What do I now? I can’t just abandon him; I owe him more than that. I care deeply for Liam and I don’t want him headed down the wrong path. He has far too much to lose. Maybe my job as his girlfriend is to be there for him, to talk him through the rough spots. Am I his antidrug?
My mind keeps flashing back to Braden, agonizing over the times he may have been reaching out and I wasn’t cognizant enough to extend the hand he needed.
I don’t want to fail again. I have to try harder.
Wait, no, do or do not, there is no try.
I’ve been digging into my research lately, trying to figure out if Braden displayed any warning signs that Theo or I should have spotted. As I replay every conversation, each interaction, I can’t put my finger on anything specific.
I always thought Braden was an open book, so open and free with how he felt.
But the reality is, he must have been a master at keeping his deepest feelings inside. He didn’t talk about being sad or depressed. He never said anything about sensing he was a burden or that he didn’t have any reasons to live. He didn’t isolate himself or give away his prized possessions.
Unless...he left me his hat on purpose.
Of course, now I know a lot more about risk factors. I see how detrimental it was for him to experience Paul’s and Macey’s passing in such rapid succession. Their deaths put him at risk. And his death puts us all at risk.
I wasn’t proactive enough with Braden and that’s a lesson I’ll never forget. I won’t fail again. I will be better at looking out for Liam.
In my never-ending quest for answers, I ran across this song about a guy who prevented a bunch of people from killing themselves. The song called him the gatekeeper. But I couldn’t listen to it more than once—made me feel guilty, like I’d fallen down on the job.
From this second forward, I’ll be Liam’s shepherd, his sentry, his gatekeeper. He deserves that.
So, in the gentlest manner possible, I place a palm on the pocket where Liam’s stashed the pills. “We should talk about these.”
Apparently all he wanted was for me to be invested, because he immediately softens. He shuts his eyes and hangs his head, which makes his crown slide forward. I right it for him. His demeanor is that of a child trying—and failing—to pass as a full-blown adult.
He says, “I’ve probably been taking more than I should. I’m starting to depend on them and I’m kind of scared.”
“Would you feel better if you told me about everything? No judgment, pinky swear.”
He nods slowly, but doesn’t say anything. He’s wearing his shame like a cloak, can’t even meet my eye.
“Can you stop taking them if you want to?” I ask as kindly as I can. Now is not the time for him to feel like I’m lecturing him.
His response is another sad shake of the head. He says, “I’m not sure,” and then puts his hands on my waist. He pulls me to him, so I hug him back. He rests his forehead on my shoulder. This is better. We always fit together so well.
“Okay, we can fix this,” I say, my voice full of a confidence I don’t feel. Yet I will fake it until I make it, for his sake. “We will fix this.”
Because I refuse to lose anyone else.
Wait a minute...was Braden taking opioids? A chill runs down my spine. Is that what happened? That certainly would have been a risk factor. Was he making runs up the road for illegal purposes? Was he addicted? Are pills like Liam’s the reason that he killed himself?
I have to know.
“Liam, do you...” His eyes are welling with tears. He’s never broken down like this, not even after the time his dad threw him into the garage wall for missing soccer practice when he’d stopped to change an old lady’s flat tire. “Do you have any idea if Braden was taking the same thing?”
If he was, then I need to act fast. Clearly the pills messed Braden up and I can’t let that happen to Liam. He’s too good, too pure, too important to let slip through the cracks. Not just for me, but for everyone.
Braden’s death rocked North Shore; Liam’s would destroy it.
Liam’s whole body goes rigid in my arms before he takes a big step away from me. He switches from broken to vitriolic in a heartbeat. “I should have known Braden would be your priority. Jesus Christ, he’s not even with us anymore and yet I’m still playing second string. Spoiler alert, I’m never going to be him, Mallory. I can’t compete with him and what’s more, I don’t want to.”
“Liam, no, I’m so sorry. It’s only because we’re talking about it, I was trying to assess—”
“Enough,” he snaps.
“Liam, please, let me help you.” I reach for him and he bats away my hands.
“Get off my jock, Mallory.”
“You don’t understand, I was just asking—”
He doesn’t allow me to complete my thought. He is livid, angrier than I’ve ever seen, and he’s practically spitting as he lights into me. “Enough, okay? Enough. I’ve had enough of your ‘just asking.’ Christ, Mal, you’re worse than my father. You’re relentless. ‘How’s your application coming? When are you going to run stairs? What’s your plan for tackling the research paper? Why aren’t you in AP Humanities? How are you going to deliver the win at State?’ I’m under enough pressure every single fucking day without my girlfriend adding to it, especially one who’s obsessed with a dead guy. Guess what, Mallory. I’m here. He’s not. But seems like you made your choice anyway.”
Suddenly I’m shaky and I want to vomit, and not just because I’ve consumed nothing but celery and rye crackers this whole week. My stomach is swimming in acid and my esophagus burns. He’s right, isn’t he? What is that expression we talked about in English class? Hell is the truth discovered too late?
“Liam, this isn’t you,” I plead.
“I can’t, Mallory. I can’t even deal. With any of this.” He whips off his crown and throws it against the cinderblock wall outside the men’s locker room. Because it’s plastic, it just bounces, although a few of the fake gemstones come loose and scatter. “Our ‘relationship’ is completely fucked up—I keep doing the same thing with you and expecting different results. Well, the train is pulling into the station and I’m getting off. We’re done.”
“Liam, don’t be like this.”
“Later, Queen Mallory.”
With that, he stalks out of the hallway and, ostensibly, my life.
I have no clue how to handle this, how to process, how to break down what just occurred. I’m honestly not sure if I’m more upset that we’re over or that he’s right about Braden, but that doesn’t matter now.
I don’t know what Liam’s taking or how long he’s been taking it, but I think he’s in trouble. Yet I can’t just go to his parents and level accusations, not without all the facts at my disposal. Anyone else’s parents, yes, I totally could/should/would, but his father isn’t a rational person. His dad hasn’t raised his hand to him in a year or so, but these are extraordinary circumstances. If his dad kicked the crap out of him for being a Good Samaritan, I can’t even imagine what might happen if Liam were actually screwing up. That would be such a shitstorm, particularly if he hasn’t done anything wrong.
I can’t do that to Liam.
Because I’m at a loss, I proceed the only way I know. I keep up appearances. I straighten my crown and adjust my dress before marching up to my spot in the stands. As I head towards my friends, I act like everything is as perfect as it looks.
Like I always do.
As I navigate to my seat, people offer congrats on my win.
I smile and I nod and pose for pictures, radiant in my victory, flashing that winner’s smile. I come across so damn happy.
But I wonder how much happier I’d be if I could just go home and order fifteen pizzas.
24
OWEN
> “Buddy? You in there?”
My dad turns on the light and enters my room when I don’t answer his knock. He’s still dressed for work, wearing what he calls “venture capital casual.” His navy chinos have a razor-sharp crease down the front, his checkered plaid shirt’s custom-made by an English tailor, and his sweater vest is vicuna, which comes from some kind of llama in Peru and costs ’bout as much as a trip down there.
He and I have the same untamed curls—we look a lot alike, actually—but he keeps his hair clipped real close to control it. For the amount of effort I’ve put into grooming lately, I’d have dreds now whether or not I wanted them.
“Why are you in the dark, pal?” my father asks. He never comes in here, so this is kinda odd. He sort of has to wade through all the debris on my floor before he reaches me. He sits on the end of my bed, real formal-like, probably to keep his pants nice.
“I fell asleep,” I say, but that’s a lie.
Truth is, after the sun went down, I just didn’t have the energy to switch on a light. I thought it was around dinnertime but it must be late if he’s finally home.
Did I somehow drift off?
I don’t sleep now. Can’t. The insomnia’s almost crippling. Plus, every time I shut my eyes, I have visions of a speeding commuter train. I see an empty shoe by the side of the tracks. And on those rare occasions that sleep comes, my dreams are violent and terrifying. In them, I’m either trapped or climbing a hill that grows taller with every step I take. I don’t ever reach the summit, yet I can’t stop my ascent, either. It’s torture. In sleep, I’m Sisyphus, perpetually trying—and failing—to shove that boulder.
Every day I look like I’ve been punched because the circles under my eyes are black. Now they match how I feel. At least people are leaving me alone finally. Suspect my hygiene makes it easier for everyone to avoid me. Wasn’t intentional, but seems to be working so I’m rolling with it.
At first, everyone at school was all, “We want to be there for you.”
Why?
I’m still here.
We shoulda been there for Braden.
Simone was relentless for the first couple of weeks, couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to talk, why I wouldn’t let her in. It’s not that I don’t want to be around her; it’s that I don’t deserve to be around her.
I don’t deserve to have something nice going on in my life. I don’t deserve affection. I don’t deserve love. So I had to be so shitty with her that she’d finally stop trying to come around. It’s gonna be a long time before I can even think about girls again.
I’ve given up everything that I like, everything that brings me joy. I don’t listen to music. Haven’t touched my camera, my guitar, my computer, etc. in weeks. Mostly I just hang out on the bleachers when I’m not in class. It’s cold now, so I sit out there and shiver. I want my physical discomfort to match my spiritual distress.
I shouldn’t be allowed to be a happy camper. I figure I was under the tracks for a reason that morning. Fate placed me there. There’s a French proverb that says, “You often meet your fate on the road you take to avoid it.” I had one job, which was to save Braden, and I failed.
Big league failed.
I’m always going on about saving the whole world, but I couldn’t even save one guy.
“You hungry?” my dad asks.
I can’t remember the last time I ate. Haven’t been hungry. I must be losing weight because my pants are all too big. They sort of hang at my hips now and my face looks gaunt. Haunted.
“Nah,” I reply. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?” he asks, inching nearer. “You don’t look fine. You’re giving off a Christian Bale in The Mechanic vibe. Remember when he dropped something like sixty pounds for the role?”
I don’t say anything.
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “That’s not a criticism. Your mother and I are worried, O. You’re really going through something. Feels like you’re shutting us out. Well, guess what, kiddo? Shutting us out? No longer an option.”
I’m still quiet.
My dad shifts even closer to me and is now sitting in a way that’s absolutely messing up his pristine pants. He doesn’t seem to notice. “We haven’t been around enough, buddy, and I’m sorry. You’re just such a self-sufficient kid, so cheerful, that we figured you were fine with our schedules, that you were always okay. But you’re not okay and it’s on us. We owe you an apology.”
I can’t find any words.
He continues, “In our heads we always thought, ‘If we work hard enough to give him everything, he’ll be happy. He’ll be successful, he’ll find his way.’ But your mom and I have had our priorities wrong. We see that now and we’re going to fix it. Starting next week, family therapy. All of us, no excuses. We’re going to get through this together. As a team. Team Foley-Feinstein, which is a terrible team name, yet here we are.”
I nod, but I don’t add anything...because I can’t speak—the lump in my throat won’t let me.
He says, “You assume that we adults have it all figured out, right? Wanna know a secret? We don’t. We’re under the same kinds of stress as you in this community. We feel it, too, the pressure to achieve the most, to have the biggest house, to rack up the most accolades. It’s like, the one with the most toys wins. That nonsense doesn’t end in high school.”
My dad might finally get it.
“It should, though, so Mom and I have made a conscious decision to stop the insanity. Like it or not, pal, we’re going to be around from now on. We’re going to be more of a family, with weekends and conversations and trips we actually take, as opposed to just book. And if we slip up? Then you call us on it. How does that sound?”
I swallow, hard, finally replying, “The Machinist.”
“What’s that, bud?”
“The Machinist is the movie you mean. The Mechanic is a Jason Statham flick about an elite assassin.”
“Huh,” he says, running a hand across his chin. “I don’t think I’ve actually seen either of them. Tell you what, I’m free this weekend. Why don’t we watch them both together?”
“I’d really like that.”
He tells me, “You know, Eckhart Tolle says we should realize deeply that the present is all we ever have. I say we start being present together, kiddo, starting now. Sound good?”
I nod. “That would be...badass.” My dad hugs me real tight, and I don’t fight him, I just lean on in. When we separate, I say, “Sorry if I reek.”
His nose twitches. “Oh, is that you? I sort of assumed the smell is whatever your mother’s cooking right now.”
Wait, she’s home, too? I’m getting the sense that they truly mean what my dad’s saying and that kinda feels like a miracle.
Maybe things will change.
Maybe we’ve hit the peak of the hill and it will get easier to roll my boulder from here.
“Mom’s cooking?” I ask, incredulous. “Does she even know how?”
He laughs. “From the smell, I’m guessing no.”
I inhale and my nostrils suddenly fill with the smell of burning, with hints of fish and feet. “What’s she making?”
“Gluten-free pasta and meatless quinoa meatballs.”
I take a beat.
“I thought you were hinting that I need to gain weight.”
He nods as he rises. “I do. That’s why I ordered your favorite from Malnati’s, just in case. Also, someone named Rico says hi. So we’ll be eating something in the next half hour, but I’m not sure what. You ready to come down?”
“I...think I’m gonna hit the shower first. Feelin’ kinda gnarly.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“It’s time?” I ask, afraid to verify exactly how gamy I am.
He’s smiling as he replies, “Oh,
yeah, buddy. It’s time.” He watches me from the doorway as I gather up some clean clothes Mom must have snuck in here. “Listen, I don’t expect everything to be different overnight, Owen. Please don’t think your mom and I expect you to be magically better right away. You’ve been suffering for a while and it’ll take some time to get back to normal, or, to figure out what our new normal is. Just know that you’re our priority. We’re committed. Whatever you need. We love you, pal.”
I am not out of the woods, not by a long shot. But this is my first step in that forest. Like Desmond Tutu said, “Hope is being able to see that there is light despite the darkness.”
“Love you, too, Pops.” I hold up my fist in solidarity. “Team Foley-Feinberg.”
“Team Foley-Feinberg,” he repeats.
Suddenly, my mom’s voice comes across the in-house intercom system. “Hey, guys...do we own a fire extinguisher?”
Kent
8:12 PM
she’s here!! imma go work my magic, imma make her love me
Simone
8:12 PM
and by magic you mean...
Kent
8:13 PM
i mean give her liquor
Simone
8:14 PM
25
SIMONE
“Brilliant, Warhol, right nice job, mate!”
Earlier, I had to close my bedroom door after the hundredth positive affirmation. While I’m thrilled that Warhol’s taken to his dog training, the noise is interfering with my ACT prep. The test’s in the morning and this is my last chance to cram.
I feel ready. I hope I am, anyway. At the start of the school year, I didn’t care about university, but I must have become concerned through osmosis. Application fever has hit NSHS hard; it’s impossible not to be swept up in the frenzy.
I even begged off the Homecoming festivities tonight. Kent told me I didn’t have to miss it. He said I need to master time management during the test. That didn’t require staying home from social events so much as it just required a watch. Still, I’d hate to be sorry I didn’t give up one night if it makes a difference. I can’t pinpoint why I’m bothered it might make a difference, yet here we are.
The Gatekeepers Page 20
