As I walk, I feel an ache in my chest, pounding like it wants to get out. I have to keep moving. If I move, maybe I can stop these feelings from erupting.
There’s a huge gray rock ahead, and I walk along it and come to another path, which leads down to a pond. Up through the trees I can see slivers of the skyscrapers that surround the park, and then down a slope, I can see the greenish waters of a pond, people sitting on benches, some standing on the sidewalk along the pond’s shore.
Then I see Sam, with a few other boys. Sam. They’re gazing out at the pond and throwing rocks, laughing. I want to call out, but Sam turns his face and I see it’s not him at all, but some other kid, a kid with dark hair, close to Sam’s age. This kid is laughing now. He shoves one of his buddies, and his friend shoves him back, jokingly, and they start running, chasing each other up the path. Normal teenage boys.
Torture. Many kinds of torture. Abuse. Sexual abuse.
Three years. Three years.
I turn around and practically jog back up the little hill. I’m almost to the exit when I stop. I lean my back against the stone wall surrounding the park and hold myself there, close my eyes. But all I can see is Sam, and when I see Sam all I can think about are the things that happened to him.
No, I think, my chest tightening. My muscles are rubbery. I sit down, my back against the wall, pulling my knees toward me. I take a deep breath, and that’s a mistake because it just makes me split open and I just let go, sobbing hysterically, maybe almost screaming, my head between my legs, tears falling to the ground. I must look psychotic, but it feels so good to let it all out. Sam, Sam. My little brother. I’m so sorry. I was supposed to watch you. I’m glad he can’t see me like this, falling to pieces. We need to be strong for Sam, Mom had said. But in my head I’m screaming, I don’t know how to be strong!
Eventually, through my sobs, I hear someone speaking to me.
“You okay? Hey there, it’s okay.”
I squint and look up through my drowning eyes, and I see a woman. She’s got a headband and a jacket on, and she’s looking at me with concern. I wipe my eyes, feeling jolted from my breakdown or whatever you would call it. I stand up, unsteady, and see a man behind her, wearing a baseball cap and running clothes. He’s tall. Two joggers. A couple, I guess. In their twenties maybe.
“You okay?” the woman repeats.
My crying dies down, and I catch my breath, nodding. The tightness in my chest is gone. “Uh-huh.” I’ve forgotten how stuffed your nose gets when you cry, and more than anything right now I want a tissue.
“You sure? Can we help you?”
God, I think, I wish you could help me. “I’m lost,” I say.
“You’re not from here?”
I shake my head and say, “No, I’m visiting. With my family. With my brother.”
“Okay, sweetie. Where you staying? Near the park? We can help you find your way back.”
I tell her the name of the hotel. “Okay, well, let’s get you back there.” She takes my hand and we start walking, the boyfriend or husband up ahead a little, fiddling with his phone, maybe searching for the address. He keeps glancing back, like he’s afraid he might lose us.
“When I first moved here from Michigan, I got lost all the time,” the girl tells me. “Where are you from?”
I’m still sniffling, wiping my eyes. “Tuscaloosa, Alabama,” I say.
“Roll tide,” the guy says, smiling back at me. “I went to LSU,” he says. “I’m from New Orleans.”
“What brought you to New York?” the girl asks. “To see the sights, catch some shows?”
Because my brother was abducted and then he came back to us and now everyone wants to know our incredible and awful story. We’re about to be semi-famous, at least for a little bit, for something really horrible.
But I don’t tell her any of this. “Yeah, to see the sights,” I say instead.
Finally, we reach the block of the hotel. “I see it up ahead.”
“We can walk you,” the girl says.
“That’s okay,” I say.
“If you’re sure,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say. I think the tears are going to start rolling again, so I give her a quick wave and turn to walk to the hotel. A few seconds later, I look back once, quickly, and they’re still both there, watching me. That’s when the tears start again, an onslaught. I stop on the sidewalk. I’m not ready to go back inside. Then I see Mom come out, still in her fancy interview suit. She glances down the street, looking for me, maybe pissed or scared.
And then she spots me, and I know I have to walk toward her. I have to keep moving, no matter what’s going to happen to me. No matter what’s going to happen to us.
CHAPTER 4
Connected
Josh
It’s Thursday night of homecoming week. I’m shoving red tissue paper into the chicken wire that covers the base of the parade float that my classmates have been building. We’ve set up shop in a gymnasium that the Alberta First Methodist Church doesn’t use anymore. It has this big freight entrance where we can drag the entire float out when we’re finished. The big doors are open now, and cool air blows in from outside. Some people are working, some are just standing around socializing, and a few are walking around giving orders. To be honest, I’m sort of in a haze. If I focus on just shoving the tissue paper into the wire, then at least it will look like I’m busy and maybe no one will bother me.
Tomorrow is the homecoming parade, so we have to finish the float tonight. Since I’m class vice president, I’ll get to ride on it through the streets of downtown Tuscaloosa, with people on the sidewalks waving and hollering. Then there’s the football game tomorrow night, followed by the dance right after. We were supposed to be working on the float each night, but we were really just talking about it and goofing off, so now we’re in a last-minute rush. I know I should be enjoying all of this. Normally I would. And I’m trying to. But it’s been hard.