Page 133 of Trapped: Until The Darkest Of Night

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.

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