80. The Voice That Needs

I’m thinking of her when she calls.

It’s Saturday afternoon, a few days after the incident with my mom. She’s in the laundry room, not working today. It’s snowing again, just like it’s been doing on and off for the last few days.

When I hear Jocelyn’s voice, I just know.

I know it’s time.

I know that something’s up and that something’s wrong.

All by the way she says “Chris.”

“Hey.”

Panic streaks through her voice. “You have to come. I’m scared—he won’t let me leave—”

“What—whoa—hold on. What—who are you talking about?”

“Wade. My aunt’s gone, and he’s been drinking all day. He went out to his truck for something, but I know he’ll be back and—”

“You can’t get to your Jeep?”

“He took my keys, Chris. He said my days of teasing him were done, that he was finally going to do something about it, about me.”

I think of what Newt told me, about what guys said about Jocelyn and Wade at school.

“Jocelyn—just wait, okay? I’ll be there.”

“Chris—”

“Listen to me. Everything’s going to be okay. My mom is home, and I’ll get there right away.”

I pause for a minute.

“Jocelyn?”

I don’t hear anything. I repeat her name and realize the other end is dead.

I curse and hang up the phone and start to run to the laundry room to ask my mom if I can borrow the car.

Then I realize that’s crazy.

She’s not going to let me borrow the car when I don’t have my license and can barely drive.

Instead I sprint up the stairs.

I take the gun out of hiding.

I slip it in the back of my pants and suddenly worry about it going off and shearing a portion of my backside.

I walk a little more slowly down the stairs. I yell out to my mom that I’m heading out, then I take her keys with me.

The drive—if what I’m doing can actually be considered driving—seems eternal. It’s like a motion picture of memories hits the windshield as I’m heading to Jocelyn’s as fast as I can.

As many friends as I had back home, I never had someone that I cared about this much.

That I loved.

Never someone I felt as open and honest around.

So now I find her, and she’s a troubled soul. A troubled soul in a troubled life. And I’m heading there now, driving toward trouble.

The gun resting on the passenger seat is heading for trouble too.

I think of everything that’s happened since I’ve come to Solitary. All the warnings and the threats and the dark signs and the omens and the nightmares.

I wonder why I’m here, and if there’s some gargantuan conspiracy against me. Or against Jocelyn and me. Or against my mother.

Or maybe against all of us.

Light snow is falling, and I can feel the slippery road underneath making it more difficult to speed.

I grab the steering wheel like a man trying to strangle an intruder.

When I pull into the long drive, I go as fast as I dare and park behind the two cars there.

For a long second—a very long second—I sit there and look at the house and then at the handgun.

What are you doing, Chris?

Then I take the gun and climb out of the car, ignoring the voice of reason and heading toward the voice that needs me.