“My Dad was in the Marines my entire life,” I admit. It’s strange talking about him, and the tightness in my chest grows. “He used to… sleepwalk? But it was different, it was during the day.”
It’s psychosis.That’s what the doctors told Mom, extreme trauma to his brain and nervous system turned him into a lunatic. ‘He needs to be in care twenty-four hours a day and medicated for the time being.’
“Even more reason to be sorry,” Brighton interrupts my thoughts. His voice is more quiet than I've ever heard it. “You didn’t rent that room to babysit some fucked up Jarhead.”
“I’m the one who intruded on your sleepwalking quality time for water,” I say with a small laugh, trying to lighten the situation, but he doesn’t even smile. “Besides,” I say, shifting on the bed and tapping his foot with mine. “What are friends for?”
He nods, seemingly needing to hear it as his eyes flicker to the open window and rest there like he’s daydreaming. It’s quiet for a long time, and part of me is worried I’m not catching the social cue to leave, but then he speaks again.
“It’s not PTSD,” he says, but it’s pretty clear that it is.
“Okay.”Dad used to say that too.
Brighton’s head turns back, and he stares at me with the simple answer, his eyes so bright and sad against the darkness. I can tell that he’s trying to figure out how much to tell me, what to keep a secret, and what to share.
“Sunday liked to lock doors,” he says, clearing his throat. “Even before she was diagnosed with the seizures. It was scary ‘cause she’d lock herself in rooms.”
I fold my hands in my lap and listen, scared to spook him back into awkward silence.
“As we got older, our parents divorced, and things got harder. Just childhood crap,” he sighs, “Boone and I ended up taking over guardianship of Sunday.”
I didn’t know that. Sunday’s never told us that.
“Our Mother was never really equipped to deal with her medical issues, and our Father believed it was mind over matter, or that she just wanted more attention, and if Sunday believed the seizures weren’t real, then they’d stop,” Brighton explains, and I can see how uncomfortable he is talking about it. “There were a couple of incidents when we were younger, but the worst one was the week after we moved into our apartment. We were eighteen and eleven, just kids trying to figure it out. Day went to take a bath and locked herself in the bathroom.”
His voice trails off, and his head dips like he’s ashamed of the rest of the story.
“She was there for a while, and I went to check on her, but she didn’t answer, so I kept trying the door, and Boone kept the keys on his belt…” his story becomes little pieces that I’m expected to connect. “She had one ofthe worst episodes she’s ever had. By the time I got into the bathroom, her muscles had spasmed so badly that she was drowning herself.”
I tense. I can’t even imagine a world without Sunday, and to have to experience that first hand like that… “But she’s alright,” I say quietly, and he looks up at me finally.
“Yeah, she’s alright.” He inhales slowly, like it hurts to do so. “Locked doors…” he says again. I stare at him for a second before turning my gaze to the ceiling, counting invisible stars to slow down my heart. “Why do you do that?” Brighton asks, and I tilt my head back to him, and he’s watching me carefully.
I swallow hard, staring at him. It’smyturn to figure out how much to tellhim.
He’s been honest.
“Glow-in-the-dark stars,” she says, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. Every move she takes is a helpful distraction. My mind is a war zone after midnight, and I’m still trying to talk myself off the ledge. But Rhea doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that she found me wandering around trying to unlock doors. Lying to her felt wrong, but I couldn’t bring myself to be honest.
The story about Sunday is true. But it’s not the worst of the PTSD, not even close. It’s the tip of an iceberg that I lost control of a long time ago. But Rhea is just trying to help, and I can’t fault her for that. Tonight had been scary for everyone. I looked down at my hand, the tremor was still there, and hiding it wasn’t going to solve anything.What if you had hurt her?My jaw tightens. I need to be more careful.
“Huh?” I say, blinking up at the ceiling.
“No, not in here,” she laughs softly. “I have a step-dad,” she explains, “Gabe.” Rhea smiles at the thought of him, and it loosens some of the knots in my chest. “Reid, my younger brother, used to get panic attacks, and one of the things he did to calm down was count things. But it’s hard in the dark when the nightmares start…” She trails off because she’s speaking from experience. That much is easy to read. “He needed something to count when the lights were out, so Gabe stuck hundreds of stars to his ceiling, and it kind of just became a thing. I look up, close my eyes, and no matter where I am, the stars are there to count.”
“Rhea,” I say softly. I want to ask her. Ihaveto. “Why did you need to count them?” It’s an odd sensation drawing a line in the sand, keepingher at arm's length when she makes it so easy to want to comfort her.Enough. You can’t think about it like that. She’s Sunday’s best friend.
She stares at her hands, and she decides to tell me faster than I had about my own invisible scars.Focus on anything but her eyes. Or the way her entire body is shaking.“Our Dad was sick, really sick.” Her eyes are full of water, and I instantly regret asking. “He used to…” She swallows, “see us as the enemy.”
Fuck.
I go completely still, and it feels like even my blood has stopped pumping. Her father was one ofthosecases. The kind where the guys come back so messed up that day-to-day life isn’t possible anymore. Severe PTSD that destroys lives, and it’s usually too late to help them. Most end up homeless, or worse, taking their own life.
“When Reid was little, he was playing in the backyard with my Dad, and something snapped in him; he almost killed my brother that day. But…” I watch her sigh; whatever else she has to say is heavy. “Dad was the kind of man to have guns in the house, even against the wishes of my mother, and he had been outside cleaning a few, watching my brother hit pucks with his hockey stick. I picked one up, and her face scrunches up as she tries not to cry about it. “I clipped him in the stomach. I was sixteen.”
“You shot him?” I whisper.
“At the time, it felt like I’d killed him, but I know now the bullet went through and through, he got taken to the hospital, and I never saw him again. But Reid has never forgotten that day, and neither have I,” she says quietly, “I slept in his bed for two years after, so even though Gabe put those stars up for Reid, I grew kind of attached to them.”
