by Karlik, Mary
He’d managed to completely absorb himself in the problems when his dad knocked and came into the room. “It’s late, I’m headed to bed. Don’t forget, we have another family session tomorrow. And before you say anything, remember this is for Mom. Do you want me to pick you up from school?”
For Mom. He tapped the eraser end of his pencil on his notebook. He’d do it for her because he’d promised. “Just write me a note and I’ll meet you there.” He held out his spiral notebook and a pen.
His dad flipped to a blank page, scrawled a note, and handed it back. “The appointment is at ten. I put that you need to check out at nine-thirty. Okay?”
“I’ll be there.” He flipped back to his equations and turned away.
His dad left the room. Neither of them said good night.
*
Justin greeted his mom in the lobby at Garden Oaks. He hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. “You look good.” And she did. She’d fixed her hair and makeup and the circles under her sagging eyes looked a little smaller.
“Thanks. Where’s Dad?”
“We came separately. He should be here any second.” He smiled at her, but the look in her eyes told him she didn’t have any more confidence in his words than he did. His stomach churned and he prayed his dad wouldn’t show up late. His mom deserved better.
She nodded and sat in one of the plastic chairs lining the wall of the lobby.
His dad rushed through the door of the lobby just as Justin and his mom were being ushered toward the therapy waiting area.
Typical.
Dr. O’Malley led Justin into the therapy room. An overstuffed leather sofa and love seat had been placed at right angles, with an end table nestled between them. Closing off the other side of the square were two high-backed velvet chairs. A coffee table separated the furniture.
“Have a seat, Justin. Your parents will join us in a few minutes.”
Justin hesitated in front of the sofa Dr O’Malley indicated, and took a seat in the chair next to the doctor. If it bothered Dr. O, he didn’t show it—not even a raised eyebrow.
Dr. O crossed his legs and balanced a pad on one knee. “Did you go to the cemetery?”
“No. I’m not going.”
If he’d expected a lecture, he didn’t get one. Dr. O only nodded. “Okay. What kind of grades do you make, Justin?”
“What?” That caught him off guard. They were supposed to talk about his mom and how to help her get her head together. “As, Bs, a couple of Cs. I have to keep my grades up to play football.”
“Football is important to you?”
Was it? He hadn’t really thought about it. It was something he did because he was good at it. Yeah, he enjoyed it, but was it important to him? “Yeah. Isn’t it important to everybody?”
“Do you have a lot of friends at school?”
“Yes.” Did he? Really? The only friend he cared about was Ryan.
“Enemies?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Your dad tells me you’ve had some issues with a boy in your school. That you have had a couple of fights.”
“How would he know?” Justin challenged.
“Is it true? Have you gotten into fights?”
“Maybe.” Shit. What kind of answer was that? He looked at his hands. “Yes.”
“Tell me about the fight.”
“There is nothing to tell. There’s this one guy. He killed my sister. He’s responsible for my family being messed up. Sometimes when I see him…” He couldn’t say I want to kill him. Then he’d be the one locked up in the nuthouse.
“What? What do you feel when you see him?”
“Anger. Loads of anger.”
The doctor sat back. “Your sister pulled out in front of a cement truck. Why was it this boy’s fault?”
“Because he was texting her. If he hadn’t been texting her, she wouldn’t have died.” The argument he’d clung to all these years seemed weak when he said it aloud. But it was how he felt.
“She didn’t have to answer.”
Dr. O’Malley had verbalized the argument Justin couldn’t dispute. It hung in the air in front of him, making him want to tear it apart. He couldn’t. He knew it was true. But if he accepted it, then who would he blame for the disintegration of his family? It sure as hell wasn’t his fault.
Time ticked by as seconds turned to minutes. Sweat formed on Justin’s palms and trickled down his neck. He closed his eyes and tried to swallow past the lump in his throat, past the air rushing out of his lungs in quick, shallow breaths. He opened his eyes and stared at the fibers of the tan carpet that stretched between him and Dr. O’Malley. Beginning with his gut, his muscles contracted, and he stood.
Dr. O watched him rise without moving his head. His eyes tracked him like those of a hunter tracking prey. Quietly he said, “How do you feel now, Justin?”
“Freaking angry.” Justin walked to the back of the room and stared out of the window. Some view. A parking lot and beyond that, a dried-up cornfield. The stalks were burned yellow by the Texas sun. He swallowed the anger that had surged and turned back toward the center of the room.
“Let’s back up a bit.” Dr. O spoke in an even tone that Justin figured must have been a technique to calm patients. He hadn’t flinched when Justin swore either. In fact, he hadn’t changed his position at all. He must have learned that in How to Deal with Crazies 101.
Justin walked back to the therapy area and flopped onto the leather sofa.
Dr. O’Malley looked at his notes. “Walk me through a typical day for you.”
What kind of lame-ass question is that? “I get up. Go to school, football practice, come home. End of story.”
“What happens when you get home? Is the TV on? Is it quiet? Where are your mom and dad?”
The lump in his throat grew. He leaned his head against the back of the sofa. “The house is usually quiet and dark. Mom…” His eyes stung and he squeezed them tight until the feeling eased. “Mom is in bed. Dad is at work.”
“Who prepares the meals, does the shopping, and cleans the house?”
“Me.” He barely squeaked the word. It was small, two letters, and yet it threatened to release a shitload of emotion. He toyed with the piping around the edges of the cushion.
“That’s a lot of responsibility for a seventeen-year-old. How does that make you feel?”
Justin shrugged. “It has to be done.”
“What about your dad?”
“He works. Like twenty-four seven. The sicker Mom got, the more he worked.”
“Does he come to your games?”
“No. Never.”
“And your mom?”
“She used to. It upsets her to see Austin.”
“Austin?”
“The guy who texted my sister. She tried for a while. But it’s hard to make it to a game when you can’t even get out of bed to eat.”
Dr. O’Malley uncrossed his legs and sat back. “You go to school and make pretty good grades. You’re a starter on the varsity football team. But the other side of you manages the household. Do you pay the bills too?”
“No. Dad manages that.” Where the hell is he going with this shit?
“What happened the night you found your mom with the gun?”
“I think you know.” He wasn’t going there. It was too fresh, too raw.
“I’d like to hear it from you.”
“Why?”
“Were you frightened?”
“My mom had a fricking gun. How do you think I felt?” He was tired of this talking about your feelings shit. It was time to be done.
“Okay. Fair enough. I sense you have a lot of anger toward your dad.”
Give the man a prize.
Dr. O set the notebook on the table. “It’s okay, Justin. You’ve dealt with a lot. You’ve taken care of your mom, the house, the food preparation. When do you get to be a kid?”
That did it. When did he get to be a kid? Justin pressed into the bac
k of the sofa and closed his eyes to fight the sting. “Never.” He heard himself whisper. He hadn’t meant to say it. He hadn’t meant to let this doctor in on his secret. What kind of person resented—no, hated—taking care of his own mother? His cheeks were wet with tears and his nose filled with snot.
Justin pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, but it didn’t stop the flow of tears, didn’t stop his torso from shaking as he bawled like a wuss. He looked up at Dr. O’Malley. “You son of a bitch.”
Dr. O’Malley pushed a box of tissues across the table toward him. “I know.”
Justin blew his nose, but it filled up again. “What kind of asshole hates taking care of his sick parent?” Dr. O didn’t answer. “Just once, I want to come home to Mom cooking dinner, you know? Hell, I’d be happy if Mom were vegging out in front of the TV. But it’s been the same damn thing every day. I come home and Mom is in bed. I beg her to eat, fix her dinner—which she barely touches—and then she goes back to bed. Jesus, she recounts the night of the accident over and over. And Dad.” He stopped to blow his nose again. “And Dad is always at work. I mean, I know what he does is important. He saves frickin’ lives, for Chrissakes. But he’s forgotten us. Do you see? Do you see why I hate Austin McCoy? If my sister hadn’t answered that freaking text, if she hadn’t died, I wouldn’t be in this shithole of a life.”
“What about Chelsea? You’re not angry with her for answering the text?”
Justin looked up at the doctor. “She’s dead. What good would that do?”
“It’s a normal part of grieving. Anger at the one who’s gone is part of it.”
“Nothing about my family’s grieving is normal, Dr. O’Malley. That’s why we’re here.” He thought he saw Dr. O’s lip twitch toward a smile, but it didn’t make it before it was replaced with the emotionless face.
Dr. O’Malley placed the palms of his hands on his knees and sat up straight. “Justin, I’m going to suggest something to you that you already know. What happened to your family is a sad and horrible thing. But you are not responsible for your parents’ behavior and neither is Austin. There is a lot of strength in your story. You have taken care of yourself, your mom, and the adult chores. You probably saved your mom’s life. From this point forward, I’d like you to work on being a kid. I am going to ask your parents to work on putting the family structure back in place.”
It’d been so long since they’d been a real family that Justin couldn’t imagine it. “What happens if Mom goes back to bed? What if it doesn’t work?” Just asking the question made his heart beat a little faster. Could Dr. O help his family?
“I am going to give you all tools to keep it from happening again. Are you ready for me to bring your family in?”
“Yes.”
Dr. O’Malley left the room. Justin blew his nose again and hoped his eyes weren’t too swollen and red. He didn’t want his parents to know he’d cried. Dr. O wanted him to work on being a kid. What did that even mean?
He knew one thing for sure. It was all well and good that Dr. O was going to give them tools, but his dad would always put the hospital before his family, and he doubted his mom was strong enough to pull herself out of the depths of depression for long. And as far as he could see, this was an exercise in frustration. There was no way they could be a family—that had died with Chelsea.
He just needed to hold his shit together until he graduated from high school—and hope to hell his mom could hold her shit together after he was gone.
*
Justin’s heart raced as he slowed the truck. Sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip. According to the lady in the cemetery office, he should park next to the live oak tree with the wind chimes hanging from a branch and a bench beneath it. Chelsea’s grave would be three rows from the street. He put the truck in Park and cut the engine.
He could do this. It was just a granite stone. It didn’t matter that his sister’s name was engraved on it, it didn’t matter that she lay in a box beneath it.
He got out of the truck and tried to calm his pounding heart. He saw a pink granite headstone with a metal cross stuck in the ground next to it. A straw cowboy hat dangled from the cross, fastened to the metal with a zip tie. He read the name Lindsey Barnes and his throat felt tight. Travis’s sister. She’d been in the front seat next to Chelsea.
He stepped carefully through the stone field until he found the third row from the road. Dried yellow roses slumped in the urn that was a part of the pink stone that bore his sister’s name. He’d planned on looking and leaving. He just wanted to say he’d done it, to prove to Dr. O’Malley that he could.
When he saw her name, Chelsea Lynn Hayes, it was if he’d been sucker punched in the gut. He fell to his knees and all the air whooshed from his lungs. He gasped in a desperate attempt to drag oxygen into his body. His gaze was riveted to her name. “No. Oh, God. Chelsea, no.” Tears flooded his eyes and streamed down his face. He dug his fist into the grass and sobs heaved from his chest. He imagined the white box beneath the earth and the girl asleep in that box. She was there, six feet and a lifetime away from him.
Pain filled every molecule in his body. She was gone. He would never tease her again—fight with her—see her. Why had she answered that freaking text? “Damn you, Chelsea! Damn you. You stupid girl. Don’t you see? You ruined everything. Three people died because you couldn’t put down your freaking phone. Mom is crazy out of her head. Dad is just gone. And I… I need you. Why? Why did this happen? Why did that truck have to be there? Why’d you leave us?”
He sat on the grass cross-legged, let his shoulders slump, and cried. Guilt for the things he’d said spread through him. He turned his face toward the sky. “And You, what the hell were You thinking? What did she ever do to You? You took her from us. She didn’t deserve this. We didn’t deserve this! We were a great family. We were happy. But You had to go and mess that up.” He let tears fall freely until his eyes felt peppered with grains of sand.
He pulled his knees close to his torso, propped his left arm on his knee, and toyed with a blade of grass. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, Chelsea. He bowed his head. I’m sorry, God. Please don’t take this out on my family. Make Mom better. Make us a family again.
Tears dripped in an endless stream from his eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I miss you, sis.”
He sniffed and stood. He took a deep breath and looked around at the stone field. Two graves from Chelsea’s was the one marking the third girl’s resting place. Abigail Yates. She’d been an only child. Her parents had moved to Dallas a few months after her death. He righted a brass cross that had toppled off the ledge of the headstone, turned, and walked to his truck.
Well he’d done it. He could tell the shrink he must be over Chelsea because he’d been to the cemetery. Sarcasm aside, he wasn’t sorry he’d come. It was time.
He blew out a breath, started the engine, and headed back to school.
17
Ryan sat outside the counselor’s office and willed Justin to text her. She had hoped to see him after lunch, but no such luck. She’d checked her phone between classes—no text. She was so consumed with looking for a message from him that she’d almost forgotten she’d been asked to meet with Mrs. Bettis after school.
She held her phone and stared at the screen, wanting so badly to text him and ask how the session had gone with his family. But how did one ask about a shrink appointment? Instead, she sent Hi.
Braden McGuire took the seat next to her. “Do you think they went for your idea?”
Ryan toyed with the rubber cover on her phone. “I don’t know. Do you?”
He shrugged. “I guess we’ll see.”
Mrs. Bettis opened the door to her office. “Come in.”
Ryan and Braden filed in and sat in the chairs in front of her desk. Pictures of twin girls hung on the wall behind her. They had the same auburn hair as Mrs. Bettis.
Mrs. Bettis folded her hands on top of her desk. “I talked to Mrs. Johnson about y
our idea, and we investigated the website.” She stretched a little taller in her seat. “We like the idea of a replacement for the Purity Club. However, in light of—” She swept her hand in Ryan’s direction. “—recent events, we feel we should broaden the group beyond dating violence.”
Great. They’re going to make me the anti-bullying poster girl.
Mrs. Bettis looked at Braden and back at Ryan. “There is a group called Teens Against Violence. It’s very similar to Dating Respect but has a broader focus.”
Ryan leaned forward. “So this is an anti-bullying group?”
Mrs. Bettis shook her head. “More than that. Abuse comes in all forms. Controlling behavior doesn’t just occur between dating couples—friends can abuse each other as well.”
She handed each of them a sheet of paper. Bold letters announced, Red Flags to an Unhealthy Relationship.
The first one on the list read Does your friend/partner constantly put you down?
Ryan looked up from the sheet. “I like it.”
Braden read the paper and shook his head. “These things are pretty obvious. I mean…” He looked at the sheet. “Does your friend/partner check your cell or email without permission? Who doesn’t know that’s whacked?”
Mrs. Bettis said, “Unfortunately, a lot of people.” Her forehead wrinkled and the corners of her mouth drooped a little. “It often happens slowly, insidiously. The abuser may start with a put-down and eventually break the person’s confidence. They begin to control their victim’s whereabouts, what they wear, who they can see. The victims often believe the abuser’s controlling behavior is an act of love.”
Braden shook his head. “That’s crazy.”
Ryan looked at him. “Which is why I want to do this. I mean, what if this is an education not only for the abused but the abuser? If they don’t understand that what they’re doing is wrong, we can teach them. Who knows—maybe I could save somebody from having to go through this.” She drew an imaginary circle in the air in front of her face.
Braden looked at Ryan and back at Mrs. Bettis. “I’m in. What do we do?”