The Reaping

CHAPTER TWO





Someone was calling my name over and over again, shaking me. I wondered how this all fit into my daydream, but a thick layer of cobweb had settled over my mind. On and on, someone continued calling my name and shaking my shoulder. I wanted to tell them to stop; it was extremely aggravating. But for some reason my lips didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

Again, someone called my name. This time I noticed that the voice sounded vaguely familiar. And in a good way, too. It induced a very pleasant sensation somewhere in the pit of my stomach.

I pushed my way through the cobwebs, my eyelids the first body parts to respond to my commands. They opened to a scene that dipped and swayed and doubled. I closed them, counted to ten then opened them again. This time my vision was clearer, though I suspected that I might still be daydreaming. The handsome face of none other than Stephen Fitchco hovered over me, his sandy eyebrows pinched together in a worried frown over clear blue eyes.

“Carson! Carson!” It was his voice. And he knew my name!

“What?”

Stephen let out a sigh of relief and closed his eyes. “Thank God you’re ok,” he said.

Ok? What’s that supposed to mean? I thought. Then I noticed that Stephen’s head was framed by blue sky. Just then, the sting of gravel biting into my back penetrated my brain. Then I remembered the black Honda.

“Am I dead?”

“What? Dead?”

“I must be dead. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here,” I reasoned.

He chuckled. “Well, you’re not dead. Can you move?”

Good question. First I tried to wiggle my toes. To my intense relief, they moved inside the confines of my tennis shoes. Whew! No spinal damage. I wiggled my fingers and shrugged my shoulders. Everything seemed to be in working order.

“Yes.”

Stephen smiled a handsome smile that made me feel pretty and special, two things I didn’t feel very often. “Good. Let me help you sit up.”

Stephen slipped one arm under my shoulders and grabbed my hand with his other then gently urged me into a sitting position. My head swam dizzily.

“Wh-what happened?”

“You nearly got run over.”

“But I didn’t?”

“Uh, no,” he said, his voice adopting a strange tone that caused me to look over at him.

“Then wh- how—” I trailed off.

“I’m not really sure how you did it, but you, like, jumped on the hood of my car then sort of ran across the top and fell off the back I think.”

Well, that didn’t sound like something I’d do at all. And surely I would remember such an amazing feat.

“Hmm” was my only response.

“It was actually pretty cool,” he said, his admiration obvious.

“Hmm,” I said again, though I liked the admiration.

“You don’t remember any of that?”

“No.”

“What do you remember?”

“A horn. And seeing a black Honda’s grill coming toward me.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Maybe you should get checked out. You might have hit your head when you fell.”

At that moment I was far too enamored of him to dwell on his idiotic statement. I was lying in the middle of the street and I’d obviously been unconscious. Of course I’d hit my head. Duh!

“Hmm,” was all I said for the third time, still not yet fully engaged in reality.

“You know, maybe I should take you to the hospital. Just to be sure you’re alright.”

That got my attention. “No. I’m fine. Really.” To prove my point, I pushed myself to my feet then promptly fell into Stephen when the world tilted on its axis.

“You don’t seem ‘fine’.”

“Well, I am.”

“At least let me give you a ride home.”

Extend my fantasy a little longer? I was all for that. “Okay,” I said without a moment’s hesitation.

“Come on,” he said, pulling me snugly against his side and guiding me around his car to the passenger side.

After helping me in, Stephen climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine. Music heavily laden with guitar and drums blasted through the speakers.

“Sorry,” Stephen said, smiling sheepishly and turning the volume down.

I simply smiled in return. I could offer no commentary on his musical selection. That was yet another item that made my father’s “silly” list and was, therefore, deemed a waste of my time. For the millionth time, I mourned the death of my youth. I felt like I’d barely lived at all. Oh, how I longed for some excitement, some meaning, some importance to life.

On the short ride home, I absorbed as much detail as I could about the scene inside the Honda. Knowing I’d likely not have the chance again, I memorized the smell of Stephen’s cologne, the competent way his hands gripped the steering wheel, the tenor of his voice as he talked about his upcoming football game. For just a few minutes, I was a regular girl, enjoying the company of the most popular guy in school, a world of endless possibilities outside my window.

And then I saw my house come into view.

Stephen pulled up to the curb in front of my mailbox and put the car in park. He turned toward me. “Are you sure you’re going to be alright?”

I nodded and smiled, though it wobbled with emotion. My moment was over. “I’m fine. Thanks for the ride,” I said, opening my door.

“No problem,” he assured me, smiling his handsome smile. “See you at school Monday.”

I closed the door, unable to respond for the questions swirling in my head. Was that a promise? It sure sounded like one. Of course, I wanted it to be a promise more than life itself. Did I dare dwell on such an extraordinary thing? Had my stunning acrobatics impressed him? Was I suddenly interesting, now that he’d nearly killed me? How did he know where I lived? Did Dad see him drop me off?

Unfortunately, only one of my questions was to be answered this night. And the answer was yes, Dad did see Stephen drop me off.

I marched up the driveway, suddenly aware of a throbbing inside my skull. I decided to avoid the garage and go through the front door instead, only to find Dad standing behind the glass, arms crossed over his chest.

“Who was that?” I knew that disapproving look. Dad’s shaggy dark brown hair was mussed from frustrated fingers. The deep groove between his hazel eyes was even more pronounced and his mouth was set in a grim, straight line.

I thought about lying, but quickly realized there was no point. There was nothing I could say that would smooth things over; he’d see that I had supposedly been going on a run and ended up with a boy instead. Of course, there was the small possibility he’d believe the truth.

“Stephen Fitchco.”

“And what were you doing with him?”

“There was a, uh, an accident and he gave me a ride home.”

At first he looked puzzled. “What kind of accident?” Then I saw his eyes drift to my cheek then down to my arm. They both stung so I could only assume they showed telltale signs of my encounter with the pavement.

I watched as Dad slowly dropped his arms, his big hands curling into tight fists. He was ready to pass judgment and then execute somebody, even though he had no idea what had happened. “Are you alright? Who did this to you?”

See what I have to deal with? Since my mother and sister had died in “the accident” all those years ago, Dad had been obsessed with keeping me close and safe. Obsessed! It had devastated him, so much so that he couldn’t even keep pictures of them around. Consequently, all his crazy was sharply focused on me.

“It was nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing. Look at your face. And your hair.” He continued his assessment of me. “And your arm and your knee. And—”

“Alright, Dad!” I cut him off before he worked himself up into a real twirl. “It was my fault. I was running, not paying attention, when I heard a horn. I noticed it too late and then…” I trailed off, partly because my memory of the rest was second hand and partly because details made him even crazier.

“Were you hurt?”

“Just scraped up a little. No biggee, Dad.” He wasn’t buying it.

“The boy that brought you home, is he the one that hit you?”

“Uh,um,” I stammered, not wanting to incriminate Stephen just in case he did suddenly find me interesting.

“Carson Marie,” Dad said, the warning clear in his use of my first and middle name.

“I don’t remember exactly what happened. He was the one helping me when I woke up and—”

“When you woke up?”

“Well, yeah. And—”

“So you were knocked unconscious?”

This was getting worse by the second. I didn’t really think it was that big a deal, but Dad was quickly reaching Def Con Five and I didn’t know how to reverse the process.

“I guess, but—”

“We need to get you to the hospital,” he said, turning on his heel and snatching his truck keys off the table by the door.

Grabbing my elbow, Dad herded me out the door and to his truck and we made our way to the hospital. I knew there was no talking him down, so I went with silence as my next best option. The least I could do was not make things worse.

Three and a half excruciatingly boring and embarrassing hours later, we were pulling back into the driveway. I’d been given a clean bill of health and a list of concussion precautions. Barring any complications from the knock to the head, the ER doctor assured me I’d be fine.

The one positive was that Dad was on his best behavior. At some point on the quiet drive to the hospital, he’d realized that his anger was misplaced and that what I needed was some TLC. And, believe it or not, when TLC was needed, Dad was actually a pretty good source. It’s just that he rarely ever thought it was needed. On the odd occasion when it was called for, though, I basked in it, just as I was doing now.

We’d already stopped for take-out on the way home. Dad had also run into the store for my favorite ice cream. While he was in there, he’d picked up a movie that I’d wanted to see. Movies were another “silly” thing that I seldom got to enjoy, but since the opportunity had presented itself, I wasn’t going to squander it.

After seeing me safely inside, Dad went back out to the truck for the food while I went to the bathroom to clean up. I had gotten a glimpse of my reflection in a sink mirror at the hospital and I’d taken quite a tumble, leaving dirt and gravel and dried blood in several highly visible places.

One thing I’d always been grateful for was Dad’s insistence that wherever we moved, we find a home that had two full baths. He always gave me the master suite and he took another room and used the spare bathroom. It was his one concession to my gender.

I hobbled past the living room and through my room into my bathroom and shut the door behind me. I stripped and grabbed a washcloth with the intention of a sponge bath-type cleaning. When I saw that I’d have to clean most of me anyway, I decided to run a hot bath and soak my sore spots while I cleaned. Dinner could wait.

I poured some shampoo under the running water (the poor man’s bubble bath) and sat on the edge of the tub to await the result. When the tub was half full, I stepped in and slid down beneath the thin froth that had covered the water’s surface.

The instant water touched my skin my entire right side began to burn. I held my breath and waited for the stinging to stop. Finally it did and I relaxed onto the cool ceramic at my back.

I slid down to wet my hair, the sloshing suds just barely covering my ears. I never went completely under; I’d always had a fear of water. Since I was a child, I felt as if I weren’t alone, like someone or something was in the water with me, waiting to drag me into oblivion. There had even been a few times when I’d gone under accidentally that I thought I saw a face in the water, hovering, watching. Waiting.

“Carson? You alright?”

Dad startled me, though I was far from displeased that his concern had interrupted my disturbing thoughts.

“Yeah,” I answered.

I heard his footsteps fade as he walked away and I relaxed once more against the tub. Clearing my head of all thought, I soaked for a while. When the water that lapped at my chest became decidedly cool, I lifted my hand and noted the distinct pruning of my fingertips, a clear indication it was time to get to work cleaning all my various scraped and soiled body parts then get out.

I wet my washcloth and lifted my right leg out of the water. The outer side was covered in road rash, from calf to hip. I gently scrubbed away the dried blood and black smudges. I picked off bits of skin and dug out small pieces of gravel. As I rinsed the grime away, a speck of something shiny on my calf near my knee caught the light.

“How’d I get glass under my skin?” I asked no one in particular.

I rubbed at the fragment with my washcloth, but it didn’t budge. The location made it hard to get an up-close look, but I was positive it was glass; it’s the only thing it could be. I decided that time would work it out or my skin would heal up around it.

I moved on to clean my hip and ribs as best I could, working my way up toward my arms and face. As I was picking skin and gravel from a particularly nasty scrape on my forearm, I encountered another shiny spot halfway between my wrist and elbow. I brought my arm up for a closer inspection.

What I’d thought was glass was actually a pencil eraser-sized spot of something that reminded me of mother of pearl, creamy and slightly iridescent. I rubbed at it with my washcloth, but it wouldn’t come off. I pinched the area between my thumb and forefinger and squeezed, but nothing came out. Finally, I scraped at it with my fingernail, hoping to pick up the edge so I could dig it out. Instead, my skin rolled back the tiniest bit, revealing more of the creamy material just beneath the surface.

I sat up in the tub, an uneasy sense of foreboding swelling in my chest. I tugged at my skin, pulling and stretching it around the scrape. It slid this way and that, baring more shiny stuff, like I had another skin beneath my skin. I dug my fingernail in and pushed, rolling up a long piece of flesh. It bled a little, but I felt no pain; it would take more than that to intrude on my rising panic.

I dabbed at the blood, my heart pounding in my ears, my breath coming more quickly. As I feared, with the blood cleared, a long streak of shimmering dermis was visible along the length of my arm.

There was no keeping my panic at bay now; waves of it flooded my mind.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God!” I chanted. I thought of the scratches on my face and nausea rolled through my stomach.

I hopped out of the tub and made my way to the sink. I leaned in to look at my right cheek in the mirror. I turned my face this way and that and caught the light as it shone on more of the glistening sub-layer.

Though there were many other concerns and considerations that should’ve been a priority in my mind, the one that surfaced first was what a pariah I’d be in school if I had developed some sort of freaky skin condition. My life was far from normal already; I didn’t need anything else to set me apart from my peers.

I thought of what a cruel cosmic joke that would be, wanting to be special and ending up a circus freak.

Yeah, that’s special alright, I thought bitterly. Sounds like the type of higher power my dad would get a kick out of serving.

I thought of showing my father, asking him what he thought it might be, but considering his propensity toward overreaction when it came to all things Carson, I decided that would be a bad idea.

I moved to the commode and sat down on the lid. I closed my eyes and took several deep, shaky breaths.

“Calm down, Carson. Calm down,” I whispered into the stillness.

I sat there for several minutes waiting for rational thought to return. I knew better than to make an emotional decision. Dad had drummed that into me from a very young age.

You can’t trust your feelings, butterfly, he’d say. Or, Feelings are fickle, Carson. Don’t rely on ‘em.

I leaned on that advice now, finally deciding to wait and see what the morning brought. That was another nugget of wisdom Dad had always poured in. Everything looks different after a good night’s sleep. And usually he was right, much as I hated to admit it.

I pulled myself up by my proverbial bootstraps and went to the cabinet for some concealer. It was another of the few concessions Dad made to my being a girl. I was particularly thankful for that tonight.

I dabbed some of the flesh colored liquid on the scrapes on my face to hide the pale layer underneath then I went and picked out some winter pajamas that had full pants and long sleeves. When I was dressed, I surveyed my reflection and decided I’d pass casual inspection.

Dad and I spent a relaxing night eating Chinese food, ice cream and watching a movie. I tried to still my nerves, but I was jumpy and couldn’t wait until bed time. I used the excuse of a traumatic day to turn in early.

As I stood in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth, I let my mind run elsewhere. I rehashed the events of the day. When I came to the most disturbing part, it brought me back to reality and brought my eyes back to my cheek.

I leaned in closer and rubbed my fingertips over the smooth skin of my cheek. My mouth fell open in astonishment. All that was visible was a few dots of concealer—with nothing to conceal. The scrapes were completely healed.