by T. J. Klune
“How so?”
“I was hurting. The drugs helped me to not hurt. It was very self-serving.”
“Such things usually are,” he says with no recrimination in his voice. “Do you think you would have stopped on your own?”
“Hard to say.”
“Try.”
I sigh. “Maybe? Probably. I like to think I would have.”
“But?”
“But I don’t know. I know better than what my actions show.”
He smiles at me. “I know, Tyson. You always did. I think maybe you just lost your way for a little bit.”
“That’s what Bear said.”
“He’s smart, that one.”
“Sometimes.”
Eddie smiles. “And I know how hard you tend to be on yourself. But you have to consider that what you see as selfish might in fact be grief.”
“Over?”
He shrugs. “You tell me.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Think about it, Tyson. You’ve been through a lot in your life, much more than most people your age have.”
“It hasn’t been all bad,” I counter. “I’ve had Bear and Otter. And the others.”
“You have. And that’s good. But people have still left, Tyson, and I don’t know that you’ve properly dealt with that.”
I snort. “Is this some kind of reverse psychology? You try to get some kind of rise out of me only to have me collapse and vomit emotionally all over you? You know me better than that.”
He grins at me. “Saw through that, did you?”
“It was pretty clear.”
“Then let’s try for full transparency, shall we?”
“Do your worst.”
Oh, you’re fucked, it says.
Probably, I think back.
“I don’t think you’ve properly dealt with your mother leaving. I don’t think you’ve properly dealt with the death of Mrs. Paquinn. I don’t think you’ve properly dealt with the fact that you loved someone who you thought couldn’t return your affections. I think all of this, coupled with your propensity to hide behind your intelligence and your ability to act far beyond your years, has left you susceptible to your so-called earthquakes. I think you overthink things to the point that it becomes your primary focus. You see your behavior as selfish and self-serving, but I see it as extraordinarily single-minded, to the point of obsession. Not with the subject of your thoughts, but the idea of them, their aspects, and everything right or wrong with said subject. You’re slightly manipulative—not in a malicious way, but such that you’re able to hide certain things about yourself so that others don’t see them. Derrick. Oliver. Dominic. You act like an adult because you’ve been forced to since a very young age. You were never able to have a childhood like most given your situation and the singular drive you felt to protect your brother. You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders because you believe that’s what you’re supposed to do. And the panic disorder, whether it stemmed from a neurological issue or an emotional one, was something you could latch on to, and then came the Klonopin. And for the first time in your life, you thought, why not? Why not let it go, just for a little while? Why not let things slide with the blurred edges? You decided to take an easy out, just to see what would happen. And when you were called on it, you went back to the way you were before. That singular drive. It explains how you were able to knock the addiction so quickly after being on the medication for almost a year.” He sits back in his chair. “Is that transparent enough for you?”
“Like a punch in the face,” I tell him through the thunder in my ears.
“I wouldn’t normally say something like that. But I figure it’s time someone did. And regardless of what you think, you’re strong enough to hear it. Sometimes, tough love is what a person needs in order to clear their head.”
I’m incredulous. “That’s your idea of tough love?”
“Scary, isn’t it?” He sounds amused.
“Terrifying.”
“And yet, how accurate was it?”
“I don’t know if I can even respond to that.”
“So, very accurate, then.”
“Well, it’s not every day I get told I’m a manipulative junkie.”
He rolls his eyes. “Is that really what you took away from all that?”
“No,” I grumble. “I also took away that you’re a bit of a jerk.”
Eddie laughs. “You’ll thank me for it later.”
“I dream about her. Sometimes.” It’s out before I can stop it.
“Oh?” is all he says.
“That’s normal, right?”
“You’re asking me what normal is?”
I look down at my hands. “Right. Probably not the best question.”
“Normal is boring,” Eddie says. “I couldn’t imagine a drabber existence.”
“I could go for drab right now. It’d be a nice change from the crazy.”
“You’d get bored, I think.”
I sigh. “Maybe.”
“Are they bad dreams? You mentioned nightmares before.”
“Yes. Well, most of the time.”
He says nothing.
“Sometimes it’s her coming back. Like she did. She’s standing at the door and she’s smiling, and I think how I know her and I don’t. And I’m paralyzed. I can’t move, even though I know I should be running. I can’t move and I can’t… well. I can’t breathe.”
“That’s when she told Derrick she was fighting him for custody?”
“Yeah. Sort of. It got more convoluted than that.” Which is an understatement, of course. I didn’t find out until much later that she’d come back yet again when Otter and Mrs. Paquinn were in the hospital. I thought I’d be angry that Bear and Otter had kept that from me, and there were a few moments that I was. But when Bear told me what had been said between him and Julie McKenna, the anger melted away. How anyone could think that Bear Thompson is anything but the strongest man alive is beyond me. “They’re not all bad, though.”
“The dreams?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because there were… good parts. To her. I think.”
Eddie looks surprised. “There were?”
I almost feel embarrassed at this, that I should have any good memories of a woman so horrible as to leave her kids behind to fend for themselves, only to return to try and wreck their lives at the promise of money from a perfect stranger. How could there be anything good about someone like that?
But there is. There was. Once, she took me to the beach, and she and I flew a kite together, and she laughed and said, “Look how high it is! Look how high up the kite is, Ty!” And it was. It was as high as I’d ever seen it go before. And the way she had smiled at me, like I was the greatest thing she’d ever seen. And the way she had laughed with me, like she didn’t have a single care in all the world.
Once, she made cookies and let me lick the spatula.
Once, she held me in her arms after I’d fallen and scraped my leg.
Once, she sat with me when I was sick, singing a song in a low voice.
Once, she pushed me on a swing as it started to rain.
Julie McKenna is not a good person. She made choices so reprehensible that it negates anything that could be considered motherly about her. I hate her for what she did to me. I hate her for what she did to Bear. And I hate her for what she tried to do after our family had finally found some even footing, some solid ground to stand upon. I hate her for all that.
But there was one time when I was five, shortly before she left, when she looked at me and said, “You know I love you, right?”
I was only five, but I already knew she wasn’t much of a mother. She was drunk a lot of the time and would stay locked in her room when her own earthquakes rolled over her and buried her in a landslide of depression. She would stay out until early morning and come stumbling home, reeking of Jim Beam and Marlboro Reds, waking Bear and
me up. He would get up, telling me to stay in bed, and he’d close the door behind him, and there’d be raised voices as he told her off, because how could she do this to us? To me? How could she take money from Bear, money he was saving for school? How could she leave us alone for days at a time, when she knew Bear had to go to school and there was no one else to watch me? What kind of mother was she?
I knew this. I knew all of this about her. I did.
But I was five years old, and she looked at me and said, “You know I love you, right?” Already she was planning to leave. Already she was saying good-bye, in her own way. Already she was looking at her five-year-old son, knowing she was going to leave him behind. She knew this. All of this.
But she said what she said, and I remember a feeling in my chest like a sun bursting, because could I remember a time before when she’d ever said that to me? Could I remember ever hearing those words from her?
I couldn’t.
I thought that it was meant to be the start of something wonderful. That she had climbed out of whatever hole she’d dug for herself and she was going to be my mom and Bear and I could be her sons and we would make her so proud. She’d be so damn proud of us, and I’d hear it from her all the time.
You know I love you, right?
I smiled at her.
I love you too, I said.
And she laughed. I laughed with her.
A few weeks later, she was gone.
“She was complex,” I tell Eddie now. “I don’t think even she knew how complex she was. You can say what you will about her, and I’ve said most of it myself at one point or another, but I still think there was some good about her.”
“You truly believe this,” Eddie says.
“Yeah.”
He shakes his head. “Just when I think I’ve got you figured out, you throw me for a loop.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”
“Have you thought about getting in contact with her?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Bear, for one. He’d be pissed.”
“Forget Derrick for a second,” Eddie says. “Is that it?”
I shake my head slowly. “Because no matter what good I think there might be, she still left.”
“Even if she had her reasons?”
“Nothing she could say could justify what she did.”
“You sure?”
I glare at him. “You’re damn right I am.”
“So that door is closed.”
“Firmly.” That feels like a lie.
“And what about the other doors?”
“What other doors?”
He waits.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Indeed,” he says.
“How’s Dominic?” he asks.
“Fuck you, Eddie,” I reply weakly.
“Grief, Tyson. It all comes back down to grief. Your mother. Mrs. Paquinn. Dominic. Not all can be fixed, but some of it can.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
He shrugs. “There’s only so much I can do. I can lend an ear and give you fancy words like ‘regression’ and ‘repressed,’ but it’s up to you to do the work. Can I tell you a secret, Tyson?”
“What?”
“Therapy is bullshit. I sit here and listen to you and offer you pretty words of advice, but it’s up to you to figure it out. And that’s what happens. Most of the time. I just let you think I’m helping you. But really, it’s you who needs to help yourself. I can teach you the art of breathing, Tyson. But it’s up to you to actually do it.”
“And you think I can?”
He laughs. “More than anyone else I have ever had sitting across from me in this office. There’s something special about you, whether you know it or not. You have such strength in you that I refuse to believe you’ll be anything but the greatest man you can possibly be. Life is never easy. There are the bumps in the road that sometimes turn into mountains. But you’re a born climber, and I promise you that no matter how big the obstacle in your way, you’ll overcome it. There is no alternative.”
“No pressure.”
“None whatsoever.”
I think hard. “Gay ducks, huh?”
He grins at me. “Probably strung out right now in their quack den.”
And then I tell him the story of Dominic and me. He listens, as he always does, and when I’m finished, he gives me some very simple advice.
He’s a smart one, that Eddie Egan. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
DOMINIC’S NOT home when I park in front of his house. That’s okay. I can do the creepy stalker thing and wait. It could be hours, I know, but this is important. I’ll wait all damn night if I have to.
I don’t wait long.
He pulls into the driveway. Sees me sitting near the curb. He doesn’t hesitate. Opens the passenger door. Gets in with me. Looks over at me. He smells so good.
He doesn’t speak. Just watches me. I know he’s waiting for me.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, yourself,” he says back.
“You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
I nod. “Ben?”
“With his mom. I got all the time in the world, Ty.”
I start the car and pull away from the curb.
It’s minutes later that I say, “Dom?”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah?”
“I missed you. Every day.” With every single piece of my heart.
I can hear the overwhelming relief in his broken voice when he says, “I missed you too.”
We drive on.
17. Where Tyson Meets the Man Who Becomes Helena Handbasket
AND SO it began again, him and me. After years of nothing, a fragile connection made, a hand extended by the one who was in the wrong. Honestly, I thought it would be much harder than it was. But the ease with which he slipped back into my life made it feel like nothing wrong had ever happened to begin with. Thank God it only took me four years to figure it out.
That isn’t to say that there hasn’t been some awkwardness. You can’t break off a friendship as close as ours for as long as we had it with no closure on either side and suddenly have everything be as it was before. Moments come up when I’m speaking with him where I go to remind him of something that happened in the past four years, only to remember that he wouldn’t know about it, at least not from me. Or him telling me something about Ben that happened last year and Otter laughing about it, saying he remembered it.
There’s history that neither of us is privy to in our own memories, but only hear as it is told by others. And I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t been a struggle, because it has. The Dominic I knew, the shy gentle giant of a man, is gone, replaced by a stalwart and hardened cop and father. Sure, he looks the same, if a bit bigger. Sure, he sounds the same, the gravel-filled voice. But there’s a fire in his eyes that I don’t ever remember seeing, and an almost grim set to his mouth. He smiles, sometimes. At Ben. And Stacey. Every now and then he smiles at me, but it’s a rarity. It isn’t like it used to be.
I have to stop thinking that it will be. These days nothing is how it used to be. Not all of it is my fault. Not all of it is bad. I think for the longest time I’d forgotten I was actually alive, much less that I was capable of contributing to society as I should have been. I’d become a sort of shadow of my former self. Sure, I still talked big (and a lot), and I laughed and loved and lived, but it wasn’t with my whole heart like I know I used to do. But now that Dom’s here again, I… I don’t know. It doesn’t seem fair to put all of that on him. For either of us. I shouldn’t be so dependent on him to make me whole. He shouldn’t be expected to carry the weight of my burdens on his shoulders. That’s not how friendships work. Each must give the same amount and take away from it the same. That’s the only way people can survive with each other.
So, yes. Any other thoughts I may have had about him are over and done. I�
�ve moved on with that part of my life, because, really, I’m just happy to have him in my life again. I’m learning it’s all I should ever have really wanted to begin with. I didn’t know that then. But I’m understanding it now.
I may be the smartest almost-twenty-year-old ecoterrorist in the world, but I can be pretty fucking stupid sometimes.
And I’m sorry about that.
Why, you ask?
Because I know what you’re thinking. I know what type of story you’re hoping this is going to turn out to be. You think now that Dom and I are on the right path again that one day, he’ll look at me the same way I’ve looked at him and something will click in his head and he’ll say, Oh, there you are. There you are and I don’t know why I didn’t see it there before. It’s okay, though, because I see it now and I’ll see it every day for the rest of my life.
This isn’t that kind of story.
And I think I’m okay with that. Or, rather, I will be, with time. I have the most important thing back: my friend. And I’d rather have that part of him than nothing at all.
That’s important, too, don’t you think?
“NO,” COREY says, sitting next to me as we stare at my laptop. “I don’t think that’s important too. As a matter of fact, I think that’s a load of manure you’re trying to sell there, and you should know I’m not going to buy your shit.”
“Oh good Lord,” I mutter.
He rolls his eyes. “My God, could you sound like any more of a sanctimonious prig?” He lowers his voice to attempt to imitate me. It’s not very good, but only because he’s a big fat jerk. “Oh, my name is Tyson, and I’m just so happy to have the friendship again that I’ve forgotten that I want Dom to pile-drive his wiener into my butt. Oh, it’s all about the friendship now and blah, blah, blah, and I won’t do anything more about it because I’m too chickenshit.”
“Are you finished?” I ask him dryly.
“Possibly. I haven’t quite figured out yet if I want to hug you because you look like a lost puppy or if I want to strangle you because you look like a rabid skunk.”
I frown at him. “You shouldn’t strangle any animal. Even if it’s a rabid skunk. Did you know that every day, thousands of animals are—”
