Driven, page 20
Chapter Forty-four
TRAIPSING THROUGH the dark woods was a hazard even without the gusts and waterworks. Oliver tripped several times over exposed roots and branches that had already fallen. By the time he got to the clearing, he was covered in mud, scratches and leaves, his right ankle on fire. Fighting against the ever-quickening wind was exhausting and the stinging rain left red welts on any skin that was bare. He almost sank to his knees when he saw the gleaming ribbed metal sticking out of a tall rocky expanse.
Oliver spent a lot of time hanging out in the storm drain as a kid. It had been blocked up elsewhere years ago, so there was never more than a small trickle of water in it and often not even that. He would curl up with his sketchbook and for hours draw the creatures that would pass by or the images he’d see in the clouds.
He hobbled over, pain radiating up his leg with every step. Peering in he saw that there was some water in the bottom, but not enough to cause him any alarm. It wasn’t the ideal place to be in a storm, but it was better than under the trees where he’d probably get impaled by a falling branch. He managed to use the last of his strength to pull himself up and into the drain, settling his back against the cold metal.
It wasn’t as big as he remembered, but of course he had grown quite a bit since the last time he had hid in the cylindrical cubby hole. He wrapped his arms around his knees to try and conserve body heat before laying his head on his own shoulder and falling asleep.
THE WORLD was still dark when the rush of frigid water woke him. Oliver was unsure if it was because it was still night or if it was the storm raging on. His ass and his feet were numb and when he reached a hand down he found that the drain had filled with a good deal of water. Whatever blocked the drain must have come out, or a piece of it anyway.
The way the water was rising had to be an indicator of how bad the storm was. As if nature wanted to give him solid proof of how awful it was, a huge branch was slammed against the entrance of the drain, splintering into pieces, pelting Oliver with twigs. He guessed leaving the tube was not a viable option. Besides, he probably wouldn’t get far on his ankle.
The quick-rising, breath-stealing frigid water in the drainage tunnel probably should have concerned him, especially since he didn’t know how to swim, but Oliver felt it was karma finally coming to exact its revenge. Others would argue he didn’t deserve it, but he felt it was long overdue. Sure he had suffered in different ways over the years, but not in any one way that lived up to his guilt or equaled the horrendousness of his crime. They were just the precursor, the appetizer, so to speak, to the main course.
Coldness, like he couldn’t have imagined, seeped into his bones, seemingly bypassing the barriers of his clothing and skin. It wrapped itself around the calcium-laced supports and settled in the very marrow, spreading from extremity to extremity.
Oliver tipped his head back until it rested on one of the metal wrinkles of the tube. There was no longer feeling in his feet, and he knew it was only a matter of time before that numbness crept up his legs, over his stomach, and into his chest to finally lay to rest his broken heart. His eyelids fluttered, closing on their own as he welcomed his impending doom.
A lighthearted joy suddenly skidded through him as he realized that his ending would reunite him with those he lost. Oliver only hoped that if they met him at the gates, they wouldn’t turn him away, making his afterlife as painful as the earthly existence he would be leaving behind. How does one survive a tortured eternity?
Maybe it would be his ultimate penance.
Maybe he wouldn’t even get to go to the place he imagined they were.
His head dropped forward, chin meeting chest. It would be what he deserved. There was no forgiveness, only pain.
Never-ending pain.
Chapter Forty-five
OLIVER THOUGHT he heard his name carried on the wind. Was it his father or sister calling him home? Maybe it was finally his time to rejoin them, where he should have been all along. His eyes remained closed, hoping the end came swiftly. They popped back open when he heard his name again, louder this time. Was someone out there looking for him? In this storm? He struggled to pull himself closer to the edge of the drainpipe to take a look.
His cold, wrinkled fingertips closed around the lip of the metal, water rushing by so fast it was hard to keep a grip. Before he could pull himself forward to be able to look out, a hand and arm appeared, latching on to his own hand, pulling him out with relative ease.
Oliver blinked several times before he realized he was engulfed in a tight embrace with someone chanting thanks to a divinity in his ear. The wind whipped around the pair, yet neither made a move to get out of the storm, not until Oliver was hit in the leg with a good-size branch, making his knees buckle.
“Shit, we need to get out of here,” his savior said.
“We can’t be out in this,” Oliver argued, bending to rub his injured calf. “Besides, I can’t get very far on this ankle.”
“This is the worst possible hiding spot you could have picked, Ollie,” Simon said, bending to look inside the drainpipe.
“It was blocked up for years so I thought it might stay dry.”
Simon just shook his head. Oliver took a moment to drink in the sight of him. His hair was several shades darker and plastered like a helmet to his head, thanks to the rain. A windbreaker covered his upper half but didn’t look like it did much to keep him dry. The jeans on the lower half looked painted on. As Oliver was taking in the view, Simon slowly turned and started to crouch down.
“What are you doing?” Oliver asked, his ankle burning.
“Giving you a ride. Get on.”
“What? You can’t carry me out of here. I’m too heavy! It’s too dangerous. Just leave me.” He stumbled back until the mouth of the pipe bit into his back.
“Are you kidding me?” Simon turned and shouted. “I have been looking for you for weeks, and I’m not going to leave you out here to die, even if you do seem to have a death wish. If you want me to go, you’ll have to come with me, otherwise I’m just going to stand out here and maybe have a house dropped on me.”
“Who are you, the Wicked Witch?” Oliver mumbled.
“No, I’m the Fairy Godmother, no pun intended,” Simon said with a surprising smile. “Now stop bitching and get on so maybe we can both survive this.” He turned around again and looked over his shoulder, urging Oliver to get on.
Oliver shook his head at the wonderful boy who braved the storm to find him. The boy who thought he was worth saving. Oliver certainly didn’t deem himself worthwhile, but he couldn’t let anything happen to the beautiful boy who had hunted him down. He bent forward, precariously on one leg like a flamingo, until he could wrap his arms around Simon’s neck. Simon reached behind him and hooked his hand behind the knee of the good leg. When he had a good grip, he stood and steadied himself after grabbing the other leg that dangled. Simon did a little hop to get Oliver into a better position before heading out into the dark woods.
“Be careful! I tripped over a root and hurt myself,” Oliver warned, hoping Simon didn’t meet the same fate.
Simon managed to hold on to Oliver with one hand and reach into his pocket with the other. He brought out a small flashlight and handed it to him. “You can light the way.”
Oliver did his best to keep the narrow beam of light on the ground in front of them, but between the wind and rain and flying twigs, they had several close calls. Oliver breathed a sigh of relief when the lights of a house came into view. That breath got choked off when he realized what house it was. He wanted to tell Simon to stop, to turn and go another way, but he wouldn’t risk the guy for his own fears and anxieties.
They broke through the last of the trees and into Oliver’s childhood backyard. He looked up and saw two figures standing at the large sliding glass doors, looking out at them. As they encroached on the lawn, getting closer and closer to the house, the doors flew open and both the figures came flying out at them. The darkness and the driving rain made it hard to figure out who they were until they were practically on top of them. Richards, sans uniform, took Oliver from Simon’s back, cradling him as if he were a baby. The other person stood near but not too close.
“Take him inside. I’ll run a hot bath and get a change of clothes.” The voice was one Oliver hadn’t heard in years, but one never forgets the sound of their mother’s voice.
“No,” Oliver said, looking up at Richards, shaking his head. “I don’t want to go back in there.”
Richards gave him a sad look of understanding. “You’re like ice, Ollie. We need to get you warmed up before we do anything else. She is offering. Just accept.”
“Please…,” she said, her voice shaky, with cold or emotion, Oliver wasn’t sure. “I’ll stay away if it will help.” His teeth were chattering at that point, and he didn’t have the energy to deny them. He just laid his head against Richards’s chest in defeat.
Walking back into the house he hadn’t been in for years was an odd experience. It smelled like stale air and sadness. Oliver was surprised to find the place was no longer immaculately clean like his mother used to demand. Empty Chinese food boxes littered the counter and piles of mail were precariously teetering on the edge of the table. As they moved through the house, he spied a small tower of seemingly unread newspapers next to the front door, as if she brought them in each day and just deposited them without even looking at it. The couch was covered with blankets and pillows indicating that she was probably sleeping there, unable to handle the bed she had shared with her husband.
“Take him up to the master suite. There’s a big soaker tub up there that should work. I’ll… I’ll find him something to wear. He’s… thin, but probably too tall for his old clothes. Something of my husband’s should fit him, though.”
She started up the steps without waiting for an answer. Oliver watched the journey, noticing she was shaking but taking very determined steps up the grand staircase. Richards followed with Simon at their heels. Oliver tried not to notice the pictures on the wall but was struck with how similar it was to the twins’ house. Photos starting at his parents’ wedding progressed to pregnancy photos, baby Oliver, baby Amelia, and group photos from throughout the years. He thought it would be hard to look at them, but he was surprised at the wave of happiness that came over him to see their smiling faces, even his mother’s.
When they reached the landing, his mother called from the end of the hall. She was standing there, looking small, holding a bundle of towels. She held some out to Simon as he got close.
“You should shower and get warm too. I’ll put your stuff in the dryer.” Simon thanked her and patted Oliver’s shoulder before he left in the direction of the other bathroom.
Richards walked them into the master bedroom. It was neat as a pin, but the layers of dust on all the furniture showed she hadn’t been in there for ages.
“I… don’t use this room anymore. It doesn’t seem right,” she explained in a hurry as if reading Oliver’s mind. She gestured toward the master bath. Richards followed her lead and gently sat Oliver on the edge of the tub once they were inside. The steam wafting from the placid water was heavenly and started to work its magic, chasing the chill from Oliver’s bones.
“Can you, uh… undress or do you need help?” Richards asked, looking pained but willing.
“I think I can handle it… thanks,” Oliver said and started to unbutton his shirt to show he could manage.
“All right, I’ll be right outside the door. Call if you need me.” Richards closed the door behind him, giving Oliver some privacy.
His shirt weighed a ton, but it was easy to get it off since he just had to slide his arms out. His jeans wouldn’t be as easy but before he could even try, he had to get his sodden shoes off. Bending forward he tried to reach the lace, hoping he hadn’t double knotted it. On the third try he managed to grab an end. He pulled and pulled, but it was no use. He attempted to lean forward some more so he could use both hands, but he almost toppled over. Quickly, he grabbed the edge of the tub and righted himself. The shakiness of his limbs was definitely a deterrent. He’d need help.
“Umm, can someone help me with my shoes?” he called out expecting Richards to come back in. He was surprised when his mom answered the call instead.
“The officer is getting some warm clothes for you and your friend,” she explained. “I… I tried, but I found I couldn’t make myself go into the closet….”
Oliver was quiet as she kneeled down in front of him and started to work on the knots. She patiently picked at it, not seeming to care that she was getting mud all over her hands. Finally she was able to get it loose and gently slip the shoe off his foot. The sock followed, making a haphazard pile on top of the discarded shirt. She moved on to the other and made quick work of that knot as well.
“Can I… can I help you get the wet jeans off?” she asked, not looking him in the face.
“I can probably do it.” He didn’t want to accept any more help from her than absolutely necessary. He grabbed the towel rack and struggled to get to his feet, mindful of the injured ankle. It was not a quick process. His mother stood back and watched but didn’t offer again. He moved his hands to undo the button and stopped, looking up at her.
“I know you don’t remember, but I changed your diaper for years. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” she said.
“I thought Dad did all of that.” It popped out of his mouth before he could stop it.
She barked out a laugh. “Your father did his fair share of taking care of you guys, but diapers were one area he would not touch, no matter how much I begged. He actually only really started doing more when Amelia was born. He saw how I was struggling, and he would take you out to give me a break. He never once changed your diaper, though, and I can probably count on one hand the number of times he did so for your sister.”
Oliver was surprised. He couldn’t recall any time his mother really took care of him. It was always his dad, front and center.
He was able to undo the button on his wet jeans after only two tries. Getting them down was a bit more of a struggle. He had to hold on to something or he’d topple right over, but it was hard to pull down soaked denim with only one hand. His mom stepped forward and pulled them down until they pooled around his ankles. She grabbed a hand towel from the bar and before he could protest, she had his boxers join his jeans, the towel held in front of him to protect his modesty. Oliver took over holding the small towel as she helped him to sit back on the ledge of the tub. Taking his time, he swung each leg around, putting them into the almost scalding water, his back to his mother. Letting the towel lie across his lap, he used shaky arms to lower himself off the ledge and into the water.
It was hot, but it was the best sensation he had felt in a long time. An unrestrained groan of pleasure left his lips as he sank in up to his chin, the towel floating on the surface. He didn’t even care anymore if his junk was out for all to see. All he cared about was getting his blood flowing and banishing the cold from every nook and cranny.
“I’ll try to dig up some aspirin and make you some tea. That will help warm up your insides to match the outside,” his mom said, looking down on him. She turned to walk out the door.
“Thanks,” he said, figuring she deserved that much. She paused, midstep, as if she were going to turn around but then continued on her way without another word.
Richards entered after she left, clothes in hand. “Hope these will do.” He set them down on the counter before putting the toilet lid down and taking a seat.
Oliver made a futile attempt to drag the hand towel down to cover himself. “Don’t look, man.”
Richards rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, I don’t want to see.” He sat quiet for a few moments before leaning forward, hands clasped in front of him. “So you know you’re in some trouble, right? For skipping town and not calling in. You can’t do that when you’re on parole.”
“I know… sorry.” Oliver never considered what would happen if Richards found him. “Am I…. Will I have to go back to jail?”
Richards leaned back, rolling his shoulders to relieve tension. “It’s possible. I’ll talk to the judge and see if we can at least make it a short stint, especially since you’re going to testify for us, right?”
“Right.” There was no use in fighting it anymore.
“Why did you run?”
Oliver was silent, memories of the accident with Simon flashing in front of his eyes. “I’m a danger… to those who love me,” he finally said. “It was safer for me to go away.”
“That’s bullshit,” Simon said from the doorway. “You ran because you were scared and because you felt guilty, when you had no reason to be either. An accident is an accident. They can happen to anyone at any time.”
Oliver turned his head toward the door, heat flooding his cheeks. While he certainly wouldn’t have minded Simon seeing him naked someday, this definitely wasn’t the way he had expected it to play out. To say he was feeling vulnerable would have been an understatement.
Richards looked back and forth between the boys. “I think I’ll go see what your mom is up to and give you guys some privacy.” He vacated his spot before Oliver could even open his mouth and ask him to stay.
Chapter Forty-six
SIMON ENTERED the room, wet hair slicked back and smelling like Irish Spring. He took Richards’s spot and mimicked his position, leaning forward, clasped hands dangling between knees.
