by Brent Runyon
“Oh, I don't know, let me think about it.”
We're having a family therapy session in my room. Mom and Dad are here. Dr. Foust is here. Dr. Dickhead and Dr. Prickhead are here. After this therapy session, I have a weekend pass to go home for the first time.
Foust starts, “It's nice to see you all again. Mr. and Mrs. Runyon, as you know, I'm leaving the hospital, and today is my last official day on Brent's case. Dr. Sheslow and Dr. Miles have already seen Brent a couple of times, and I just wanted the opportunity to introduce you to them and to wish you all well on the road to recovery. I know it'll be difficult, but I'm sure you'll all make it through. It's been a pleasure working with all of you.”
My parents thank him and he gets up and leaves the room. That's it. I guess he's gone. Now it's just me and them.
Dr. Sheslow nods at my mom and dad and they start talking. “Brent,” says my mom, “we've been in contact with your new doctors and we've been talking about what it means to be going home. We all understand that it's a big step for you, and we want you to be as happy and as comfortable as possible. . . .”
Now my dad starts talking. “Brent, we talked with the doctors and we all agreed that before you came home, we should look through your room and make sure everything is safe.”
“We found some things in your room, honey, that we need to ask you about.” God, I hope they didn't find the porno.
“What?”
Mom says, “We need to know what some of the things in your room are.”
“You searched my room?”
She nods.
“Why the fuck did you do that?”
“We talked to the doctors and decided that it was necessary.”
“What?”
Dad says, “Brent, we found a knife under your bed.”
“So?”
“And a piece of paper with the word Death written on it.”
“So?”
Now Mom starts again. “And we talked to some of your friends at school, honey, about the religion that you created. The Ace of Spades, I think it's called.”
“So?”
“And we need to know, honey. Brent, are you involved with the occult?”
“What?”
Dad says, “Are you involved with the occult?”
“What's that?”
Mom says, “The occult. Witchcraft and Satan worship. We need to know if you were involved with those sorts of things.”
“What?”
“We know you were worshiping the Ace of Spades and some of your friends said you were into devil worship, and we need to know what you were involved in.”
“This is stupid. What are you talking about?”
Dad says, “Brent, just tell us.”
“I don't know what to tell you.”
Mom says, “Tell us what you were doing.”
“I don't know what you're talking about!”
“Tell us, honey.”
“We need to know.”
“I don't know!”
“Tell us!”
“I don't know what to tell you. You're asking me all the wrong questions.”
Mom yells, “What are the right questions?”
Jesus, who do these people think I am? Some kind of Satan worshiper? Jesus, leave me alone. I can't help myself, I'm crying, I'm crying. I can't keep it in, they're asking me all the wrong questions. They know nothing about me. Nothing at all.
I'm standing in the closet with my head in the shirts. I can't stop crying. I can't stop.
“You're asking me all the wrong questions. You're asking me all the wrong questions.” Why don't they love me? Why don't they take care of me? Why don't they act like I'm their son? The tears are all over my face and I can taste them in my mouth, like salt water, but I can't stop crying. I can't stop crying. I can't believe how little they know me.
Finally they stop asking me questions, and I go back to my bed and lie down.
Help, I need somebody,
Help, not just anybody,
Help, you know I need someone, help.
The doctors are gone. Mom and Dad are the only ones here. I'm still crying. I wonder if they still love me. I wonder if they still want me to come home.
“Brenner.”
I can't say anything.
“Do you still want to come home this weekend?”
Yes, yes, I do, yes. “Sure.”
“Okay, let's get your things together and get out of here.”
“Okay.”
My bag is already packed and we're out the door. I pass by Mark Miles in the hallway. I can't believe they did that to me right before I go home for the first time.
“Have a good weekend, Brent.”
“Fuck you,” I say under my breath, “go fuck yourself.”
I wonder who I'll see when I go home. Mom told me that everyone knows I'm coming home, but she told them not to bother me too much because I'll be tired.
I can't wait to see Rusty. Jumping up and kissing my face.
We pass a sign that says Washington, D.C. I never thought I'd be happy to see one of those. God, it's kind of hot in here. It's just so weirdly hot all of a sudden. The sun is coming in my window. That must be why I'm feeling so hot. That must be why.
The doctors said if I get my scars in the sunlight, they'll turn purple and stay that way. I put the sun visor down and lean into the middle of the car. Christ, you know, it's not like I can get out of the sun. I mean, it's daytime. I close my eyes and look at the orange light through my eyelids.
Next exit, Falls Church. Falls Church. Slow down. There's the overpass my friends and I used to walk over on our way to the ball field. My house is just down that road. I always wanted to climb out from the overpass and stand on that exit sign with the lights shining up in my face and the cars rushing under my feet and smoke a cigarette.
We're getting off the exit. We're turning right. When we first moved here, I thought it was False Church.
There's the bike trail that goes all the way to D.C. There's the pool I used to swim in during the summer. Oh, here's my favorite part, the dip in the road that makes your stomach go up into your mouth. I'm glad Dad's driving because he always goes faster than Mom. There's where I went to elementary school. Shrevewood Elementary. I played Nerf football right there, every day during recess. I was a pretty good wide receiver. Not great, but I was pretty good. I kind of wish I'd played real football.
God, I remember the time the elementary school was having a contest where you had to guess how many jellybeans were in this giant jar. And if you guessed it, you would win a deluxe Lego set. And Craig decided to break into the school and count the jellybeans so he could win the prize. He really did get into the school. He just couldn't break into the case with the jellybeans. He must have set off an alarm because I remember hearing the sirens from our yard. And then the cops brought him home.
There's the house. God, there it is. It looks exactly the same. With the basketball hoop outside and the split rail fence with chicken wire all the way around so the dog can't get out. The cream-colored aluminum siding and the carport and the bay window and the brick. There's the front door. That's the door they wheeled me out of. That's not the door we usually use. We usually go through the carport.
Dad undoes the latch of the big wooden gate for me and opens it. Just a few steps up to the door. Rusty's jumping on the other side of the glass. Mom cuts in front of me and grabs her by the collar so she doesn't scratch me.
Rusty, Rusty! She wants me to pet her belly. Oh, I love to rub your belly, Rusty. You're a cute dog. Yes, you are. Yes, you are.
Rusty keeps getting up off the floor and running around the house like a crazy dog and then coming back and lying on the floor in front of me, just like she used to when we'd come home from vacation.
I was lying over there on the rug when the fireman came to get me. I was lying right there.
There's the microwave. I saw my reflection in the microwave. Mom leads me downstairs to the family room so I c
an watch TV. They got a new La-Z-Boy, much nicer than the old one. In the old days, only Dad was allowed to sit in it, but now it's all mine. Mom brings me a Snickers ice cream bar that is so fucking good I can hardly believe it and a glass of milk to drink while I sit here and watch TV.
Isn't it weird how you can live in a place and never notice the specific smell that it has, and then you go away and come back and you notice that the smell is really strong? That's what I noticed when I came in. It smells like spaghetti and meat sauce, and wet dog, and chicken potpie, and Mom's perfume.
God, this is fun. This is so much nicer than I ever thought it would be. It's so nice to be home. It's so nice to be home.
It's nighttime. Mom and Dad went to bed about an hour ago. They asked if I wanted help going to bed, but I said no. I can do it. I've been sitting in this chair for about six hours, and I think it's just about time to go upstairs to bed. The only thing is, I'm kind of not sure about going back up there, I mean, when I think about it. I guess I just can't think about it.
I used to sit here, in this exact spot, and watch that show Twin Peaks and get really scared because the evil spirit Bob, this really creepy-looking guy with long greasy hair and crazy eyes, would take over people's bodies and make them do things that they would never otherwise do. He was the one who took over Laura Palmer's dad and made him kill her.
When I'd go up to my room after watching that show, sometimes I'd see Bob crouching on the other side of the window, getting ready to come get me. I really could see him. He'd be right there, with just his eyes peeking over the ledge, and then I'd imagine him opening the door and running after me, like an animal. I'd get in bed and hide under my covers. I'd get so scared.
Sometimes I still think about Bob, and to be honest, I'm still a little scared when I think about him staring over the window ledge at me.
I turn off the TV with the remote and stand up out of the La-Z-Boy. I'm like Grandma trying to get out of this thing. Shit, how do you get the footrest to go down? Oh, I just had to push the handle.
Seven steps up to the main level and then turn right and seven more steps to my room. Is this carpet new? It looks like a different carpet. When Jake used to sleep over, we'd pile all the couch cushions at the bottom of the stairs and jump off the top step onto the pile. That was fun until somebody hit their head on the ceiling.
Okay, I'm at the top of the stairs. I'm there. I don't even have to look in the bathroom. I don't even have to glance in there. Eyes on the ground. Shit, my hands are shaking. They shouldn't be shaking. Okay, there it is. There's the bathroom. I'm not going to look. Oh shit, I looked. Wait, it doesn't look that weird, though. It doesn't. There's nothing black or burnt. And there's a new shower curtain. That's good. I'm glad there's nothing weird in there. I mean, I didn't really expect that there would be, but I sort of expected that there would be. It's kind of weird that there's nothing weird. I'm just going to go into my room and close the door now.
Okay. This feels better. This is nice, being back in my room. Someone's obviously been coming in to clean up the place, but all my posters are still up. There are my favorites, the two posters of the same blond in the little pink top and panties, one taken from the front and one from the back. She's so beautiful. I feel like I can almost slip my hand inside her shirt.
I used to sit in here and put my headphones on and listen at full blast. I'd jump around the room, moving my mouth to the words and making faces like I was screaming them, but I wouldn't make a sound. Sometimes Mom and Dad would yell at me for jumping so much.
The twin beds are still pushed together, the way that I left them. Craig used to sleep in that one. I've got the same black bedspreads my mom got me back when my favorite color was black and I wanted to paint the whole room black.
One cool thing about this room is the closet. I've got this little cubbyhole in my closet, hidden behind one of the sliding doors. When I was younger, my friends and I would use it as a hiding place during hide-and-seek, but when I got older, I used to sit in there and think about how terrible my life was.
The bathroom is right there. Right there, through that wall. That's where it was. That's where it happened.
The thing about being here, the strange thing about being here, is that I hardly ever think about what happened. I mean, I'm sleeping in the room right next to where everything happened, but I'm not even thinking about it.
Like, right now, I'm not thinking about what it was like going in there and what the gasoline smelled like and what the fire felt like. You would think I would be thinking about those things, but I'm not.
Maybe I did it because I hit my head when I was six. Or maybe because my parents named me Brent, which sounds like burnt. Or maybe because of all the school stuff. Or maybe I was just depressed.
Mom and Dad said I could use their bathroom while I'm home, and at first I said that I didn't want to because I'm not a baby, but then I thought about it, and I thought it was a good idea.
Their room is right across the hall from mine, and their bathroom isn't too much farther.
But I'm not going to take a shower now. I'll take a shower when I get up. I just have to go to sleep first.
I get under the covers. I can't really remember why I wanted to paint my whole room black.
There's too much to think about. Too much to think about, at night, here in this room.
A car comes down the street and the headlights show up on the wall across the room. The light moves down the wall toward my head and disappears again. I wonder where light goes when it's not here. I mean, I know that darkness is the absence of light, but where does the light go when it's not here? And how do you know if it'll ever come back?
I wake up and it's already ten-thirty. I can't believe I slept this late. I get up and walk across the hall to my parents' room. I can hear them downstairs making breakfast. Coffee cake. I love that. I love being able to smell breakfast when I wake up.
I unzip my Jobst garments and wiggle out of my gloves. I turn on the shower and sit on the toilet while I wait for the water to get warm. This scar on my left thigh is still so thick. I can't feel anything through it. It feels like the skin of that dead shark we found in Florida a couple of years ago, except that it's not cold and it doesn't smell as bad.
Actually, my thigh kind of looks like a shark took a bite out of me right there. I wonder if that's what I should say when people ask me about it.
Hey, kid, what happened to you?
Shark attack.
Oh shit. Where did that happen?
At home, in my bathroom.
I get into the shower. I like my parents' bathroom, it smells so much like them, with all the shell-shaped soaps and the Pert Plus shampoo. Smells like home.
They've also got one of those fancy showerheads that lets you adjust the water to different speeds to massage your neck. I suck the water into my mouth and spit it out again.
I get out of the shower. The whole room is completely filled with steam. I can't even see myself in the mirror. I write, I love you Mom and Dad, on the mirror with my finger.
I wrap a towel around my waist and walk out into their bedroom. I wonder if I should ask for a new bathrobe for Christmas.
I open the bedroom door and yell downstairs, “Hey, Mom! I'm ready!” Did that sound mean? I didn't mean it to sound that way.
She comes right up the stairs. I don't know what this is going to be like. We agreed that she'd help me with this, but it's not exactly her area of expertise.
I lie facedown on their bed and wait for her to get her act together. She gets the jar of Eucerin cream from the bathroom and sets it next to my leg. She says, “So, honey, what am I supposed to do?”
“Just put some cream on the back of my legs and rub it in.”
“Like this?” She dabs the tiniest little bit on my calf. It's cold. “Is that too cold?”
“No. It doesn't matter.”
“I can try and warm it up on my hands first.”
“No, it doesn't m
atter. I'm used to it.”
She rubs a little into my calf with the palm of her hand, like she's spreading suntan lotion.
“Not like that.”
“Like how, then?”
“Harder. It's supposed to be a massage.”
“Like this?” She uses her thumbs this time and pushes a little on my calf.
“Harder.” She tries again, but she's not really getting the point. “Mom, you can do it harder.”
“I know, but I don't want to hurt you.”
“You can't hurt me, Mom.”
“Okay.” I can tell she's getting frustrated, but I don't really know what to do about it. She's not doing it right.
“Mom, like this.” I show her how to hold her hands so her thumbs have a lot of strength. “It's supposed to be hard. Like that.”
She tries again, but she's still not getting it. I guess it doesn't really matter. At least I'm getting some cream on my skin, so it won't be dry.
When she's done with my legs and back, I sit up and ask her to get my clean Jobst garments from my room. She's never done this before either, and I think it's going to be harder than the cream.
She says, “What do you want me to do?”
“Just hold them so I can get my foot into it.” She sits down on the floor and holds the foot open. I just realized these are like the pajamas I used to wear with the feet. Except these don't have toes and they're skintight and they have zippers up the outside.
I get one foot in and pull the elastic up. Now the other foot. My skin is so sticky from the cream it's hard to get my feet in.
She says, “What do I do now?”
“Zip them up.” She tries to get ahold of the zipper, but because the foot's not on exactly right, it starts to twist. “You're getting the zipper turned.”
“Sorry.” She tries to smile.
“It's okay.” I guess it's understandable because she's never done this before, but she has no idea what she's doing.
Finally I'm dressed and I go downstairs to have some breakfast.
Right in the middle of my coffee cake, Mom calls from upstairs, “Brent?” Oh shit. Her voice sounds sharp, like it does when I'm in trouble.