“He jumped,” I mumble. “He’s not okay.”
With both of us out of breath, Dad lies down beside me and wraps both of his hands around Pete’s wrist. “On the count of three, pull him up,” Dad says.
At three, I grit my teeth and pull with every weak fiber in my muscles. We drag Pete up to the wooden boards, but Dad doesn’t release his hold on his wrist. “What were you thinking?” Dad asks him.
Pete has less to say to Dad than he does to me. “You don’t understand,” he says, as if it should be a good enough answer to end his life.
“No, you don’t understand,” Dad says. “Pete, you just don’t. No matter what is going on in your life, at sixteen, you have no clue how much everything can change in a matter of days, weeks, or years. Ending your life is not the answer.”
Dad is good at remaining calm in tense situations. I let my anger take over more often than not. Brett is like Dad in that way, and Mom panics like me, but with fear rather than anger.
“Call 9-1-1,” Dad tells me. I want to ask him if we have to because I can only imagine it will put Pete in a worse situation than he’s already in, but I’m not able to make a decision like this.
“No, please, don’t call the police. Don’t,” Pete begs. “They’ll lock me up or something.”
“They will not lock you up,” Dad says with sincerity. “The police are here to help you, to protect you, even if it’s from yourself.”
“I don’t want to be protected from myself,” Pete argues. His statement doesn’t hold the same level of confidence he had while hanging from my grip.
“We do,” Dad says.
“This is my life,” he replies.
“This is your life and you only get one, so let’s find another solution,” Dad continues as he glances up at me raising his brows so I will make the phone call. “There’s a payphone in an old metal shed to the right of the dock. I’m sure it still works,” Dad says. I had no clue there was a metal shed or a payphone there. I guess he has spent time here. “Do you have any change on you?” I stand up and shove my hand into my pockets, feeling a few quarters rolling around. “9-1-1 shouldn’t cost anything to call, but just in case …”
“Yeah, I have quarters,” I answer.
“Go call. Give them the exact location,” Dad instructs.
I run down the steps, feeling as though the levels of the tower are endless—like a downward spiral into the darkness Pete was searching for.
I find the metal shed and try to open the door, but it’s jammed. I kick it a few times before busting it open, finding an old payphone in the corner. I hope it works.
I lift the receiver and place it up to my ear and hear a dial tone. Thank goodness. My heart races and my breaths feel labored as I dial 9-1-1. The connection is quick, and my description of the incident is clear and concise as is the exact location of where we are. It isn’t until I hang up the phone that I fall to the floor, shaking, crying, and hyperventilating. The “what-if” questions repeat over and over in an endless loop, but I know the answers without having to think through them. Pete is lucky I showed up when I did and Pete is even luckier that Dad is the best parent in the world, especially compared to his own.
I take a few minutes to pull myself together, knowing I need to get back up to the tower with Pete. My legs feel like dead weights as I trudge up every step. By the time I reach the top step, sirens echo in the distance. With Pete’s current frame of mind, I don’t know if it’s a good idea to convince him to go down the steps before the police or paramedics come upstairs. Dad still has a hold on his wrist but they’re having a calm conversation. Pete’s eyes are bloodshot, wide, and not blinking. Maybe he’s realizing what a terrible decision he made coming up here tonight, or what could have happened if Dad and I hadn’t arrived when we did. I hope so.
“Listen to me,” Dad tells him. “Our family is here for you and we will be here for you as long as you need us, day or night. Pete is shaking as if he’s freezing but his face is beet red.
“He might be in shock,” Dad says, twisting his head to look at me. I don’t know how he’s still so calm. It’s almost like he’s done this before. Maybe he did in his mind.
The paramedics make it up to the top of the tower first. The emergency I called them here for is different than when there is a physical injury—speed in checking the patient’s vitals and administering life saving drugs isn’t warranted. Instead, slow and steady is the only safe way to accomplish anything right now.
The first paramedic, a man in his twenties, squats down in front of Pete. “What’s going on, bud?”
Pete stares through him as if he isn’t in front of him. The paramedic waves his hand in front of Pete’s unwavering eyes.
“Shock?” Dad asks.
“Possibly. It’s as if he’s catatonic. We need to get him down the steps.”
More footsteps are ascending and three more people in uniform arrive. Another paramedic and two police officers. “Pete, my name is Brian, and this is my partner Meredith. These two are Dave and Simon,” he says, pointing to the police. “Do you think we can all walk down the steps together?”
Pete doesn’t respond. Both paramedics take Pete’s arms, one on each of his sides. They lift him to his feet and move toward the steps. Pete seems to move his feet in the motion of descending the stairs, but it doesn’t appear that he’s bearing the weight of his body on his legs. The paramedics seem to do most of the work for him.
“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions,” one officer asks, holding his notepad out.
“Yeah,” I answer.
