Lost

LOST

            The dog days of summer in Oklahoma are like swimming in a swamp, them cramming yourself into an oven that's been preheated to 350. Every breath is hot and moist, and nobody ever says "At least it's a dry heat", but they do say "I hear Arizona is nice this time of year". If I close my eyes and try real hard, I am taken back to the summer of '96, with the mid-west caught in the grip of a killer heat wave, temperatures soaring to 118. Immediately, my senses are filled with the cloying, sickly sweet smell of honeysuckle on the vine, and the drone of hot, angry bees gathering nectar for their queen. I can open my eyes and see the house I grew up in, white paint flaking off the weathered brick, standing sentinel against the faded denim of the sizzling sky. Wild vines crawl up the sides like hungry green worms searching for the meat inside. Down the hill, through a crazy, overgrown maze of skeletal sycamores and pecans, was the lake. It was officially named Lake Albert, but us kids called it Grave Lake, for the spooky way it looked at sunset, or sometimes Cold Ass Lake, for the way it could freeze you to death in a matter of minutes, even in the most deadly summer heat. This thought inevitably leads me to Andrew.
          I was 17, Andrew a respectable 23, and  my little sister Sara was 5, soon to be 6. Daddy had gone fishing for the day with uncle Frank, but they never fished in Lake Albert; said it was too cold. Instead, they drove 20 miles to the east, to Lake Taunton. That left me and Sara alone with nothing good to do but get in trouble. I wanted to go for a quick swim, just enough to cool down a little, so the two of us rode down the hill on my ten-speed. Sara brought her red plastic beach bucket and shovel, and I laid out a blue blanket for her on the sand, a few feet from the waters edge. I looked at my watch. It was still early, but the temperature was already hovering somewhere in the 90's, and I knew it was only a matter of time before the sun came out from behind the house and roasted us both. I slipped off my sandals and stuck a toe in the water. Immediately my body temperature dropped what felt like twenty degrees, and a chill raced up my spine, snapping my jaws together with a clack. Sara smiled up at me as I peeled off my tee shirt and jeans.   
          "If you get too hot, just splash a little water on yourself, okay?" She nodded, and I waded in. I took four steps, until the water was at my waist, and dove in. It was amazing what a different world it was, like walking through a doorway in the desert and finding yourself suddenly on top of Mt. Everest. I swam out a few feet before resurfacing, gasping from the cold. Wiping water from my eyes, I turned toward Sara. I had only been under for a few seconds, but apparently that was long enough. She was gone.
          "Sara?" I looked around frantically, feeling my muscles tighten. In a moment, I wouldn't be able to move at all.
          "SARA!" I struggled to swim back, swallowing water, faltering. Now we would both die. We would spend eternity in this icy grave. My arms wouldn't move. Water rushed in my ears, my mouth, as I struggled to stay afloat. I'm sorry Sara, I thought. I'm sorry Daddy.
          Suddenly there was a flash of white and a splash in the water before me as my head went under. There was a frenzy of movement that kicked up the sediment, and then I couldn't see anything. This is it, Captain; we're going down. It's been a pleasure serving on your ship...Time stopped as the world held its breath in agony, waiting to see if I would ever come back. I thought not.
Out of nowhere, I was yanked to the surface, just long enough to see Sara sitting wide eyed on her blue blanket, and then down I went again. There was a hand in my hair, dragging me through the water, then the sand, and suddenly I could breathe. I was thrown to the ground and as I lay there, coughing up water and tearing in great ragged gusts of air, I turned my head and saw Sara. Other than the tears rolling down her face, she was completely dry. I looked up into the face of my rescuer. He had terrified, wide brown eyes as he knelt beside me in the sand, long blond hair streaming. His lips were an interesting shade of raspberry popsicle blue, and I realized that I must look the same. My angel of mercy helped me sit up and Sara crawled over, throwing her tiny arms around my waist.
          "Where were you?" I choked out, teeth chattering, feeling the heat of the sun slowly penetrating my frozen body.
          "I had to pee." Sara sniffed and wiped her eyes. I looked down at her in shock, and my rescuer laughed, despite the terror still etched into his face. He had a very nice laugh. He held out his hand.
          "Andrew." His fingers were cold, but strong. I introduced myself.
          "Angela, and that's Sara." He kissed the back of her hand, making her giggle. "Thank you so much, Andrew. I thought she was in the water." He helped me to my feet carefully, and I took a good, long look at him. He was handsome and muscular in blue jeans and a white tee shirt, brown eyes sparkling with intelligence and good humor. Andrew shook dirt off the blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders, guiding me to his car, a white '72 Camaro.
          "Where do you live? I'll give you a ride." He opened the back door and Sara jumped in. I smiled.
          "You see that big white house up there?" The sun had crested the hill, and Andrew had to shade his eyes to look up to where I was pointing. He smiled, wide and bright, and it fell into place so easily that I knew it had to be his normal expression.
          "I have to get my bike anyway."
          He laughed and popped the trunk. "Throw it in. Nevermind, I'll do it." Andrew walked over and grabbed my bike before I could stop him. He placed it in the trunk and held open the door for me. As I got in, he whispered, almost confidentially, "Seventy percent of a car is air", and winked. I knew in that moment that I loved him.
          Sara had fallen asleep, and she didn't stir as we drove up to the house. Andrew parked under a big, shady pecan tree, and we began to talk. We talked about little things, like where we were born, and about Big Things. Andrew wanted to be a rock star, and had the angels sweetest voice to back him up. I told him I wanted to be a writer, and he asked if he could read my stuff sometime. I had never let anyone read my things before, but I knew I would let him. We ended up talking all day and into the evening, when I saw the lights of Daddys old Ford plodding up the hill. I rushed inside with Sara, and Andrew drove off in the other direction, promising to come back tomorrow. So it went, all summer long, spending just about every waking moment with each other. Sara simply adored Andrew, calling him 'Uncle Andy'. I adored him too, but it wasn't a sexual love, though it was passionate. What I felt for him was too beautiful to say that I loved him like a brother. I loved him like the piece of soul that completed me, the piece of God that is in all living things.
          It wasn't until autumn, when the wilted leaves turned blood red and fell from their lofty perches, that I noticed a change in Andrew, and a terrible sadness began to grow within me. It wasn't a great change, at first. I would catch him staring off into space, and he would sometimes push Sara away absently when she tried to crawl into his lap. He came over later and later until one day he didn't come at all. I waited until five, feeling sick to my stomach, until I couldn't wait any longer. I had a feeling that something terrible had happened, so I told Daddy where I was going and left. Andrew lived less than a mile away, further back from the lake than I, down a long dirt road. There was an ancient, bullet riddled sign on the corner that read 'Eagle Drive'. Those bullet holes always made me feel uneasy. The tan single-wide trailer had been his fathers, but Steven Jones had since passed on. I pulled into the gravel driveway on my bike, full of fear. Andrews car was there, but the front door was locked, which only added to my terror. Andrew never locked the door. I knocked loudly, but there was no answer.
          "Andrew!" I yelled. "I know you're in there! Open the door!"
          "Go away." His voice came softly from the other side of the door, and I could picture him leaned against it, one eye to the cloudy peephole. I recoiled from the sound of his voice. It sounded scared, and lost, and desperate. The voice of an accident victim.
          "Andrew." I whispered, staring at the door, seeing him on the other side in my mind. "Let me in." There was no answer, not even the sound of cloth against wood as he moved away from the door. Nothing. "I love you." I turned to walk away, but I guess those three little words really are magic, because the deadbolt gave a loud CRACK! as it was drawn out of the frame and into the door. The brass knob slowly turned, and the hinges creaked like something out of a horror movie. I shuddered and took a step into the cool darkness of his living room. Andrew stood there in old, torn sweatpants and nothing else. His beautiful golden hair was tangled and dark, hanging dejectedly to his shoulders. He hung his head so I couldn't see his face, so I put my hand beneath his chin and forced him to look into my eyes. His were dull and cloudy, filled with shame, and I couldn't say that I blamed him. In one hand, he clutched a lighter and a spoon. In the other was a hypodermic needle, the kind that diabetics use, but this boy was no diabetic.
            I led him to the brown suede couch and lay him down, his head in my lap. I took the things from his hands and stroked his dirty, sticky head. There were so many things I wanted to say, like 'No Andy, bad Andy, no cookie for you", but nothing came from my dry throat. I couldn't believe that my friend, my soulmate, my angel, had fallen. I continued to stroke his head and say nothing.
          Andrew was asleep.
          Now what was I to do? He'd told me more than once about how his mother had died in a hospital, due to 'complications from surgery', and how much he hated doctors and hospitals above all other things, but I was afraid that if I didn't  help him now, he'd never help himself. I thought about calling Daddy, but was scared that he might insist I never see Andrew again, so in the end, I did the only thing I really could. I called 911.
          Andrew woke up in the hospital, and I was by his side when he first opened his swollen eyes. He looked around, confused, then saw me and smiled. I smiled back, though it felt like my face would crack and fall to the floor.
          "Where am I?" He croaked. The smile disappeared.
          "The hospital." His eyes widened, but then he seemed to remember something and turned away. "Do you remember what happened?" I asked quietly. He nodded and covered his face with both hands. How thin his arm looks, I thought. Andrew was crying. He whispered something and I leaned forward.
          "What?"
          "I said you must really love me." He took his hands from his face and held them out to me. I hugged him as he cried. It was true. I loved him more than Sara, or Daddy, or anyone. I loved him more than life.
          The weeks ahead were tough, but I saw him every day. When he was detoxing, he asked me not to come, but I laughed it off and came anyway, and when he was rocking back and forth in the corner, swinging his bedpan at anyone who came near, I was the one who bravely took it from his hands and held his hair back while he vomited on the nurses formerly white shoes. That was the worst day, and after that, it was all uphill. Andrew was gaining weight, and even the purple smudges beneath his eyes began to fade. His brilliant, charming smile slowly made a comeback, and he started to look like the guy I knew. The doctors all said he was doing great, and he would be released with a clean bill of health soon. I prayed they knew what they were talking about, and I smiled and nodded in all the right places, but I was cold inside, haunted by the memory of that darkened room, and I think Andrew knew it. I could tell by the hangdog way he looked at me when he thought I didn't see. I'd catch him looking at me with those wounded doe eyes and I would smile, though it felt like plastic. He always smiled back.
          Monday, November 17, 1996, he came home. It was just like old times, except for that dark thing between us. "I have to get over this. I have to move on" I thought. "He's only human, just like me." After a few weeks of saying these things under my breath like a mantra, it began to work. I guess it was like anything you want to be really good at; you just had to practice, practice, practice, and really hammer that baby home.
          Months went by, seasons changed, and suddenly it was spring, a lovely wet time in Oklahoma. We are known to the rest of the world for spring, because it's the start of tornado saeson, but it's also a time of heartbreakingly beautiful sunsets, gorgeous cloud formations, and fresh green smells everywhere. Andrew and I would climb up on the roof of my house every morning and look down at the mist crawling thick across the lake. The wild vines were reclimbing the steps of their forefathers (forevines?) and the trees were a beautiful sight with their new leaves of green and red and gold. The heady perfume of new flowers was everywhere, so thick it was almost a solid thing that would slap you in the face when you opened the door. Across the lake, the larger hills stood proudly against the azure air, mist clinging to their heads like fairy crowns. The world was a lovely place again, and with Andrew sitting beside me, looking healthy and happy, I thought that would never change.
            There came a day in late March when I had to call Daddy to come get me from school. The nurse said I had the flu, but I had my doubts. I couldn't see straight, and my body felt so heavy I could barely walk. There was a constant high pitched ringing in my ears, and my mouth was full of cotton. I couldn't even swallow around the stuff. As soon as I stumbled through my bedroom door, I flopped down on my bed and passed out. When I awoke, hours later, Sara was screaming bloody murder in my face.
            "DADDY! DADDY COME QUICK SISSY'S DEAD!!" My father came flying into the room, a horrible expression on his face, grim and terrified. "Is she dead, daddy, is she dead?" I tried to open my eyes as he kneeled over me, but then I realized they were already open and blinked. Daddy jumped back and clutched his chest.
            "I'm not dead." I rasped. My throat was so dry. "I feel better." I tried unsuccessfully to stand. My arms felt heavy and useless, weighing me down, and my right bicep burned like someone had shot acid into it. Suddenly, a horrible thought occurred to me, and it was the only one I had time for before I passed out again.
            Shooting acid into my arm...


          I woke up later, crying and numb, and I knew. Andrew was dead. Still weeping, I dragged myself from the relative safety and comfort of my room, and went downstairs. Daddy and Sara watched silently, passing unspoken words between their wide, wet eyes. I picked up the phone with hands that trembled and held it to my ear, listening to the mindless, stupid dialtone. My hands shook so badly that I had to try three times to hit the numbers. 911. I told the disembodied voice on the other end to send an ambulance to 613 Eagle Drive, then dropped the handset on the floor and ran out the back door. I didn't bother with my bike, just ran as fast as I could to him. The wind raked tears from my face, and I tried to run even faster, hoping to break free from my own body and join Andrew, and then everything would be okay. I ran straight to his front door, never slowing, and slammed into it with all my weight. It flew open, banging against the wall, and I stood in the darkness of the doorway, gasping for air. The first time we'd met, Andrew had saved me from drowning, but I felt that I was drowning still. This time there would be no white knight, for either of us. In the distance, I could hear a wailing siren, and it made me think about the Irish tales of banshees, the screaming demons who came for the souls of the dead. My eyes adjusted to the blackness and I could just make out a dark, hunched shape on the couch. There he was, my angel, my devil, lying dead and alone on his back. His arm hung over the edge, fingers brushing the floor, and beneath his hand was a syringe, glittering balefully in the pale light of the half moon. I screamed, an inarticulate cry of rage, and crushed it beneath my heel, kicking away the shards. Andrew's chest was covered in white, frothy vomit; it clung to his hair like lumpy, misshapen spiders, but I didn't care. I sat beside him, holding his head in my lap and rocking, tears and snot streaming down my face. The banshee was closer, the pulsing red and blue of its eyes filling the room with a terrible light. Then there were people, paramedics, I suppose, who pushed me away, out of the house, and placed Andrew on a stretcher. Daddy was outside, and Sara waited in the truck, face pressed to the window, eyes sad and bleak, watching as they loaded Uncle Andy into the back of the ambulance. Daddy tried to hold me, to comfort me, but I pulled away sharply and swiped a hand across my face. There were no more tears now, just a deep, empty chasm that used to be my soul. I turned and walked away from my father's strong and comforting arms and into a night, the first of many, that held no hope.
          The day of Andrew's funeral was a beautiful, typical spring day. Clouds were building on the southern horizon, and I knew that by dusk they would have become a formidable crouching hulk of black and red and green. There might even be a tornado or two, but for the moment it was just like it always was when we were together. I stood at his graveside, hating him and loving him and wondering how I was going to go on. I watched as they lowered the casket into the ground, preparing to cover a beautiful human being with the finality of earth. He had saved my life once, and I had saved his, or at least tried to. I didn't feel calm, or peaceful, or happy that he'd gone on to a better place. I felt confused, and lonely, and terrified of the future. I only knew him for a short time, but what a time it was. I knew it was cliche, but I felt like Andrew was watching me. Not from above, or beside, or from the box at my feet, but somewhere inside. He was watching, and waiting to see if he needed to rescue me again. I thought he might. I knelt and tossed a handful of fresh earth on his casket, watching it slide off the glossy black top.
          "I will fear no evil, Andrew." I stood, wanting to smile, but remembering all those times I'd smiled before, plastic and false and hurting my face. Suddenly, I had a vision of the first time we'd met, when he'd pulled me from the water and saved my life. He threw my bike in the trunk of his car and whispered, "Seventy percent of a car is air", like it was the secret to life itself. Hell, maybe it was. I laughed out loud, startling a pair of doves into flight, and turned to walk away. I wasn't smiling yet, but maybe with time. Maybe with time. My father and Sara waited at the truck, forlornly, and this time I hugged them both.