Asylum Lake Page 3

  Cindy Crawford, wearing nothing but a tiny black bikini and a smile, stared down at him from the poster that was stapled to the ceiling. Ms. Crawford, fancy meeting you here. He thought. He stared into her deep brown paper eyes and instantly felt like a teenager again.

  The walls were covered with the eclectic interests of his misspent youth. A Pearl Jam poster hung prominently over the small desk by the window. Many fans and musicians, both past and contemporary, considered them to be the Led Zeppelin of his generation. Brady’s iPod was filled with every track they had ever recorded, even the unreleased versions that he secretly pirated off the Internet. He and his roommate had spent an entire summer after their sophomore year in college following the band on tour.

  An autographed Barry Sanders Lions jersey hung unaccompanied in the open closet. Mere words couldn’t describe the best running back the NFL had ever seen. Of course, the Lions had still sucked, but at least with Barry they sucked with style. Now that the star running back was retired, they weren’t even worth watching.

  Brady’s gaze settled on his once-impressive, now horribly outdated boom-box resting on the dresser. He rose and approached the dust covered radio wondering which CD had been entombed in the machine for over a decade. Pressing the PLAY button made him feel like he was playing an odd version of Russian Roulette. Please, no Vanilla Ice, he jokingly pleads, as the soothing voice of Darius Rucker from Hootie and the Blowfish began to drift from the tinny-sounding speakers. Closing his eyes with relief, he collapsed back onto the bed to dream the dreams of a teenage boy celebrating summer vacation.

  It was nearly midnight when Brady woke. Gruff had tracked him down, settling into the space at the foot of the bed. It was a habit he had picked up after Karen’s death, letting Gruff sleep in the bed with him. He wasn’t sure who felt more comforted him or the dog.

  Brady swung his feet off the bed, careful not to disturb his loyal companion, and stepped into his boots. Guiding himself by moonlight and memory, he made his way down the hall to the bathroom. He hoped a quick splash of cold water on his face would wash the sleep from his eyes.

  Why do I let that prick get to me? Brady wondered. But as much as he would like to blame his former father-in-law for the growing anxiety he was feeling, Brady was insightful enough to recognize that their heated exchange about Karen’s trust was only part of what had his mind doing somersaults. He knew it had much more to do with being back here with all of these…memories.

  Sadly, Brady was only partially right about the cold water; the fog of partial wakefulness still clouded his vision as he emerged from the bathroom and paused in the hallway. To the left waited his parent’s bedroom. Back to the right would take him past the guest room to his own, and then beyond to the stairs. Some things are best tackled in the light of day. He thought as he turned back to his right.

  “Come on, boy,” he called from the doorway. “Let’s take a walk.” Gruff responded with all of the energy a one-year-old lab could muster and bounded from the bed. Apparently the dog’s slumber had been more peaceful than Brady’s own.

  Together, the pair made their way down the stairs and through the kitchen. The half-eaten pie remained on the counter. There was no plate in sight, just an apple-encrusted fork resting in the pie pan.

  Brady couldn’t remember the last time he had used something other than paper plates. Most of the time he ate his meals standing at the kitchen sink a leftover piece of cold pizza or take out Chinese from the night before. Surprisingly, Gruff preferred the Szechwan Beef to pizza. “You’ll be the first dog to master the art of chopsticks,” Brady often joked as the dog sat at his feet licking the remnants of rice and vegetables from the carryout containers.

  French doors opened off the kitchen to a small deck overlooking the lake. He had helped his father hang the doors during spring break of his freshman year of high school. The old maple tree along the side of the house had been split by lightning during one of the worst storms to hit the area since the Big One of 1958, famous for knocking out power for three months across three counties.

  The strike had sent the business end of the tree crashing through the roof, demolishing half the house. Between the mess in the kitchen, the wind-blown rain, and the resulting water damage throughout, the place was a complete and utter disaster. Surprisingly, his father took it all in stride. He had seemed almost excited by the family’s misfortune. His parents had talked for years about wanting to remodel the kitchen, fix the aging roof, and maybe even adding some extra space for an office.

  Brady wasn’t sure how much his parents had sunk into the renovations, but there was no way insurance had covered everything. His father had used that lightning strike as an excuse to rebuild that old log cabin into his mother’s dream house. In the span of a few short months The Up North House was transformed from the place they spent their summers and long weekends, to the home where his parents would someday spend their retirement. Not that any of that mattered now.

  Brady walked through the French doors with Gruff in tow. Wind blew in from across the lake causing the tree limbs overhead to bend and sway. A set of chimes fashioned from old forks and spoons hung from the deck’s lattice overhang. Sixth-grade Bible camp, Brady thought, as the rusty silverware clanked in the breeze above him, worst week of my life.

  While Brady was growing up, a Seventh Day Adventist family had moved in next door to their house in Grand Rapids. The much-too-friendly neighbors made it their mission to “save” the Tanner family. His parents were able to politely decline their repeated invitations to attend Bible studies or Saturday services, but somehow they convinced Brady’s mother that a week at Bible camp would be “a good thing.” Seven days without television, radio or anything that resembled real food, equated to the worst form of torture a young boy could endure. Not to mention all of the singing and praying. The only lasting impressions Brady had taken from the experience were those damn chimes and a severe distaste for organized religion.

  Stairs descended from the deck to an area of brick pavers with a fire-pit ringed with stones. His father had carefully arranged a collection of tree stumps around the pit for seating. A few short strides from the fire-pit led to the beach where an old wooden dock extended out over the lake.

  Brady paused at the fire pit. The remnants of fires past still lay inside; the charred logs and debris covered memories were burned recognition. The wind off the lake warned of a coming storm, and the gathering clouds played hide-and-seek with the moon allowing just enough filtered light to reflect off the lake’s choppy surface. In the distance, the Asylum stood silhouetted against a backdrop of trees and hills. Brady was surprised to see that the building, which had shuttered its doors and windows half a century before, hadn't been leveled and replaced with a condo development or golf course.

  Sweeping his gaze across the lake’s shadowed waves, Brady was struck by surprise, the float is gone.

  When Brady was eleven, he and his father had strapped sections of the old dock to a couple of barrels and swam them out to the middle of the lake. They used chains tied around cement blocks to keep them in place. Most mornings they would race from the beach, swim to the float, then stretch out to bake in the sun. They’d talk about sports, life…and girls. He was twelve when Dad tried to give him “the talk” out on that float; he wasn’t sure who had been more horrified. Now, like his dad, the float was merely one of a collection of memories that Brady rarely, if ever, revisited.

  I guess I don’t blame them. It would have been a tough reminder to have around. He sighed, this was the part he had been dreading for the past fourteen years; standing here and looking out as the lake brought the memories of his last days at the Up North House all rushing back.

  It was 1995 and shaping up to be the best summer of his young life. A summer of firsts, he thought, and almost of lasts. His first beer and kiss happened within a week of each other. Her name was April Mayer, a combination which Brady had found so cute, yet April had hated with a passion. To this day the
smell of cherries reminded him of her chapstick. The stale, albeit exciting, taste of that warm beer came in a distant second to that kiss.

  They had met at Charlie’s, the small ice cream place in town. Summer never officially began for his family until they enjoyed their first cone from Charlie’s. Maybe it was the way she kept tucking her light brown hair behind her ear as it fell across her face when she leaned over to scoop ice cream. Or how her blue eyes sparkled under the visor she wore, but April took both his order, medium chocolate chip in a sugar cone, and his breath away.

  It was a wonderfully uncomfortable feeling; much like getting the wind knocked out of you from a punch to the stomach only a million times better.

  Every day for the next week he pedaled more than five miles each way for a banana split. His rationale: a banana split takes much longer to prepare than a simple cone, giving him more time to steal glances at her from behind his sunglasses. Twice he had waited in line only to have Maude, the heavyset woman who owned the place, swap-out April’s station behind the counter to take his order. Aside from the obvious disappointment, Maude was also known for being very stingy with the toppings.

  It took a week and nearly all of the birthday money from his grandmother, to muster the courage to say something other than “Banana split, please.” And even then, it wasn’t as if he had cleverly delivered a witty ice-breaker; although he had spent enough time in front of his mirror practicing. The best he could do was, “I like bananas.” He cringed as he thought back to what he had pathetically said so many years ago.

  Brady nearly fainted when she replied with her own nervous giggle. “That’s good, because you sure do eat a lot of them.” She noticed! He shouted inside his head and smiled. From that moment on they were nearly inseparable.

  Gruff walked down to the water’s edge, careful to keep Brady within sight. Ever since Karen’s death the dog had suffered from some kind of canine anxiety disorder. Sometimes, he would pace from room to room in that small apartment; as if he would somehow find her if he just kept searching. And whenever Gruff was left alone for more than a few hours he became destructive, chewing and clawing at the flooring and curtains.

  Dateline did a segment on pet anxiety disorders once and Brady remembered sitting on the couch with Karen and laughing at the people who took their pets to psychiatrists who treated them with antidepressants. But on the advice of a friend, Brady had set up his camera and caught it all on video. Watching it made him crumble inside. Although, in some odd way seeing Gruff grieve for Karen gave him permission to grieve, too. Part of his grieving process was letting her go in ways both big and small.

  Maybe that’s why I’m here. He pondered, still unsure of why he had decided to come back to the Up North House to put some distance between him and his memories of Karen.

  That’s the funny thing about memories; however, they can attach themselves to places…and things. No matter how much time or distance you give them, they wait for you to return and since his return to the Up North House Brady could feel the memories pulling at him. Fourteen years is a long time to wait, and some memories are less patient than others. The impatient memories, he had learned, eventually start searching for you.

  Now, staring out at the windswept lake, Brady knew they had found him and it was finally time to remember.

  June 29, 1996

  Bedlam Falls, Michigan

  Brady knew before his father even opened his mouth what was coming. Maybe it was the devilish look in the man’s eye or the way he was clutching the bag of marshmallows, but for whatever reason, Brady felt his face reddening in anticipation of the embarrassment that was fast approaching. “Did Brady ever tell you about the time he tried to roast marshmallows with the hair dryer?” his dad asked, passing the marshmallows around the fire.

  “Now, John,” his mother interrupted before the infamous hair-dryer story could be told. A son can always count on his mother to come to the rescue. “Don’t you think the time he got into my make-up bag is a much better story? I know I do.” And she gave Brady a sly wink.

  Across the fire pit, April covered her mouth and giggled. Next to her Tammy Franks leaned over and whispered something into April’s ear. Brady could only imagine what they were discussing. Those two were trouble. At fourteen, Brady had already learned that girls were confusing enough on their own, but when you get two or more together, all bets were off.

  On a stump to Brady’s left, Jeff eagerly awaited the conclusion of the marshmallow story, as if there was an important moral to be learned. Jeff’s own father had died in a car accident while Jeff was still in grade school, and in his absence it was clear to anyone who took the time to notice that Brady’s friend practically worshipped John Tanner. The fact that Brady’s father had spent fifteen years as the Chief of Detectives for the Grand Rapids Police Department probably factored into it. Jeff had grown up watching COPS on television and made no secret of his desire to wear the shield one day.

  “You know, sir,” said Jeff while pushing a marshmallow down onto a roasting stick, “I made a grilled cheese once with my mom’s iron. I bet you could roast a marshmallow better with that than a hair dryer.”

  Brady’s dad responded with a look of confusion and slowly nodded his head as he smiled. “Jeff, you just might be right.” Something about Jeff Ryder, although always polite and by all accounts an all-around good kid, rubbed John Tanner the wrong way. But, much like family, a father doesn’t get to choose his child’s friends; his long years in law enforcement gave him the wisdom to realize that an annoying friend was significantly better than some of the alternatives.

  John rose to his feet and reached over to rest his hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “Linda, I think the kids are in very capable marshmallow roasting hands here." Squeezing the boy’s shoulder, he continued, “What do you say we go watch some television?”

  Jeff beamed at the compliment, missing the slightly sarcastic overtone. Not that he was a dim bulb; on the contrary, Jeff was extremely bright and the kind of athlete that comes around once every decade or so. More importantly, he was Brady’s best friend in the world, if it was only for three months every summer with the occasional long weekend mixed in.

  “All right, dear,” mom agreed. She leaned over and gave Brady a kiss on his cheek. “But we’re not watching the game tonight. The Tiger’s will just have to lose without you. What do you say we pop some corn and rent a movie?” she suggested, sashaying over to her husband’s outstretched arms.

  Brady’s father wrapped her in his arms and waltzed her in a slow circle that culminated in an awkwardly cheesy dip. “Groovy, baby.”

  The girls giggled again from across the fire. Why do they have to be so embarrassing? Brady cringed as he watched his parents make their way towards the house holding hands. “Goodnight,” he called after them in a tone that clearly meant Good Riddance, too.

  “G’night, kids,” a waving reply over his father’s shoulder, “TV says there’s a storm coming in don’t stay out here too long.”

  “You’re parents are so cute,” Tammy teased as she moved over to the stump next to Jeff and grabbed a marshmallow from a stick he had been roasting. She picked it apart with her brightly painted fingernails and popped the gooiness into her mouth. Today her nails were lime green to match her shorts. Brady always wondered what she did first, pick out her clothes or her nail color, they always seemed to match. “Nothing like my parents,” she continued, “they hardly speak to each other.”

  The last thing a teenage boy wants to hear is how cute his parents are. To Brady, his parents were just mom and dad. He had been around enough of his friends’ parents to understand his weren’t much different than most, only in the small and embarrassing ways.

  “Trust me,” Brady responded as he raised a can of Coke to his lips. “My parents aren’t so cute when I forget to clean my room or take the garbage out.” He took a long drink and then added, “That reminds me, what’s with the trash bag, Jeff? I saw you shove it behind the bushes when yo
ur mom dropped you off. You don’t have severed heads or something in there, do you?”

  “Gross,” April groaned and raised herself off the stump and stretched. She was tall, taller than Brady anyway. Not by much, but just enough to have bragging rights. She had insisted once that they stand back to back just to prove it. Brady watched her turn and look out over the lake. “It’s so quiet,’" she noted, turning to look at Brady through the dancing flames of the fire. “These crickets and frogs would drive me nuts,” she declared over the usual sounds of a northern Michigan shoreline. “I thought the reason people choose to live out in the middle of nowhere was for the peace and quiet. Besides, don’t you miss having neighbors?”

  April lived in a trailer park with her parents and younger sister. Brady could understand how not having neighbors would seem so foreign to her. In a trailer park you couldn’t sneeze in your kitchen without having your neighbor’s next door say bless you from theirs.

  “I guess you get used to it after a while,” Brady shrugged. “Besides, I get enough noise and people in Grand Rapids,” he added, referring to his family’s house in the city. “It’s nice to have quiet for a change.”

  “You’ve got neighbors here,” Jeff said as he retrieved the trash bag from its hiding place in the bushes. And then gesturing to the lake, “That old nut house across the lake isn’t as empty as people think. You know it’s haunted, right?”

  “What are you talking about? You mean that old hospital?” Brady remembered asking his father about it once as they sat on the float enjoying the morning sun.

  “It’s just an empty building, Brady,” his father had replied casting a nervous glance at the hospital. “Just promise me you’ll stay away from it,” he continued, his gaze returning to Brady. “I’m not saying that the place is dangerous.” His father paused, “But old buildings are like teeth, Brady. They rot from the inside out when they're not cared for.”