K Breese - Future Imperfect

“You’re not in any condition-”

“If I can walk, then I’m fine. I’ve had worse hits than that.”

“Still, I’ll drive.”

On our way out to the car, Paige lets me know that Garrett is locked in an upstairs bathroom and that Rose is still passed out but okay. “The cops are on their way. They’re gonna want to speak to you.” She says, “By the way, you’re incredible.”

I can hear the cat scream of the sirens.

Before closing the door, Paige leans in and kisses me on the cheek. She says, “I know it’s not like you’re trying to save the future president or the guy who will cure cancer, but I really hope you don’t kill Jimi. And if you do, I’ll go on the lam with you.”

And then, I’m there.

Vaux parks and lets me out and the moon is hanging in the sky just like I imagine it’s supposed to be. She asks me why I want to go alone. Why she can’t come.

I say, “You weren’t in the vision.”

“But I’m here right now.”

“Please, Vaux. I don’t know what to tell you. Just let me do this on my own. I mean, this might be totally obsessive-compulsive of me, but what if the reason you’re here now, but not in the original vision, is because the minute you step out of the car you’re hit by a stray bullet. Or an asteroid. Or something. I mean, that’s a bit-”

“Ridiculous. You said this is about breaking the rules. Why’re you freaking out?”

“Just want to take it one step at a time. If it doesn’t work-”

“You’re being silly.”

“Look, please, just let me do this my way.”

“Fine.” And she pecks me on the cheek and turns up the radio.

“Don’t leave me like that.”

“Okay.” Vaux turns the radio off and tells me that she trusts me and that she knows this will work. She tells me that she can feel energy in the air tonight. She says, “Being with you is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Come back soon.”

That’s better.

I walk to the beach, slip off my shoes, and then wade into the water. I’m standing there and the sky is just crazily spitting out stars above me. The night is warm and the crickets are going apeshit in the elm trees.

The sand, it’s not sandy the way tropical beaches are but rocky with these little perfectly oval brown stones mixed in with what looks like the kind of gravel you find on playgrounds. And under that, my toes find mud. Thick, black mud.

Facing out, over the water, there is just the twinkling of distant cars crossing over the dam and beyond them the hulking outline of the mountains, all crouched like hounds. And behind me, only the sodium glare of the tennis court. The emptiness of the beach.

I’m in the water long enough to have memorized the timing of the crickets’ response to the cicadas’ drilling noises when Jimi shows up.

How I know he’s in the shadows is funny.

I feel it.

I say, calmly, “I’m ready.”

The night answers back in Jimi’s distinctive voice, “Good.”

And then he walks down to the beach. He is wearing what I knew he would, what I saw he would. It’s funny seeing this vision happen. I’ve replayed it so many times in the back of my head that to have it happening now, coming real, it’s almost prosaic. “Bland” is a better word for it. That and just looking at Jimi, seeing the snappy grin spreading out across his face, the anger is starting to bum rush my veins. My face is getting hot.

Jimi gets closer, looks me over, then he puts on this very self-satisfied look.

He says, “You’re very, very mad. Mad enough to kill me, right?”

“I’m not going to kill you,” I say.

“But you’re angry. Ferociously mad,” Jimi says. “Have a look at this.”

And he pulls his sleeves back and shows me his arms and the tattoos covering them. I look; it’s dark but I can make out faces, swirls of color, motion.

Jimi says, “Look closer.”

He takes a cell out of his back pocket and flips it open and positions it so the light cascades down his right forearm.

I step closer, see better.

Jimi’s arm, the whole tattoo sleeve, is images from my life. There is my mom teaching me how to ride a bike on the driveway. There is my bedroom set up just the way I had it when I was in second grade. There’s me in the surf on our trip to San Diego to see Aunt Miriam. And in a swirl of crimson and orange is my father’s car accident. He even has the license plate number down perfect. Jimi shifts the light and on his left arm I see more. There is my first dog, Grover. There is my favorite Transformers toy. There’s me and my father watching fireworks from the roof of the parking structure at the Cherry Creek Mall. And I even see myself lying in my crib, a pacifier in my mouth, swaddled in the green blanket Grandma Josephine knit for me.

Jimi says, “It’s all there, in my skin.”

“Why?” I ask.

A car sounds on the dam road behind us, its honk reverberating out across the reservoir in time with the lapping of tiny waves. The night is so very still in response.

Jimi, my brother, says, “That anger in you, I used to have it too. It drove me almost crazy, how short a fuse I had. Used to blow up at the slightest thing. And I saw everyone, almost every single person, as an enemy. All of them fake, all of them lying to me. You know that feeling, bro?”

I nod. “This whole time, you knew?”

“No,” Jimi says. “Only the past year or so. I tracked down Dad last summer. Figured it all out and then decided to get to know you. Everything I told you was true, Ade. You have a great life because you didn’t have to go through the hell that I did. What you never counted your lucky stars for was a great childhood. Just came natural to you, right? Never had to think much about it. Not me.”

“You killed your mother.”

Jimi pauses. Stares me down. Says, “I saved myself.”

“This same water, you drowned her.”

Jimi nods slowly. The night turns so slowly around us. And it’s as biblical as anything, what’s happening. I half-expect a spotlight from the moon to flick on.

“Not anymore,” Jimi says. “Now, that’s your baggage. You see, Ade, we switched childhoods. What’s on my arms, it’s my history now. And you, you’ve got mine. That’s why the anger boiling in you. With my past, it’s hard not to feel nearly out of control all the time. We both have abilities, bro. You can see into the future, and me, well, my power’s a bit less well defined. What I do is sneak into your home, talk with your mom, wear your clothes, and basically act like you. And if I throw a little pain into the mix, you know, a few tattoos here and there, I can absorb your past. Just soak it up like ink. Voilà, your history becomes mine and I can think back on a happy childhood. The brother who didn’t deserve it forfeits it.”

Really, I can’t think straight. “What?” I ask.

Jimi puts his hand on my shoulder, the first time we’ve touched sharing a father, and he says, “Close your eyes and think back, look back to when you were a kid and see.”

I’m hesitant, but do it. I close my eyes tight and hold them shut while I ransack my brain looking for childhood memories. They are there-me at the beach, me playing with the dog, me at my dad’s bedside-but the images I see are faint. They are ghosts of memories and I can’t get into them, I can’t feel the emotions associated with them. Laid on top of these memories, like a sick film, are new ones.

On top, there are bad ones.

These new memories, they’re things Vauxhall told me about Jimi. I see myself being whacked on the hands with a wooden ruler, my fingers numb and the knuckles cracking. I see a woman that’s not my mother calling me her useless child and locking me in the garage in the middle of winter. I see myself alone at home, having been there for days, eating cat food I’m so hungry. This is my new past, my new where-I-came-from. This is why I’m so angry, so abrasive.