Chapter 35

Chapter 35

S ix weeks later

The unassuming film studio in Echo Park, Los Angeles, is past its prime. Stucco is crumbling from the graying facade and a few broken roof tiles lie like flotsam next to the entrance. I park the RV in front and pause for a moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel.

Hope . Right now, I have to think of India Lee. So much has happened since then. Still, I can't believe I'm back in my old city. Los Angeles still feels like a hurricane that sweeps my thoughts out of my head. I find it difficult to concentrate.

Last night, I stood in a Walmart parking lot and tried to distance myself. Take a step back from the last few weeks. Since the day on the Mountain of Everything , where I shooed away a grizzly and saved a family, things have been happening too fast. Crowds of too many people and too many questions overwhelm me. Sometimes, I feel like I'm a baby bird whose shell was forcefully broken open before its time. I am not prepared for the hype surrounding myself. Besides, what I did was only natural. Three brutal screams—and the bear released the man and chased me instead. I was able to pull myself up a birch tree and get to safety. I know from experience that adult grizzlies rarely climb trees. There was nothing particularly heroic about it. The real hero was Grey since he guarded the family and made sure the grizzly didn't return.

In Faro, however, the looks I've been getting since then have changed. Old Mrs. Campbell even brought me a pot of elk goulash with chestnuts and juniper berries even though she never paid me any attention before. I don't even know if she knew I moved in next to her. Like me, she seems to lead a hermit's life. A few First Nations women blatantly eyed me as I walked toward the woods with Grey. Sometimes, they put their heads together and giggled. I was also asked to stroke a child's hair as if my touch would bring good fortune. Mr. Miller, the young father who I carried back to Faro after the bear attack, gave me a food basket. Maybe he heard that nobody ever saw me in the supermarket. Between the canned ham and a bag of marshmallows was a thank-you note, saying he'd signed me up for Hero of the Week . The invitation from the film company, Echo Park Studio , was right next to the air-dried salami. After reading it, I regretted for the first time that I saved the guy and dragged him miles through the snow.

I take a deep breath while studying the film studio from outside. There's only one reason I'm in Los Angeles today. Hope. If Lou continues to watch the show, this is my chance to reach her. After everything I've done, showing up in Ash Springs would be completely out of the question. If she realized that her love was merely an illusion, I don't want to open old wounds by showing up. But, if she didn't, if there is a smidgeon of a chance… I close my eyes. Like in a flash, I suddenly smell smoke, needles, and wet sand, feel Lou's sweet lips on mine, taste her tongue—salt, raspberries, and peppermint. Raindrops tickle my back. The longing is like a storm in my heart, a tornado in my head. The bittersweet desire pulses through my veins like blood. A constant stream in a single rhythm: Lou. Lou. Lou. Bright and dark. Endless.

Weeks ago, I wondered if the pain of loss would ever go away. Now I have the impression it will steadily worsen. Whoever said time could heal all wounds was lying.

With a sigh, I get out and walk toward the dilapidated building complex. I have to think of that Andrew guy, the Harvard douche I used to be jealous of. Was that episode filmed here? Will Lou watch it with her brothers tonight?

Like the entrance to the parking lot, the entrance area is monitored by two security guards. I show them the invitation and my ID; my real ID, the predecessor of which Ramon had stolen from Thorson Ave. and given back to me then, to give me my name and birthday. The guards let me in and I am immediately greeted by a stylish young woman.

Penelope Grace, Intern , the oval tag pinned to her black blouse states.

"Brendan Connor?" Her perfectly plucked eyebrows are raised.

I nod mechanically, feeling completely disheveled in her presence.

"Welcome." I want to say thank you , but she keeps speaking. "You're late. You need to get into makeup right away." She gestures down a brightly lit, bare hallway. No word on me being a hero of the week, but I'm fine with that.

I hurry after her, trying to ignore the glare of the overhead lights and the crowd of busy people hurrying past me with urgent expressions on their faces. It's been two weeks since my last flash, triggered again by a particularly intense nightmare. India Lee suggested that even though the nightmares might still linger, the seizures would become weaker and shorter as I work through the repressed feelings, the despair, the fear, and the grief. It's conceivable , she said, that dreams will never go away completely .

I shade my eyes to avoid the light and orient myself by the clicking of Penelope's high heels. I can handle the nightmares as long as I can get the flashes under control. I'm making some progress, but I'll need perseverance. A lot of perseverance and a lot of time, maybe more than I have.

Other guests are already sitting in makeup. I have no idea if other shows are being filmed at the same time. I slump resignedly into the chair Penelope Grace directs me to.

"Mr. Connor?" A second young woman appears behind me. I see her in the mirror, but I don't turn to her because the hustle and bustle in the studio is definitely too hectic for me.

"I'm London McLane." For a moment, I only notice the black and white checks on her blouse, then the black leather pants and black hair. My mouth is getting dry. I turn to her abruptly, noticing the bright red bracelet. Red. The bracelet is red. Luckily, not a harbinger of a seizure.

I nod to her cautiously. "Hi."

She narrows her eyes and looks at me as if I'm not the hero of the week but the imposition of the century. "It seems we have lots of work to do," she says with a reserved smile. "When was the last time you cut your hair?"

I shrug and turn so I only have to see her through the mirror. "I don't know, but leave it the way it is." Lou likes it that way!

"A little shorter would be more serious."

"It stays like this."

"What about your…clothes?" She tugs at my faded black hoodie with her fingertips as if lice might crawl out of it at any second.

I glance at the brown cargo pants and see a ripped seam from a pocket. "I'm wearing these." I want Lou to see me exactly as she remembers me. Under no circumstances do I want to mutate into a second Andrew.

London McLane briefly disappears. I'm guessing she's talking to the production manager and they're considering if my attire could jeopardize the viewing of the show. When she comes back, she makes a vague gesture. "You'll be announced as a hermit from the Yukon," she states simply. Apparently, that's enough explanation for my appearance.

I don't respond and resign myself to the various tinctures, creams, and brushes. I want to tune out everything and go back to the night under the willow tree, however, other people keep coming in to greet me, congratulate me, or shout instructions to the makeup artists.

Eventually, I'm done and I look at myself in the mirror. The deep shadows under my eyes are hidden by a thick layer of makeup that sticks to my skin like glue. My hollow cheeks appear fuller. I feel strange, this healthy-looking young man in front of me looks like a happier version of myself.

Maybe that would be me if Thorson Ave. had never existed.

Minutes later, I'm standing in front of the recording room where the show is being filmed. My palms are damp and my heart is beating way too fast. I better not get a flash now. The show will be broadcasted live, today, December 24th, when all the families are gathered in front of their TVs. My case of rescuing the family man seemed to fit perfectly with the Christmas holidays. That's probably one of the reasons they picked me for week 52.

I can hear the dramatic title melody coming from the studio. A picture of Lou pops up before me, sitting on the RV bench with her knees drawn up, watching Hero of the Week . How small she always made herself in the beginning…

"Brendan? Hello?" London taps my face with the powder puff for the hundredth time. "You're on next."

As if from afar, I hear the voice of the anchor, David O'Dell.

"Today's hero of the week comes from lonely Canada, more precisely, the Yukon Territory."

I close my eyes and send a prayer to heaven that Lou is sitting in front of the television with her brothers today. Is she thinking of me? How does she feel when she sees pictures of the snowy Yukon? Does she remember our night under the willow tree, our kisses, and the smell of the forest?

"Brendan?" London McLane clicks her tongue impatiently.

I shake my head in confusion and hear the closing words, which are also my cue: "At just twenty-two years old, he has already saved five lives. Let's give a hand to Brendan Connor."

Applause rings out from the recording room and pounds in my ears. I feel like I'm underwater, everything blurs. London opens the door and slaps me on the shoulder to make me run. I stumble clumsily and catch myself just in time to enter the studio.

At first, the light is so bright that I can't see anything at all. Bright stars dance before my eyes, in between a dark dot, probably David O'Dell. I fixate on the dot and try to pay attention to what the moderator says. I know his text because it was shown to me before the broadcast, plus, I also know all the questions he will ask me. It is mainly about the situation during the bear attack. I glance down to collect myself. The sentences fly by me and circle in the air. The spotlights burn the top of my head.

At some point, the room grows quiet.

Answer!

I clear my throat awkwardly, then rattle off the first of my memorized answers, not knowing if it's okay.

Silence again.

Even louder applause.

Jordan Price rises from my thoughts as if from a tomb, and all of a sudden, it all seems so grotesque to me. They're celebrating me here as a hero of the week, yet I killed a man and kidnapped a girl.

But you let Lou go. And Jordan knew what he was himself getting into …

Even as my inner voices argue, David O'Dell keeps talking. My throat tightens with every answer I give. Sweat collects on my forehead. The heat from the lights is unbearable. Again and again, I glance at the floor because the light burns my eyes.

I'm about to freak out .

You need a stimulus. Something that keeps you in the here and now .

However, I don't have any ice cubes to suck on—a tip Dr. Lee gave me for when I feel like I'm drifting. Ice cubes or chili peppers. I bite my cheek hard. A second later, I taste copper.

David O'Dell's face becomes more defined.

"And, Brendan," I hear him say, "among the many heroes of the week, do you have a personal favorite who should end up being Hero of the Year ?"

I swallow. I didn't need to memorize this answer. "Not a hero, but a heroine," I reply softly. "Though she was never on this show, she saved my life." Despite the brightness, I look straight into the camera and pray Lou is watching.

"A hero who was saved himself? Sounds exciting." David O'Dell laughs. "Who exactly is this heroine?"

I still don't look away, imagining peering through the camera right into Lou's northern-sky-blue eyes. A warm feeling of gratitude flows into my heart. I have to stop for a moment. So many memories wash over me, only bright, light memories this time. I have to pull myself together so I don't cry. She gave me so many things. Much more than love and hope, but also wonderful moments. They are bringers of light in my darkness.

"It's a girl from Nevada," I finally say softly as if only she should hear. "She proved to me that I'm not as bad as I used to think. She believed in me when I couldn't anymore." I clear my throat briefly because I'm saying a lot more than I wanted to, but I can't hold back the words. "She shone rays of sunshine into my darkness and showed me that gray is merely silver that doesn't shine. For that…" I pause, blink. "I'd like to thank her today, that's why I'm here." My surroundings blur a second time that evening, but not because I feel unreal. I press my hands against my temples briefly to collect myself. This is too important. This is my hope, my chance. "This girl…" Too quiet , I start again. "This girl wanted me to make her a promise before we went our separate ways." I swallow again and it hurts because my throat is burning. "I didn't know if I could keep it, so today… I want her to know that I'm in therapy…and…and that I will wait for her if she's willing to give me another chance." When I finish, I'm out of breath and my hoodie is stuck to my back. My eyes are damp, but I don't care. Applause follows again and I use the moment to take a deep breath into my stomach. Just like during a fight.

Later that day, I walk through the neighborhood of my youth with my hood pulled up. The sky is pitch black and cloudy, not a star can be seen.

I leave the vapid rows of houses and the silhouette of the silvery skyscrapers behind, walk along the concrete Los Angeles River, and at some point, cross the decommissioned railroad tracks toward Compton. A dog barks in the distance and a few drunks down the street sing "Jingle Bells." At the shabby corner kiosk, an elderly woman is rummaging through the garbage can. On impulse, I hand her a hundred-dollar bill even though I know half of it will probably be spent on crack.

I feel strange, but can't describe in what way. I think of Lou and imagine how she may have reacted to my performance. In my imagination, she is sitting in her room, which is undeniably painted yellow and pink, clutching a heart pillow to her chest, her blue eyes full of tears. That's nonsense, of course, she probably doesn't even have a heart pillow. Besides, I shouldn't picture Lou like that as if I know everything about her.

I banish these images from my mind as I walk on.

At some point, the asphalt gives way to gray gravel. The poor neighborhood still appears deserted, but in the last house on the left side of Thorson Ave, many windows are brightly lit. A colorful strand of lights stretches below the roof along the gutter. Next to one of the royal palms in the front yard, is a brightly blinking reindeer with a Santa Claus sleigh.

Like last time, my heart starts beating at the sight of my former home. A few months ago, this environment seemed foreign, now it reminds me more of a treasure. Something utterly precious.

I stop right in front of the waist-high gate. Two cherry-red pillar candles burn on tall candlesticks behind one of the windows. The others are transformed into glowing squares by strands of lights. A wreath of fir branches hangs on the front door, decorated with red-and-white candy canes. I stare at the window on the right. The curtains with the fire engines are drawn and the teddy bear mobile hovers silently in the air as if it were sleeping. The little boy must be in bed. He's probably dreaming of tomorrow and the presents that will be under the Christmas tree.

For a moment, I stand there and stare at the light blue bears.

Father, mother, child .

I close my eyes. My heart grows warm. I still wish for that, just in a different way. There are so many things I want to do better than my parents. If I had a son or daughter, I could do those things right that my mom and dad did wrong. I feel it's my duty—funny. India Lee is probably right. Some things can never be explained properly.

For a while, I stand still, with nothing but longing and hope in my heart. A classical version of "Silent Night" emerges from the house.

Somehow, I'm glad that such a loving family lives in this house of all places. It is said that some places, after horrible events, hold on to those emotions for a long time—like a brand. Many people say they can feel the negative atmosphere. Here, however, at the end of Thorson Ave, I feel absolutely nothing of the past. No anger and no hate. At least not today. The little boy who was trapped in the basement here is free.