Being Henry David Read online

  Now I see Dad clutching a suitcase, waving good-bye. There are no words, but I know he is going, leaving again. My heart clenches like a fist. Don’t go, Dad.

  I almost trip over a fallen branch on the trail, but as I regain my footing, another image floats into my consciousness. Mom. Hair blond and wavy, face anxious and thin, a half-empty glass of red wine clutched in her hand as she stares out a window. Doesn’t look at me, doesn’t see me. I yell something at her, then turn and charge out a blue door with a half-circle window. I slam it shut, the window shatters, and glass skitters on the floor, but she doesn’t even turn around.

  My breath hitches in my chest, but I press my memory even further, contemplate another word: sister.

  The beast roars awake as if I poked it with a stick and I completely lose the rhythm of running and breathing. Stumble off the path into a small inlet next to the pond, hidden from the path by a hill and a cluster of evergreens. Leaning against a tree branch, wheezing, I peer into the green-brown water of Walden Pond.

  Searing pain blinds me and I grab my head to keep it from exploding, forcing myself to go there again. Sister. The thing inside expands, rips at the lining of my stomach, squeezes my lungs. Sister. It’s trying to kill me, wants me dead. Better dead than to remember.

  My legs are rubber, give out, and I collapse on a big rock, doubled over to cradle my seizing stomach. My God. My entire body drifts toward unconsciousness, and I’m falling. No. Can’t let myself pass out. Have to remember.

  Sister.

  Too close to the edge of the rock, I slip on a sludge-coated corner and tumble forward into the water, shatter the smooth surface, and go under. Cold water seeps into my hair, my clothes and shocks me to my core. I float, stunned and weightless under the green water, at the edge of unconsciousness. The cold seeps into my skin, legs, arms, ears, internal organs, the roots of my hair. But still I float, serene, not even trying to kick my feet or pull toward the surface.

  The water is shallow, no danger, not really. And yet. Deep enough. A calm feeling spreads through my veins like water warmed by a secret hot spring. Drowning would be so easy, so sweet.

  Then a strange image flashes behind my eyeballs. Open music box, tinny music playing, plastic ballerina twirling. And then I see her. My sister. Big blue eyes, long eyelashes. Yellow-white hair, pink shirt, one pink sneaker. The music box grinds to a halt, ballerina twisted to one side, broken. And there is blood. My sister’s screams fill my head, jar me from my peaceful drifting.

  Save her.

  Jamming my feet down, I find the pond’s spongy bottom and push myself to the surface, where I fill my lungs with cool fresh air and cough and cough.

  I take the long way back to the high school, through the woods, away from the streets. My teeth are chattering and my body is shivering so hard it hurts. Icy pond water squishes in my sneakers with every step and my cold, drenched clothes weigh about fifty pounds, or at least it seems like it. By the time I get there, it’s afternoon and the school is already growing dark and silent under clouds threatening rain.

  Opening the back door of the school with Sophie’s keys, I’m thinking of warm, dry clothes from the lost and found and a hot shower in the boys’ locker room. But then I’m stopped short by a shrill beeping sound. It’s coming from the keypad on the wall near the door, which flashes the words enter code in a small gray screen.

  Oh crap. Even though I opened the outside door with the key, there’s some kind of backup security system that needs a code. Just a few numbers punched in, that’s all. In a panic, I pound a few keys, as if somehow randomly I’ll hit the right combination. Stupid. After about thirty seconds, it’s all over. The burglar alarm starts screaming, a continuous, pulsing wail. The police are probably on their way.

  I run down the hall, toward the auditorium to my hiding place above the stage. Just in time, I realize I’m leaving wet footprints behind me. The pond water is squishing out of my sneakers leaving a trail. I duck into the boys’ room, where I take off my wet sneakers, my wet clothes, and quickly dry off with paper towels. Then I wad up more paper towels, rush back into the hallway and do my best to dry the footprints, pushing the towels around with my feet. I run back to my hiding place, dressed only in my underwear, clothes bunched in my arms.

  Just as I’m scrambling up to the platform above the stage, the sound of a door forced open echoes down a long hallway. There are low murmurs, voices I can’t make out. Abruptly, the alarm is silenced, leaving my ears ringing as I huddle in a ball, shivering. I’m terrified that I left footprints leading to my hiding place; sure they’ll hear my heavy breathing and the jack-hammer of my heart.

  Disembodied voices and footsteps echo through the school. Approaching, closer. Too afraid to peer down into the auditorium space, I try to slow my breaths. Two men are here. I hear their voices.

  “Just a false alarm, Terry. Second time this month. Everything seems secure.”

  “Well, hold on,” says the cop named Terry. In moments, his footsteps echo on the wooden stage. I can see the beam of a flashlight, sweeping the stage. Can he hear me breathing? I cringe, motionless. Then I hear the drip.

  The wet pile of clothes next to me is dripping through the spaces between the platform boards. Water plops gently to the floor below.

  Eyes shut tight, I wait for the officer to shout orders at me, or climb up to get me, handcuffs ready to snap on my wrists.

  “Terry, come on, there’s nothing here.”

  “There’s a little water here on the floor,” the cop says. I imagine the flashlight examining the puddle, then sense its beam sweeping up to my hiding place above his head. I hold my breath.

  “Just a leak,” he murmurs. Then louder he says, “Okay, Jim, let’s go. Everything checks out.”

  I’m still holding my breath as I follow the sound of their footsteps on the hollow stage and then disappearing down the hall. Finally, I let the air out of my lungs with a low hiss, but I’m still too terrified to move. I stay there for a long time to reassure myself they’re really gone, until my trembling knees and elbows make knocking sounds on the wood.

  Still dressed only in my underwear, I go into the boys’ locker room and start a shower, let the room fill with steam and stand motionless under the hot water until the cold leaches out of my body.

  I pull on dry clothes from the lost and found—a striped shirt missing a button, baggy jeans, and sneakers about a half-size too big. I focus on these tasks, even though my entire body hums with restlessness.

  All I can think about now is my sister in danger, blond hair, pink sneaker, and too much blood. Big eyes so scared. If I thought it would help, I’d be sprinting down the streets of Concord now to get to her. But that would accomplish nothing. First, I don’t know how to find her. Second, my body is weak, exhausted, depleted. I can hardly even think.

  Only one true, clear thought slices through my exhaustion: I have to find out who I am, so I can figure out how to get to her. This is not about me anymore. Even the beast can’t keep me from her or prevent me from remembering more. I won’t let it.

  For now though, my mind and body are numb. Just need to get warm. Just need to rest. Build up my strength so I can focus on finding her.

  Using Sophie’s keys, I let myself in the nurse’s office to put fresh bandages on my side. It hurts more than before, and now there’s yellow pus oozing out of the cut. The red skin around the cut is hot, and my face feels hot too. At the same time, there’s this chunk of ice inside me. So cold. I find blankets on a cupboard shelf, lie shivering on one of the cots, and the tide of sleep takes me under in a heartbeat.

  “Time to wake up, son.”

  A voice jolts me from a dream, and my eyes fly open to see a woman sitting in a chair like she’s been there a while, watching me sleep. Gray-streaked, curly hair. Young-old face with sad brown eyes. It takes a moment to recognize the janitor.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here, you know.” Her voice is firm, but also kind.

  “I’m
sorry,” I say politely, as if I’ve taken a wrong turn and wandered by accident into her fancy rose garden. “I’ll go.” My temples pound when I sit up.

  But she just sits there, head cocked to one side like she’s in no hurry for me to leave. “It really is amazing how much you look like Michael.”

  “Michael is…your son?”

  Sophie nods, focusing dry eyes on the medicine cabinet over my shoulder. “He died a few years ago, when he was thirteen. Leukemia. But I bet he’d look a lot like you now. What are you, seventeen? Eighteen?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “By the way, I also know you’re not a student here.” She frowns at me, but she doesn’t actually seem angry. “You’re lucky Billy isn’t good at remembering faces like I am. You’re trespassing on town property.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. For some reason, I can’t lie to this woman who watched me sleep and called me by her son’s name.

  “So, tell me. What are you doing in the nurse’s office at six in the morning when nobody but the janitors are supposed to be here?”

  “I’m here, because—” A hundred lies pass through my head and I discard them all. “I’m here because I ran away from home and there’s no place else to go.”

  Her face is soft and sad as she reaches out to touch my cheek. Her fingers are ice cold against my skin, and I flinch. “You’re feverish,” she says with such deep concern that all I want is to lie on this cot and let this nice lady take care of me so I can feel better and find my sister.

  The distant sound of a man whistling off-key echoes down the hallway. “There’s Billy,” says Sophie. She rises to her feet and peers down at me. “You need to go. Even if I wanted to let you stay, I can’t. I’d lose my job.”

  “I understand,” I say.

  Reaching out a finger, she brushes hair out of my eyes. “What’s your name?” she asks me.

  “Hank.”

  “Hank, call your mother,” she whispers, like she knows something about me that I don’t. “I guarantee she would sacrifice her own life just to have you back home. Understand?”

  I nod, my eyes burning. She turns toward the door, clears her throat, and asks, “By the way, you didn’t come across a set of keys the other night, did you?”

  I don’t even try to sidestep the question. Instead, I reach into my pocket and give her an apologetic smile as the keys chink into her open hand.

  “Good boy,” she says, and she leaves the room. The words float in her wake, and something inside me longs to follow after her. But I just lie there and listen as her footsteps echo down the hallway and disappear.

  8

  It’s early morning in downtown Concord, but already the entire town seems wide awake. Sitting near the window inside the doughnut shop, I watch normal citizens go about their normal lives. Just the start of another day. A line of people snakes out the door, waiting to order their large coffees, doughnuts, and breakfast sandwiches. My coffee is black and I nibble on a double chocolate doughnut. Chocolate for breakfast. I thought it would cheer me up; make things look a little better. It doesn’t.

  Once again, I’m in search of shelter. It’s hard to focus on moving forward in my completely unsettled life when I don’t even know where I’m going to sleep tonight. Plus, I’m running dangerously low on money. Something’s got to change soon. A part of me actually considers going back to New York to find Jack and Nessa. At least that way, I wouldn’t be so alone. And lonely.

  With my teeth I rip open a packet of Advil that I bought at the convenience store across the street, and wash them down with bitter coffee. Maybe if I can get rid of this headache and stop feeling so dizzy, I’ll be able to think straight. Like some wounded animal, I want to curl up and hide until I feel better. Even animals can find a cave or a hole in a tree where they can rest. Where can I go?

  When the workers behind the counter in their goofy paper hats start giving me funny looks and whispering to each other, I figure I’ve overstayed my welcome. I hit the streets and just walk. One foot and then the other foot, getting me somewhere. Anywhere. As if they know where they’re going, they take me down the street to the Concord Free Public Library. They take me up the stairs and through the front door. Public building. Warmth. Shelter. I’m in.

  At first I’m kind of surprised that it’s not the Henry David Thoreau Memorial Library. I mean, isn’t everything in Concord named after Thoreau? And when I wander into the lobby, I’m sure at first that the life-size white marble statue of a guy sitting on a throne-like chair is Thoreau too. I almost expect him to get up off his marble throne and start yelling at me for being such a failure. But the base of the statue says he’s Ralph Waldo Emerson. That name again. Guess he was pretty famous in Concord. One of Thoreau’s buddies, maybe. Whatever.

  Damn, my head hurts.

  “Hank?”

  At first I think I’ve imagined someone saying my name. But when I hear it again, I whirl around and see a big man in black horn-rimmed glasses standing behind me in the library lobby, smiling like he’s happy to see me.

  I look at him blankly.

  “Hank, it’s me.” When I still don’t respond, he pulls off the glasses.

  “Thomas?”

  He laughs at my stunned expression. “In the flesh. Good to see you, Hank.” He reaches out a huge hand to give me a cheerful smack on the shoulder that actually hurts.

  “Good to see you,” I echo weakly.

  “So what brings you to the library in the middle of the morning?”

  “I want to take out books,” I say. Duh, I sound like a moron.

  “Isn’t this a school day? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “Well.” My mind races, and I remember what I said to Hailey two days ago. “I’m home-schooled, so I do a lot of projects on my own. Today I’m here to do some research for a paper I’m working on.”

  “Well then, today’s your lucky day,” Thomas says, flashing straight white teeth. “In addition to being a historian, I’m the research librarian here.” He pulls up the right sleeve of his green T-shirt to show me the tattoo of a cobra, coiled and ready to strike. Except that it’s wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses just like Thomas’s, and above the snake is one word in fancy Gothic lettering: “Bookworm.”

  “I can hook you up with any research materials you might need.” He settles his black glasses on the end of his nose and sits down at his desk, fingers poised over his computer keyboard. He smiles up at me expectantly. “So.”

  “So?”

  “What’s the subject you’re researching today?”

  My mind chokes, just when I need it to be creative.

  “Well, I’m working on a paper about…” My glance drifts around the room, searching for something, anything that might inspire a potential research paper project. Nothing comes to me. Can’t think straight. Must be this stupid headache, the heat gathering under my skin, so distracting.

  But then, I see them. Perched high on the ends of several bookshelves in the lobby, there’s a row of four statues. They’re carved in white marble like the Emerson one, except these are just the heads and shoulders of people, like the tops of their bodies were hacked off and set on pedestals.

  “…famous people who lived in Concord. Since I’m new to the town and all, I thought it would be an interesting and educational subject for me to pursue.”

  Lame, lame, lame. There’s no way Thomas is going to buy that. But I don’t seem capable of coming up with anything better. Thomas looks skeptical as he peers at me over his glasses, which I totally deserve, but then his glance follows mine, up to the statues.

  “You mean, like those dudes up there?”

  I offer a non-committal nod-shrug combo.

  “Actually, that’s a really good place to start.” Thomas is such a huge history geek that he warms up to the subject immediately and starts telling me who each of the people are, but I’m having trouble concentrating. The guy who looks like he’s sitting on a throne is Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was a b
ig-shot writer in his day. One of the statue heads is Ephraim somebody, and he created the Concord grape. That’s his claim to fame. Another head is Louisa May Alcott who mostly wrote books for girls. Then there’s Ebenezer who was a judge and whose last name is Hoar. I bet he got teased a lot in high school for that. When Thomas starts rambling on about the statue of Bronson Alcott, who was Louisa May’s dad and started some fancy progressive school or something, my eyes start to glaze over. I hope Thomas doesn’t notice. “And, of course, over here, is our friend Henry Thoreau.”

  Thomas points to another pedestal off to his right, away from the other statues. On it is another one of those head-and-shoulder deals, but this time it’s Thoreau. I take a closer look, stare into those empty white statue eyes. I don’t remember him having such a huge nose.

  “They all knew each other in Concord in the mid-nineteenth century and moved around in the same circles. I’ll look for one book of biographies that deals with all of them if you want,” Thomas says.

  “Yeah, sure. That would be great.”

  He leans over his computer screen, starts tapping away at the keyboard, and then jogs over to a nearby shelf to grab a book. Sitting back down at his desk, he leafs through it and attaches a yellow sticky note to each page that corresponds to one of the statue people. Then he hands the book to me like it’s the fricking Holy Grail.

  “Thanks, man,” I say.

  Thomas nods at me, all pleased with himself, but then takes a good long look at me and yanks off his glasses. “You feeling okay, Hank?” he asks me. “Your eyes look a little glassy.”

  “Nah, I’m okay,” I tell him. “Just not getting enough sleep, I guess.”

  “You’re not still sleeping at Walden, are you?” he asks in a low voice.

  I force a laugh. “Of course not. That was just one of those things. Just that one crazy night.”