The Gardener Read online

  He nodded.

  “Seriously. I catch you picking on anyone else…” For effect, I made a fist and covered it with my other hand. “Got it?”

  He didn’t say anything, just ran off down the hall.

  I smiled as I dropped my hands. Off the football field, I would never think of hurting anyone, but most people probably didn’t know that. They just saw a big, Halloween-masked hulk of a guy. But what a rush, to save people. The first time was when I was in fifth grade. After school, I usually headed to the Bottoms, a forest walking trail. One day I heard someone calling for help. Going off the trail a ways, I found a couple of second-grade girls. They’d been messing around, playing by a pile of logs, and one girl had gotten her foot caught. So I managed to roll the log off and carried the girl all the way back to the school. Her grandma was one of the teachers, and I got my picture in the paper. That part was kind of weird. I don’t like my picture getting taken, and I made sure to turn my head so only my good side showed. The coolest part for me was just seeing the relief on the face of the grandma when she hugged the kids, especially when things could have turned out differently. Being responsible for the happy ending made me happy.

  After that, I saved people every chance I got.

  Outside, there was a light drizzle, and I jogged to where Jack waited for me in his red truck, Deep Purple turned upso high that I’d heard it the second I’d stepped outside. “Thanks for waiting.” Jack and I shared a lot of the same tastes, including the one for old rock music.

  I reached over and turned the volume up even more.

  Although he got the Ford for his birthday a couple of months before, the inside still smelled new. His dad owned a chain of plumbing supply stores in the Pacific Northwest; Jack was rich and could pay for any college he got into. But with his grades, the problem was getting in. So he worried about things like SAT scores while I worried about my bank account.

  I asked, “What time are we leaving?”

  Jack’s family owned a cabin up in Glenwood, at the foot of Mount Adams, and we planned to head up there for the weekend to go ATV’ing. Not only did they own a batch of the finest new Arctic Cats, they also had acres and acres of trails to ride around on. Plus, it was the first weekend we’d be going since Jack got his license, our first weekend out of town on our own.

  But as he pulled out of the parking lot, he said, “We’ll have to wait and go tomorrow. I just got called in to work.”

  “So don’t go.” I drew circles in the fog on my window. “It’s not like you need the money.”

  “Turn down an extra shift at the Haven of Peace?” If he did get into college, Jack planned to go premed. Can’t say he didn’t aim high. So when he turned sixteen, he took a job as an orderly at the same nursing home where my mom worked. He turned into my driveway and let the Ford idle. “Besides, I’m saving up to take Miranda Collins to prom.” He also got a hefty allowance, so I doubt he would have to save up for long.

  I made a face. “She’s such a brown-noser. You haven’t said one word to her since she tore up your valentine in sixth grade.”

  He grinned. “I admire her … um … intelligence from afar.”

  “Intelligence my ass.”

  Jack laughed. “And destiny is on my side.”

  “You’ve been saying that since sixth grade. Destiny hasn’t helped you get a girl yet, dude.”

  He reached over and punched me. “With all this rain, we probably can’t do most of the trails anyway.”

  The only problem with the area around Jack’s cabin was that the trails were steep and did get treacherous in downpours like we’d been having. I told him, “I still wanna get out of town. We can always just play Halo.”

  When he reached my driveway, I said, “Call me if you get off early.” I got out and slammed the door.

  “Watch it!”

  I waved my hand without looking back.

  Inside, the house was quiet. “Mom? You home?” I waited for a response, but there was none, so I made a couple of bologna sandwiches and sat down at the table, pulling my biology book and the slightly wrinkled TroDyn application out of my backpack. Mom wouldn’t be as supportive as Hogan. I’d decided my plan was to forge her signature and tell her I got a job for the summer. I knew her signature was always handy on the fridge in the form of that month’s rent check, pinned in place by a strawberry-shaped magnet. But the check wasn’t there.

  I knelt and looked around the floor first, then up at the calendar. The twenty-eighth. Wow, she must have paid rent early for once.

  After finishing my second sandwich, I wondered if her signature was on something else. Canceled checks maybe. So I headed into her room, where she kept the little brown filing cabinet, and I yanked the handle. Locked, as always. I’d seen the drawers open before, like when I needed my birth certificate or something else official. But then Mom always locked it back up.

  The phone by Mom’s bed startled me. I grabbed it on the beginning of the second ring.

  “Honey?”

  “Mom?”

  “Can you come get me? I’m at the Brass Rail.” Her words slurred.

  My hand clenched the phone and my shoulders slumped. Although I already knew the answer, I asked, “What are you doing?”

  “I just stopped by for a quick shot, I swear.”

  Sounded more like several quick shots to me. I sighed. “Okay, I’m coming.” Snatching the car keys off her nightstand, I hurried outside.

  Never mind that I wouldn’t get my license for another four months, when I turned sixteen, I’d been driving my mother around town for the last year. Before that, when she got in one of her moods, she did a lot of walking home from bars. It didn’t happen that often, my driving. But it happened more than it should, I suppose. Especially recently, when she seemed to be having way more of her moods than usual.

  I backed the Jeep out of the driveway and headed downtown, meaning via the one street in town that went straight through. Melby Falls was about ten miles off I-5, and I couldn’t think of many reasons for anyone ever to visit. We did have our own TroDyn-funded municipal police force, one member of which waved to me as I turned onto Main Street. As long as you didn’t break laws flamboyantly, they left you alone. Handy for underage drivers like myself.

  I pulled into the handicapped space by the front door of the Brass Rail, just as the front door was flung open and my mother came out, escorted by a burly man in a red polo. He’d bounced Mom before. I didn’t know his name, but I’m pretty sure something on the order of Bubba would fit.

  Mom wore jeans and a white sweater, which had some kind of reddish stain all down the front. Her dark hair blew in her face as she tried to smile at me. “Mason.”

  Bubba wrenched open the Jeep’s door and practically shoved her up into the seat.

  Despite being pissed at my mom for getting drunk, I wasn’t going to let someone hurt her. I knew it must have been hard for her, raising me on her own, working at a job she didn’t like. Having a few too many drinks once in a while didn’t make her a bad mother. “Hey, take it easy.” Resisting the urge to step out of the car and show Bubba Iwasn’t afraid to take him, I gripped Mom’s arm and helped her in.

  Bubba’s gaze fixed on my scar before going back up to meet my eyes. His voice was low and firm. “Take her home, sober her up. And keep her out of here. Better for her if she keeps her opinions to herself.”

  Inwardly, I groaned. Did it always have to be the same story? It was one thing for Mom to bash TroDyn at home, completely something else to trash them in public while intoxicated. As I leaned over her to fasten her seat belt, her hand on my arm stopped me and I looked into her teary eyes. Among other things, I wanted to chew her out for drinking again. Instead, I asked, “You okay?”

  She nodded. Her eyes wandered to my scar and she reached up with her fingertips, tracing it lightly all the way to my jaw.

  After so long, I’d gotten used to my face. Things might have been better if they could have just sewed it straight up. Bu
t a few pieces were missing here and there, making the scar look somewhat like a quilt in places where the doctor had pulled the torn skin together. One end of the scar started at my right eye’s outside corner, making my eye look a little like it sagged. That line of the scar met another at the top of my right cheek, and two parts branched out from there, one ending near my mouth, the other trailing off the side of my chin.

  Jack said it made me look tough, like some of those guys in the movies. That didn’t matter to me, looking tough. It might’ve been nice on the football field except my helmet covered it up anyway. And really, at almost six feet three and two hundred thirty pounds, I didn’t exactly come across as weak. Plus, there was no need to play a tough guy. If things worked out, if I actually did get into college, I planned to spend most of my adult life in a lab somewhere, hence the appeal of TroDyn, where appearances had no bearing on daily lives.

  My classmates had been my classmates since I was in kindergarten. I showed up that week after the attack with a bandage, then the bandage came off, my scar was revealed, and for a few weeks it was big news. Then, as my silence grew, my celebrity and the scar began to fade. I was just Mason, my scar a part of me. And as I grew bigger than everyone in school, most saw me simply as this hulking quiet guy.

  Maybe that was one reason for me to stay in Melby Falls after college, if I managed to go. Me, and my scar, were familiar. Out in the world I might just be the freak with the scar on his face. I liked being more than the sum of my parts. I also liked not having to deal with that shocked look people got upon seeing my face for the first time.

  Mom set her whole hand on the right side of my face. “You’re still my beautiful boy. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “For starters, you’d need to call a cab.” I snapped her seat belt and settled back.

  She leaned her head on the window. “Something is wrong. Ever since the money stopped coming. I just feel it.”

  “What?”

  Mom had a funny look on her face, like she was surprised I’d heard her. But instead of answering me, she shook her head and didn’t say another word the entire ride.

  Back home, I made Mom a pot of strong coffee. Caffeine would just make her a wide-awake drunk, rather than truly sober her, but it always helped. With a wince, I remembered my TroDyn application just as she plopped down at the table and picked up the sheaf of papers.

  TWO

  MY MOTHER WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN ABLE TO MAKE OUT THE small print in her condition, but the large TroDyn insignia on top had to be unmistakable even to someone with blurred vision.

  Slapping the papers down with her hand, she glared at me. “What are you thinking?”

  I sat down opposite her. “It’s the summer program. It’s my best chance to get a scholarship.”

  “No.” She slurped some coffee and repeated the word several times until I finally asked her to stop.

  Trying to keep my voice soft and steady, I said, “Mom, we’ve got to be practical here. I need a college education, and you can’t afford it.”

  She pushed the papers away from her. “There’s a fund.” She was hard to understand.

  “A what?”

  “A fund. A college fund. For you.”

  I rolled my eyes and stifled a laugh. “Yeah, okay, Mom. You barely make enough money to keep the electricity on every month. You sure don’t make enough to have a college fund for me.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “You’re right.” Her eyes met mine. “It’s not my money.”

  “Whose is it, then?”

  For a moment, she didn’t answer, like she was considering not saying anything else.

  “Mom?”

  She sighed. “Your father. Your father started the fund.”

  I gripped the sides of the chair. “What?” He can’t be my father but he can start a college fund for me? I didn’t believe her. This was just a convenient excuse to get me to not go to TroDyn. And then I wouldn’t go to college, and then …

  I picked up the application.

  She ripped it out of my hand. “You’re not going anywhere near that place.”

  As we glared at each other, the phone rang several times until I finally let out a huge sigh and got up to answer it. Mom’s work. I covered the mouthpiece. “It’s the Haven. They want to confirm you’re working at eight. You’re not, are you?”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “What day is it?”

  I blew out a deep breath. “Are you serious? It’s Friday.”

  “But I don’t work on—” She dropped her head in her hands and groaned. “I forgot! I switched with Burt.”

  Although our little Cape Cod house had pretty low rent, we would be in trouble if she lost her job. All those pesky little things that required money, like lights and water and, oh yeah, food. We’d been lucky so far; the Haven of Peace gave her overtime, health insurance, and retirement. The hours sucked, four nights a week, but then she had three days off. And she managed to save her drinking for those days, which worked fine unless she forgot her schedule.

  “Mom?”

  She headed for her room. “Tell them I’ll be there.”

  As I threw some leftover curried chicken in the oven fordinner, the shower started, signifying Mom was on her way back to the land of the sober. I set the timer on the oven. I’d been the only kid in the cooking class at the library, but it came in handy on the nights when Mom was in no condition to cook. I mean, 80 percent of the time, she was a fully functioning mom, cleaning the house, cooking, keeping me in line. But the rest of the time, I had to step up.

  In my room, I plopped down on the weight bench in front of my TV and shoved in the DVD of my father. I’d watched the videotape so many times since the day of my accident that it had nearly worn out, so I had it transferred to a DVD. Of which I burned twenty copies. Just in case. Nineteen of them were in a box under my bed. One was in my DVD player.

  When I was small, I watched it a lot, nearly every day, but as I got older, the urge grew less frequent. Still, it became a bit of a security blanket I couldn’t give up. And when Mom and I fought, usually when she’d been drinking, it was a comfort to flick it on and see what I’d seen a thousand times before. Because there was something about watching it, something that happened to me. The video sucked me in, magically put me in a sort of trance, giving me a reprieve from my life.

  Like always, I froze as the video flickered on.

  My father, or rather his green-shirted torso, sat in a chair in front of a yellow wall. The Runaway Bunny was in his hands, which were a darker skin tone than mine. The first time I noticed the color of his skin, things clicked into place. I’d always wondered how I could’ve gotten my dark skin from my paler-than-pale mom. Watching the video was like understanding where I fit, somewhere between the woman who cared for me and this man, this man I’d never met. I studied the footage every time I watched it, always with this little bit of hope that I’d discover something else about him.

  Or about myself.

  But it was the same every time, no more buried treasure to be found. His voice is deep and he reads clearly and well. The text is all on pages with black-and-white illustrations, divided by a full page in color with no words. At one part of the story, my favorite part, the one where the bunny wants to go be a crocus in a hidden garden, he turns the book to himself and pauses, turning the page before showing the camera again. And, for just a second, his right sleeve slips up, revealing a tattoo on his forearm. A blue butterfly.

  “Mason!”

  I tore myself away, clicked the remote to pause, and went into the master bedroom. The bathroom door was shut. I knocked. “Mom?”

  She opened the door, standing there with a blue towel wrapped around her, hands streaked with blood.

  Grabbing a towel to staunch the flow coming from her shin, I dropped to my knees in front of her. I shook my head and muttered, “You shouldn’t shave your legs when you’re drunk.”

  Her hand rested on top of my head. “I can’t go to work like
this.”

  “Mom, you have to. You used up all your sick days for the month.”

  “I’m in no condition to work.” Her voice was whiny.

  I just wanted to tell her to shut up. But that wouldn’t help, so I made certain my voice was quiet. “That’s all we need—for you to get fired.”

  She sounded even more agitated. “Which they will do if they see I’m not sober.”

  There was only one solution I could think of, and it was a terrible idea. “I can go with you, help you do your work.”

  She sank down on the bed. “You can’t do that.”

  There never had been any reason for me to go to the Haven of Peace, and I struggled to think of ways to make the idea sound less idiotic. None came to mind. I said, “Mom, come on. I’ll just stay a while until you’re completely fine, and then I’ll sneak out and go home.” I’d nearly convinced myself it was a good idea.

  “No.” Her hand patted my head. “I’ll be fine. Night shift is easy.”

  I sat down on the bed and put an arm around her. “Let me drive you at least?”

  “Okay.” She leaned into me for just a moment before heading back into the bathroom.

  Enabling her like that wasn’t good, I knew, but she was my mom. What else could I do? I tossed the bloodstained towel into the laundry room sink and then filled it with cold water to soak. Back in the kitchen, I cleaned off the table, setting Mom’s purse on the edge of the counter, where I promptly knocked it off with my elbow when I swung back around.

  Her crap was all over the floor, and I started shoveling it back in, when I saw her Curves key chain with a small key on it. Like the kind of key that might fit the filing cabinet in her bedroom. I glanced toward the bedroom once, then slipped the key off and put it in my back pocket.

  Black Sabbath blared from the front pocket of my jeans. I flipped my silver phone open. Jack said, “Hey, we can go tonight after all. I get off at nine.”

  I glanced at the clock and did the math. I would still have time to drop Mom off and then come back to the house to finish the TroDyn application, forged signature and all. And maybe go on a little treasure hunt. “Cool.”