Journey rolls her eyes, clearly calling my bluff. “Sure, Brody.”
“Thanks for not pushing,” I say as she walks out the door. “You know—the subject.”
“I won’t do that,” she says. “I’m here, if and when you want to talk or tell me the rest.”
She’s almost too understanding. People don’t usually walk away from unanswered questions without a promise to be told the rest.
I watch as she climbs into her Jeep, blinding me with her headlights as she peels out of my driveway. When I close the door, that old familiar feeling of loneliness fills my chest, exposing the painful void I try to hide from others.
This is why I don't let people into my life.
They leave a hole I have to fill after they’re gone.
16
No one can ever sayI give up on anything. Maybe I don’t know when to walk away or stop trying, because I’ve never found a valid reason to do so. Pete doesn’t know it, but he needs me, or maybe he does know, and he’s in denial. There’s no real explanation for why any of this happened. I understand the trouble with his parents, but that shouldn’t have pushed him as far as it did. I didn’t think he was the type. Maybe there isn’t a type. It’s possible anyone, under the worst circumstances, could think this way. Pete’s parents told me visiting hours are only an hour-long, and I should come when they can’t be there so he won’t be overwhelmed. Part of me wonders if they are even with him as often as they claim they are., but I don’t think it would be a good idea to broach the subject with Pete, not that he's spoken to me the last two times I visited.e. From what I hear, he isn’t speaking at all.
I guess I might not be speaking to anyone if I had to stay in this place either, but it’s the only way to keep him safe. He’s got a private room and a window that overlooks a field of wildflowers. The two times I’ve been here, he’s been sitting in a chair with his feet up on the radiator, staring aimlessly out the window. “Hey bud,” I say, making it known I’m behind him. I’m way beyond the feeling of discomfort, but it’s surely nothing compared to what he’s going through, not that I have any idea what that is. It’s unfathomable.
I take a seat on the edge of his bed, wondering if he can see me in the reflection of the window since the sun is beginning to set. I have never been at a loss for words, especially with Pete, but everything I want to say makes me question whether it would help or hurt him, so I continue to question myself. “Pete, I wish I knew the right words to say to you. All I know is, I want to be here whenever you need me, and I’d give just about anything for you to say something.” It feels like he’s gone. Maybe he’s trying to lock himself inside the prison cell of his mind. That way, he doesn’t have to face his demons.
He doesn’t budge. It’s as if he doesn’t even know I’m here. “People have been asking about you, but I told them you were sick with a nasty version of the flu and couldn’t kick it.” I shift my weight around on the bed, finding how uncomfortable and flat the mattress feels. “I heard they want to see if they can move you out of here next week, so that’s good.” I don’t know where he will go next because it doesn’t seem like going home would be a good idea. I’ve heard his mom refer to what happened to him as an episode, but I think she and her husband are downplaying the seriousness of what he tried to do to keep their reputations intact. The episode seems permanent by the way he’s acting, and yet, all of his neurological testing came back normal, same with the bloodwork. He's an anomaly but looks catatonic.
I stay for the full hour I’m allowed, talking about the weather, the Sox line up, and new shows hitting cable, but there isn’t the slightest response or movement. Not once does he turn to face me, and it’s hard to walk out of the room knowing he still blames me for being alive. “Visiting hours are over, Pete, but um, I’ll be back because I know you’d do the same for me.”
Over the last four months, Pete has taken part in intense cognitive and behavioral therapy, group home therapy, post-suicidal recovery meetings, and rehabilitation. His parents’ workload seemed to increase after the incident. They said their medical bills were out of control, and they had no choice but to spend more hours working. They asked me if I could take him to his appointments when he was living at home. I felt the burden of their requests, but in truth, I would have offered anyway because I don’t think they do anything for him. He’s followed the protocol given by doctors and psychiatrists, but none of the treatments involved a sense of normalcy. We didn’t attend parties or go to barbecues, and definitely didn’t go to The Razor’s Edge, but I never left his side.
School started a few weeks ago, and Pete’s been attending classes with a hall pass to leave when necessary. They’re letting him choose independent study if he can’t sit through a class. I’m not sure it’s what’s best for him, but it’s not my call to make.
“Hey,” Pete says as we follow the crowd out of the classroom to our next scheduled class.
“What’s up?” I respond.
Two months of silence until I made a joke he couldn’t resist. Since then, I’ve spent countless hours on the internet, finding content to keep him laughing. If it’s the one thing I can do for him, I’ll do the best possible. Our conversations are still very short and brief, but at least he talks to me. I don’t know if he’s forgiven me for saving him that night, but I’d rather not know. I’ve had to move forward and convince myself I’ve been forgiven since he’s speaking to me.
“I’m going to come sit at the game tonight,” he says.
Pete was advised to pull out of football this year. He’s unfocused and in a daze too often to participate. I would have been devastated to drop off the team during our senior year, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. Baseball is his favorite, but we have a few months before practice starts, and he has time to pull it together before making a decision.
“That’s awesome, bro. You’re coming to watch Cassandra, aren’t you?” I ask, nudging him with my shoulder. She’s one of the smaller cheerleaders who ends up at the top of the pyramid before being tossed into the air a dozen times throughout a game. He’s had his eye on her for the last couple of years.
“I mean, I’m not going to say I’m sitting too high up on the bleachers or anything, but I want to see the game too,” he says, smirking. I still feel like we’re miles away from being back to where we were a year ago, but there are parts of him that seem to be coming back to life. It gives me relief and motivation to continue sitting in parking lots outside his meetings and appointments. I’d do anything to help him get better, and though I’ve missed other events in my life, I know I’m doing what’s right. I even debated not playing football this season because of the help he needs with getting to and from places, but Dad put his foot down when I mentioned the idea of calling it quits. I’m up for a few different scholarships with a couple of schools who have been watching me, both football and baseball, so I would likely blow my chances of securing those offers if I sat out the season. I wish I could find a way to take care of Pete without sacrificing my opportunities for a scholarship?
“Want me to pick you up before warm-up? I can take you home after the game too.”
Pete’s gaze drops to the linoleum floor as he shakes his head, his moppy hair sloshing from side to side. “Dude, I feel so bad. You drag me around everywhere. You’ve been more or less a taxi driver for me these last few months.”
I shrug because there isn’t much of an argument, but he’s my friend, and I’m okay with helping. “What do I care? It’s more time cruising around for me.” That’s what I usually say. I do enjoy driving around with the music turned up, but Pete lives on the other side of town, and it’s a pain sometimes. He was supposed to get his license, but without asking too many questions, I’m pretty sure that isn’t happening anytime soon.
“Someday, I’ll be your chauffeur for a year or something. I’m sorry, Brody.”
“It’s fine. Don’t sweat it.” History was the last class we had together for the day, so I most likely won’t see him until tonight, when I pick him up. He takes the bus home most days since I have practice after school. I don’t envy that part of his day. Taking the bus as a senior is the shittiest thing ever. “I’ll pick you up at four-thirty. I have to warm up at five.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be waiting on the front steps. Thanks, bro,” he says, slapping my shoulder.
The day slid by with an overload of note-taking and doing my best to tune out the gossip queens who somehow end up sitting right in front of me during each class.
The practice was hardly an hour-long because of the game tonight, but I was only left with ninety minutes to get three hours' worth of homework done before having to go and grab Pete.
