8. The Gate

When I get home I find Mom passed out on an old fold-up lawn chair on the deck. It’s a bit jolting because of where’s she sitting.

Since our driveway juts up at a forty-five-degree angle toward the cabin on the side of the hill, our deck overlooks the sloping mountainside. It’s not just a story off the ground. It’s more like four stories. A fall would be deadly.

Someone consuming a bottle or two of wine might find a fall particularly easy.

I breathe in and call out for her to wake up, but it’s not happening.

I scoop her limp body up like a corpse and carry her inside. As I put her down on the couch I make sure her head is propped up on one of the arm cushions. Blonde hair that used to be cut every few weeks looks uneven and faded. Strands glide over her nose and mouth, and I brush them back, the way she used to brush my hair off my face when I was little.

I lock the door, worried she might suddenly wake up and shriek and tumble over the deck.

A window is open, letting the afternoon light creep in.

I hear birds and the rustle of gentle wind and even the faint sound of the creek.

It should be peaceful.

Another sound yanks me out of my melancholy mood and calls me back out on the deck.

Far below, down through the trees, I can make out the gravel road below us.

I see a car coming, the first I’ve seen since we’ve been here.

It’s not exactly a car. It’s one of those massive SUVs that are used in the military. It’s not even the smaller suburban version, but a black, shiny, hulking Humvee.

It rumbles past, leaving a cloud of dust.

I half expect a squadron of other vehicles to follow.

I wait and watch and listen, but nothing comes.

Where was that thing headed?

I want to take my bike out and see where this road leads.

Glancing back inside, I decide that I might take a bike trip a little later.

Mom won’t care.

She probably won’t even know.

I don’t know if there’s really any spaghetti in SpaghettiOs. I wonder if the O comes from the feeling you get an hour or two after eating them. Those tiny little chunks of hot dog surely can’t be anything that was once living and breathing, right? Regardless, I can’t help but love this wonderful and easy little dinner. Since Mom isn’t cooking, it’s my choice for dining.

It’s already 6:30 in the evening and the sun is slipping away. Halloween is this coming Sunday, with the school dance the night before. As I pedal down the road through the shadows of trees, I wonder what it would be like to go to the dance.

It’s not really the dance I’m wondering about. It’s what it would be like to go with her.

You have to stop this.

Perhaps I should stop the dreaming, but I can still think about Jocelyn. I can still suppose.

Just because she’s being friendly doesn’t mean she’s interested in you.

I know this. I’ve never been one of those guys who thinks that just because a girl talks to him or smiles at him or is nice to him means anything more.

Maybe it’s because I’m new and I’m needing someone—anyone—to lean on.

Sounds corny, but I could use a little help.

I know that running into Jocelyn last weekend was complete luck. That’s all.

She came to talk to me because of her step-uncle.

That’s it.

I ride for ten minutes thinking things through until I reach the barrier.

I stop my bike.

With the hill sloping upward to my left and then heading on down to my right, I stand in the middle of the mostly dirt road facing a large gate. There are two stone blocks on each side, with a black wrought-iron gate between. On top of it are spikes. The gate opens at the middle.

There’s a sign to one side: NO TRESPASSING.

And in smaller type underneath: Private Property. Violators Will Be Prosecuted.

Even though the barrier makes it impossible for a car to pass, I know I can slip right around it and keep pedaling.

The road continues on until it curves around the trees and disappears.

Now I’m really curious.

This is where that big, honking Humvee went.

I walk up to one of the stone blocks and peer around.

Something catches my attention, something that doesn’t look like it belongs in the Carolina woods.

It’s a black, square device that’s planted in the ground.

It’s about two feet tall.

A camera.

If someone is watching it, they can see my face peering down at it.

They can probably see the hairs in my nose, too.

I pick up my bike and decide to come back at another time.

I have plenty of time to check out what’s farther down the road.

Next time I’ll do it with the cover of night.

I’m propped up on my bed doing a bad job on my homework when I hear the stairs creak.

“I didn’t hear you come home today.”

Maybe because you were floating in a sea of Merlot, Mom.

I just nod and stare up at her.

She comes in and sits at the desk that’s too tiny for a sixth grader and looks around at the narrow sliver of a room.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

I’m not in the mood for a heavy conversation and nod again, accepting her apology for being dead drunk when her son came home from school. But she continues.

“I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Expecting what?”

Mom sighs. “I thought Robert was still around. I didn’t really believe he was gone. I guess I was being naive and thoughtless.”

“It’s fine.”

“You could have stayed in Illinois, Chris.”

“I wasn’t staying with that guy.”

“He’s your father.”

“Technically.”

“I still love him,” she says.

“Good for you. I don’t.”

“Don’t say that.”

“He’s not here to hear it. He never was around anyway.”

“You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand? Tell me.”

“Don’t get that tone. I’m just saying … I feel bad for dragging you down here.”

“It’s done.”

She tries to ask about school and teachers and anything else, but my short, curt answers drive home the point.

“Do you need anything?”

I think for a minute.

Yeah, I’d like you to be happier.

“No,” I finally say.

“Okay. Come on downstairs when you’re done with your homework.”

I hear the steps fade away and the television turn on.

For some time I fight staying up here and brooding and being angry.

Then I head downstairs.

I know I’m not the only person in this cabin who feels lonely.