"I’ll be home in a bit," Mom says.
"You’re not staying," I ask her.
"I want you all to get some sleep," Dad answers for her. "I mean it."
Journey takes her turn to give Dad a kiss goodbye, and he reaches for her shoulder.
"It’s too quiet when you don’t talk," he says.
Dad has always said this to Journey since she shuts down when she’s upset. Journey will be where she needs to be, physically, but mentally,it’s like she’s checked out.
She acknowledges his statement and gives him a hug. "I love you," she whispers.
"There’s my girl," Dad says.
I wait for Journey to walk out of the room, and I follow her, grabbing her hand on the way out. "You don’t have to talk.”
She doesn’t respond, which I expected. "Do you want me to come and stay with you tonight?"
"No," she says.
"Okay."
Her hand is shaking, but so is mine as we walk through the parking lot. I parkedbeside her car this morning. “It was nice of Erin to stop by and have lunch with us today," I say, making conversation. "I’ve run into her a couple times since I’ve been home. I saw her this morning, and she insisted on meeting for lunch today so we could chat."
"Yes, I lost track of how many times she told us she has been ‘thinking about us.’"
"I think it’s sweet, she’s trying to be supportive.” Journey isn’t a people-person, I get it, but it’s nice to know someone cares in a time of need.
"What will ‘thinking about us’ do?" Journey replies.
"I know—it was nice of her—is all I’m trying to say." It’s not like Journey doesn’t have valid points, she’s the type who doesn’t require empathy, nor does she want any.
"I’m sorry I can’t be a big sister to you right now," Journey says.
"I don’t need a big sister. I need you, and you don’t have to talk to be there. We have each other, okay?"
Journey gives me a quick hug and a sniffle by my ear before she slips into her Jeep.
When Dad got sick the first time, she locked herself in her room for a month, only coming out to eat and work. I know we all handle painin different ways, but I’m worried about her too.
My lonely headlights on the dark roads near my house are comforting, knowing the couple miles of barren black pavement are the minutes I need to breathe. Though, I can’t find the space in my lungs to take a deep enough breath.
I pull into my driveway, parking the truck in its usual spot, and pull the key from the ignition. As my headlights turn off, I notice a glimmer of light reflecting off the driver’s side mirror. I twist around to see where the light is coming from, and I spot a truck parked alongside the curb. It’s dark, and I can’t make out the details of the truck, but when I look toward the front of the house, I see Brett sitting on the front step beneath the front porch light.
I’m not sure how he knew I would be home now. I haven’t spoken to him since my last text message saying, I couldn’t talk.
I step out of the truck and make my way to the front of the house. I imagine my expression shows the confusion I’m feeling. "How are you doing?"
"Do you want the truth or the response of a passing random person on the street?"
"How about, I know you’re not okay," he says.
"We’ll go with that response.” I pull out my house key. "Why are you here?"
"I wish someone was there for me back when I was going through a time when I needed to talk."
I open the front door, finding Benji wagging his tail with excitement. The poor thing has no clue what’s going on, and Dad is his favorite person. I scratch behind his ears as he nuzzles his head against my side. "Want me to take him out for you?" Brett offers.
