching on the ground in a fetal position, writhing in agony, one hand clasping her belly, the other her head.

“Just like Billie,” he whispered, horrified at the idea.

He kept staring at the blackboard, running his hand through his hair. He’d never had a premonition before, he didn’t even believe in them, but this felt very much like one now, like déjà vu in reverse, as if he could sense something bad was going to happen before it did.

He heard the little girl’s footsteps running out of the classroom. She was obviously bored with receiving no answer to her questions and wanted to catch up with her friends before it was too late. He watched her leave and waited until she was out of sight before rubbing the offending sentence off the blackboard. As the duster wiped away the words, he caught himself smirking. The stress of the past few months was affecting him a lot more than he realized. He needed to relax. He needed a nice long holiday sitting on the beach reading a good book and drinking beer. Lots of beer.

He finished cleaning the blackboard and glanced outside the dirty windows. The sky was drizzly grey and the light was already fading. Some kids were shooting baskets on the basketball court, which also doubled as the school quadrangle. Others in parkas and raincoats were saying farewell to each other beneath the two large eucalypts over on the far side of the court. He figured it was time he stopped dawdling and got going as well. Removing his leather jacket from over the back of his chair, he looked up at the clock above the lockers on the back wall. It was showing ten to four, though he knew it was five minutes slow. He hadn’t bothered to set it to the proper time because he liked the thought of having five minutes less to go before the end of school. Nevertheless, time was ticking and Angie would be waiting. In slow, exaggerated movements, he made his way to the door. He felt like a man twice his age; his bones felt achy and his feet hurt. That holiday couldn’t come too soon.

He stepped out into the corridor, what he thought of as the highway of the building, and was surprised to find himself its sole occupant. To his right was the reception and principal’s office at the main entrance. To his left, the staff room and emergency fire exit at the rear. The classrooms abutting the corridor reminded him of prison cells lining death row. He couldn’t wait to get out of here quick enough.

After locking the door, he hastened as fast as his tired body would allow toward the main entrance. Halfway there, he heard the click of a shutting door from behind. He turned around to see the rotund figure of his friend, Norman Page, exiting his classroom. As well as the cream cardigan and beige trousers he was wearing, he carried a grey tatty coat over the crook of one arm and a taupe leather briefcase under the armpit of the other. Michael had once seen inside that briefcase. It was filled with nothing apart from nudie magazines and candy bars. Norman locked his classroom and looked up at Michael. There was a frown deeply embedded in his brow, which Michael reckoned was as permanent as his stubby nose and double chin.

“You look wonderful, my friend,” Michael said, smiling.

Norman grabbed his belt and hoisted his trousers over his over-hanging belly. “And you’re a very handsome woman,” he replied in his best Elvis Presley impersonation.

Michael thought the lip-curl lingered on his face like a poorly reconstructed harelip. He watched Norman turn and waddle towards the staff room. After a few steps the large man halted, sensing that Michael wasn’t following, and turned around to confront him.

“Are you coming to the staff meeting or not?” he asked.

Michael kept smiling as he had. “Not today, Mr. Page. I’ve got a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

Norman’s shoulders slumped and he almost dropped his briefcase. Michael could see he was having problems figuring out how he could get away once again whilst everyone else had to stay behind. Norman was always complaining that Michael was the headmistress’s pet. It drove Norman mad. He was always late in the mornings and missing meetings, while Norman was never late and yet was forever under the watchful eye of his superiors. Norman felt that no matter what he did, everything always went pear-shaped. Michael, he was forever grumbling, was luckier. Everything always seemed to work out for him, as if the gods were always on his side. Michael had to disagree. Norman didn’t know the problems he was facing at home.

“But, but how can you?” Norman said, still obviously flummoxed. “It’s out of the question. You can’t leave before Frau Hitler gives her orders for the month.” He clicked his heals together, dropped his coat, and gave a Nazi salute. “Vee must obey! Resistance is futile!” His fake German accent echoed around the corridor and Michael hoped no one else had heard, especially the headmistress. It would just be Norman’s luck if she had.

“Then call me nobody, mein Kommidant,” Michael said, looking at his watch. “I’ve got an important rendezvous in an hour. Angie won’t let me get out of it.”

Norman lowered his arm. “Sure, you’re off to enjoy yourselves while your poor friend suffers at the hands of a sadist. Don’t desert me like this Mikey, you know I can’t cope alone. I’m always the sacrificial lamb. Why can’t it be someone else for a change?”

The look on Norman’s face was almost pitiful. If Norman knew what he was about to do, Michael thought, then he probably wouldn’t complain so vociferously. If he himself had a choice, he would gladly exchange places with Norman right now.

Michael bade farewell and left his friend to pick up his coat and attend the meeting. “Mikey, I almost forgot,” he heard Norman say before he exited through the main doors. “Bridget’s cooking for Thanksgiving tonight. She asked if you and Angie would be interested in coming over later.”

“Thanksgiving? Who celebrates that?” Michael said with his hand on the door.

Norman shrugged. “We do. Bridget’s father was a US Marine. He settled in Sydney after the war and we’ve kind of kept up the family tradition.”

Michael took a moment to consider the offer. “I don’t know, Norman. I’m not sure how long this thing’s going to take. Can I call you later?”

“Sure, if I’m still alive to take your call.”

Rolling his eyes, Michael waved goodbye and strode outside. The main entrance opened onto the basketball court-cum-quadrangle. Beyond and to the left was the teachers’ parking lot. The threatened drizzle he had seen from the classroom had materialized into light rain and he was forced to break into a trot. He cursed. This incessant weather was beginning to really get on his nerves of late. He was beginning to feel permanently damp, as though his clothes were always wet.

As he reached the parking lot, the sky visibly darkened and the rain began to fall in heavy drops. He cursed again. He spied the faded yellow paintwork of the VW parked between two other cars and began running to it. He jumped in and slotted the key in the ignition, grateful to get out of the rain. Annoyingly, the steam lifting from his soggy clothes fogged the windows almost straight away, and when he turned the key he felt a sudden chill, more than he expected wet clothes should, like he had just sat down inside a freezer. He began to shiver and his teeth chattered uncontrollably, and right at the moment the engine sputtered into life the image of Angie twitching and drooling on the ground flashed before him.

Once again the unnerving premonition of dread washed over him. A voice suddenly popped into his head, hushed and frightened, as if narrating the image: Someth’ns wrong with Angie. I think she’s dyin’, Mikey.

He slammed the gear stick in reverse and accelerated back. “Please don’t let anything be wrong with her,” he mumbled. Except, to his dismay, no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t erase that image of her from his mind.

He sped through the gates out of the school grounds. The idea of going to the hospital suddenly didn’t seem so bad.