Cassidy

 

I think about her as I ride over the rough terrain between my homestead and Telos Road. It’s not a ride I enjoy most of the time, and I like it even less today. I don’t relish leaving the safety of my hidden homestead, and I’m not fond of dealing with people in general. Plus, leaving Brynn all alone at the cabin makes me uncomfortable, but letting her parents worry about her doesn’t feel right either.

The ride is physically demanding, and I use my whole body to stay balanced on the old quad as I dart through the woods, going faster than I should be because I’m anxious to get where I’m going and then back home.

Over the years of coming and going from my place to Telos Road, a trail of sorts has developed, though, to discourage visitors, I purposely never filled it with gravel or trimmed back the overgrowth. I want it to be hidden.

During the bumpy ride, my conversation with Brynn weighs on me. It illuminates how isolated from the world I have become. Heck, when she asked to use my laptop, I thought she was asking to sit on my lap for some reason, and imagining her there made my adrenaline rush so fast and furious, I felt weak for a hot minute. But apparently, a laptop is some sort of computer. And a landline is a regular phone, like the one we had in my house when I was little. And I know what e-mail is, because I spent a few hours at Millinocket Memorial Library last fall, and I saw signs about it over by the computers, but I wouldn’t have the first clue how to use it.

What really jarred me, however, was her asking me if I was on the run from the law or in hiding. I know she was kidding. I could tell by the tone of her voice and by the fact that she was smiling when she said it, but it still felt a little too close to home. I mean, I’m not on the run, but I surely am hiding.

I dodge trees and brace my body for roots as I race through the woods, hating the very thought of . . . hiding.

Like I’ve done something shameful when I haven’t.

I haven’t given much thought to the way I live my life; I’ve just accepted it as a truth. I made a promise at age fourteen to live quiet, and I never really reconsidered that plan.

Now a part of me—the part that desperately hates being the son of a madman—wonders if there is any option other than hiding.

Loving a woman? Being loved by her? Having a family with her? Absolutely not. All impossibilities for me if I have any sense of morality, which I do.

But do I have to live alone in the middle of nowhere? Do I need to hide?

Maybe—just maybe, and I’ll have to give the matter a lot more thought after I’ve said goodbye to Brynn—I could use some of Gramp’s money to move away, to set myself up somewhere different, somewhere new. I could change my name, couldn’t I? Sure I could. Legally, I don’t have to be Cassidy Porter. I could go to the courthouse and change my name to Cassidy . . . Cassidy . . . Smith. Yeah. Cassidy Smith. If I was Cass Smith, I could move to Boston or New York or North Dakota or China. Heck, I could move anywhere. I’d be someone new, with a last name that meant nothing, far away from Maine, where no one would ever make a connection between me and my infamous father.

For a moment, hope—like I’ve never felt before—fills my chest. I can almost feel the shackles on my wrists cracking open from the force of it. I could be free. I could be free. I could be . . . free. My heart swells so big, it just about aches with longing.

There is a problem with this plan, whispers a voice in my head. I recognize the tone and texture of this voice. It’s my conscience, and we’re old friends. The problem is . . . you’re not Cassidy Smith. You’re Cassidy Porter, Paul Isaac Porter’s son. And you can never, ever forget it.

As I near Telos Road, all that marvelous hope disappears like smoke from a pipe dream, because my conscience is right.

What if I somehow tricked myself, after a time, into believing that I actually was Cassidy Smith? What if I decided that Cassidy Smith was allowed to live his life in ways that Cassidy Porter was not? What if Cassidy Smith became the very person I have fought my entire life not to become?

Being me—being Cassidy Porter—is, in part, what keeps me in check.

My blood is my father’s, and so is my name. And I am my father’s son.

I am also my grandfather’s grandson and my mother’s son.

And if I become someone else, it will be a different sort of hiding: instead of hiding from the world, I’ll be hiding from myself. Sure, there would be a certain type of freedom in leaving this life behind and starting another. But it would be a life built on nothing—on air, on wind, on nothing substantial, on willful self-deceit. Such a fake, impermanent freedom would betray the promises I made to myself and to those I loved—to those who loved me.

Only a man without character would build his life on a lie.

Only a bad man would risk the lives of others for his own pleasure or cheap-bought freedom.

I pause about six feet from the road, hidden by thick brush, letting the engine idle. I listen carefully for oncoming traffic. I want to be sure the road’s empty when I pull out.

After several minutes of silence, I give the FourTrax a little throttle and engage the clutch, shifting into first gear and making my way up the sharp embankment and onto the dirt road.

I look behind me as I shift quickly into second, third, and fourth, heading south toward Golden Road. I should make it to the store in twenty or thirty minutes. I glance over my shoulder at the thick forest I’ve left behind, hoping I’ll be back home in about an hour.

***

When I see the bright green roof of the log cabin–style Golden Bridge Store up ahead, I get butterflies in my stomach, like I always do.

I try not to come here more than once every two or three months. And when I do, I always wear my hat low and try not to call attention to myself. I don’t buy anything out of the ordinary. I don’t make conversation. I don’t want them to remember me. I want to blend in with every other transient hiker on the AT. Nameless. Faceless. A wanderer.

I pull the quad into the dirt parking area and cut the engine, taking off my helmet and placing it on the seat. I grab a nondescript ball cap out of my back pocket and mash it on my head with the brim low.

When I open the door to the store, it’s a mini assault to my senses.

It’s jarring, as always, to be here.

To be anywhere that hums with humanity.

Inside, the air conditioner is blasting, and it smells of French fries, which makes my mouth water. This is how it is when I brush elbows with the world sometimes—it makes memories from my childhood come rushing back, and I remember little things, like sitting in the back seat of Mama’s car while we go through the McDonald’s drive-through. McNuggets and fries. It’s been two decades, and my stomach still groans wistfully at the memory.

Grabbing a shopping basket by the door, I step quickly to the left and into a grocery aisle. I wasn’t lying when I said there were a few things I wanted. Butter is a luxury I don’t have very often, so I grab some from a dairy case. I get a six-pack of beer too. I don’t use deodorant, but now that Brynn’s staying with me, I probably should, so I grab a small canister that says “Old Spice,” like the one Gramp used. They have a good stock of batteries, and I buy six packages of D’s. Sixteen D batteries will power the portable TV and VHS player through two movies, and though my selection isn’t great—Jurassic Park, Forrest Gump, The Sandlot, Groundhog Day, Home Alone, and Toy Story—and I’ve watched each at least a hundred times, maybe Brynn would like to watch one sometime while she’s staying with me.

I sigh heavily, pausing to stare down at the deodorant and batteries, and remind myself that she’s not my girlfriend, and we’re not having some kind of demented courtship in my off-the-grid homestead while she recovers from stab wounds. Christ.

Don’t start acting like Cassidy Smith, I tell myself, reaching into the basket for the deodorant so I can put it back on the shelf. But at the last minute, I drop it back into the basket, grab her a toothbrush, and move on to the next aisle.

I pick up some Crisco and olive oil for cooking.

I browse the aisle that has cooking supplies, but don’t end up getting much. I have flour and sugar, which I use sparingly. Mixes that make brownies and cake are expensive luxuries I don’t need.

Looks like Doritos has some new disgusting flavor that I need to try, so I grab a small snack bag and toss it into the basket.

They have a good selection of fishing supplies, and I decide to gift myself a new lure. I’m behind on my fishing and need to get up to Harrington and McKenna Ponds over the next week or two. I try to eat a lot of fresh fish in the spring and summer since ice fishing, though a skill set I have developed, is not one of my favorite activities. I’d just as soon go vegetarian every winter than sit on a frozen pond hoping for a bite.

I go back to the aisle where they have the deodorant and toothbrushes, and although I am well stocked with medical supplies at home, I pick up a few more things: a large bottle of alcohol, iodine, some nonstick bandages, medical tape, and a small bottle of ibuprofen. I figure Brynn should stop taking the Percocet in another day or two, and she might be glad to have control over her own painkillers.

My basket is pretty full by the time I get to the cashier. Luckily, it’s a man working. I find women are much more likely to try to make conversation with me, while men just want to check me out and keep moving. Impulsively, I add two candy bars to the pile, pay up, and take my change.

As I’m about to lift my two sacks from the counter, I remember that the entire point of this trip was to call Brynn’s parents and I’ve almost forgotten.

“You have a phone?” I ask.

“Ain’t you got a cell?”

“Um. Broken.”

“Hmmph.” The cashier turns toward the restaurant and yells, “Maggie, this guy’s cell’s broke, and he needs t’make a call.”

Dang it!

All I want is to stay inconspicuous, and now everyone in the store is glancing over at me.

“To where?” yells Maggie.

“Where you callin’ to?” asks the clerk.

In normal circumstances, I would tell him to forget it, grab my groceries, and run. But this isn’t normal. There’s an injured girl lying in my mother’s bed, and I promised to help her.

“Um . . . Arizona.”

“Arizona? Dang. Long long-distance. That’s gonna be pricey, son.”

“I, um, I’d really appreciate it if I could just . . .”

“Arizona!” he bellows toward his boss.

“No way!” she yells back. “Tell ’im to get his phone fixed!”

I flinch at this refusal, feeling frustration rise up within me. Looking up at the cashier, I say softly, “I’m willing to pay for the call.”

“How much?” he asks.

“Ten dollars?” He looks at me curiously, but doesn’t say anything. I add desperately, “Twenty?”

“Twenty bucks to make a phone call?” He reaches behind and pulls something from his back pocket, holding it out to me. “You can use mine.”

I’ve seen people on hiking trails using their cell phones, of course, but I’ve never actually held one in my hands, and I have no idea how to use it. It’s a little bigger than a credit card, but when I touch the screen, it lights up with little pictures.

“Thanks,” I say, staring down at it.

“You can go over there,” he says, gesturing with his chin to a bench between the restroom doors. “I’ll watch your stuff while you make your call.” As I turn to leave, he asks, “Ain’t you forgettin’ somethin’?” I stare at him. “The twenty?”

I reach into my pocket and take out a twenty-dollar bill, placing it on the counter between us, then head to the bench.

I sit down and touch my finger to the screen again.

It lights up with lots of colorful squares with a picture on each. Hmm. Oh. Okay. Maps. Weather. Clock. Contacts. Right. Okay. I look at each picture for the one that looks right and finally find it: a phone.

I press on the green box, and a keypad comes up. I quickly take the note from my back pocket and dial Brynn’s parents’ number, holding the phone to my ear. Hearing the sound of ringing is strangely familiar, though I haven’t used a phone since I was nine.

“Hello . . .”

“Oh, hello!” I say, my heart racing with nerves. “I’m calling about—”

“. . . you’ve reached the Cadogans. Jennifer and Colin are not here right now. Please leave your name and a message, and we will get back to you ask soon as possible. Thank you for calling!”

Oh. A message machine.

Beeeeeeeeeep.

“Yes. Hello. I’m calling about your, um, your daughter. Um. Brynn. That is . . . I have your daughter. Well . . .” I gulp. I am not good at this. “Brynn is staying with me, um, here in Maine. She is, well, she was injured climbing Katahdin. But don’t worry. I patched her up, and now she’s on the mend, um, so you don’t have to worry. She doesn’t want you to worry. Um. Yes. That’s all, I guess. She’ll, um, call you when she can. Okay? Okay. Goodbye, then.”

I pull the phone from my ear and stare down at the keypad. Beneath the numbers is a red End button, so I press that, and the main screen, with all the colorful little squares, returns.

So easy. Almost insanely easy.

Looking up at the clock on the wall across from me, I realize I’ve been in the store for over half an hour, which means I’ve been away from Brynn for well over an hour now.

I jump up and return the phone to the clerk with a hasty thanks. Then I grab my bags, tie them to the back of the quad, gas up, and head north for home.

***

Two hours later, I finally arrive back at my cabin.

It shouldn’t have taken so long, but I got cocky on the return trip, anxious to get back, and instead of going around a bad mud bath, I tried to go through it. Unfortunately, I also got stuck, which meant I had to use the winch, fastening it around a tree and pulling the quad out of the muck. Now I’m covered with mud and so are at least half the things I bought. But heck, I guess it can all be rinsed off, including me.

I park the ATV in the unused stall beside Annie, put the muddy grocery sacks on the front porch, and head to the outdoor shower. I strip down and wash off the mud, soaping up and rinsing quickly because I’m anxious to check on Brynn. I’m sure she’s asleep, but I’ll feel better when I see her chest rising and falling easily under Mama’s quilt.

Slipping naked back into the house, I race through the living room and down the hallway, to my room. I throw on clean jeans and a T-shirt, then head back to Mama’s room.

I know something is wrong—very wrong—right away.

Brynn’s been living with me for four days now, and I know she doesn’t talk in her sleep. But as I approach her room, I hear her mumbling.

“Jem. Jem. Oh, nooooo,” she mutters, her voice breathless with panic, breaking on tears.

Pushing open the curtain, I find her in bed, lying on her back. But her face is bright red, and the hair around her face is damp, sticking to her glistening skin.

“No,” I mutter, lurching forward to press my hand to her forehead. “Shoot! No!”

Her skin is hot. So hot. Scary hot.

“Jem?” she says, opening her heavy eyes. “I should . . . have . . . been there.”

“I’m getting you a cold cloth,” I say, leaving her to run to the bathroom. I grab a hand towel and douse it in cold water, then hurry back to Brynn.

I shouldn’t have left her. Damnation, I shouldn’t have left her.

Kneeling beside her bed, I press the towel to her forehead.

One of her wounds must be infected. I need to take a look at them, then get some ibuprofen into her to fight the fever.

“Jem,” she mutters as her eyes flutter closed. “My . . . battery. Oh, noooo . . .”

I don’t know who Jem is, but the profound sadness in her voice makes my insides clench with sympathy. Her voice sounds like mine after I lost Mama. Bereft. Lost. Alone.

“Brynn,” I say gently, close to her ear. “It’s Cassidy. You’re safe. You’re not alone. I’m looking after you, remember?”

“Jem,” she sobs softly as tears trickle down her cheeks.

Leaving the icy compress on her forehead, I run to the kitchen and open the cabinet over the refrigerator, where I keep medical supplies in a plastic tackle box. I grab it and place it on the counter. I’m going to need to boil water too, which I generally do in the fireplace or outside, over the fire pit, but I don’t have time to make a fire. I decide to use the propane stove instead. It’ll use a lot of gas to get the water hot enough, but I don’t care. I’ll go back to the Golden Bridge Store next week to stock up on more propane if I have to.

I fill a pot with water, place it on the stove, and ignite the burner.

Uncertain of whether or not she’ll be able to swallow pills, I crush four ibuprofen tablets between two spoons and mix them with goat’s milk.

When I return to Brynn, I prop up her head and give her the milk, which she, blessedly, drinks without issue. Then I pull down the covers and lift her T-shirt to take a look at her incisions.

I see the problem immediately: around one of her many bandages is an angry-looking redness, and seeping through the bandage is a yellowish-brown discharge. I lean closer. It smells off too.

It hurts. . . but I’m okay.

Why didn’t she say something this morning? She had to have been uncomfortable. Maybe the Percocet masked the pain? No. I’m only giving her half doses. Maybe she was trying to be brave by not saying anything?

She’s your responsibility, Cassidy. How did you miss this?

And then I realize: I fell asleep beside Brynn last night before changing the dressings, and I was so distracted by my attraction to her this morning, I raced out of the cabin before I could tend to her. She’s had the same dressing on for almost twenty-four hours, when it should have been flushed and disinfected last night or this morning. I’m lucky more of them haven’t soured.

By fighting against my feelings like a self-centered, self-absorbed teenager, I’ve put her in danger.

That stops now, I tell myself. You put her first. You take care of her. If you develop feelings for her, so be it. You can undevelop them later, once she’s gone. But as long as she’s under your roof, she comes first, Cass. You hear?

Furious with myself, I take the compress from her head, run to the bathroom to resoak it in cold water, and replace it on her forehead before checking on the boiling water. If the sutures have to be removed and the wound flushed with saline and resewn, I’ll have to sterilize any instruments I need to use. Including a syringe. She’s going to need a shot of lidocaine before I do anything.

When I return to her side, she’s mumbling about Jem again.

Jem. Who is Jem?

I squat down beside her.

“Shhhh,” I whisper. “Brynn, listen to me . . . you’re going to be okay. You’ve got a little infection, and it started a fever. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I promise I’ll make it better.”

“Jem. Jem, I’m sorry,” she murmurs. Then, so softly, I almost miss it, “Cass.”

My heart stutters, and my breath catches as I stare at her face, at the tan freckles against her red skin. She has remembered me, even in her feverish state, and it makes something happen inside me. Something that I’ve never felt before rips through me at the speed of light. It is strong and true and heavy in such a good, light way that for a moment I feel like I could float away from the force of it. My lungs burn as I suck in a deep breath. My eyes water and I blink them rapidly.

I vow that I will never, ever let anyone hurt this woman again. Not Jem. Not Wayne. Not anyone. And definitely not me.

“Brynn,” I say, my voice gravelly and shaking with emotion as I reach up and adjust the cloth on her forehead. I thread my fingers through her hair, smoothing it away from her hot face. “I’m here. I’m here with you.”

“Casssssss,” she sighs, drawing out the s in my name until it’s just breath.

I can hear the water boiling, so I return to the kitchen and put two needles, a spool of fishing line, a syringe, scissors, tweezers, and several cloths into the water. Then I bring it all, along with the medical box, back into Brynn’s room.

I’ve known the devil in my lifetime.

I’m fairly certain that a part of him still lives inside me.

But I’ll gladly do battle with him now to make her well again.