I wasn’t meant to survive that night.
The emptiness that I’ve been living with—so utterly consuming—is what’s left of a person when he dies and yet still breathes, facing each day with nothing at the end of it. When he exists, but cannot feel beyond his own misery. There’s an endless weight on my chest that I will never be strong enough to lift off.
It’s crushing my will.
And I finally accept that I’m done with this. I don’t want to feel like this anymore.
So, I close my eyes and settle my head against the headrest. Just like I remember doing in the SUV that night.
And breathe in and out, slowly, heavily, over and over again. Inhaling the fumes pumping in through the garden hose that hangs over the cracked window, the other end stuffed into the car’s muffler.
The first genuine smile that I’ve felt in almost two years touches my lips.
A smile of relief, because peace is finally coming.
Chapter 14
May 2010
If I started to go bald, I’d just shave my head. I guess he’s not exactly bald, but that hairline bought a one-way ticket and it’s well on its way. I give him ten years before he’s polishing his scalp.
“Hello? Trent?”
I blink several times, trying to focus on the doctor’s words. “Sorry, what?”
He gives me a patient smile. “How are you feeling today?”
“Tired,” I croak. A stomach pump for alcohol poisoning, serious oxygen therapy for carbon monoxide poisoning, and a slew of tests and psychological assessments has left me exhausted. Now I’ve got a mess of medication pumping through my veins. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been in this room, but I’ve been asleep most of that time.
Apparently, my dad came home from work minutes after I lost consciousness and, when he searched the house and couldn’t find me, some gut-churning sixth sense told him to check the garage.
He couldn’t get a pulse.
In my drunken stupor, I tried to kill myself. And I almost succeeded.
When I woke up in a hospital—again—with my mom holding my hand, tears in her eyes—again—and realized what I had done—again—I agreed to everything my dad started insisting upon, including an intense inpatient program. That’s how I’ve ended up in this sunny-colored private Chicago cell.
It’s not a cell, really. Though I haven’t seen the rest of the facility yet, I’m guessing it’s pretty nice.
“Your body has been through the ringer. You’ll adjust. Ironically enough, I’m not a big fan of medicating, but I think, given the depth of your depression, you’ll benefit from a small chemical reset.”
Depression. That’s what I keep hearing.
“So . . .” Dr. Stayner begins pacing, his arms over his chest, “you dropped out of college, quit the football team, broke up with your high school sweetheart, your parents are divorcing. And you spend excessive amounts of time in your mother’s basement, isolating yourself with work.”
“That about covers it,” I mutter.
“It’s been a long downward spiral for you.” He pierces me with his stare. “Do you want to get better? Because that is a requirement for my inpatient program.”
I’m betting this is the same opening spiel that he gives everyone. I don’t mind, though, because the answer is simple. “Yes.” I’m thinking clearly enough now—without scotch coursing through my veins, polluting my thoughts, amplifying my emotions—and I know that I don’t have a choice. I’ve hit rock bottom and something has to change. It has to get better. I just don’t think it’s possible.
He slaps his hands together, like something’s settled. His eyes twinkle with genuine excitement. “Good! We’ll start therapy in the morning. Give you a swift kick in the ass, down the road to recovery. Until then, get some rest.” He strolls briskly out of the room without another word, leaving me frowning at the door. My dad said that he’s the best. I guess we’ll see if the best is good enough.
■ ■ ■
My eyes follow the baseball as it sails up to nearly touch the spackled ceiling and then back down, landing in Dr. Stayner’s hand with a soft thud.
Up and down.
Up and down.
“So, is ending your life something you gave a lot of thought to?”
I sigh, taking in his modest navy-blue carpeted office. Pretty much what you’d expect from a shrink: a desk, a few chairs, some framed certificates, and lots of books. “Honestly? No. I mean . . . I don’t know how many nights I wished I’d gone to bed and simply not woken up, but I wasn’t really planning on anything.”
He nods like he understands. Does he, really? Or does that answer just fit the textbook definition of depression? “But that night . . .” he prods.
“That night . . .” I pick through my foggy recollection. Most of my thoughts veer toward the same thing nowadays anyway, so it’s not hard to pinpoint. “I started thinking about how fucked up everything is, how many people I’ve hurt, and how I’ll never escape this feeling. How maybe I wasn’t meant to live. Then I thought it’d be a good idea to down half a bottle of scotch.”
“A depressant cocktail to amplify your deep depression. That worked out well, didn’t it . . .” The ball goes up and down. Oddly enough, it makes the entire conversation feel that much more casual. Like we’re not talking about how I tried to kill myself. I wonder if that’s a shrink technique. “How’d you end up in the car?”
An image of Kacey’s face hits me. I’m not willing to bring her name into this conversation yet. Maybe because I don’t want to admit that I carry her around in my phone. Maybe because I don’t want to admit that I sat outside her house. I definitely don’t want to admit what happened at that frat party. “I started wondering if being in a car will always be uncomfortable.” That’s one thing Kacey and I seem to have in common, though her phobia is on an entirely different level.
He kicks his feet up onto his desk and leans back in his chair. “And what made you put the hose in the exhaust and start the car?”
“I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
“What does it feel like?”
How can I possibly describe what’s going on inside me? I don’t think there’s any way to do it justice. But I try. “Like I’ve been wandering along an old dirt road for two years with no end in sight. Not a soul around me.” Again, Kacey’s face flashes through my mind. The feel of her mouth against mine, her arms wrapped around mine, her body wanting mine. For her, it was just another drunken night, another moment’s respite from her misery. For me, it was something deeper. On this endless, isolated journey, it was a momentary connection with the only other person to walk away from the accident. And it reminded me of what I’ll never have again, because who the hell would want to be stuck on this lonely road with me?
When I glance up, Dr. Stayner’s blue-gray eyes are dissecting me. Not in a “this idiot’s going to pay for my kitchen reno” way; in a way that’s full of compassion. I swallow against the forming lump. “So how are you gonna fix me?”
“Oh, I can’t fix you, Trent. I’ll take all the credit, mind you. It’s a great boost to my ego. But you have to fix you.”
Curiosity overcomes me. “You know my real name isn’t Trent, right?”
“Yes, your parents filled me in on your history.”
“So why are you calling me Trent? Do you agree that I should have changed my name?”
He shrugs. “Who do you want to be?”
“Not Cole Reynolds.”
“Then I guess that makes you Trent Emerson, now doesn’t it?” He tosses the ball a few more times. “I had a patient once. His name was Benny Flanagan, but he insisted that we call him Fidel Castro.”
I can’t stifle my snort. “What did you—”
“Fidel Castro.” He chuckles. “Fiddy, for short. He had some very serious identity issues. But, eventually he remembered that he was Benny Flanagan.”
“And what if I don’t ever want to go back to being Cole Reynolds again?”
“What if you can’t?” Dr. Stayner counters without missing a beat.