The doctors warned us this would happen. Withdrawal combined with Davis’ mental health struggles would make it harder for him to cope. Mood swings and depressive episodes are to be expected, but expecting it doesn’t make it any easier to watch.
I wish I could make it all better for him. He’s drowning, wasting away right in front of me.
“Sorry,” I say. “I just—miss talking to you like this, even if I had to humiliate myself to make it happen. You haven’t called or texted me back at all since you got out of the center.”
“It’s fine,” he grits out. But I know our moment is over. He’s shut himself off again.
“I just worry about you, and?—"
“Yeah,” he grits out, “well, don’t.” He pauses the game, shoves the controller aside, and turns away from me. “Get out.”
“Davis—”
“I said get out,” he snaps. Then his shoulders sag, and he lets out a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”
I swallow the sting in my throat and back out of the room quietly.
The door clicks shut behind me, and the silence of the hallway feels hollow and loud. I stand outside his bedroom, wanting to go back in, wanting to say something, anything, to make it better, but I know I can’t.
Instead, I head straight to my old bedroom. While none of the house has changed that much over the years, my childhood bedroom looks like time never moved forward at all. If you ignore the dust that only gets wiped up whenever I visit, you’d never know much time had passed.
It’s still the same room I’ve slept in since I was a toddler. Over the years, the décor got upgraded a few times, as I grew out of Sesame Street and found a love for comic books.
My old wrestling trophies line the dresser, some shiny, others showing their age and dusty. Old movie posters on the wall are sun-faded at the corners. There’s a shelf full of old comic books and graphic novels.
Above my full-sized bed, covered in a faded navy blue comforter, is the framed set of DC Pride issues I was gifted for my birthday one year. I remember how excited I was to have them, to display them on the wall. To me, they were proof that I could be something extraordinary, despite what the kids at school, my teachers, and my coaches thought. They were proof that maybe one day I wouldn’t feel so out-of-place everywhere I went.
At the end of the bed is a desk, still covered in notebooks and pencils from my last high school exams, plus some of the books I still have from The University of Nebraska. On the wall above the desk is a collage of family photos. It’s mostly pictures ofDavis and me over the years. Sporting events, Davis’ art shows, a science fair, wrestling meets, and birthday parties. The older we get in the pictures, the more the differences between us are apparent. As time went on, Davis turned in on himself, got paler and more sullen. And the less he smiled, the more I felt the need to. From this perspective it looks like I was sapping the life from him, growing while he wilted.
In the very center is the last family photo we took before Dad died. We’re all smiling. Dad’s arm is around Mom. Davis and I look like complete opposites. I was always short and stocky, with blond hair like our mom, although I got dad’s curly hair. Davis is tall and willowy like our father, with straight, dark hair and haunted eyes. Or at least, that’s how they look now. We look happy in those pictures, even though the teasing had already started by then.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and hold my head in my hands. I knew being here wouldn’t be easy, but I didn’t expect to feel so beaten down. It’s not like me to not be able to find a silver lining naturally, to sit here and force myself to remember that Mom is okay, she’s working and living her life while taking care of Davis. Davis, who is struggling, but sober for the first time in a very long time. Everyone might not be doing great, but they’re okay.
We’re okay.
We’re going to be okay.
The next morning, I wake to the smell of coffee and the sound of my mom singing along to whatever song is playing in her head.It’s kind of hard to tell what it is at first, since she’s not the greatest singer, but the sound is comforting nonetheless.
After cleaning up in the bathroom, I pad out in my pajama pants and a t-shirt from my high school wrestling club.
“Hey, Mama,” I say, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and giving her a hug while she attempts to scramble eggs.
“Hey, baby. You’re up early.”
“It’s almost nine.” I’m usually up before six for morning lift and conditioning.
She pauses for a moment. “Yeah, but you got in late last night, didn’t you?”
“Not too late, but it was after ten. Sorry I didn’t make it for dinner.”
“That’s alright, not like you could help it. What are the chances that you’d have two flat tires?” She throws up her hands, likewhat’re you gonna do about it?
I didn’t tell her about the tires being slashed. The last thing my mom needs is more stress on her plate. And honestly, I’m still processing what to do about that. Or what to do about what I did about it.
But that’s not something I want to think about right now.
I notice there are only two plates out, so I pull out two coffee mugs and toast two English muffins. Mom brings the pan over and divvies out the eggs, putting enough for three people on my plate. I sprinkle some pepper on mine before we carry our plates to the table and sit across from one another.
