Release by Patrick Ness
For John Mullins
1966–2015
Sorely missed
Then (she had felt it only this morning) there was the terror; the overwhelming incapacity, one’s parents giving it into one’s hands, this life, to be lived to the end, to be walked with serenely; there was in the depths of her heart an awful fear.
–Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway
This pain
It is a glacier moving through you
And carving out deep valleys
And creating spectacular landscapes
–John Grant, Glacier
THE YOKE
Adam would have to get the flowers himself.
His mom had enough to do, she said; she needed them this morning, pretty much right now if the day wasn’t going to be a total loss; and in the end, Adam’s attendance at this little “get-together” with his friends tonight may or may not hinge on his willingness/success in picking up the flowers and doing so without complaint.
Adam argued – quite well, he thought, without showing any overt anger – that his older brother, Marty, was the one who’d run over the old flowers; that he, Adam, also had a ton of things to do today; and that new chrysanthemums for the front path weren’t exactly high in the logical criteria for attendance at a get-together he’d already bargained for – because nothing was free with his parents, not ever – by chopping all the winter’s firewood before even the end of August. Nevertheless, she had, in that way of hers, turned it into a decree: he would get the flowers or he wouldn’t go tonight, especially after that girl got killed.
“Your choice,” his mom said, not even looking at him.
It’s only the Yoke, Adam thought, getting behind the wheel of his car. And the Yoke isn’t forever. Still, he needed a few deep breaths before he started the engine.
At least it was early. The late summer Saturday stretched ahead, with its hours to fill, hours he had filled with a schedule of things (he was a scheduler): he needed to go for a run; he had a few hours’ stock-taking to do at the Evil International Mega-Conglomerate; he had to help his dad at the church; he had to stop by Angela’s work to make sure the pizzas were still on schedule for the party– Morning, his phone buzzed in his lap.
He smiled in a small way. There was that today, too.
Morning, he typed back. Wanna buy flowers?
Is that code?
He smiled again and backed out of the driveway. Fine, let go of the anger, because what a day ahead! What fun it promised! What laughs! What drinks and food and friends and sex! What a stab in the heart at the end of it because the party was a going-away one! Someone was going away. Adam wasn’t sure whether he wanted them to go away or not.
What a day ahead.
What time are you coming by? asked his phone.
Around 2? he typed back at a stop sign.
The reply was a thumbs-up emoji.
He pulled out of his wooded neighbourhood onto the wooded road into town. “Wooded” in fact described everything within fifty miles; it was the overwhelming feature of the town of Frome, indeed the overwhelming feature of the state of Washington. Take it as a given, a sight so often seen it became invisible.
Adam thought about two o’clock this afternoon. There was so much happiness to be had there. So much secret happiness.
And yet, a sinking of the stomach, too…
No, stop that. He was looking forward to it. Absolutely. Yes. In fact, think about– In fact, yes, that.
Another stop sign. Blood is flowing places, he messaged. Engorging things.
The reply was two thumbs-up emojis.
So consider Adam Thorn, as he pulls out onto the further main road – wooded, naturally – the one that leads to the garden centre, the one with ever-increasing traffic, even at this early hour on a Saturday. Adam Thorn, born almost but not quite eighteen years ago in the hospital ten miles along this same road. The furthest from here he’s been in his life is when his family went on a fun-free driving holiday to Mount Rushmore. He didn’t even get to go on the mission trip to Uruguay with his father, mother and Marty when Adam was in the sixth grade. Afterwards, his dad had made it sound like a nightmare of mud and evangelical-resistant locals, but Adam – deemed too young and sentenced to three weeks of 4.30 suppers with Grandpa John and Grandma Pat – couldn’t help but feel that wasn’t the point.
Twelve more months, he thought, and the Yoke is off. Senior year started in just over a week.
After that, the sky.
For Adam Thorn wants to get away. Adam Thorn longs to leave, with an ache in his gut so acute it feels like vertigo. Adam Thorn wishes he was going away with the person going away at the end of tonight’s going-away party.
Well, maybe he does.
Adam Thorn. Blanched blond, tall, bulky in a way that might be handsome but is only just starting to properly agree with gravity. A-student, fighting for the college of his choice, fighting for college at all as the money troubles that are supposed to be passing don’t seem to be doing so, not helped by pointless purchases of chrysanthemums because “preachers’ houses have to look a certain way”, but he is focused on a goal, focused on what will get him the hell out of Frome, Washington.
Adam Thorn, keeper of secrets.
His phone rang as he pulled into the garden centre. “Everyone’s up early today,” he answered as he parked.