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“Seriously.”
“Fine.” She moved back to her side of the truck, and I carefully texted him back.
Fucking delete that photo.
Damien: Aw, come on, it’s half hot.
It didn’t matter if I agreed with him or not. He had no business taking shots of the girls like that.
And you can be half dead when I see you next.
I tossed the phone into my console and drove Brit home, dropping her off. Without so much as a kiss goodbye or a promise to hook up another time she left my truck in a snit. Me, well, I drove my ass home, alone and smiling thinking about punching Damien so hard he would shit himself next time I saw his smarmy ass.
8
Hunter
Tenth Grade - January
“Hunter! Did you hear what happened?” Damien rushed into the garage where I was whittling a small squirrel to keep my mind busy. The little face looked back slightly animated and almost hungry, its empty hands reaching for a nut. I’d gotten quite skilled at these things. I made one final shave of the wood over the tail, turning it over in my palm. It was nearly finished looking it over. Its belly was a lighter shade and the olive oil I used to grease the wood darkened the rest of his knife carved fur.
“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” I used a small knife to shape the edges of its face. Small nose, tiny indents for eyes, and nicks in the wood built the ears. My focus was intent so I didn’t cut my finger or chop this thing in half like the dozen or so scraps littering the box of wood to be burned. This was Uncle Henry’s version of therapy—busy hands, quiet mind—but all I had to show for it until now was a bunch of half decapitated woodland creatures. It was a good thing I had quit therapy because Dr. Tom would have had a field day with my collection of creepy wood animals.
“Taylor’s mom died yesterday.” Damien sat down next to me on the wood bench, and I paused before resuming my nicks and cuts a little deeper now. I made sure each movement was calculated and matched my breathing.
Damien’s eyes followed my hands and the knife as he spoke. “Mom just came in to tell me, and I thought maybe you’d want to know.” Standing, I took the borrowed tools and placed them on the table in my uncle’s garage. My hands braced the table and I leaned forward looking out the window, life continued to go on, but my chest had this vice grip slowly squeezing itself tighter the more I pushed and pulled away from my past. Part of me couldn’t imagine what Taylor Jane was feeling right then, and then part of me, the part I hadn’t cut off completely knew exactly the kind of pain she was feeling losing a parent you loved deeply.
I remembered her mom made the best cookies and thick pies, always leaving out a little extra for us kids when Damien dragged me over there to tease Kristen or help Taylor Jane with a history project. Taylor Jane’s house was a gathering place of sorts and her mother… Jolene mothered everyone with just the right amount of love you seemed to need. She is—was—amazing.
“How….” My voice threatened to break and I slammed the door shut on my emotions, getting control over myself leaning further over the bench table. “What happened?”
“Mom said she went to the hospital for something minor, appendicitis I think, and got sick real quick with some kind of infection and fever.” That explai
ned why I hadn’t seen her in school this week. I was sure Kristen told me about it during lunch or study hall, but I pressed myself to remember and I couldn’t. It was like I blocked out any unpleasant news from the moment it touched me.
I pressed the heel of my hand into my eye that started twitching as I spoke to my cousin.
“We should go see her. Make sure she’s all right.” The carved squirrel was still in my free hand like an extension of me, and I thought that maybe I should give it to her. I remembered my parents’ funeral service and the cloying scent of flowers. The scent reminded me of rotting, decaying things and I hated it. I don’t know, the carving seemed stupid, but it was something and it wouldn’t die like flowers do.
Walking inside the house, I smelled the food my aunt made, some kind of casserole dish, maybe lasagna? She probably needed something to keep her busy. Grown-ups are always doing busy shit when someone dies. I knew she played Bunco from time to time with Mrs. Bryant. She handed it to Damien, and we made the short walk across the street to Taylor Jane’s house, the silence stretched between us. I’d only been there a handful of times, but enough to know that her dad was pretty overprotective, and while Kristen could walk through the door unannounced, I doubted us boys could do the same.
“Knock on the door, Hunter, my hands are full. Mom must have loaded this thing with bricks and it’s hot as shit.”
I glanced over at the foil covered dish. Turns out it was a chicken parmesan casserole, so it was probably the cheeses and sauce that made it weigh so much. A silly thought to have when my best friend’s mom died, but there it was. I raised my hand up and knocked on the door. Taylor Jane’s dad answered it looking haggard and ten years older that when I saw him last.
“Boys.” He nodded to us and opened the door to let us in. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a few days and his dress shirt was wrinkled with the sleeves rolled up. I had only ever seen her father wear crisp suits. Today he looked emotionally homeless.
“My mom thought you would be hungry.” Damien handed Mr. Bryant the casserole dish, and he stared at it a moment, shaking his head.
“Please tell Ginny I appreciate it.”
We were all nodding and not saying anything, which made me agitated. Why did this always happen, this non-verbal bullshit? We all felt like crap and we were all hurting, but we said nothing, did nothing, standing there like idiots.
“Is Taylor Jane home?” Impulsively I asked, and both Damien and Mr. Bryant looked at me like I spoke Spanish or something unexpected.
Her father dipped his head and looked up the stairs.
“She’s in her bedroom with Kristen. Go on up, I’ll just put this in the kitchen.”
