A Tiny Piece of Something Greater

by Jude Sierra

  He probably shouldn’t have said now, but he can’t bring himself to take that back. He wants to know, even if it takes a while for Reid to trust him. At lunch with Nina last week, amidst a semi-abridged version of the details of their pool escapade, Joaquim told her that he doesn’t want to get too invested in the relationship, because he doesn’t know how long Reid plans to stick around or what Reid plans for his future. Despite what he told Nina, he’s in. Time will tell if he’s too far in, if he’ll get hurt. Nina was right: although he thinks he knows Reid and their connection, there’s a lot he doesn’t know. How many secrets do we hold? Don’t all relationships start this way? The unfolding of a relationship should be the slow exposition of secrets and selves as trust thickens and matures.

  “Joaquim?” Reid says, interrupting what must have been a long silence.

  “Sorry, no, I was thinking,” he says. Honesty will benefit us, he hopes. Joaquim wants honesty between them without having to push, and acknowledgment that they need to keep learning so they aren’t pretending or ignoring things. With a foundation of honesty, Joaquim hopes that it, and trust, will always be on the table so that in moments like these communication will feel beneficial. Necessary even.

  If the time comes.

  “Okay.” Reid sounds so unlike himself; Joaquim badly wants to be able to see him, to get a read on him in person.

  “I’m sorry about today.”

  “It’s okay,” Reid insists. “You’re busy; it’s okay.”

  “I know. I wouldn’t have canceled if I had any choice. This internship—I really don’t get a choice sometimes.”

  “You mentioned something like that before,” Reid says. “Can you explain? Not because I am, like, doubting you or anything. But I don’t know the details about how this works.”

  “I would love to.” Joaquim sighs. “But I have to go to my next shift.”

  “Okay,” Reid says; no sadness or upset laces the words. If he’s upset, he’s very good at hiding it. He doesn’t sound as quiet as he did when they first got on the phone.

  “But, um. I really wanted to see you.” It’s too soon for I miss you, right? “Are you around Monday?”

  “I am after work, at seven. Are you able to do that?”

  “Yeah,” Joaquim says. Relieved that their schedules line up so soon, he grins at Bobby, who has walked in the door. Bobby shoots him a look that plainly communicates he thinks Joaquim is a weirdo, but Joaquim ignores that. “I don’t have an early shift Tuesday, so that’ll be great.”

  “Awesome.” Reid’s voice is rich, as if infused with happiness.

  “I’ll call you later, maybe?”

  “I’d love that.”

  “If it’s not too late for you.”

  “No. I’ll be up late tonight anyway.”

  “All right then.”

  “Bye,” Reid says. His voice is sweet and quiet.

  Twelve

  After he hangs up, Reid tosses the phone onto the bed beside him and resumes his examination of the ceiling. It’s one of those popcorn ceilings that drives him crazy when he looks at it too long. Reid simultaneously wants to run his fingers over it, letting the tiny sharp edges press into his skin, and also to scrape at it. Watching it disappear slowly, becoming clean and smooth, would be utterly satisfying.

  Reid realizes that this is not how his compulsion will play out. And that he can’t, because it’s his grandmother’s condo, not his. Finding a sensory outlet definitely would have been helpful last night; maybe if he’d accepted his compulsion to feel those sharp edges, those small hurts, he wouldn’t have slipped up last night. It’s been five months since Reid last cut; five months since his last relapse. It’s the longest Reid has ever gone without self-harming, and although it’s been a struggle, Reid can’t help but wonder if he’d taken the positive strides he’s made for granted.

  Tonight is therapy night. That’s one of the reasons he and Joaquim were going out during the day, though, of course Joaquim didn’t know that. For the first time in a very long time, he doesn’t want to show up for therapy. He can’t ignore his relapse. Reid must reach out and utilize his support systems.

  On paper, there’s no good reason to skip and many compelling reasons to attend. He’s let them down, though. He’s let himself down. The community of support they can offer him won’t be the same as it would be if he were there in person. Reid hates to cry in front of people. Therapy is the only space he makes an exception for, and not because he wants to. He promised himself, when he committed to getting better, that he would teach himself to be vulnerable in spaces where he’s safe. The computer monitor is a cold buffer; the vulnerability of crying while so alone frightens him.

  Reid sighs and rolls onto his side. Out of direct sunlight, the old wallpaper his grandmother never replaced looks dingy. Its vertical stripes, thick with pink flowers, have taken on dusty rose and cream tones with greens that edge toward brown. The pattern of vines between the overblown peonies running up to the ceiling is painfully familiar. He’s traced them with his eyes for hours now, between bouts of sleeping. The only time he got up today was to shower. He thought it might help wake him up. Instead the shower made his lethargy worse, and he stared into the mirror at his side, touching the small, thin cuts over and over for a long time, trying to center all of the not-right inside at the point of slight pain outside. Touching the fresh cuts was like touching a memory, like a haunting that seemed to pull him together, pull in everything that was skittering out of control.

  It went on too long—he doesn’t know how long. Long enough that, by the time he roused himself from reading the braille of his failure obsessively, the mirror was completely steamed over, and he wasn’t able to see himself.

  He finished his shower as fast as he could, put on an undershirt and a long-sleeved shirt, and crawled back into bed under his own comforter, the one from the empty twin bed, and the musty-smelling blankets from the hall closet. His wet hair left the pillow damp. He clutched his fingers together under the pillows and tried and tried and tried not to think.

  Then Joaquim called him. Initially, answering was hard, because what could be said? Reid wasn’t mad at him. Logically, none of this had to do with Joaquim in the first place—in any place—but finding normal, finding evenness, finding the will to fake okay was impossible, impossible, impossible.

  Improbably, by the end of the call, Reid is smiling. He’s still tired, so tired. But his mood has lifted enough for him to think more seriously about therapy tonight. If he calls in from bed, they’ll understand.

  One of the most frustrating things about trying to explain his lows to his parents, particularly after a rapid and intense cycle, is how tired he is. It’s not the kind of tiredness that he can shake off, it’s an exhaustion that comes from a place he can’t understand. Many of his problems seem to stem from places he can’t understand and does not control.

  What would Nancy tell me to do?

  Reid rolls over and trains his eyes on the ceiling again. He imagines pressing his palm to its rough surface. Pressing the heel and then the tips of his fingers to feel how the smaller points would dig in. The way it would hurt without hurting.

  Sit up, Reid.

  He sits up. His hair is a wreck: flat and matted on the left side of his head, dried in stiff clumps elsewhere. His phone chimes. It’s not Joaquim, and there’s no one else he wants to talk to. Reid sits slumped for a long while, eyes on the geometric mauve and baby blue patterns of the comforter. It’s almost more hideous than the wallpaper. But there’s something soothing about the lines he can trace over and over. Nancy has pillows like that, with concentric beige and bronze circles he followed and followed with his fingers for the hour and a half they were together each week.

  Get out of bed, Reid.

  He sighs, peels back the heft and warmth of his blankets, and slowly stands. He’s stiff from hours spent in that bed. He
wobbles a little and puts a hand on the doorframe when he pauses there. Eyes slipping closed, he leans on it and has to fight going back.

  I can do this. I can.

  It’s been a day since he’s eaten, and, though he’s not hungry, eating is an important part of his self-care plan. He’s never struggled with food or body issues, but he has struggled with taking care of himself when he’s low. At Sycamore Grove, the therapists told him to work recovery like sobriety. He scoffed. Months later, when he was home again, Nancy offered him a different perspective on “one day at a time,” breaking it down to whatever increment of time would work. Reid’s worked them all: day-to-day, minute-to-minute. Right now, he’s on the moment-to-moment plan, the one in which the only thing he can think about is the thing he is doing at that very moment. He cannot let himself think past it.

  Break an egg, Reid.

  And so he does, into a pan on the stove that he remembers too late isn’t turned on. He does so, leaving it on medium, and struggles not to turn it off and leave. He watches the egg whiten and bubble and stirs only enough to break the yolk. Reid combs his fingers through his hair to try to order it. It’s hopeless. He has no one to worry about today, other than his DBT group, so he could theoretically let it go.

  Eventually, Reid breaks a second egg into the pan. They’ll cook all mixed up, which isn’t good. But he hardly has an appetite. This is a thing he must do because they told him to.

  The sun is setting and Reid sits on the screened porch with a half-empty plate of eggs on his lap. He’s drowsy, but the salty air has helped him stay up. Sounds of kids playing on the beach down the tiny cliff make him smile. More likely than not, they’re visiting a grandparent, but it’s nice to hear young people.

  Other than the tall green spikes of Joe the aloe poking into the blue curtain of sky, his view of the water is uninterrupted. Soon the sun will set and those blues will part for her impressive show. Reid has to show up to therapy. He has to. Once he sat on the porch, the only other command he had to give himself was to stay awake. Each minute, his plan is a continuous reminder that he must. He made promises to other people, but they’re less important than the promise he made to himself, the promise that he’d work his hardest to be as healthy as possible.

  Working recovery when he’s not well is vital. Reid’s relapsed before. Climbing out of a deep hole is much harder when you’ve let yourself stagnate in it, let your muscles atrophy and hope disintegrate. His group is the hands reaching in for him.

  Reid closes his eyes and shakes his head. That might be the cheesiest self-help line he’s come up with. And he comes up with good ones. Nancy loves them.

  When it’s time to get up, he puts the dish in the sink, and then, halfway out of the kitchen, comes back to put it in the dishwasher. He has no idea how he’ll feel for a while. Will he feel this low? If so, letting things pile up will only make him worse. Reid has stringent rules about maintaining order in his surroundings. That gives him a sense of control.

  In his room, he finally checks his phone. He finds texts and calls from Felix and one from his mom, who calls every day. His mother has a keen sense for when Reid isn’t doing well and a brand of caring that is equal parts patronizing and loving. He’s not ready for that. And Felix? Felix has texted him consistently ever since Reid left home. In weak moments, when Felix’s texts become worrisome, Reid breaks his own promises and texts back to check in, to make sure he’s okay. Because physical distance alone isn’t enough; physical distance isn’t a boundary between two people who were so enmeshed, so unhealthy together, for so long.

  His therapy group encouraged Reid to sever all ties with Felix several times, but Reid can’t. Doing so would feel like betrayal. Felix, in whatever fucked up, and at times damaging, capacity, was once a person who kept Reid together at his worst. They kept each other together in turns.

  And hurt each other in turns. Felix hurt him as well, irrevocably.

  Reid ignores those texts. He also has a text from Joaquim from hours ago, asking how he’s doing.

  Reid stares at it, wondering what tone to read it in. Caring? Checking in? Wanting to exchange pleasantries? Worried because he could hear something wrong? Joaquim is in the dark, but Reid could not disguise the tone of his voice when they spoke. If he were in Joaquim’s position, he would be curious and perhaps concerned.

  Rather than read them or delete any of the texts, Reid tosses his phone back on the bed. Group is in twenty minutes. There’s not enough time to shower again, but he can do something about his hair. In the bathroom he tries to stick his head under the faucet, but it’s a tiny sink. He settles for splashing water over his head haphazardly, then combing the weird angles and clumps out. When he runs his hands through it briskly, messing it up again, it’s more him. It’s a mess, yes, but the kind he wants.

  “Reid, are you okay?” Elise asks when Rachel pauses. Reid looks up from where he’s been playing with the braided black leather bracelet he wears sometimes.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Just listening.”

  “Hmm,” Rachel says. She’s on the left side of the screen, not where she usually sits. But Jess has come to group today and is sitting in her spot.

  “Reid, you said you were going to go on a date with Joaquim last week,” Nancy says, “How did that go?”

  He makes himself smile. “Really great.” Anxiety curls heavily in his stomach.

  “Tell us more,” Rachel pleads, laughing. “It’s been so long since I was on a date, I don’t even remember what it’s like.”

  “Well, I can’t tell you everything.” Reid wiggles his eyebrows.

  “Oh my god, Reid, you so can,” Elise says.

  “Anyway,” Reid continues. His face is bright red. He remembers Joaquim’s tongue in his mouth, his taste lingering and sharp. Yeah, no. Not sharing that. “We went to dinner, kind of the usual. He makes me laugh. But…” He goes back to fiddling with his bracelet.

  “But?”

  “Well, we came back here after, and I was showing him around and… the thing is that I wanted him to come over. So I invited him. But as soon as he was here, it felt all wrong. I don’t know why. And then I started to get anxious.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “You didn’t sleep with him anyway, did you?” Elise asks.

  “Elise!” Rachel hisses.

  “What? I ju—”

  “I took him on a walk.” Reid doesn’t want to know where Elise is going to go next. “I felt better outside. We went down to the pool, and I thought I could tell him. Some things, not everything.”

  “How did that feel? How did that go?”

  “Well.” Reid bites his lip. “We never got to the talking part.”

  “Reid! I’m scandalized!”

  “Oh, shush, Jess, stop being melodramatic,” Rachel says.

  There’s a lull. Everything is so tangled, his current anxiety and shame and the unexpected anxiety and wrongness he felt as soon as he invited Joaquim in. That anxiety and wrongness had dissolved quickly; being outside, being in the water, being with Joaquim, Reid was someone else for a moment, for a few hours.

  “Reid, honey, tell us what’s going on.”

  “I don’t know. I like him. But it was impulsive. Maybe a little reckless. I promised I wouldn’t be that guy.”

  “Reid, we’re young. You like him, and it sounds like he likes you, right?” Rachel asks.

  “Well, yeah, but he doesn’t really know me. And he’ll find out; no one wants to deal with all of this. I don’t just have baggage. I am baggage, you guys.”

  “Reid,” Nancy starts.

  “No,” he interrupts, “I am. Even Felix—”

  “Come on, Reid, not Felix, you cannot let him keep—”

  “But I was a part of his problems, wasn’t I? I made everything worse with all of my fucked up—”

  “Reid.” Elise tries
to cut in. He can’t stop, though.

  “If this keeps going, I’m going to get in deeper. And I could hide it. I can now, but not forever. He’ll see.” He stops talking; he hopes they get his meaning even when he doesn’t want to say what he’s done.

  “He’ll see?” Jess asks. With her inconsistent attendance, it’s possible she missed the story of Reid’s relapse struggles. Explaining them now would be exhausting, and Reid’s tired enough.

  “Reid,” Nancy hops in. Her voice is soothing, or maybe it just seems so because, after a year of working with her, she’s the most stable part of his life. “Are you safe, right now?”

  Reid nods. While he traces the woven strands of his bracelet he thinks, If only this is what my life was like. Yes, there are many strands, and it’s a complicated pattern. But Reid has no pattern. He’s a mess.

  “I’ll be okay,” he promises. Every time he falls back into it, he feels worse when he promises he won’t do it again. “Maybe I’m just on a slow-and-steady plan,” he says. He presses his lips together to hide the way they tremble and then clears his throat to hide how thick it’s become. He will not cry. “I need to… I don’t really know how. I just, um. It was a really sudden and fast cycle.”

  “Do you have an idea what might have triggered it?” Nancy asks.

  “No. There’s so much, but not anything I can pinpoint.” It happened soon after Joaquim canceled their plans. Reid often experiences displaced triggers, one thing setting off an episode that’s unrelated to the event.

  “It’s not nothing, Reid,” Rachel says. Of everyone she understands the most, because she and Reid have been caught in such similar struggles.

  “Well, for now, an action plan sounds like a good idea, right?” Nancy says. Of course he agrees. He’s so mixed up, though; so often he doesn’t know where to start.

  “First, I am going to encourage you again to go back to diary cards. Maybe you can identify some patterns. They’ve been helpful for identifying triggers in the past, right? You’re in a new environment. Maybe they’ve changed. Maybe they’re harder to recognize.”