Chapter 19

I honestly can say that right now, in this moment I’m at peace. I guess that’s a strange thing for someone to say, but I think when you’ve been through what I have, when—when you’re still going through what I am a moment of peace is a monumental occasion. It’s warm outside, very warm, and the sun is harsh. But it’s quiet. There’s a small breeze ruffling the trees and I can hear birds and insects scattered about my back yawn.

Roscoe barks and I open my eyes behind my shades and see that he’s chasing a squirrel.

She’s laughing.

I’m sure no one else has noticed, ‘cause no one else has heard, but it’s changing. Her laugh is changing. It’s fuller now. She still giggles, but her laughter is louder now, deeper. I stare at her back. I made her put on this straw hat I bought her and I made her sit underneath the table with the large canopy umbrella overhead. I can’t have her getting burnt again.

She’s still rather pale, but last week we came out here and did this for the first time, we came outside and sat all afternoon. I fell asleep in my lawn chair and when I woke up she was asleep as well on the lawn chair next to me. She got burnt pretty bad. We spent the next few days inside and I had to show her how to put lotion and this aloe cream stuff on her body. She was wearing a tank top and shorts outside and she was lobster red. I even had to help her put some of it on her upper back because she couldn’t reach back there.

The red has finally turned into a slightly darker shade and now, amazingly, she doesn’t look so ghost-like. She’s still pale, but she looks healthier. She’s gaining weight, too. It’s not like she’s getting fat, but she has more of an appetite now. I don’t really keep junk food in my house so she’s eating better food than CapriSuns and Cheese Balls. I think she’s gaining muscle, too.

I haven’t really had the desire to work out much, but I’ve done it a few times this past week and she’s liked to watch me. One time she wanted to get on some of my equipment so I put it on the lowest setting and helped show her how to do it. After about five lifts she looked at me with a worried face and asked, “Why do you do this? It’s not fun.” I laughed so hard, harder than I have in a really, really long time. I didn’t try to explain it to her, I just told her it helped your body be stronger. I wasn’t able to do any type of physical or strenuous stuff with my brace on, and I know I’m still not supposed to do it for a while now that my brace is off. But my weights and machines have been an outlet kind of.

That and my journal. I always thought that it was a gay idea and even though Dr. Cantapolis was the one to suggest it and even though it was mostly supposed to be about Sarah and her progress and setbacks, I’ve found myself writing about everything, about what happened to me, about what happened to my relationships now that it’s over, about how I use to be, about shit that happened to me when I was little that I didn’t realize I had kept with me. I’m halfway through my second journal already.

Sarah likes to draw a lot, and most of the time when she does I’ll write in my journal. I ordered her some supplies a few weeks ago and they came last week. Well, I made Mike go get them and had Todd come over and spend some time with us. I figured Mike probably would want to go on some errands, get away, get out of the guest house. Since Trace is in Hawaii or wherever and hates my guts, I can’t really ask him to do anything for me or run any errands. And my mother has given up on me. Now I’m waiting for the day when Mikes tells me he can’t do it anymore either; he can’t just be a watch dog. The next thing you know I’ll go through all my security, everyone I trust and I’ll be alone with Sarah and terrified. Maybe, maybe by then I’ll be ok, I’ll be able to be out in the world without someone protecting me.

I doubt it.

I spent almost 700 dollars and two hours on the internet and then on the phone ordering paints and canvases and charcoal and top of the line paper and colored pencils. She was amazed. She acted like it was Christmas, ya know, when a kid gets something they’ve really wanted but had convinced themselves they wouldn’t get. She was shocked and wouldn’t touch them at first. But she’s learned how to use them easily. I helped her set up the easel. It’s what she’s been doing all afternoon today, painting. It’s amazing though, she never paints anything she hasn’t seen. Today she’s painting my backyard, the other day she charcoaled the back of my house, though she doesn’t really understand how charcoal blends and bleeds yet. She still did better than I could ever try to do.

She’s changing, slowly. She’s losing a lot of her childish behaviors faster than I could ever imagine, but I can’t really say that she’s growing up. Dr. Cantapolis got Sarah a tutor, Ms. Donley. She’s really old, but she reminds me of my grandmother and treats Sarah with respect and is very sweet to her. She doesn’t come to the house but meets at Lisa’s office twice every week. We spend almost six hours there every week, Tuesdays and Thursdays. The first hour me and Sarah have sessions together with Lisa and then I go out for about an hour. I usually sit there with Mike and write in my journal or read whatever magazines are there. Mike has started bringing books with him. I just don’t like to read as much as him, maybe I should try and start. I usually go back in after a while and Dr. Cantapolis wraps up our session. Ms. Donley shows up and the four of us all work together for a bit, and then Dr. Cantapolis does paper work and I sit in the corner and watch them or write while Ms Donley helps Sarah. We tried another location, a bigger, more comfortable meeting room down the hall from Dr. Cantapolis’s office, but Sarah clamed up and did better work in the office.

Ms. Donley wasn’t the first tutor, though. There was this gentleman in his 40s who I didn’t really find anything wrong with. But Sarah wouldn’t look at him, or talk to him. Lisa said that maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was around the age of…of him.

So we got an older woman and it’s worked. Ms. Donley never, ever asks questions.

Sarah really is improving.

It’s quiet again. Sarah’s stopped laughing, Franco is under the table where she is and Roscoe is over in the flower bed near the south side of the lawn, taking a shit. I wish I were a dog. I wish I could just eat and sleep and play and breathe and be happy.

I bite my lip.

Dammit, not again you pussy.

I suck in a breath and sit up. Don’t fucking do this.

Lately…lately I’ve kind of had this problem. I don’t know what it is, but sometimes I just get watery eyes and I can’t stop it. I mean, I think I’m ok, as ok as someone can be after what happened to me. I guess I get lonely. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m fine, I’m fucking fine. I have Sarah and Mike, and even though my mom left me, well I guess I kind of pushed her away, whatever…She still calls and leaves me messages. And I know Mike keeps her updated.

They think I’m blind. They think I don’t realize. But I know damn well Mike’s a spy.

I push my index fingers under the rim of my sunglasses and wipe roughly. I gotta stop this. I’m good when he’s not around. I haven’t cried in front of Mike, but he’s not as clueless as Sarah. Sarah can be so into the TV or her artwork or the dogs that she won’t notice me sitting there, staring at her, bawling my fucking pathetic eyes out.

And when I see her start to notice me I can always get up fast and make a dash into the other room.

It’s just not fucking fair. It’s not fucking fair that my mom can just go back to Tennessee and be ok and that Trace can go off to Hawaii and be ok and I’m stuck and I can’t go anywhere. I can’t go anywhere.

And all I fucking want to do is get away.

Oh God, stop it.

I pull my legs up and bend forward, my arms over my knees. I hate it when it comes like this, just waves and waves of sobs that I can’t stop. I try to be as quiet as I can. But I feel like I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

They all just, they just expect me to get over it like them. Even my fucking management that calls me every week, wondering when I’m coming back into the studio, wondering when I’m gonna make an appearance, wondering when I’m gonna get back to my life.

Well this is my fucking life now!

She’s my fucking life and…and I’m god damn tired of everyone telling me otherwise.

Live your own life, Justin. You can’t help her. You can’t change her.

Oh hell fucking yes I can!

You have to think about yourself.

I’m really just waiting for the fucking day my mom comes up here with two men, a gurney and a straightjacket. She knows I haven’t gone to my therapy. I went once, hated it. Went twice and didn’t make another appointment.

I don’t need fucking therapy. What the hell can he do for me? What the hell could he do for a fucked up mind like mine.

I’ve got bigger things to worry about. I’m the least of my worries.

I just gotta…I gotta figure out how to stop this sudden stupid crying that’s been happening to me.

A distraction, I need a fucking distraction. Maybe, maybe I’ll call someone. Maybe mom can just talk to me about random stuff. No, no I’m the last person she wants to be bothered with I’m sure. I can’t call Trace even though Mike told me I should, told me that he’s the only person I can relate to. Yeah, right. Trace thinks Sarah is a retard and is all getting married and shit. And he’s off on vacation, in Hawaii, getting tan and surfing and eating good food and fucking his little fiancée every night.

And here I am, going to therapy and tutoring lessons for Sarah, in LA, annoyed with the hot sun, anxious every fucking second of my life, trying my best to form some appetite and trying to feel normal again. But I can’t. I can’t be normal ever again.

The other night I was in bed. Sarah had gone to bed early and I went to my room and laid there forever, unable to sleep. I turned on the TV and channel surfed. It landed on Showtime and I know, it’s pathetic, but I started getting so angry with myself because I couldn’t even get slightly amused or aroused by it. I mean, I’ve never really enjoyed porn. I always thought it was ridiculous. So I shut it off and laid there and tried to think of all the hottest times I’ve ever had sex. I know it sounds so fucking weird, but I tried my best to jack off.

I couldn’t even get hard.

And Trace is off fucking his fiancée.

And I’m here ignoring Cameron’s calls.

I breathe in deep and reach to pick up the phone that’s lying underneath my lawn chair. I put it there so it wouldn’t be directly in the sun. I look at my phone and see two missed calls. I hope they aren’t what I think they are. I also have two voicemails. I debate whether or not I should answer them. Depending on who they are and what they want I just, I don’t know if I can handle it right now.

I’ve stopped doing that weird crying thing.

Roscoe licks my bare foot and then I hear her say softly, “Roscoe, come here. Roscoe…” It’s sing-songy and I’d give anything to be that happy. He immediately trots over to her and I see her smile and kiss his forehead and pet him.

I dial my voicemail and then enter the password.

“Message 1. Today at, 10:43 a.m.—” It clicks and it’s silent.

“Please, please stop ignoring me.” I grip my fist. You think she’d learn by now. “I can’t…I can’t handle this Justin. I’m fucking having panic attacks. I blame myself for this. I…I’m losing it. I just need to hear your voice and hear that you’re doing ok.” She pauses. “I miss you.” I can hear her crying on the other end and it fucking makes me want to throw up, or throw the phone or something.

I hate her.

She should blame herself. She should have panic attacks. She should lose it. If she thinks that hearing me say “I’m ok” and lie to her fucking face is gonna make her feel better, fuck her. I don’t need her and her bitchy, selfish attitude. Trace told me I should get back with her. He told me that now’s when I need her the most. Funny, when we were down in the fucking basement he told me he thought she was a shady ho.

Fucking hilarious.

Mom bothered me about it, about why I broke up with her. She apparently could see through the whole “I just can’t handle it right now” bull shit I was passing her. Even though it really wasn’t bull shit. I finally told her that Cameron was very selfish on the phone when I made a ransom call to her.

My mom sided with her of course, claiming that’s how anyone would have acted during such a call. She said I couldn’t have expected her to be all sweet.

Sweet?

I didn’t want my girlfriend to be sweet.

I wanted her to give a damn about me.

I erase the message before it’s even finished. She had been rambling about how much she loved me and wanted to go away with me and that she’d do anything and shit. I just couldn’t stand it.

“Message 2, Today at 2:52 p.m—Justin! Hey, me and Stephen miss you.” I swallow, hard.

Fuck.

“Dad says you should come home and stay with us for a while. He says we should go camping. Oh, guess what? I made the basketball team. I know, I’m pretty awesome. I worked really hard because well, I promised you that’d I’d be pro by sixteen. Maybe you can come see some of the games next fall. Mom says hi and that she loves you and, hold on. What…” I can hear background noise. The sound of a TV and of Stephen singing and yelling. “Ok mom! She says call her or something.” He sighs again and I can hear him and Stephen arguing. “Hold on, hold on!”

Suddenly Stephen’s laughter feels my ear and I hear a deep breath expel into the phone and then really quickly, in a loud voice he says, “Jon smells like poop!” I can hear Lisa yelling at him in the background. “Stephen Timberlake! You bring your butt back here right now!”

Jon comes back on the line and says quickly, before hanging up, “I gotta go, mom’s about to spank Stephen.”

“You have no more new messages, press star for more options, press pound to—”

I snap the phone close.

I’m shaking.

I bite my lip and try to swallow the heaviness in my throat, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t fucking do this.

I drop my phone on the brick beside me and pull my knees up against my chest and start to cry. I can’t control it. I’m shaking and I’m sobbing, and…and holy shit.

I…I fucking miss my brothers so bad.

I miss my family so, so very bad.

I don’t know why I haven’t just gone back to Tennessee, yet. Gone and hid from the world there, instead of here, where I’m all fucking alone. I miss my grandma and granddad.

I miss my momma.

I just don’t want them to see me like this. I know they know I went through shit but, but I just don’t want them to know this…this. I don’t want to pull them down with me. ‘Cause it’s a place you can’t come back from. It’s a place that sucks your soul out of you. I can’t do that to my brothers.

I started to do it to my mom and that’s, that’s why I pushed her away.

But now, now I am lost.

I’m a lost fucking cause and there’s no reason for me to be here, be alone, be fucking depressed or whatever the hell I am and be crying to myself.

I try to breathe but my lungs won’t work, and I suck in hard and pull my face from my knees to try and inhale the fresh air.

“Justin…” She scares me. I jump a little and look at her behind my glasses. She looks frightened and worried and she’s close to me.

She touches my shoulder and leans down and clutches my arm with both her hands. I don’t know how it happens, but somehow she winds up next to me on the lawn chair, curled up to me, still clutching my arm and whispering my name.

I finally am able to catch my breath and I wipe angrily at my eyes and I pull off my sunglasses and press my palms into the sockets.

“Wh-what’s wrong?”

I take a huge breath and let it out slowly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re crying.”

She knows crying is bad. She’s done enough of it herself.

“I’m alright.”

She’s quiet and remains beside me, holding onto my upper arm, staring at me with those wide eyes. Suddenly she lays her head on my shoulder and says softly, “You cry a lot.”

I take my free arm and pull my hand up to my face and wipe at it some more. This is ridiculous. “I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be sorry.” She snuggles deeper against me, turning on her side and moving one of her arms to clutch my torso. “Dr. Lisa says I shouldn’t have to apologize for how I feel. You shouldn’t either.”

It’s quiet again and I find it amazing that I’ve calmed down, her holding me has calmed me down. “Sarah…”

“Yes.” She looks up at me. It’s weird. I know she’s not, I know she never can be. But she is pretty and if…if we were normal, if none of this had happened I’d probably be her boyfriend and I’d probably kiss her right now. But I can’t. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to kiss anyone again.

Can’t even fucking get it up anymore.

I breathe. I need to stop thinking about that. “Are you happy with me?”

“Yes.” She thinks for a moment and then smiles to herself, staring down at my bare feet. “Happier.”

I sigh and pull my arm that she was clutching and put it around her shoulders and pull her tight against me. She feels good there. And she makes me feel better, less like a fucking freak. She makes me realize that there are some things in this world that are worth it. I lean in and kiss her forehead before I even realize what I’m doing. She doesn’t flinch and that makes me happy. “That’s…that’s all that matters. I’m so glad.”

“Are you happy?” I stiffen in her arms. Of course I’m not happy. I’m a fucking mess, but…but I can’t let her know that. “‘Cause I want you to be happy with me. Sometimes I think you aren’t.”

“Sarah, that’s not…”

“I know, I know I’m different.” She pauses after interrupting me and when I look at her she looks like she’s thinking really hard, putting the words together in her head before she speaks them. “I even told Dr. Lisa, I told her that I feel bad for you and that I…I worry?” She questions the word, as if she’s unsure that’s the right word to use. “Worry about you. And that I love you.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got you here and we’re safe and we’re getting you help and you’re happier.”

“What about you? Do you need help, am I helping?” Her eyes are wide and looking up at my eagerly. God.

“Yes…yes. You help me, you help me a lot.” She has no fucking clue. She has no fucking clue that without her I’d be lost. Completely, utterly gone.

This right here, this is where I need to be. If, if I went home I’d have to take her with me and, and well they don’t understand it. They can’t and it’s not their fault. And if I ditched her, or didn’t help her, or left her in that damned psych ward in South Africa, I’d never, ever be able to live with myself. She gives me purpose. She gives me drive.

When I wake up in the morning and I lay there wondering if I can just lay there all day and not leave and not eat and not get up. Then I realize I can’t. Because I have to wake her up, I have to help her with her day, I have to be there for her. She keeps me going. And no one back home understands that.

I can’t go home even though I miss it. ‘Cause if I was at home I’d miss her. And if she were with me it’d bring problems and drama and I can’t handle that right now. I can’t handle another person questioning my actions.

I don’t need another person doubting me.

“Are you ok now?” She sits up beside me and smiles at me and pats my head a little bit, almost like I’m one of the dogs.

“What?”

“Well, whenever I get upset you always hold me and make me feel better. I thought it might work with you, too.”

I smile back at her as she keeps rubbing her small hand over my head. My hair is getting long, longer than I let it get. It’s starting to curl again, but I just haven’t felt like shaving it. Plus I think she likes it. Sometimes I’ll catch her staring at my head, like now, with a curious smile on her face.

“It did. It does. Thank you.”

I wrap my arms around her middle and bring her closer and tighter against me and press my face against her shoulder. She smells good, too. She smells clean. God, she’s doing so well. She’s learned how to take a shower and the other day I taught her how to make a sandwich and yesterday for lunch she said she wanted to try to make one for us both and she did and it was good and…and God. Ya know, like I’m just so proud of her, and here she is holding me, making me better.

I though I she was the one that needed me, that she was the one that would freak out if I left.

I was wrong. I was so wrong.

She’s the only thing that’s keeping me together.