Damaged Read online

  The water is an opaque, coppery brown. Reeds line the shore like long green fingers, waving slightly in the breeze as if beckoning us in. This is the kind of water where things can hide, all kinds of viney monsters reaching up from the mucky bottom for ankles.

  “Come on!” Hunter yells, splashing the shore with a wall of water. “It feels amazing.”

  “I don’t like swimming where I can’t see the bottom.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he says, and dives back in.

  It’s hot and I’m sticky. Am I really going to let some silly fear of pond monsters keep me from relief? I hide behind the car as I strip down to my bra and undies. I wait until Hunter goes under again to approach the water. I wade in carefully, testing each step with my toe before I move forward. The mud sucks at my feet, but it is benign. There’s nothing sharp, nothing grabbing for me.

  “Oh wow,” I say when I finally make it up to my chest. The heat, the dust, the sweat washes off me. The days of exhaustion and anxiety seem to dissolve into the water. Even my ankle seems suddenly healed. I kick my legs a few times and glide away from shore. There is no pain anywhere in my body. “This lake is magic,” I say.

  I do a few laps along the shore and Hunter makes fun of me for turning relaxation into a chore. “I’m swimming,” I protest. “How is that different from what you’re doing?”

  “You’re doing laps, Kinsey.”

  “So what? I’m swimming in a straight line. Big deal.” He laughs and dives under the water, and I realize that I’m kind of enjoying his teasing now. I try to do what he does, just splash around with no real order to my movements, but it feels awkward, unnatural. My body doesn’t know how to move that way.

  I don’t know how long we spend in the lake, but it’s long enough to realize I’m starving. And somehow that feeling brings up a whole list of practical concerns. When Hunter surfaces, I ask him about the sleeping situation.

  “I brought two sleeping bags,” he says. “Though I don’t know if we’ll even need them, it’s so hot. Probably won’t cool down too much at night.”

  “So we’re both going to sleep in the tent? Together?”

  “Does that bother you?” he says with a playful smile, the afternoon sun making him golden. “Are you afraid you won’t be able to control yourself and end up ravaging me in the middle of the night?”

  “Shut up. No.”

  “Seriously, though. If you’re uncomfortable with it, we can figure something else out.”

  “No. I’m fine. It’s okay.” I’m a big girl. I can handle this. I’m not a prude like Camille always said.

  When I climb out of the water, I’m too aware of my underwear sticking to my skin, my white bra now made see-through. I feel the water cascade off my body, the tiny scraps of fabric clinging to me. When I turn around, Hunter is still in the water, watching me. I feel a chill. I don’t not like it.

  “Aren’t you getting out?” I say.

  Hunter looks away. Is that embarrassment I see?

  “Um, yeah,” he mumbles. “In a second.” He looks down, into the water.

  Oh my god. That’s why he’s acting weird all of a sudden. He has a boner.

  I pretend like it’s no big deal, like something incredibly embarrassing didn’t just happen. I change my clothes behind the car and start pulling supplies out of the trunk. Tent. Sleeping bags. Sleeping pads. Cooler. Stove and fuel. Lantern. A couple of flashlights. When all the camping stuff is emptied, the only thing left in the trunk is a cardboard box full of liquor bottles.

  “What is this?” I say.

  “What is what?” Hunter says, walking over as he buttons his pants. His shirt is soaked but he doesn’t take it off.

  “This box.”

  “Refreshments,” he says, pulling out a bottle of vodka. “Where’s that OJ we bought?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, want a drink? Screwdrivers are the perfect beverage for a sunny afternoon.”

  “No thank you,” I say, and I can hear the primness in my voice.

  “Oh, sorry,” he says, the playfulness in his voice gone slightly sour. “I forgot. Miss Perfect doesn’t break any rules, does she?”

  I decide to ignore him. “Does your phone get reception out here?” I say.

  “I don’t know. I turned it off as soon as we left town.”

  “What if someone calls?”

  “I don’t want to talk to anyone who’d call me.”

  “Can I borrow it?”

  “Sure, knock yourself out. It’s in the glove compartment.”

  I get the phone and press the button to turn it on. I have to walk all the way to the main road to get reception. As soon as one bar show up, the phone starts dinging alerts. I try not to be nosy, but I can’t help but look at the screen when I dial the number for my house. Nineteen missed calls. Five messages—four from “Mom” and one from “His Majesty.”

  I’m relieved when the answering machine picks up at my house so I don’t actually have to talk to my mother. I can’t deal with her sadness right now. “Hi, Mom,” I say. “I just wanted to let you know I’m okay and not to worry. I’m with a friend and we’re camping. I’m trying to have some fun this summer, you know? Like you said. I’ll keep you posted. Love you.” Short and sweet and to the point.

  When I get back to camp, Hunter’s already put up the tent and prepared a meal of turkey sandwiches and potato chips. He hands me a plastic cup. “Orange juice for the lady,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  We sit at the picnic table, eating our dinners in silence, looking out at the early evening sun sparkling on the lake.

  “You had some messages,” I say.

  “Uh-huh,” he says.

  “Aren’t you going to call your parents or something? Let them know you’re all right?”

  “Why don’t you let me worry about that, okay?” He takes a big gulp of the concoction in his cup.

  We sit at the table and read for a while, Hunter working on something old and dusty with very small print. With his guard down, he looks almost studious. My eyes start drooping before the sun even sets. I go to bed and leave Hunter at the picnic table with his book and the lantern and his bottle of vodka.

  As I crawl into the sleeping bag, it hits me that I haven’t felt Camille all day. Will my luck last through the night? Have I gotten rid of her for good? As soon as my head hits the ­wadded-up sweatshirt I’m using as a pillow, sleep starts taking me and a warm relief spreads through my body. But as I drift away from the day, my heart aches just a little. Maybe part of me doesn’t want Camille to really be gone.

  SEVEN

  I wake up with the sunrise. I don’t remember dreaming. Hunter is balled up on the other side of the tent, snoring. I get out and stretch, feel the morning sun warm my body, see it glistening off the still lake. I hop on my left foot and it feels perfect, like my ankle was never even twisted. I can’t remember the last time I slept this well. For a few moments, it feels like nothing could possibly be wrong in the world. But then I see the car trunk wide open, muddy paw prints all over our torn shopping bags, our food now only crumbs littered on the ground, at least fifty dollars wasted on a feast for raccoons. Hunter’s bottle of vodka is lying on its side on the picnic table, half-empty. I don’t know how many drinks that is, but I’m pretty sure it would send me to the hospital.

  The cooler in the trunk is scratched with dirty claw prints, but at least the food inside is still safe. I take out an apple and a jar of peanut butter, find a knife on the ground and wash it off, and go sit by the lake, trying not to let my anger ruin this beautiful morning. But it’s no use. The sun is suddenly too bright. The ground is too dirty. The lake is too wet. How am I going to make it across the rest of the country with Hunter if this is any indication of how things are going to be?

  I hear a rustling behind me
and turn to see Hunter ­stumble out of the tent in his shirt and boxers, barefoot, eyes still closed, and puke behind a tree. When he’s done, he emerges as if nothing happened, walks past me, and dives straight into the lake.

  “Did you just throw up?” I say as soon as he emerges.

  “Uh-huh,” he mumbles, then dives in again. Is this normal? Is this the way he usually starts his day?

  “Do you want to eat anything?” I ask when he comes back up.

  “No,” he says.

  “Good, because someone left the trunk open and raccoons got into all the food.”

  “Oops.”

  “Oops? That’s all you have to say? Almost all our food is gone.”

  “So we’ll get more.”

  “I don’t have unlimited money, you know. That food was expensive.”

  “So I’ll pay for it.”

  “Is that how you solve problems? Just throw money at them?”

  “This conversation is boring,” he says, then dunks his head under the water.

  When he emerges, I say, “Let’s go. You need to help me clean up camp.”

  “Calm the fuck down.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  He climbs out of the water and stomps, dripping, to the tent. He starts tearing it down with all our stuff still inside.

  “Wait a minute,” I say.

  “I thought you were in a hurry.”

  “Are you even okay to drive?”

  “Why, are you offering?” he says sharply.

  “Um,” I say, panic bursting in my chest. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m ready.” I have lost my right to be mad at him.

  “Looks like I’m okay to drive, then.”

  Hunter is grumpy and silent the entire morning. His mood is like a poison in the car. Only after stopping at a roadside diner and getting some food in him do his spirits start to lift. He pays for breakfast and some groceries and we silently agree that we’re even. He switches the music on the stereo from dark and heavy to something lighter and more melodic. I can feel his hangover dissipate; he comes back to life as the alcohol drains from his blood.

  We drive past a ghost town, all the businesses boarded up, faded FOR SALE signs on every window. A bakery, a diner, a gas station, a tavern. Nothing of value left. Even the church is for sale. The stained glass windows have been removed, probably stolen. It’s unclear how long the town has been dead, how long it’s been since someone sat inside that church and believed God was with them.

  With no warning, Hunter pulls off the side of the road and parks.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  “Sightseeing.” He opens the glove compartment and pulls out an expensive-looking digital camera with a giant, complicated lens.

  “Here?” I say, but he doesn’t answer.

  I follow him around the ghost town as he takes pictures. His hangover seems to have lifted completely, and he’s energized, almost frantic, as he climbs the rickety stairs of buildings, as he peers inside the ruined rooms and snaps away with his camera. The more broken something is, the more interested in it he seems. It’s like he gains energy from it, but all this place does is make me feel sad.

  “I don’t know what you see in this place,” I say, leaning against a rusty old tractor, sucking down our last bottle of water. “It’s so ugly.”

  “That’s why it’s beautiful,” he says, then disappears behind a dilapidated shed.

  I feel like I’m missing something, like this beauty he speaks of is some kind of math equation I’m not understanding. I can’t get both sides to add up. There’s some variable that’s still unknown. I hate this feeling. I hate the thought that maybe Hunter knows something I don’t.

  After what seems like forever, Hunter approaches with a satisfied smile on his face. He has cobwebs in his hair and his clothes are filthy from crawling around the ruins, but I’ve never seen him happier. “Want to see some of my pictures?” he says. He stands close and begins flipping through the ­photos on the camera’s tiny screen. I can feel the electricity on his skin.

  I walked around the town too, but I didn’t see any of the things he saw. His pictures are stunning, art gallery–worthy even, yet sad at the same time. I never even considered that those two things could exist together—beauty and pain. Some things in the photos look vaguely familiar, but also like they’re from a different world, a place with different light and different shadows, a place where broken things are indeed beautiful.

  “Hunter, you’re really talented,” I say. He shrugs. “How did you even see that? That doesn’t look anything like what I saw.”

  “You just have to look at things a little differently,” he tells me. His smile is sincere. Something about taking the pictures opened him up. Something about exploring the darkness managed to let light in. Something I am far from understanding.

  * * *

  As we drive through the afternoon, the forest gives way to rural ruins of industry. We stop for the night in the shadows of an old abandoned factory on Lake Superior, on the edge of the small boarded-up town that died with it. We camp at what used to be some kind of resort, with rickety little cabins for rent, a playground overrun with weeds, a pool full of green sludge and leaves, and a weathered sign for canoe rentals. A storm-ravaged dock sticks out of the water, a few weather-beaten skeletons of boats just barely floating. A creaking sign points the way to a “campground,” but it’s not much more than an overgrown field marked by gravel parking strips and decaying picnic tables.

  “This place is what Sunset Village would look like if it died,” Hunter says when we pull into what appears to be the outline of a camping spot. “It’s like a vacation graveyard.”

  I imagine Gabby’s Snack Shack all boarded up, the hot dog warmer, soft-serve machine, and all the other equipment stripped and sold, leaving only the sad shell of the building. What would Bill do if Tourist Hell froze over? Where would he go? Where did all these people go? What happens to a whole town when the one thing keeping people employed there just shuts down?

  Hunter runs across what used to be a volleyball court to the lakeshore and sticks his hand in the water. “Holy fuck, that’s cold! Why would anyone vacation by a lake you can’t even swim in?”

  “Apparently they didn’t.”

  According to Hunter, it’s my turn to put up the tent. I say okay, not mentioning that I’ve never put up a tent in my life. I don’t want to be that girl who needs a boy to show her how to do things. He’d like that too much.

  But I’m hopeless. I have no idea where anything goes. The elastic sticks are unruly and nearly poke my eye out.

  “You need some help?”

  “No,” I mutter.

  “It looks like you need some help.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Jesus, Kinsey. There’s nothing wrong with needing help. All you have to do is ask.”

  I won’t. I can’t. Even if I wanted to, my jaws are clenched tight, like they have a mind of their own, like they’ve made the decision for me.

  “It’s a fucking tent. Who cares if you don’t know how to do it?” He shakes his head. He feels sorry for me. “Kinsey Cole, you’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

  I look at the tent lying deflated and tangled on the ground. I look at Hunter and his eyes are kind, the sourness of his hangover long gone. Just like my mother, he is capable of being two such completely different people.

  “Fine,” I finally manage to say. “Help me. I need your help. Are you happy?”

  He smiles. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “Actually, it was.”

  He starts laying out the tent and sticks, explaining how everything fits together as he goes. “How’d you get so good at this?” I ask. It seems so unlike him, this outdoorsy prowess.

  “We used to go camping a lot when I
was a kid. Before my dad became such an asshole.”

  “What happened?”

  “You mean how’d he become an asshole? He got rich. You own a couple crappy restaurants in suburban Chicago and you can still be sort of a nice guy. But when you start expanding your empire, you become an emperor, you know? Power corrupts and all that. A corporate mastermind doesn’t have time for camping.”

  “But the Kountry Kitchens seem so friendly,” I say, thinking about the cheesy Americana and fake old posters on the walls, the ruffles on everything, the baby-blue color scheme.

  That makes Hunter laugh. “Have you tried their chicken-fried steak? That shit is not friendly. It’s a nuclear bomb in your digestive system.”

  Somehow we’ve managed to get the tent upright. “Now we just have to stake it,” Hunter says, throwing me a large rock. “Here, use this.”

  “You didn’t bring a hammer or something?”

  “This is more fun.”

  I bang a stake into the ground with the rock. “I feel like a caveman.”

  “Exactly,” Hunter grins.

  When we’re done, I stand back and take a good, long look at the tent. It’s such a small accomplishment, but I feel ridiculously proud of myself.

  “I still go camping a lot, though,” Hunter says. “With the guys sometimes. But my favorite is to just go by myself. Get away from my mom. Get away from all the stupid small-town assholes.”

  “You go by yourself? Don’t you get scared?”

  “Not at all. Being around people is way scarier than being alone.”

  I don’t know. They’re both terrifying. But right now I am thinking of darkness, of things hiding behind trees, in abandoned buildings, of being powerless in the wilderness.

  “But there’s so much unknown,” I say. “You’re surrounded by the unknown.”

  “I’m okay with that,” Hunter says. I meet his eyes. Neither of us looks away.

  “I wish I was,” I finally say. I am the first to blink.

  Our eyes lock again and his mouth opens. He’s on the verge of saying something; maybe he’s about to make this all make sense. But before any words have a chance to come out, we are interrupted.