by K Larsen
“I want to visit him. Am I allowed to see him?” I ask.
“I don’t know, but you can call and ask. I know they have visiting hours. Does Dallas want you to visit?”
I shake my head. “He told me he doesn’t love me. He told me it was all a lie.”
Nora closes her eyes a beat. “And in your gut, does that makes sense? Do you believe that to be truth?”
“No. A thousand times no.” My tone is vehement.
“Then you fight for it. But Lotte, you only fight if the evidence is there to support it. You have to listen to what Dallas wants and needs as well. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I think so,” I answer with a sniffle. But what if he doesn’t know what he needs right now? I rest my head on her chest again, energy depleted, heart fragmented.
43
Charlotte
As the sun dips below the horizon, we walk out of the elevator and into the corridor to the parking lot. Eve hasn’t said a single word to me since she and the others came back into Nora’s room. She held baby Emma—even giggled over a tiny infant fart that slipped out. She hasn’t hounded me with questions about what Nora and I talked about yet, and we’re almost at the car.
“Are you going to speak?” I grind out. I don’t know why I’m always so irritated with my sister but it’s almost like I can’t help or control it.
“Are you ready to talk to me?” she asks.
“When has that ever stopped you?” My snark unable to be missed.
Eve lets out a sigh that I swear carries the weight of the world inside it. I can feel the burden of her sigh on my shoulders.
As we approach the car she says, “I’m giving you space. I want you to come to me, Lotte. I don’t want to fight you for information. I don’t want to force it from you. We’ve been doing that for years and it’s time to try something new.”
The car beeps, letting me know the doors are unlocked. We both slide inside—her looking regretful, and me feeling baffled.
“Well this is new,” I say.
Eve laughs. Really laughs. Briefly, time feels frozen—suspended—and I’m just a little girl again, sitting in the back seat, watching my mother’s shoulders shake, her hair bounce. I can almost remember why we’re in the car and where we’re going, but the memory remains just out of reach. Eve’s laugh sounds like our mother’s did. It doesn’t happen very often; in fact, I can’t remember the last time I heard my sister laugh and thought of my mom. I barely remember anything about our parents anymore. I don’t remember the way they smelled, or their faces in any real detail. I can’t recall the color of their eyes or funny things they used to say. Mostly I remember what I’ve been told by Eve, and the older I get the less I can distinguish what are my memories of them, and which are Eve’s that she’s told me so many times that they have become mine.
“You sound like Mom.”
Eve stops laughing and looks at me. “Really?” I nod at her. She sniffles. “Mom had the best laugh. The best.”
“I wish I could remember it better. I can’t really recall it, it’s weird. I can’t picture it or hear it in my head, but when you started laughing I just knew—that was Mom’s laugh.”
Eve runs her fingers through her hair before planting them on the steering wheel and staring out the windshield. “You were so little, Lotte. And I’m sorry that I’m not a good mom. I was a kid too. I think I did it all wrong. I’m still learning as we go. Never in a million years, when I was your age, did I anticipate having to raise my kid sister.”
That sigh Eve let out earlier, the heavy one? It’s grown—the sigh—become leaden and my weight to carry. Eve was barely older than I am now when she became my mom. ‘Became’ is the wrong word. When she was shoved, forcefully, into the role she assumed. My life could have turned out so very different. If she were still sixteen when everything fell apart, I would have ended up like Dallas, a ward of the state. If she hadn’t taken guardianship of me, I don’t know what or where I would be in life. And until this moment, I never thought about it. Being with Dallas—knowing what he went through as a kid—has opened my eyes to an alternate reality for myself.
I put my hand on Eve’s shoulder. “Thank you for taking me.”
Her face wrinkles up at me and she looks vaguely like a picture of a confused chimpanzee I once saw. “Hearing Dallas’s horror stories about foster homes and moving all the time...” I shrug, “Just, thank you for stepping up.”
Eve’s eyes well with tears, but before one can fall, her index and middle fingers swipe beneath her eyes—wiping them away.
“I’d do it all over again if I had to. We’re family, Lotte. I’d do anything for you.”
“If that’s your way of saying I love you, then I love you too.”
She slaps the wheel with purpose, pushes the ignition button and looks at me. “Are you hungry?”
I shake my head at her. “Not really.”
“Worried about Dallas?” she hedges.
I stare out my window as she backs out of our spot. “Do you think he hates me?”
Her face recoils into her neck, making her look like she has no chin.
“Hates you? For what?”
“For calling you. For getting help. For getting him put in that horrible place. For not loving him enough.”
The car jerks to a stop and I lurch forward hard enough that my seatbelt catches and digs into my chest. “Ouch!”
“Charlotte Johnston. I don’t ever want to hear you talk about yourself like that again,” Eve says.
“Like what?” I squawk, yanking on my seatbelt to try and get it to release.
“There is no one else in this world who loves harder than you do. No one. You did not put Dallas in that place, which by the way isn’t horrible, it’s one of the best facilities in the entire state. Pretty good place to land for a foster kid who’s about to age out. You did all the right things—for his needs and yours.”
"I can't keep his voice out of my head. I keep hearing the echoes of the darkest words he said before he walked away. It‘s driving me crazy. I can't find the best in all of this."
A car honks behind us and Eve jumps in her seat. “Goddamn.” She rolls down the window and hollers out it, “Just a minute!”
“How trustworthy were his words—his mood today? Or yesterday? I want you to really think hard about his state of mind when he said those things to you. Do you want to hinge all your feelings and memories on words that might not have been sane?”
“That’s a little harsh. He’s not psycho,” I tell her. Why I feel the need to defend a guy who told me off, however, does sound insane.
“Sorry.” She rolls her eyes at me. “Poor choice of words. In his emotional state, where his head was at, was it really Dallas talking? Do you believe what he said before he walked off?”
My heart contracts in my chest. An acute pain that feels endless. Why would he say those things to me? Why wouldn’t he talk to me? To let me explain, let me help him?
“No. But that’s what makes it hurt so badly, I think.” The car behind us honks again, twice this time. “Just drive. If that guy honks one more time I might jump out of the car and unleash all my teenage angst on him,” I blurt.
Eve grins at me, sticks her hand out her window and flips the car behind us the bird before inching forward at a snail's pace just to piss him off even more.
I’m a dejected mess. My heart, my chest, feel like a smoldering mound of ash. My throat is tight, and my lungs do little to draw in air to relieve the burning sensation. My first night without Dallas lying next to me feels all sorts of wrong. Negative thoughts—I betrayed him, he doesn’t love me, it’s on me, it’s all on me—circle like vultures in my head. I swear I catch his scent as I drift into sleep but when I turn my head, there’s no one next to me. I’m alone, in my bed, in my room. Comfortable and at home; while he’s in some sterile, concrete cell; tossing and turning on an uncomfortable well-used mattress. At least, that’s what my imagination drums up. My c
heeks are wet. Alone like this, in the dark, I can’t staunch the tears—the heartache. Little sobs wrack my body. I flick on the lamp on my nightstand and stare at the ceiling; willing myself to stop crying. To stop feeling. Just long enough for some sleep.
I miss the rush of air tunneling through the truck’s open windows, lifting and twirling my hair everywhere. The feel of the wind under my hand hanging out the window. The songs and silly singing-along in too loud voices. Mostly, I miss knowing that when I glance left, I’ll see warm brown eyes, tanned skin, an easy smile directed at me. I miss the feeling of his palm spread wide just above my knee—thumb mindlessly swishing back and forth over my bare skin. My room has always been my safe haven but I’d rather be curled up next to him in a shitty bed, in a shitty hospital right now. I’d take that over this, any day. What did I miss? What did I do wrong? How do I fix us?
I pull a book from my nightstand, A Place Without You, and open it up. It’s inscribed to me by the author. I met her at a book signing over the holidays and fangirled so hard when I finally got up to her table. Her blonde hair, her confidence and easy smile. Everything about her sort of stunned me speechless. Eve had to nudge me to give her my name when asked because I stood there awkwardly silent, blinking. I don’t even care that she spelled my name with an “-ie.”
The moment was that good for me. Her hands touched this book. The same book I hold now. I follow her on Instagram and religiously read her newsletters. Her positivity and silliness, her willingness to have fun in life but to also capture and write the hard stuff wow’s me, and I’ve been looking forward to reading this book for a while. I know, I know, why have I waited half a year to read it then? Because sometimes, when there’s so much anticipation, I wait. I hold onto that delicious feeling of eagerness and expectation for as long as I can. Also, my to-be-read list is long and I try to stick to its order when self-control allows. I run my fingers over the sharpied ink of my name and read the inscription; I’m pretty sure you’re still my greatest memory. I snuggle down into my blankets and flip to the first page.
At two in the morning, I’m still awake. Not awake enough to focus on the words in front of me. My eyes burn from reading in the dim light, and crying and being utterly spent. I throw off my comforter and do something I haven’t done for years. Tiptoeing through my room, and across the hall, I push Eve’s door open enough to sneak through. She never closes her bedroom door all the way. She always leaves it open a crack. She used to tell me it was for me. So I could always get to her if I needed to. I’m old enough now that I’m not sure that’s why she does it, but tonight, I don’t overthink it.
Padding across the room, my toes sink in the thick carpet. At her bed, I look at her lumpy form, highlighted in the moonlight. Her hair is a mess. Wild and spread out in strange patterns around her pillow. My sister, whom sometimes I hate and sometimes I love, but who always has been—and is—there for me. I pull back a corner of the blanket and crawl in next to her.
She immediately rolls so she’s spooning me and throws an arm over my waist.
“I love you, Lotte. Always.” Her voice is soft but gritty with sleep and it reminds me of when I was little and had nightmares, how her voice could seemingly sleep-talk them away. I snuggle against her more and close my eyes.
44
Charlotte
Dr. Richardson is smiling with tears in her eyes. No, that isn’t normal for a therapist, but she’s so much more than that to me, that it is normal for us.
“I can’t give you updates on Dallas or what he’s talking about, Lotte, you know that. I have his permission to tell you this, he has cyclothymia, which is a semi-rare mood disorder. It has similar characteristics to bipolar disorder, just in a milder and more chronic form.” I’m on her couch, sitting with my heels on the edge of the cushion, arms around my knees.
“Cyclothymia.” I test the word out. Roll it around my mouth and my mind. Memorize it so I can research it later today.
“Can I visit him?”
She nods. “There are visiting hours. You have to be on the patient’s approved list.”
“Who approves visitors?”
“In this case, the patient.” She runs a hand through her curls.
I rest my chin on my knees. “How long is he there for?”
Dr. Richardson sighs at me. “It’s a ninety-day program.” She holds up her hand between us as my mouth opens. “Lotte, that is really all I can divulge.”
I roll my eyes at her. I know ethically she can’t tell me anything. I realize confidentiality is key in her profession but I’m not just anyone and neither is Dallas.
“Let’s talk about you. Your side of all this. You can talk to me about Dallas, you know that, right?” I look anywhere but at her. “What you did was very out of character, do you want to talk about why you took off?”
I shake my head. “The why is meaningless.”
Her eyebrows rise, making her look ridiculous, but also irritatingly inviting. Like, oh, that’s interesting, tell me more. I’d love to hear all about why you think the why is meaningless.
“What then? Let’s start where you feel it’s meaningful.” She puts her pad down on the side table. She almost never puts her pad down. She’s a thorough note taker—documenter. She kicks off her heels and tucks her feet beneath her in her chair. Glancing at the clock, I realize I’ve only been here for seventeen minutes, which means we have forty-three left.
“The trip seemed like the right thing to do for us. I didn’t set out to intentionally hurt anyone by going.”
“But you knew you would?”
I shoot her a pointed look because she knows the answer to her question but wants me to answer it—to take responsibility, and say it out loud. I know all her tricks after years of seeing her. “Yes. I knew it would upset Eve and Nora.”
“Just them?”
“I knew everyone would be worried, okay? I get it. It was irresponsible.”
“You’re agitated,” she says calmly.
I push my legs out, stretching them before adjusting my position on the couch.
“Yeah. I am. I have zero information. My boyfriend had some heinous meltdown, after we spent an incredible soul-changing week together, and then when I sought help, because what the fuck else was I supposed to do in that situation? He tells me he lied about his feelings—about me—and is locked away without explanation. So yeah, agitated is one word for how I feel.”
Dr. Richardson’s eyes are wide and her mouth has formed this strange tiny O-shape. It’s like I’ve stumped her. “You curse now?”
I cock my head at her. Everything that just came out of my mouth is apparently status quo, but the one F-word is cause for shock and awe. The entire moment feels so surreal and ridiculous that a laugh bubbles up from my stomach and leaps from my mouth at her. My eyes water from the force of my laughter. I wipe at my eyes and try to suck in air to quiet myself. Dr. Richardson’s lips are a thin-pressed line, which tells me she is not super impressed with me.
“Dallas taught me a few things, I guess.”
“Lotte,” she starts, but I cut her off.
“Dr. R., I know. I’m a rule follower. A good girl with a good head on my shoulders. A color-within-the-lines, smarty-pants, book nerd. And I promise you I am still all of those things. I just have a little more… spunk now. The trip isn’t the issue. The trip was amazing. Epic. The best part of my life so far.”
“What do you consider the issue then, if not your behavior and leaving without permission or notice?”
“I think I’m dying and I don’t know how to make it better.”
Her face softens. “Dying how? Are you sick? Does Eve know?”
A gentle snort rushes from my nose. “I’m in love with Dallas. I love him and he was ripped away without warning. And worse, he said things that make me question all the truths I thought were certain.”
Dr. Richardson is silent a few beats, and then, “I understand a broken heart.”
“Is that what this is?�
�
“Your first love is an intense and special thing and I promise, though it doesn’t feel like it right now, you will recover and move forward.”
“First love?” ‘Only love’ is more like it. I will my voice to keep steady.
“Is there another that you’ve kept from me?” I shake my head. “Dallas is your first love, yes?”
I nod. “But I think he’s my last love too.”
A soft smile tugs at her lips. “That’s a perfectly normal reaction and feeling to have right now.”
“I’m serious. Dallas and I… we’re not like others.”
Dr. Richardson’s face morphs into concern as she watches me, and I know I sound like some angsty lovesick teen, but my gut screams not to walk away now. It’s shouting to fight this one out, to give it more than my all. “What am I supposed to do with all these feelings? How do I get him back? I need to explain my reason for calling for help. I can’t have him locked away thinking I bailed on him when things got tough. I know he was mad, but if I can just talk to him and explain, I know he’ll come around.”
Dr. Richardson straightens in her seat and puts her hands on her knees. “Lotte, he is sick. What Dallas needs is to focus on his own well-being. On his treatment. If you love him, you will allow him to figure out his own wants and needs. Love isn’t something you can command. You can’t hold it in your fingers or squeeze tight to keep it near you. The best you can do is love wholly, which it sounds like you did, and let Dallas have space and time.”
“Really? The whole ‘if you love it set it free’ platitude?” I bark at her.
“Clichés and platitudes exist because they stem from truths.”
“I don’t want to ‘set him free.’ I don’t want to chance him not coming back to me. He’s not a frickin’ bird and I’m not trying to be his owner. Birds don’t hold each other hostage. How can one bird set another bird free? That platitude is crap. Full of holes!”