The Long and Winding Road

by T. J. Klune

  And I saved the worst for last.

  “Bear? Is everything okay? I’m kind of in the middle of—”

  “I need you to come home.”

  “What? Why? What happened? Why do you sound like that?”

  “It’s important. It’s Ty.”

  “Is he—”

  “He’s fine. For now. He’s not hurt. But if you’re not here, I can’t promise he won’t be by the time I’m done with him.”

  “Bear,” Otter chided gently. “What’s going on?”

  I pulled the phone away from my ear and only had to fumble for a moment until I could take a picture and send it to him via text. “Did you get it?”

  There was a pause. Then, “Shit. Shit. I’m on my way. It’ll probably take me about five hours.”

  “He’s going to the library after class.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Please. I can’t—I need you here. With me. I know you’re busy, and I know you’ve got this thing going on, but I—”

  “I’m coming. I swear. Just—don’t do anything rash, okay? Even if for some reason he comes home, don’t push it. We’ll figure this out. It’s not too late. We’ve caught it in time. This can be fixed. We will fix this.”

  I closed my eyes. “Yeah.”

  I CAN come home earlier, Ty said in a later text.

  I stared at it for the longest time, and I—

  (“We’re only given so many people in our lives, so many people that will love us unconditionally. Why do you think that is? I think it’s because of times like this, times when you think they are gone and you see just how big of a hole in your heart that you have. And it’s big, isn’t it, Bear? We’re all a puzzle, and when one of us is gone, that piece is missing, and we’re incomplete. You above all others should have realized that.

  “You have a chance, a chance to make something for yourself, something that is just for you but that you can share with the rest of the world. How dare you throw that back in our faces?

  “The Bear I know wouldn’t let that happen. The Bear I know would kick and scream and claw his way to protect what’s his. The Bear I know would fight. And fight. And fight until he had nothing left in him, because the Bear I know would never give up.”)

  —couldn’t even think of a single thing to say.

  No, I texted back. It’s fine.

  “SHIT,” OTTER said again, standing in the Kid’s room, nudging the orange bottles with his foot.

  “Yeah,” I muttered.

  He glanced over at me. “This isn’t your fault. This isn’t our fault.”

  I shrugged, looking away.

  “Bear.”

  “We should have noticed. It shouldn’t have been up to some goddamn stranger to show us what was right in front of us.”

  “He’s smart. Smarter than both of us combined. He might have made a mistake sooner or later, but he was good. At hiding it.”

  I snorted. “A mistake. What do you think that mistake would have been, Otter? Tell me. Would it have been when we find him the next morning in his bed, fucking choking on his own goddamn vomit?”

  “Hey,” he said sharply. “I’m not the bad guy here. You don’t need to lash out at me. That’s not fair.”

  “God,” I said, pressing my thumbs into the sides of my head. “Fuck. I know. I’m sorry. That wasn’t—I don’t think—”

  “We gotta be together on this, Bear,” he said, the hard lines on his face softening just a little. “We can’t be at odds. Not over something like this. He’ll see it. Yesterday, I would have said he wouldn’t manipulate something like that, but….”

  “You can’t trust an addict.”

  “Addict,” Otter sighed. “Jesus.”

  “It’s what his therapist said.”

  His eyes widened just a little. “You called her?”

  I nodded. “She said that he’s still Ty, but he’s going to try and explain this away. He’s going to try and lie. He’s going to do everything he can to deny it. It’s… what happens. She… apologized. She said she didn’t see this coming at all.”

  “He must have waited until he was done with his sessions before he took more,” Otter said, staring down at the bottles.

  “She gave me a list”—my vision began to narrow just a little—“a list of p-places we can send him to. Where they can h-help him get—get—”

  “No, hey, no, Bear. Listen, okay?” His arms were around me, and I pressed my face against his neck. “One step at a time. Okay? One step at a time. Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks.”

  I choked a little at that.

  “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think so too.”

  “WHAT ARE these names here?” he asked with a frown, squinting at the email on the computer screen.

  “Addiction specialists. She said that sometimes, rehab isn’t necessary. But that detox can get pretty bad. She—she says that he might need to talk to someone else, someone who specifically deals with… this.”

  “He’ll be lucky if I let him out of my sight again,” Otter growled.

  ON MY way. Got your Kleenex.

  Okay.

  HE CAME through the door. He didn’t see us right away, sitting in the living room. I craned my head back on the couch, watching him. Otter squeezed my hand.

  The Kid stopped for a moment, unaware he was being watched. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He popped his neck from side to side and rolled his shoulders, like he was settling into something. I watched as he forced a smile onto his face, and he called out, “I’m home. I didn’t know what kind of Kleenex you wanted, so I got the one with lotion.”

  And even faced with everything I’d been told, with everything I’d found, it was this little display that finally convinced me. That he was lying and manipulating.

  It’s a sickness, his therapist had said. Addiction is. And he’ll explain it away, tell you that you’re overreacting, that you’re wrong and trying to blame him for things that aren’t true. And part of him will believe that. But I think there will be another part to him, however small it may be, that knows you love him, that knows you’re right. He’s going to be a cornered animal. He may say things that are cruel. But it’s the addiction talking. It’s the fact that he was caught. He loves you, Bear. The both of you. And if I can be sure of anything, it’s that.

  Yes, yes, it whispered. There is that. There is always going to be that. But you don’t even know him anymore, do you? He’s kept this from you for months. Kind of fucked-up if you think about it, isn’t it? Hey, but just think of how much like his mother he is! Isn’t that fun?

  “In here,” Otter said. “Bring your backpack.”

  And I saw the Kid tense, just a moment.

  He looked over into the living room.

  He saw me watching him.

  The smile tilted down, just a little, the fake thing that it was.

  I swallowed down as much anger as possible. It was harder than I expected it to be. I turned forward again.

  He tried. He really did. Even at the start. “Hey,” he said, taking a step toward us. “What are you doing home? I thought you weren’t back until next week.”

  “Things changed,” Otter said. “Move your butt.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Tyson. Now.”

  I didn’t think I’d ever heard Otter speak like that. To anyone. And if Ty hadn’t thought anything was wrong before, I was sure he did now. I wondered what his mind was racing with, what narrative he was trying to spin. Otter was mad, that much was sure. I was stiff and silent, which probably made it worse. For a moment, I felt bad about that, and I hated what we were about to do, what he was forcing us to do. My head was stuffy again, and I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and pretend that everything was okay, that none of this had happened.

  He came into the living room slowly, like he was afraid of spooking us somehow. I knew the exact moment he saw the empty pill bottles lined up on the coffee table. He stopped,
making a sound like he’d been punched in the stomach. It hurt to hear. Because it validated everything, and no matter what came out of his mouth next, no matter how he tried to spin this, it would all be bullshit. He’d given himself away, and he’d only been in the house for a minute. It was only then that I realized a small part of me had hoped this wasn’t real. That these bottles could be explained away. That Corey was a liar.

  But it was true. All of it was true.

  “Give me your backpack,” Otter said, holding out his hand.

  “Why?” the Kid asked, tightening his hand on the strap. He was pale, and his other hand was curled into a fist at his side.

  “Because I said so. Don’t make me ask you again.”

  The Kid glanced at me. “Bear?”

  I kept quiet.

  His eyes narrowed. “You know what? I don’t think I will. I’ve had a long day, and I’m tired.” He turned to walk away.

  “You take one step,” Otter said, “and you can find somewhere else to sleep tonight.”

  I closed my eyes. We’d talked about this. Beforehand. About what we’d do. What we’d say. And even though Otter was right, even though it needed to be said—a shock to the system—I had to bite my tongue to keep from snapping at him. At the both of them.

  “What?” the Kid said. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life,” Otter said flatly. “You can either hand me your backpack and take a seat, or you can walk out that door. The only way you’ll be allowed back is when you’re ready to man up about this.”

  “Bullshit,” he said.

  “Try us. I think you’ll find just how serious we are.”

  “Bear.”

  Oh, this is goood, it whispered. Don’t you hear it already in his voice? He’s angry, yeah, sure, but he’s scared too. Bear, Bear, Bear, he says. Papa Bear. Why are you letting him talk to me like that, Papa Bear?

  “You were given a choice,” I ground out. “I suggest you listen.”

  The look of utter betrayal on his face was something I’d never forget.

  He looked toward the door. “I can just go to a friend’s. I don’t have to—”

  “Fine,” Otter said. “Then go.”

  “You can’t kick me out.”

  He snorted. “It’s my house. My name’s on the lease. I’m pretty sure I can do whatever I want. Maybe even get the cops involved.”

  “And you’re just going to let him talk to me like that?” the Kid asked me.

  I shrugged. “I’d believe him. I was there when he signed the lease. He wouldn’t joke about something like that.”

  “Great,” the Kid muttered. “Glad to see you think this is funny. I’m not—”

  “No, actually. I can assure you that I don’t find any of this funny.”

  “What is this?”

  I barely restrained rolling my eyes. “Really. That’s how you’re gonna play this. Like we’re stupid.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Good,” Otter said. “Since you don’t know what we’re talking about, then you have nothing to worry about. Or nothing to hide. No reason then why you can’t hand me your backpack.”

  I thought he’d leave. I really did. I thought he’d walk right out that door and slam it shut behind him. His therapist had warned us of that. That it was a possibility. That he could run and run and run, and that we might not hear from him for days. “He’ll come back,” she’d said sadly. “They usually do.”

  But he didn’t. For reasons I could barely begin to grasp, he stayed.

  He growled at us, an annoyed sound that was meant to be angry but came out petulant. He all but threw his backpack at Otter, who snagged it out of midair with one hand, regardless of how heavy it probably was.

  “Thanks,” Otter said dryly. “Have a seat.”

  “I’m tired. You got what you wanted.”

  “Sit. Down.”

  He gave us a wide berth as he moved toward the opposite couch, a scowl on his face. He sat down, hands clasped in his lap, leg jumping up and down, foot tapping against the hardwood floor. A little bead of sweat trickled down his forehead near his eye.

  Otter unzipped the backpack, took out a textbook, and set it on the coffee table, rattling the pill bottles. The laptop came next. The cell phone. A pencil. A notebook. Two pens. A pack of gum. Headphones. A flyer for some campus rally involving PETA. That last one hurt, because it was a ghost that Zombie Tyson had consumed.

  And I thought back, again, as I had been all afternoon, to all the signs we’d missed. All the little things that pointed toward what was really going on. We should have seen this sooner. We should have done more. We should have been better. I thought it was possible this whole mess was almost as much our fault—my fault—as it was his.

  There was nothing left in the main pocket. Otter zipped it closed.

  The Kid wouldn’t look at either of us, glaring off somewhere behind us. “I don’t know what you think you’re gonna find, but it’s not—”

  They were in the front pocket. Two unmarked pill bottles that looked exactly like the ones on the table, no labels. There was a major difference, though.

  These were halfway filled.

  “I don’t know what those are,” the Kid said immediately. “They aren’t mine. It’s not—”

  I held up a hand, and he fell silent with a huff.

  Otter handed me the pill bottles, and I opened them, spilling their contents on the coffee table. I picked up my phone where it lay next to me and pulled up the picture Corey had taken back at the library. He’d even somehow drawn on the photo, each pill circled with a little line trailing off it with shorthand written identifying each pill.

  And yeah. They were all there.

  The Xanax, which I recognized.

  Klonopin too, though in a higher dosage than the Kid had ever been prescribed.

  Valium, which he’d never had before.

  Ativan, which had been discussed at one point but never offered.

  Adderall, which wasn’t even something ever discussed. It wasn’t a benzo. From some of the kids I’d had in my classes, I knew it was usually prescribed for ADHD.

  But here they all were.

  And the thing that hit me the hardest was not the fact that we had verifiable proof right here in front of us, and not that he had been doing this in the first place, and not that we had somehow missed all the signs, but the fact that he was obviously taking all of these. That he was mixing them was the thing that hurt the most. I wasn’t an expert on benzos by any means, but I probably knew a bit more than the average person, given the Kid’s history. But even if I hadn’t known what I did, I still would have known that mixing drugs like this was never a good idea.

  Otter looked over my shoulder at the phone.

  “What are you guys staring at?” the Kid demanded.

  “Some other ones too,” Otter muttered under his breath. Which was true. There was a pill or two that wasn’t labeled in the photo. “Looks like the Vicodin I have for my leg. Same dosage.”

  “It’s not mine,” the Kid said again, starting to sound a little desperate.

  We ignored him. “When was the last time you took any?” I asked Otter.

  “After that day at the lake last year. Remember? I got that cramp when we were swimming.”

  Yeah, I remembered. It’d been a typical New England August day, hot and muggy, and we’d been at the lake, one last little hurrah before school started for the Kid and me. The water had been lukewarm and a little uncomfortable, but Otter was laughing, the Kid shrieking when I’d splashed him. Ty had made fun of us when Otter took off his shirt and flexed, showing off for me like he always denied he did. I’d leered at him, and the Kid choked and gagged, but it was all right. It was all right because we were together; we were alive after all the shit we’d been through.

  And as the sky started streaking in oranges and pinks, the stars little hard flecks of ice against a deep,
deep blue, Otter and I had been by ourselves, just treading water, our knees bumping as we kicked to stay afloat. We’d been close, our noses brushing together as we whispered about nothing in particular. He’d kissed me, once, twice, and then a third time, and being that close to him, I could see the lines around his mouth and the little divots around his eyes. It was such a sight to see, these little signs of age, because he was mine, and he had been for years, no matter what had happened between us.

  Eventually, we’d gone back to shore after his leg had started bothering him.

  The Kid was spread-eagled and snoring on top of large towels, his skin a little pink, an arm over his eyes.

  Otter had taken a pill when we’d gotten home, and I’d massaged his leg. He’d groaned sleepily at me, a soft smile on his face, promising that he’d blow me in the morning as a way of saying thanks.

  And that was a promise he’d kept.

  “You should probably check,” I said now, stomach twisting at the thought. “Just to make sure.”

  He nodded and pushed himself up from the couch. He was out of the living room before I looked back at the Kid.

  He was tense, still. And glaring, his lips a thin line, brow pinched, eyes narrowed. I stared coolly in response, trying to keep my face carefully blank. It was harder than I thought it’d be, given that I wanted nothing more than to throttle the shit out of him.

  “I don’t know what you’re accusing me of,” he said.

  “Funny. I don’t remember accusing you of anything.” Yet.

  “Those aren’t mine.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “I was holding them for someone.”

  “Really. Great. If that’s the case, if this is all a misunderstanding, then you’d have no problem giving me a name. Or better yet, getting this person on the phone.”

  “I can’t—Jesus. Bear, I don’t know what you think I did or what I’m doing, but I promise you, it’s not—”

  Otter came back into the living room.

  The Kid paled a little bit more.

  “Only a few left,” Otter muttered. “I know there was more than that.”