We both look around the small lobby. A short, stuffy man with a bigger personality than life comes through the back door. It smells of old things and pot roast. Being that it’s almost winter time, I assume many working families do a lot of Crock-Pot meals, and I also assume this man is a father and a husband with a side of the creep factor. Balding with a comb-over to suffice for the lack of hair, short and pudgy fingers, he pushes his strands of hair to the side.
“Folks, welcome to Garden Inn. Do you have a reservation?” the man says in a strong Massachusetts accent.
Ethan takes the lead. “We don’t actually. Do you have any rooms available?”
I take in Ethan’s scent as I stand close behind him—not purposely, but when he stepped forward to speak with the man behind the counter, he brushed against me, and I stayed put.
Staring at his back in his gray T-shirt, I try my best to breathe.
“Hmm. The only thing I have is a non-smoking room with a king bed,” the man behind the counter says. Blinks. Stares from behind his thick glasses.
Non-smoking. That’s weird. And I think back to a time when it was acceptable to smoke in restaurants, motel lobbies, airports.
I lean into Ethan and whisper, “We’re friends now. Friends can share a room, right?”
“We’ll take the room.” Ethan gives him his credit card, and they exchange awkward words.
The man makes an odd humming sound as he waits for the credit card to process. It’s between a whistle and a hum. The tune is familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe a scary movie. It makes the hairs on my neck stand at attention.
Quickly, once the exchange is complete, Ethan grabs an actual room key—not a card, a room key—and we set out to find room fourteen.
“It’s the last room on the right,” the man calls out behind us before the door shuts and hisses.
“Was that creepy?” I ask Ethan once we’re out of earshot.
“He’s harmless.”
“How do you know he’s not some sort of serial killer, and this isn’t the new Bates Motel?”
Ethan laughs. “Are you sure you’re a literary agent and not a writer?”
We reach our room. Ethan slides the key in the door and gives it a jiggle, and the door opens.
“I’ll go in first, just in case there’s a killer inside.” Ethan looks at me, smiles.
“It’s a good thing it’s daylight, Ethan, or you’d better believe you’d be carrying my ass in this room right now.”
We’re both quiet. We don’t say what we’re thinking.
“Friends carry friends,” I say to clear up the sexual tension before we enter the room. My breathing becomes labored.
In the room, we set down our bags.
“It’s nice.”
“It needs updating,” Ethan says, setting down his bag and sitting on the edge of our bed.
Our bed.
He pulls out his phone. “Texting Maria.”
I nod, sitting down next to him.
Breathe, Bryce.
The outside of our thighs touch. I run my hands along my jeans to clear away the sweat. The nerves. The residual effects of what Ethan Casey does to me.
I grab my phone from my purse and text Alex.
Me: So, Ethan and I are in Brookline, Massachusetts. I’ll explain later. Just wanted to let you know in case we don’t come home.
Alex: What?
Me: Staying at the Bates Motel. Only it’s called the Garden Inn. :) Norman checked us in—though he looks a bit different.
Alex: Your jokes are dumb. They aren’t funny, just so you know.
Me: Kidding. It was his mother, Norma. LOL!
Alex: I hate you right now.
Me: Kidding again. All is well. Fill you in when we get home. Ethan had to take care of a few things, and I decided to come along.
Alex: Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.
Me: Trust me, Alex the Nun, I won’t.
Alex: Sigh. So not funny.
Me: Love you.
Alex: Love you, too. Call me later.
I set my phone down and look at Ethan’s screen. “Has she responded?”
“Not yet. Are you hungry?” he asks as I stand, looking up at me with his dark brown eyes.
“I can always eat. Are you?”
He shakes his head. “No, not really.”
“Nerves?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Liar. Do you know it isn’t good to lie to your friends?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“Were you even a Boy Scout, Ethan?”
“I was.”
He stands as his phone dings, our bodies into the dating space and not the friend space. A space I’m not willing to step back out of because I like the proximity of his body to mine. I like the fact that I can reach out and touch his stomach if I need to. What I don’t like are the feelings associated with the touch, the ones that make my thoughts spin and my heart twist.
Ethan breaks eye contact with me and looks down at his phone, the saving grace that’s now become the buffer between our bodies and our humanly needs. “She’s with Robby at Brookline Hospital. We’ll meet her there.”
When he speaks these words, things change with our bodies, and between us, it becomes need-based. Meaning, I think he needs me just as I need him. The sexual tension from us is gone, and maybe it’s more that he needs me to be there for his heart. I can also do that. Though these words aren’t spoken, as if he’s opened up the circle of trust, ever so cautiously, I want to be there when the pieces fall.
“Let’s go.”
Ethan locks the door behind us with the room key.
We ride in silence as his phone plays out the directions to the hospital.
“Arriving at Brookline Hospital,” his phone says.
We get out of the truck, and when we meet at the front of the truck, feeling his tension, I stop him from walking into the hospital. I take my hand and put it to his chest. I don’t ask him if he’s nervous; I feel it. I also don’t ask if this is okay—me touching him in this way; instead, I quietly slip my hand into his, and we walk into Brookline Hospital. There are no words that will take his fear. No words that will allow his heart to rest peacefully. Sometimes, we just have to feel through all the shit.
Ethan looks down at his phone in his free hand. “Room 424,” he says.
We study the sign ahead that tells families and friends which direction to go—surgical unit, intensive care unit, patient rooms, MRI center.
Floor four is the last stop at the top. My hand in his tightens, trying to will the fear away. It takes forever to reach room 424. Before we enter his room, my stomach is in knots, but I don’t let myself hesitate, for his sake.
There’s a drawn drape that doesn’t allow us to see Robby when we first walk in. Maria is sitting at his bedside, knitting.
“Oh, Ethan. I’m so glad you are here.” Maria stands from her chair. Her smooth black-and-gray hair is tight in a bun. A small, simple gold cross hangs from her neck.
Ethan reaches out to hug Maria, and I gently pull my hand from his, smiling at her.
“Maria, this is my friend Bryce.”
She takes my hands in hers. “It is so nice to meet you, Bryce.” Maria’s hands are warm, soft. “Ethan did not tell me he had a girlfriend.”
Neither of us speaks to correct her. That we’ve had sex. That he’s taken my body places in the dark and in the light that only warn my heart. I came along, so he wouldn’t have to do this alone, as a friend, and if I’m being honest, so I could be with him.
“It’s really nice to finally meet you, Maria. Ethan has spoken highly of you and Robby.”
When Robby’s name passes my lips, Maria’s demeanor changes. Remorse? Guilt? Sadness, yes.
She leads us to his bedside, and we’re not prepared for what we see.
I haven’t seen Robby in person or in pictures. I’ve only been told stories. So, it doesn’t completely catch me off guard when I see the head wrapping, the swollen eyes, the t
ubes going in and out of his body. His pale complexion. Immediately, I put my hand into Ethan’s. But there’s no outwardly reaction from Ethan when he sees Robby in this state. I know it’s because of Maria. I know it’s because of his military training; he’s seen a lot worse. This is a snapshot of a life potentially saved. A healing body—not one in the field that’s been left dead. Not one without arms or legs. Not a friend blown to pieces.
“How’s he doing?” he asks Maria.
Maria is silent. She looks at Ethan and to me and then to her son. “Robby had just come home from seeing Madalyn.” Maria looks at me. “His daughter. He had been over the moon about seeing her. It had been a while since he saw her last. I’m not sure what happened, but something did. Because, when I went to his room to tell him dinner was ready …” There’s an extremely long pause.
I want to reach out and touch Maria’s shoulder to console her shattered heart..
Broken and put back together.
Broken and put back together.
Broken and put back together.
Broken.
Broken.
Broken.
Put back together.
Broken.
Again.
I know what that feeling is like.
“I found him, and there was a lot of blood.” And that’s all she says.
It is amazing what a mother endures when she has children. Maria is still here, by her son’s side. Through his addiction, through loss of his own family, attempted suicide, she still stands. It makes me think of my mother’s love for Ryker.
Ethan gently lets go of my hand and walks to Robby’s side. The one he’s stood next to during times I’m sure they’d rather have both died from than fought.
“Hey, Rodriguez,” he whispers, trying to sit next to him, unsure of where to sit with all the tubes. He finds a spot. “You’ve done yourself in good, soldier.”
I excuse myself from the room, so Ethan can have his time. Maria follows me.
Although it’s midday, it feels like this day has lasted an eternity.
My eyes meet the cheap overhead lights in the sterile hallway. I rest my backside on the railing that lines the wall.
Maria does the same.
We stand here in silence. The lights flicker, giving us a much-needed distraction. It’s past noon, but from the way the hospital feels, looks, the light, it seems more like the early morning hours, before the rooster takes its perch or late at night. There isn’t a busy nurses’ station or traffic from family members paying visits to their loved ones.
The hospital is desolate, like this moment. I look at Maria and want to ask her if she’s all right, if there’s anything I can do, but I know what she’s feeling. The answer will be no. The answer will always be no—unless you have a cure for addiction. Then, yes, please, come in and give him the medication, the treatment he’ll need to survive this disaster, the tornado of wreckage he’s created.
Please.
I speak, “One thing, I am tired of feeling was alone. A disease that wraps itself around happy families, disguises itself with casualness, with fun. Like a snake, it slithers quietly, sometimes unnoticed. Our family only wants to see the good and give well-thought excuses as to why they do what they do.” I pause for a moment and stare at my feet. “It’s the only disease that will tell your person, your family member, they don’t have it. That their solution is to use. And then? The miracle happens; the solution stops working. Your family member can’t get the high that they need to numb themselves. They will want an end. They’ll want an end to the chaos they’ve created because they’ll begin to see the wreckage they’ve caused. They’ll try to numb again, and it won’t work. Again and again and again, they’ll try.
“Then, the jumping-off place—where Robby was or is. He’ll want to die because he can’t see his life as a good one. He’ll see it for the train wreck he’s become. He won’t see the good in himself, just the war he’s fought to get to where he is today. Life on life’s terms seems too much.” I pause again, only for a second or two, to pray that the right words keep coming.
“I feel bad. I wish my brother would just die. It would make his life easier. He’ll have been out of pain, anguish. I feel like an awful sister for thinking that. My mom keeps making him sicker. Enabling him. Picking up the pieces when he falls. Giving him warm food, a bed, a shower. He needs to reach a bottom, and she isn’t allowing him to reach it. Still. To this day. My brother uses on a daily basis. And, every time he calls, she’s there to help,” I sigh and stare up at the overhead light. “I don’t know if any of this makes sense, Maria, and I’m not sure why this information is coming from me, but I guess it’s information that I wish had been given to me early on in Ryker’s disease.” I nod.
“Where did you learn all this?” A single tear falls from her eye.
“Al-Anon. It’s a program for family members who have addicts and alcoholics in their lives.”
I see the anguish in her eyes. The worry, the hurt, the sadness. I’m not a mother yet, so I can only imagine what this feels like for her and my own mother. For some reason, I’m able to give compassion, empathy to Maria. Why can’t I give it to Trudy Hayes?
“My heart is so sad. I try to put out a brave front, but it just keeps getting harder. I-I prayed Robby would find peace in whatever way he could.” Another tear falls. “Even if he had to die.” She bites her bottom lip, pulling at her gold cross, and closes her eyes.
Maria doesn’t need an answer. She needs someone just to listen.
“In the beginning, after he came home from the war, I made everything for him. I did everything for him. I thought it was an easier way of helping him come back to life.” She looks down at her cross. “Do you have kids, Bryce?”
“No.”
Maria shakes her head. “It’s a love I’d never known the strength of until the strength was put to the test. When my husband died. When Robby went to war and came home a different person. But, as a mother, you don’t want to see things. You don’t want to believe things. So, you tell yourself things like, Maybe if I had just done this when Robby was little, or, If I had just been a better mother. You try to blame yourself for his wrongdoings. Try to make sense of them. You still see the little boy, the toothless one, trying to figure out how to ride a bicycle.” She toys with her fingers. “I feel responsible for his heartbreak. For his addiction.” Her chocolate-colored eyes meet mine. “I created him. God gave him to me. Why can’t I make him well?”
Tears start to well up in my eyes.
Don’t you dare cry, Bryce. It’s not your turn.
The sudden impact of what my mother has been going through with her own son hits me. My mother and Maria are both fighting the impossible.
“Your heart tells you one thing, and then your brain, even with reservation, follows the heart. Even if it’s not the right choice. What feels good isn’t the right decision,” I say.
“Yes.” Maria barely smiles. “I have faith that God has him. And, for whatever reason, I keep trying to interfere with that,” she says, pulling on her cross again.
“Maybe,” I whisper, “maybe faith wins.”
Twenty-Two
Ethan
His mouth is barely open with a tube going down his throat. If Rodriguez could see himself right now, he’d be pissed. Mad that his mother has to see this. Mad at himself that he couldn’t die right.
The one thing he’s always cherished, before his daughter came along, is his mother. Talked about her. Told stories about his upbringing, proud of the hard-working woman she was.
Robby’s face is so swollen; it doesn’t resemble Robby at all.
We had to see this coming, I tell myself.
Toward the end, Robby lived recklessly. I’m not sure if he wanted to die, but I know living, for him, was much harder than most.
One of the machines he’s hooked up to beeps.
One beep.
Two beeps.
Pause.
One beep.
&nbs
p; Two beeps.
Stop.
I don’t say anything, not sure he can hear me or what my words might sound like in his head. But I think about our deployments.
We were moved from one area in Fallujah to another. It was our second deployment together. Off in the distance, we heard gunshots, which wasn’t out of the norm. That was when Robby was starting to fade to black. He leaned back, and out of his fatigues, he pulled out a flask.
“What are you doing?” The M27 rifle—Lila, he called it—rested on his shoulder.
He took a long swig, watching me while seconds passed by. “Gettin’ right.” He screwed the lid back on.
We never drank and handled our weapons. I’d seen him drink hard outside the uniform, without the gun, in civilian clothes and wallet full of money. I’d even seen him get to the point of falling down but never this. This drew the line in the sand. It separated the heavy drinkers and the alcoholics. It separated the controlled drinkers and the uncontrollable drinkers. I wasn’t sure Robby had a choice anymore—whether to drink or not to drink.
The shit we saw over there, we will never forget. Ever. Ingrained, imprinted on our minds like a tattoo amid the color of regret. Robby’s best attempt at freedom was to drink it away. I must admit, from my own experience, the alcohol works for a while, and then it doesn’t. The chaos gets louder. The desperation grows, and then you’re stuck.
Another loud beep from one of the numerous machines sounds, and I’m brought back to the dark hospital room, alone with someone who resembles my friend Robby.
War. This—Robby—is what war looks like right now. Like a disease, it spreads, eating away at our unconscious mind in hopes that it will take us down to ashes.
I feel a hand on my back. The machine beeps again.
“The machine is beeping,” I say to the hand on my back—or the human attached to the hand. It’s hard for me to come back, to be coherent in the present moment.
The hand slides from my back and uses its fingers to coax my hand up, which is balled at my waist.
“It’s okay,” the voice says.
Slowly, my fist opens, and the hand gently slides in. The skin is soft in my palm.
Magnolia Road Page 15
