WYATT
All day it’s been like watching old family films, slides of long ago trips from the forties, or finding an old journal that was filled in by a grandparent. It’s from a lifetime ago; it feels historic. I know my own head well enough that if I focus only on the negative, I’ll be warring with myself. Like screaming down a long tunnel at no one, or being lost in a labyrinth without a string to find the exit. I’ll get lost. It’s stories that feel so real because of the emotions portrayed and conveyed will trap me. They’ve been flipping by so fast, I can’t grasp them.
It’s nothing more than snippets, like a fast scrolling video. You get the gist of the story, but it’s sped up. Remembering days when we were at home, dealing with Mother, days of joy on the track, and losses as I learned to be conservative with my words. All of it’s damning. Dealing with my own convoluted mind has been difficult. When this is done, either I’ll have further cracks in my psyche, or I’ll be a slave to it no more.
Our parents’ mansion had its privileges. The days on the track when it was calm and peaceful helped. Being stuck here, inside this trash compactor of a brain I own, it’s bike wreckage and shards of joy. The longer I’m here, the less I’ll be sane on the other side. I know it. I feel it deeply.
Wading through catalogues full of times on the track, I’m remembering another time that was joyous. Doing this keeps the despair at bay.
The day is warm and inviting. The steaming Californian air is thick. Even the birds in the nearby palms are hiding under leaves to stay cool in the midday sun. It’s perfect in every way. This is the perfect time to hit the track. The heat and the humidity from the ocean, the salt gums up the track. Both Dad and Doll say it’s ludicrous, and I love it.
Hopping over the concrete stanchion that lines the track, landing on the heated blacktop that is my life, I’m happy.
This is where I live.
Knowing every inch of it and then some, I pick up a pebble and roll it between my fingers. Today is different. I feel it, somethings off. I need this. The ability to the ride the rim of each tight, solid, and unforgiving curve, hugging it tight to my chest until I feel I can’t breathe from the closeness. That’s perfection.
Today, I feel them. The ghosts loom on the track as palpable entities. They’re always here, waiting, wishing for another try to best me. They’re the ghosts of my past. Times when I failed, times when I bested my own records, or times when I felt the need to push the envelope a tad bit further. It’s frightening. When no one’s here, you can hear them creep around the corners, swerving to miss a danger that only they can see.
I see them. I’ve always seen them. Sometimes they were imagined. Sometimes, though, they were strong spectres that slid up behind you to make you go faster, pushing you to your limits until you almost do too much. Dad always said, “A good racer feels the nuances of the track, that you can anticipate the point when you’ll lose it. A great racer knows how to make the track work for them. You won’t have to feel it, you’ll just know.”
He was right. You feel when it’s right.
Kneeling, leaning my back against the cool concrete, I pull up a seat. The gravel on the track’s edge is a combination of tar, rubber, flicks of rock that are kicked up, and sweat from our personal vehicles of choice.
“Do you see it, Wyatt?” My dad asks. Looking up to his massive form, I see the joy, the passion he has for us, and the care for the track’s ghosts that have bested him too.
“Not today,” I say mechanically, almost rehearsed.
“Wyatt, it’s always there. You just have to grab it.” He’s talking about visualizing the cup in my hand.
Remembering this conversation, we sat here and talked the day before my first TT race. He was sure I could do it, whereas, I was scared I’d disappoint.
“You just have to visualize the win. Don’t feel that it can’t happen, because it won’t if you can’t. Can’t is a shit answer to anything.” Laughing at this, tossing a rubberized rock, it skips across the surface of the track like a pebble on a flat pond.
“I know. Can’t is for pussies. I’m no pussy, Dad. I can do it. I’m just afraid of not bringing my best, disappointing you with my performance.”
Laughing, he ruffles my hair. “I love you, Wyatt. I’m never disappointed in you.”
Wanting to enjoy this trip down memory lane, soaking up the moment I had with my father, I know it’s not real. He’s just another ghost of the track now.
And as soon as I think that, he disappears, leaving me to sit on the edge of this quiet track alone. I wish he were still alive. I need a moment more of his time. It’s a cold reminder that he’s gone. He was gone too fast. Way, way too fast.
Needing him with me, needing him to help me find my way through this, his loving and caring soul could’ve helped me work through this, whatever it is.
Not wanting to leave the stillness of this moment, I take it in, exhaling deeply.
The track hums with anticipation. It’s waiting for me to hit the blacktop. It wants my rubber to slip across its surface. Come dance with the devil, it says. It’s calling for me.
There’s almost nothing I’d rather have…almost.
Wanting to run to the garage, slipping the bike out of its soft and warm paddock, I ache to make it screech in joy as we kiss the rim of death. But it’s not real.
What is real? Siren. She’s real, Dad is not.
Internalizing it to myself, I feel the weight of the truth. The track escapes in a dreamlike fog, the warm air with the sweet moisture of the ocean, and the light of day beaming sunshine dulls to a dim hue. It’s shocking, seeing it dissipate. That warmth, the comfort of the track, and Dad’s love as it surrounded me, all of it’s gone. I know without a doubt I’m back in my own mind. In in the hospital bed, in my cranial trap.
Enough! No more! Dad’s words ring out, that I need to dust it off and get up. I can’t stay here any longer. Shaking off the cloud of the past, I immediately notice the lights of the hospital’s sterile room. They’re gross and unloving as I lazily open my eyes. Doll’s long chocolate hair is strewn around her face, partially covering, partially hanging down the side of the awkward chair. Sitting propped up with a blanket tucked around her shoulders, her legs are curled under her uncomfortably in a reclined position. I feel bad for everything she’s endured. She looks so worn out, so tired, and it seems like she’s aged years since I physically saw her last.
Stirring awake, I attempt speech. My mouth is parched like the Mojave, and the best I can muster is a deep groan. Coughing lightly, grunting, and generally humph a few unrecognizable noises, it wakes Doll.
Sitting up so fast, the blanket she was hidden under is tossed off, discarded like trash. But it’s that look. The look on her face is priceless. Appearing at my side with a massive grin, she says, “What took you so long?” She’s clearly relieved to see me awake.
Reaching down to the floor, picking up the castaway blanket, she drapes it across my body as her tears flow down her face. “I’ve missed the shit out of you.” Controlling the bed, righting me to a sitting position, she hits the button for the nurse, frantically.
“Water, D.” Squeaking it out, she grabs it fast, handing it to me in a blink.
Pushing the button for the nurse a few more times, she doesn’t stop grinning. Holding the cup up to me, I’m sip it slowly. The water feels amazing in my dry mouth. Pulling it through the straw, I relish the ache it assuages as it passes down my throat. Working up the best smile I can with a sore jaw, cottontail mouth, and rough inner cheeks, Doll pulls the cup away as I release the straw. When we crashed, I must have bit down hard, as the sores on the inside of my mouth are still tender.
Within seconds, the tiny room becomes a flurry of activity. The gentle doctor and elderly nurse that I’d heard before become real people. They shuffle around my inactive body, checking monitors and such as I allow the ministrations.
Pushing the cup back to me, as I’m sipping at the straw, the lovely older nurse asks, “You must be feeling better?”
Trying to smile, she pulls my hand out of the covers to check my pulse. Her touch is slightly cool, but refreshing as she tracks the beats on her watch. Once satisfied with the results, she places my hand back on the bed, covers it with the half-warm flannel, then turns to write it in the log sheets.
“I’ll check back in a bit. I’m sure you have things to talk about. If you need me, just ring, China.” Smiling as she exits the room, she closes the door to the outside noises. The doctor stays for a moment more.
Going over the chart, still checking monitors, smiling at Doll and I, she says, “Glad you made it back, sugar. It would be a harmful waste to lose something as precious as you.” She smiles wide. “I have to pull my rounds, but I’ll be back in just a tick.” She leaves Doll and I in a companionable silence.
Instinctively hopping up on the bed, Doll tucks into my side, assuming the position we’ve had since we were kids. I’m tired, but I don’t care. We need to talk. Man, I missed this.
“Where’s Whiskey?” I mumble. Figuring it’s not nice to go for the gullet yet, I wonder where our older, flightier brother is.
“He should be back soon. He went out to check on something. He’s tight-lipped as usual. There’s a backstory, but I don’t care. I’ve had enough to worry about with just your mug stuck in a coma. PS, thanks for that. Like I didn’t need more trouble these past few months.”
I think about what she said. Months? Fuck. I didn’t realize it’d been that long. Dreams and reality blended as I was tucked away in my own mind. Deciding to avoid that conversation for the moment, and getting to heart of what I want to know, I ask, “How is she?”
Doll takes a deep breath, sighs, and expels the pent-up stressful breath. This was imminent.
“She’s alive. She’s sore, broken, and worried sick about you, but…” She turns over to her side, propping herself on her elbow to peer down at me. “I haven’t really dealt with that. Sorry, Cas. The nurses asked my permission to tell her, but I asked that they hold off until we saw about your recovery. My first priority was you.” Her composure is thinning as the strain drains from her face. She’s had to grow up so fast, in such a short period of time. Almost twenty-one, and she’s been in charge of my care, my well-being, and I’m sure in family affairs that she honestly had no business caring for.
“I’m sorry, Doll. This shouldn’t have been your burden.” Talking even this much is straining my vocal cords. Sure, I’d been idle in the coma, but I’m exhausted awake, if that makes sense.
She pets my chest, kisses my forehead and smiles. “It’s not your fault. Now that you’re awake, things will change, I’m sure. Your stubborn streak will shine through, Cas. So get strong, get your ass out of bed and help me. Then I’ll forgive you.” After a quirky smile, she rolls off the bed. “I’ll go see what’s taking Whiskey so long with my lunch. Just relax, okay?”
Nodding, she pulls the blanket up tight to my chest. Bending down to place her shoes on and heads to the door. “I love you, Cas.”
God, I love her too. “Ditto, kid. See you in a bit.”