“That’s what I thought.”
I struggle into my clothes, slightly horrified when I get a whiff of myself. Scrubbing my teeth clean, I look in the mirror and understand why Walker’s so pissed. I look pale, weak, and exhausted. He’s right. There’s more to the plan than what’s behind the screen, and I’m not going to be able to do my part if I don’t take care of myself.
But I hate dancing to someone else’s tune. I’ve been responsible for my own choices, for the stability of my family, since I was a teen.
I remind myself that this is for Clara, for our future, that this has been a team sport for years, but it doesn’t sit comfortably against my skin. It takes a moment of self-reflection to admit to myself it’s because Walker is the one telling me what to do. I’ve never taken orders from him or Jansen, except for what we get up to in the bedroom.
But looking at myself, I have to admit that I might have to. At least for now.
I didn’t play team sports. They never appealed to me. But Trish loved soccer right until she graduated high school. She always said that the best part of being on a team was that if you were having a bad day, the rest of the team was there to pick up the slack. That when your teammate was having a rough go of it, you got your chance to step up. And when everyone was revved up and rolling, it was pure magic.
We’re missing that magic right now.
Leaving the bathroom, I head to the kitchen where Walker waits with a giant glass of water, one of Clara’s granola bars, and pain meds, somehow knowing that I have a killer headache. Accepting the implied order, I force my mouth around the sweet crunch, downing the water and pills.
Walker vanishes from the kitchen, returning with Jansen, who looks even worse than I do. And guilt bites into the part of me that has already admitted I’m a shit teammate.
His hair is lank around his gray and thin face. The circles around his eyes are so dark they might as well be bruises, and his fingers are chapped and bloody, a curiosity that is explained by him slowly lifting his thumb to his mouth, teeth gnawing on what used to be a nail.
“Hey Jay,” I say, terrified when he takes a second to focus on me.
Walker gives me a heavy look, and guilt takes a bigger chunk out of me. One reason we came back, one none of us said out loud but all acknowledged with silent glances, was convincing Jansen to get help. And Walker's been managing this on his own while I’ve been diving into my own destructive spiral.
Because if I’m working, I don’t have to think about how empty the house is without Clara here. If I’m working, I can trick myselfinto thinking it will bring her back faster. I can pretend it’s a hell of a lot more temporary than it is.
I’m making headway. But when my primary tasks were as up to date as they could be, I found other work instead of helping. Checking on Bryce, continuing to catalog the pedos in the area, it doesn’t help her.
Helping Walker get Jansen back to something normal, that will help her more. Because if she saw Jay right now, she’d be just as scared as I am.
Walker holds a comb in one hand, a chunk of Jansen’s hair in the other, and starts tugging at the mess, straight from the crown.
“Shit, that’s not how you do that,” I grunt, pushing him out of the way. “Go find his brush.”
Walker leaves, and I offer Jansen a granola bar. He takes it and eats it, but the darkness isn’t just around his eyes. It’s in them.
“How much longer?” he asks.
Today’s Sunday. Which means Clara will be on campus on Tuesday. “You’ll see her in two days. Are you sure you’re up for it?”
He squeezes his free hand into a fist, and I start the kettle up, pulling down his teapot and not knowing what to do next. I’ve never made tea.
Walker comes back, and we trade places. I get Jansen to sit on a stool and hop onto the counter behind him, teasing the snarls out of his hair, then braiding it, the grease less noticeable once it’s contained. Walker has the pot of tea ready, and I have another glass of water as Jansen drinks it on autopilot.
He sighs after he finishes a cup. “I will be.”
It takes me a minute to realize he’s answering my question. From almost twenty minutes ago. I shoot a glance at Walker, andit’s obvious that this has been his daily problem for the last few weeks.
“Okay, you two. Go. Move. Touch grass. Breathe fresh air. Don’t come back for an hour.”
Jansen trails me from the house, and I lead him down the path I first ran with Clara a year ago, over the Washington Avenue bridge, the Mississippi low this time of year, both of us silent as we move south with the water. But after only twenty minutes, my legs scream at me, so I stop, sitting in a patch of grass. Jansen flops down beside me, staring up at the clouds.
“How bad?” I ask.
Jansen’s lips twist, his body boneless, but his fingers dig into the soil. “Worst I’ve ever been.”
I figured. “Should we go to the health center? Get some meds or something?”
He doesn’t answer, and I don’t force him.
