Dismantling Evan

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  Cover by SK Whiteside

  Edited by Carmilla Voiez

  Formatting by Inkstain Interior Book Designing

  Text Copyright © 2014 Venessa Kimball

  All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly Publishing, LLC.

  Dedicated to all of the Evans in the world.

  Piercing the Fold

  Surfacing the Rim

  Ascending the Veil

  Transcending the Legacy

  I PEER OUT THE SMALL, shattered multi-faceted glass window. The fractured sun shines through, striking the origami swan he left for me. It isn’t enough sunlight to warm my chilled bones. The space around me is simple; wooden bench, wooden table top, two cabinets, a light switch. The countertop is wiped clean of all things except one singular item; evidence of Gavin’s life, Brody’s, my parents, my friends....my life. His loose-paper, neatly typed journal entries and photo paper lives are captured and stacked in a grey folder I hold tightly against my chest.

  The wind blows outside the work shed, slipping through the porous cracks and crevices of the wooden slats. I want to hush it, make everything around me still, so I can think, but it doesn’t matter if the sound exists really because there is no one to disturb; other than me. This shed, even though it is mostly new, has witnessed so much. At least it was saved from seeing what happened to us outside its walls weeks ago.

  I relax my grip on the folder, place it on the countertop and sit on a stool in front of it. My fingers play across the hand-written quote - “Not all who wander are lost.”[1] Tolkien’s words.

  I smile thinking of how fitting it was that Gavin had chosen those words in particular. Everything it held... his family, flawed and breaking apart, his friends, his favorite quotes, his torturers, and the illness that tortured him even more... this journal held it all and the quote suits it. The journal is a testament to his battle - fighting to understand everyone around him, everything around him, and most of all fighting to understand himself.

  It so happens I was fighting at the same time; he fought differently, but I couldn’t prevent getting wrapped up in the breakdown of it all; the dismantlement.

  The sound of the gun, the yelling and screaming, the sirens, the deputy’s walkie-talkie static prominent in my ears even now. The flashing lights and all the cries...they haunt me still; an echo below the surface of true solid sound. An echo of life as I knew it a few short weeks ago.

  A SIGN, “BRAXTON SPRINGS 10 miles”, whizzes by my window in a partial haze. In the three days we have been driving, I have seen towering mountains and grand canyons, narrow buildings and open prairie, big cities and inner cities. Apparently, we are in hill country now. That is what Texans call the rolling hills and heavy trees blanketing much of everything except the road on which we drive. Braxton Springs is a small town outside of the Austin city limits.

  My name is Evangeline, but everyone calls me Evan. Evangeline seems too fancy for me and I am far from fancy. Dad chose the name. I look up at the back of his dark brown hair. He named me after a dead poet’s musings; Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The poem’s title was Evangeline. He has told me the meat and bones of the poem’s contents, but he kind of made it sound boring, even though he said Evangeline was a very strong woman. More of a reason I don’t think I can hold a candle to the strength of my name sake, you know...being me and all. I have never read the poem myself and don’t really intend to at the present. I’m sure she was flawless, unlike me.

  MY FATHER HAD WORKED AS a database administrator for a large tech company in San Francisco, while Mom worked from home with her interior decorating side jobs, which became fewer and further between.

  I LOOK AT THE BACK of Mom and the sloppy bun of reddish brown hair tossed onto the top of her head. Her calendar is open on her lap and she is writing something down.

  ALMOST TWO AND A HALF months ago now, Dad came home with news he had been offered a position at a firm near Austin, Texas. It was somewhat unexpected and I didn’t really have time to think between Mom questioning him and Dad’s discussing what the firm was offering. He and Mom had tried to be tactful when breaking the news to me. I think they were expecting me to put up a fight. Tell them I was going to miss life, my school, my friends in San Francisco. Well, I would miss the beauty of the city, but you can’t miss friends if you don’t have any. And, you can’t miss a life if you don’t have one either.

  MOM AND DAD TALKED ABOUT the pay cut he would be taking. This made me nervous. I stepped out of the shadows of the hallway and into their` bedroom doorway, “Why are you getting paid less? Are you being demoted or something?”

  I didn’t mean for it to sound harsh, but I know it did. Dad looked at Mom before answering. “No, it isn’t a demotion Evan. They just pay less there since the cost of living is significantly less in Texas.”

  Mom chimed in. “We will be fine Evan. Braxton Springs is my hometown and once we are settled, I plan to reconnect with my old network of friends and drum up some clientèle. Plus, we will be close to Grandma and Grandpa. It really will be a good change for us.”

  MOM’S VOICE RISES HIGH ABOVE the car radio. “I need to contact Evan’s new doctor. Dr. Middleton says she specializes in this type of disorder and the therapy sessions would be in the evenings or on Saturdays so she won’t miss school. The records should be at her office by now.”

  The disorder my mother refuses to speak of directly is the possibility that I have the early signs of Bipolar II; mental shit. That is what Dr. Middleton classified me with... not the mental shit, but the bipolar shit. I don’t think I have what Dr. Middleton is serving up as an illness. I think I’m just a normal moody, irritable, and sometimes irrational teen. Oh, but what do I know compared to Dr. Middleton who has been my pediatrician since birth and who has numerous degrees saying he knows what is occurring inside of me... without a doubt. Before I can make a snide remark about her avoiding the sacrilegious term from the backseat, Dad looks back over his shoulder and says in his twangiest accent, “Welcome to Braxton Springs, Texas ya’ll.”

  Oh God, did he just say ya’ll?

  Mom breaks out in laughter and I feel the twinge of a smile curl around my lips. I try to keep the smile from pulling wider, but Dad’s goofiness and Mom’s contagious laugh combines get the best of me. Dad glances back at me. “What? Just trying to fit in darlin’.”

  Darlin’? Ugh!

  I twist the lid off my soda and take a long sip as I stare back out the window.

  Mom chides me playfully. “Oh Evan, this is a new beginning for us. I have a good feeling about Braxton Springs.”

  Dad starts in, “It won’t be like San Francisco and that should be a good thing, right?”

  I look back at him and see hope in his eyes, something I haven’t seen in a while. I am a little jealous I don’t share it with him.

  Mom angles around. “Dad’s right Evan. I have always wanted you to see your grandparents more than you have and this is a perfect chance.”

  She looks at Dad as she asks him, “What has it been? Like five years since we have seen my parents?”

  Dad’s parents passed away years ago
, so my only living grandparents were my mom’s and we have not seen them in a really long time.

  Concentrating on the road, Dad nods. “Yeah, about five years I guess.”

  Dad met Mom in college, St. Edward’s University. Dad grew up in Dallas, Texas and Mom here in Braxton Springs.

  Smiling, Mom glances back at me and says, “This is going to be a blessing for us.”

  I’m able to see beyond the smile though. It is one of those timid, unsure smiles that masks a level of disbelief in what she is saying.

  “Blessing?” I ask.

  Mom’s eyes meet mine with a mixture of tenderness and worry, “Yes Evan, a blessing. A chance to start fresh, make friends, do things differently.”

  Her eyes never lie and there is definitely something she is not telling me, something she truly believes. I wonder if she has doubts for the same reason as me. Not feeling fully satisfied all will be hunky-dory and a happy new beginning.

  Mom gives me a sad smile, notices the soda in my hand, then asks, “Have you had any water today?”

  Without waiting for my reply, she turns back around to the front seat, pulls a bottle of water out from the small cooler under her feet, and hands it to me over her shoulder. She lowers her voice before speaking, like she is getting ready to tell me a secret. “Dr. Middleton said the medication can make you thirsty. Soda pop won’t hydrate you.”

  Sharply I shoot back, “Yes, I have.”

  Well, mostly. Dr. Middleton, my mom, and dad felt it was important for me to take some ownership over my health. I am in charge of taking my Zoloft in the morning and .5 mg of Xanax as needed, which has translated to once in the morning and once at night per Mom’s demanding suggestion.

  The Zoloft is supposed to be the magic pill that will help with my so-called symptoms of bipolar; the mood swings, the irritability. The Xanax is for sleep and anxiety. The side effects suck, especially with the Zoloft - dry mouth, nausea, headaches, dizziness. They seemed to get better, but the so-called symptoms didn’t. Hence the reason I have not been taking either medication as I should.

  Ignoring my bitter tone Mom continues to berate me. “You have to think of your health and condition Evan. It is not something to treat lightly.”

  Again with the ‘condition’ word!

  “I do! You remind me hourly to think of my BIPOLAR condition, Mom!” I make sure to emphasize each syllable of the potential diagnosis.

  Dad’s voice swells over our bickering. “Hey, hey now! Just calm down, both of you! Evan, we just don’t want you having another spell or this disorder getting worse.”

  For two and a half months her and Dad have called it a condition, a disorder, a spell depending on what kind of company we were around and what word of choice they felt like exhausting. The word ‘spell’ was pretty humorous actually. Calling my seemingly mental breakdowns spells, like something I have conjured like a witch or something. It gives me this image of chanting and calling on this mental event.

  Instead of biting off her head, which I would totally be up for if I wasn’t in an enclosed space, I settle with, “I didn’t sleep last night.” Or the night before. My terminal insomnia started my junior year, last year, and has not changed much since. Like I said, the Xanax helps a little, but not much.

  “Didn’t Dr. Middleton say the medicine would help with that?” Dad asks.

  Mom shakes her head at Dad then stares out the window as she speaks, “Your body just needs time to regulate with the anti-depressant.”

  I swear hearing her use the word ‘anti-depressant’ sounds forcibly torturous.

  “It has only been a couple of months, Evan, and it takes up to 6 weeks to regulate in your system. We can see if your new doctor can recommend something else for sleep.”

  Great! More medication.

  The road narrows as our car turns onto a two lane street. The canopy of trees overhead thickens quickly, framing our car as we pass houses on either side.

  “You are going to love the house Evan. It is only two miles from your new school, my old school. Oh my God, it looks so different! Honey slow down, there it is! Evan, it’s your new school baby!” Mom says, excitedly.

  The main building towers over two smaller buildings on either side. Much bigger than my school back home in San Francisco, which encompassed one main building and two rows of portables. At least back home I knew everyone. Well, knew of everyone. I knew why Samantha Johnson was the most popular girl because I had grown up with her, watched her slowly take her spot as one of my high school’s beauty queens. I watched Gilbert Jeffreys transform from the boy who played every sport in elementary and middle school to the most popular and untouchable jock in our high school.

  I had changed too, just not in the direction of being a high school beauty queen. In the scheme of the high school social realm, I was among those in purgatory, my freshman, sophomore, and part of my junior year. The cluster of people I hung with were not friends really. The thing was I hadn’t chosen where I wanted to be because I was indifferent to the fact of having to make a choice. And, being indifferent about something as important as your social existence in high school leaves you in purgatory; a cluster of loners, stoners, and outcasts milling around without much direction.

  Yeah I know, no high school is protected from the superficial social caste system; putting everyone in to a neat little category for which they will function. I hold out some hope though. Guess it is my mom rubbing off on me.

  Dad slows to a snail’s crawl giving me the full monty of my new school. About a dozen cars are parked in the parking lot; pickup trucks, a few mini-vans, nothing fancy which kind of gives me some relief. My old school’s parking lot was filled with Mom’s and Dad’s late model Lexus and BMWs.

  A woman is walking from her car with a briefcase and a crate in her arms. She must be a teacher. A small wave of anxiety rolls through me as I think of going back to school.

  Here in Braxton Springs, it is a whole new playing field. I don’t know the untouchables, the beauty queens, the jocks, the rich kids, the poor kids, the techies, the loners and they don’t know me or the fact that I dwelled in social purgatory for the past three years.

  “This is not a school. It is a campus!” Dad comments.

  “It is so different. Bigger than what I remember,” Mom adds.

  The football stadium is hard to miss as we creep along. It dwarfs what my old school called a stadium, which in hindsight would have been a practice field at best.

  The football players are running drills on the field with sun-glassed, clip-board wielding coaches standing on the sidelines. I’m sure there is a Gilbert Jeffreys out on the field; untouchable.

  The writing is already on the wall Evan. You are entering your senior year at a new school where the social cards are stacked against you, the categorical loner. People have already made life-long friends and you will not fit in here.

  As if she has caught me in the midst of my inner voice of self-loathing, Mom says, “Clean slate Evan. You can start over here at Braxton Springs High School.”

  As Dad continues down the main boulevard, Mom comments on the school’s mascot; the Braxton Bears. I look out my window and silently damn the fact Mom is totally right about having a clean slate here. No one knows me here. No one knows I was essentially at the bottom of the caste system back home. No one knows I had a psychotic breakdown less than three months ago and left my school labeled a mental case and freak. It isn’t like my social aptitude, or lack thereof, transferred with my academic transcript, right? I could reinvent myself if I wanted to.

  After a few turns down side streets, our car slows and Dad announces, “There it is. Welcome home Evan.”

  I move into the middle seat to get a better look, but all I can focus on is the lanky boy wearing a army baseball cap blocking our driveway.

  “Is he going to move?” Dad asks.

  He moves his hand toward the horn, but Mom stops him. “Don’t honk Aaron! You will startle him!”

  Dad inches th
e car up closer to the drive. “Maybe if I move up he will see me.”

  Dad stops a few feet from the boy and rolls down his window to try and speak to him, but Mom warns him, “Be nice Aaron.”

  “Lucy, I’m not going to bite the poor kid’s head off,” Dad says as he leans his head out the window. “Excuse me?”

  Even with my dad talking, he is oblivious to our car idling mere inches from him.

  “What is he saying?” whispers Mom.

  I watch his lips move, the expressions on his face change to mirror the emotion of what he is inaudibly saying. The book in his hands; could he be reciting something? Maybe he is rehearsing for a school play.

  Dad puts the car in park and takes his seatbelt off, but before he can get out of the car, the kid stretches his hand out toward some invisible object in front of him and starts to walk further down the sidewalk.

  “Okay, that was weird,” Dad says under his breath as he slowly pulls into our driveway.

  I look back through the rear window, watching the boy continue to act out some kind of scene as he walks away.

  As Dad and Mom get out, I take hold of my satchel and join them. Compared to our small garden home back in San Francisco, this house is enormous. It has two stories.

  Mom’s voice is animated as the three of us stand side by side. “So, what do you think? Do you like it?”

  I look over at her to find her ogling me, eagerly awaiting my approval. She adds, “We are renting it for now, but the owner said if we like it we can option to buy it! Isn’t that great?”

  I glance at Dad. He’s waiting for my approval as well.

  I try to cover my dispirited “Yeah,” with a fake grin, and pretend to look around the yard at the trees, the next door neighbors’ lawn, the street, and the houses around us. They both had shopped houses online rather than making a trip out here. They didn’t say, but I knew it was because they didn’t want to leave me alone in my ‘sensitive mental state’.