“Yeah, that’s it,” Max said. “A Jaguar.”
Preston remembered Emma’s concern over the price of a motel room and wondered why she didn’t have more money if she and Manuel had been so wealthy. The life she was living right now must come as a shock. Besides what Max had just told him, the size of the diamond studs in her earlobes, the depth of her tan, and the way her toenails were painted with little rhinestones across the top, indicated she probably wasn’t used to roughing it.
A flicker of discomfort passed over Max’s face. “I’m getting hungry,” he said. “Can we eat?”
“We’ll have lunch as soon as your mom comes back, okay?”
Max latched onto Preston’s shoulder so he could talk without sinking into the water. “But I’m not feeling very good.”
“If your mom’s not back in fifteen minutes, we’ll go to the room and try calling her again.” Instead of moving Max back to the edge of the pool as before, Preston tried to tolerate the contact. He managed for a few seconds. But like opening a closet stuffed far too full, he found the memories tumbling out on top of him. Memories of swimming with Dallas in the ocean, of burying him in the sand, of lying down with him at night and reading about dinosaurs and race cars. The memory of Dallas running to him as he walked through the door at the end of a long day filled his mind and weighed heavy on his heart.
Daddy, catch me…. Watch me bat…. Look at that motorcycle…. I’m tired, will you carry me?
Daddy…A lump grew in Preston’s throat, nearly choking him, and he jerked away. “Don’t touch me, okay?”
Max’s eyes widened at the harshness of his tone. “Why not?”
Preston told himself to push those poignant memories back into that closet where they belonged. But the devastation he felt in their wake lingered on.
“Preston?”
The insecurity in Max’s voice brought a sharp pang of guilt. “What?” He still sounded angry. He was angry. Ever since Dallas had died, a dark rage snaked beneath his skin, like an alligator trolling shallow waters.
“Why can’t I touch you?” Max asked.
“I just don’t like it.”
Max’s shoulders slumped. “Okay.”
Preston hated the hurt he saw in Max’s eyes and cursed himself for not being able to forget Dallas, for not being able to swallow the pain and move on, as Christy had.
Climbing out of the pool, he walked to the fence facing Aultman Street. Where was Emma? She should never have left him with her kid. He couldn’t even be kind to the boy.
“Preston?”
“What?” He expected a fresh onslaught of questions or maybe another swimming challenge. But Max didn’t respond right away. When Preston turned, he found him resting his head on his arms and looking…blotchy.
“I don’t feel good. I—I think I’m going to throw up.”
Alarm gripped Preston. The boy’s voice sounded reedy-thin. What was wrong? Certainly what he’d said couldn’t have caused this bad a reaction, could it?
“But you haven’t had anything to eat. You said you were hungry,” Preston reminded him.
The boy’s eyelids fluttered closed.
Preston couldn’t believe it. What the hell was going on? Two minutes ago, Max was acting as normal as could be. They’d been laughing, playing, swimming. And now…“Max?”
No response.
Preston strode to the edge of the pool. “Max! Answer me.”
Max lifted his head as though trying to obey, but Preston could see that it required effort and concentration just to move.
“Get out of the pool,” he said. “We’re going upstairs.”
Again, no answer. And no attempt to get out.
“Did you hear me?”
“I can’t,” he said, sounding breathless. “My legs…and arms won’t…work.”
Max dropped his head again, then slipped off the edge. Preston watched in stunned surprise as he began to sink without a single squeal or protest.
What the hell? With two launching steps, he dived into the pool. The rush of water felt warm after standing in the open air, but he scarcely noticed. He was too busy forcing his legs and arms to propel him forward as quickly as possible.
By the time he encountered Max’s limp body, Preston’s heart was pounding. The reverberation of it seemed to echo through his chest as he managed to maneuver Max to the edge of the pool. He rolled him out onto cement that was probably too hot, but Preston was more interested in keeping him from drowning. Hopping out, he quickly scooped him up and laid him on a lounger.
Normal, healthy individuals didn’t get sick so fast. And Max had seemed the very picture of health. Was this some sort of ploy to gain attention? Some kids held their breath while throwing a tantrum. Did Max stage a fainting spell when his feelings were hurt? He’d been fine five minutes ago. What had changed?
“Max? Max, if this is a game, I don’t like it,” Preston said.
“My name’s…Dominick.”
He could barely talk. “What’s wrong with you?” Preston cried. He tried to bridle the terror in his voice, but a memory from that closet in his mind threatened to intrude: Dallas lying on a hospital bed, as pale as the sheets. Daddy, I don’t feel good, will you hold me?
When Max, or Dominick, didn’t answer, Preston gently shook his shoulders. “Stop it, okay? Open your eyes.”
Max’s eyelids fluttered open and Preston latched on to the hope that small response offered. “What’s wrong with you, Max? Talk to me.”
“I—I think I’m going low.”
Low? What did that mean? The boy sounded disoriented. Maybe he didn’t know what he was talking about. “What’s low, Max? What does that mean?”
Max couldn’t seem to gather the energy to respond. He continued to lie there, pale and scarcely breathing.
Was he dying? He looked like he was dying….
God, no! A white-hot jagged pain shot through Preston’s chest, nearly incapacitating him as the present mingled with the past. Daddy, I don’t feel so good.
“Don’t you dare, Max,” he said. But he wasn’t commanding, he was pleading. “What can I do to help you, buddy? I’ll do anything. What’s wrong?” Preston was shaking so badly he wasn’t even sure he could support his own weight. He wasn’t the right person to deal with this. He felt raw, helpless, completely bewildered.