A Not So Typical Love

by Tristen Rowen

  "You said your mother has schizophrenia?" the social worker said.

  "Yes," I said, annoyed I had to answer these types of questions again. "But Jordan doesn't have schizophrenia. He's not delusional or psychotic. He takes an antipsychotic, but it's not for that. If anything, he has really bad, sometimes uncontrollable anxiety and he becomes overstimulated and overwhelmed. Once he reaches the breaking point, he doesn't know how to come back."

  "Was he ever diagnosed with a developmental or intellectual disability?"

  Because Jordan didn't speak until he was four, doctors thought that maybe he did have some kind of developmental disability, but it turned out he was a genius.

  "No," I said. "He's actually brilliant. He skipped two grades. No, he doesn't have a developmental disability."

  "Has he ever been diagnosed with Autism?" she asked.

  There it was; there was the word. I'd heard enough diagnoses over his lifetime. My silence prompted her to continue.

  "Autism is really a broad description nowadays, used to describe a wide array of symptoms. It can range from mild to severe, with or without a developmental disability." She spoke like I didn't have a clue. "They used to call it Asperger's. Now they call it..."

  "Yes, I know," I interrupted her. "I've heard it all."

  "So you would say he's on the spectrum?"

  "On the spectrum," I repeated with a hint of annoyance in my voice. "I hate that phrase. It makes him sound...well, it just makes him sound less than human. Once someone is labeled, people start identifying them as a label and not as a person."

  "Very good point," Deirdre said.

  "I just want him to feel safe," I said. "Right now he doesn't feel safe. It doesn't matter what kind of diagnosis he has." She paused before going on.

  "I think we all want him to feel safe," she said. "There's a bed available at McLean Hospital. They have a residential treatment program for people with...well...with similar issues as Jordan. It's strictly for adolescents."

  "Like a group home? Is that what you mean? I'm not sending him to a group home," I said.

  "It's not a group home," she said. "It's a short-term treatment program. Has he ever been to one before?"

  "I don't know," I said, my mind running wild, picturing him away from home...away from me. "He's been to the hospital, but not for very long." I couldn't envision him anywhere else but home. He'd never forgive me if I sent him away.

  "It won't be forever," she said as if sensing my burgeoning guilt. I wanted him to come home. "A stay can be anywhere from a month to three or six months. It really varies. We plan on transferring him later today."

  "Today?" I said. "It can't wait until tomorrow? It's getting kind of late."

  "They're expecting him today."

  "Does he know?" I asked.

  "No, I don't believe so. Do you want to try and talk to him? I think he's calmed down now."

  "Yeah...yeah...I'll talk to him," I said, trying to think of the best way to tell him.

  "I can tell you're a good brother," Deirdre said. "He's very lucky to have you." I didn't feel like a very good brother at the moment.

  The ativan definitely mellowed him out. He was back on the bed, curled up, one arm hanging off the mattress, his eyes half-closed. He wasn't even singing or humming anymore, but he wasn't asleep, either.

  "Hey," I said. "Just so you know, King of Pain is stuck in my head and I can't get it out." He didn't even react to my voice. "So, Jordan, I just wanted to let you know you're going to another hospital. Don't be scared, though. It'll be alright. I'm going to go home and pack a few things. I hope you remembered to do your laundry. My clothes won't fit you." I hoped to make a joke, but he didn't laugh. No reaction at all. As he lay there, I walked up to him on the bed. He didn't move a muscle. "Jordan...hey..." I said. He didn't even flinch as I brushed his hair off the side of his face. "Your hair's gotten so crazy." He just lay there, letting me comb his messy curls with my fingers. My stomach was in knots. "Fuck, Jordan," I muttered. "Don't leave me, huh? You mean everything to me." I waited a minute or two for a possible response, but no response came. "Okay," I said, pulling my hand away. "I'm going to go now. I'll see you at the other hospital."

  Usually I was able to keep it together. I was always the stable one; the only stable one in the entire family. Our mother always had serious psychiatric issues (as well as her mother); Art just ran away, and then there was Jordan. Without me, Jordan most likely would have been removed from the home. Even with me around, people tried to send him away, but I wouldn't let them. I spent most of his life fighting and advocating for him. Now I felt like the biggest hypocrite because I was doing what I always said I wouldn't do and there was no one around to tell me everything was going to be okay, that this was the right thing to do.

  As I sat in the car, tears started to fall, not something I let happen too often. I was used to doing everything alone, just about managing on my own. As I sat there in the hospital garage, I took out my phone and scrolled through my many text messages from Kelly. For the first time ever I realized I didn't have to do this alone.

  Ladies and Gentlemen We are Floating into Space (Can't Help Falling in Love)

  Jamie

  As soon as I heard Tim's car pull in the driveway, I ran down the stairs to greet him at the front door. I didn't care that I looked desperate. I was desperate to find out how he was doing. Behind his glasses were a pair of very tired, sad eyes, and worried. He looked absolutely exhausted.

  This is all my fault, I thought to myself. It was my idea to take Jordan to Fenway. Maybe I did "ruin everything" like he said. No, I couldn't believe that. He wasn't in his right frame of mind when he said all those things to me. I didn't feel like I "ruined everything." If anything, I liked to think I made a small difference in his life like he made a difference in mine. My heart ached for him.

  "He's being transferred to a different hospital," Tim said before I said or asked him anything. "A treatment program for kids like him."

  Kids like him.

  Jordan was referred to as a “kid,” reminding me that I had fallen in love with a nineteen year old boy after he convinced me he wasn't a "boy." He led me believe he was a man. I definitely didn't treat him like a kid; that's not what he wanted and he didn't act like a kid in bed. He had grown up very fast in that department.

  "I just came home to pack a bag for him," Tim said.

  "I can do it," I said. "Why don't you just sit and relax for a minute?”

  "Where's Art? Is he still here?" he asked.

  "Yeah, I think he went to bed," I said. At one point he was in his office, but I heard him go upstairs to his room not too long ago.

  "Yeah, at seven o'clock," he scoffed in disbelief, heading to the living room. "I've been in the ER all afternoon and he's hiding in the house. Typical."

  While Tim went to the living room, I returned upstairs to pack some things for Jordan. I gathered a couple of pairs of jeans and shorts, then sorted through some of his favorite concert t-shirts: the Pixies, the Cure, Joy Division, the Ramones. I was sure he'd want his phone and music, so I placed his phone and headphones on top of his shirts. From my sketchbook, I tore out a quick drawing I did of Jordan and tucked the sketch underneath his clothes. I couldn't think of anything else he'd need in the hospital; I had never been to a psych unit before. I wasn't even sure how long he'd be there. What's worse was that I wouldn't be around when he got out.

  Tim didn't relax very long because he was waiting in the kitchen when I came back downstairs. He was never one to relax, no matter the circumstances.

  “Do you want me to go with you?" I asked.

  "No, I'm going to be there awhile, signing paperwork and everything," he said. "You can't see him. I'm sorry. I know how much you want to see him." He took the suitcase from me and left the house.

  All of my things were packed. Well, everything I planned on taking to England with me. Tim was nice enough to let me store some of my things in the basement in the next room beside his
garden of cannabis.

  The morning before I left, I had brunch with my parents and sister. My mother was having a good day, so that was a good thing. She knew who I was, knew I was going to England for ten months, and even remembered Jordan. I didn't go into any details about what happened to him or that he was in the hospital. I let her believe we were still together and madly in love. As far as I was concerned, we were still together and I love, and I had no intention of breaking up with him. Despite the incident and his meltdown at Fenway, I didn't love him any less, even after all the things he said to me in the emergency room. He didn't mean any of it.

  There was no way I'd leave without saying goodbye. I wanted him to know I planned on coming back for him, that I planned on calling and texting him any chance I got, that I wasn't breaking up with him, that I loved him. This wasn't the way I envisioned saying goodbye to him, visiting him in a hospital. Tim told me he hadn't said a word since his transfer. I was hopeful he'd agree to see me; at least to say goodbye. Maybe he'd talk to me.

  Before going to the hospital, I picked a couple of sunflowers from the field only Jordan and I knew about. It was better than buying a bouquet of flowers from the store.

  As I entered the unit, I ran into one of the counselors, a young man sitting on a folding chair with a binder in his lap, acting as a monitor while checking visitors in and out. Only people on the "approved" list could visit. Thanks to Tim, I was on the list of "approved" visitors. I was sure there wasn't much of a list for Jordan. There weren't many people involved in his life.

  "He's five doors down on the left," the counselor said to me.

  As I headed down the hall, a woman's voice stopped me. "Wait," she called to me. "Jordan's not taking any visitors.”

  I stopped walking, waiting for her to approach me.

  "He's only been here a day and the team feels like it's too soon for visitors. I told his brother that. I told Jose that, too, but he must have forgotten." Jose? Jose must have been the guy on the chair.

  "Are you one of the doctors?" I asked.

  “No," she said. "I'm one of the nurses." Not too far away, perhaps in the TV room, a verbal altercation ensued between a couple of teenagers. A counselor ran down the hall to deal with it.

  "I'm his boyfriend," I said.

  “I'm sorry. You'll have to go," she said curtly and firmly.

  "I need to see him," I said. "I'm leaving for England tomorrow and I won't be back for ten months. I just want to say goodbye to him. Can't I just say goodbye to him?"

  "Lower your voice," she said. I hadn't realized I had raised it. I just didn't want to leave without seeing him. "You'll have to leave."

  One boy suddenly ran down the hall and threw himself on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. He was probably around fourteen or so. I suddenly felt very out of place, reminding me that I was in love with a nineteen year old boy.

  I still wanted to say goodbye.

  I still loved him.

  "I just want to say goodbye," I repeated. "Jordan!" I shouted. Maybe he'd come out of his room if he heard my voice. Fifth door on the left, Jose said just a few seconds earlier. Even though I knew I was probably disturbing the entire unit, I didn't care. "Jordan!"

  "You'll have to leave now before I call security," that same nurse said. I didn't care. Call security, I thought to myself as I walked passed her, heading to Jordan's room. I found him in bed, in the same clothes I last saw him in, which was a Red Sox t-shirt and jeans. Listless, he lay on his side, his eyes opened, focused on the floor.

  "Jordan," I said breathlessly. "Jordan, look at me...please." Not responding, he didn't even look up or move a muscle. Before security showed up, I went to him, hoping he wouldn't freak out. "I have to go in a minute. They're going to throw me out. I just want you to know that I love you and that I'm coming back for you." He didn't flinch or budge as I kissed the top of his head. He just lay there, no response, no reaction.

  "Let's go, sir," a rather big, tall, and intimidating man said, standing in Jordan's doorway. Sir? What a laugh. He was really big, though, like a bouncer in a club.

  "I'm coming back, you hear me?" I said to Jordan. "You can't get rid of me."

  "Let's go. Now," the guard said more firmly.

  "Yeah, I'm coming," I said, keeping my eyes on Jordan as I backed out of the room. On my way out, I dropped the sunflowers on the desk in his room and left the hospital without further incident. Actually, the security guard personally escorted me out.

  “Cry Baby Jamie” resurfaced as I walked toward my Jeep. As I sat in the front seat, I bawled my eyes out. My heart was broken. No matter how much I rationalized everything, repeating the words "It's not his fault," over and over in my head, my heart still ached. My heart hadn't been broken like this since Gavin died. Jordan wasn't dead, though. He was still in there somewhere, fighting for survival. I'd fight for him, too, even if I had to fight from overseas.

  Jordan once called me his other half, that we were two halves that made a whole. Now he was my broken half and I didn't know how to fix him. Tim said I couldn't fix him and he was right. A lot of it was up to Jordan.

  When Gina kicked me out and I called Tim, I expected an easy, carefree summer. After all, he lived in the middle of nowhere, the same town where I grew up. I just thought I'd chill and wait for September. Falling in love was furthest from my mind, but I knew I was in trouble within those first two weeks. Jordan, the guy who said he didn't know how to flirt. He happened to be one of the most gifted flirts I'd ever met.

  When I returned to the house, I found Tim outside on the porch smoking a joint. Sitting down beside him, he handed me the joint, which I graciously accepted.

  "You saw him, huh?" Tim said. I didn't tell him I was going to visit him. All Tim knew was that I was going to see my family today.

  "Yes," I said, inhaling deeply. "He wouldn't even look at me."

  "Yeah," Tim sighed. "They're going to adjust his medication. He's gained like fifteen pounds and grown four inches since his last increase, so it's probably about time." Although I wasn't aware he was on medication, I really wasn't surprised. "He's not like our mother, no matter what you hear."

  "I know," I said. Tim always made a point to clarify that fact.

  "He knows the difference between reality and fantasy. He's not delusional."

  "I know," I said.

  "I hope you come back to him," he said. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to him."

  "I'm coming back," I said.

  "I need him to come back," Tim said. "He means everything to me."

  "I know," I said. I had heard him say that more than once.

  "What time's your flight tomorrow?" he asked, purposely changing the subject.

  "Eight o'clock tomorrow night." Tim paused before speaking again.

  "Hey, isn't tomorrow your birthday?"

  "Yeah, actually," I said.

  "Thirty-one, right?"

  "Yeah." I was actually seven months younger than Tim. Nowadays it really didn't make a difference, but he teased me growing up.

  "Happy birthday if I don't see you tomorrow."

  "Thanks," I said.

  As it turned out, I didn't get to see him the next day. Tim had already left for work when I dragged my ass out of bed. Art was hiding somewhere in the house and I wasn't about to search for him to say goodbye. My sister, Liz, drove me to the airport.

  "Even though we don't see each other a hell of a lot I'm still going to miss you," Liz said.

  "I'll be back in June," I reminded her.

  "I'm sure he'll come around," she said. "He'll be okay." She could read me like a book.

  "Yeah, I hope so," I said.

  While I was looking forward to seeing London and going back to work after an interesting summer, Jordan would always be on my mind. He'll be okay, I told myself over and over, which was what everyone was saying. I had to believe it. I also told myself and Tim that I'd call Jordan and text him so much I'd really drive him crazy. He wasn't going to get rid of m
e. No way.

  Sitting in the airport with a couple of hours to kill, I popped my earbuds in and put on some music. What was that song Jordan sang in the hospital? Ah...I remembered...the band was Spiritualized. The song was perfect.

  Landslide

  Tim

  Bright and early in the morning, I wandered off mindlessly, still half asleep, waiting for the keurig machine to wake up. I nearly tripped over the suitcases Art parked in the doorway between the kitchen and living room not far from the front door. As usual, Art intended to leave quietly; it didn't matter that Jordan was in the hospital.

  When it came to Jordan, he was always at a loss of words and claimed he "didn't know what to do." I didn't know what to do, either, but I never ran away. Usually Art said goodbye, but I wasn't so sure he planned on saying goodbye this time. He'd barely said a word to me over the past few weeks. I spoke to Jamie more than I spoke to Art, my own father, who was still in the country. As I stared at the coffee dripping into Jordan's favorite mug (he'd kill me if he ever saw me using it, but I hadn't done the dishes in a few days), Art did his best to tiptoe down the stairs.

  "You were going to say goodbye, right?" I said as Art entered the kitchen. He startled as if surprised to find me in the kitchen. The smell of coffee alone should have alerted him to my presence. He should have known by now that I got up at five everyday to be at work in Cambridge by seven a.m. I was almost certain that Art hoped to leave without a word. What a coward.

  "Of course I was going to say goodbye," he said, but I wasn't so sure about that. Contemplating what to say next, I paused before continuing.

  "Why do you keep coming back?" I asked. "I've been raising Jordan since he was born. I've been pretty much on my own since I was eleven years old. It's always been me and Jordan. So, I want to know why you keep coming back. Why? It just upsets him. You know that, right?"

  "You're blaming me now? Is that it?" he said. "It's not my fault he had a complete nutty at Fenway."

  Complete nutty. What a way to put it.

  "No," I said. "I'm not blaming you. That incident had nothing to do with you. It's just that....well...Jordan loves this house...this land...but you barely spend any time here. Once or twice a year maybe."