Tell Me Something Real

by Kristen Kehoe

  Two hours later, when we’ve dropped Evie off and are sitting huddled with Maggie at the kitchen table, our fear turns to terror.

  “That was Beau,” Maggie says, hanging up the new cordless phone. “They found Colt’s truck off Oakville, parked with its nose in the ditch. They’re searching the river and surrounding area now.”

  When Lincoln starts sobbing, I scoop her out of her chair and sit her on my lap, wrapping my arms around her. When she says his name, I close my eyes, tucking my face into her neck to keep my own tears at bay.

  “Ford, he’s gone.” I don’t say anything just hold her tighter. “Why?” This is a mantra that she whispers over and over for the next few hours. “Why would he leave me? Why wouldn’t he tell us?”

  At noon, Beau comes home. His face is drawn, and he goes directly to Maggie, bringing her against him.

  “No,” she says, but there’s not conviction in it. “Not again. Tell me you found him.”

  Beau’s own shoulders shake, and I have to close my eyes. “They found his body. He’s gone, Mags. We were too late.”

  +

  Colton Slaughter—no middle name, which is, oddly, the one thing I focus on when I read his obituary in the newspaper—was pronounced dead when his body was found hanging from a tree in the forested area surrounding the Calapooia river. An investigation into his death was launched, and closed almost immediately, and his death was ruled a suicide.

  Lincoln hasn’t spoken since Beau walked into the kitchen forty-eight hours ago, unless it was to answer a question asked directly to her.

  Now, we’re sitting on the back of the farm truck tailgate in our field, despite the rain. In our hands are letters—something Colt left us on the seat of his truck. The police took them into evidence and opened them, and today Maggie brought them to us.

  “They’re releasing his body—and his things. We’re not doing a funeral, just a memorial here at the house.”

  Her voice was strong, like her. She’s only fallen apart once, the minute Beau told us. Since then, she’s been a rock for everyone, insisting that Lincoln stay at the farm so she wasn’t alone, feeding everyone, making sure we got the information we needed, and offering us space while still being present.

  If I ever questioned what it was like to have a real mother, Maggie has answered.

  Now, I sit in the misting rain, a hoodie and a jacket pulled over my Mariners cap, Lincoln next to me in a Carhartt and jeans, her battered Romeos on her feet, while we both stare at the small pieces of folded notebook paper carrying our names.

  “I don’t want to read this.”

  I reach for Lincoln’s free hand, lacing our fingers. In her other hand, she’s crumpled the letter from Colt.

  “I know that’s wrong, but I don’t want to read this—he left.” Her voice is strained, like there are tears clogging her throat, and I squeeze her fingers tighter. “How could he do that? To all of us? I mean, Evie is destroyed. She can barely get out of bed. I’m his best friend. He’s spent half our lives taking care of me, making sure I survive and then he does this?” She swallows. “I hate him for it.” I understand her words, just like I understand the pain in her tone, and the question of whether or not she has a right to be mad.

  “Your feelings aren’t wrong, Lincoln.”

  “Then, why do they feel wrong? He was my best friend.” Tears start cascading down her cheeks, but she makes no move to stop them. Her hand grips mine, the other still holding that crumpled letter with Colt’s final words on it, and she looks out at the field that’s now green and healthy from all the rain, and asks the same question from that first day. “Why? Why would he leave like this? Why would he not try and stay?”

  “Maybe he did.” She goes to pull away from me, but I hold onto her because if there’s one thing I owe my cousin, it’s Lincoln, and I want her to have the memory of him she deserves. “Maybe he stayed much longer than he ever wanted to, much longer than he ever thought he would, because he was your best friend.”

  When she only leans her head on my shoulder and cries, I pull her closer, protecting her from the rain in the same way I wish I could protect her from the pain. “What he did—killing himself,” I stutter over the phrase. “It wasn’t about you, Lincoln. It wasn’t about you or me or Evie or anyone else. But living—how long and hard he fought the darkness? That was about you.” I put my finger under her chin, and tilt her face up so she can see my eyes. “He fought his depression for a long time and won, Lincoln. And that was because he loved you. Never doubt that.”

  A weak thread of light is filtering through the break in the curtains, creating a watery spot on the bedspread. Sitting on the edge of Colt’s bed, my eyes focus on it, wondering if it will ever be solid sunshine again.

  I’m still at the farm, and today it’s full of people coming to pay their respects to Beau and Maggie for another of their lost Slaughter boys. I escaped sometime after the first hour, because as well as people mean, I don’t want to hear them when they tell me how sorry they are.

  I’m not sorry. I don’t know what I am except alone and missing my best friend, at the same time I wish I had never met him.

  When the door cracks open, I don’t look over.

  “I just needed a second.”

  There’s a small groan from hinges grinding together, and then a click, the heavy wood closing. Ford doesn’t speak, which is part of the reason I know it’s him. The other reason… something about the way the air changes—the way a room changes when he’s in it. Like the part of me that’s been suffocating can finally breathe just a little bit.

  Today, even with him here, I still can’t get enough air.

  Colt’s words from the small part of his letter I read replay in my mind. Trust him, Lincoln. Let him take care of you. Let him get you out of here and show you the world you should be living in. Let him love you.

  I stare ahead at the watery spot of sunlight. But what about the way I loved you, Colton? I repeat that question over and over, knowing it’s not right to be angry, but I am. Goddammit, I am.

  You were my family, I think. And you left me when someone else came around. Why? Why couldn’t you just stay? Why couldn’t you let me save you like you’ve always saved me?

  “Here.”

  I look over when Ford eases down on the bed next to me holding a piece of paper, his large frame close enough to make me feel safe, but still not touching. I’m grateful for it—the space. I can’t think right now, not about how he makes me feel, or why he’s everything that’s ever made me believe more might just be possible. Right now, I can only feel pain, and my belief is disappearing, just like Colt did.

  “I know you’re not ready to read his letter to you—and I’m not pressuring you to. But I think you should read what he said to me.”

  I make no move to take it. “Why?”

  Ford shrugs, a very un-Ford-like thing to do, which shows me however stoic he’s been, he’s in pain—maybe as much as me. “Maybe it will help you understand a little bit more. Maybe it will help you see the reasons he... left.”

  Ford’s voice breaks on that word, just like my body trembles. Colt, he did leave, and I know why he did it the way he did—hidden, in a place that had little meaning to any of us to ensure that no one walked by the spot where his body was found and remembered him every day. Whatever he needed… Colt didn’t want this moment to be about horror—he didn’t want this moment to be about grief and pain and ugliness. He wanted it to be about freedom—his freedom.

  But I don’t feel free. I feel alone.

  Just like he did.

  My stomach spasms, and I finally reach out and take the letter. It’s written on ripped out notebook paper, just like mine was. The fringe is still there, and even though it’s folded, I can see the telltale shadow of Colt’s chicken scratch handwriting.

  “Truth be told, I had a hard time deciphering the hieroglyphics he calls handwriting.”

  I laugh for the first time in days, u
nfolding the paper and tracing my finger over the brief words. While my page was full, this one is barely half a page long.

  “He did have terrible handwriting. In the sixth grade, they kept him inside for a week at break time, making him trace over penmanship papers, telling him he would never succeed in life if he couldn’t communicate.” The spasms in my stomach are back, and though I feel him tense, Ford doesn’t touch me. He just waits, patiently, there. “I guess they weren’t completely wrong, though it wasn’t his handwriting that will keep him from living the life he wanted.”

  “Read the letter, Lincoln.”

  I shake my head at Ford, but I blink to clear my eyes, scanning the words once, twice, and then finally reading them the third time.

  This isn’t a goodbye note, so quit being a pussy and read the entire thing.

  I laugh, and the tears I blinked away are back, sliding down my cheeks.

  This is a reminder: she’s yours now. She would kill me for saying that, but we both know I’m not in danger of that now. Laugh, that was fucking funny.

  I cover my mouth, a laugh-sob escaping because I can see Colt writing this, and even now, when he’s not here, he’s making me laugh. Making me smile. Making me ache because I miss him.

  I knew the moment she saw you that you were the man for her. She doesn’t think she needs saving—and maybe she’s right. Only she can save herself, but she doesn’t have to do it alone. Remember what I said that day you asked me if I loved her? I do love her. I always have. But who I am…he isn’t for her. You are. So be the man you showed me, and help Lincoln be everything she was born to be. Because she is—everything. She’s going to be mad—it’s okay. I’d rather she be mad than ever be hurt, or trapped, or worried. And who I am…he would have made her feel all of those things. I couldn’t let her live like that—I couldn’t live like that. Not anymore. Tell her not to worry about me, Ford. I’m where I need to be, and she… she has a world to see. I’m trusting you to give it to her.

  Take care, brother. I’ll see you another day in another place. I still owe you for the shiner.

  I don’t know who reaches for who, but I’m in Ford’s lap, his letter crushed between us, my arms around his neck, his around my waist. My chest is tight and my heart… it’s breaking. Like the pain I feel is a living, breathing being, using fists and teeth to tear me apart inside. I bury my face into his neck and shoulder, fingers sinking into his hair when I feel his unsteady breath.

  “I hate him for this,” I say, squeezing my eyes even tighter. “I hate that he left me, that he couldn’t stay. I hate that he wouldn’t let me help.”

  Ford doesn’t offer any words—like last week when we woke up Evie’s phone call, he understands that no words are sufficient. Pain, loss, they can’t be coaxed away with pretty sentiments and comforting phrases. Maybe because there is no comforting someone from this—like there shouldn’t be.

  Pain like this is life. It’s what makes the good parts so great.

  I hate that balance. Hate that in order for there to be greatness, there has to be sacrifice; in order for there to be light, there has to be dark; in order for there to be love, there has to be hate and destruction.

  I hate that in order for me to know my best friend is happy, he had to leave me in this life we were surviving together, with nothing but a note.

  “How do I do what he asked?” The words are barely a whisper, the obstruction in my chest blocking all of the air. “How do I leave, when this is the only place I can feel him, see him, remember him?”

  I feel Ford’s head shake, and then he holds me tighter. “I don’t know. But I’ll be here to help. Whatever the future is going to be, Lincoln, I’m here now, and I’m going to do what Colt wanted.”

  Then he leans back and looks at me. “Not just because he asked, but because he was right. I love you, Lincoln. I think I started loving you the moment you fell through my window and on top of me.” My smile is small, and my heart, it wants to beat for him… but it doesn’t know how to do anything but hurt right now. Ford reaches up to trace my lips with his thumb, his eyes telling me he understands. “Whatever you need to get through the semester to graduation, and anything after that, I’m going to help you get it. Let me help you, Lincoln. For Colt.” And then he swallows. “Because he was my family, too.”

  That’s how our goodbye begins.

  It’s weird, being eighteen. I’m an adult, and as the end of the first semester looms closer, I know that the future I’ve been dreaming of my entire life does, too. But something is different. My feelings are mixed, like I can’t make what I’ve always wanted and what I now understand come together and point me in the right direction.

  Which is why I talk to my counselor and look at my credits, making the decision to graduate early. We only need the rest of a half semester of English to complete my necessary twenty-four credits. I can do that online and graduate without having to be here. And that, more than anything, is what I need. To leave this town, and its memories, behind.

  Even to leave Colt behind for a while, as selfish as it sounds. Because what he did… I can’t accept it, not now, not yet. Maybe not ever. And I can’t live here with it. I tell all of this to Ford on the night after first semester finals.

  Instead of going to a party, Ford and I take the farm truck out to the field. Lying on the blanket in the truck bed, my shoulder pressed against Ford’s, I watch the stars wink to life and wonder if growing up is supposed to hurt this much, or if that’s something only a few of us experience.

  “I’m not staying here.”

  I hear Ford shift next to me, and I know he’s turned his head so he can look at me. I lick my lips, trying to tell him what I barely understand. But it’s something I feel…like I feel him against me, I feel this, and I know it’s the right thing. “I have to go—to get away from here like Colt said. Not just because he said—but because I think, if I stay here, I won’t survive.”

  Ford stays silent, sitting up when I do, shifting so he can see me. “At first, I didn’t think I could leave. I mean, this is where Colt and I grew up, I know it’s where he wanted to be…before, and I didn’t think I’d be able to leave him.” My voice hitches and I clear my throat. “But I don’t feel him here anymore. Not like I used to. He left,” I say, and I hate that those words still hurt. “And I need to leave, too.”

  “I know,” Ford says at length. And then, “It’s what he wanted for you, Lincoln. You know that.”

  “I’m still mad at him,” I admit. Looking out over the field, shadows dancing with the wind and moon, I tell Ford what maybe only he will understand. “As much as I miss him, I want to forget him for a while, too, because I’m so mad at him, and so hurt. It feels like I may never forgive him… and that doesn’t feel right. Or fair.”

  Ford’s hand finds my leg, and then he squeezes, waiting until I look at him. “He knew you, Lincoln.” His words are quiet, strong in the way only Ford can be. “He still does. Be mad—be angry and upset. Be you. That’s all he wanted.”

  Because my breath is short—something that keeps happening every time I think of Colt, every time I look at Ford and then think of the future—I nod, one simple movement of my chin.

  Damn you, Colton. My heart squeezes, and I close my eyes a second.

  “Will you promise me something?” I open my eyes to look at Ford, and this time, my heart doesn’t just squeeze, it breaks because I can see goodbye in his eyes, and I know that it’s right. In this moment, we have to let go. We both know it. Just as I know that he’s the reason I made it—he’s the reason I can let go and move onto the future.

  “Yes. Anything.” The words are forceful, but I need him to know that for him, I would be anyone, do anything, because of how he saved me.

  “Don’t risk yourself. Take risks,” he clarifies, understanding my automatic struggle to comply. “Be bold and brave, and explore until you’ve seen it all, done it all, lived it all. But don’t risk yourself. Ever.”

&n
bsp; Still staring at me, he takes his hand away from my leg and reaches into his back pocket, fishing out his wallet, which he opens and removes a card from. When he presses it into my palm, I do my best to snatch my hand back.

  “That’s a credit card.”

  “Debit, actually. To an account with your name on it, and your name only. There’s some money in it now, and more will be put in each month. It’s not a lot,” he continues while I only stare. “But it’s enough for more.” And the way he says it… a new pressure is in my chest, and my eyes are wide and riveted on him.

  Before I can find words, he’s speaking again, looking down at his hands and mine. “It’s enough for insulin and test strips and needles and whatever else you might need. It’s enough for groceries, and a modest rent, and paying all the bills at the same time.” He blows out a shaky breath, reaching for my limp hand and pressing the card into it, wrapping my fingers around its sharp edges before he speaks again.

  “It’s enough for both of us to keep our promise to Colt—for you to go and live, and for me to make sure you do it. On your own terms, in your own way. With no one able to take it away from you.”

  His eyes are shiny when they meet mine—glowing in a way that has my own pricking with tears. I shake my head, not in rejection, but in awe. In gratitude. In love so great I don’t know how to express it. “It’s too much,” I tell him.

  “It could never be too much,” he cuts in. “Not for you.”

  “Ford…”

  He reaches up, cupping my face between his hands, thumbs tracing underneath my jaw so he can look at me. “You saved me, Lincoln. At a time when I was sinking, you showed me the surface and brought me into a world that’s real—one that has both pain and joy, success and suffering, love and hate. Life and death.” He chokes on the last words, and I lean my head forward so it rests on his. “That day I asked what you wanted, you told me. Do you remember what I told you?” I nod. “I told you I wanted to give that to you—so let me give it to you, without strings or expectations. Without anything but love.”