by K Larsen
“I can’t drive.” He lifts his head and looks at me.
His tear-soaked face cuts through me. To the most desperate part of my heart. My brow furrows in worry. I cannot comfort his pain; it’s too exorbitant for me to touch, coming off him with tsunami-like force. Little feelings, triggers, red flags now stand at attention in my brain.
“Okay. It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll drive.” Even though we both know I can barely drive this beast and it terrifies me, I will drive because Dallas clearly can’t. He scoots under me as I prop myself up and trade seats with him. Lying down he rests his head in my lap.
“Just find a place. A shitty motel. Whatever.” His voice is fraught with anxiety. He clutches my knee too tight. What is happening?
I put the truck in drive and ease my foot on the gas, eyes locked on the sign to my right that says, Riverwood Motel four miles.
38
Dallas
She pulls into the lot too fast and jerks the truck to a stop, nearly sending me flying to the floor from her lap.
“Shit, sorry,” she says. If I had the bandwidth to laugh, I would, but I don’t. “Dallas, how are we going to rent a room? We’re not eighteen.”
“Same way I bought that alcohol before. Fake I.D.” I sit up and let the blood drain from my head. I’m too hot, but chilled to the bone, and the exhaustion I feel is overwhelming.
“Can you grab my wallet?” Charlotte nods and hops out of the truck to grab it from my pack.
She yanks open my door, worry plastered on her face. Her eyes dart every which way scanning me for injury but she’ll find nothing because you can’t see internal wounds.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her, before inching my way out of the truck and to the front office.
When I come out, I point to the room we’re in and start walking toward it, while City grabs our bags and locks the truck up. My hands shake so badly with anxiety that I can’t get the key into the lock. Charlotte’s hand covers mine, guiding it into the keyhole. I lean on the door and twist the knob, forcing myself into the room.
It’s dark and dank and smells like my mother’s old trailer—like an ashtray. I don’t want City to see me like this. I don’t want her to see me cry.
“Think you could walk over to that place across the street and get some food for us?” I ask, hoping—no praying—that she will leave me alone and go.
She stands, staring at me, before shaking her head. “I don’t think I should leave you.”
“I’m fine.”
She cocks her head as an audible rush of air leaves her. “You’re not fine Dallas.”
“Please. I just need to eat something.”
She worries her bottom lip and I want to have a normal reaction to it. I want to think about how sexy she is when she does that. I want to reach out and touch it, but none of that happens. Instead, I feel irritated that I’m unable to be alone. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to watch TV or eat or anything. I want to curl up under the covers, squeeze my eyes shut and silently beg the world not to exist.
“Let’s lie down for a little bit. Maybe you just need to rest. I’ll get food later,” she says. She kicks off her shoes and crawls into the bed. I crawl in next to her. She pulls the blanket over us and spoons me.
“Just breathe. Whatever it is will pass,” she says. If only that were true.
It is just before dawn. Charlotte is sound asleep. I’m huddled in the corner, hugging my knees. Anxiety and sorrow, and the immense desire to give up strangling me. There’s clothes spread out near the table and fast food wrappers on it. Which means, I slept through the day. My stomach growls at the sight of the burger and fries untouched, presumably for me, but the idea of eating repulses me. I can’t stop the tears from falling or the worthless monster’s voice from screaming at me. I rest my forehead on my knees and try to keep my breathing in check. My thoughts are rampant and untrustworthy. They whisper things that logically I know are false, but take to heart anyway.
“Hey.” Her voice is soft and careful. A delicate hand rubs my shoulder. The contact, in the moment, nearly makes me cringe.
"You made me feel like I was enough.”
“What?” she asks, sitting on the floor next to me.
“That night in that shady dive bar when you got drunk and danced alone in-between the tables. I pulled you closer to my chest when you started swaying—remember? Then you smiled over your shoulder at me on the way back to the truck, and in that moment I was stone cold sober. I knew I loved you then. More than anything. I knew it when we snuggled into our sleeping bag on the beach and stared at the stars. I knew it when you tried to get me to kiss you, and I pushed you away because you were drunk. Damnit. You made me want a future. To sit together on a porch in rockers when we're white-haired and wrinkled. I'd bring you breakfast in bed. I'd kiss your forehead. You’d always be close enough to hold on to." I’m irritable and having sleep issues. I’m worthless. My racing thoughts, wavering between euphoric and morose, make sure I know that fact wholeheartedly. My impulsivity and zest for life has burned out in a violent collision.
Charlotte frowns at me, looking teary-eyed. “That sounds like a nice life, Dallas. Why can’t we have it?”
A harsh laugh snorts out of me. “Because of me. Because of this!” I gesture to myself. Charlotte stands, a confused look on her face.
“I love you.” Her voice is gentle and light. She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and stares at me, and again I feel only regret and disappointment that I don’t feel what I should feel looking at her right now.
“I know.” I feel doomed in this hotel room where the walls shrink, closing in on us.
“I’ll grab some more food while you shower,” she says, straightening her shoulders and flipping on the lamp. “You’ll feel better after a shower.”
She even nods, like that will make it true, but a shower won’t fix what ails me. This downward spiral of epic proportions has already gained too much force.
39
Charlotte
His whole body heaves, hands covering his face as he sobs. A pulling sensation deep in my gut tugs me down like an anchor with every realization. Something is not right with him. Something more than a bad mood. Something bigger and darker and sicker. I help him into the bathroom, start the shower, strip him down and make sure he gets in.
“I love you, Dallas.” I should have seen this coming. The way he made love to me last night, as if it were a goodbye. Too sweet and attentive and bittersweet to be anything else. I was too caught up in the moment to give it much thought. It had felt like something deeper, bigger, vaster; but it was a sort of goodbye as it was our last night on the mountain and I didn’t dig deeper than that.
Dallas groans.
“Please stop saying that,” he pleads, as if hearing it is painful. I swallow thickly and retreat. Too scared of upsetting him more to say anything.
Closing the bathroom door behind me, I stifle the tears that threaten to come. I don’t know what to do, how to help. I sink into the edge of the creaky mattress, and scrub my face. When I open my eyes, the phone on the cabinet under the TV comes into sharp focus.
On autopilot, I move to it. The phone feels heavier than it looks. My voice floats upward like a cartoon bubble of a question when I say Eve.
“Lotte!?”
“We need help.” It’s a statement. One that transforms my lungs from air-giving pockets into impenetrable cages incapable of keeping oxygen. I don’t know anything anymore. I’m a stress ball of confusion.
“Where are you!? Are you hurt? How could you—” None of this conversation makes sense. None of any of this makes sense.
“Please stop,” I whisper, cutting her questions off.
“Lotte.” She takes a deep breath. “What do you need?”
“Something’s wrong with Dallas and I need you to come get us.” Tears race down my cheeks and drip off my chin. I sniffle.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“Riverwood Motel i
n Pocketville.”
Eve gasps. I shouldn’t have called her. I should have called Nora or Liam. But Eve won’t mind coming to Pocketville, not the way Nora would.
“I’m on my way.” The line goes dead, and I force myself to move. The shower’s still running. I grab the last of our cash and head to the vending machine for something for Dallas to snack on while we wait.
40
Dallas
The small bathroom is thick with fog from running the hot water for so long. I’m not sure how long I’ve been in here, but the water ran cold, so it must be a while. I grab one of the too small towels and dry off. City’s put a pile of clothes for me on the toilet. Probably the cleanest she could find in my pack.
I wipe fog from the mirror and hate the person staring back at me. I knew the signs; the stretches of deep, unexplainable depression that attack in waves. The agony of living while happy, knowing my depression will come back, just waiting to strangle me.
The moments of pain as the memories of the past come flooding in, grab hold and tighten their grip on me. And the worst part is; I knew it would happen. I knew the moment I saw the empty prescription bottle and didn’t tell Ray I needed a refill. But I was feeling great, like I had recovered from my depression in that moment. I felt like being impulsive. I felt… untouchable—like I could fly—and I wanted to feel it. To really live in the moment. It’s the shame, loneliness and self-doubt that bring me back down. That tether me to the ground every time I find myself starting to slip from the clouds. The ever-present voice in the back of my head that chants: “If only you worked on your therapy more,” “if only you didn’t stop taking your pills,” “if only…” you name it. It’s that voice that tells me my cyclothymia episodes are my fault. And the crushing truth that there is no cure, that I will struggle my entire life to manage this affliction. When I step out of the bathroom, Charlotte has the motel door propped open.
It feels like my brain is on fire right now. If I don’t leave City, I’ll suck her up and twist her round in my tornado. I’ll steal her light.
“I got some snacks. You should eat something,” she says, when I come out of the bathroom.
I stand, feeling outside myself, blinking. How could I do this to her? She pats the bed next to her. I crawl onto the bed and take the candy bar from her.
“Why aren’t you mad?” I ask, before taking a bite.
She sighs. “I’m too scared to be mad.”
“Scared of me?”
“Scared of whatever’s happening to you. Why won’t you just tell me what’s going on?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I bite off another piece and chew.
“Seems a little unfair don’t you think?”
“How?”
“You basically forced me to tell you whenever I got lost in myself. To divulge all my secrets to you, but you aren’t willing to do the same?”
She is so innocent. So goddamned innocent that she can’t understand.
“If you purged yours, you’d be free. If I purge mine, I’m still a slave to it. Nothing changes for me. It doesn’t set me free saying it out loud.”
“Are you sick?” she drags out the question, no doubt terrified of the answer.
I snort. “Not the dying kind.”
She ignores my self-degradation, pushes candy wrappers out of the way and lays her head on my chest. For an instant, I feel stable. She doesn’t say anything and neither do I. I stare at the TV, unable to focus on what’s actually playing, and focus on the weight of Charlotte’s head on my chest. Tears fill my eyes. Traitorous tears of guilt and shame and blackness. I want to be better. I want to do better. I want, I want, I want—an endless loop in my head.
I must have dozed off or zoned out. Charlotte’s head isn’t on my chest anymore and I feel like I might just float off into the ether and evaporate. I blink at the intrusion of a stranger in my private world. I need City. Just Charlotte. When I put my arms around her and she rests her head against my chest she grounds me. Without her, I might disappear. Her voice sounds so far away, but whatever she’s saying is the key to whatever fortitude lies in the depths of me. Her hand, holding the door open, looks strong and capable. One of my bare feet is illuminated by light from the window, the other remains in the shadows and I think it’s a perfect representation of my life. Part of me needs to hug her but the other part needs to just watch what is happening. I rub my eyes and stand up, nerves tattered.
She talks like her nose is blocked with a cold. Like she’s been crying. My heart is a lump in my chest. All my ghosts have come back to play. It is only the second time I’ve seen her look afraid. Her hands begin to shake. The shaking travels up her arms and I know it’s because of me this time.
Eve steps into the room as I collapse into the ratty chair by the air conditioner—spent from doing nothing at all.
“How ya doing Dallas?” she asks. Her smile is careful—like she knows something I don’t.
“I want my bad day to end,” I answer. I’m tired from keeping my monsters at bay for the last few days. She sits across the beat up wooden table from me, and folds her hands together. Her eyes take me in from my head to my toes. I can only imagine what she sees. Bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes, hair a mess, panic radiating off me in waves.
“I called Ray before I left. I’m bringing you guys home.”
Charlotte is packing, sweeping the room one last time to make sure nothing will be left behind. I know it’s what she should be doing but it also feels like she’s avoiding having to look at me.
“I'm sorry your heart is breaking. I’m sorry I'm the villain in your story. I'm sorry I'm a letdown.” I stand and pace the cheap, stale-smelling Berber of the motel room. Some stenches never go away. Charlotte freezes in her spot, tears in her eyes. I'm not going home. I can see it in their eyes.
“Where are you really bringing me?” I ask, jamming my hands in my pockets.
Eve sighs. “To the hospital.” Charlotte inhales sharply from behind her.
“You mean the psych ward,” I correct. She mentioned she talked to Ray. Of course she knows. Eve tilts her head, understanding filling her up slowly.
“You’ve been before?”
I look past her to Charlotte. It’s always, only, Charlotte for me. My heart sinks in my chest, as if it weighs a thousand pounds.
“Once.”
41
Charlotte
Eve can barely keep her mouth shut, or her eyes on the road. Her gaze fixates on mine in the rearview mirror, and her mouth snaps open and closed like a fish gasping every so often. Dallas is buckled, head pressed against his window, looking like he’s trying to disappear into the passenger side door. I reach out once in a while to try and hold his hand but he yanks it away. All I want to do is touch him, hold him close, feel his energy. I can’t make this better. I’m not equipped, but I can support him. I wish Eve would turn on the radio, make some noise to distract the thick silence that devours the oxygen in the car little by little.
She called an old acquaintance and got us a parking spot for Dallas’s truck until someone can pick it up. I followed her in the truck with Dallas red-faced next to me. We put our bags and totes into Eve’s trunk. When she asked Dallas if there was anything else from the truck that he wanted, he simply shook his head and crawled in the backseat of her car. Before I locked the truck up, I grabbed my Dallas Journal from under the front seat and ejected our tape from the deck. I shoved my journal in my pack and the mix tape in Dallas’s, hoping that when he finds it, it will make him smile.
We spend two hours in silence. The highway streams by like a video in fast forward. Trees, cars, the ocean occasionally. It all blends together incoherently. I want to suggest the back roads to Eve, to go slower, give Dallas a little more time to snap out of his depression, but I don’t.
“Will anyone be there when we drop you off?” I ask. “Ray? Your caseworker? Should I go in with you?” Dallas glances at me long enough to shake his head slightly.
Eve c
lears her throat. “Dr. Richardson will be,” she says.
“What? Why?”
“For Dallas. She’s going to get him settled and evaluated.”
I turn my attention back to Dallas. “You’ll like her. She’s really good at what she does without being a weird, how does that make you feel, kinda therapist.”
Dallas shrugs. The indifference slays me. I can take hate. I can take rage and love and all the other emotions because it means the person dishing it out still feels something but, indifference is the worst, indifference means there are no feelings on the subject.
“How long does he have to be there?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Lotte.”
“How’d they get him a bed so quick?”
“I don’t know, Lotte. I told you, I talked to Ray, he expressed concern for Dallas’s well-being and told me he’d text me the place to bring him once he sorted it out. I called Dr. R, gave her Ray’s number and begged her to do us a solid on this one. I’m just following orders,” Eve says, her words rushed.
Following orders. Quite possibly the most callous statement I’ve heard from her regarding another human being’s well-being. Glaring at her in the mirror, I reach across the backseat and rub Dallas’s back. He recoils for an instant, but doesn’t ask me to stop and that feels like small progress at the moment. The clock tells me we should be within an hour of home. My anxiety ratchets up and I begin to feel sick to my stomach. When we take an exit I’m not familiar with, Dallas lifts his head from the window and looks at me. His eyes are flat, devoid of the usual life that dances in them. He pulls me to his chest, my index and middle finger find his pulse point and wait to feel his heartbeat. It’s slow and faint and not at all the racing pulse I normally feel when we’re pressed together, but it’s there. His hand slides over my skin, shoulder to elbow and back up.