And now that my ramen’s finished and Captain, the traitor, is all taken care of, I have two choices: Sit at the kitchen table and jump every time Dad takes a breath, or retreat to my bedroom to take shelter and wait out the Friday night storm. I choose option two. Now all I have to do is descend those seven stairs with my ramen in hand, balance said ramen as I unlock the door to the basement, lock the door behind me, and I’m home free. But I’m so on edge that I fumble with the keys longer than planned while trying to balance the ramen.
I wait for something to fly at my head—a bottle, a snot-filled, wadded-up napkin, a fork, a knife. He’s not picky. But instead, he lets out a low laugh and mumbles something about what a fucking disappointment I am and how I killed my mom, the usual shit, to Captain, who’s now curled up in his lap. Once I’m through the door, I calmly close it, and when the lock slides into place, I feel completely drained. Like after an adrenaline rush how your body just wants to shut down. I swear he has a bible that he uses to plot his various methods of torture. Today: psychological warfare. Next up: Who the hell knows?
I try to talk myself out of my nightly ritual because I’m so afraid I won’t be able to keep myself from doing something to Mom’s pictures after having to deal with Dad’s shit, but I just can’t. It feels like I’d be insulting her or something. All I feel tonight when I see her face is sad. I almost understand her wanting to escape. But why the hell couldn’t she talk to me about it? I could have helped. I would have skipped practice in a heartbeat if she’d asked. Why didn’t she just ask? Her depression seemed managed. The lows weren’t any worse than usual. Why didn’t I sense it coming? Was there something that happened that sent her over the edge? I just wish she’d left me some kind of clue, even like, Tyler, this is what happened that made me understand there’s only one way out. I hope you’re smarter than me. I hope you’re able to figure out another.
ELEVEN
“Statistically speaking, twenty percent of all suicides don’t leave a note.”
“It doesn’t matter how many times you throw that statistic crap at me, Doc. I’m never going to stop obsessing.”
Dr. Dave has told me this about ten thousand times. Every time he brings it up, I want to punch him in the face. It’s one of the only things that makes me hate our mandatory time together.
I don’t buy it. I mean, the statistic might be true, but I don’t think it applies to my mother. My mom was a planner. She kept a calendar of appointments a year in advance, some of which I’ve been able to find phone numbers for and cancel. The gynecologist was a fun call to make. Thanks, Mom. This is why the whole “no suicide note” thing doesn’t sit well with me. I’m convinced that either my dad found a note that made him sound like the abusive asshole he is and was afraid he would be implicated or some shit and destroyed it, or he actually killed her and made it look like a suicide. But since she was still warm when I found her, and Dad was nowhere nearby, I’m pretty sure it was option number one.
“Well, I still don’t think it applies to my mom. Like I’ve said, she was a planner. It just doesn’t . . . fit.” My leg is bouncing. My muscles are wound so tight, I’m surprised I’m able to move at all. “Can we please talk about something else?”
“We can talk about whatever you want to talk about, Tyler.”
“It creeps me out when you use my name like that, David.”
He laughs. “I know. I apologize. What do you want to talk about?”
“You know that goth chick who works at the photo place? I kind of did something.”
“I knew it. If I were a betting man—”
“If you were a betting man, you’d be totally screwed because I didn’t have sex with her.”
I give Dr. Dave the rundown about my indirect involvement in the ruining of Jordyn’s leather jacket. “The strange part is that I feel like such an asshole about the whole thing. I mean, I think I need to replace the jacket . . . I have an interview with a company that specializes in picking up dog shit for lazy bastards to make some extra cash.”
Dr. Dave sits back in his chair and grins. “Why, Tyler Blackwell, I do believe I’ve earned my first paycheck.”
“You were just hoping I’d find salvation in the scooping of dog shit?”
“I think it’s great that you feel bad.”
“You’re reveling in the fact that I feel bad? That’s pretty messed up, Doc.”
“This is huge, Tyler. You’ve allowed yourself to actually feel. To, you know, give a shit.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
His face beams in triumph but he holds his hands up. “Fair enough. Let’s talk about your anger toward your dad.”
“Nice try.” But I begrudgingly smile at him—gotta admire his determination.
? ? ?
I have to stop at home before the photo studio, so I’m a little late. Really only thirty seconds late, but I feel like I should be there early to show Henry how appreciative I am for the job. I have to wait for Jordyn to come out from the back to open the door for me.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say.
She looks at me like I have three heads as she raises the counter divider to our circular work area. I hear the whirr of her computer and hover behind her to see the schedule on her screen.