by Abby Brooks
When those memories don’t bring the tears, I think about the music we made in the den. The way the piano sounded when we made love against it. The song he wrote for me afterwards. The night we sang together at Smitty’s, his presence beside me making me stronger than I ever thought I could be. The truths I thought I uncovered about him, the person I found buried underneath the persona, the man I thought was the real Liam McGuire.
And still the tears don’t come.
I wander through my memories, deliberately poking the bruise created by his absence, needing the swell of emotion to wash over me, to carry me away so maybe I can finally start to heal. After nearly a month of no contact, it’s time to admit we’re done. That as much as I loved him, he obviously didn’t feel the same way about me. It’s time to grieve and move on. Liam doesn’t want me anymore.
And still the tears don’t come.
I sit up, frustrated, and look at the picture of my mom and dad on the bedside table. After all these years, I’ve memorized every detail. The adoration in her eyes. The off-center quirk to his smile. The way his arm wraps around her lower back, his hand on her hip pulling her in close, a silent promise that he would protect her and cherish her for the rest of their lives. My parents loved each other desperately. In a world where love takes a backseat to everything else, where it’s out of fashion to completely give your time and energy to anyone other than yourself, they had something precious and rare.
I thought I had that with Liam. I thought our love would blossom into one of those great stories our grandchildren would tell their own children when they first started to fall in love.
So why won’t I cry? Why can’t I mourn him? Why, when I feel so damn hollow and alone, frozen from the inside out, why don’t I have tears for him?
Night falls as I wallow in my misery. The shadows in my room lengthen, swallowing up the last slivers of light streaking across my floor. Even though I’m both mentally and physically exhausted, sleep is a pipedream. And so, driven by some masochistic need to feel something, anything, I slide my phone off the table and send Liam a text, something I swore I’d stop doing after the first two days’ worth of calls went unanswered.
Me: I miss you.
I hit send before I can think better of it, certain that his continued silence will be the push to topple me over the edge so I can grieve. My phone buzzes in my hand and my breath catches in my chest. Really? Is he really ready to talk to me now? When I’m finally ready to walk away from him?
Liam: I miss you too, hot lips.
I stare at the words in shock, relief spreading a smile across my face, and finally the tears come, gathering in my eyes so that the screen wavers in front of me. My fingers hover over the keyboard, waiting for some direction. I want to reply, but what should I say? Do I apologize? Try to explain myself? Ask him how he’s doing? Lay into him for three weeks of silence? Minutes tick by as I worry through all the possible responses.
These are the times I wish for my mom. The times when I know there’s a right answer but I can’t for the life of me see what it is. How many times over the last eight years have I been here? So confused, utterly unsure how to move forward, and desperate for someone to put me on the right path. Each and every pivotal moment of my life since their death has been terrifying. Just me, staring at a million possible outcomes, wishing someone would give me a nudge in the right direction with a hug and a promise it will all be okay.
Instead, I have spent my life blindly picking a path and pushing my way forward, dealing with the repercussions of it all while trying to keep a brave face for Michael. I was too young to handle everything that landed in my lap after their death. Too young to be catapulted into adulthood, struggling through things like mortgages and property taxes and what to do when a little brother starts making bad decisions. And now? After so many mistakes and missteps, I can’t for the life of me see the right way to handle this moment with Liam.
I feel like I’m supposed to be angry. Hell, I am angry. But the relief I feel at seeing his name on my phone is monumental. My heart reaches out for him, begging to return to the safety of his arms while my head keeps wondering if it’s better to leave well enough alone.
Abandoning the phone on my bed, I swoop up the picture of my parents and run my finger along their smiling faces. “I’ve needed you so much.” A sob swallows the end of my sentence. “I’ve been so lost and so scared and I’ve messed it all up, and I’m so sorry.”
I clasp the picture to my chest. “I’m so sorry.” I whisper the words over and over and something inside me loosens. Tears fall down my face and sobs wrack my body. “I don’t know how to do all of this alone and I’ve ruined everything.”
I clutch their picture and cry until my head hurts and my body aches. I cry for them. For Michael. For eight years of me making my way through life, a steady stream of one foot in front of the other when I haven’t had a clue as to how to get where I was going. When the tears finally subside, I know exactly what I need to say to Liam. The answer is so clear to me I don’t think twice. I swoop up my phone and tap out a simple text.
Me: Come home.
Before I can hit send, an incoming call from an unknown caller covers up the screen. Confused, I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and wipe the tears from my eyes before answering.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Shultz?” A man’s voice. Tentative.
“Yes?”
“This is Sergeant Leighton, Brookside PD.”
A giant yawning hole opens up in my world and threatens to swallow me. My hands shake and darkness creeps into my peripheral vision.
“Yes?” I barely recognize my own voice.
“I’m sorry to inform you that there’s been an accident…”
I hear the rest of his words through a thick layer of confusion swarming in my skull. Michael’s in the hospital in Grayson. He was drunk, and the idiot got behind the wheel anyway. He drove right off the road and straight into a tree.
“Oh my God.” The worst form of déjà vu settles over me. “Is he okay?” My voice echoes through my head, mixing with the memories of a similar phone call about my parents.
“I’m sorry, miss. I don’t have any information for you. But,” he pauses and clears his throat. “You’re going to want to get yourself to that hospital.”
BAILEY
Why does this keep happening to me? Why does each and every person I love get ripped out of my life by the roots? My heart is nothing but people-shaped holes, crumbling to dust around the edges. If it doesn’t stop soon, if life can’t stop using me for a punching bag, I’m not going to have anything left.
I hang up the phone and race through the house, scoop up my keys and my purse, and hop in the truck. It’s at least an hour drive into Grayson and all I can do is pray that I make it in time. The first few snowflakes of winter filter down from the sky. They sparkle in the slices of light my headlights cut through the dark, oddly beautiful on this awful night. I forgot my coat. My hands tremble as I fidget with the heater, wondering how long Michael sat on the side of the road before someone found him.
Was he cold?
Was he conscious?
Was he hurting? Crying out for help when no one could hear him?
My throat constricts and I swallow hard against it. I will not cry for him. Not now. Because Michael’s going to be fine. There’s no need for tears, only anger. How could that dumbass get behind the wheel after he’d been drinking? Especially after what happened to Mom and Dad? How could he be so fucking dumb?
Things were going so well. We were making room for each other in our lives again. He was drinking less. Smiling more. Things were good between him and Lexi.
Oh, God.
Lexi.
I check the time. It’s late—edging past midnight—and she and Gabe are sure to be in bed. But she deserves to know and I can’t make this drive without her. I dial her number on autopilot.
“Bay?” She sounds groggy and confused. “What’s wrong?” L
exi’s familiar voice tears through me. Everything about this situation is too familiar, ripping open old wounds that still haven’t fully healed.
“It’s Michael.” I swallow back a sob.
“What’s going on?” She’s instantly more alert. “Is he okay?” There’s movement on her end of the line, the rustle of bed sheets.
“I don’t know, Lex. Nothing about anything is okay.” I didn’t think I had any tears left. I was wrong. I swipe angrily at my cheeks as they leak from my mutinous eyes. “He’s at Grayson Memorial. Ran off the road…” I sniff. “The idiot was drunk, Lex. He drove his stupid ass right into a tree.”
Lexi’s sharp intake of breath is an icepick to my heart. “But I was with him tonight. We had dinner at Smitty’s. But Bailey, I swear, he only had two beers.”
“That you saw.” Michael could have been drinking all day. He’s better at hiding his problem than any of us want to admit.
“That I saw.” There’s a finality to her voice because she knows as well as I do that we’ve all been ignoring his problem when we should have taken action. “Oh, shit. I’m so sorry. I should have known…”
“It’s not your fault. Or it’s all of our fault for not paying more attention.” I slap the steering wheel with an open palm. “Damn it. Why didn’t I talk to him about his drinking?”
“I’m getting Gabe dressed. I’ll meet you at the hospital.” There’s a pause. “And Bay? This isn’t your fault.”
I want to tell her not to drag her son out of bed. That this is most definitely my fault because Michael was fine until my parents died and has been anything but fine ever since. I was the one in charge of raising him right, and tonight is finally the concrete proof of how badly I failed him. But I don’t say any of that, because right now it’s not about me. It’s about my brother.
“I don’t think I can go through this again, Lexi. He’s all I’ve got left.”
“Don’t think like that. This is just a hiccup. A wake-up call for all of us. Michael will be fine.” Her voice trembles and my chin quakes.
Lexi and I say our goodbyes and I let her last sentence play on repeat in my head, a mantra, a prayer. I say it over and over, blinking back the tears that threaten to overtake me again. I’ve had my chance to wallow in weakness; I have to be strong now.
What started as a few polite little snowflakes turns into a full-on frenzy. It doesn’t take long for a thin layer of white to cover the road and for visibility to drop to almost nothing. I lean forward, my back ramrod straight, and peer through the dense white nothing in front of me.
Out of nowhere, brake lights.
I tap the brakes and the back end of the truck starts sliding out from behind me. I won’t stop in time. I’m going to crash right into that car and I’m going way too fast to come out of this okay. For the space of one heartbeat, I sigh in relief and welcome the end.
The truck stops sliding and I skid to a stop inches away from ramming the car in front of me. I droop over the steering wheel, gulping huge breaths of air into my lungs.
“Get a hold of yourself, Bailey.” I close my eyes and count my heartbeats as I slow my breathing.
Michael needs me. And this time, I’m going to be there for him. I wasn’t old enough to be what he needed when my parents died, but damn it. I’ve got a world of experience under my belt now. I will not let my little brother down again.
My knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel so hard, and even though I didn’t bring a coat and I’m shivering, I’m sweating too. My nerves are shot by the time I make it to Grayson. The roads are better here. The street crews have been out, throwing down salt.
For as many times as I push away the questions in my head, they just keep coming right on back.
Why did he have to get behind the wheel? Why, after what happened to Mom and Dad, would he ever drink and drive? How many times have I begged him to call me if he’s ever too drunk to get home?
It’s the curse.
That insidious little thought sneaks into my head and the bottom drops out of my world. Michael was fine when we were estranged, when our lives were separate and he didn’t have frequent contact with me. But now? Just weeks after coming back into my life, he’s in the hospital. Probably fighting for his life.
And what does that mean for Liam? If I’m cursed, what terrible thing is waiting around the corner for him?
My heart, already made of crepe paper, crumples in on itself, crying out for Liam like a lost child. I need him right now. There’s not enough of me left to make it through this. I need him to hold me up, to wrap me in his safety and security and go back to making everything okay again. Why, when I had everything, do I have to go back to doing it all on my own?
“Damn it!” I slap the steering wheel again and the pain brings me out of my head and back to reality. Curse or not, I have a job to do.
I make the turn into the parking lot and pull into a vacant spot. With one last muttered prayer, I slide out of the truck and race through the emergency room doors and rush to the front desk.
“My brother’s been admitted here. Michael Schultz?” I don’t know the nightshift very well, but I’ve seen this particular woman enough to know her by name.
“Bailey?” The woman—Tara—looks up at me after she pulls up his information.
“Is he…?” My throat tightens and I swallow hard.
“He’s still in surgery.” Tara looks at me with so much sympathy it makes me want to retch. How many times have I been where she is, staring at facts on a screen and that may or may not ruin someone’s life? “You can have a seat and I’ll let them know you’re here. Someone will be out to talk to you shortly.”
And so, after all that, there’s nothing to do but wait and pray.
BAILEY
I take a seat in the waiting room. Pull out my phone and scroll through my apps, never really paying enough attention to anything to warrant having the thing out. An eternity passes between every tick of the clock. My eyes burn and my nose won’t stop running, so after stopping at reception to let Tara know where I’ll be, I head into the bathroom to wash my face. The woman staring back at me is a stranger. Mascara rims her vacant eyes and trails black smudges down her cheeks. I do what I can to clean my face, but I really don’t care what I look like, not when my worry for Michael takes up all that I am. When I’m done, I check with reception—still no news—and drop back into one of the cheap seats. Every time the doors swing open my heart leaps and falls in the same instant until Lexi arrives at some point, two cups of coffee in hand.
“Gabe’s at my mom’s.” Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, still frizzy and fuzzy from sleep. There’s not one drop of makeup on her face and I realize it might be the first time in our adult lives that I’ve ever seen her without her red lipstick.
I take the coffee she offers and sip it. The warm liquid should be soothing, but I think I prefer to be cold right now.
“Any news?” The hope on Lexi’s face is more weight on my shoulders.
I shake my head and we take a seat. I’d do anything for my parents to be here right now. My mother on one side of me, my father on the other. Not so they’d have to go through the pain and fear of a wounded child. God, no. But because I need someone to tell me what to do. I need someone to take my hand and help me stand when my knees feel like they’re ready to go out from under me. I need someone to tell me what to say when Michael wakes up. How to help him past this. I need someone to explain where things went wrong and show me how to fix it.
I’m so tired of muddling through everything, making mistakes that affect not just my life, but his. My dad made me promise to take care of him. To take care of the house and the truck, and to give my brother a chance at stability. I’ve failed so miserably. Sure, I stayed in the house, but it’s falling down around me. The truck? It’s rusting away. And Michael? He’s in the same kind of shape, rotting from the inside out. Hanging on when shit’s so broken he should have fallen to pieces long ago. All this time,
I knew he was drinking too much. I knew he was reckless. I knew he wasn’t okay. But I just kept thinking if I continued to put one foot in front of the other, kept smiling through it and never looked the problems square in the face, that everything would be okay. But you know what? Nothing’s okay and it hasn’t been for a long time.
The moment Michael is strong enough, he’s in for one hell of a reality check. He’s gonna get his ass into a recovery program. Face his demons and get his shit straight. We both are. No more of this hiding our pain behind rotting exteriors. This is the year the Schultzes start putting things back together.
“Remember that time Michael fell out of the tree when we were little?” Lexi traces a finger around the pattern on her pajama pants.
“How could I forget?” I laugh, a humorless sound. “I ended up grounded for the rest of my life and he got treated like a prince for a week.”
“We were so scared.” Lexi leans forward, elbows on knees, and looks at the floor.
“Yeah, we were. I knew I was going to get in so much trouble if we didn’t find him.”
“Leave it to Michael to sneak out of the house when we weren’t paying attention.” She glances at me. “You swore he did it just to see you get grounded.”
I shake my head, lost in the memory. Lexi and I were all of thirteen, barely old enough to watch a kid as wild as my ten-year-old brother. While we sat at the table and talked about boys, Michael managed to sneak out and find the tallest, oldest, most rotten tree in the woods behind our house and climb to the very top.
“And then,” Lexi says, looking me straight in the eye. “When we found him, we thought he was dead.”
“He looked dead.” I shiver at the memory. “He was so pale.” I still wake up some nights, sweating, the image of his crumpled body and ghostly white skin fresh in my mind.
