by Rylee Swann
Jayson opens his mouth to speak.
But I don’t let him. “I can’t do this. I can’t.” My voice breaks on the last word.
Turning, I rush from the café. This time I don’t look back.
I wish I’d driven. Now I have to run through the streets to get home as fast as possible. Once there, I throw myself onto my couch, ready for the explosion of agony and waterworks.
Tears flow down my cheeks, but like a soft rain, not a torrential thunderstorm. Pain radiates from my chest but it’s hollow, distant, like a person’s name you can’t quite remember. You used to know it well, used to carry its comfort on the tip of your tongue like an old blanket on a cold winter day, but it’s like it’s not there. Gone. Erased from my brain like a computer file deleted. Yet, traces always remain.
I don’t like this. I’d almost rather experience the intense pain and then begin the healing process. This…this ghostly aftertaste. It frightens me.
Damnit but he looked…sounded so good.
A memory of us surfaces—one that brings a faint smile to my lips—and I push it away.
But I wonder how many times I’ll be able to push the past away with Jayson so close again.
6
Jayson
In silence, I sit while Dee throws back her chair. Grabs her bag. Stands in a jerking movement and storms off.
She doesn’t look back.
I’m left wondering what her expression meant as she said she couldn’t do this. Anger? Loathing? Fear? Probably a little of all three.
I want with desperate need to follow her. Grab her by the shoulders, spin her around, and take her into my arms. Hold her until I can find the words to make her believe how much I’ve changed, how much I love her. How we belong together.
I don’t.
Instead, I sit here crushed but really, what did I expect? For her to fall at my feet crying for joy that I’d come back into her life?
Hell no.
That’s not Dee. That is not what I want.
I remember the day she left. I begged her to stay, unmanly tears ready to fall as we stood at the entrance to our apartment in Canada. Snow had fallen the night before and she was bundled up in her white winter coat, keys in hand. I might or might not have been wearing pants. She’d already packed up her car while I was passed out drunk, and now she was ready to leave. For good.
She shook her head, her eyes glassy with tears too, her voice shaking when she said, “I can’t stay. If I stay you’d never be able to respect me.”
We hugged and I held on for as long as she’d allow. She dashed from the apartment then, and out of my life. As she turned, I thought I caught a glimpse of the first of what I figured were many tears. Maybe as many as the tears I shed in the drunken days to follow.
But, in that terrible moment, I didn’t understand. Didn’t want to. All I could think at the time was that she’d made a dreadful mistake, a bad decision. I called her after she’d moved back to New York and we established yet another long-distance relationship. Even hesitantly spoke of getting together, but our relationship had pretty much died when she left. It was never the same.
For a long time, I blamed her for leaving. Everything was her fault. My drinking, my addictions, my pathetic life. None of it could possibly be me. Later, as I got better, got ahold of my disease, I recalled her words. She was right. The reason she left finally made sense to me.
With a sigh, I take a sip of my coffee then shove my chair away from the table and stand. Pulling enough bills from my wallet to cover the drinks, I toss them on the tabletop and head out.
As I reach the door, the waitress stops me, a concerned look on her face. “Is everything alright?”
I just blink at her, unable to form a response. She saw what happened. Is she bucking for gossip? It wouldn’t be unusual in a small town like this. I know. I grew up in a small town just like this one. Forcing my best attempt at a smile onto my face, I offer a half shrug and open the door. Once on the street, I breathe in the sweet April air. It’s crisp and refreshing even though I need to zip up my windbreaker as I walk down the block to where I parked.
Getting into my rental car, a four-door black Sentra, I turn the key in the ignition and pull out into light traffic. I have some time to kill and decide to head to Isaac’s school. I want to know how he’s doing, if his grades are okay, if he plays nice with others. I’m supposed to pick him up for our first meeting in a little over an hour anyway, so it’s a good time to meet with his guidance counselor.
Nestled in a rural area with a backdrop of old clapboard houses surrounded by fields dotted with cows and horses, the school is a modern oasis. All on one level, the tan brick building is clean and bright both on the outside and inside. A security guard escorts me to the main office. He’s friendly and good-natured and wishes me a good day as he leaves.
In the office, I’m met with smiling faces and homespun chitchat while someone checks to see if the guidance counselor is available.
I learn that this isn’t just a high school, it’s also home to kindergarteners and up. Having grown up in a small Northern Canadian town, I’m not at all surprised by this as it’s similar to the school I attended. I’m offered a seat while I wait and even as I turn from the desk, someone is calling my name.
“Mr. Fox? I’m Rebecca Moore, the guidance counselor here.” An attractive woman in her mid-thirties approaches, holding out her right hand to me.
Stepping forward, I take her hand and we shake in greeting. “Please, call me Jayson. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I know I should have called ahead for an appointment.”
Her handshake is strong, firm, and she doesn’t hold on too long. “No, no, that’s alright. I’m happy to meet with anyone interested in the welfare of our students, Jayson.” She smiles and directs me toward her office. “I’m Becca.”
“Thank you, again, Becca,” I say as we head down a hallway. The corridor is empty, indicating that class is in session. I can imagine what a cacophony of sound will reverberate off these concrete block walls once the next bell rings.
“So, what can I do for you?” she says once I’m seated in front of the desk in her small but efficient office. The two large piles of files on either side of her primly folded hands tell me I’m taking precious time away from her duties.
I cut right to the chase. “I’m a new drug addictions counselor at Mountainside Recovery—you should have received an announcement about it—and my latest case is a student here.” She raises her brows. “Isaac Napoli. I was hoping you could tell me a little about him. How he gets on here. Grades, friends, things like that.”
“Yes, I was pleased that Mountainside finally got the additional staff. Now, let me see. Napoli… Isaac Napoli. That doesn’t immediately ring a bell.” Her eyebrows come together as she tries to jog her memory. “We have so many students each year, you understand.”
“Of course. Maybe it’s a good thing you can’t place him. Means he’s not a troublemaker at least.”
She pulls over a small wheeled typing table and begins tapping on the keys of a laptop. “That’s probably true. How old is he?”
“Sixteen.”
“A junior.” She nods and continues typing. Another moment or two passes while I try not to fidget. “Okay, here we go.” She glances up at me and smiles. “Isaac Napoli, sixteen. Good kid. Quiet. Smart. Has a four point oh average. Oh, wait.” Her lips turn downward in the beginnings of a frown. “He failed both his latest science test and social studies test. That’s not like him. He has gym class last period on Tuesday and Thursdays and hasn’t been attending recently. So, skipping class and failing exams. He’s most likely in this stack.” She pats the pile of folders to her right with a sigh.
I lean forward. “Definitely sounds like something is going on. But no record of any fighting? Acting out?”
She glances to her computer screen. “No, thank goodness. What did he do that brought you into this?”
“Marijuana. He got picked up by the police and
I happened to be in the precinct at the time.”
“Oh dear. Kids don’t realize or don’t care that it’s still illegal for them to use. I suppose it doesn’t help if their parents are using too.” She shakes her head. It’s clear she cares about her students.
I raise an eyebrow. “What can you tell me, if anything, about Isaac’s mother?”
“Nothing really. I’m sorry. I never met her. There was no need to with Isaac being a perfect student…until now. I’ll have to meet with the both of them very soon. Would you like to be present?”
“No, but thank you. I don’t want him to feel ganged up on. I’ll be meeting with him twice a week. In fact, could I get you to call Ms. Napoli and clear it with her so she knows I’m on the up and up? Since I’m here at the school now maybe I can have a quick chat with him today. I’ll be making an appointment to meet with her soon as well.”
Nodding, she hits a few keys on her computer keyboard then picks up her desk phone, dialing the number she presumably found in his file.
“Hello, is this Gemma Napoli?” I can’t hear the other side of the conversation but I assume she received an affirmative. “This is Rebecca Moore, the guidance counselor at your son’s school. I have—yes, yes, Isaac is fine. Please don’t worry about that. I have here a Mr. Jayson Fox from Mountainside Recovery. Are you aware of your son’s situation?” She pauses to listen, her expression empathetic. “Yes, Mr. Fox would like to begin his sessions with Isaac this afternoon. He’s already assured me that he’ll be in touch with you right away to answer any questions you have. Does he have your permission to meet with Isaac now?” Another pause to listen. Only a few seconds go by and she’s nodding and giving me a thumbs-up. “That’s perfect. Have a good evening.”
She hangs up the phone and offers me a smile. “She’s going to text Isaac.”
“Great. Thank you for your time, Becca. If anything else comes up or you have questions, please call me.” I reach into my pocket, pull one of my newly printed business cards from my wallet, and hand it to her.
I’m back in my car when the last bell of the day rings and students start stampeding out of the building. Isaac is one of the last to appear, dragging his feet and looking for all the world like he’s heading to the electric chair. Normally, I’d meet with my kids in the office or the hospital and sometimes in their home with their family present. Those settings don’t always work too well and counseling takes that much longer. I don’t have that kind of time with Isaac. I caught him in the early stages of drug use and I refuse to miss the window of opportunity I’ve been given.
Yes, the case is personal to me. He’s the son of a friend of Dee’s so I’m taking my chances with an unorthodox method—befriend Isaac. Gain his trust. Give him a comfortable setting to open up to me and let the process work. I want more than anything to help this kid. I hope it doesn’t bite me in the ass.
With an amused smirk, I honk the horn a couple of times and wave to him from my open window.
He gives me an up nod and, upon reaching the car, stows his backpack in the backseat before getting in beside me.
“You got your mom’s text, I take it?” He nods and glances to the side but I catch the eyeroll. He agreed to these meetings when I met him at the police station but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. That’s alright as long as he’s cooperating. “Hungry?” I ask as I start the engine.
“No.”
“Well, I could go for some pizza,” I say, smiling to myself. I expected nothing more than his less than enthusiastic attitude. Pulling away from the curb, I head in the direction of a nearby pizza place. It’s only a couple of blocks away.
“Shit, no. Not here,” Isaac says when he realizes our destination, desperation in his eyes. “There’s another one a few miles up the road. Okay?”
I don’t immediately agree. However, as we approach the pizza place, I understand his reluctance and my mistake. Dozens of kids are already inside or descending upon the restaurant. Of course, he doesn’t want to be seen with me at a local hangout. “Any of your friends in there?”
He shrugs and stares straight ahead.
I decide to let him have this one, but he’ll have to open up to me soon.
A few miles up the road means the next town. I don’t want to go that far. I have his mother’s permission but even fifteen minutes is taking too many liberties. Instead, I take him to the café where I met Dee. Only being a couple of blocks from his apartment, it’s perfect. Parking, I usher Isaac inside. The place is dead and well-suited for our first meeting.
Choosing a booth near the back, I call to a waitress, who comes over, order book in hand. “I’ll have a plate of your loaded nachos, an order of mozzarella sticks, and two Cokes.” Turning to Isaac, I gesture to the waitress. “And, what’ll you have?” I keep a deadpan expression and am rewarded with the kid cracking a small smile but he remains silent. I wink at the waitress and she nods, amusement glinting in her eyes as she leaves to fill our order.
I make myself comfortable in the booth while Isaac resumes his glum expression, focusing on the paper placemat on the table filled with advertisements for local businesses.
“This isn’t the Spanish Inquisition,” I say in what I hope is a light offhand tone. “I just want to get to know you.”
“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” he mumbles, quoting a well-known Monty Python sketch.
It happens to be a favorite of mine so I give him the next line in a high-pitched British accent. “Our chief weapon is surprise…surprise and fear.”
Isaac’s eyes light with surprise and the beginning of a genuine smile forms as he gives me the next line of the skit. “I’ll come in again.”
I laugh at the way he’s taken on the character. I could go on quoting Monty Python all day but it’s enough for now that I’ve found some common ground with this kid.
“It pleases the nerd in me that kids still know about Monty Python,” I say to keep the conversation going and in safe territory.
“Dee turned me on to them. Gave me a couple of DVDs to watch.”
I stifle a groan. Her name, the very thought of her is such a raw, open wound. I turned Dee on to Monty Python so many years ago, and now it’s come full circle. “Dee?” I say with as much detachment as I can muster. “She’s your mom’s friend, right?”
“You know she is.” Isaac smirks and fiddles with the silverware rolled up in a napkin. “How do you know Dee?”
The smirk tells me this is not an innocent question. “Why do you ask?”
This time I get a smirk and an eye-roll. Wonderful, I’m doing an amazing job of connecting with this kid.
“Oh, come on. I’m not stupid. I saw the way the two of you were looking at each other in the police station. And, the first thing she asked me when we got in the car was how did I know you.”
“I never thought you were stupid, Isaac,” I say, when what I want to do is ask if she said anything else about me. Inwardly, I shake my head. When did I revert to being a teenager, hoping for tidbits of a girl I have a crush on? “You’ve just made some bad decisions.”
He wags a finger at me. “Nice deflection, Mr. Fox. I guess you don’t want to talk about your girlfriend.”
I almost blurt that she’s not my girlfriend, like a five-year-old. He’s pushing my buttons on purpose. He’s a bright kid. I’m sure he’d rather be somewhere smoking dope than here talking to me.
The waitress arrives with our food and drinks, giving me a moment to regroup and set this conversation back on track. After thanking her, I take a sip of the Coke and grab a couple of the cheese sticks and put them on my plate. I just smile when Isaac dives into the nachos after he said he wasn’t hungry.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask.
He barks out a harsh laugh. “No.”
There’s something here. “Why not?”
He snorts and raises a hand to indicate himself. “Just look at me.”
He’s bothered by his weight. I make a mental note to take
him to a restaurant with better food choices next time. “When I was your age, I weighed more than you do now.”
Between bites, he glances up at me. “Yeah, so you became a gym rat. You saying that’s what I should do?”
“Maybe. It’s better than doing nothing.” I shrug, and we both chew in thoughtful silence for a moment. “What about your mom? Do you get along with her?”
“I love my mother.” His tone is indignant.
I have to press on, to make sure he’s not hiding something that’s caused his change in behavior. “So it doesn’t bother you that she’s a hippie?”
“She’s a witch, not a hippie. Big difference.”
“Nice deflection,” I say with a small smile.
He sighs dramatically. “No, it doesn’t bother me. My mom is great. Warm and caring and a great cook, okay?”
“Hmm… My dad used to beat the shit out of me, sometimes for no reason. If you asked me if I loved him, I’d say yes and it’d be the truth.”
He gapes at me for a minute. “He’s dead?” he asks, having caught my use of past tense.
“Yeah, he passed a few years ago. I miss him.” I pick up my glass and watch him from over the rim as I drink.
“Even though he beat the crap outta you?” Isaac shakes his head as I nod. “That’s messed up.”
“Not really. It took a lot of time, don’t get me wrong, but I finally realized that he was doing the best he could, so I forgave him. It took a lot of burden off my shoulders when I did.”
“But he kicked your ass for no reason.” Isaac can’t seem to get over this one sticking point. For the longest time, I couldn’t either. Now, I’m glad that I have these experiences to share with my young clients. Whatever it takes to help them.
“Isaac, I didn’t forgive him for him. I did it for myself. So I could move on. So I could heal, get better. I’m an alcoholic and in order to get sober and stay that way I had to face down all my demons.”
“Yeah, but—”
“There will always be a but. And those demons will take advantage of it every time.”
