Destiny - a novel - 8. Chapter 8: Excursion

Chapter 8: Excursion

What a relief! – A break in the clouds, or at least a break from the rain. Winters back at home in Ohio may be brutal compared to the one I've been experiencing in NorCal, but the pervasive chill and wetness still sinks into my bones. It's a hard feeling to describe, other than I just constantly feel like I'm on the verge of shivering.

"Hey Dawn, look at that!"

My shopping companion, Jackson Oliver – dumbass – raises his arm, sends his camera twirling on the strap around his neck and points to the lights strung across the plaza.

Pinpoints of glow slowly strobe from dark blue to red, while others cover the brighter range of the spectrum from pale yellow to bright green.

The plaza is paved in light-colored stone that is edged in one-story shops stretching into the distance. Down the center of this pedestrian avenue are large planters filled with decorated Christmas trees, and flowers like calla lily and poinsettia. I guess red and white are the Center's theme this year. A slight breeze moves along to carry the strains of piped-in Xmas music aloft, all of which is performed on strings only. The bright marble and windowless wall of a two-story building at the end must be one of the 'anchor' stores.

"Those are LED lights."

"Thanks, Jackson. But, I do know some things."

His purplish-blue eyes take my response way too seriously, so I have to backpedal by adding a friendly, if gratuitous, "Doofus."

That makes him smile. Good.

I'm not sure I exactly feel like smiling though. The overcast sky above the electric twinkle seems closer to expressing my emotional state. Here it is, the daylight hours of December the 24^th, I'm at Stanford Shopping Center, with a handsome companion full to the brim with that special Oliver boy charm, and I do not want to let go of the feeling that I should be by Jack's bedside instead.

Lincoln craftily arranged this scheme of an outing, filling up my iPad with shopping lists that I had to gather for Mrs. Shaw and her son. Jackson has a mysterious piece of crumpled paper in his back jeans' pocket with presents to get for Lincoln. So, we were chosen to get them.

Jackson acts like he's just remembered he has a camera with him, and gets it ready for capturing the lights.

"How big is this place?" I ask.

"They've got Macy's and Nordstrom's anchor stores, plus two or three more I think…" He lifts the viewfinder to his eye. "And Ralph Lauren that might as well be another. We have to see Ralph Lauren, everybody loves that store." Click, click.

"How come?"

"I don’t know. You'll see; it's just beautiful there."

Damn him for trying to improve my mood. Maybe I don’t want to smile at his eagerness and charisma, did he ever think of that? Maybe his photographer's stealthiness won't work this time. The pictures he showed me the other day revealed a couple of things – one, he takes a lot more than we, his targets, are ever aware of, and two, Jackson has a soul. That seems to be what he uses over and beyond his viewfinder to find the world.

I decide to focus on the task at hand – the shopping lists – so we can get back to the hospital as fast as we can. I spy a wooden park bench and head to it, while my arm contorts backwards to haul my backpack zipper within reach. By the time I'm sitting down on the frigid seat, my iPad is in my hand lighting up, and Jackson is beside me. He slides down on the bench right next to me, allowing the side of his thigh to touch mine; the immediate warmth of it coming through his denim is comforting, but winds up re-mixing my feelings again. Damn charmer.

"So, what does Mrs. Shaw want?" the boy asks as he eavesdrops a peep at my screen.

"She's given me things to get for Christie and Hamish – "

"Why?" He cuts me off.

"No idea." I shrug. "I guess she'll mail them out from the hospital."

"Who else does she need gifts for?"

I scan her extensive wish list, and almost get a tingle from her credit card in my pocket. "Gifts for Linc, Jack, you, and instructions to 'get something nice for yourself as well.' I will be ignoring that last part."

"How come?"

Is Jackson really asking..?

"Come on now, this foray your brother engineered is reward enough." I don’t know if my companion caught it, but what started to leave my mouth as a dribble of sarcasm, completed itself in tones of gratified sincerity.

"And you?" I ask with a smirk. "Who's on your 'nice' list?"

"Nice, huh? Already thinking you're precluded – is that it?"

I may sense some color come to my face, but I just shrug it off, lean back, and fold my arms to hug my iPad.

Jackson settles on the seat too with his own smirk. "Let's see, I have orders from Lincoln to get presents for Mrs. Shaw, you, and Jack."

"Ah-HA!" I exclaim. "I have orders from Jack to get something for Linc! See, those boys' future Christmas bliss rests in our hands. What say you and I work together to match their presents and make them as meaningful as possible."

"I'd say, wow. Now I can see why Jack likes you so much."

"Why's that?"

"Brains – brains and a heart."

…Damn that Oliver boy charm…

"Well, we agree to coordinate their gifts then? And not tell them?"

"Agreed." The dweeb puts out his hand and makes me shake it. His flesh is warm, which I should have expected, as I know firsthand that his thigh is too.

At this point, the plot of our little adventure can begin to make me feel somewhat better. We will work together to ensure Jack has the best Christmas possible from his bedside. Jackson and I will join forces to guarantee the Christmas morning wonder Lincoln sees in Jack's eyes is reflected in his own, and both mirrors of those souls increase love as if seen through a magic viewfinder.

˚˚˚˚˚

Shopping!

I glance down at my screen: a billfold for Hamish from Jack. That's all Mrs. Shaw put. What kind of wallet; big or small; what color? I'll have to get Jackson's input on this mini crisis of faith.

A silk scarf for Christie from Jack.

Ok. That one I can handle.

And speaking of that, my fingers are already getting marks from the paper torture devices known as 'handles.' I shift the big Bloomingdale's shopping bag to my other paw, and think stealthily how I was able to get Mrs. Shaw's for Jackson item, AND Lincoln's gift request for his brother checked off with some cleverly devised 'alone time' shopping. At least, I think it was clever!

Lifting my head again, all the holiday splendor of Neiman-Marcus hits my senses as sharply as a hot day's first sip of lemonade. I feel my eyes narrow and my mouth pucker as I wonder if it's not too sharp to be refreshing.

A massive rope of garland – some three-foot-thick – comes from one corner of the ceiling of this central area to end at the place where the chain of a crystal chandelier starts. Not one, but four of these overstuffed swags droop their way to the gaudy lit prisms. Each one is packed with reflective globes in the worn-out colors of the season, and each one has sprays of living pine boughs, frond-like Cyprus, and baby's breath – or baby's snot, as I like to call it – mixed among the artificial greenery and lights.

I glance around. Jackson is about twelve-feet away, standing with his knees pressed against the glass front of a display cabinet. On the top in front of him, his hands are slowly inspecting an array of men's leather gloves. That's probably something for Jack from his older brother, or who knows, something from Jackson to Linc.

As I start to move towards him, the attendant takes the gloves and carefully places them in a box with red and white tissue. I guess he's gonna get them. In the next instant, I'm shocked. Jackson fumbles in pulling something out of his front jeans' pocket and tries to keep it out of view of the clerk. It is a great wad of cash, and Jackson peels off a few of the top layers like a chef about to chop an onion.

He shoves the rest away, and grins awkwardly as he hands the money to the attendant. She smiles and nods her head with words like "I'll get you your receipt."

He doesn't see me coming, so I slide in right next to him with my back against the counter. I bend my knees and support my elbows on the top of the glass. "Hello, crafty."

"Crafty?" Jackson's smile is wide open; he's happy to see me again.

"Paying with cash. You look like a drug dealer."

Oopps. My attempt at some good-humored ribbing puts the younger Oliver boy instantly on guard.

"Um, don’t say that, please."

That tone's way too heartfelt.

"It's just," he goes on. "That's what Lincoln has, and that's what he gave me."

The truth hits me hard, and as I slowly lift myself to a standing position, I feel like a pig for inadvertently bringing up how Lincoln and Jack have been surviving. Of course, Lincoln's unlikely to have a credit card – stupid me!

"I'm sorry, Jackson. I didn't mean – "

"Hey…" His smile peeks out again. "Let's forget it."

"Ok."

The clerk reappears with a repressed leer and a slip for the boy to take. She also comes with a handsomely wrapped and be-ribboned glove box. "Here you go, sir. Would you like a shopping bag?"

Jackson picks up the gift. "No thanks. I have quite a few already."

And he's right. He bends at the waist and fits the small box easily into his Tommy Bahama sack.

"Do you have 'billfolds?'" I ask the attendant, wondering if she'll find the term as cryptic as I do.

"Why, yes. They're right over here." Her hand motions around the counter corner, and Jackson and I heave a pretend sigh while hoisting up our torture-device bags.

We plop them down again after encamping less than ten feet from where we started, and I delight that my companion gets my oftentimes acerbic sense of humor.

The clerk pulls up a tray with a dozen different kinds of wallets, all of the finest leather tailoring.

"Who is this for?" asks Jackson.

"Jack to his older brother."

"That Hamish dude?"

"Yep."

"Well…" Jackson lowers his tone "…get the cheapest one; it's all Jack can afford."

My heart melts. In that sweet little warning, all the inherent goodness that resides in this Oliver boy seems to come through without any affect. Perhaps I should think it's ironic that I find Jackson's apparent pettiness 'cute,' but I don't – I know his heart is in the right place.

"Nah, silly," I laugh, trying to convert the seriousness of my own realization into subterfuge. "Mrs. Shaw will pay, so Jack gets the credit, and his mom gets the credit card bill. Get it?"

"Got it."

"Anyway," I murmur as I reach down and grab a tan-colored tri-fold. "Which one do you think a fifteen-year-old would plausibly pick out for his twenty-year-old bro?"

The clerk folds her hands on the countertop, and smiles demurely. 'Good,' I think. 'First class service is low-pressure service.' She knows my question was for my shopping mate, so she bites her tongue.

"Umm…" Jackson hems, grabbing a long, chocolate-brown bi-fold. He peers up to the lady with a smirk. "Don’t have any with videogame characters on them, do you?"

She laughs mildly; that constitutes her entire reply.

Jackson turns his attention on me. "I don’t know. His brother's still on college, right?"

"Yes."

"Then go with a triple-fold, since I guess he's not wearing suits yet, and can't really house a big bi-fold."

Clever. "Ok, but, any of these appeal to you..?"

His hand lingers over one with a naturally finished leather edge and dark green fabric for the body. "This one."

I pick it up and check it out. It's not too big, it's not too flashy or luxe, but it has quality and sturdy construction. And, it's not too expensive.

"I think he's right," I tell the attendant.

She takes it from me with both hands like an ancient relic to be treasured. "Gift wrap, miss?"

"Please," I tell her, plopping Mrs. Shaw's card on the counter. I'm glad she called the company earlier authorizing me to sign for her. The sales associate walks away, and I turn my high beams on Jackson. "Look at you, Mr. Junior Joe Connoisseur. I'm very impressed with your taste, Mister Man."

I wouldn't expect it, but the evidence is right before my face; I've made Jackson blush.

I change the subject. "So, where to next?"

His hand immediately pats his belly. "Aren't you getting hungry?"

I laugh. Boys! It's either sex or food driving them on. I shrug. "I could eat. Know a place?"

"Yep." His goofy grin is back full force, along with his reddening color.

"Ok, next stop – lunch!"

The clerk comes back with a flattened square box, again done up in a red and white bow, and I sign the bill.

After I drop the wallet in my bag, and slip my iPad into my backpack, Jackson and I hoist up our parcels. The attendant folds hands on the counter glass again and says, "Thank you for shopping at Neiman-Marcus. Merry Christmas!"

"Same to you," Jackson replies with warm conviction.

We begin to walk over the highly polished marble floors, and their reflective whiteness begins to make me think. I look around: all the holiday décor suddenly seems to make sense, you know, on an emotional level. Somehow, even though my eyes were wide open the whole time, I had forgotten that tomorrow is Christmas. This is all real, and I guess even though my peepers may have been receptive to it, my heart was not.

I try and shake the uncomfortable sensation with a snarky comment. "Look at all these decorations – the entire thing smacks of 'false gaiety.' It's all profit-motivated anyway."

"Come on, even you don’t believe that, Dawn." There's the force of truthfulness behind what he says, and of course, he's right.

With a laugh and a head toss to the sparkling ornaments above, he easily rebuffs my coal-black convolution with a simple argument of his own. "Admit it, Dawn. Feeling the Christmas spirit is about letting yourself be a kid again – free, innocent, just enjoying Xmas for what it is, and for how fleeting it can be."

Jackson's words make me realize that I could be a better companion to him – that, and the fact that I'm not free of guilt.

While the clerk's Merry Christmas continues to echo through my head, I confess to the boy next to me with strains of honesty, "It's just hard to feel ok about this one, you know?"

Jackson stops dead in his tracks, making his camera swing wildly; my sneakers squeak a bit as I circle back to him.

"Dawn, he's gonna pull through. I just…I just feel it."

Fuck. Does this boy really want me to break down in the middle of a department store?

˚˚˚˚˚

The chosen restaurant must be really popular in warm weather, for the entire front is made of wood and glass sections on a track. Click, clack, roll – the whole space is open to the plaza, and I imagine tables and chairs spill out amongst the shoppers with magical ease.

Now, at 2 PM, on an overcast Christmas Eve, the place is buttoned up and nearly empty. The rain may have held off, but all those last-minute shoppers probably decided to head for the indoor malls, just in case. Jackson and I sit towards the front to get as much natural light as the glowering sky will lend us. We talk; we've placed our orders, and have our ice teas to fiddle with when the conversation gets too awkward to maintain eye contact anymore.

"So," he says, stirring in some sugar. "How's that shopping list shaping up?"

I motion as if I'm gonna dig out my iPad, but then think, 'Ah, the heck with it.' I tell him flatly, "The only thing left is a gift to Mrs. Shaw from me."

"Well, I know just the place to take you then."

I grab onto my pint-sized tumbler and try not to smile. "Care to share where and what that place could be?"

He protracts the silence by taking a leisurely sip of tea, eyeing me from over the rim of his glass. He shrugs.

"I'll take that as a 'no' then."

With glossy lips, he gulps and says quickly, "Relax a little, Dawn. Trust me that you'll like it, wherever it is I want to take you."

The teenage sophisticant actually shoots up his eyebrows at me – twice! I'm surprised the dork didn't attempt a wink to boot. Boys… "How 'bout your list, Mr. Mysterious?"

"I've got one or two more items to secret into my bag."

"Secret? You make it sound like either shoplifting is on your mind, or – "

He cuts me off, which I like. "OR – it's just something a certain pair of teenage-girl eyes should not see."

"Oh."

"Hey, Dawn?"

"Yes – I'm right here, you know." I laugh nervously.

"Yeah," he squeezes the word through a tight-lipped leer. "Tell me something about you."

"Like what?"

"Like, the basics. I mean, your family, school, anything you wanna share."

"Nothing much to say. My parents are good people, my sister Maddy is twenty and at college studying economics. As for school, I'll have to attend the summer program to advance with my classmates, but that's six months from now, and by then…" I peter out to nothing.

"By then – Jack will be right next to you in summer school."

"Ah, yeah." That deserves a smile, and I hope he sees it's a warm one. "Ok. Your turn. Tell me about you and Linc as kids."

Jackson's happy expression fades. He blinks once and spears his poor lemon slice mercilessly at the bottom of his glass with his straw. I gently touch his other hand, which is on the top of the table, and which had suddenly clenched into a ball. He blinks, glances at my fingers, and then relaxes again.

As I pull my grasp away, he inhales and starts. "The key to unlocking Linc is knowing that he's what you might call a geeky jock. Smart as a whip, but he only lets that side come out when he's sure the people around him won't hold his intelligence against him as a 'weakness.' Unfortunately, there are a lot of people self-conscious about their own lack of brains who want to hammer down everyone else to their same dumb-ass level through sheer resentment. In other words, he's a man's man when it comes to being in company he does not know very well; but honest and kind and sweet when he's in an accepting group. With most people, his jock side reigns because it's safer for him that way."

I'm a bit sad and confused. "Sounds like he's conflicted – everyone should be able to be themselves one-hundred percent of the time."

"You have to understand the way we grew up. Lincoln, as I guess the first born, got special treatment from Pops. By treatment, I mean harsh criticism. Nothing Linc did was good enough. The best grades in school didn't matter; being a star athlete didn't matter. He actually put Lincoln's straight-A report card on the refrigerator once with a memo stuck on it in big, angry red letters: 'This is what I expect from you every single time.'"

"And you?" I ask, thinking I might have been too hasty to withdraw my touch.

"With me, I got the same pressure, but when I didn’t live up to 'the best,' both of my parents would cast sad looks between themselves and say, 'As long as you did the best that you can do, then it's ok, son.'"

"Oh, fuck…"

"Really, Dawn, it's ok. Lincoln was the one who suffered, not me. I didn’t want him to run away a couple of years ago – mainly because I'm selfish – but I knew he had to do it."

I suddenly experience a full-blown, Technicolor set of flashbacks: how miserable Lincoln looked in my father's car that day I drove us to Eastgate Mall; the radiance in his smile when he first saw that snow globe for Jack; the tears that fell freely when I asked him about why he ran away.

"Um, Jackson – here's a little friendly advice. Since you two are reunited right now, I think you should find the time to talk to Lincoln about him running away. I think he feels bad for having left you behind with your parents."

"Oh, ok. Thanks, Dawn. You're right; I'll talk to him, but as for my folks, I've got something on them." His brows rise up again, this time cryptically.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about why they're letting me crash with Lincoln here in Palo Alto."

"What's that?"

He leans across the table a bit, lowering his voice and head too. "I know Pops keeps a separate account, and that my mom knows nothing about it – "

The jolly-looking waitress is suddenly there with two big plates of food. "Here we go! The Salade Niçoise..?" I motion, and a plate savory with the smell of garlic and black olives lands in front of me. "…And the Angus Burger with Fries." She sets it in front of a grinning Jackson; I can almost see the saliva gathering and waiting to drool out of the corners of his mouth.

The waitress' hands come together in a gentle clasp right where her black apron strings are tied in front. "Can I get you anything else?"

"Mustard, please," Jackson drones, with ninety-nine percent of his attention on his plate.

The server glances down at me. I shake my head, and she departs.

"Mustard..?" I try on my snarkiest tone. "What in the hell for?"

He blinks over at me in surprise. "For the French fries, of course."

I draw out the 'ah' sound of: "Whaaat..?"

"Ok. I'll admit it's weird – but you have to get used to it. I love my fries with mustard, not tomato poop cat syrup. Yuk!"

I laugh openly at the cuteness of the expression he makes; it is one of commingled delight and disgust.

The waitress sets a bright yellow bottle of French's Mustard down and slips away again. Jackson grabs it and pops the top. Soon a gurgling gloop glops out – lol – and turns one section of the rim of his plate turmeric yellow. Point of fact, he's also never looked happier.

He makes a display of picking up his first fry, sluicing the end of it thoroughly before holding my eye while he eats it with exaggerated pleasure. I guess I should follow suit and make like I'm revolted, but all I can see is how adorable this stupid boy is.

I hoist my fork and stir up my salad. With the first bite, I can feel myself relaxing. Not the small-scale calming down after a rough day relaxing, but the feeling that I can trust my tender instincts towards Jackson. I've thought before about that 'Oliver boy charm,' but here and now – his sincere lapidary eyes above his golden grin – I find it's no wonder that Jack loves Lincoln as deeply as he does. They are beautiful boys, these Oliver brothers, and maybe it's because of all the crap they've been put through.

After a bite of his burger, and a dab at his face with a napkin, he asks, "Do you like me, Dawn?"

I fork an olive and bring it hoveringly near my lips. "Define like."

"Oh, whatever."

"Oh! Come on," I prod him, chewing my olive. "Show some fighting pluck. Show some holiday spirit."

"All right. Here's fight for you. Dawn, I like you, a lot. Happy?"

I resist my smart-ass notion to say 'Define happy,' and instead offer up a new shade of sneer for him to admire. "Dude, happy is not the question to try and dump on me. I'm not the sappy, softhearted type. Truth is, you're the one who started this whole – "

"Ok, Dawn. Like I said: What. Ever."

"Ha-ha. Eat your mustard, like a good little boy."

He dips a new French fry victim to the halfway point and wags it in my general direction. "Speaking of little boys, Lincoln has told me a bit of what Jack was like as a youngster. But I wonder what Jack would have to relay about you as a little girl."

"Go ahead and ask him," I say as frigidly as I can. "I haven’t changed at all."

˚˚˚˚˚

My shoes lightly tread the buff-colored marble beneath me; my eyes drift up to the central skylight. This lobby space is golden-beige, with a massive wooden table at its center, and dark green foliage all around the perimeter. These are big plants – a virtual forest of tropical flora – and it's those same palm fronds that wind up slicing the light overhead into green spikes. I feel like I'm in a trance as my feet keep me moving along, but my eyes stay tilted up to the nearly-magical source of light. The heavy shopping bags in my hand seem no burden at all.

So, this is Ralph Lauren; this is the store that Jackson said I had to see. I can tell why, this place is unlike any store I've ever been in. More like a tropical retreat than a retail establishment of any kind.

I halt my progress. This intermediary space functions exactly like a lobby. Besides the table in the middle with a monumental vase of flowers, there are two separate seating areas of sofas and lounge chairs, all swaddled in buttery-rich natural leather. Grand double doors of metal and glass punctuate the narrow ends of the room, while openings shielded by lintels that look like stone open up the long walls. The space to my left, the one I just left Jackson behind in, is the ladies' section. To my right, the area I had been headed to before the space itself delayed my progress, is the men's section.

I have been dismissed from Jackson's company for a while and told to check out the rest of the store because the teen boy needed his 'privacy.'

I laugh a little at the sound of that word in my head, because privacy does seem like a luxury in my life right now.

Picking up my pace again, I effortlessly slide beneath the stony bulkhead into the men's section. The clothes are artfully arranged on top of antique cabinets, chests, trunks and tables. Sweaters and neatly folded polo shirts are lined up like slices of soft-hued holiday ham, all ready for the selecting of the choicest morsel. In other places, racks with brass finials hold items on hangers, like slacks and long sleeve jerseys. My feet carry me around some ficus and deposit me before a table roiling with silk neck scarves. I use that roil word because each one is artistically looped once, tied close to the center, and displayed on the table with its tails hidden under the one in front of it. The effect is like looking at a table covered in peony heads, only each 'flower' is a different set of colors. It's beautiful. I rest my packages on the floor, and my hand goes out to hover over the top so I can stroke them without making contact. Touch might actually break the enchantment.

Without warning, I want to see him. I glance over, and maneuver myself slightly around some greenery to watch Jackson at the checkout counter. He is all boyish smiles, obviously delighting in the purest way possible how his gift selection will bring joy to the receiver. Unselfish, that's the word. At long last I've figured it out; the Oliver boys are unselfish. Somehow, through the very egocentric way his parents raised him, Jackson became giving and kind. How like Lincoln is this brother of his – the thought of it almost gives me goose bumps.

Without really having to try, I'm back in my dad's car in Ohio, driving Lincoln and me to Eastgate Mall. He holds up his phone and shows me a pic of a grinning thirteen-year-old, a boy with ashen hair like Linc's, the wide-open smile of complete trust, and sparkling violet eyes like his older brother. Now, that boy has grown, but how rare to see honesty continuing to shine from behind an older teen's toothy grin, or peek out from the windows of a soul that has yet to be barred from hurt and mistrust.

A shiver runs down my spine; I let it. The fact is, I do feel happy. It's like the light filtering down on us is also connecting us. Is this his 'Christmas spirit' gripping my heart..? Is it a feeling of gratitude that Fate allowing me to meet Jackson, just like She did with Lincoln and Jack? I don’t know, and even better, I don’t care.

Those Oliver boys, Jackson may not be the kid he was in that snapshot anymore, and his confidence level tells me he is growing into a fine version of Lincoln; I admire the nerve it takes to wield his information against his a-hole father to stay with Linc right now for Jack's sake. That handsome boy is all right – he's almost a man.

Shit. He's seen me. A goofy little wave comes from him, and I have to nod and pretend I'm still browsing.

'Wait a minute,' I think, snapping myself out of it. 'Am I done shopping? Better check.'

I swing my backpack around so I can pull out my tablet.

Shit. An icon is flashing on my screen – it's a Google News alert. Just as I tap it, Jackson strides up all 'piss and vinegar to impress the ladies,' as my mom would say.

"Hey," he sings out jocularly.

"…Something about Jack," I mumble.

His face loses all attempt at a 'manly' display, and he comes around to my side to see the screen.

"Let's go sit," he says. "In the lobby."

He picks up my bags for me, and before I know it, a gentle touch is at my elbow leading the way.

We take a seat side by side. I open the alert; it's a link to a vid. That takes us to CNN, and at each step, my apprehension grows.

The clip starts, and the big red watermark of the 'news' network comes up in the lower right hand corner. It's a press conference happening on the steps of the Hamilton County, Ohio, sheriff's office. McClusky, the sheriff dude with the tragic Dudley Do-Right headgear, is coming up to the podium; Hamish in a suit and tie and Christie in a business dress and jacket are at his right elbow.

Camera flashes settle as he raises his hand for 'silence.'

"Some serious allegations concerning Jack Shaw, The Leukemia Kid, have arisen. His brother and sister are here to speak on their own behalf, and on behalf of their poor, victimized brother."

The sheriff's lips purse as he begins to step away from the podium. It's a wordless signal that what we're about to hear will be upsetting.

Hamish goes first, after Christie gives him some half-lowered, soapy eyes.

"Good afternoon. I'm here to talk about a bad influence in my young brother's life. Circumstances that my sister only recently revealed to me make this unpleasant task necessary."

He glances to her, and she nods 'go on.' Fake angst contorts her features.

Cool as a cucumber, Hamish re-finds his camera mark and delivers his power-punch line: "An eighteen-year-old man has been sexually inappropriate with our young brother."

Christie releases the floodgate on her crocodile tears. She instantly pulls out a hankie strategically hidden up the cuff of her jacket. Hamish pats her shoulders while the sound of camera clicks grows to white noise level.

Christie pretends to be better and steps up to the mic. After a stagnating silence settles in, she speaks. "I call upon the Hamilton County sheriff's office to investigate and raise a grand jury to investigate, if warranted. I will testify to having witnessed the crime happen…first…hand…"

She fakes being so upset that she can't go on. Then, as she turns and is embraced by Hamish, a sharky chorus of "Who?! Who?! Who?!" is accompanied by camera shutters that deafen all other sounds.

I close the browser with a vicious tap.

Fuck. Just when I let myself be at peace for a moment… Jackson interrupts my soundless thoughts with actual words.

"I can't believe that Lincoln is being treated like a criminal for having a boyfriend. This is total bullshit."

"Dangerous bullshit, even you know that."

He puts his arm around me. "I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding."

Was there actually amusement in his voice..? A nascent, but ironical sneer on his lips..?

"Come on," I say, snapping to my feet. "We've got to get back to the hospital." I feel shock, horror, disgust. No – I feel anger.

Jackson rises too. "Why do we have to go back right away?"

A serves-you-right shame overtakes me. How dare I 'have fun' when Jack is fighting for his life. How dare I!

As collectedly as I can, I explain to Jackson, "We have to go now and be the first ones to show this to Mrs. Shaw. I dread having to do it, but I hope at least Jack won't have to see his boyfriend accused of being a child molester. Lord knows he's been through enough." Fucking media.

Jackson's reassuring touch on my shoulder brings me out of myself a little. "Dawn, we'll tell her, and show her the vid together. You don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to go through any of this alone."

I realize something that gives me strength. "Yes, Jackson, we're not alone, and more importantly, Lincoln is a strong person."

He gives me a grin with true commiseration in it. "Damn right he is. Very strong."