Read Online Twisted by Andrew E. Kaufman - Free Book Online Page A

could soon surface. But for my son’s sake, I try to conceal both the pain and worry.
    “Daddy got a bad cut!” Devon proclaims, pointing to my forehead.
    Jenna rushes in. As soon as she sees me, her expression bounces from relief to serious worry.
    “Chris, sit down right now,” she says. “You’re bleeding.”
    I gingerly touch my head and feel dampness, now with added heat and a marked increase in swelling.
    Jenna sits me in a chair, then heads for the sink. She runs a towel under the faucet, brings it back, and begins applying first aid.
    “You look awful,” she says, blotting the blood off my forehead.
    “Just a small cut. It actually looks worse than it feels.”
    She pulls back to frown at me. She’s not buying it.
    Devon now sits across from me at the table, leaning forward and watching. “Does it hurt, Daddy?”
    “Not too bad,” I say, then throw in a wink to go with my little white lie.
    “I don’t like the way this looks at all,” Jenna says. “I think we should take you to the emergency room.”
    “It’s not necessary. I’ll be fine.”
    “What if it’s something serious?”
    “Sweetie, believe me, I’d know if it was. I’ll have Adam check me over tomorrow.”
    She gives me another look, then goes back to work and shakes her head. “I think you need some treatment.”
    I’m with the wife on that one. Seeing and hearing things that don’t exist isn’t exactly small potatoes.
    “Stuff it!”
    Jenna pulls back to look at me again, only this time it’s not worry I see but, rather, injured surprise. Add me to the startled list because I’ve got no idea how my thought transformed into spoken words. It’s like my brain sprouted speakers.
    I go for the save. “I said I’ll tough it. ”
    Jenna watches me, but I’m not sure whether she’s measuring the veracity of my statement or still assessing my condition.
    “Please don’t worry, sweetheart,” I say.
    But it seems my assurance is only worth a frustrated sigh, followed by, “Your head is so damned hard that I’m actually surprised the crash managed to break skin.”
    For the first time in the last hour, I grin.
    Jenna bustles for an ice pack, and I retreat to the couch, thoughts funneling past my headache like cloudy dishwater. Devon perches in the easy chair across from me, and his company is a welcome distraction.
    Jenna enters the room. She doesn’t look concerned about my injury right now. She looks . . .
    “What’s the matter?” I ask.
    “Your car is in the garage.”
    Oh. Shit.
    I meant to explain that earlier, come clean right away, but it’s too late. I’m in trouble.
    “Yeah,” I say. “About that . . .”
    “Please tell me you did not drive home.”
    “I sort of did.”
    Jenna points to the staircase but keeps her eyes nailed to me as she says, “Devon, please go to your room.”
    Devon looks at his mom, looks at me, and gets the picture. He’s out of here.
    “You drove yourself.”
    “Honey, I just wanted to get home.”
    “After I told you not to.”
    “Basically, yes,” I say, then quickly add, “But I swear, I wasn’t trying to make you mad.” I inhale sharply. “It was something else . . .”
    Jenna must sense my distress because her expression softens. Her tone, too. “Chris, what are you saying?”
    I draw some more air, let it out slowly. “Something happened. I got scared.”
    She takes a seat at my side, studying me with guarded concern.
    “I told you I lost control, but what I didn’t tell you . . .” I steeple my hands, keep my eyes aimed on them. “ . . . is that I saw things.”
    Jenna’s body relaxes, but the action doesn’t signal relief—it’s recognition—and without speaking, she says: I get it.
    A few seconds of quiet stretch between us, and I need them, because I’m not sure what to say, and because the fear I was speaking of earlier now seems that much more real.
    “Baby,” Jenna whispers, “you are not your father.”
    All I can do is shake my