2. Kennedy
Kennedy
S tanding awkwardly on the sidewalk, I stare down the distinctly Rick-less street and clutch the handle of my bike in one hand, trying to balance my overly large bag of medication and dressings in the other.
Dammit.
Tugging my backpack around, I haphazardly shove the paper bag inside, trying not to crush the medication as I fight to fit it all in.
The sun beats down, making sweat trickle between my shoulder blades. The turtleneck clings to my already damp skin.
I’m going to melt.
Especially when I have to cycle over an hour, if not more, to get home. Abram’s surgery is the closest I can get to, but our small town is further up the mountain, and home is further up again.
My mouth twists as I swing my leg over the bike and grip the bars.
Uphill.
Getting here was bad enough.
I can do this.
I can.
Twenty minutes go by before I have to stop, my lungs screaming.
I shouldn’t have to do this.
One hour turns into two. Wide, open, neatly poured concrete turns into towering, endless stretches of forest. The road narrows to rougher tracks that harden under the summer sun and threaten to become impassable when the rains come through.
I pick up speed, gritting my teeth as I approach the main street of Widow’s Peak. I never come through here if I can help it, but it’s the fastest route from the clinic. I’m not sure I’ll make it much further otherwise. I keep my head down, but nobody pays me any attention.
The open street, lined with shops on either side, ends abruptly at the edge of the forest. A single main road winds up the mountain from there. I skid off it after a few minutes in favor of the familiar forest trail that’ll take me close to our tiny patch of land.
Thank the lord for shortcuts.
It’s getting dark by the time I pedal through the last of the trees, dripping in sweat and with a foul temper to match. I tip the bike to the ground and leave my wheels spinning, too tired to bother putting my bike away and leaving it in front of the trailer.
The sound of the television greets me as I push the door open. “That you, Kenz?”
“No,” I mutter. “Someone else.”
As if anyone else would come up here. Rick twists his head to stare at me over the back of the couch. “Where you been?”
My father probably used to be handsome, once. I’m not sure when that changed. Possibly when my mama dumped me on his doorstep as a newborn and took off into the night. Never to be seen again and leaving him with an omega daughter that he had no idea how to handle.
The dimple in his chin that probably used to be cute looks more and more like a drooping ass crack every day, even as his hairline creeps back. I think of it as symbolic of our relationship.
My backpack falls to the floor with a thump, my response forced through gritted teeth. “Where were you?”
His eyebrows fly up at my clear irritation. “What’s got your ass in a twist?”
“You.” Stalking into our tiny kitchenette, I yank the door to the refrigerator open and shove my head inside, trying to cool off and frowning at the lack of anything edible. “You were supposed to pick me up, Rick!”
Awkward silence is my only response. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” I slam the door, bringing a bottle of water with me. “ Shit .”
“That was today?”
“Yep.” I’m soaked. I’ll need to do an extra dressing change. My whole damn body sings with pain as I turn to Rick. “You really didn’t remember…?”
I trail the words off before I can finish the sentence. Hurts a little less, that way, and I have more than enough pain to cope with as it is.
Me . He didn’t remember me.
I shouldn’t even be surprised by now.
“Sorry, Kenz.” He actually gets up, coming over to me as I slide into a stool at the tiny counter. “What’d they say? You getting better?”
I stare at him. His knack for completely ignoring what’s happening continues to astound me. “No, Rick. I’m not getting better.”
“Ah.” Rick sucks on a tooth, the sound grating. For once, he doesn’t sweep past it. Instead, his eyebrows draw down until they’re pressed together over dark brown eyes. My eyes. The only thing that makes us look related at all. “So… what’s the plan now, exactly?”
“I have to go back every week.” I don’t look at him, keeping my gaze on the counter. “I need you to take me, Rick. Please. I’m not going to be able to use the bike for much longer.”
I don’t point out that I’m supposed to be resting.
He inhales. “ Every week?”
“It’s not like it’s going to be for much longer.” My finger traces over the old ripped laminate. “They said… it’s gonna be weeks, now. Probably less. Days, even. It’s not like this is a permanent arrangement.”
If I cared to think about it, I’d probably speak to someone about how fucked-up it is that I need to persuade my useless sperm doner to take me for critical end-of-life care by leaning into my impending demise.
Luckily I have a knack for not thinking about it at all.
When he doesn’t say anything, I roll my eyes and push away from the counter, sliding past him. “Or don’t. I’ll die either way. Why is there no food here?”
“You know I can’t shop for shit.” He folds his arms as I open the cupboards, searching for something edible. All that greets me is an old, twisted tube of tomato puree and an abandoned box of cereal. “Besides, they cut my hours at the yard.”
The slam of the cupboard door is my only response. We both know why his hours have been cut. “Well, I can’t do anything about that . Are we planning to starve? Should I go ahead and start licking the floor for crumbs? Plenty of ‘em.”
Fuck knows he’s never heard of a vacuum.
Rick scratches his neck awkwardly. “I was thinking…you could speak to Mick at the diner. He’d probably take you back.”
Silent, I lower my hands until I can grip the counter, my knuckles whitening until I can wrestle my rising temper under control. “You want me to go back to work? Now?”
“Well, you’re not going to college.” Rick sounds uncomfortable. “It’s not forever, Kenz.”
No shit.
“And after?” I stare down, not looking at him. I know what he means. “Got any plans for when I’m six feet under?”
What will he do, when he’s finally free of the tiny amount of responsibility he’s bothered to shoulder?
“Plenty of work in other towns.” I hear the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing again. He shifts, placing something down in front of me, and I blink at the wrapped sandwich. He must have made it with the last of the bread I saw this morning. “We could go now. Find another place. Maybe it’d be better somewhere else than here, Kenz. You know, after what’s happened.”
Biting on the inside of my cheek, I consider it, and not for the first time. It’s not like we haven’t talked about it before. I’m not exactly attached to Widow’s Peak – in fact, I’d drive away and leave this fucking place happily in the rearview mirror. “But I need access to the clinic.”
And fuck knows we can’t afford anything within fifty miles of here. We’ve only held onto the trailer because nobody else wants it, and Rick is beer buddies with our landlord.
He doesn’t say anything, and my throat tightens. It’s not the first time I’ve wondered if he might give up on me before I actually take my last breath. If I might wake up one day and he’ll be gone. But he sighs. “Then we need to make do with what we can.”
At least he’s sticking around, I suppose. It’s more than anyone else ever has. I pick the sandwich up, turning it over in my hands. “I’ll speak to Mick. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to work, though. If he even takes me back.”
He’d be stupid to hire me again. For many reasons. But Mick’s brain cell count could be done on both hands and still have fingers to spare, so it’s possible.
“Good.” Rick perks up slightly. “That’d help, Ken. And you’ve spent enough time moping in your room. I’ll speak to Rivers about my hours, alright?”
Moping . As if I just got dumped and I’m not rotting from the inside out. I haven’t even been out of hospital for that long. A few weeks.
I lift the sandwich. “Thanks. I’ll eat in my room. Maybe sleep for a while. I’ll speak to Mick later.”
If I can muster up the energy to put one foot in front of the other. Even the thought of going back into town – of seeing anyone after weeks of hiding – has my pulse racing. My scent sharpens, the faint acrid tang that seems to follow me everywhere now filling the trailer, and I swallow, my face flushing.
It’s getting worse.
Rick has already turned away. Both of us are embarrassed by the taint I can’t control. “Sure, kid.”
It’s like a beacon above my head. What used to be a sweet, rich scent of cherries and chocolate is now twisted and bitter, following me around like a giant sign.
Look. There’s something wrong with this one.
Defective.
Fucked up.
Broken.
I can feel his eyes on my back as I reach for my backpack and lug it with me, skirting around the couch to get to my bedroom door and using my back to push it closed.
Breathe.
In. Out.
Again.
I stay pressed against the door for a few minutes, focusing on breathing the way they showed me at the clinic.
They called it a relaxation technique. I call it a coping mechanism.
When the urge to scream has departed, replaced by a lagging exhaustion that fills my bones with lead, I drop the sandwich on my small side table for later and crawl into bed. My room might only be big enough for one person to stand in at a time, but I don’t mind it.
It feels safe. Safer than anything on the other side of that door.
I burrow into my pile of blankets, tossing and yanking them into place until I’m cocooned and reach out to flick on the row of small golden lights that run across my ceiling.
I should change my dressings. But I find that I don’t have the energy to do anything except close my eyes.
Just for a moment, I let myself wish that things were different.
That Rick was the type of father who stepped up when I needed him – who actually gave a shit. That we lived somewhere that didn’t require a small marathon and a talent for off-grid travel to reach. That the pain radiating through my shoulder and down my body was just a temporary annoyance, instead of a countdown.
I try not to waste any more than a moment on wishes that will never come true.
Not when I have so few moments left.
And not when those thoughts tend to deviate into memories I’d rather not touch. That I’d do anything not to remember.
But the thoughts still invade my mind. They steal my breath, tighten my lungs to the point that my harsh, noisy, rattling breathing fills my microscopic bedroom as I scrunch my eyes shut and fight to sleep.
And then it starts, as it always does. In that strange space between wakefulness and sleep, when I’m not sure what’s real and what’s just a nightmare.
Although these days, they feel more and more like one and the same.
The shaking comes first. I tug on the blankets, push myself into them, close my eyes and try to think about the feel of the soft fur against my cheek, instead of grass against my back or sharp rocks embedding in my skin. Of a heavy weight, pressing down.
Then comes the screaming.
The feel of my nails ripping, breaking, tearing.
Rust in my mouth, filling my nose.
And them . Always them.
They’ll follow me into my nightmares, as they always do.
And I’ll let them.