That’s part of what makes it hurt so much. I just never saw it coming.
I set the photos aside and reach for the one last thing Mom ever left me. And no, it’s not a note. She couldn’t even be bothered to leave an explanation. Oh, no—can’t give Tyler closure. Can’t leave him a note telling him I’m sorry. Nope. The only thing left of hers is the razor blade that ended her life. Nothing flashy, nothing special. Just a little silver rectangular straight-razor replacement blade.
I don’t know why I grabbed it. I’m not even sure if it really is the blade or just one of the others in its pack of ten or whatever. The protective plastic container was on the edge of the tub, which, in the chaos of pulling her out and trying to stop the bleeding while dialing 911, I stepped on, scattering all the others in the mess of blood on the floor. It still had her blood on it. I wish now that I hadn’t cleaned it off. I know that sounds morbid, but it’s all I have of her.
I run my finger along the blade lightly enough so it doesn’t cut me. It’s still sharp. Probably its only use was to tear through the flesh of her wrists.
Exsanguination.
That’s the term the EMT used. It sounds so much better than: “She slit her damn wrists and bled out.”
TWO
I’m intercepted by the school guidance counselor before I even make it to first period. I follow her bouncing yellow ponytail to her little office area, past all the pitying looks from the office staff.
Mrs. Ortiz sits across from me, her head tilted caringly to one side, her eyes practically welling up. My stomach churns. I think my sausage and eggs might make a reappearance all over her desk. The thought forces the side of my mouth to pull up.
“How are you, Tyler?”
“‘Full of vexation come I,’” I mumble.
A look of confusion briefly overtakes her look of pity.
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream? It’s really good. You should totally read it. It’s by some British guy.”
She smiles, tolerating me. And then presses on. “Are you seeking help?”
As if you’re in any position to help, lady. I shrug.
“Tyler, honey”—her pity-face is back—“it’s okay to ask for help. I can recommend—”
“I already have a shrink.”
She tilts her head the other way. She doesn’t believe me.
“David Adelstein,” I say.
She pulls her eyebrows together like she’s deep in thought, like all shrinks, therapists, and fucking high school guidance counselors know each other and she’s trying to place him.
“I would give you his number, but . . .” You’d have to torture it out of me.
She straightens in her chair. She’s obviously annoyed but trying to keep her concerned-for-a-student-whose-mom-killed-herself face.
“I understand Mrs. Hickenlooper asked you to leave class yesterday.”
I nod.
“Would you like to elaborate?”
“Can’t say that I would.”
Her jaw clenches ever so slightly. “Well, with your, um, situation, we’re willing to be a little more lenient than usual, but please try not to push your luck.”
“Understood,” I say, like sir, yes sir.
“Tyler, why don’t you tell me a little about what happened with . . . you know. Maybe it’ll help me understand how to better help you.” She has the stupid caring look in her eyes again.
“My mom killed herself. I don’t know what more you want to know.”
“Where were you when she . . . ?”
Jesus. She can’t even say the words. “Football. Summer training.”
“How did you find out?”
“My dad.” This is a lie. But I’ll never tell her that I came home from training to grab my knee brace and some Advil but I was out of Advil and went up to Mom’s bathroom to grab some when I found her floating lifeless and naked in a tub of pink water, blood still trickling from one wrist to the giant puddle of red on the floor. Nor will I tell her that I scooped my mom out of the tub and tried to revive her. That she was still warm. That the bath water was still steaming. That if I had come home five minutes, or three, or who knows how many minutes earlier, I might have stopped her, saved her. Only one other person knows all this: Dr. Adelstein. Only a handful of other people even know that I found her: the EMTs, the cops, the social worker, and Dad. I can’t take the way people treat me now, and if everyone knew I found her, they’d treat me . . . Well, I’d probably just have to kill myself.
Mrs. Ortiz has been talking while I’ve been zoning out, but I’m done pretending to listen.
“Good talk,” I say, standing. “This was definitely not a waste of time.” I’m already halfway out the door when she calls after me to stop in tomorrow to “touch base.”
Yeah. I’ll be sure to do that.
? ? ?
Coach is walking toward me, and it’s too late to pretend I don’t see him. Not that I’m avoiding him. Okay, maybe I’m avoiding him a little.
“Blackwell.” He slaps his hand on my shoulder.
“Coach.”