Don't Blink

by L. G. Davis

  “You have to let me help you. Let me take you to a place where you can be helped. The longer you stay here, the more you hurt yourself. The more you hurt us. We’re not good for each other. You hurt me just as much as I hurt you.”

  “This is my home.” His voice is broken around the edges but firm at the core.

  It’s true, this is his home, not just mine. And it kills me to know I have to send him away. But what choice do I have? We’ve reached the end of the road. He needs to go somewhere else where he can heal, then maybe we can start again.

  “I’m not sending you away for good, Ryan. Once you’re better, you can come back home. I just want you to get help.” I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand. “I want you to be happy.”

  “What if being like this is what makes me happy?”

  “I doubt that. I don’t for a second believe this is what you want.”

  I crawl across the floor toward him, ignoring the dull ache at the place he bit. My brother needs me.

  He doesn’t fight me as I help him back into his wheelchair. And then I lower myself to his level, grab his hands, and meet his eyes. “Please, let me help you.”

  After a long silence, he nods.

  I glance at the bleeding gash on the side of his head. “You need stitches. Let me take you to the hospital, then we can talk.”

  “No hospital.” He drops his head.

  “Okay. Will you let me clean it up?”

  “Yeah.” I barely hear the word.

  He no longer speaks as I clean the wound and cover it up. When I’m done, I hesitate, then hug him. He lets me. “I love you, Ryan. Never ever doubt that. Whatever I do, whatever decisions I make, are because I love you.” I pull away. “Say you believe that.”

  “Yeah.” He still doesn’t look at me. He has reached a broken state. I’m tempted to give it another try with him at home, but I know that tomorrow could be different. The dark monster in his eyes could return any moment with revenge on his mind. I have to act before I change my mind.

  “Then allow me to make some calls. We can do it together; we can choose a nice place for you. Remember, it will only be for a while.”

  He nods.

  He has so many issues I don’t even know which kind of facility would be good for him.

  While he sits by the window, I call several residential rehab facilities I discovered on the internet, not only in Corlake, but surrounding towns. The third place is cheaper than the others, and when I tell the woman about Ryan, she assures me that they can help him. They offer to give him a place for a month and then he can return home—as a better person, hopefully. I tell Ryan about it, and he nods again. The only request he has is that I should send him there after two days. He wants to spend a little time at home. I agree hesitantly.

  I cook him dinner but he refuses to eat so I wish him a goodnight and go to bed feeling drained and hollow.

  Dylan calls twice but I don’t pick up. I have no idea what to say to him, what to say to anyone. The way I feel is hard to put into words.

  Since I’m just as broken as Ryan, I’m not even sure anymore if Dylan will be able to heal me.

  CHAPTER 18

  My body and mind feel rejuvenated as I move my car out of my assigned parking spot at school.

  Today’s the day I’m sending Ryan to rehab. It still hurts to let go. As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve become attached to him just as much as he’s attached to me. But deep down, I’m relieved for both of us. We need time to work on ourselves before we can start over as a family.

  The last two days, I’d been on pins and needles the entire time, waiting for Ryan to change his mind about going to rehab. I held my breath when we went through the material the facility had sent me. But nothing happened.

  I can’t say he’s changed completely. He still drinks, stuffs himself with junk food, and spends the entire day in front of the TV. But he hasn’t been violent toward me. No threats, no harsh words, no evil looks.

  This morning before I left for work, I stopped by his room to find him curled up underneath his black sheets, his mop of brown hair spilling onto the pillows. Next to the bed was his wheelchair and a packed bag, ready to go.

  For a moment I’d stood at the door, watching his chest rising and falling as he slept. He’s a grown man, but every time I look at him, I see a little boy stuck inside a man’s body.

  Before I could walk away, his eyes opened, and he smiled at me for the first time in two years. “Is it time?”

  “Not yet. I’ll drop you off in the evening.” I caught his smile with my heart and gave him one in return. “We could have lunch together first. I asked for a short work day today. I’ll be home before twelve.”

  “I’d like that,” he says and pulled the bed sheets up to his neck.

  As I near our apartment now, I’m both excited and nervous about seeing him. This morning he was ready to go, but what if he was playing me? What if, now that I believe in him, he suddenly pulls the rug from under my feet?

  As usual, before entering the apartment, I draw in a few breaths. I never know what will be waiting for me on the other side of the door.

  I finally get the courage to take a look.

  The entire place smells different, the air fresh as though it had been scrubbed clean.

  I come to an abrupt halt in the doorway to the living room. I almost don’t recognize it. The blinds have been pulled up, the windows wide open to let in fresh air. But what shocks me the most is that the room is clean. No takeout boxes, no discarded socks, no speck of dust. The floor has been vacuumed and the couch is free of papers, candy wrappers, and video game covers.

  Everything is neat and in its place. It feels as though I’m seeing the living room for the first time.

  Tears prick my eyes as I glance at the blank but gleaming TV screen. My phone rings as I’m leaving the living room. It’s Dylan.

  “Afternoon, beautiful lady. Are you at work?”

  “Hey, babe. No, I left early today.”

  “How are things with your brother? When are you dropping him off?”

  “In the evening.” I stop by my bedroom and toss my bag onto the bed.

  “Call me when you get back home. I have meetings all day, but we could grab dinner tonight.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you later.” I’m still smiling when I leave my bedroom and go to Ryan’s.

  Like the living room, it’s spotless. The bed is made for the first time in God knows how long. The clothes he’s not taking to rehab have been put away instead of left to hang out on the floor. His bag is on the foot of the bed. Looks like he’s ready to go, but where is he?

  I search for him everywhere in the house but don’t find him. He’s also not in the garden, and his van is still parked outside. I call his number but it goes straight to the mailbox.

  Confused, I enter my room and sink down onto the bed, staring into space. Just as I’m about to stand up, my hand touches a piece of paper that sticks out from underneath one of my pillows. I pull it out, wondering if it’s one of my students’ homework pages I’d forgotten somehow. I unfold it at the creases and start to read.

  A cold shower of dread trickles down my back as I allow each word to drop into my mind.

  Looks like you got what you want. I’m gone and you can have your life back. I hope you’re happy now. Have fun living with the guilt.

  Ryan

  My fingers part involuntarily. The note falls from them and onto my lap in slow motion. I stare at it but no longer see it. The words are blurred before my eyes.

  This has to be a joke. It has to be.

  I’m not even sure how to react to this new change of events.

  I know I should do something, get up and go looking for him, but I’m frozen in place, rooted to the spot. My heart gallops while my body has forgotten how to move.

  He’s only trying to scare me. Maybe he’s back to playing some of his sick games.

  But what if it’s true? What if the note means what I think
it actually says?

  The fear of that last question being true causes my adrenaline to spike, bringing my body back to life.

  Gulping down breaths to calm myself, I scramble through the house, searching every corner, shouting Ryan’s name until my throat feels raw. No answer. No wheelchair. No Ryan. Not even the smell of him.

  In a moment of desperation, and unsure of what else to do, I call the police, but they tell me I cannot file a missing person’s report until twenty-four hours have passed since Ryan has disappeared.

  “Please, help me. Something is wrong. I feel it. He left a note.” I tell the officer what the note says.

  “Ms. Wilson, calm down,” the husky-voiced police officer says. “His note tells me he left willingly. Unfortunately, there’s nothing we would be able to do in that case.”

  “What if he’s hurt? What if he did something to himself? He ... he tried it before.” I swallow hard. “Ryan hardly leaves the house.” I move to the window of the living room and glance outside. “His van is still here. Where would he go without his van?”

  “Maybe he didn’t go somewhere far.” The cop’s voice carries traces of boredom. “Call us again after twenty-four hours. For now, contact people he knows. Go to places he frequents. Or just wait. He might come back home.”

  “I don’t think he will. Don’t you get it? For all I know, my brother could be in a ditch somewhere.” My voice rises as I clench and unclench my hands. “What if all it takes are those twenty-four hours for it to be too late? Isn’t it your job to protect people from getting hurt?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s nothing I can do for you at this point. Call again in twenty-four hours.”

  Since I won’t be getting anywhere with him, I hang up the phone. I’d rather use the time to search for my brother instead of trying to reason with a police officer who is unwilling to help me.

  The next person I call is Thalia. Of course, she doesn’t pick up. She should be in class right now. I hang up and wander from one room to the next, even though I’ve already searched through them.

  “Where did you go, Ryan?” I can barely breathe as I call his name. I hold on to walls and doors for support because my knees are so weak they threaten to give way.

  I can’t do this alone. I call Dylan.

  “I need your help,” I say.

  “I’m in a meeting. Give me ten minutes. I’ll call you right back.”

  He calls back sooner. “Paige, are you okay? Why do you sound like that?”

  “He’s gone. He left a note.” I crumple to the floor. My hand clutches my chest.

  “What do you mean? Who’s gone?”

  “Ryan. My brother. He’s gone.”

  “He went to rehab by himself?”

  “No.” Tears scatter everywhere with a shake of my head. “He left a note. It sounds like ... a suicide note. I found it under my pillow.” It’s painful to repeat the words written on the piece of paper, but Dylan needs to know how serious this is.

  “Are you home?” His voice sounds rushed, as though he’s walking fast or even running.

  “Yes. I can’t find him.” I grapple for air but can’t get enough. “I need to find him, Dylan.”

  “Stay where you are. I’m coming over.”

  “The police won’t help. They want me to wait twenty-four hours before filing a missing person’s report. They think he’ll come back.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’ll give them a call.”

  After we end the phone call, even though Dylan told me to stay home, I can’t. I run out of the apartment and burst out onto the street, asking people on the sidewalk if they’ve seen him. I knock on the neighbors’ doors.

  Not one person I talk to has seen him.

  Where are you, Ryan?

  DYLAN ARRIVES TWENTY minutes after we talked, but it feels like an hour has passed.

  Next to him is a police officer with a widow’s peak. From the husky sound of his voice, I know he’s the man I talked to on the phone.

  “Ms. Wilson, I’m Officer Bruce Sawyer.” He stretches out his hand to shake mine, but I don’t take it. “I’m sorry about your brother’s disappearance.” He clears his throat and looks away. “We will do everything we can to find him.”

  I’m tempted to give him a piece of my mind for refusing to help me earlier, but there’s no time to waste. What matters is that Dylan got him to come here.

  Dylan pulls me into a hug and I hold onto him, tears flooding my eyes. “We need to find him. I want him back.”

  “And we will. We’ll do whatever it takes.” Officer Sawyer pulls out a notepad from his breast pocket as I escort both him and Dylan into the living room.

  Dylan whispers that he’s going to get me a glass of water. I’m about to tell him where the kitchen is, since he’s never been inside my apartment before, but he tells me he already knows. He must have seen it when we walked past on our way to the living room.

  He leaves me with the cop, who takes a seat and starts asking questions. I settle on one end of the couch.

  “Does your brother have any friends?”

  “None that I know of.” I bite my bottom lip. “But for a few weeks now, I kind of got the feeling he was seeing someone, but he never admitted it.”

  I stand up from the couch and move to the window, staring out, but seeing nothing.

  “So you don’t know this supposed friend’s name or what she looks like?”

  I shake my head and wrap my arms around myself.

  Sounds of glasses clinking and water rushing out of the faucet drift in from the kitchen.

  Officer Sawyer writes something on his notepad then looks back up. “And you’re sure there’s no one else he sees often.”

  “No. He kept to himself most of the time. And he didn’t leave the apartment often unless he had doctors’ appointments.”

  Officer Sawyer leans back and crosses his arms. “Tell me a little more about your brother, anything I should know that might help us find him.”

  Before I get started, Dylan walks through the door and hands me my water. I take a sip and hold the glass a little too tight. Then I launch into my story, telling the cop everything. The more he knows, the better he’ll be able to help.

  After I finish the story, he whistles and swipes a hand across his forehead.

  “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” Dylan comes to sling an arm around my shoulders.

  “I didn’t want you to think he was dangerous.”

  “He sounds pretty dangerous to me.” The officer scribbles for a long time in his notepad.

  “He’s my brother.” I return to the couch and twist my body to face the officer. “Please, find him.”

  “We’ll do our best, Ms. Wilson.” Officer Sawyer rises. “If you think of anything else, please call.” He hands me a card with his name on it. “Every piece of information is important. We’ll call you if we find anything.”

  “If you find him, you mean?”

  He clears his throat. “Yes, if we find him ... or anything that might point to his whereabouts.” He pushes his notepad into his pocket. “Tell me one thing, when was the last time you saw him?”

  “This morning. He seemed fine. He was kind to me. I told him I’d be home by twelve so we could have lunch together before he goes to rehab.”

  “Did you try to call him?”

  I run my hands up and down my arms. “Yes, several times. His phone was switched off. He never switches his phone off. Ever.”

  “Okay.” Officer Sawyer moves to the door. “We’ll try to find him.”

  When the officer leaves, I fall into Dylan’s arms. “I don’t want to lose him, Dylan.”

  He places a hand on my head, sweeps his palm over my hair. But he doesn’t say anything, and I know why. He’s probably thinking of the things I said about Ryan tormenting me, but he doesn’t want to share his thoughts with me in case he hurts my feelings.

  CHAPTER 19

  Twenty-four hours after Ryan’s disappearance, I
’m sitting in the kitchen in front of a plate with cold scrambled eggs and toast. I decide to call the police station.

  I’m immediately transferred to Officer Sawyer.

  “I’m afraid we still don’t have any good news for you, Ms. Wilson. But I can assure you we’re doing everything we can to find him. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know something.”

  “Thank you.” I hang up and drop my aching head into my hands. I’ve barely slept all night, missing the sound of the loud TV and the squeak of Ryan’s wheelchair when he moved around the house. But the night was quiet, disturbed only by the sounds of my sobbing.

  I push away the food and get to my feet. A wave of dizziness washes over me and I grab the edge of the table. I close my eyes for a moment, squeezing out the remaining tears from the corners.

  Once strength returns to my legs, I barge out of the kitchen and throw open the door to Ryan’s room—the fifth time this morning.

  Murmuring his name, I turn his belongings upside down, yanking out drawers only to slam them shut again.

  I need closure, something to help my heart settle. I hate to believe he took his own life, but if he did, I’d still like for a chance to be able to say goodbye. It kills me to think I wanted him out of my life, that I wanted him gone. Now he is.

  There were times I hated him for what he did to me, for putting me through hell, but right now I’d do anything to have it all back—the good and bad.

  After searching the closet and dresser and finding nothing, I flip over his mattress, expecting to find nothing, as well. But between the bars that support the mattress, I spot a dark blue shoebox. It’s not unusual for a person to keep a shoebox under the bed, but the way it’s tucked into a far corner looks deliberate.

  Holding my breath, I push the mattress support aside and pick up the box. My knees next to the bed, I lift the lid. My eyes widen.

  I’m not sure what I expected to see, but I didn’t expect to see money. Not just money, but stacks of hundred-dollar bills, lined up next to each other, filling the box completely. Thousands of dollars.

  I trace the money with my fingertips.