A Not So Typical Love

by Tristen Rowen

  "Are you his friend?" one of the officers asked me.

  "Yes," I said, staring at Jordan tied down on the stretcher. "I...I...don't know what happened. I think he had a panic attack or something." Now was not the time to be "cry baby Jamie," I thought to myself as I swallowed my tears. "He's...he's only nineteen. He's not a monster or a criminal or....he's..."

  "Do you know how we can reach his parents?"

  "He doesn't have any," I said even though Art was still around; he hadn't left the country yet. "He has a brother, Tim. Where are you taking him?"

  "To the closest hospital," he said. "MGH. You can meet him in the ER."

  "Yeah...yeah...okay," I said.

  As Jordan continued to scream and shout, the paramedics transferred him into the ambulance and closed the doors. Once the sirens sounded, I knew Jordan was gone and the freak show was over. As I milled out with the rest of the fans, I did my best to push through them so I could hurry up and get to the hospital. After a good fifteen minutes, I was finally on the T, on my way. As I stood there on the T, I hoped to reach Tim before the police did, but I was too late; the police got to him first.

  "I'm on my way," were the first words out of Tim's mouth.

  "Tim," I said, not sure what to say. "I'm sorry."

  "Yeah," Tim said. "I'll meet you at the hospital."

  By the time I got to the ER, Jordan was in a room by himself, three security guards not too far away. The room was completely devoid of any equipment or furniture, except for a bed where Jordan lay curled up in a ball. He was no longer in restraints. His eyes were opened, fixed on the plain white wall in front of him. His eyes briefly shifted to me, then back to the wall.

  "Hi," I said. "Are you feeling better?" I wasn't quite sure what to say. He didn't respond, not like I really expected a response from him. "Tim's on his way."

  I would have pulled up a chair if there was a spare one in the room. He flinched as I went to stroke his head. So as not to upset him again, I pulled my hand away. I really didn't know what to do. My heart ached for him.

  Lying despondently on the bed, Jordan started to sing quietly, a song I didn't recognize, a song about love to take the pain away.

  "That's beautiful," I said. "What is it?" He didn't answer, though, continuing to sing the same line over and over. "Jordan, talk to me," I said, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. "Jordan," I said again, wishing there was a way I could help him.

  "Jamie," he muttered. "Spiritualized."

  As much as I liked the song and enjoyed listening to him sing, I wanted him to talk to me. He didn't want to talk, though, and continued to sing, singing about loving someone until they died, floating in space and drifting in time.

  "Jordan," I said. "Jordan, stop a second." Jordan always expressed himself best through music. He sang this song for a reason; it put his feelings into words perfectly.

  "I think of you when I hear this song," he said, his eyes still focused on the floor. He abruptly stopped singing and sat up, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I want you to leave," he said, which wasn't exactly what I expected him to say.

  "I don't want to leave you here alone," I said. "You can sing some more if that's what you want. The band is Spiritualized? Is that their name?"

  "Leave," he said. "Just leave. Leave, Jamie."

  "No, I'm not leaving," I insisted.

  "Leave!" he shouted to me, jumping off the bed. "Leave. Get out. Leave me alone. I don't want to see you anymore. Leave. Leave!"

  "No, I'm not leaving," I said. "You're not getting rid of me." As he approached me, he shoved me so hard I nearly fell backwards. I grabbed his shoulders, preventing him from going after me again. "I love you and I'm not leaving."

  "If you love me, you'll leave," he said. "You'll leave and never come back."

  "I'm not going to do that," I said.

  "Leave! Get out! Get out of my life! I don't want to see you again!"

  "You don't mean that. Jordan, stop. Just stop..."

  "Get out. Get out!" he shouted, sobbing.

  A couple of nurses, in addition to the security guards, entered his room.

  "You'll have to leave now," one of the nurses said to me.

  "Listen to me, Jordan, I love you. I'm not abandoning you," I said.

  "Fuck you," he said and spit in my face. "I hate you. Get out. Get the fuck out. Just get out!"

  Jordan ran around the room, eventually sitting in the corner with his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. "I hate you," he muttered to himself.

  "I don't believe you," I said. "I don't believe you, Jordan."

  "You're the worst thing that's ever happened to me," he muttered. "You ruined everything!"

  "You don't mean that," I said.

  "Let's go," one of the guards said, reaching for my arm to physically remove me from the room.

  "You're not getting rid of me," I said again before leaving the room. "You can spit and kick me all you want, but you're not getting rid of me, you hear me, Jordan? You can't get rid of me."

  The security guards escorted me out of the ER and into the waiting room where I ended up sitting, waiting for Tim to arrive. As I sat there, on YouTube, I found that Spiritualized song Jordan sang. I played it quietly so that I could still hear it without disturbing everyone else in the waiting room.

  "Fuck, Jordan," I said, tears falling as I listened to the beautiful ballad by this British band, Spiritualized. I must have listened to it three times in a row before Tim arrived.

  "Hey," Tim said, sitting down beside me. Sniffing back my tears, I shoved my phone in my jeans pocket.

  "He's in there," I said, pointing to the double doors of the ER. "They're all waiting for you. They won't tell me anything. Jordan kicked me out. He said I ruined everything. I didn't mean to..." Shaking my head, I looked away from Tim for a few seconds. "I was with him and I didn't want to leave him, but...but he didn't want me there." I rubbed my burning eyes with my hands. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know what happened. We were just leaving and he completely flipped out. The police came and they restrained him and...I'm sorry, Tim...He said he doesn't want to see me anymore, but I don't believe him. You'll talk to him, right? I know that's not what he really wants. I don't want to leave him. You know I really love him. You believe that, right?"

  "Yes, I know," he said. "I think you should go back to the house. He probably won't be coming home tonight. In fact, he'll probably be here for awhile. I guess he assaulted some police officers?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Shit," Tim muttered, rubbing his temple with his fingers.

  "I'm sorry," I said again.

  "It's not your fault," he said. "It's not, okay?"

  "I shouldn't have taken him," I said.

  "He wanted to go," he said. "He really wanted to go. Don't, Jamie. Don't do this to yourself."

  "I'm leaving Monday," I said. "I don't know if I should go. I don't know if I should leave him like this."

  "And how do you think you're going to help him?" he said. "I've been dealing with this his whole life. You can't help him. I don't think anybody can. We've all tried. You have to go. What do you think you'll do for him, huh? He'll probably be in the hospital for a few weeks, maybe longer. I think maybe it's best that you leave. What would happen if you stayed?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's a teacher exchange program. There's a teacher from England taking your place, right?"

  "Yes," I said. "That's why it's called a teacher exchange."

  "So you have to go or the other teacher can't come. That teacher's probably been looking forward to coming, too, and if you bail out, you could really jeopardize the whole program," he said.

  "Okay, okay," I said. "I get it."

  "I know you think you can help him, but you can't. You can't fix him. And I'm sorry if this this sounds really shitty, but he needs to understand the ramifications of his words and actions. Yeah, I know he couldn't help what happened today, but what he said to you earlier...he knows what he was saying. I
think you should go back to the house and pack. I'll be staying here until they find a bed for him."

  "Find a bed?" I asked. "Find a bed where?"

  "In a psych unit," Tim said, standing up. "It's going to be different now. He's too old for Children's Hospital."

  Tim walked away, disappearing through the double doors. After a few minutes, I got up and left the hospital. Despite everything that Tim said, guilt overwhelmed me. I hadn't loved anyone like this since Gavin and I didn't want to lose him even if the little shit spat at me and shoved me.

  Art was in the living room when I got back, which made things even more awkward than they already were between us. I wasn't sure if I should stop and talk to him. Art decided to speak first.

  "Where is he?" he asked.

  "MGH," I said. "Tim thinks he'll be there for awhile." Art nodded and for a second I thought I saw a few tears in his eyes.

  "You tried," he said. "I know you really tried. No one's ever been able to reach him like you did. I stopped trying years ago. I've rarely ever seen him smile. His face beams whenever you're around. I really hope you come back. I don't want him to lose you."

  "I don't want to lose him, either," I said.

  "Yeah," was all he said and got up. "There's a reason he's never been able to keep friends." He left the room, retreating to his office.

  To distract myself, I packed up some of my things. Tim said I could leave my Jeep in their driveway; maybe as a guarantee of my return. In the midst of everything, I found the two promissory notes Jordan and I wrote each other. I stuck the one I wrote to Jordan on his bulletin board above his desk so he'd be sure to see it.

  Anyway, tomorrow's a new day and it could only get better.

  King of Pain

  Tim

  "I told you so" were the first words that came to mind when I received that call from Officer Boyd. Of course, I would never say those words to Jamie. In fact, those were the last words Jamie wanted to hear. He was totally in love with Jordan, completely enamored and he was no doubt traumatized by the incident at Fenway. Jamie was always extra sensitive, even about the smallest, simplest things. This was not a small, simple thing. Both Jordan and Jamie were so confident everything would be fine; I was really hoping they would prove me wrong

  They didn't prove me wrong, though. Maybe if Jordan didn't have so many things on his mind, everything would have been fine. For one, he discovered he was gay this summer and that was a pretty big deal, whether he admitted it or not. Second, Jamie was leaving in a couple of days and he had grown very, very attached to him. He was so attached because he was madly in love with him. The only people he had ever been attached to were me and our mother. He had a lot going on in his head.

  Based on what the police and Jamie told me, this was perhaps one of Jordan's worst freak-outs of all time.

  As I entered Jordan's room, I found him sitting in the corner on the floor, his knees to his chest and his head in his hands. I hadn't seen him like this in a very long time. He looked up briefly, then back down, rocking back and forth. Listening carefully, I realized he was singing. Music was his way of communicating, particularly when stressed. Because he was unable to cope, he used music as a defense mechanism.

  Of all the songs to sing, Jordan chose to sing the Police’s King of Pain. He really knew how to pick them. Songs often correlated to his mood.

  "The Police," I said, stating the obvious. It was obvious to me and Jordan, anyway. "Mom loved Sting, remember?" At one point, our mother was convinced she was going to marry Sting even though they were both already married to different people. Not only that, she didn't even know the guy although she thought she did. "We'll just get a divorce," she said. She believed her delusions so intensely, there was no telling her otherwise.

  I didn't really expect much of a response from Jordan, but it was worth a try. Instead, he continued to sing, skipping several lines to sing the refrain...over and over and over.

  "Could you stop singing for a minute?" I said. "I'm not angry; I just want to talk to you." Ignoring my request, he sang the refrain again; this time louder.

  Jordan got up and paced around the room, singing louder and louder. A security guard poked his head inside, either out of curiosity or to make sure everything was okay. I nodded at him, letting him know everything was under control. For the moment, anyway.

  "Jordan, stop it," I said, starting to lose my cool. Sometimes I just couldn't help it, but I kept thinking about Jamie and the look of worry and concern in his eyes. "You want to be treated like a man? Well, act like one. You're acting like a two year old. I don't know what to do, Jordan. It's not only about you anymore. It's not about me. Another person is involved, a person you love, remember? And he loves you. Jamie really loves you. It's not just about you, alright?"

  "Get the fuck out," he abruptly said. "Just get out and let me die."

  "I'm not going to let you die," I said after taking a deep breath. Jordan pulled at his hair, pacing around the room, singing. "Jordan, come on," I said. "What are you doing, huh? Jamie's leaving in a couple of days. I know you care."

  "No I don't. I don't care," he said. "I don't care about him. I hate him."

  Jordan hated everyone and everything after his meltdowns. The fact was was that he really did care and his only way of coping was by pushing people away.

  "No you don't," I said.

  "Yes, I do," he said. "I never want to see him again. Just get out. Leave me alone and let me die."

  "No," I said. "I'm not going to leave you alone to let you die."

  "Get out. Just get out!" he screamed at me. In-between singing, he went after me, pushing me against the wall. Even though he had gone after me before, he actually scared me this time. He was taller and bigger than I was and completely unhinged at the moment.

  "Calm down," I said, trying to remain calm myself. Why didn't I learn that saying those words "calm down" never worked? Jordan gripped my shirt tightly, wrapping it around his fingers. "Let go of me, Jordan. This won't solve anything. Let go." As I went to pry his fingers loose, he pushed me hard against the wall again, so hard my head knocked against it. Security guards immediately ran into the room, charging toward Jordan to physically remove him from me.

  "I hate you!" he yelled at me. "Don't tie me up again," he cried, now directing his attention to the security guards. Throughout his ranting, he continued to look down and at the floor, avoiding eye contact. "Don't....get off me..." He punched and kicked like a little kid having a temper tantrum.

  A nurse escorted me out of the room while the others tried to calm him down. Within seconds, as I stood outside his door, his screams and cries grew louder and more desperate.

  "Let me go!" he shouted on the top of his lungs. He had been restrained in the past; twice: once when he was ten, and again when he was seventeen, but never twice in the same day.

  "The doctor's ordered some Ativan," the nurse told me, walking me to another room, an empty room not far from Jordan's. "That should settle him a bit. Is there anything I can get for you?"

  "No, thanks," I said, sitting down on one of the chairs. Not long after I sat down, a doctor in a white coat approached me. I had spoken to my share of doctors over the years.

  "I'm Dr. Patel," he said. "You're the young man's brother?"

  "Yes," I said, standing up to shake his hand.

  "Are your parents around or is it just you?"

  "It's just me," I said.

  "He lives with you?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Does he go to school?" Dr. Patel just shot me question after question. I'd say he was even slightly annoyed he had to deal with this volatile "young man."

  "College," I said. "He's very smart actually. He..."

  "Can you tell me if he takes any medication?" he interrupted me. He was curt and even a bit impatient like he had somewhere else to be.

  "Medication? Uh...yeah..." I said. He had been on medication for as long as I could remember. He'd tried different types, from classic ADHD medicatio
n to antidepressants to mood stabilizers. ADHD medications, in particular stimulants, were the absolute worst for Jordan. They made him even angrier and aggressive. "Risperidone," I said. I hated to admit my brother was on an antipsychotic when he didn't even have schizophrenia or anything else like that, but doctors recommended it and I suppose it worked. Things could have been worse without it.

  "When was the last time he had an adjustment or an increase?" Dr. Patel asked.

  "I don't know," I said. "Awhile I guess. Are you going to increase it?" He saw a clinical psychiatric nurse practitioner every three to six months. He had more or less been stable for a couple of years.

  "No," he said. "Not here. Medication adjustments should be done in a structured environment. We're looking at transferring him to a psychiatric unit."

  "Here?"

  "No, we don't have an appropriate unit in this hospital," Dr. Patel said. "The social worker will speak to you shortly. Any questions?"

  "No, thank you," I said.

  "Take care," he said and left. As I waited, Kelly texted me, then called me, then texted me again, but I wasn't in the mood to talk or text. I wished I hadn't told her what happened. As I sat there, the room next door, Jordan's room, became strangely quiet.

  A middle-aged woman with a clipboard knocked on my door. I assumed she was the social worker Dr. Patel mentioned.

  "Hello," the woman said. "Are you Tim?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "I'm Deirdre Waters," she said. "I'm one of the social workers here." Deirdre entered the room and sat down in a chair beside me. She removed the glasses from the top of her short curly hair and turned her attention to her clipboard. "You're his brother, correct?"

  "Yes," I said.

  Everyone at Children's Hospital knew Jordan's history, but this was a new hospital, so I had to recap a lot of it; at least the past few years. Overall he had a great summer, though, and I was actually starting to feel optimistic about his future.