Mmm . . . Someone is making pancakes . . . The delicious aroma of pancakes coaxed me out of sleep. Coming to, I groaned. I had never been a morning person, but my head didn’t usually feel like a bowling ball. Since dropping off to sleep the night before, I felt like I’d been trapped in a loud, fast-moving, brightly colored anime cartoon. My dreams had been insane, to say the least. Dr. Randolph misdiagnosed me, I thought, pressing my hands to my temples. Having a heavy head and chaotic dreams definitely indicates brain trauma. I don’t need a medical degree to figure that out. This thought satisfied me. Not that I wanted a swelling brain, but it sure would have been nice to see the ER doctor’s puffed-up head deflate. Let’s just say, his bedside manner wouldn’t win any awards. I had first taken offense to this Dr. Randolph when he lifted the towel from my forehead and gave my dad an exasperated look. “Mr. Jones, this is only a surface wound,” he said in a scolding tone. While Dad and Ben stared at my forehead, the doctor wore a smug expression. I so wanted to wipe it off his face. “I don’t understand,” Dad said, looking confused. “I tended the wound myself, and it was deep.” “I saw the split, too, Doctor,” Ben interjected. “And it most definitely required stitches.” Dr. Randolph shrugged. “I can see from the towel that the wound bled heavily. Sometimes even minor head wounds will do this. The bleeding must have made it appear more serious to you both than it obviously is.” Translated: You’re both idiots. After slapping a butterfly bandage on my forehead and a square piece of gauze over that, the doctor checked me for signs of a concussion. When he found none, he told me to take Tylenol for pain and sent us home. I can only imagine the gossip he circulated in the doctors’ lounge about Drake Jones. I admit, I thought going to the ER was overkill at the time. No matter how much I had insisted I was fine in the car and in the ER waiting room, Dad and Ben would hear none of it. Now, it appeared they were right, and – ha ha – Dr. Randolph was wrong. Shoving the doctor out of my head, I focused on the wonderful smell beckoning me. Bowling-ball head or not, I had to have those pancakes. Flipping onto my back, I scooted my legs over the side of the bed, preparing to ease my way up. For a dramatic effect, I mentally counted down, Three, two – Before getting to one, I stood upright. The freaky thing is, I had no idea how I got there. It was like I had lost seconds, though I did have a slight recollection of swift movement. Is it possible to black out while being vertical? I wondered, rubbing my head. Dr. Randolph messed up big time, I added, taking a step toward my dresser. By the third step, I paused, freaked again. My steps felt oddly light, like I was walking across a spongy gymnastics mat. I realized, too, that my body felt good, with none of the morning stiffness I usually experienced when I woke up. My joints and muscles were loose, like I’d been up and moving for hours. Attempting to ignore the strange sensation under my feet, I continued on to the dresser. Peering into the mirror over it, I looked at the square gauze on my forehead. Pinching a corner of the surgical tape that held the gauze in place, I lifted it, wincing in anticipation of what I would see. With the gauze off, I stared at my forehead, not sure what to make of it. Besides the thin butterfly bandage and some crusty blood, my skin appeared normal. Yanking the butterfly bandage off, I moistened my fingertips with saliva. Leaning close to the mirror, I spit-shined my forehead, rubbing the dried blood away. Beneath the blood, my skin was smooth and healthy. There was no sign of even a surface scrape. With my nose practically pressed to the glass, I gaped at my forehead. To say I was stunned is an understatement. In shock, my eyes drifted down to my nose. My upside-down world did another flip. The despised spray of freckles had vanished, completely disappeared. As if they were hiding, I roughly rubbed my nose. My skin turned red, but nothing reappeared. Trying to calm myself, I reasoned, Mom always said the freckles were so light that only I noticed them. Maybe my bruised brain messed up my vision, making me farsighted. Narrowing my eyes on my nose, I attempted to focus better. Suddenly, a huge, porous surface appeared. After some confusion, I realized I was looking at my nose, but seeing what it would look like under a microscope. Gasping, I sprang back from the mirror – literally – as if bouncing off a springboard. I landed on my feet, six feet from my dresser. For several minutes, I stood wide-eyed and rooted to the floor. My mind desperately flipped the strange occurrences around, attempting to sift out a logical explanation. There was only one. Misdiagnosis. Believing the next bed I slept in would be a hospital bed, I walked back to my dresser, reassuring myself, None of this is real. You have an injured brain. Though I wanted to run like a lunatic to my parents, I decided that wouldn’t be prudent. Once my parents knew I was hallucinating, they’d toss me in the car in my PJs and rush me to the ER. Not wanting to risk that type of public humiliation, I decided to get dressed before running like a lunatic. Strangely calm, I dug through my dresser drawers, choosing a good ER outfit. I went with faded jeans and a long-sleeved green T-shirt that brought out my eye color. Over the shirt, I pulled on my favorite sweatshirt. It was probably chilly outside, and in the panic, I might get tossed in the car without one. After brushing my hair, I placed the gauze bandage back over the wound I couldn’t see but knew was there. Opening my bedroom door, I got a fresh whiff of pancakes. Obviously, my parents were in the kitchen. Someone had to be flipping flapjacks. I decided not to stir up too much panic right off the bat. I wanted breakfast first. Hopefully, a concussion also heightened tastebuds. This had the potential for being the most delicious stack of pancakes ever. ~~~ Stepping from the bottom step into the foyer, the only sound I heard was the television in the family room. There were no indications of breakfast preparation, but I had to check it out. I figured I’d find a plate of cooling pancakes on the counter. It wasn’t completely unfathomable that I’d slept in and missed a family breakfast. I’d done it before. The only thing on the kitchen counter was an open box of Cheerios and a couple of dirty bowls and spoons. The sight infuriated me. The scent of pancakes still hung heavily in the air. Someone is going to pay, I promised myself, fuming. Stomping into the family room, I demanded, “Okay, where are they?” Dressed in a T-shirt and PJ bottoms, Nate, lounging on the sectional, lazily looked up at me. “What?” My fists balled at my sides. “You know what I’m talking about. Why didn’t you save any for me?” “Save what?” “THE PANCAKES!” I bellowed. In Batman pajamas, Chazz pulled himself upright on the sectional, gaping at me. Nate looked at me like I was off my rocker. “What are you freakin’ about? We didn’t have any pancakes.” Glaring, I said through my teeth, “Stop messing with my head. I can smell them.” Both my brothers sniffed confusedly, infuriating me further. “Cassy, I can’t smell any,” Chazz whispered timidly. Instantly, I felt guilty. It wasn’t his fault his sister needed a CAT scan. “Never mind.” I smiled at his cute, bewildered face. “It must just be my imagination.” As I turned to leave, Nate teased, “Good thing there’s only one of you in this family.” Clenching my teeth, I stomped back to the kitchen. In the kitchen, I approached things more rationally. Except for the box of cereal and dirty bowls, the kitchen sparkled clean. Did I think my family made a pancake feast, devoured it, and cleaned up the evidence before I woke up? The coffeemaker wasn’t even turned on, which meant my parents were probably still asleep. Obviously, there was no pancake deception going on in this kitchen, so why was the aroma strongest here? Glancing around more critically, I noticed the back door cracked open. One of the boys must have gone out this morning. As I poked my nose out the door, the aroma grew stronger, clearing my family of all suspicion. Throwing any ounce of rationality I possessed out the window, I decided my need to find out the source of the pancake aroma outweighed my need to be go to the ER. With my convoluted logic, I concluded that if I solved the pancake mystery, then the rest of the insanity I’d experienced since waking up would fall into place, too. After tugging on my tennis shoes, I poked my head into the family room. “Guys, when Mom and Dad get up, tell them I went to the school.” “Now, why are you going there?” Nate asked impatiently. Oh, he is really getting under my skin. “Because I need some fresh air,” I answered, trying to maintain composure. “I’m going for a run around the track.” “You, run? I don’t think so. What is this, some kind of secret rendezvous or something?” My twin impishly grinned. “What’s that?” Chazz asked. Watching for my reaction, Nate’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “That means Cassy has a boyfriend that she’s sneaking off to meet.” Chazz gasped. So much for composure. “You are such a moron, Nate. No, you are beyond a moron. I am going for a run, and that is all.” Pausing, I forced a smile for my younger, sweet brother. “Be sure to tell them, Chazzy. I’m at the school, and I’ll be back soon.” He nodded, terrified. Grinning, Nate winked. “We’ll be sure to tell them.” I drew in a deep, angry breath. Something foul filled my nasal cavity. “Oh, my gosh, Nate!” I exclaimed, crinkling my nose. “Your breath is so nasty.” Nate laughed, shaking his head. “Is that the best you can come up with? I’d be a little more convinced if you weren’t like fifteen feet away.” I am like fifteen feet away, I realized, staring at my twin, stunned. But I can smell his breath and I can smell . . . him. I shot my eyes to Chazz; his eyes looked ready to pop out of the sockets. I can smell him, too. I can smell everything! I’ve got to get out of here. “Brush your teeth, Nate,” I screeched, pivoting away. He made loud kissing noises as I darted back into the kitchen. There I rationalized irrationally, inhaling the pancake aroma anew, If I find the pancakes, this will all make sense. Time to hunt. On the tail of this last thought, a strange excitement stirred in my chest. Time to hunt, I mentally repeated, eagerly flinging the back door open. Stepping out the door, I inhaled the crisp air deeply, breathing in an array of scents, each distinct and powerful. It was as if a glass bubble had been lifted off me, allowing me to smell the world for the first time. Something weird happened halfway through the breath. My mind became incredibly focused, searching through all the scents, pinpointing the desired one. Once it was pinpointed, I followed the trail, sniffing it out like a bloodhound. Every part of me was so intent on the hunt that I didn’t care how crazy it all was or how crazy I’d look if someone noticed me. Tracking my target was all that mattered. The quickest way to my target – or prey, by the way I was behaving – would be to climb over fences, because the aroma definitely drifted from the east, parallel to my back yard. Deciding that climbing over neighbors’ fences wasn’t such a great idea, I headed for the front of our house. Stepping out on the sidewalk, I turned right. Two doors down from mine, I stopped. The Crenshaws’ house was the source of the aroma. Standing in front of their house, I contemplated what to do next. Mystery solved, right? Wrong. I still had no answers. Knowing my odd behavior and experiences could be attributed to a bruised brain, that didn’t deter me from wanting to confirm that the Crenshaws were indeed making pancakes. Though not rational, or even close to sane, I opened their white picket front gate. With the aroma luring me, I moved up the walk toward the front porch. About six feet up, the Crenshaws’ horrendous mutt dog, Princess, who had been hiding on the porch, lunged at me, baring her teeth. Startled, I jumped – not back, or in the air a few inches – but quite literally, I jumped up fifteen feet onto a thick tree limb that hung over the walkway. My reaction had been so quick and automatic that it took me a moment to comprehend that I was really up in a tree. As I crouched on the branch like a cat, my mind raced, trying to place the pieces of this puzzle together. Princess barked manically below while I pondered. My brain swelling wouldn’t have suddenly given me the ability to jump like a lemur or to smell pancakes cooking two houses away from mine. It hit me then, like a ton of bricks. My brain wasn’t hurt in the fall, but perhaps it had been hurt. Visualizing the beakers, the puff of white vapor, the excruciating pain, the darkness, and Professor Phillips, I knew I had my answer – or, at least, who to get it from. “Princess, come here.” Jason, the Crenshaws’ 25-year-old son, who had decided that he never wanted to grow up, stood in the front doorway, lazily gazing at the dog. Ignoring her master, Princess continued to bark wildly below. Before addressing his dog’s disobedience, Jason took a long drag off the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Exhaling, he yelled a string of cuss words at Princess. Profanity worked. Though resentful, the dog submitted, skulking to the front door. The front door closed. Staring at the ground below, I asked myself, Now what? Quite unexplainably, I had gotten fifteen feet up in a tree, and now I had to get down. There were no branches below me, so climbing down wasn’t an option. Coming to the conclusion that my only way down would be reversing the way I had come up, I sprung from my crouched position. Strangely, the movement felt almost natural. My feet hit the ground together, solidly. I didn’t even stumble forward. Straightening up, I trotted down the Crenshaws’ walkway, closing the gate behind me. With so many thoughts racing through my head, going home and being distracted by my pesky twin wasn’t appealing. I needed time to mull things over. I decided to follow through with running around the school track. On my way to the school, I went through a mental analysis of everything that had happened at the lab. Thinking about the vapor cloud I had sucked into my lungs, I wondered if I’d been poisoned. Maybe the poison damaged my brain, causing me to hallucinate, and it’s slowing dissolving my brain. Gads, am I dying? I gasped aloud. This thought alone made my heart pound, giving me the feeling I would keel over any second. After deciding the pounding heart was a panic attack and not because my brain was melting, I really thought through how I physically felt. I don’t feel poisoned, sick, or like I’m on my deathbed. In fact, I feel good, really good. Healthy. Strong. Powerful. Something stirred within that I couldn’t quite identify . . . a sort of energy waiting to escape, like a racehorse at the starting gate. ~~~ Stepping on the school’s track, I took off running, faster than a racehorse. I felt the wind rush by me, cool air licking my clothes and whipping my hair back. My feet flew, barely making contact with the ground. After four times around the track, my lungs experienced no burning, my muscles no cramping, no exhaustion. I felt unstoppable, like I could go forever. The sixth time around, my ears picked up voices. Abruptly stopping, I looked around, breathing evenly. Scanning the school grounds, I didn’t see anyone. As I listened more carefully, the murmur became clearer. Somewhere in the neighborhood behind the school, two women were having a conversation. I forced myself to listen even more closely, and their voices became audible, like I had tuned them in by turning a dial. I continued to move that mental dial, and their voices drew closer, as if the volume had been turned up. I felt like I was sitting with them, sipping coffee, and contributing to their gossip. They really were saying some horrible things about a woman named Blanche. Thoroughly freaked now, I started on my short trek home. All the way, Ben’s silly “alien DNA” comment rattled through my brain. The problem was, it didn’t seem so silly anymore. I felt sure Ben would have agreed that what I was experiencing appeared extraterrestrial-ish. Turning down our street, I saw Dad headed toward me. He didn’t look very happy. “Cassidy, where have you been?” Sheepishly, I approached him. “Didn’t Chazz tell you I was at the school?” Dad’s disturbed expression made me think Nate had shared his theory. “Yes, he did. But since when have we allowed you to go to the school alone during non-school hours? It’s not prudent in this day and age.” “Sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to worry you. I just needed to get out for a while.” “I understand, Cass. Just show more wisdom next time.” His face was still tense. “Dad, I promise I won’t –” “Cass, I know you’re sorry. I’m not angry with you. I wasn’t only on my way to check up on you. I have some disturbing news to share with you.” Disturbing news? Oh, he knows what happened. Professor Phillips must have followed through with the phone call. “Dad, I was on my way to tell you. I already –” I stopped short, realizing he wasn’t listening. “Dad, what happened?” “We need to leave, now,” he stated in a hollow tone. “Why?” I gasped. “Is someone hurt? Not Chazz?” Snapping out of his distraction, he assured me, “Chazz is fine. Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry I worried you. This involves Professor Phillips, not our family. Apparently, after we left her lab last night, there was a fire.” My cheeks went numb, like I’d been slapped. “Is she dead?” “I hope not. She is missing, though. I’ll explain while we walk to the car.” As we walked, he continued, “My friend, Bob Conlin, is the detective working the case. He called and asked if we could come downtown to give our accounts of what took place while we were with the professor. Apparently, we were the last to see her. As I mentioned, not long after we left, there was a fire –” “Did the fire start from the burner I knocked over?” I interrupted, with a speeding heart. “No, Cass. I thought of that, too, but according to Bob, or Detective Conlin, her lab was ransacked. Her file cabinet was emptied, and the contents were intentionally set fire to.” This isn’t possible, I thought, my breath shallow. None of this is possible. “So the police think she’s been kidnapped?” I forced out. Dad’s face was solemn. “Right now, she’s classified as a missing person.” “But you think she’s been kidnapped?” “I don’t have enough information, but, in light of her recent research, it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s been abducted.” “Really? Is her gene therapy that important, that someone would kidnap her for it?” He nodded. “Yes, it’s that important.” Silent after this, we lost ourselves in our own thoughts. Guaranteed, they were different, though they surely revolved around the same missing person. Feeling overwhelmed as we passed Miriam’s house, I recalled her comment, That’s your luck, Cassidy. Never had there been a more accurate statement uttered. My luck would be that the one person who could give me answers and possibly help me would turn up missing. A nagging feeling told me this was no coincidence. Our separate events were directly and terrifyingly connected. If she had been taken because of what happened to me, then I could possibly be the next to turn up missing. One thing I knew, deep down in my agonized gut, was that I could tell no one about what had happened to me. Not my mom, my dad, Detective Conlin, no one, until we knew what happened to Professor Serena Phillips. Disclosing anything could literally be a matter of life or death – my own.
Posted on: Thu, 23 Oct 2014 17:40:35 +0000
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