Page 106 of Villains Series
TWENTY YEARS AGO
THE FIFTH HOME
ELI ran his fingers over the cover of the book.
It was massive, and heavy, and every single page detailed the marvels and miracles of the human body.
“I thought we should get you tickets to a game,”
said Patrick.
“but Lisa insisted—”
“It’s perfect,” said Eli.
“See?”
said Lisa, shouldering Patrick.
“He wants to be a doctor. You’ve got to start young.”
“From ministry to medicine,”
mused Patrick.
“John must be rolling in his grave.”
Eli laughed, an easy sound, practiced to perfection. The truth was, he didn’t see the two avenues as separate. Eli had seen God the day he arrived, in the drawings on his wall; saw Him again now in the pages of this book, in the perfect fit of bones, the vast intricacies of the nervous system, the brain—the spark, like faith, that turned a body into a man.
Patrick shook his head.
“What fifteen-year-old boy would rather have a book—”
“Would you rather I asked for a car?”
asked Eli, flashing a crooked smile.
Patrick clapped him on the shoulder. These days, Eli didn’t flinch.
His attention fell back to the anatomy textbook. Perhaps his interest wasn’t strictly normal, but he could afford this small divergence.
At fifteen, the personality he’d crafted was nearly perfect. The day after he arrived, Patrick and Lisa had enrolled him in school, and Eli had realized the hard way that a six-month crash course in normalcy was a pale foundation of what he’d need to survive. But it was a big school, and Eli was a quick study, and soon charming, focused, clever had not only been cemented, they’d been joined by handsome, friendly, athletic. He ran track and field. He aced his classes. He had a winning smile and an easy laugh, and nobody knew about the scars on his back or the shadows in his past. Nobody knew that it was all an act, that none of it came naturally.
* * *
LISA’S laughter rang through the house like bells.
Eli could hear it over the classical music in his earbuds as he did his chemistry homework. A few moments later, Patrick knocked on the doorframe, and Eli hit Pause.
“You guys off?”
“Yeah,”
said Patrick.
“Show starts at seven, so we shouldn’t be back late. Don’t work too hard.”
“Says the professor to the student.”
“Hey, studies show that variation is good for retention.”
“Come on!”
called Lisa.
“I put money on the counter,”
said Patrick.
“At least order a pizza. Steal a beer from the fridge.”
“Will do,”
said Eli absently, already hitting Play.
Patrick said something else, but Eli didn’t catch the words over the concerto. At nine, he finished his homework and ate leftovers at the kitchen counter. At ten, he went for a jog. At eleven, he went to bed.
And fifteen minutes later, his cell phone rang, a number he didn’t recognize, a voice he didn’t know.
“Is this Eliot Cardale?”
said a man.
A stillness formed in Eli’s chest. Not the kind he’d felt when he pushed his father down the stairs. No, this was colder, heavier. The weight of finding his mother floating in the tub. The exhaustion as he sank like a stone to the chapel floor.
“I’m afraid,”
continued the man.
“there’s been an accident.”
* * *
ELI wondered if this was shock. He sat on a flimsy plastic chair, a social worker at his side, the doctor straight ahead, an officer looming like a shadow. The cops had come to the house. Driven him to the hospital, even though there was nothing to see, or do. Dead on arrival. On impact, according to the doctor.
“I’m sorry, son,”
said the cop.
God never gives us more than we can bear.
Eli laced his fingers, bowed his head.
It’s up to us to find the purpose in the pain.
“The driver didn’t survive,”
continued the cop.
“Toxicology’s still out but we think he was drunk.”
“How did they die?”
Eli realized, too late, that he’d asked the wrong question. A shadow crossed the doctor’s face.
“I’m sorry,”
he said quickly.
“I didn’t—it’s just—I’m going to be a surgeon, one day. I want to save lives. I just—I need to understand.”
He balled his hands into fists.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll lie awake, wondering. I think I would rather know.”
The doctor sighed.
“Patrick suffered a cervical fracture of C2 and C3,”
he said, touching the bones at the top of his own neck.
“Lisa sustained a massive concussion, which resulted in an intracranial hemorrhage. In both cases, it would have been nearly instantaneous.”
Eli was glad they hadn’t suffered.
“All right,”
he said.
“Thank you.”
“They didn’t name a guardian,”
said the social worker.
“Do you know if there’s someone you can stay with? Until we get things sorted out?”
“Yes,”
he lied, digging out his phone.
“I’ll call a friend.”
Eli rose and walked a little ways down the hall, but didn’t bother dialing. There was no phone tree this time. And no point in pretending. Eli was popular, well liked, but he had always been careful to keep a measure of distance. Too close, and someone might see the seams in his facade, the subtle but constant effort of pretending. Better to be friendly, without being friends.
Eli returned to the social worker and the cop. The doctor had left.
“I need to get some things from my place,”
he said.
“Could you drop me off there?”
He let himself into the house, listened to the sound of the patrol car pulling away before he closed the door. He stood for several long seconds in the darkened hall.
And then turned and slammed his fist into the wall.
Pain flashed through Eli’s hand, up his arm, and he hit the wall again and again until his knuckles split open, and blood dripped down his wrist, and he could breathe.
His legs folded under him, and Eli sank to the floor.
After everything, he was alone again.
God never gives us more than we can bear.
Eli told himself there was a plan, even if he couldn’t see it. There was a purpose to the pain. He stared down at his bloody hand.
Stupid, he thought.
It would be hard to hide from the inevitable social workers, the school, the hundred eyes bound to latch on to every misstep, every crack in his persona.
Eli got up and went to the bathroom, rinsed the split knuckles under the sink and bandaged his hand with calm precision and steady fingers. He met his gaze in the mirror and forced the lines of his face back into their proper order.
And then Eli went to his room and began to pack.
NINETEEN YEARS AGO THE SIXTH AND FINAL HOME
“Here we go.”
Eli stood in the doorway, holding a box of books. The room was simple, empty save for a window, a narrow bed, and a desk.
“Bit sparse, I know,”
said the landlord, who insisted he call her Maggie.
“But the windows are double glazed and the shower down the hall is hot.”
She gave him a measuring look.
“Awfully young to be living on your own, aren’t you?”
“I’m emancipated,”
explained Eli.
It had been the easiest route. He was nearly sixteen. Not many people wanted to take in a teenage boy, and Eli had no interest in becoming a ward of the state. His parents were dead. Patrick and Lisa were dead. The former had left him only scars, but the latter had left him some money—not much, but enough to cover living expenses so he could focus on finishing high school. Get into a good college.
“Thanks, Maggie,”
he said, crossing the threshold.
“All right, Eliot. You let me know if you need anything.”
The wood floor creaked under her feet as she ambled off, creaked under his as he set the box on the desk and unpacked, arranging his schoolbooks in a neat stack.
“We are so sorry, Eliot,”
the principal had said.
“We have counselors,”
added the dean of students.
“Let us know how we can help,”
echoed his teachers.
“Please,”
Eli had begged them each in turn.
“don’t tell anyone.”
Normal was such a fragile thing, so easily upset by even good intentions.
And so, under the guise of him wanting to grieve in peace, they kept his secret.
Eli unpacked the last two books—the battered Bible and the anatomy text. He set King James aside and sank into the chair, drawing the textbook closer.
It’s up to us, he thought, to find the purpose in the pain …
Eli opened the heavy tome and paged through until he found the drawings of the head, and neck, the tracery of the brain, the delicate column of the spine.
Find the purpose.
He began to take notes.