WYATT
Being in this state, I remember being with Circe. Then a time when she wasn’t in my life, when Dad was still here. Being at the house and enjoying every moment with my father before a race, my mind reenacts it all. Then he’s gone, and I’m alone.
I’ve dealt with sadness, with being scared, and the confusion of my own volatile mind as I wade through it all. I’m thinking and overthinking things.
Yes, I’m still trapped in this stinking hospital room, watching my sister like a spectre as she sleeps uncomfortably in the chair, hardly resting. There’s times I listen in as she speaks with the doctor about my care. More and more, I feel disgusted that she’s been thrust into this. At times, my brother and sister talk in hushed tones about the house, mother, my care. Or oddly enough, there’s silly moments when they think about days that were simpler. I listen as they rehash old wounds, think on the happier times, and even converse as a brother and sister should.
The danger of being trapped here; I don’t know how long I can handle my own thoughts as company. The pressure of only me, myself, and the other fella that likes to fall into a deep abyss of despair and desolation is a battle I may not win.
Crying out for mental freedom, I’m a tortured hostage as I’m thrust back into the present. Anger is a necessary evil flooding me in these moments. I think about all that I’m missing out on. I have an overwhelming explosion of happiness as I think of Circe. Then, an unwavering sadness that hangs like a pall over my head. Everything is a regret. I was never able to be the man my father wanted me to be. I don’t have it in me. I know that with certainty.
FUCK!
I hate being stuck.
I want to be with her.
Siren.
Regretting that I’m not more worried about my mother and her outcome is a pain I’ll deal with later. Right now, I need her. Knowing if she’s safe is a driving need.
With nothing else to do, I watch Doll. Taking stock of the strong woman she’s become, I’m proud of her. She holds her ground with Whiskey. Watching their interactions, the two of them have a heated argument in the hall. As usual, she’s stronger than he gave her credit for. Don’t ask how I see everything, yet can’t react. It doesn’t make sense, but I do. She seems utterly pissed off about something, and Whiskey, in his usual aloof attitude, is blowing off her serious conversation. Giving in or giving up, Doll leaves as Whiskey wanders in.
Slamming the door, he positions himself in the chair with a huff. I expect him to be silent and despondent as usual, but surprising me, he speaks. “Fuck, Cas. Hurry the hell up. The last thing I want to do is deal with the bullshit you’re intended for.” Pulling out his phone, scrolling through emails or posts, everything about our world crashes around us. I wish so badly to answer him.
Absently talking for the sake of chatting, Jamieson stuffs his phone back in his pocket and continues. “Remember that ramp we built? Fuck. I thought mom was going to kill us both.”
Memory lane with him? Huh. Okay, I can do this.
Listening to his deep breathing as he thinks about the past, it’s melodic and relaxing. “We were racing. You rode that bike of mine down, crashed into the side of Dad’s Bentley, and I slid down my side on a board, straight into the garage. I took out a stack of plants Ciccero was repotting. Man, we got our asses handed to us. I thought for sure Mom would have coronary on the spot.” He pauses. I bet he’s thinking the same as me. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. That’s something I can’t fix.”
Clearing his throat, he rises out of the chair, as if it’s made of brimstone and fire. He heads for the door as Doll reenters with two coffees in hand.
“Where are you going, Whiskey?”
“Something came up.” Grabbing the outstretched cup, he opens the door open. “I’ll grab you lunch if you want. Text me later.”
And there’s the consummate brother I know. He’s always ran from family obligations. No, it’s true he wasn’t meant for this, but he’d better damn well be looking after Doll. Once I’m up, if he isn’t, I’ll kick his ass.
Our family business never had any sway over Jamieson. No pull at all. He never affiliated himself with the Crown Industries label, and it’s because Mom and Dad created this strife.
We used to love each other. Sure, our lives were all different because of age, but we always cared. It was the common link. Remembering a time when we were all together, in the same house, dealing with family drama and politics as children, my mind sways...
The party is in full swing. Even though there’s a mansion full of teenagers and sponsors milling around, Doll wants me to take her outside to our track. Bad freakin’ idea I said, but she’ll do it either way. It’s bad enough I have an obsession with speed and danger, at least that’s what Mother tells me consistently. She’s somewhat resigned to it now, knowing there’s no stopping me. That minuscule chance that I could die in her backyard scares the living hell out of her. It frightens her to no avail. Now there’s no trying to drag Doll away from it either. It’s in our blood, in our genes. It’s a calling. Danger is an aphrodisiac like no other.
Mother, though, wants her children playing safe sports. Things like tennis, water polo, badminton, or lawn bowling. Floor hockey, soccer, and racing aren’t sports to her. They’re too dangerous to be considered a sport. They’re barbaric, requiring padding, controlled environments, doctors and surgeons on call.
But that’s all we know. The chance that you could be hurt, maimed, or killed in a second because of a jellybean on the track, that’s what she wants to save her children from. She wants what every mother wants. She wants us to outlive her and our father, but that tender, motherly side is never shown. When she wants us to quit, it’s in shouts, screaming fits, and manic moments that include pieces of porcelain embedded into the walls.
“Come on. Let’s go, Cas!” Doll’s squeaky little girl voice peels over the den of the room, gathering the attention of those close. It always has, it always will. Doll has a way of engaging the masses to her every command. My little sister has a way with people, where they feel obligated to love, listen, and above all, cherish her. She obviously has me and Dad at her beck and call. Whiskey, not so much. Mom sees through her sweetness.
“Cas, you coming? I really want to try it out. I want you there for the first time.”
“Yeah, Doll.” There she is, standing by the open doors of the living room with an outfit on that if Mother could see it right now, it would send her into a coma. She’s very busy with this event, thank fuck. At this point, she hasn’t noticed her, yet.
Doll’s long legs are encased in black riding pants. Wearing a bright pink, full armour jacket, she saunters across the steps, holding her demonic painted helmet. It dangles helplessly from her petite fingers that are better suited to piano keys than holding a throttle. But who am I to judge?
Mother has tried time and again to get her to complete her lessons, finish her latest concerto, or prepare for her next ballet recital. Good luck. Unfortunately, Mother, all your children take after their father, and less after the ballet princesses and chess matchmakers of the world than you can mentally handle. There’s no holding Doll back when she decides she’s doing something, and if Mom can’t handle it, she’s just going to have to get over it with a blindfold and Percocet’s.
Strutting across the expansive room, the way I always do, it’s what my mom calls a swagger. “Yeah, I’m here, Doll,” I mutter, “Like I’d rather be inside?” I say to myself as I look back at the full house. I’d do anything to avoid the soiree.
Taking off for the track, slinging her long chocolate hair behind her, Doll flings the helmet on. She looks ready to take on the world. The sinister designs on her helmet virtually moves as she bounds across the yard.
Picking up the pace to match her fast walk, I catch up. Doll will go off on her own without a thought to safety on her brand-new ride. She won’t care what it looks like with a party full of investors and sponsors if she crashes, or if she takes a turn too wildly. A spill could kill her chances of ever becoming a sponsored pro. I know it’s what fuels her, and I know it’s useless to stop her. Hell, it was useless to stop me.
As I almost catch my sister, I hear my name shouted across the porch. “Wyatt.”
Fuck.
Stopping dead in my tracks and look up. Her stature looks poised, yet deadly as she leans on the stone railing. I walk back over.
“Yes, Mother?”
“Darling,” she says sugar sweet through tight lips. “Please keep your sister off the track while I entertain.” Raising her skimpy index finger, she wiggles it for me to follow. Smiling tightly, that sarcastic ‘I’m holding my shit together, Wyatt’ look crests her features. She’s pissed. Not that it’s hard to tell. The stiff walk, the hard step, and the air of ‘fuck off’ is thick.
With a haughty huff escaping her, she crosses her arms, pointing to Doll.
“This, Wyatt,” she points to Doll, “is utterly embarrassing. These parties are for you, your sister—”
“And Whiskey,” I interject.
Ignoring my outburst, hardly showing any reaction, other than a tightening of her gaze, she continues. “And, of course, this is for your father. We want your racing to be successful. Please keep her off the track. I expressly expect you to have this under control, quickly.”
“When did I become her—”
“Yes, Wyatt,” she snaps. “You are her jailer today, yesterday, and every day.” She walks away, knowing the conversation is complete in her mind. “Control her,” she states harshly over her shoulder, returning to her guests. Her decision is made. Either I’ll look after Doll, or she’ll make my life a living nightmare.
Fuck.
My mother has a way that riles me up. We fight, someone ends up sedated, and normally, I fall into a fog of drugs. Today, I don’t need to be put down, therefore I guess I gained the position of sitter for hire. Passing out the door, away from the festivities, I walk as fast I can to catch up again. Taking the steps two at a time, I race down. Neither of us need the bullshit later.
“Doll, wait up, will ya!” I yell ahead, hoping she’ll stop. Miraculously, she does.
With her hands on her hips, arms indignantly stiff, her head sags forward in that motion that tells me she’s pissed. Great, both of them annoyed at me. This is the last thing I need today.
Knowing how to turn every last wheel in my head, making me feel bad for arresting her fun, Doll pipes up angrily. “What, Cas? You gonna tell me that it’s not a good time?” Peering at me through the visor with those crystal green eyes, they pierce into your soul and make you pliable, and giving. Every. Single. Time.
Smiling, I cock my head to the side, giving her the same look back. We both have a way of making people do our bidding, she just has a better grasp on how to twist her brother into knots.
“I was just going to say it’s—”
“No, I’m not backing down, Casper. I want to try the track. My bike is fine, the day is fine, the outfit is perfectly formed. Mom’s inside, hosting a slew of indignant pompous a-holes, and I want to enjoy the day.” She crosses her arms across her chest, trying to scowl. Letting out that haughty preteen huff once more, she knows I’m the one person she can’t win with if I decide it’s best for both of us.
“Look. Later, I’ll grab mine and we’ll go out.” I level a look on her that brokers no room for argument. “But it will be on my terms, Doll. Now stop being a spoiled rich kid and go hang with the others.” It’s not like I’m lying. I had every intention to go on the track after the party anyway.
“Give me your helmet.” Dragging the helmet over her head, shaking out her hair, she hands it to me. I smirk.
“You better be willing to get your ass kicked in a few hours, because that’s all I’m giving you.”
“Good luck, Doll. Big brother’s gonna kick your ass again.” I call after her, grinning like the crazy fool I am. Falling directly into her snare, hook, line, and sinker, she won. Flipping me the bird over her shoulder, she hops up the back stairs.
What I wouldn’t have done to avoid the bullshit inside, just like her? Hitting the track with her is more pleasurable than any crap going on in the house.
Walking the remainder of the way across the yard to the drive shed, I punch in the code and step inside. Flicking a switch, the room lights up, showcasing all of its glory. It houses two of my dad’s cars, three extra bays for working on new acquisitions, and enough space for both our bikes. And when I say bikes, I mean the scraps leftover from numerous errors on turns. It’s a fucking graveyard in here.
Passing by the latest victim of family road kisses, Dad’s car looks like it took on a Mack truck and lost. Truth isn’t far off the mark. The walls are unforgiving bastards, and even less sympathetic are the drivers that pass you by. Oh, of course they feel bad you’re out, or hurt. Though once the bling is on their finger and the cup’s in their hands, all bets are off. That is, until the next lap or race day.
Remorse and regret are horrible companions on the track.
Stepping around the heap of metal, clambering over shards of a fairing, a quarter fender, and a discombobulated hood scoop, I place her helmet lovingly on the rack beside mine. The bright overhead lights lay shadows across the tanks of our bikes, showing every small blemish and scratch from bad practice runs or scuff-ups with another rider. The love I have for this sport means I can’t see myself ever leaving it. The passion and exhilaration go hand in hand. Without it, I think I’d curl up in a ball and never feel the touch of greatness again. That’s the danger of living in my head, shit is wrapped up in remorse, regrets, dangerous comments of “you’re not good enough,” or the sad conviction of being the disappointment to my dear Mother.
Clearing the depression from my thoughts, I pat the top of my helmet lovingly. It’s my third arm if you will. My helmet is the part that I can’t be without. It’s plain, no distinguishing marks, no bright colors, and no designs. Just a plain flat black. Doll’s, on the other hand, is a tapestry in comparison. The brilliant pink leaves, the surreal skulls and purple roses on her helmet look haunting and ethereal. Like I said, it totally marks who she is. She’s a dangerous China Doll, one that can cut your heart out with a spoon if given a chance. The girl inside that helmet is not a natural being. She is fearless, and nasty. Even though she looks like a princess, she’d rather take your head off with a scythe if you even dare try to cut her off on the track. Nastiest twelve-year-old on the track for sure.
Leaving and walking back out to the bright light of day, resigning myself to the fact that there’s no way out of it, I lock up the garage. I head back to the house, and the party that I don’t intend on participating in further. Again, my name is called.
“Wyatt?”
Fuck.
“What’s wrong, Mother?”
She glares at me, that same look. “Don’t be sardonic with me. If you didn’t have that track, both of you—”
“Yeah,” I cut her off. “We’d be inside shaking hands, smiling, and drumming up sponsors for the Crown team.”
She squints at me and I swear, if she was a cartoon character, I’d see flames erupting out of her eyes. She’s trying her best to fry me in my expensive Armani loafers, as I’m doing my best to keep my cool.
“I’m truly disappointed in you. Please keep yourself inside, smiling and sweet for the remainder of the day. I fully expected more of you.” Without an opportunity to answer her, she turns on her heels and heads back into the foray of big wallets wanting to say they’re a part of Crown Racing’s winning ride. Dad will be in there somewhere, doing his part. As his adoring children, Mother expects the same of us. We are expected to be doting, entertaining, and the perfect hosts.
What bullshit.
With a few fake smiles to a few of the bigger sponsors, I head to my room. There I can be alone. I can be with others if need be, and I can avoid an all-out war with Marca Crown.
Passing Whiskey’s room, the music is blaring, something dark and emo as usual. Knowing him, he’s regretting the summer break at home with family. We don’t see him much anymore with his race team, his sponsorship runs, and the overall schmooze fests in ski country. Knocking, I wait for his reply. We’re only five years apart in age, but we might as well be complete strangers for how much we know of each other.
Opening the door, his gargantuan form blocks the doorway. Built like Dad, and a temper like a raging bull, we haven’t really spoke since he got home.
“Hey. What’s up?” His brisk demeanour is actually almost sweet.
“Just figured if you weren’t doing anything, we could go to the gym and spar for a bit. I need to toss off some tension. Thought maybe you could do with it too.”
“Yeah, sounds good.” Nodding, he turns off his stereo and snatches up a pair of runners. We bound gleefully down to the first floor to work off family tension.