by Bradon Nave
Her mannerisms and shrew-like features had Bishop wanting to tell her to piss-off. Her eyes were overly aggressive and her poise intrusive from five feet away.
“Would you call what your brother did, and the pain that he has caused you, a selfish act?”
“What?” Heart rate accelerating, Bishop felt his blood pulsate under the skin of his neck. “My brother wasn’t selfish.”
“Understandable, but the act, Bishop…the act of suicide…would you call that selfish?”
The words leapt from his mouth before his brain could saddle or even evaluate them. “If the Board of Psychiatry and the medical community in general don’t completely understand depression, why would I? Why would you? Why was it selfish? I don’t know why he did what he did and I’ll never have the opportunity to ask him but the last thing I want you reporting is that I think my brother is selfish.”
“Emotion…good. So, do you condone what he did?”
“Of course not…I don’t understand it so I can’t judge it and neither can anyone else. It’s not about them and if they say it is then they’re the ones that are selfish.”
“Indeed, Bishop. Tell me, if you could go back to that night, what would you have done differently? Would you have begged, or possibly—”
“I did beg!” Bishop’s nerves felt afire—blistering beneath her interrogation. “I…I did beg him.”
“I’m sure. Bishop, would you say suicide is an epidemic in America? Would you say it’s reached proportions that require major intervention?”
“What? If…if only one person takes their life then I think it should require major intervention. If someone’s that sad…there’s more to it than the end. It’s more than our suffering. I wish people could see that part.”
“That part? Expand on that.”
“Everyone focuses on how it affects them and how selfish they were and they fail to remember that their friends or family members that jump, hang themselves, down a month’s worth of meds, or blow their brains out, didn’t do it because they were happy. They were sad. That’s what we should focus on. Why are we so sad? That’s the epidemic…the suicide is just a tragic way to escape it.”
“Excellent point, Bishop. It seems as though you’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
“Um, yeah, my brother killed himself. I’ve given it a bit of thought.”
“I’m sure, Bishop. What would you like us to know about Nathan?”
So much—too much. Nathan was so much more than a chemical imbalance…so much more than what took him. So much more than a statistic. “Just that he was the best brother a guy could ask for…he was my best friend and a hero.” Losing his words—nearly his voice, Bishop’s eye’s began to dampen with despair.
“A hero?” Melony’s condescending tone was an evil nail on a vicious chalkboard.
“Yes…a hero. He saved five lives by donating.”
“Organ donation?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. He was a registered donor. Bishop, have you met any of the organ recipients?”
“Um…nah. We got a letter from the man who got his left kidney. We’re supposed to meet him pretty soon.”
“You said five people?”
“Yeah, his heart, lungs, liver, and both kidneys all went to save other people’s lives.”
“And you’ve yet to meet them?”
“Not yet. We learned his lungs and liver went to local people from around here…but us finding out was a slip up.”
“You’re not privileged to that information?”
“Nope.”
“Tell me, Bishop, does it anger you that your brother gave this ultimate gift of life, and only one of its receivers has stepped forward to offer thanks.”
Her scowl and predatory gaze was no longer intimidating. Along with her questions—all she was offering was annoyance at this point.
“No. I have no idea what it’s like to be in their position. How…how do you thank someone for something like that?”
“So you don’t find it selfish—”
“No, I don’t think they’re selfish, I don’t think Nathan was selfish and I don’t think I want to talk about it anymore.”
“Just a few more questions, Bishop.”
“You heard my boy. There will be no more questions.” The scene fell solemn as the attention was turned to Bishop’s mother, standing in doorway, eyeing Melony like an angry lioness ready to kill for her cub.
“Oh, hello there. Do you have anything to add, Constance?” Standing to greet the woman, Melony adjusted her skirt and walked to Bishop’s mom. “I would—”
“You’re leaving.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You’ve upset my son. I won’t ask politely again.”
Stunned, seemingly appalled, Melony flushed red—her jaw agape and her nostrils flared, she turned from Constance and motioned the camera boy to pack it up. “He agreed to the interview. Just saying.”
“I’m sure he did.” Constance stepped into the living room, her gaze set on Melony—her tone soft yet stern. “All’s well until you upset my boys…you’re lucky his face is dry.”
The atmosphere in the room shifted to something darker—something Bishop could only vaguely understand from afar. His mother had always been hyper-protective of both him and Nathan, but with Nathan gone it seemed Constance longed to shield Bishop from the world’s unnecessary cruelty…from the world’s untactful journalism students.
Ushering them from the home, Constance bolted the door and turned to Bishop. “Supper is ready, Bish.”
“This is freakin’ great.”
“What?”
“I’m gonna look like a fool on T.V. because of that bitch.”
“My sweet boy…that bitch should know better than to cross me a second time. I’m positive your fifteen seconds of fame will reflect positively on your character. Come…eat your supper.”
Chapter Six
The last box…prior to this moment, achieving this accomplishment felt unobtainable. A borderline hoarder, Tyson Ayers constantly collected small trinkets and souvenirs from the time he was a child. It went beyond that. The young man found value in movie ticket stubs, concert ticket stubs, and even receipts from meals eaten with special friends on special days. His form of scrapbooking included tucking these small treasures all about his room in random places.
Looking at the bare walls, Alex’s vision blurred. She’d envisioned this day, this time in her life, but never felt it would actually be upon her. The memories the small room housed were now locked tight in cardboard and tape—it was over. Life’s next phase was now aching for her participation.
“You about ready, Freddy? I’m starving.” Patting his belly, Tyson appeared in the doorway.
“Yeah…Ty, let’s go. We can come grab these later.”
“You okay, Alex?”
Attempting to shield her eyes from Tyson’s view was pointless.
“Are you crying?” The concern in his voice was genuine, much to her relief. They’d decided months prior that the time for tears was over—smiles from here on out.
“Sorry, Ty. You grew up here.”
“Hey…it’s not like she’s selling the place…she can stash her empty liquor bottles and pill containers in here. It’ll be full in no time.” Grinning as he said it, Tyson offered his sister a hug. “Thank you for doing this for me, sis. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me…I know how much you’ve sacrificed. I love you so much.”
“You’re my world, Baby-Ty. I’d do anything for you.”
“Think we’ll be roomies in our thirties, too?”
“That’s the plan, Ty. Possibly our forties if you’re not married with children by then.”
“Well…for that to happen I need proper nourishment…I’m literally starving. Like, I can hear harps and angelic singing just beyond the light.”
“You’re such a dork! You literally just had cereal like an hour ago. Let’s load up.”
The dri
ve to the diner was inclusive of Tyson’s rendition of Paperboy’s “The Ditty.” Misplacing the words and rhymes, he restarted the lyrically acrobatic hip-hop song over twice in an effort for perfection—leaving his sister laughing hysterically while he bobbed his head and sang loudly.
Impressive was his ability to match the artist’s pace—more impressive was the fact that he could forcefully belt the lines while bouncing belligerently from the passenger seat without becoming winded and without the use of oxygen. His reprieve had offered so much more than Alex could have ever imagined. Fragments of her brother’s personality had diminished along with his health. The “highly successful” bilateral lung transplant had reinstated so much more than hopes and dreams—it fortified their bond. Alex was reunited with the brother that had long since been bent—not broken—but bent and molded into a nearly breathless boy. Breathless no longer, Tyson took no shame in his inability to hold a note.
Within the diner, Alex enjoyed a lifeless salad from their tattered seating. The eatery was nearly as worn as the wilted vegetation on her plate—but this was their go-to place.
Watching Tyson eat his bacon double cheeseburger at a ravenous pace, Alex couldn’t contain the smile creeping across her face. His eyes were bright in the natural light shining through the large window near the booth. Both muscle tone and a glowing complexion had returned.
Cheeks full of food, he looked from his plate with curious eyes. “Ice cream?”
“Ice cream? How the hell are you going to fit ice cream in there? You’ve had a chili dog, fries, a burger…what flavor? I’ll go order it while you eat.” Smiling, Alex was actually thrilled by her brother’s appetite. When Tyson was ill there were several nights she’d all but beg him to eat, now she felt certain she’d lose a finger if she stuck it near his plate. He was healthy. For the first time in a long time, Tyson Ayers resembled an active, athletic, and most of all, healthy teenage boy.
“Chocolate. You should probably know this by now. We’ve only been siblings for eighteen years, fool.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be right back.”
Nourishment attained, the duo left the diner—Tyson bloated and claiming to need a nap, they pulled into their new residence. Alex had worked hard to secure this two-bedroom apartment near the college campus and even closer to the hospital she worked at. Leaving their mother’s home and all of her toxicity was the only option. Alex was certain her brother would follow her wherever, but finding an apartment with a lavish gym basically sealed the deal.
“If you yawn one more time, Ty.”
“I’m so sleepy…” His whining and sleepy smile was met with a head ruffle.
“Go upstairs and take a nap. I’m off the entire weekend. We can go back to Mom’s tomorrow.”
“Are you going with me to talk to the registrar on Monday?”
“Yep. I looked over everything. We’re good to go, College Man.”
The ambitious smile and obvious excitement in his eyes had Alex overflowing with joy. Seven months prior, any university was as fictional as Hogwarts to Tyson Ayers—even the idea of graduating high school was ambitious at best. Now, he’d strategically selected his classes, picked out the perfect book bag, and basically mapped out the next four years of his academic career.
Gainfully employed doing what she loved as a respiratory therapist, Alex had made a pact with herself that Tyson’s experience at college would be as stress-free as possible. She would do whatever she had to do to ensure his primary focus was on his studies and long-term goals.
Exiting the vehicle and looking to the finely maintained grounds of their new apartment, Alex beamed with pride and excitement. This was the future that nearly escaped them—this was the future she would never take for granted. Closing her car door, she grinned once more at the sight of her brother—racing up the stairs to their apartment door—completely unfazed by the effort.
Chapter Seven
“No!” Jolting from sleep, Bishop frantically attempted to decipher fragments of fleeting dreams from reality. “No!”
His hands darted blindly across his bedding—the anxiety brewing in his core mounted to something unmanageable. Phone in hand, the well-lit screen hurt to look at. “He called! What? He…I know he called!”
Free from his tangled sheets and stumbling to the light switch, Bishop lit the room in an attempt to regain clarity. The commotion gained the company of his concerned mother—charging up the stairs and through his bedroom door.
“Bishop! Bishop, honey, what’s wrong?”
“Mom! I…I was…I…”
Walking to him, Constance placed her hand on his shoulder. “Sweet boy, it was another dream. I fear you’ve had another dream.”
“No, Mom. I was talking to him…I was supposed to talk to him but I missed his call. I missed his call.”
Nothing immediately made sense, but as reality finally returned—it did so as menacing as a viscous liquid of pain washing over him. “Dammit!”
“Come here, sweet boy.”
Hugging his mother, Bishop found the intensity of the resident ache within him growing greater—as it typically was upon waking. “It’s not getting easier, Mom. It’s never going to get easier.” His muffled words were absorbed into her silk-covered shoulder.
“Time will help.”
“Nothing helps, Mom. I can’t get away from it.”
“The therapist—”
“She doesn’t help. There’s not enough in those pills. They only numb me but I still feel this way.” Tickling his nose, his tears etched their way to his mother’s shoulder as she hugged him. “I drink until…until I pass out. That’s the only time I don’t hurt, Mom. And then…and then I wake up and I hurt more.”
“Bish, precious boy. Your strength is there. Your strength has always been there. It’s within you, not hiding in any bottle, bought or prescribed.”
“I’m weak, Momma.”
Releasing her, he turned to his window. “I don’t understand it. He was so happy and carefree and loved life. I don’t understand why—”
“Bishop, I feel being completely honest will produce the most viable path as we move forward.”
“Huh?”
“Smiles are bedsheets. They hide nasty stains and damage. His smile was beautiful, but it hid so much, Bish. Your father and I knew.”
“Knew what?” His gaze traced her face for insight.
“Bish…even the brightest day couldn’t completely light your brother’s shadows. He was sick. Nathan was sick and he had been for a while. Your father and I were in denial, but no more.”
Nearly dumbfounded—Bishop all but tripped over his words. “Wha…nah…Mom, Nate was solid. Nathan was…” Images of Nathan’s face plastered the back of Bishop’s brain—his happy, wholesome portrait, so blatantly clear.
“Sad…Nathan was sad, Bishop.”
“He was always smiling, Mom. Always.”
“Bedsheets, sweet boy.”
“He was just tired, Mom. He had so much going on and it just wore him out.” Sitting on his bed, Bishop looked to the hardwood flooring beneath his feet.
“Your argument might hold validity had your brother not ended his life, Bishop. Tired people take vacations…they alter their situations or they bitch and complain about how tired they are. Tired people go to bed…they don’t do what Nathan did.”
“Why then, if you knew he was so sick, didn’t you stop him? Why didn’t you intervene?”
Sitting next to him on his bed, Bishop heard his mother inhale deeply.
“Perhaps sick isn’t the right word, Bishop. How…how do you stop a butterfly from fluttering out a window? You…you can put it in a jar or clip its wings…but it’s still a butterfly.”
“The fuck are you talking about, Mom? Butterflies and bedsheets? So you’re saying what? It was okay what he did because you couldn’t stop him?”
Her hand upon his trembling leg, she kissed his cheek. “No, Bish. I’m saying some people simply don’t want to be here. There is n
o explaining it or medicating it, they simply don’t want to exist in our world for whatever reason. Can you think of any overwhelming circumstances in Nathan’s life…any inescapable oppression that would lead him to suicide?”
Feeling his face was a sloppy, wet mess, Bishop merely shook his head.
“Exactly, Bish. And I can assure you if we could speak with him directly right now, he wouldn’t be able to give us a pinpointed reason as to why he did what he did.”
“That doesn’t make it okay, Mom. That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have been happy, or couldn’t have liked being here eventually. He was just a kid. How the hell was he supposed to know if he wanted to be in our world or not?”
Watching his mother stand from his bed, he tipped his head as she kissed him atop it. “Clearly, Bishop, he knew. He took himself from our world in the most irreversible manner imaginable.”
“Right, Mom…I’m sure Nate decided he wanted to be a statistic long before any of this happened.”
“Bishop…the last thing I’d want to do is hurt you. This conversation is hurting you.”
“Nothing, Mother, could hurt me anymore than I’ve already been hurt. I think your theory lacks logic but I know you’re not trying to hurt me…I know you’d never hurt me.”
“Never. You’re my sweet boy. Come…let’s go for a swim.”
“At this hour? What time is it?”
“Nearly eleven, Bish.”
“I need some wine or something.”
“How about we take a cool dip and then we soak in the hot tub?”
“Okay…a cool dip and we sit in the hot tub with some wine…or a drink.”
Smiling passively, Constance merely nodded.
“I’ll be downstairs in a second. I need to throw my trunks on.”
“Very well, Bish. I’ll go grab some towels.”
As soon as she left, Bishop reached for his phone, thumbing to the voicemails. Number seventeen—permanently saved. Lying backward, he pressed play on his touchscreen and closed his eyes.