Being Henry David

7

Scuffing through the dead leaves and pine needles at the side of the road, I head back to Walden Pond the next morning. I’m drawn there, like maybe this is the place where I can find some answers. Which is tough, considering I’m not even sure of the questions.

Last night I slept like a dead person on the stage platform at the school, and woke up in the same position I went to sleep in, my back stiff and no dreams to remember. With Sophie’s keys giving me free reign of the school, I took a shower in the boys’ locker room and picked out a change of clothes from the lost and found—faded jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. In the cafeteria fridge, I found some ham and cheese sandwiches, milk, and an apple.

My side hurt and was bleeding again, so I let myself into the nurse’s office to get antiseptic and bandages. The cut should be better by now, but it’s still red around the edges and hurts to touch it. Worst of all, it reminds me of Simon.

In my imagination Simon is a zombie, withered hands reaching, eyes glazed, blood streaking down his forehead, nubby teeth grinning. Will he be looking for me too, like Magpie and those guys who work for him? But no, none of them can find me here. There’s no way.

Don’t think about it.

Walden Pond is a mirror, reflecting gray-blue skies, the pines, and oak trees with new leaves pushing out of fat buds. Some people are out hiking, but the deeper I go into the woods, the more alone I am. Walking faster, I break into this little trot, a comfortable jogging pace that just feels good. Maybe I really did run track in my former life, because running feels as natural as walking, as playing guitar, as breathing. Somehow I’m even able to set aside the pain in my side to focus on the running. My legs and breaths settle into a rhythm that calms every cell in my body like meditation, like some kind of drug. Even though my body is moving, my mind is relaxed.

A collage of images floats into my consciousness, snapshot memories of Jack and Nessa, of Magpie and Simon. Thomas. There’s Hailey smiling at me and Cameron glaring. Ms. Coleman. Sophie and Billy. In such a short time, my weird disjointed life has put me in contact with a lot of people. Some I’m glad to have etched on my brain. Others I’d erase in a nanosecond if I could figure out how.

Leaves and pebbles and pine needles crunch in cadence under my sneakers, lulling me into a comfortable trance, and in this frame of mind, I try to access the memories that lie just out of reach.

Gently pressing my memory to the edge of places that don’t feel safe, I think: Dad. Then I think: Mom. The beast inside twitches in its sleep, but I refuse to surrender, focusing instead on my pumping arms and legs, my breaths. Inhale. Exhale.

Dad. Mom.

Like a camera taking a picture, an image of my dad flashes behind my eyeballs. Tall man, dark hair, wire rimmed glasses, gray eyes like mine, a kind smile. We are outside, Dad and me. We’re in the woods, building a fire. We have sleeping bags and backpacks and compasses. This is something we do together, something that belongs to us.

Now I see Dad clutching a suitcase, waving good-bye. There are no words, but I know he is going, leaving again. My heart clenches like a fist. Don’t go, Dad.

I almost trip over a fallen branch on the trail, but as I regain my footing, another image floats into my consciousness. Mom. Hair blond and wavy, face anxious and thin, a half-empty glass of red wine clutched in her hand as she stares out a window. Doesn’t look at me, doesn’t see me. I yell something at her, then turn and charge out a blue door with a half-circle window. I slam it shut, the window shatters, and glass skitters on the floor, but she doesn’t even turn around.

My breath hitches in my chest, but I press my memory even further, contemplate another word: sister.

The beast roars awake as if I poked it with a stick and I completely lose the rhythm of running and breathing. Stumble off the path into a small inlet next to the pond, hidden from the path by a hill and a cluster of evergreens. Leaning against a tree branch, wheezing, I peer into the green-brown water of Walden Pond.

Searing pain blinds me and I grab my head to keep it from exploding, forcing myself to go there again. Sister. The thing inside expands, rips at the lining of my stomach, squeezes my lungs. Sister. It’s trying to kill me, wants me dead. Better dead than to remember.

My legs are rubber, give out, and I collapse on a big rock, doubled over to cradle my seizing stomach. My God. My entire body drifts toward unconsciousness, and I’m falling. No. Can’t let myself pass out. Have to remember.

Sister.

Too close to the edge of the rock, I slip on a sludge-coated corner and tumble forward into the water, shatter the smooth surface, and go under. Cold water seeps into my hair, my clothes and shocks me to my core. I float, stunned and weightless under the green water, at the edge of unconsciousness. The cold seeps into my skin, legs, arms, ears, internal organs, the roots of my hair. But still I float, serene, not even trying to kick my feet or pull toward the surface.

The water is shallow, no danger, not really. And yet. Deep enough. A calm feeling spreads through my veins like water warmed by a secret hot spring. Drowning would be so easy, so sweet.

Then a strange image flashes behind my eyeballs. Open music box, tinny music playing, plastic ballerina twirling. And then I see her. My sister. Big blue eyes, long eyelashes. Yellow-white hair, pink shirt, one pink sneaker. The music box grinds to a halt, ballerina twisted to one side, broken. And there is blood. My sister’s screams fill my head, jar me from my peaceful drifting.

Save her.

Jamming my feet down, I find the pond’s spongy bottom and push myself to the surface, where I fill my lungs with cool fresh air and cough and cough.

I take the long way back to the high school, through the woods, away from the streets. My teeth are chattering and my body is shivering so hard it hurts. Icy pond water squishes in my sneakers with every step and my cold, drenched clothes weigh about fifty pounds, or at least it seems like it. By the time I get there, it’s afternoon and the school is already growing dark and silent under clouds threatening rain.

Opening the back door of the school with Sophie’s keys, I’m thinking of warm, dry clothes from the lost and found and a hot shower in the boys’ locker room. But then I’m stopped short by a shrill beeping sound. It’s coming from the keypad on the wall near the door, which flashes the words enter code in a small gray screen.

Oh crap. Even though I opened the outside door with the key, there’s some kind of backup security system that needs a code. Just a few numbers punched in, that’s all. In a panic, I pound a few keys, as if somehow randomly I’ll hit the right combination. Stupid. After about thirty seconds, it’s all over. The burglar alarm starts screaming, a continuous, pulsing wail. The police are probably on their way.

I run down the hall, toward the auditorium to my hiding place above the stage. Just in time, I realize I’m leaving wet footprints behind me. The pond water is squishing out of my sneakers leaving a trail. I duck into the boys’ room, where I take off my wet sneakers, my wet clothes, and quickly dry off with paper towels. Then I wad up more paper towels, rush back into the hallway and do my best to dry the footprints, pushing the towels around with my feet. I run back to my hiding place, dressed only in my underwear, clothes bunched in my arms.

Just as I’m scrambling up to the platform above the stage, the sound of a door forced open echoes down a long hallway. There are low murmurs, voices I can’t make out. Abruptly, the alarm is silenced, leaving my ears ringing as I huddle in a ball, shivering. I’m terrified that I left footprints leading to my hiding place; sure they’ll hear my heavy breathing and the jack-hammer of my heart.

Disembodied voices and footsteps echo through the school. Approaching, closer. Too afraid to peer down into the auditorium space, I try to slow my breaths. Two men are here. I hear their voices.

“Just a false alarm, Terry. Second time this month. Everything seems secure.”

“Well, hold on,” says the cop named Terry. In moments, his footsteps echo on the wooden stage. I can see the beam of a flashlight, sweeping the stage. Can he hear me breathing? I cringe, motionless. Then I hear the drip.

The wet pile of clothes next to me is dripping through the spaces between the platform boards. Water plops gently to the floor below.

Eyes shut tight, I wait for the officer to shout orders at me, or climb up to get me, handcuffs ready to snap on my wrists.

“Terry, come on, there’s nothing here.”

“There’s a little water here on the floor,” the cop says. I imagine the flashlight examining the puddle, then sense its beam sweeping up to my hiding place above his head. I hold my breath.

“Just a leak,” he murmurs. Then louder he says, “Okay, Jim, let’s go. Everything checks out.”

I’m still holding my breath as I follow the sound of their footsteps on the hollow stage and then disappearing down the hall. Finally, I let the air out of my lungs with a low hiss, but I’m still too terrified to move. I stay there for a long time to reassure myself they’re really gone, until my trembling knees and elbows make knocking sounds on the wood.

Still dressed only in my underwear, I go into the boys’ locker room and start a shower, let the room fill with steam and stand motionless under the hot water until the cold leaches out of my body.

I pull on dry clothes from the lost and found—a striped shirt missing a button, baggy jeans, and sneakers about a half-size too big. I focus on these tasks, even though my entire body hums with restlessness.

All I can think about now is my sister in danger, blond hair, pink sneaker, and too much blood. Big eyes so scared. If I thought it would help, I’d be sprinting down the streets of Concord now to get to her. But that would accomplish nothing. First, I don’t know how to find her. Second, my body is weak, exhausted, depleted. I can hardly even think.

Only one true, clear thought slices through my exhaustion: I have to find out who I am, so I can figure out how to get to her. This is not about me anymore. Even the beast can’t keep me from her or prevent me from remembering more. I won’t let it.

For now though, my mind and body are numb. Just need to get warm. Just need to rest. Build up my strength so I can focus on finding her.

Using Sophie’s keys, I let myself in the nurse’s office to put fresh bandages on my side. It hurts more than before, and now there’s yellow pus oozing out of the cut. The red skin around the cut is hot, and my face feels hot too. At the same time, there’s this chunk of ice inside me. So cold. I find blankets on a cupboard shelf, lie shivering on one of the cots, and the tide of sleep takes me under in a heartbeat.

“Time to wake up, son.”

A voice jolts me from a dream, and my eyes fly open to see a woman sitting in a chair like she’s been there a while, watching me sleep. Gray-streaked, curly hair. Young-old face with sad brown eyes. It takes a moment to recognize the janitor.

“You’re not supposed to be in here, you know.” Her voice is firm, but also kind.

“I’m sorry,” I say politely, as if I’ve taken a wrong turn and wandered by accident into her fancy rose garden. “I’ll go.” My temples pound when I sit up.

But she just sits there, head cocked to one side like she’s in no hurry for me to leave. “It really is amazing how much you look like Michael.”

“Michael is…your son?”

Sophie nods, focusing dry eyes on the medicine cabinet over my shoulder. “He died a few years ago, when he was thirteen. Leukemia. But I bet he’d look a lot like you now. What are you, seventeen? Eighteen?”

“Um, yeah.”

“By the way, I also know you’re not a student here.” She frowns at me, but she doesn’t actually seem angry. “You’re lucky Billy isn’t good at remembering faces like I am. You’re trespassing on town property.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again. For some reason, I can’t lie to this woman who watched me sleep and called me by her son’s name.

“So, tell me. What are you doing in the nurse’s office at six in the morning when nobody but the janitors are supposed to be here?”

“I’m here, because—” A hundred lies pass through my head and I discard them all. “I’m here because I ran away from home and there’s no place else to go.”

Her face is soft and sad as she reaches out to touch my cheek. Her fingers are ice cold against my skin, and I flinch. “You’re feverish,” she says with such deep concern that all I want is to lie on this cot and let this nice lady take care of me so I can feel better and find my sister.

The distant sound of a man whistling off-key echoes down the hallway. “There’s Billy,” says Sophie. She rises to her feet and peers down at me. “You need to go. Even if I wanted to let you stay, I can’t. I’d lose my job.”

“I understand,” I say.

Reaching out a finger, she brushes hair out of my eyes. “What’s your name?” she asks me.

“Hank.”

“Hank, call your mother,” she whispers, like she knows something about me that I don’t. “I guarantee she would sacrifice her own life just to have you back home. Understand?”

I nod, my eyes burning. She turns toward the door, clears her throat, and asks, “By the way, you didn’t come across a set of keys the other night, did you?”

I don’t even try to sidestep the question. Instead, I reach into my pocket and give her an apologetic smile as the keys chink into her open hand.

“Good boy,” she says, and she leaves the room. The words float in her wake, and something inside me longs to follow after her. But I just lie there and listen as her footsteps echo down the hallway and disappear.