The Homecoming

by Stacie Ramey

  “I want to see you in my office next week. Same time. And until then, you gotta promise me something.”

  “I know. Don’t smoke.”

  “Yeah. That. But also, you can’t let ghost images get to you. Getting the traces out of your system isn’t just about the drugs. You get me?”

  The tiny crack in his voice tells me the truth. No one gets over ghosts completely.

  • • •

  I’m sitting in Steve’s office, and both of us are silent. He’s waiting for me to say something he can build his session on. I’m just too damned beaten to feed him anything.

  Finally, he says, “You had a rough week.”

  “Yup.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “Nope.”

  He laughs good-heartedly. “We haven’t had one of these sessions in a long time.”

  I think about all the things I don’t want to say in here.

  “Let’s talk about the accident.”

  “My favorite subject.”

  Steve knows this isn’t going to happen, but he’s going to push it anyway. “You don’t have to answer. I just want you to sit back and remember.”

  “Why the fuck would I want to do that?”

  “Because you keep walking around, picking up rocks. At first, it’s no big deal. You’re a strong guy. It’s just one rock. Besides, maybe you deserve it. You know?”

  This is way too close for comfort. “You’re crazy, man.”

  “But then, all of a sudden, you’ve got a handful of rocks, and they weigh a ton, and you’re tired from carrying them, and someone offers you something you really want…”

  “Like a Ferrari? Yeah. You know me.” I am still trying to be all smart-ass, but I can tell my voice isn’t selling it like I should.

  “The thing is you have to let go of the rocks to get that thing you want.”

  “Whatever.” I lean back in the couch, cover my eyes, and try to put on my armor.

  “You have to decide—do you want the rocks or do you want love? Because you have to give up one to get the other. You have to let go.”

  The words stay with me, and he’s right. As hard as I’ve tried to push these images out of my life, they’ve stayed. But I’m no way near ready to let go, so instead of seeing the day of the accident, I remember Leah when we ditched classes and went to Cape Cod.

  The beach was deserted, but she led me out to the sand. She stripped off her boots, rolled up her pants, and stood at the edge of the rocks. Her hair was flying around her, and it was so cold. I wanted to call her back. I wanted to go home, but she was gorgeous and alive, standing there.

  I wrapped her in a blanket and walked her back to my Jeep.

  She was shivering. I held her to me, and she snuggled into my warmth. Like she needed that, and I needed it too. To be worth something to someone.

  She said, “We’re like the water, beating ourselves against the rocks, aren’t we?”

  I nodded. “I guess so.”

  “Why don’t we stop?”

  “I will if you will,” I said.

  She cried as I held her. I tried so hard not to let her throw herself against the rocks. I tried so hard to protect her.

  Now, as Steve talks, her words come to me. Can I walk out into the water? If I say we are eternal, will you let me go?

  Steve notices I’m gone. “You with me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were you remembering Ryan?”

  “No. Leah.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “It felt good to be able to take care of her.”

  “Uh-huh.” Steve leans forward, his posture telling me to keep going.

  “That’s it.”

  “You feel it’s your job to take care of people. You want to take care of Livy.”

  “She’s just a kid.”

  “You’re very good to her.”

  “She didn’t deserve any of this.”

  “Do you think you deserve any of this?”

  I stare at the floor. Steve knows better than to ask that question. He takes in my silence and then comes at me again. “You take care of your Mom too.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You do. You worry that she’s sick. You’ve told me that.”

  “OK, so I’m not a total asshole.”

  “Not even a partial asshole.”

  “Don’t take everything away from me.”

  “Seriously though. You don’t have to save everyone.”

  “Ha! As if I could save anyone. You know my track record. It’s, like, zero and…”

  “It’s OK to be mad at your mother. She didn’t protect Ryan. Then when he was hurt, she didn’t protect you and Livy. You feel she left you behind.”

  She did leave me behind. Us. That day Ryan was hurt.

  I try not to remember, but I can’t help the image that comes to me. There was blood on the street. All the neighbors were outside. Mom was screaming. Screaming. Mrs. Goldman, one of our old neighbors, bent next to her. Everyone else turned away, their eyes searching for the ambulance, I guess. It took forever to come. Someone put a blanket on Ryan. When the ambulance finally came and loaded Ryan in the back, Mom went with him. She never looked back to see if Livy and I were OK. She just went with him. And I knew that day that I was invisible to her, because I ruined my brother.

  “The trick is to know which rock to let go of and which one to keep,” Steve says, but I’m not really listening anymore. Mostly, I’m thinking about what Mike Wexler said. Afterimages. Ghosts. It’s hard to know which ones are real and which ones are tricks.

  Chapter 23

  When I get home, I find Mom sitting in the kitchen on her stool, reading the newspaper, Ryan in the TV room, watching one of his programs. She’s probably the last person I want to see right now, my aggravation meter stuck at seriously pissed. The feeling of finally having food in my stomach has been replaced with a heavier one, caused by having to bear my soul to both Mike Wexler and Steve in one day. Not good.

  “John,” she starts. “Your guidance counselor called. I know you’ve switched your schedule, and I want to talk with you about that.”

  “Nothing to say.” I grab a Coke out of the fridge.

  “I know you’re mad we missed your thing, but we will be at semis.”

  So I see their conversation included my medaling in the drawing round. The one she missed. My thing. Excellent. Some of my calm returns when she says that, because I’m about to burst her hopeful bubble. “I’m out of the competition.”

  Her face goes even paler. “John, you can’t. This could be your future. Your teacher says…”

  “Fuck my future. My future is going to be what it was always going to be. Me. As far away from you as possible.”

  Mom sits there, totally silent for one horrible moment. She brings her hand to her face, then clasps her hands. Her mouth looks like it’s trying to talk, but her voice has left her. And I’m glad. I’ve finally stunned Lydia Strickland speechless. Then I go up to my room where I can be alone. Finally.

  Eventually, Mom calls up the stairs that she’s taking Ryan to therapy. “Can you get Livy at the bus?”

  “Yeah,” I call down.

  My phone vibrates. Pete. I can deliver to you, man. When and where.

  Now. At the park on Fourth Street?

  See you in thirty minutes.

  I think of Mike Wexler asking me not to smoke. To let my ghosts go. I reason with myself that buying the weed doesn’t mean I’m going to smoke it. Besides, the timing is lining up perfectly. Like the universe is giving me this great big gift. Then there’s this other thought buried underneath all of them. I’ve got my Jeep. I’ve got a ton of money. Now a little weed to send me on my way. Maybe California dreaming doesn’t have to be just a dream.

&nbs
p; • • •

  I’m heading to the park when Mom calls. I hit ignore. She probably wants help getting Ryan in the van. I think about Steve saying I always want to take care of her. Like I tried to take care of Leah. Like I wanted to take care of Emily. Like I wanted Mom to take care of me. The image of her getting into the ambulance, without even looking back for Livy and me, comes screaming back to me.

  Maia Cetus wakes up and growls, Let her call someone else.

  Mom calls again. And again. Each time, I hit ignore, I feel better. Like how I know I’ll feel better when I can finally smoke this weed. I meet with Pete, get my stuff, then wait for Livy’s bus, which finally comes. My little sister bounds down the steps.

  “Don’t even ask about my day,” she starts, her hands gesturing wildly. “For one thing, Gaby is the biggest jerk. I mean it. She told Dennis Hopkins I’m into him.”

  I laugh.

  She puts her face in front of mine. “Into him, into him.”

  “Oh. That makes a huge difference.”

  “So I shut her up…”

  It’s such a warm day for the end of September, and I guess the ice cream truck feels like it wants to get one more route in before it’s way too cold for anyone to consider.

  “You want some?”

  “Definitely.”

  I flag the guy down.

  “Dove bar,” Livy says.

  The guy looks to me for confirmation. “Give her what she wants.”

  “And for you?”

  “Drumstick.”

  A memory hits me. Mom buying Ryan and me ice cream from the ice cream truck. Livy was just a baby. A week before Ryan’s accident. He pushed forward. Ordered first. “Lemon ice.”

  I got an ice cream sandwich.

  He pushed ahead of me. Just a little and not so obvious, but it was how he was. He always wanted me to know the order of things in our house. He was first. I was second. It would never change. But now, I’m watching these two brothers battle it out in front of me, and it seems like a silly thing to be worked up about. I decide I’m going to try to chill a little. Remembering the bad all the time can’t be good.

  Livy eats her Dove bar, her cute mouth curved around the chocolate part, breaking bits of it off, then her lips closing around it like a treasure. “They’re coming home.” She points.

  I see Mom’s van round the curve.

  “Here comes trouble,” I mutter, the same thing Ryan used to say about me all the time in front of his friends. Then they’d laugh at me, and I’d feel so small, but then the next moment, he’d sling his arm around me and say, Hey, be nice to my little brother. Only one who can give him shit is me.

  “Come on, Livy. Let’s go.”

  We start walking toward our house. A screeching noise makes us turn around. Mom’s van skids. I see it happen, and my hands go out as if I could help her. Livy shrieks. Both of us are running. Trying to get to them. Mom goes off the road and crashes into a tree.

  • • •

  Livy screams, and we run to the van, our ice creams hitting the ground as we charge forward.

  Blood drips on the ground in front of me, and I know I must have imagined that, because we aren’t close enough to have gotten hurt. Then I realize it’s Livy’s blood. She must have bit her lip.

  I go to the van. The front of the van is buckled, and the air bags are deployed on both sides. There’s blood. I can see blood, and I don’t know what to do. The front door is bunched, and I can’t get it open. Mom’s knocked out, and she doesn’t come to as I pull on the door. I hear sirens and footsteps. One of our neighbors, a guy I’ve seen drive to work and back, is pulling on my arm.

  “Let me help you,” he says.

  Together, we pull and pull.

  The sirens get closer. We pull and pull, and nothing happens.

  “Is it just your mom in the van?” the guy asks.

  “Oh my God, Ryan.” I cup my hands and try to look inside the van, but it’s just a wreck of stuff. Nothing makes sense. There are shopping bags and clothes and part of his wheelchair in the body of the van. But where’s Ryan? I try to open the side door to find him, but a paramedic hits me on the shoulder.

  “Back up.”

  I almost punch him. The adrenaline’s got me so crazy. I try to speak, but my throat is closed. My neighbor says, “Disabled brother in the back,” to another paramedic, who nods. The firemen push me back. They’ve got a tool to open the van.

  I hear steps behind me. I don’t turn to see who it is. Someone grabs my arm.

  “John, it’s me.” Emily moves me away, and I’ve got no idea why when all I want to do is go to them. Help them. Save them. “Sh. Sh. It’s OK.” We stay on the edge, watching.

  They unload Mom and put her on a stretcher. I work my way to her side.

  “Are you OK, Mom?”

  She’s got an oxygen mask covering her face, and her eyes are searching, searching. I hold her hand. “You’re going to be all right.”

  “Ryan?”

  “Sh, Mom, it’s OK. Sh.”

  She closes her eyes, and they load her on the ambulance.

  “We’re taking her to University Hospital.”

  I nod. Or I think I do. Nothing seems real. None of this feels real. My body is stuck in this quicksand that’s around me, and I’m sinking, sinking.

  The ambulance leaves, siren blaring. I want to reach my hand out to touch the lights. I need something to make this real.

  A police officer asks me, “Are you her son?”

  That’s when I see the second stretcher. Ryan’s stretcher.

  I stumble forward. Another officer grabs my arm. “Let’s go over here. Take a seat.”

  There’s a blanket around me, which is good, because I feel so cold. The coldest I’ve ever felt.

  They push my brother by me. His eyes are open, and his face is all cut up.

  “Good thing he had this helmet on,” one of the attendants says.

  They put him in the ambulance and turn on the siren, and that feels wrong, like I don’t want them to take my brother away from me.

  The police officer tries to ask me questions, but Emily’s mom waits. “We have to get in touch with their father. Get them to the hospital.” She takes us in the house, me and Livy. The same house we went into when Ryan was hit in our driveway years ago. But this time, instead of the old woman who lived there, it’s Emily’s family who does.

  “Do you have your dad’s number?” she asks me.

  I’m frozen. Numb. Emily points to my pocket where I have my cell. I give it to her mom. Livy comes and sits next to me at the kitchen table, and I lean on my arms. Livy puts her head against my shoulder. I hear Emily’s mom speaking with my father, and I don’t care. I just don’t care.

  • • •

  Dad picks us up and takes us to the hospital. “I got her a private room,” Dad says as if that is a huge accomplishment and makes him a great person. “They said she’s going to be OK. Just a little banged up.”

  I put my arm around Livy. We find her room, number 224. Dad goes in first. Mom looks more than just a little banged up. She’s hooked up to a ton of tubes and monitors. Her face is really red, and one side looks like it’s been burned.

  She puts her hand out. Livy goes to her. Dad and I stand back.

  “She can’t talk,” a nurse who is writing on a clipboard says. “The air bag hit her in the throat. She must have been turning around when she hit. She’s got whiplash, and her face is burned from the air bag. That’s normal.”

  Livy holds Mom’s hand. “Are you OK, Mom?”

  She nods. “Ryan?” she whispers.

  I’m pissed no one told her.

  “He’s going to be fine. There’s no stopping that kid, Lydia.” Dad holds her hand. “Just a few scrapes. I’m taking him home today.”

  The nurs
e comes back a few minutes later with a needle. “She needs to rest. The results came back from the X-rays. You have pneumonia. Probably why you passed out.”

  Dad nods. The nurse puts the needle in her IV line and releases the fluid that makes Mom’s eyes close.

  Dad gives me the keys. “Take Livy home and get a pizza or something.”

  “I want to see Ryan,” Livy says.

  “We’ll stop on our way out.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she says.

  And for this moment, I actually am too.

  • • •

  There’s no way to walk into this hospital room and not go back to the first accident. This time, he’s in a room with four other kids, and he’s not connected to tubes. He’s sleeping, and I don’t want to wake him, so we stop the nurse.

  “They gave him something to help him sleep, but he’s fine. They just got all the tests back, and he just had a few scrapes. Very lucky considering he wasn’t in his seat belt.”

  I nod. “He hated his car seat. Must have busted out.”

  She gives me a weird look but says, “Try not to wake him. We want him to sleep through the night.”

  “I thought he was going home today.”

  “They decided to keep him for a few days. Give him some good nutrition and IV meds. Antibiotics. Make sure he’s good before we release him.”

  “Oh. That’s probably good. Come on, Liv.” I lead her out of the room. “We’ll meet Dad downstairs.”

  Sitting in the chairs in the lobby, Livy sipping her Starbucks, mocha Frappuccino, I see Emily come in. I should probably be happy she’s here, but I can’t forget how a few days ago, she wouldn’t even take my calls.

  “Hey,” she says, her eyes skating from my hands to my face, then back, like she’s trying to decipher my body’s code to figure out how I’m feeling. How I’m feeling is done. With everything here. With Ryan. And Mom. And me. And all of the stupid effing memories that don’t change a thing. Like I’m a million pieces of me. Like if a wind blew into this room, I could be swept up in the dust of the pain I’ve caused, and that would be good.

  Livy wraps her arms around Emily. I hear Livy’s little sobs, and I know I’m being an ass. I know this, but I can’t stop. “Sh. It’s OK,” Emily whispers into my little sister’s head.