by E. Lockhart
While they walked, Adelaide wept silently. She felt overwhelmingly stupid. She had ruined everything with
her unsavory, unwanted
sadness, sadness that made her
unlovable and burdensome, sadness that was
maybe anger in disguise,
maybe anger, leaking out of her,
because there was nobody to yell at,
nobody to vent it on,
no way to burn it off. It had to come out.
She didn’t know if she was angry at
Mikey or at
Toby. And she didn’t know if her anger had ruined things with
Mikey or
Toby, or now with
Jack—
or all three.
She said goodbye quickly, ran up to her bedroom in her dad’s office space, and crawled into the foldout, still wearing her clothes. She turned out her light—and then remembered the dogs.
She hadn’t walked them.
She hauled herself up again and put on a sweater. Found her shoes. She walked each dog separately (except the two who lived together), going to one house and then another, in the ugly, shuddering chill of the night.
Toby and Adelaide. Ages nine and eleven.
TOBY: (snorts up snot in a gross way)
ADELAIDE: Oh no, you don’t. Stop that.
TOBY: I’m just sniffing. (snorts up snot)
ADELAIDE: Nuh-uh. It’s too disgusting.
TOBY: I can’t help it. (snorts up snot)
ADELAIDE: Get a tissue. Here. Here’s a tissue.
TOBY: (blows very weakly into the tissue) Nothing comes out.
ADELAIDE: Blow it hard, silly.
TOBY: (snorts up snot)
ADELAIDE: I’m going to punish you when you do that.
TOBY: You can’t punish me. Only Mom and Dad can punish me.
ADELAIDE: I can figure out a way.
TOBY: How?
ADELAIDE: By saying swear words.
TOBY: I hate swear words!
ADELAIDE: I know you do. I think if I swear whenever you snort up your snot, then you’ll stop doing it.
TOBY: (snorts up snot)
ADELAIDE: Poop!
TOBY: (snorts up snot)
ADELAIDE: Weiner!
TOBY: (snorts up snot)
ADELAIDE: Thunder-butt!
TOBY: What?
ADELAIDE: Thunder-butt. Whenever you snort your snot, I’m going to say “poop weiner thunder-butt.”
TOBY: You will?
ADELAIDE: I’ll say it in front of your friends. And your teachers. You’ll do a snort and I’ll be all, Poop weiner thunder-butt. Super loud. Everyone will be shocked. You’ll be too embarrassed to snort anymore.
TOBY: Say it again!
ADELAIDE: No.
TOBY: Say it again!
ADELAIDE: You like it now? You say it.
TOBY: No. I’m not saying swears.
* * *
—
Adelaide remembered picking Toby up from a weekend Dungeons and Dragons game at Boston Strategy Lab, a board-game club he belonged to. She was twelve and he was ten. “How was your campaign?”
“Good. But I lost an arm.”
“What?”
“It’s no biggie. My evil twin turned into a werewolf and bit it off.”
“Was it your fighting arm?”
“Yeah,” said Toby cheerfully. “But I can regrow it. Or get a wooden one or something. Plus I turned into a werewolf right back and I bit off his leg. Stuff like that happens all the time. Can we get M&M’s?”
She took him into a drugstore and bought M&M’s for both of them. “D and D and M and M,” he said as they walked the rest of the way home. He liked to eat the green ones and make wishes. He consumed all the green ones back to back, doing wishes in a row. Then he opened his mouth with crushed-up green M&M’s in it.
She gave him licks of her ice cream cones. She made him toast. She read to him. She gave him her time, playing Unstable Unicorns and Exploding Kittens. Their relationship had always been characterized by Adelaide giving and Toby taking, but she’d been delighted, most of the time, to play protector or indulgent older sibling.
In return, he made her laugh. And if he got too greedy, she just batted his hand and told him he couldn’t have whatever it was he wanted.
Adelaide was proud of Toby. He was popular in middle school, a short boy even the tall girls liked. People would say, “Are you Toby Buchwald’s sister? He’s so cute.” Eighth-grade girls, when he was only in seventh. And Adelaide was glad to answer yes.
When he got to high school—it was public school in Boston then—he had a similar effect on women. He had shaggy dark hair and a mouth full of braces. He talked to everyone. He was a puppy of a boy, clowning and bright. His smart mouth and swagger made up for what he lacked in height, and rather than go out with a ninth grader, he became the much-adored pet of a group of popular seniors. They started by offering him rides home. Then they’d bring him with them after school when they went to get smoothies. Pretty soon he sat with them at lunch. They picked him up in their cars and took him with them, wherever they were going.
Adelaide wasn’t paying attention. She was sleeping over at Ashlee’s and doing track and field. She started going to art museums with Veronica sometimes. Also she went out with this guy Mateo for a little and then with William for a little, and though neither was serious, they took up time. She babysat quite a lot. And sometimes there were parties. She was, in essence, a fairly centered, fairly happy person, without the flash and sparkle she prided herself on now, without the talky edge she’d developed. She was milder then. Less in need of distraction.
Adelaide didn’t know how Toby made that decision, first to take something out of a medicine cabinet. She never would have. For her, it wasn’t very hard to say
“Nah, that’s stupid risky,” or
“Not for me today,” or even
“Don’t pressure me. It’s so gross.”
She’d said those things at parties, or with friends. Plenty of times. Why couldn’t Toby?
What she did know was, the pills became routine for him. Every weekend. Some weeknights. Other kids were doing it too. One dad had a supply of oxycodone he had never thrown out. A mom had a pill habit. And so on. Toby’s perennial grin hid a stripe of anxiety and depression, and the pills alleviated it.
One night he found a full jar of Percocet in some parent’s bathroom. He stole it, and took some every day. And once it was a habit, his body demanded it. Without cease.
When the bottle ran out, that’s when Toby broke his own wrist. He
iced it first, took two Advil, and
whacked his left wrist
repeatedly
with the hammer held in his right.
He took himself to the hospital before calling anyone, having planned it out ahead of time, the bus route and everything. He told the doctors he’d dropped a twenty-pound weight while working out. He rated his pain a ten on a scale of one to ten and ended up with an Oxy prescription, legit as legit could be.
But the prescription ran out soon enough. So he started buying.
Sure, Adelaide ran into Toby at parties sometimes, though she wasn’t friends with his crowd. When she did, she thought he was drunk. A lightweight. He’d tell her he had two beers.
It didn’t seem horrible for a fourteen-year-old to have two beers. Adelaide’s parents didn’t forbid her to drink. They lectured her: a glass of water for every serving of booze; stay away from the hard stuff and stick to wine or beer. Eat if you’re having alcohol so it doesn’t hit your system too hard. Never get in a car driven by someone who’s been drinking. Don’t make out with people if you’re drunk, since you might have trouble saying what you want an
d don’t want. Or the other person might not hear it clearly. Don’t take drinks from strangers: pour or open your own. They had told her all this, and offered to pick her up anywhere, any time she needed a ride home.
They had trusted her judgment. And Toby’s.
When Toby finally went to the hospital and then to rehab, Adelaide put it all together. She realized why Toby had fallen asleep on her so
limply and childishly, that time they’d taken the bus home from that party.
She realized he wasn’t always at Ian’s and why
he was broke despite his allowance.
Her parents coped. Levi immersed himself in health insurance and treatment options. Rebecca handled all Toby’s appointments, talked to all the doctors, and spoke to Toby himself. Adelaide talked to Toby’s teachers and called his friends’ parents, explaining what had happened; what might be happening with their kids.
She was glad to have something to do. It was good to be busy, rather than spend her time thinking about
Toby shooting up, about
Toby wasting away, about
Toby’s mind, and whether somewhere in there, he might still be the brother she loved, now that his brain chemistry was permanently altered.
Rebecca was especially grateful for Adelaide’s assistance. She wrapped her daughter in big, squashy hugs, the kind Adelaide had loved as a child. Rebecca was curvy, with long curly hair that echoed the texture of the dense sweaters she made and wore. Even on hot days, dressed in a T-shirt and wide-leg pants, she seemed faintly wooly. She told Adelaide she was the best possible help; Adelaide was so mature, was keeping them all together, thank you thank you.
The family had been led to believe it would just be ninety days in Kingsmont, the rehab center, but Toby began having episodes. Rebecca said Toby would rage and scream. Maybe the drugs had done something to his brain. He’d be better soon, hopefully. He was going on medication.
That was when Adelaide and Levi moved to Baltimore to be with Rebecca.
The new school was okay. It was hard to make friends at first. There was a script in Adelaide’s head.
My little brother is in rehab.
My little brother is in rehab.
Everywhere she went, a rhythm beat beneath her feet.
Toby is an addict.
Toby is an addict.
Those words were scrawled across her face for everyone to see. They were written on her ankles and her hands, every visible part of her. People would ask how she was. Adelaide would say, “Fine.” She’d say, “Great.” She’d say what they wanted to hear.
But what she answered in her head was My little brother is in rehab.
At first, she went along on the Kingsmont weekly visiting day. But Toby wouldn’t look at her. He didn’t speak to her. And she could barely speak to him.
She was humiliated to find that she always cried, from the minute her mother parked the car. Not loud crying. Silent. Just her eyes pouring water and her throat closed. She couldn’t stop it. She cried because Toby’s face looked different. The way he held his arms at his sides was peculiar. She cried because she didn’t know him anymore, couldn’t see her little brother inside this stranger.
Nobody taught him how to shave, and he needed to now. He had a wispy mustache. His teeth didn’t look clean. There were no books by his bedside. No games in his room.
Soon her parents gently suggested Adelaide not come along. They said they didn’t want Toby to see her cry like that. “Addicts often feel judged by their family and friends,” said the therapist at one visit, when Toby wasn’t in the room. “You should refrain from negativity as much as possible.”
The Buchwalds worried her crying would make Toby anxious and guilty. He already knew the effects his actions had had on the family. Now he was building a new sense of himself as a sober person.
Also, they hated seeing her cry. It exhausted them, taking care of Adelaide on top of taking care of Toby.
They didn’t say that. But Adelaide could tell: they needed her to be strong.
Rebecca said, “Don’t force yourself, pudding. You have done so much for the family already. We haven’t forgotten. It’s okay to sit this one out.”
Levi said, “It might be easier on Toby if it’s just the two of us, this visit. And that’s okay. He won’t ever forget how much you love him.”
She stopped visiting. It was something of a relief. Instead, she began writing Toby letters. Paper letters.
Hi, Toby.
Here’s the home update. Full of thrills!
Dad made a grain bowl involving bok choy, mushrooms, and ground chicken. He is calling it dinner, but I am not certain it can legally be called that.
Mom and her sciatica, OMG. She will not do her exercises. She sets the mat out. And it’s right in the middle of the living room. She moves the coffee table to one side, gets it all set up. And then it sits there all day Saturday. Reproaching her.
The exercises literally take her seven minutes, but she doesn’t do them and then her ass hurts and she’s sad.
She took me shopping for rain boots and I was like,
“These ones, please.” And she said,
“Maybe you want some different ones; do you want to try on some more?” And I was like,
“No thank you, I like these. They have red polka-dots. Red polka-dots are my dream.” And she was like,
“Maybe you should try on the green.” And I was like,
“It’s the same boot, just a different color.” And she was like,
“Maybe you want to try on those flowered ones, then?” And I was like,
“I’m super into these red polka-dots, thank you very much.”
But whatever, we got through it and now I have rain boots.
I hit the Museum of Visionary Art today with Ling. Things we saw include:
the world’s first robot family and
a series of automatons, like mechanical people.
Also a kid with literally so much snot it hung in a ribbon from her nose.
Then we got Dippin’ Dots.
Poop weiner thunder-butt and lots of love, Adelaide.
* * *
—
He didn’t answer.
Not once. Not ever never. So Adelaide tried harder. She bought
postcards of Marimekko prints and DC Comics heroes and wrote cheery notes, talking about celebrity gossip, reporting on school dances and interesting
project and clubs.
She performed
forgiveness and kindness, over and over.
She never showed any
anger or disappointment.
In fact, it was in these letters that the first version of Adelaide’s sparkly, talky persona began to emerge. She wanted to entertain Toby. To get a response from him. And she found that in assuming the sparkle, putting it on like a sequined jacket, she could alleviate a little of her distress.
Adelaide waited for a letter in return. Or just a note.
What was he doing with his time at Kingsmont, anyway? There were free periods. He could write if he wanted to.
Toby remained at the Kingsmont Center until May, when he moved to Future House, a sober-living boarding home for high schoolers. Living there, he went to summer classes at a clean-and-sober high school. He did okay. Their parents visited him every weekend, just as before.
Eventually, Adelaide stopped writing. She spent the summer before heading to Alabaster working in a doggie day care with her friend Ling, who had a cousin who knew a guy who owned it. After work, they’d meet up at Joelle’s, sit on her back porch, drink beer they got with Joelle’s fake ID, and order pizza.
There were some boys they liked, who maybe liked them back.
Sometimes the boys would come over.
Sometimes there was a party
somewhere.
If there was nothing else to do, Adelaide, Ling, and Joelle would go get spicy noodles and window-shop.
But still,
even with Toby all right,
or kind of all right,
or all right for the time being,
Adelaide slept badly and thought obsessively. She would think,
What if he relapses?
What if he dies?
What am I doing on this porch, eating pizza as the sun sets, when my parents have spent half their retirement savings to pay for Toby’s treatment?
What am I doing kissing this boy, when Toby is still this gray lump of a person, weighed down by shame and medication, staring blankly at the wall every evening?
How can I drink this beer when people become alcoholics? This is a dangerous substance, and maybe some
demon of addiction is
lurking inside me,
sucking up this alcohol, and
one day I’ll wake up and feel like I need it more than anything.
But she still drank the beer. And ate the pizza. And kissed the boy, though it wasn’t serious.
She was leaving town in late August. Her friends would all spend junior year in Baltimore, and she would go with her father up to Alabaster.
She felt nostalgic for the very summer she was living, for those evenings at Joelle’s, for the aching way the boy made her feel when he kissed her, even though he was a little vacant and he didn’t make her laugh. She had never before thought of her own life with nostalgia as she’d lived it—but that summer it was overwhelming.
This will never happen again, she thought.
We will never be like this again.
Hold on to this feeling.
Remember it.
And yet, she also experienced waves of disassociation from it all. It wouldn’t last, so why did it matter? Come fall, she’d be in northern Massachusetts. Come fall, she’d have different friends. Who cared what happened with any of it?
She brought Toby’s Lego bin up from the basement. He used to build kits, back in elementary school. Star Wars, Harry Potter, rescue vehicles. Adelaide would sit by him sometimes and assist. He could follow the most complicated instructions, but he liked his sister to find the pieces he needed. He’d empty the plastic bags into cereal bowls, sometimes having as many as ten bowls around him on their family room floor.