2. LINC
TWO
LINC
Bad ideas.
I don’t indulge in them often—well, not physically, anyway—but here I am . . .
Sometimes it all just becomes too much—living in the walls of my fuckin’ head.
A prisoner pacing the floors, out of space for tick marks on the concrete wall of his cell . . .
And that’s when it happens.
Just below my skin starts to tingle, my heart takes flight, and the leash to my awareness frays.
The prisoner becomes a passenger.
Go, go, go.
Dangerous, bad ideas.
The trespassing kind. Just after midnight in a house with no electricity, no running water, no people. Like a thief that didn’t understand the assignment.
But I knew the house would be empty. I wouldn’t have come if I expected anyone to be here. The bad ideas haven’t toppled over into completely reckless.
Yet.
Standing in the darkness of an old, distantly familiar, abandoned kitchen feels slightly contradictory to that sentiment—but before I have time to think about it too much, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I let it go. I happen to know that the only person who could possibly be calling me carries the risk of reason—and I don’t want reason. I’m too amped up, and trying to reason with me right now, runs the risk of shoving bad into reckless.
So I’m hiding. And looking. Breathing. My lungs kind of contract, and through the dust, the haze . . .
Lemon, lavender . . . the smallest hint of Irish breakfast tea.
God, I’ve missed this house.
Darlene passed away a year ago. I wasn’t there.
The last time I’d seen her —the last time I was in this house— was seven years ago. And I wish so badly I could remember what we talked about that day.
A fuzzy image flickers through my mind, but as soon as I blink it’s gone.
My cheeks puff through a heavy sigh. Memories are weird for me. Like right now. I can feel my muscles relaxing, my heart evening out for the first time in what feels like hours —maybe even all day— but no specific memory comes to me.
It’s still dark.
My feet inch me forward, knowing that another two steps will land me—
Bump.
The smallest screech pushes against the linoleum floor, and my mouth ticks up at the corner as a wave passes through me. The warmth of familiarity.
There are no silhouettes of my former life dancing around in the shadowscapes of the furniture. No echoing, ongoing, creepy laughter.
But there’s something .
And I can feel it. Even in the dark. The house transcends this time tonight. I can feel the happiness, the warmth—my chest even tickles with the feeling of laughter, but it’s like it fizzles out before it even makes its way to my throat.
My eyes adjust to the dark with the help of the small bit of moonlight spilling in from the archway leading out to the living room, and my eyes catch on a few mugs in front of me on the table.
My hip drags along the round perimeter of the table so that I’m standing in the soft muted light, scrutinizing the mugs when I suddenly see . . .
My mug. The one I’d used whenever I came over. It’s dark, but I remember it’s a forest green color—and I can faintly make out the simple design of two little peaks.
“It kind of looks like an M . . . “ I said, holding up the mug.
“For Mmm-orrow,” she said, holding the ‘mmm’ sound a little longer as she said my last name.
My smile grew, saying, “Or Mmm-ichaels,” back to her the same way, nudging her shoulder.
It’s a mountain, I think with a chuckle. We got it camping in Big Sur—should have been the first giveaway. Reaching for the mug, I pick it up, but my eyes widen.
I nearly drop it, but my hand snaps out, and I regain my hold, keeping my eyes locked on what shook me to begin with —two oversized labels that look like old-school, No. 2 pencils.
What the fuck?
Years of wear and tear have bent the edges, frayed the paper. One has my name, the other has hers. But the longer I stare at them, the torn edges slowly brighten and straighten, almost like sunlight’s creeping over them . . .
The noise of the busy classroom tunneled as I stared at the big, pencil-shaped name tag, taped to the desk in front of me.
First day of first grade, and everyone was already going to know my stupid name.
Maybe my teacher would make me a new one.
“Linc-on,” I heard a voice say just a couple feet away, pulling my eyes up. A girl with golden hair, wild and long, stood across from me and giggled.
Stupid, stupid, name.
“When you’re sleeping, you should have people call you Linc-off.” It took me a second to understand what she meant, but once I did, I laughed.
So did she. And the sound tickled my belly.
“I like your shirt,” she said, and my smile stretched. I didn’t need to look down at my Batman shirt to know how awesome it was, but . . .
“You like Batman?” I finally asked.
Dad said that was a boy thing.
She shrugged. “He’s my friend Ellis’s favorite, but I like the Bat signal.”
My face scrunched. It’s what was on my shirt, but out of all the things someone could like about Batman . . . I couldn’t help but ask, “Why?”
She pulled her lips into her mouth and rocked on her heels, then shrugged again and said, “Just think it’s a cool way to ask for help.”
My shoulders felt less tight. I liked that answer. She was nice.
I finally looked at her pencil name tag, tracing the letters on my thigh with my finger.
P-A-I-G-E.
“Paige,” she said. “Like in a book.”
I liked books. My breath stuttered in my chest.
“Do you wanna arm wrestle for the window seat?” she chirped.
I blinked back at her. Arm wrestle?
That wouldn’t be fair. She . . . she was a girl.
“My dad said girls don’t got any arm strength,” I told her.
A couple weeks ago when I was helping my dad collect firewood for him and his friends, I’d asked him why Momma wasn’t doing it with us, and he’d said—it was ’cause girls got no arm strength.
Paige’s eyebrows pinched. She looked angry. “Nuh-uh. Ever seen Buffy the Vampire Slayer ?”
I shook my head. Those were all new words—except “vampire.”
And I didn’t mean to make her mad. I just didn’t want to hurt her. She was really pretty, and she smelled like lemonade.
Her eyes were so pretty. The same color as Neptune in my book about the planets, and they twinkled like there were stars around them. I had never seen eyes that blue. As soon as I noticed them, I couldn’t look away—it was like she’d captured my face, and I suddenly found myself wondering . . .
Was my new friend a vampire?!
Even as my eyes snap open with a gasp—cutting off the memory— her eyes linger in my mind, slowly shifting, darkening—filling with anguish.
No.
It all happens fast and slow. My jaw clenches just as her spine-numbing scream rings between my ears. I plow through the dark—back through the kitchen and into the mudroom—practically flinging myself out the back door.
Holy fuck.
I’m bent at the waist as my chest heaves, blinking through the spots in my vision. Curling my fists in search of oxygen. I gasp again when I realize I’m still holding the mug.
Looking down at it, I’m still not able to see it well—just like the memories.
Dark. It’s all just so fucking dark.
My hand shakes with a violent urge to smash the mug. A deep, digging desire to release some of the explosive panic that pushed me through the door. The panic itself plateaued, but the tremors—my heart pulsing through every part of my body—tells me this episode isn’t over.
I look for anything I can throw my fist into, but even through the surge of adrenaline, I find it in me to tighten the reins.
Do not hit a fucking thing in this house.
Do not.
My breath hisses through my teeth. Arms tightening, I look down and see my knuckles turning white under my tattoos. The mug rattles in my shaking fist before I suddenly throw it into the darkness—into the overgrown mess of the backyard.
No.
The second it’s airborne, I regret it.
No, no, no.
My eyes follow it the best they can through the abyss, and my body flinches, waiting for the sound of it shattering.
My ears strain against the silence —save for the rock concert from the bugs— but I . . . I don’t hear it.
Ah, fuck. Did I throw it into someone else’s yard?
I’m not actually expecting to find it, but my feet move on their own accord, down the few steps and into the mini-rainforest.
It used to be an oasis back here.
I shake my head. No more memories right now. Moving is helping to reroute the memory. It’s still there, but the images are pushing through my mind at a less violent current.
I breathe through my nose and out my mouth. Pulling out my phone, I push through the weeds—some of which reach as high as my hip—and I turn on the flashlight.
A spotlight appears on the ground, illuminating the dry, dead plants, leaves, the dirt—there used to be flowers. Life.
My eyes clamp shut, and I stop moving as the thrumming energy threatens to come rushing back.
It’s a-fucking-lot. To be here again. To see it like this. Part of me wonders if the house feels the same way about me. Like the dust and ghosts are joining together and throwing a depressing arm around my shoulder, asking, “ What happened to us? ”
I push out a heavy sigh, still searching the ground.
You need to leave.
My head nods, absently agreeing with whatever dazed part of my brain is giving the order.
And I will. I’ll go. I just want to . . . find the mug.
I didn’t hear it break.
Suddenly, I reach the big tree in the back corner of the yard and pull my phone up, shining the light upward.
My heart trips at the sight, just a second, before the whooshing in my ears eases up. One, two, three . . .
Lemons. So many lemons.
It’s still here.
Reaching up, I pick one off the branch closest to me, holding it just below my nose, and the earthy, zesty scent feels like the first clean breath I’ve taken in years.
Seven years and a single lemon ago.
I pick another, then another . . .
The tree is still here.
Another and another. I pick until I can’t carry anymore.
With both of my arms full, I start back toward the fence, carefully stepping through the dark. Even through the weeds, the route is still the same.
I don’t miss a step, navigating my way back to the fence, but I stop to take one more look.
The dark yard is overgrown. The house is empty.
God, I miss her.
The squeeze in my chest lifts when I see the small porch. The door. The open door.
Maybe next time I need to . . . go— I’ll come back here. At least as long as the house is empty.
Maybe I’ll make it past the kitchen.
Maybe not. But I’ll come back.
For the mug.
For the lemons.