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“SO WHERE DO YOU WANT to go?” Michael asked, revving the engine of the new Pontiac Grand Am his dad had given him for his birthday. The fire engine red finish reflected overhead streetlights and oncoming headlights as they stopped at a four-way.
Zander had no destination in mind when he called Michael after the basketball game. He just wanted to stay away from home as long as possible, away from his parents and their continual lies. They refused to give a straight answer about his birth parents, and his dad avoided him like a dollar bill in the wind, afraid he’d insist on answers about the lab, the twins, his part in the project and how he came to be involved.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Somewhere far away from here I guess.”
“You got it.” Michael peeled out, new rubber squealing against asphalt like a dying cat. They’d left the school far behind when he sped up alongside a little Toyota. “Hey, lookee who we got here. It’s that stupid kid from Savage High. The one we smack down in soccer every year.”
Zander glanced over and caught the driver’s eye. Apparently, the kid remembered them too. He flipped them off.
“Did you see that? Dude, they’re asking for it!” Michael sped up, swerved into the lane ahead of them and put on his brakes, forcing the little car to slow to ten miles per hour. He laughed and accelerated to fifty, leaving them far behind.
“What are you doing? Let’s get something to eat.” Zander turned on the radio. It was tuned to a heavy metal station. The screeching cacophony hit every nerve in his body and he quickly shut it off. Overload. He couldn’t handle that tonight.
“Hey! Keep it there. We might need some knocking heads together music,” Michael protested, weaving in and out of cars.
“Sorry, my head already hurts.”
They pulled into a fast food parking lot. “Guess what? We got company,” Michael said, jabbing his thumb in the direction they’d come. His lips were smiling, but his eyes were hard. It was not a good sign.
Zander shook his head. The Toyota had followed them and parked two spaces away. He could tell from here that the occupants were spoiling for a fight, even without emotions churning his insides. “I wanted to get out of the house tonight, to have some fun for a change.”
Michael snorted a laugh. “You got it, monkey boy. Fun is my middle name.” He thrust open the door and stepped out of the car. “You coming?”
“Come on, Mike. We don’t have to do this.” His plea fell on deaf ears.
Michael sauntered toward the other car. He reached in his pocket for a cigarette and stuck it between his lips. Two guys climbed out of the Toyota, one brought a baseball bat. A couple of cute girls had sense enough to stay in the backseat, but they watched the scene through an open window like they had front row tickets to world wrestling.
Zander didn’t want to fight anyone and most certainly didn’t want to mess with these guys. They were each four or five inches taller and probably seventy-five pounds heavier than him. He blew out a breath of frustration and stepped out of the car anyway.
“Looks like you drive as slow on the street as you do on the soccer field,” Michael taunted, striking a match. He lit the end of his cigarette, drew in a lungful of smoke and blew it into the crisp night air. “Maybe you should let one of those girls take the wheel. They couldn’t do any worse.”
“Mike, let’s go,” Zander said, feeling tension escalate and knowing nothing good would come of it. His friend was aggressive on the field and off. Most people didn’t take well to that. Michael didn’t mean to rub people the wrong way, he just did. He definitely needed to learn self-control, but now was obviously not the time. He was pushing all the wrong buttons and liking it.
“You gonna try and break my leg for your little friend again, dirt bag?” The driver got up into Michael’s face and stared him down, chewing open-mouthed on a wad of gum. He smirked at the look of surprise in Michael’s eyes. “Yeah, I’ve got a long memory and I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you off the field.”
His friend stood back, nervously tapping the bat against his palm.
“Not so tough now, huh?” The driver said, with a lift of his brows.
Michael blew smoke in his face and laughed as he coughed and sputtered. “Tough enough.”
The kid with the bat took a swing after Michael slammed a fist into the driver’s stomach. The driver went down to his knees, Michael ducked, and the bat cut through the air with a warning swoosh. Zander took a running leap and knocked the bat out of the kid’s hands before he could take another crack at his friend’s head. The big guy slammed against the door of the Toyota and the girls inside screamed in unison. The bat rolled under the car out of reach.
“Watch your back!” Michael yelled.
Zander turned around in time to catch a punch to the nose. He fell back against the car and bashed his rib on the side mirror. Pain shot through him. He ducked as the kid swung at his face again. His head connected with the mirror this time and he dropped to the ground.
One of the girls yelled, “Get him, Donny!”
Michael suddenly had the big guy in a choke hold from behind, his face filled with rage. The big guy slumped, trying to free himself. He gasped for air as he fought to loosen Michael’s grip.
The girls screamed out the window, yelling for Michael to stop.
“Let him go, Mike!” Zander ordered. He stood slowly, clutching his side. “We’ve got to get out of here.” He nodded toward the crowd of onlookers, some with cell phones to their ears.
He released the kid, who dropped to his knees on the pavement sucking in air like a leaky hose. Michael backed up, kicked the other kid still on the ground, and slid behind the wheel of his Grand Am. The engine revved to life. Zander jumped in and slammed the door. With a squeal of tires, they peeled out of the parking lot and back onto the street.
Zander breathed heavily. Sharp pain sliced through his chest at every move. Great. He’d bruised his ribs.
“Woohoo!” yelled Michael, driving faster than the posted speed limit. “That’ll teach those Savage wimps.” He flipped the radio on and cranked it up.
Zander flipped it back off. “Slow down, or you’re going to get picked up.” He glanced in the side mirror. “Someone probably called the cops and gave them your license plate number.”
“You’re such a worrier. They can’t touch me.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I don’t have super powers like you, so I’d rather not find out. Just take me home, okay?” He sat as straight as he could, favoring his injured side.
“Oh, so now you’re blaming me for all of this.”
Zander shook his head in amazement. “Who else? You were looking for trouble and you found it. Why do I always come along for the ride? Am I just stupid? I should have let that goon hit you upside the head with the bat. Maybe it would’ve knocked some sense into you.”
Michael slammed his brakes on as a light turned red. He flipped his visor down and looked in the lighted mirror, his brows raised in feigned surprise. “Guess you are stupid. I’m the one without a scratch. Look at you. You look like someone used you for a punching bag.” He hit the gas hard.
Zander yelped as the seatbelt tightened painfully against his ribs. “Do you gotta do that?”
They took the next right and headed back toward home. After a while, Michael glanced over at him. “You look messed up. What are you going to tell your parents?”
“Nothing. They won’t even notice I’m home.”
They pulled up outside his house. The windows were dark except for an upstairs room. His mom’s bedroom. She seemed to sleep all day and roam the house at night when she thought everyone else was in bed. Sort of like a vampire.
“Hey man, sorry you got mauled. Guess you were trying to help out and all, but maybe next time you should just let me take care of things. I had it all under control.” He grinned and smacked Zander on the shoulder.
“Yeah sure.” Zander struggled from the car and leaned on the open door a moment breathing as shallow as possible.
He watched as Michael drove off before making his way up the driveway and into the house. The alarm wasn’t set, so that meant his dad wasn’t home yet. He hung his coat in the hall closet and noticed his shirt was torn at the collar. Great. His favorite shirt. Michael comes away without a bruise and he looks like WWIII played out on his face.
He slipped out of his shoes and carried them up the stairway to his room, making no more sound on the plush carpet treads than a mouse might, and yet he knew she heard him. He felt her angst build, a mottled assortment of frustration, hopelessness, and inadequacy. As far back as he could remember his mother’s depression had dictated their lives in this house. Not a moment of time had been his alone to feel natural boyhood contentment. Instead, his mind was besieged day and night with sadness, regret, anger, resentment, desperate longings—everything but peace. Right now, he wanted to close the door and shutdown for a little while, delay the need to explain why he was late, his bloodied lip and torn shirt, and most of all the resentment he felt for the life he was expected to lead.
“Zander?” she called. The closed bedroom door and her antidepressants muffled the sound of her voice almost beyond recognition. She sounded frail and helpless, the two most powerful traits a mother could portray. “Could you come in here a minute?”
He hesitated, silent, clutching the knob of his door, debating whether to pretend he hadn’t heard and go to bed, or turn and enter her world of emotional quicksand. The trick of survival was to be as silent as possible or sink beneath the mire and bog.
He drew a sustaining breath, silently entered his room, and quickly replaced the torn shirt with a clean t-shirt. He combed his fingers through his tangled hair and stepped across the hall. There was nothing he could do about the puffy lip, but he tried to wipe the crust of dried blood away before opening her door and peering in.
His mother sat propped up in bed with half a dozen lace and satin covered pillows supporting her back. The room remained shadowed; the only light a small lamp on the corner end table. She appeared dwarfed in the huge four-poster bed with an old-fashioned canopy and matching bedspread. However, despite the inordinate amount of space available his father had taken to sleeping in the guest room at the end of the hall.
Zander hoped the dim light of the room would hide the fact that he’d been fighting. He turned his head partially away, not meeting her eye. “Hey, Mom. What is it?”
She blinked rapidly as though suddenly in the spotlight, but Zander recognized the action as a prelude to a round of lecturing. Although she never raised her voice, she conveyed how upset she was with fluttering hands and wide eyes. “Where have you been? I had your father calling all around town looking for you,” she began.
All around town sounded as though they lived in a little hamlet in North Dakota rather than the spreading metropolis of Minneapolis. He tried to concentrate on the words rather than the emotions behind them.
“You were supposed to be home immediately after the game. Not driving around with a bunch of wild kids until all hours.” She threw back the blankets and sat up on the edge of the bed facing him directly. She wore cotton candy pink pajamas with a thin white stripe running up and down. The color gave a look of warmth to her skin but the anger in her eyes didn’t match.
He dropped his gaze and stared at the carpet at his feet. “Sorry Mom. Michael and I wanted to get a bite to eat after the game. I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“Well, your dad’s on his way home and he’ll want to talk to you.”
He doubted that, but he nodded anyway. “Sure, Mom.”
“Come and give me a hug,” she said, her eyes misting over. “I was so worried about you.”
He wanted to stay where he was, away from the lamplight and over-protective gaze of his mother, but he stepped forward and bent to hug her, barely suppressing a groan of pain at the movement. She smelled of lavender and rose petals, two things that would be linked in his brain forever with sadness.
“I know you think I don’t care about you,” she said softly into his neck, “but I care more than any birth mother ever could. I love you, Alexander.”
“Love you too, Mom.” He turned his face away, straightened and moved toward the door.
Behind him the lamp clicked off and he heard her scoot back into bed.
“Goodnight, Mom,” he said, and closed the door.
*****
A TAP ON THE DOOR ROUSED him from sleep. He sat up and rubbed his face. The glow-in-the dark hands of the clock pointed to twenty minutes after one.
“Zander?” his dad said, opening the door.
“Yeah?” He pushed blankets back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His ribs still hurt but not as bad since he’d taken pain medication earlier. “What’s wrong?” he asked, still groggy.
His dad flipped the light switch on. They both squinted against the brightness. “Just checking to see if you were home. Your mom was worried about you.”
“I got home over two hours ago. What took you so long?”
His dad glanced around the room, everywhere but at him. He stooped and picked up the ripped and blood-spotted shirt. “What happened tonight?”
“Nothing. It was just a misunderstanding.”
“Nothing?” His dad’s gaze zoomed in on his face and he stepped close to the bed. “You call that nothing?” he asked, touching the skin below his right eye. “Your nose is swollen, and it looks like you might be sporting a black eye by morning. What kind of misunderstanding causes damage like that?”
He didn’t answer. His parents didn’t know Michael like he did. They thought he was a bad influence because he was left unsupervised most of the time and pretty much did what he wanted. Michael had his good points. He was a loyal friend, someone he could trust to be there if he needed him. Someone who would tell him the truth.
His dad crossed his arms, his mind made up. “Let me guess. Michael started something, you were pulled into the middle of it, and he came out unscathed in the end.”
“Whatever,” he shrugged and looked away, annoyed how close to the truth his guess was. “You always blame him for everything.”
“And you always stick up for him.” He was silent a moment and then sat beside him on the edge of the bed. “Look, let’s put all of this aside for now. We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“About your skulking around. I heard you were asking about your birth records when you visited Frank at the hospital the other day.”
Zander hadn’t seen that one coming. Was he being followed? Did the company have spies everywhere? He remained silent, agitation twisting his gut.
His dad rubbed a hand tiredly over his face, the bristles of his beard making their familiar scratchy sound. “I know you have questions that need to be answered. I’ll tell you what I know. Which isn’t much. But you’ve got to promise not to share this information with anyone, not even your mom. Especially your mom.”
He nodded, eager to know, but surprised his mom was as much in the dark as he was.
“Your birth mother was a volunteer test subject for the company, for Devlin’s research on mental illness.”
“Volunteer?” he mocked.
His dad’s face was grim. “She suffered from schizophrenia, so I’m not sure if volunteer is an accurate descriptor, but apparently she signed a release form. Soon after she began the program, it was discovered that she was pregnant. Devlin liked the idea of testing a subject from infancy. So, he talked her into signing over custody, promising that she’d be cared for. I know that sounds bad.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and released a quiet sigh. “The drugs Devlin gave her seemed to increase her psychosis rather than alleviate it. She became more and more paranoid. In her delusional state she ran from the lab. No one knows how she made it downtown, but that’s where she ended up. You know the rest. She was hit by a car and shortly after you were born, she died in surgery.”
He had so many questions and no idea what to ask. His father’s relief at being able to share this much was palpable, but it was obvious he was still holding something back. Zander felt a wall pressing against him. Was his dad trying to protect himself or the company? Hard to tell. Sometimes words or phrases came into his mind clearly and succinctly, unbidden and unexpected, other times they hovered just out of reach, like a word on the tip of a tongue that escapes memory.
“Is there something else you want to know? I’ll tell you whatever I can.” His dad spread his hands in a candid gesture, as though suddenly he was an open book.
“What was her name?” he asked, his voice gruff with emotion.
“Darla Radcliff.”
“What about my father?”
“I have no idea. She was living in a homeless shelter.”
Gooseflesh crept over his chest. He was chilled from sitting in nothing but shorts, so he went to the dresser for a t-shirt and pulled it over his head. His dad watched him as though he expected a sudden outburst or emotional breakdown. But those things had happened long ago.
He bit his bottom lip and thought about all the nights that he’d lain awake wondering about his origins. At first, he asked questions, but was rebuffed time and again. His mother always melted into a quivering mass of dependency at such inquiries, which sent his dad into a tailspin, too worried about her to deal with a ten-year-old boy’s questions.
“Why is everything always such a big secret? I’m sick and tired of being a guinea pig for your company, Dad. I’m finished with it. They can’t make me do this anymore.”
“I don’t like it any better than you. But things are complicated. I’m afraid of what will happen if you refuse them, Zander. You aren’t even supposed to know this much.”
“Is that why you sent spies to keep track of me? So, I don’t learn something I shouldn’t know?”
His dad stood up, shaking his head. “Not me. Frank heard it from Devlin. I’ve never trusted that man.”
“But you let him experiment on your son,” he said, his voice flat and hard.
Silence filled the room, pushing them further apart, like strangers in an elevator.
“Yes. That’s true. Because if I’d refused, we never would have been allowed to keep you.”