Knowing how I hate to be alone, and how I especially hate to be alone in our big house, I shudder.
“Maybe that’s why he wants to rent out the Carriage House,” I offer. “So he’s not so alone up here.”
“Maybe.”
Finn reaches over and flips on some music, and I let the thumping bass fill the silence while we sort through my clothes. Usually, our silence is comfortable and we don’t need to fill it. But today, I feel unsettled. Tense. Anxious.
“Have you been writing lately?” I ask to make small-talk. He’s always scribbling in his journal. And even though I’m the one who’d gotten it for him for Christmas a couple of years ago, he won’t let me read it. Not since he showed it to me one time and I’d freaked out.
“Of course.”
Of course. It’s pretty much all he does. Poems, Latin, nonsense… you name it, he writes it.
“Can I read any of it yet?”
“No.”
His answer is definite and firm.
“Ok.” I don’t argue with that tone of voice, because, honestly, I’m a bit nervous to see what’s in there anyway. But he does pause and turn to me.
“I don’t think I ever said thank you for not running to mom and dad. When you read it that one time, I mean. It’s just my outlet, Cal. It doesn’t mean anything.”
His blue eyes pierce me, straight into my soul. Because I know I probably should’ve gone to them. And I probably would’ve, if mom hadn’t died. But I didn’t, and everything has been fine since then.
Fine. If I think hard enough on that word, then it will be true.
“You’re welcome,” I say softly, trying not to think of the gibberish I’d read, the scary words, the scary thoughts, scribbled and crossed out, and scrawled again. Over and over. Out of all of it, though, one thing stood out as most troubling. One phrase. It wasn’t the odd sketches of people with their eyes and faces and mouths scratched out, it wasn’t the odd and dark poems, it was one phrase.
Put me out of my misery.
Scrawled over and over, filling up two complete pages. I’ve watched him like a hawk ever since. He smiles now, encouraging me to forget it, like it’s just his outlet. He’s fine now. He’s fine. If I had a journal, I’d scrawl that on the pages, over and over, to make it true.
“Hey, I’m going to go to Group again today. Do you want to come with? If not, I can go myself.”
This startles me. He normally only goes twice a week. Have I missed something? Is he worse? Is he slipping? I fight to keep my voice casual.
“Again? Why?”
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but his hands are still shaking.
“I dunno. I think it’s all the change. It makes me feel antsy.”
And shaky? I don’t ask that though. Instead, I just nod, like I’m not at all freaked out. “Of course I’ll go.”
Of course, because he needs me.
An hour later, we’ve walked down the hallways filled with our mother’s pictures, past her bedroom filled with her clothes, and are driving to town in the car she bought us. We both pointedly avoid looking at the place where she plunged over the side of the mountain. We don’t need to see it again.
Our mother is still all around us. Everywhere. Yet nowhere. Not really.
It’s enough to drive the sanest person mad. No wonder Finn wants extra therapy.
I leave him in front of his Group room, and watch him disappear inside.
I take my book to the café today for a cup of coffee. I’ve grown accustomed to the rain making me sleepy since I’ve lived in Astoria all my life. But I’ve also learned that caffeine is an effective Band-Aid.
I grab my cup and head to the back, slumping into a booth, prepared to bury my nose in my book.
I’m just opening the cover when I feel him.
I feel him.
Again.
Before I even look up, I know it’s him. I recognize the feel in the air, the very palpable energy. I felt the same thing in my dreams, this impossible pull. What the hell? Why do I keep bumping into him?