The daredevils, p.13
The Daredevils, page 13
I extinguished the fire, and then the three of us gathered our things and set out for Louie’s house. I led the way, not slowing until we reached the edge of the woods. At its scariest, the nighttime forest was still nothing compared to what my sister was about to try. We stopped and crouched in the underbrush, scoping out the scene. Louie puffed his inhaler.
“It looks clear,” I said.
Loretta nodded.
“Remember, the spirits are with you,” I reminded her.
She inched forward, preparing to leave, but Louie grabbed her arm. “Enter through that window,” he said, pointing, suddenly finding his voice. “It’s the one I came out, so it’ll be unlocked. My mother has night-lights throughout the house, so don’t bother with your headlamp.”
Loretta was itching to go, but Louie’s instructions were important.
“You’ll need to cross through a few rooms and go up the stairs. My mom’s bedroom is at the end of the hallway.”
“Okay. Got it,” she replied. Again, she turned to leave, but Louie still had her arm.
“Loretta, this isn’t a joke,” he warned. “If my mother catches you…I don’t know what’ll happen. Please be careful.”
If she wasn’t scared before, there was a good chance she was now. I was—so much so that I licked my lips and was about to call the whole thing off.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t worry,” she said.
I didn’t know if she truly believed that or not, but she was gone, racing toward the window Louie had indicated. I watched as my sister disappeared into the enemy’s lair—and I was more scared then than I’d ever been. What have I done? I worried.
“I should’ve told her not to touch anything. My mother will notice if anything is out of place,” Louie moaned.
“She won’t make that mistake,” I assured him. “Trust me. Loretta has seen enough movies to know better.” And that was the truth.
My reassurance seemed to do the trick because Louie didn’t say anything more. Either that, or he was too nervous to speak. So that was it. We stayed hunkered down in the cover of the underbrush, not talking, just waiting—and rooting for Loretta. Hoping she made it out alive.
I slid the window up and stepped through the opening, my hands gently holding the blinds to keep them from rattling and banging against the frame. Once inside, I took in my surroundings. There was a small table and chairs set in the middle of the room and a tall hutch against one wall, nothing too exciting or out of the ordinary—except for the exact placement of the chairs and the meticulous arrangement of the china behind the glass doors of the hutch. Every piece was in order and lined up just so, as were the picture frames sitting on the surface beneath the doors. The display was perfect.
I took a breath and made my first step. Then my second. I continued moving, maintaining laser focus on the doorway leading into the next room. I didn’t make it far before my mistake caught up to me. I’d thought leaving the window open was a good idea because it would make for a quicker escape, should I need it. However, what I failed to realize was that it also meant a breeze could blow through the house—and that’s exactly what happened, except this breeze was more of a gust, and it knocked over one of the pictures.
The sudden noise scared me so bad that I almost died on the spot. I practically jumped out of my skin. Luckily, I also covered my mouth and managed to trap my horror-movie scream before it escaped. My body buzzed with whatever chemicals rush around inside you after you get scared to death. I stood there, shaking, heart hammering, listening for any indication that Louie’s mother was now awake. I didn’t move an inch, terrified that I might not be alone anymore.
After a few minutes of continued silence, my heart slowed. I thanked my lucky stars and the Forest Spirits too, and then I pulled myself together and kept going. I had to. I didn’t have time to waste. The longer I took, the riskier this got.
I walked around the table to the hutch, intending to lay the rest of the pictures flat before any others accidentally fell. I’d fix them before leaving—if all went well. If it didn’t, fixing the pictures would be the least of my worries.
I grasped the first frame but stopped short before setting it down. It was a shot of Louie’s parents cuddling on a beach at sunset, arms wrapped around each other. Next to that one was a picture of Louie’s dad pushing him on a Big Wheel when he was a little boy. I picked up the frame that had fallen. It was a photo of Louie’s father playing the harmonica. I looked from one image to the next and back again. My mind raced with possibilities, but I would need to ponder them later. I had to keep going.
I laid the pictures flat and made my way into the kitchen. Again, nothing out of the ordinary—except for the single place setting at the table, perfectly arranged with every utensil in order and cloth napkin delicately folded.
From there, I peeked around the corner into the living room. It appeared to be empty, but I could only see the back of the couch. I’d seen too many scary movies to make that costly mistake. I got down on my belly and army crawled across the floor. Louie would’ve appreciated my effort. Slowly, I rose to my knees and peered over the top of the couch. I sighed with relief when I found nothing more than pillows. Then I caught sight of the adjacent end table and picture standing on it—this one of the young couple dancing at their wedding.
So many questions. Keep going, I told myself.
I got to my feet and tiptoed to the stairs. It was time to find her bedroom, where I hoped with all hope, she was still fast asleep. If not…I didn’t even want to think about that.
As silent as a hunter moving through the forest—my brother, who was angry with me, would’ve been proud—I crept up the steps and down the hall. Thankfully, the door at the end wasn’t latched. Gently, I eased it open but only to the point where I could slide my body through the gap. I didn’t want to nudge it any farther than needed in case it creaked. If you’ve seen as many movies as I have, then you know doors do that.
Here goes nothing, I thought. Time to play Mission: Impossible.
I slipped through the opening and stepped inside my enemy’s quarters. The first thing I noticed were the piles of wadded tissues strewn about the bed and littering the floor. Perched atop the nightstand were an empty wine bottle and glass. And next to that, yet another photo, this one of Louie’s father dressed in army gear—waving goodbye. I grimaced and looked back at the woman passed out under a blanket in the middle of it all. I stared at her.
Touch the enemy and get out, I told myself. Count coup.
I knelt and crawled across the floor. I reached her bedside and inched my way closer to the sleeping woman. All I had to do was touch her and retreat. That was it. Count coup and run—but I couldn’t.
I was stopped by the letter that she’d fallen asleep holding in her hand. I couldn’t read all of the words, only the last few sentences because the writing had gone onto the back of the page.
Can’t wait to be home with you and Louie for Christmas. Miss you both. I love you.
It was from Louie’s father. The envelope lying nearby was postmarked from more than a year ago. The story I’d been piecing together since seeing the first set of pictures downstairs had to be true. I swallowed, fighting the knot in my throat.
Looking at Louie’s mother now, she wasn’t the same wild and crazy woman. She wasn’t scary at all. She was sad—deeply sad. The love of her life never made it home. And now she chased her sorrows away with wine and fought the nightmares with sleeping pills. I wished there was something I could do for her.
And then it happened. Waylon would say the Forest Spirits spoke to me, and maybe he’s right, but whatever it was, the answer just hit me. You know that scene in the movie when the lead actress has that breakthrough moment and everything suddenly becomes clear and makes sense to her, like in Disney’s Tangled, when Rapunzel discovers she’s the lost princess. Or in Dumbo when the elephant figures out it’s not the feather that makes him fly. An epiphany, that’s what it’s called. I had an epiphany. I suddenly understood that it wasn’t my brother who needed my help any longer, but Louie’s mom. She definitely wasn’t the enemy. She was just a heartbroken woman.
A tingling sensation raced through my body. Goose bumps sprang up all over my skin. I needed to leave a sign—but how? And what? I glanced around the bedroom, thinking, looking for anything that might help. And then I reverted to the thing that always helps me when I need to figure something out. I thought of all the movies I’d ever watched, searching for what happens in a moment like this, and the answer came to me.
I crept into the adjoining bathroom. As I’d hoped, I found a tube of lipstick in one of the vanity drawers. In dark red letters, I wrote call for help—and a job! across the mirror. Below that, I added Dad’s name and phone number. Nothing like killing two birds with one stone, I thought, and smiled. My father needed an assistant and Louie’s mother needed my father’s help.
I stepped back and looked at the glass. There was no way she could miss it. Louie’s mother just needed to call, which I knew was much easier said than done. That was why making it happen was going to be up to someone else.
My work here was done. There was only one thing left to do. I crawled back to her bedside and gently touched her forearm, officially counting coup. She didn’t move. Don’t ask me why, but then I did something truly risky—and maybe even dumb. I took things one step further and leaned down and whispered into her ear, “Make the call,” hoping she might remember hearing those words in her sleep and believe it was a voice from somewhere else—or someone else.
Louie’s mother never moved, but I did. Like a Jedi Knight, I slipped out of the bedroom and back down the stairs. I fixed the pictures on the hutch and snuck out the same window that I’d come in, remembering to close it behind me.
Then I turned and ran. It was time to tell Louie that his rite of passage awaited him.
I ducked behind cover and bent over huffing and puffing from my sprint across the yard.
“You made it,” Waylon said, and sighed.
He sounded relieved. I knew I was.
“Did you do it?” he asked tentatively. “Did you count coup?”
I nodded.
“You did? You really did it!” Now he sounded a mix of amazed and excited.
“Yes,” I said, “and I brought this to prove it.” I straightened and showed them the tube of lipstick I held in my hand.
“Whoa,” Waylon murmured, clearly impressed.
Louie looked stricken with fear. “You didn’t take anything else, or move or touch anything else, did you?”
“No,” I replied. “Don’t worry, I noticed how perfect and precise your mom keeps everything—like that place setting on the kitchen table.”
His gaze fell to the ground.
“You know what else I noticed? There are a lot of pictures in your house. Pictures of you and your mother—and your father.” I paused. Waylon glanced back and forth between Louie and me, trying to make sense of what he was hearing, but Louie didn’t budge. “I needed something that I could write with,” I continued, “and I found this lipstick in your mom’s bathroom. I used it to leave a message on her mirror.”
Waylon’s reaction was one of pure alarm. “You what?!” he exclaimed.
Louie looked up at me then. “You left her a message?” he croaked. “What did it say?”
I answered his question with the question. “Louie, what happened to your father?”
His eyes grew wet almost instantly. He blinked several times and swallowed, then went back to staring at the ground. He scuffed his foot across the dirt. Waylon and I waited. There was more mindless scuffing, but eventually, Louie started talking.
“My father was a combat medic,” he began. “He was the guy who went into battle with the troops so he could help all the fallen soldiers. He always said it was an honor to be there for the men and women who put their lives on the line to protect the freedoms most of us take for granted.”
Waylon glanced at me, beginning to understand.
“He went on a lot of deployments over the years,” Louie continued, “but he didn’t make it back home from the last one. The jeep he was riding in on his way to the hospital hit a land mine. They say he didn’t suffer. Everyone died on impact.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“I know,” he rasped.
“The harmonica was from your dad, wasn’t it?” Waylon said. “And the camouflage and your medical kit too. And you learned your skills from him?”
“Yeah,” he replied, scuffing at the dirt again.
“Louie, I found something else in your house,” I said.
His foot stopped. He looked up at me, confused.
“Your rite of passage,” I explained.
He glanced at Waylon, but the only thing my brother could offer were raised eyebrows and a shrug. Waylon had no idea what I was talking about.
“Louie, your mother needs help,” I continued. “She’s depressed, and she’s not getting any better.”
“She’s grieving, that’s all. She just needs more time.”
He could go on trying to convince himself of that lie, but it wasn’t working on me.
“No,” I said, firmer than I meant, but I knew I was right. “She might still be grieving, but she’s also depressed, and she won’t get better unless she gets help. You can’t do this on your own. And you shouldn’t have to.”
Louie’s gaze fell to the ground again. He wasn’t going to argue because he knew the truth.
“Getting your mother to admit she needs help, and convincing her to seek it, is your rite of passage,” I said. “You have to do it.”
He sniffled and wiped his nose, then lifted his chin and looked at me through wet eyes, shaking his head and shrugging. “What if I can’t?”
“You can,” I reassured him.
“But how?”
“The answer is in the message I left on her mirror,” I said, and began explaining. “Your mother’s going to see a name and phone number—my father’s. He’s a psychologist. His job is counseling people—and he’s in desperate need of an assistant. Somebody who can help him organize his office, and from what I saw inside your house, your mom is amazing at keeping things neat. You need to make sure she calls him.”
“She wasn’t always like this,” Louie said, and sniffled again. “After Dad, she became superstitious, but now she’s anxious about everything. I have to sneak out if I want to leave the house, and I have to do homeschooling because she’s afraid to let me out of her sight. She’s terrified of losing me too. She’s told me so.”
The more Louie revealed, the sadder I felt for him and his mom—and the more I knew I was right. “You need her to make the call,” I stressed.
“We bought this old house because Mom heard the rumors about it being haunted and all,” Louie continued. “She hoped this place would help her connect with Dad’s spirit in the afterlife. That he might be able to cross over and visit us. My father had traveled through this area once long ago and liked it. He’d told my mom he wanted to move here one day. So…”
“Louie…you need her to make the call,” I stressed once more. “It’s your rite of passage, but it’s more than that. Your mother needs help. And so do you. You’ve got to stand up to her and make her see that.”
He wiped his face.
“We’ll make sure our father is ready,” I promised.
Louie looked at Waylon and me with pain and sorrow behind his red eyes and weak smile. He nodded, then stepped out of the forest and walked to his house. He never glanced back. He had to go alone. That was the way it had to be with a rite of passage.
“May the force be with you,” I whispered.
“And the Forest Spirits too,” Waylon added.
There was no fire ceremony or special tattoos. Everything up to this point had had some element of fun—but not anymore. There was nothing fun about Louie’s quest. This was much bigger now.
I tiptoed into my parents’ bedroom and tapped Mom on the shoulder. “We’re back,” I whispered, letting her know we were home as I’d promised.
She touched my hand. “Thank you, sweetie.”
She turned over, and I went and found my bed after that, hoping for sleep, but there was too much racing through my mind. Was Waylon in the same boat? Was he still mad at me? Our fight seemed so long ago now—and suddenly, not so important.
I lay staring at the ceiling, hugging my pillow and worrying about Louie. At some point, my eyes finally closed.
* * *
—
Here was the good news. Ever since Dad had become aware of our overnight missions, he began letting Waylon and me sleep in later, agreeing to turn breakfast into brunch, because even if we were starting our days later than normal, we still had to start with a strong meal. It was only on our camp days when this wasn’t possible. We still had to drag ourselves out of bed nice and early on those mornings—but a few sleep-late days were better than none, so I wasn’t complaining. I saw no downside to our new arrangement until the morning after counting coup.
I woke with a start, jarred by squealing laughter—which was annoying! That was quickly followed by my father’s boisterous laughter—which was concerning. Very!
I flung my covers off and ran downstairs. The kitchen was empty, except for the note left sitting on the table.
You’re on your own this morning. Cereal in cabinet and muffins on the counter. I have an interview.
Love,
Dad
On cue, there was the laughter again. It was coming from Dad’s office. I hurried to that end of the house and found his door ajar. I peeked through the crack. Sure enough, he was in the midst of his interview—and based on his smiles and her annoying laughter, it appeared to be going well.
