The Evolution of Ethan Poe, page 14
From a dead stop, he guns the engine a little and then takes off fast; ho-hum, he’d done that at the school. But then he scares the willies out of me, heading right for a machine storage building and cutting around the corner so close I can feel the wheels on my side lift a little, and I think I’d have lost a hand if it had been hanging out of the window. By the time we get to the opposite end of the long wall, we’re going so fast I don’t dare look at the speedometer, or at anything other than the side of the building only a few inches to my right. We take another heart-stopping turn and head into the open parking area, nothing in it but us, the car, and the exhilaration we get as Dad does figure eights and tight wheelies and hellishly fast accelerations. It’s almost as good as sex.
Finally he pulls calmly toward a corner, turns the car around in less space than I would ever have thought he could, and turns the engine off. He looks at me with an expression I don’t remember. “Your mother used to love that. When I met her. Don’t let her tell you otherwise.” He lets out a breath that’s almost a sigh and says, “Okay, kid. Switch places.”
Behind the wheel, I have to pull the seat forward a little, and then I play with things. It’s all got a totally different feel from anything I’ve driven before. The steering wheel is wrapped in black leather, and the dashboard has only basic instrumentation on it—none of it digital. Everything you can adjust has knobs instead of push buttons.
“Cool,” I say, feeling something like power run through me. Dad’s left arm is draped onto the back of my seat, and he’s watching me. I know this response is what he wants, and I don’t mind giving it to him.
“Nice jacket,” he says. “Where’d you get it?”
“Bangor. Mom and I went to a used clothing store.” I love that he’s noticed.
“The pedal on the far left is the clutch,” he tells me. “Press it down with your left foot.”
“It feels weird.”
“Yeah. Not used to using that foot to drive, are ya? Better get used to it or you’ll strip the gears. And this ain’t my car, kid.” He laughs, but I can tell he’s a little nervous about what stripping the gears would mean. It occurs to me on some almost subconscious level that he’s put a friend’s fancy car at risk to give me something Mom and Etta can’t.
He brags about the car a little, almost like it’s his: eight cylinders, six-speed transmission that’s evidently some big advantage on the highway, some huge number of horsepower. I nod like I know what the hell a drag launch suspension is, and I can sort of get the importance of not having a fuel limiter. And I’d noticed the twin exhaust already.
“Before you turn the key,” he says, “let me tell you a little about what makes this kind of driving so fantastic. When you’re idling, and you step the clutch all the way to the floor and put the stick into first, you control everything. You control how much gas to give it—okay, that’s not new. But you can give it all the gas you want as you ease the clutch out. The more gas, the faster your start. Like I did back at the school. And once you’re in motion, you can run the engine up hard before you shift up. Most of the time you won’t do that. It’s hard on the transmission. But there are times . . . Ethan, my boy, you’re in control. Nothin’ else like it.”
“What do I do first?”
He walks me through the motions, all with the engine off: clutch in, shift gear, clutch out, speed up a little, clutch in, another gear, clutch out. We sit there for maybe ten minutes with him telling me everything I know I’ll forget once the engine is running. But I’m loving just sitting here with him, knowing he’s sober, knowing all this is for me.
Finally, “You ready to try it?” I grin and nod. “We aren’t going onto the road. Like I said, it’s not my car. But I want you to know what real driving is, so when you get your own car you make the right choice.”
“You think I should get a standard?”
“I think you should get the car that makes driving feel good. And how will you know what feels good if you haven’t had a baby like this in your control?” He jerks his chin toward the ignition. “Clutch in. Right foot on the brake. Fire it up.”
My dad’s not right about everything, but he’s sure right about this. I won’t pretend I didn’t stall the thing out once or twice, but I was pretty quick to get the hang of releasing the clutch and stepping on the gas and at getting moving from a dead stop. I really love shifting up, and I sure as hell love accelerating. Shifting down is trickier, but I get much better at it before we’re done. And I’ve made the gears grind only a little, and only a few times.
After Dad has me do a few tight turns and some unusual reverse patterns, he makes it clear he thinks I’ve done as well as I think I have. “I knew you’d be good at this, son.”
I’m almost glowing as he drives me home, and I can’t help working my legs with him, imagining the feel of the clutch and the gas working together to create that sense of power that’s nearly intoxicating. I laugh out loud; maybe Dad doesn’t need a beer when he has a Camaro!
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
“For real. That was great.” I grin at him. “Thanks, Dad.” He reaches over and ruffles my hair. It feels good and sad at the same time.
The trip toward home, quiet other than the old rock numbers Dad is playing on the CD player, leaves me feeling like I still have a dad after all, even though somewhere in my head reality is lurking. But today has been fantastic. I shift a little on my ass, relieving my right side of some weight. The tat feels pretty good today, not too sore, though I remind myself I have to rebandage it when I get home. The one from this morning came off in the locker room after gym class, which actually was pretty cool, ’cause I got all kinds of cred from the other guys when they saw the tat. Didn’t seem to me anyone thought the colors meant anything gay. I really don’t think they picked up on that. So I just nod my head to the beat of Dad’s old music, window down and my elbow on the door, and drum my fingers on the Camaro’s roof. It’s a good day.
As we get close to the house, I’m deciding to count this time against my total on the driving hours log, feeling cocky about any protest Mom might make about it. He pulls over to the side of the road, just out of sight of the house, and lets me out.
“No point in asking for trouble, eh?” he says.
“I suppose not.” I’d almost hoped he’d go right into the driveway. “Thanks!” And I pat the warm hood of the car once as he starts to move away.
Our boring car is in the driveway already, so Mom’s home. This might mean I get a chance to test my resolve right away. The bus would have got me home much sooner, so obviously I wasn’t on it. And, sure enough, as soon as I open the door, I hear, “Where have you been, young man?”
Mom’s stopped in the middle of the living room, where she must have been pacing, a lit cig in one hand. When I take the time to turn and shut the door all the way she says, “Well?”
Her voice sounds more than just mad at me. There’s something dark in it, like fear.
I shrug. “Just out getting some driving in.”
She blinks. “With Etta?”
“No. Dad.”
“What?” Now it’s anger.
“Look, he showed up at school. He wasn’t drunk. Didn’t smell like it at all. And I didn’t even drive on the road. Just in the parking lot at the municipal storage area.” I decide against mentioning the Camaro.
Her expression changes a few times, like she’s trying to find fault with that and can’t quite land on anything worth yelling about. But her face settles on something kind of distracted, like she has bigger things to worry about.
“Did you know what your brother was doing?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Doing . . . ?”
“Doing to his hand.”
“Other than his usual weirdness?”
She starts to say something that would probably have been Did you know about it or not? But instead she says, “He’s been cutting himself. Digging things into his hand. That’s why he’s been wearing the glove.”
“Oh my God.”
“Damn right, oh my God.” She takes a deep drag on the cig and paces back and forth a few times. Then, “How could we not have known this? Your principal pulled that glove off him when we were in that meeting today. Said it was time Kyle stopped the nonsense and used his hand like a normal person, and before Kyle—or I—knew what was happening, he got up and yanked the glove off.”
I just stand there, feeling like someone’s punched all the air out of me. WTF? I can’t get my brain to settle on anything other than that: What the fuck? For a couple of minutes there are no other words in the universe.
Suddenly she pulls me into a hug, swaying back and forth, smoke drifting around our shoulders. I can tell she’s trying like hell not to cry. She says, “Ethan, promise me . . .” She has to stop for a second as her voice catches, and I wait. “Promise me two things. One, that you’ll never, ever do anything like this to yourself! And two, that if you ever find out your brother is doing this again, or anything else like it, you’ll tell me immediately.” She pulls back and swipes at her eyes with the heel of her cig hand. “Promise.”
“I promise, Mom. Really.”
“He’s in his room now, asleep. Knocked out, actually. His hand’s all wrapped up. I’ve searched his room for anything he could hurt himself with. We both have to keep an eye on him; I can’t take everything pointed or sharp out of the house. And I’ll need your help making sure he takes the antibiotics they gave him, for the next ten days. Can you do that?”
“Sure. Of course.” I have no idea what it will mean to help with these things, but how can I say anything else? Then I realize it might mean being around the house more than I have. “Um, is it okay if I go out Friday night?”
“What?”
“I mean, do you need me to be here, or can I go with Etta to visit a friend and get in some night driving? I’ll stay if you need me to. I just have to let her know.” Please say you don’t need me. . . .
“Oh. Right. I forgot. She told me she was going to ask you. That’s okay, Ethan. I’ll be here Friday. You go.” She hugs me again. “Listen, do you mind going through his room again? Boys might be more creative than I am about doing damage.”
I nod. “I’ll take a look. I won’t wake him up.”
I don’t find anything she hasn’t. She’s even taken all his clothes off the wire hangers they’d been on and folded them into piles on the closet floor, and there are now no hangers anyplace. The lamp on his desk isn’t the one that used to be there; it had a glass shade. The one there now is cloth or paper or something. Did she think of the lightbulb and decide it’s a risk we have to take? It makes me wonder what he’s used on himself—not to mention why. This has gone beyond just stupid and weird and into fear and danger. I don’t get it at all. And as I’m looking under his bed I remember that Etta had asked me to let her know if this got worse. Out of hand, as it were. I think it’s crossed that line.
Before I leave I stand by the bed and look at him. He’s on his stomach, definitely down for the count, facing me. His right hand, on the pillow beside his open mouth, is covered in so much gauze it looks like he’s holding a swaddled kitten.
The only thing I take with me when I leave is Kyle’s Bible, the only one in the house, so I can read Revelations and see what’s going on with Jorja. Honestly, people are falling apart all around me. It hits me what a rock my mom is, and this physical wave of love washes over me, leaving a little water in my eyes. I drop the Bible in my room and head downstairs.
Mom is on the back step, smoking, wrapped in the shearling coat she’d bought at This Time For Sure. I put my leather jacket back on and go out to sit with her. I say, “He’s still asleep. And I didn’t find anything, unless you count the lightbulb in the desk lamp. Good idea about the hangers.”
She picks up a glass with something amber colored in it and takes a gulp. “Thanks. I didn’t think about the lamp. There’s an overhead light; maybe I’ll take the lamp out of the room.”
“What about matches? And your lighter?”
She rubs the bridge of her nose a sec. “You’re right. I’ll have to think about that. Thank you, Ethan. Keep thinking.”
“Um, Mom? I had, you know, I had mentioned this thing with Kyle’s hand to Etta. That day we drove out to the lake and nearly had that accident?” I wait for her reaction, but she just takes another drag. I sort of know she’s already said something to Etta, anyway. “She told me to let her know if it got worse. Is it okay if I do that?”
Mom turns toward me. “Why? What’s she going to do?”
I shrug. “Dunno. But she seemed serious. Almost like she knew something.”
Mom stubs out the cig on the cement step and gets up. I follow her into the house, where she picks up the phone.
“Etta? Charlene Poe. Listen, sorry if this sounds odd, but Ethan just told me that you had asked to know if anything happened with Kyle. His hand, I mean.” Pause. “Yes, it has.” Mom’s voice nearly breaks a few times as she tells Etta what’s happened, and when Mom hangs up she says to me, “She’s coming over.”
“Really. What did she say?”
Mom shakes her head, a few quick shakes like she doesn’t know what to say.
Etta shows up maybe half an hour later with three pizzas, various toppings, and some soda. “I figured you probably didn’t feel much like getting dinner on the table.”
I go check on Kyle, who’s still out cold, and then we sit at the kitchen table, pizzas and soda spread around. This would be fun under other circumstances.
Etta breaks the strained silence. “The reason I asked Ethan to let me know if things got worse is because I’ve seen something like this before. There was someone I used to work with, in New York, who had to quit work because of damage to his lower leg. Damage he did himself. Eventually it got so bad they had to amputate it. He had something called body integrity identity disorder. BIID. It’s when people truly believe that a part of their body shouldn’t be attached to them, and they’ll go to extreme lengths to get rid of it. Most commonly it’s the lower leg, but it could be a finger, a hand, an arm, whatever. As far as I know, it’s a psychological disorder, and I don’t know of any cure. If Kyle has this, you need to find out. He should see a therapist.”
This is too weird. I say, “He said it was causing him to stumble. I think he just meant he was using it to . . . you know . . . um . . .”
Etta smiles. “That may have got him started thinking his hand was his enemy. But it’s far beyond that.”
Mom rubs her face a second. “That’s what he told the doctor this afternoon. He kept quoting Bible verses.”
“That’s only what gives him permission, Charlene. It’s the disease that makes him do it.”
“So the Bible’s like a duck blind.” My voice surprises me.
“What?” Mom’s voice is exhausted, like that mental stretch is more than she can handle.
Etta nods. “I know what you mean, Ethan. The religious aspect is obscuring what’s really going on.”
We sit there a minute, and then Mom says, “Therapy. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“I can help. Talk to a couple of people, get some references. Will you let me do that?”
Mom covers her face with her hands, fighting sobs, and Etta gets up and holds her shoulders. She says, “You’re not alone, Charlene. It might feel like it sometimes, but you’re not.”
I don’t know what to do. So I just sit there. Maybe it’s enough.
Chapter 7
The rest of that week is totally weird. I’m almost afraid to go to school, and Mom takes sick days from work to stay home with Kyle. Meals are pretty quiet, with no one wanting to call attention to Kyle’s left-handed struggles. I don’t even know if it’s okay to ask something like, How’s the hand today? And for sure no one feels like talking about cheerful things. The noncheerful thing sitting at the table with us is sucking out everything else. It’s not like Kyle and I were ever close, really. Only now—now, we’re in different dimensions.
He doesn’t fight taking his meds, at least, so I don’t feel like I have to do anything about that. He notices right away that his Bible is missing, though, and has a fit.
“I’m reading Revelations,” I tell him. This stuns him.
“Well . . . give it back and you can take it when you need to.” None of the lecturing I’d expected. Nothing that smacked of smugness or I told you so. If nothing else convinces me that he’s in trouble, this does. A month ago he would have been all over me, telling me it’s about time I came to my senses, stuff like that.
When I finally get to it, I find out that Revelations is like somebody on shrooms. If the rest of the Bible stretches credibility, this part breaks it. I don’t even make it all the way through before I give it back to Kyle for good. And now I have confirmation: Both my brother and my best friend are going quite literally bonkers. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
The only good thing that happens that week is Tuesday evening. Mom had told me to be home right after school because she had errands to run, and when she gets home afterward she hands me one of the shopping bags. It’s from an Apple store. I just look at her.
“I think you’ll like that,” she says.
It’s the newest iPhone. Just like I’d wanted. “How did you know?”
She just smiles. But then she says, “I figure I might need to reach you in a hurry.” I know she means because of Kyle, so I don’t reply.
I get up and give her a big hug. And then I spend the rest of the time before bed getting it set up. I text Max. He texts me back. He calls me charmer and sends me the shot of my tattoo.
Max doesn’t want to come with me to visit Etta’s friend. He calls it lame. On Wednesday I’ve finished lunch with Jorja, and Max and I are hanging around outside waiting for the next class to start, shivering in our leather jackets. I’m thinking it must be about time to start wearing my new-slash-old pea coat. That’s when I invite him.
