“Your brother only meant well.”
I turn to Dad and stare at him. He appears to be exhausted, and my anger suddenly dissipates. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
Bewildered, I shake my head.
“Arizona, go get your sister something from the vending machine.”
Why is he being so nice?
I watch him hand Arizona a few dollar bills, but a noise in the stairwell distracts me.
“There she is!”
My head whips around. Instinctively, as if someone shot me with a stun gun, I hold my breath. Chester and his father are coming straight for me. Clark Davenport is wearing a classy charcoal suit and pinstripe tie, and Chester is in his usual blue and white golf clothes.
The mere sight of him turns my stomach, and at the touch of a button, I feel miserable and powerless.
“Did she tell you where he is, George?” Clark Davenport stops six feet in front of me, and I dig my nails into my palm. He doesn’t look at me, which is a relief, even if it’s belittling.
“She just got here.”
I stare at Dad. He suddenly seems rather small even though he’s almost six feet tall. I discreetly look at Clark Davenport, and my stomach clenches. He seems as authoritative and intimidating as a President’s lawyer. I’ve hated him ever since the incident at the Davenport mansion when he and his wife sided with their son even though they probably knew better. Even though they knew the truth. Now he runs his hand through his neat beard, which perfectly matches his haircut, and looks from Dad to James and then back to Dad. He’s deliberately ignoring me.
“The sooner we find Tanner, the better. She’d better write down where she last saw him!” He has the same watery eyes as Chester—no blue, no gray, a mixture of everything—but always as if he had a cold or was on drugs. As if in a haze, I notice that he asks the man behind the reception desk for a pen and paper and hands both to my dad. My dad hands me the writing material, even though he knows I have my cell phone.
For a few seconds, I just stand there, not knowing what to do.
“Kans, write down what you know.” Chester is standing next to his father, his hands buried deep in his pockets, looking as if he’s genuinely worried about his brother. The sound of his voicemakes me even sicker, and for a moment, I think about how he smelled when he kissed me.
I stare at him and break the pencil in half. I don’t say a word to them.
Clark Davenport audibly sucks in air.
“Kansas,” my father scolds, but he sounds milder than usual, perhaps because he has me back unharmed after so many weeks.
“Tell your daughter, George.”
“Tanner is sick.”
I purse my lips. Naturally, that was bound to happen, but I won’t believe a word of these lies. “He suffers from bipolar affective disorder. It’s a serious mental illness characterized by manic and depressive phases. Have you ever heard of it?”
Mechanically, I nod. I feel cold, but it’s not because of the damp clothes that still cling to me like a second skin. Obviously, I’ve heard of this illness. People with bipolar disorder do crazy things during their manic phases. They gamble away everything they own at the poker table or run naked through the streets. Some even hallucinate. Vincent van Gogh cut off his ear and ate paint. You often hear that true geniuses develop superpowers during their manic phases and can paint or compose for nights on end. I pause at the last thought. Many unique artists are bipolar. And River... I dig my nails into my palm. But he said he wasn’t sick. I look to Dad for help.
“Tanner suffers from a problematic form of this disease.” He leads me to a green armchair and presses me into the cushions as if I were his patient, someone he has to inform that their heart will soon stop beating. I am numb. “During the mania, these people can be euphoric and in an extremely good mood. They risk too much, are hyperactive, and are hard to stop. Sometimes, they’re easily irritable or suffer from hallucinations or paranoia. It varies greatly and is individualized. During depression, themood tips to sadness, a feeling of emptiness, and listlessness.” He knows that.
Images of the summer pass through my mind like a fluttering ribbon. River sleeping for days, only dragging himself out of bed to use the bathroom. River racing through the dark forest in his Porsche as if there was no tomorrow. In my mind, I recall the wind, the free fall as we hurtled over the cliff, and the seconds in which we fell. I think of the moments when he stood unsecured on the highline, a cigarette in one hand and Jack Daniel’s in the other, as if he was invincible—immortal.Don’t be afraid, Tucks. Not of that.Never of that. Numb, I sit there and taste our first kiss on my lips when someone clears their throat, bringing me back to reality.
“For many affected, the phases last for weeks. Sometimes even months or even a year. With Tanner, it is often days or hours, or both phases occurring together. It’s called ultra-rapid cycling.” Clark Davenport says this, and he’s deliberately speaking to my dad, but I know the information is primarily intended for my ears.
I wonder if he always ignored River this way?
“Ask your daughter where my son is.” He’s standing less than six feet from me.
Ask her yourself,my dad should answer, but he says, “Where is Tanner, Kansas?”
Still confused, I take the pencil stub and write on the paper that I’m clutching like an anchor.
Clark Davenport wants to declare him insane and have him committed. But River is not insane. He knows what he’s doing.Since I wrote on my thigh and my fingers are shaking, the writing is barely legible. I hold the paper out to my dad, who hands it to Clark Davenport.
