by Halli Gomez
She nodded but continued to shake. I stood up, moved to her chair, and knelt down. She put my hand on her arm, then rubbed my hair. Soon her body was still, and my tears dried.
Mom popped her head up, her eyes wide as if she suddenly remembered I wasn’t supposed to be here.
“We have to call your dad. He’ll be so worried. Do you want me to call?” Mom asked.
“And say what: ‘Surprise, it’s your long-lost ex-wife’?”
She put her head back down.
“Sorry,” I said.
He would find out in an hour when Khory and Jay compared notes at lunch. She’d call her parents for sure. Then they’d call Dad. It was probably better he heard it from me. Or from Mom. I took out my phone, brought up his number, and handed it to her. She stared at it for a minute, six ten-counts.
“It’ll be okay,” she said.
Was she telling me or trying to convince herself? She pressed the Call button. Her neck twitched faster. She tapped her fingers on the chair. The left side of her face scrunched, then the right. I should have been the one calling, but I couldn’t handle the cop side of him right now.
The tapping stopped.
“It’s not Troy. It’s Jennifer,” she said. “He’s with me.”
She stared at the table in front of the couch. I was relieved I couldn’t hear Dad through the phone, but the fact that he was quiet didn’t mean he wasn’t mad.
“In Schenectady. He took a bus . . .”
Mom described my big surprise while I sat there. I’d done it. Number nine. I found her and told her how I felt. The fire was gone. I was cried out. There was nothing left.
“We can get a flight in the morning if you don’t mind him staying overnight.” Mom glanced at me. “Is that okay, Troy?”
I nodded. I could handle one night. This wasn’t a big “let’s be a happy family again” reunion. I wasn’t nine anymore, and I definitely wasn’t clueless.
While Mom and Dad worked out the details, I got up and stretched. I had no clue about decorating besides space posters, but this wasn’t the flower-patterned-plastic-covered furniture I expected from grandparent-aged people. I guess Mom redecorated. Besides the furniture, there was a vase with flowers, a few candles, and a book. The only personal thing was a black-and-white photo of a woman dressed like she lived centuries ago.
I wandered toward the kitchen and the living room. She wasn’t big on decorations there either, maybe because she had more important things to do than spend her day making sure everything touched. There were a few wire animal statues that I assumed were someone’s idea of art, and they did pull me toward them, but not because I wanted to study the creativeness. I had the urge to bend them. The one with the cat’s tail reaching up to the sky made my fingers tingle. I squeezed my hands together and moved toward the fireplace.
My fourth-grade picture stared at me from the mantel. I looked like the photographer just told me that Darth Vader was real. I had an eye tic that year. I would open my eyes as wide as I could, then I’d squeeze them so tight I was afraid they’d pop. I’d spent weeks wondering what gelatinous material would squirt all over Justin, who sat across from me and already hated me. I touched my eyes.
There was a baby picture of me, one of Mom and me when I was about three and could still take a decent picture, and another of an older couple. Probably my grandparents.
There wasn’t anything else of interest in here. I wandered back to the kitchen. There were no pictures on the refrigerator, just a few magnets, including one of the Empire State Building, and a calendar on the side. I resisted the urge to flip to July to see if my birthday was circled.
What stood out the most was there weren’t pictures of anyone but family, and no papers or mail with anyone’s name but hers. No husband, wife, or roommate.
I went back to the sunroom. Mom held the phone to me. I took it and held it to my ear expecting this lecture to top the one after I got caught driving.
“Hi,” I said.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” Dad said. His voice was quiet, but there was nothing calm about it. “We have a lot to talk about when you get home, but for now, just spend time with your mom. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.”
I put the phone down. Mom wrapped her arm around my back and turned me toward the kitchen.
“Are you hungry? I can make you a sandwich.”
She talked at superspeed with the ticcing to go along with it. What did they talk about?
Mom motioned to a chair. I sat while she zipped around the kitchen making sandwiches with a side of fruit.
“You live alone?” I asked.
“Yes. Just me and Hitchcock, my cat.” Mom sat across from me and pushed the plate across the table.
“Isn’t it lonely?”
Her body stiffened, but her neck kept twitching and she tapped the table. Dad told her something. Was it the driving? The smoking? The note?
“No, it’s not,” she said, but she wouldn’t look at me. “I talk to people on the phone all day for work, I’m a project manager, and I have a few friends I go to dinner with.”
She smiled, but it wasn’t the kind that made you welcome or warm. It was fake. Yes, I’m lonely, but that’s how I want it. Bullshit.
“Your dad says you have a girlfriend.”
I smiled at the thought of Khory, but it faded pretty quickly. I was too unstable for her. Still, I told Mom about her past and her future. Everything except the way her eyes were like stars and her hair smelled like coconut. I had to keep some things to myself.
We talked about our lives, and underneath it all was loneliness. Staying inside, working from home, and living alone. Unless you counted a cat, but they’re so damn independent, even they don’t care about you.
I lay in the guest-room bed that night and opened my phone to the list. I checked off number nine.
1. Meet someone with Tourette syndrome—COMPLETED
2. Get my first kiss—COMPLETED
3. Be pain-free—COMPLETED
4. See the space shuttle—COMPLETED
5. Talk about Tourette in public—COMPLETED
6. Find a babysitter for my baby brother—COMPLETED
7. Give away my Tim Howard autographed picture—COMPLETED
8. Drive a car—COMPLETED
9. Talk to Mom—COMPLETED
10. Commit suicide
I pulled the white blanket over me. The weight of it held me down and comforted me at the same time. I opened my Methods to Die list. Gun, pills, scissors. Seven days left. That thought held me down and comforted me as well. Soon I would be free.
MARCH 31
Our flight was early, earlier than school. Not because she wanted to get rid of me, but because there weren’t a whole lot of options between Schenectady and Richmond. I knew; I’d helped her search last night.
I repacked my backpack and brought it into the living room. Mom stood next to an end table with a suitcase.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To Richmond with you. I thought we could spend more time together.”
Her neck twitched, and her fingers tapped the table. I tilted my head.
“Dad told you. About the note.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I was afraid you’d leave. That you would run away from here.”
I squeezed my hands, then grabbed my hair. “So you’re going to move in and help babysit me? Won’t that be uncomfortable with his wife and baby?”
She frowned. “No, I’ll be at a hotel and come by after school.”
“I don’t need a babysitter. And you’re a little late, don’t you think?”
I stared at her until she turned away. I should have told her it was a waste of time and she should save her money. I’d already checked her off. She had no place in number ten.
Mom drove us to the airport, and we trudged on the plane with the rest of the sleepy passengers. I settled into the seat by t
he window and leaned against the side, hoping to fall asleep before I caught glimpses of the strange looks from other passengers. Their lack of coffee might have disguised our neck twitches as a bizarre synchronized dance team, but when the rest of the tics started, fear would set in.
The invisible hand tickled my chest. I took a deep breath to get as much air as I could before my chest tightened. Would someone slip a note to the flight attendant saying they thought we were terrorists? Or would they just jump us? Come on people, terrorists would never draw so much attention to themselves. Really, would anyone if they could help it?
Mom mumbled under her breath. Would her vocal tic make her scream bomb? I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed my temples. I took another deep breath, but hardly any air got to my lungs.
Mom rubbed my arm. “It will be okay.”
Did she think I was afraid of the plane ride? Please, I did zero gravity. After that, a regular plane was like riding a bike. But maybe she didn’t mean the flight. Was it the passengers? Or Dad? That thought didn’t help me breathe easier.
A flight attendant came over the speaker. I focused on her words. Seat belts. Exit rows. Flotation device. Dying in a burning plane wasn’t a method I’d thought of.
The engines rumbled, and the plane moved forward. We made it this far. The throbbing in my head slowed. Air reached my lungs. Soon we were soaring through the sky. Some of the people in my area were asleep, and others had settled into their electronics. I pulled out my headphones. My plan was to zone out to music. I didn’t want to think about the lecture I knew was coming from Dad, or how I’d escape twenty-hour supervision on April 6.
“I’m so happy you came,” Mom said. “I should have gone back to see you a long time ago.”
Of course she should have, and she knew she’d messed up. I stared at the way her neck twitched and face scrunched. What would our lives have been like if she had stayed? Us against the world, or us happily hanging out at home? More likely we’d be miserable. Despite what I’d always believed, I wasn’t sure being together would have been better.
I sank into my seat and drank water while she had coffee. I listened to her mumble and tried not to do the same.
“I’m going to stay for a few days. Just to make sure you’re settled,” she said clearly.
I stared at her. Settled? It was my house. I settled in sixteen years ago.
. . . . . . . . . .
Dad didn’t just pull the car to the curb to pick us up, he met us in the visitor’s area as close to the gate as he could get. The next step would have been to show up in uniform and officially escort me off the plane. The glare he gave me made me think handcuffs weren’t out of the question.
After an incredibly awkward greeting that was half handshaking, half hugging, and a lot of stumbling around polite words, my parents and I walked to the car.
I’m good by the way, Dad. Thanks for asking. He was strangely quiet, and a nagging feeling tickled my mind. It creeped me out. I studied him and Mom, waiting for a sign. A clue. Was he sending me to live with her in New York? That wouldn’t fix anything. Of course it might have if he’d done it when I asked six years ago.
They stared straight ahead. No secret winks or hand signals. We got on the highway toward Richmond. I fell back against the seat, crossed my arms, and scowled. Dad eyed me from the rearview mirror. Finally, he remembered I was here. I kept the scowl.
“I know it wasn’t just a note. It was a whole list,” he said. “I also know what’s supposed to happen after you talked to your mother.”
I gasped and squeezed my hands. In anger. Well, it’s official, I wasn’t as good a liar as I thought. But I guess you believed people until they gave you a reason not to, and I gave Khory and Dad plenty. Just like I believed Mom would come back. Until she didn’t.
“Now I understand about pushing to have Khory babysit. Does she realize you used her?”
“I didn’t use her. I helped her. And you, too. Or would you have left Jude with some psycho nanny who locks him in his room or lets him sit in dirty diapers?”
Mom spun to me. “Troy, do not talk to your father like that. He’s trying to help.”
“You have no idea about helping or even Dad’s version of it.”
She faced front. Silent. That’s right. You may say you love me, but you’re too late.
“We are going home, so you can pack some clothes,” Dad said. I leaned forward to hear as he continued. “Then I am taking you to a psychiatric hospital. They have people you can talk to. They will also evaluate you and see about changing your medication.”
“What?” Mom and I practically screamed in sync.
“It’s for your safety. And others,” he said.
That’s his way of helping? Locking me up until strangers declare I’m safe to be out in the world?
“What do you think I’m going to do? Take everyone out?”
“I don’t want you to take yourself out either,” he said.
My insides were burning. My chest was on fire. Soon any air in there would be snuffed out.
“Did you know about this, Mom?” I cringed when I called her that. She wasn’t anything like what a mom should be. She didn’t deserve that name.
“I had no idea. We agreed I would stay with you while your Dad’s at work. Clark, we need to discuss this. I’ll make sure he’s never alone.”
Dad slapped the steering wheel and turned to her. “I’m doing what I think is best. It’s not your choice. You gave up your right for input when you walked out the door.”
“I did that for his own good.”
“And look how well he’s doing.”
“You can’t blame all this on me. You’re the one who raised him.”
It was a Ping-Pong game, and I was the ball. My head throbbed like I was really being smacked around. I rubbed my temples. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Repeat. The neck twitches, hand squeezes, and face scrunches were at superspeed. I closed my eyes and pictured the airplane, but Hardly Qualified walked in. I tried to float, but I was shoved into a police car. I couldn’t even remember the feeling of floating.
The car slowed, and Dad parked in the driveway. I kicked open the door and ran inside. The house was still. Quiet. Like it was holding its breath. Terri and Jude weren’t here. She’d taken him away so I couldn’t see him before they locked me up. Not even to say goodbye.
My hand squeezed as though Jude’s hair was wrapped around my fingers. Dad was right, I was a danger to others, and no one could counsel or medicate me out of it. No amount of time in any hospital could change that.
I stood in the hallway and debated which way to go. It was too early. I still had seven days. My hands squeezed together. I pulled my hair and searched for something to break.
A door slammed behind me. “Troy, let’s talk about this,” Mom said.
Sorry, I’m all talked out. I couldn’t wait anymore. I ran to Dad’s bedroom, closed the door and locked it, then pushed his night table in front it. I held my breath as I stepped into the closet.
The metal box was in the same place on the upper shelf. I ran my finger along the opposite shelf and found the key.
“Troy. Where are you?” Dad’s voice boomed from the other side of the door.
I grabbed the box and key, went into the bathroom, and locked the door. Dad would figure it out soon. Locked doors were an easy clue, especially for a cop.
My fingers trembled and my neck twitched as I put the key in the box’s lock.
Click.
I lifted the lid and stared at the gray metal. I ran my finger along the barrel. My neck twitches slowed down.
They pounded on the bedroom door. “Troy, open the door,” Dad yelled. “Do you hear me?”
Of course I heard. He was kind of hard to miss. I lifted the gun out and checked for bullets. Loaded. Of course. It was for protection, and what kind of help was an unloaded gun?
The pounding continued. Mom begged me to open the door. I held the gun in my hand a
nd slid down the wall.
A loud bang shook the bathroom door. He tried to kick open the bedroom door. “Damn. Troy, open this door or else,” Dad demanded.
Or else what? It was almost comical at this point. His threats, his plan. They were nothing compared to mine.
Another bang turned into a crash. Their voices were louder. Right outside the bathroom door. My neck twitched, and pain shot down my back. I gasped and for once didn’t bother to count to ten.
“The gun’s gone,” Dad said.
The grip of the gun fit perfectly in my hand. I put the barrel to my head.
“Jennifer, move away from the door,” Dad said.
“Stay out. I have the gun to my head.”
“Okay. We won’t come in. Please just don’t do anything,” Mom said.
Her voice was soft. Was she really there, or was this all a dream?
“Clark, leave us. Let me talk to him,” Mom said.
The bathroom door moved.
“Don’t come in!” I scooted to the corner, faced the door, and brought my knees up.
“I’m not. I’m not coming in.” She let out a big breath. “I’m just sitting against the door. I told your dad to leave so we can talk. Ticcer to ticcer.”
We already talked, and it was pretty damn revealing. Jude would grow up and leave. Khory would experience life no matter what her dad said. And my future was pain, loneliness, and heartless people. I rested my arm on my knee. The gun was heavy.
“It sucks,” Mom said. “It sucks, and no one can understand us without walking in our shoes. Not your dad, not your girlfriend.”
Khory’s face floated in front of me, her hair falling over one eye. She was so strong. After everything that happened, still fighting to survive. I tried it her way, but I wasn’t that strong. Living was for the ones who wanted to go out and make a difference. What good was a person who sat home all day? I was just wasted air.
I pressed the metal to my temple. It wasn’t as cold as I thought it’d be. Maybe because it had been resting in its cloth-covered box. Like a coffin.
“I remember when Khory’s sister was killed,” Mom said. “The story made the national news. It was our city, and someone your age. I couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to lose a child. I don’t ever want to know.”
