The Darkest Part

by Trisha Wolfe

  After I log in my route, I click “purchase” on the Amtrak website. I had to dip into my savings to buy the train ticket, which isn’t cheap. But my savings are for emergencies. This can definitely be classified as one.

  I have a car, a cute little silver Scion coupe. And it would probably be cheaper and more comfortable to travel that way. Only I haven’t driven since the night Tyler died. I’ve tried, but every time I get behind the wheel, my heart-rate increases, my palms get clammy, and the world looks off. Like a dream. It’s like I lose all touch with reality, and all I can think about is what if I hit someone? What if someone hits me?

  Dr. Hartman offered to prescribe me Xanax, but really, with all the pills she has me on, or at least thinks she has me on, I’m not sure adding one more prescription is ideal. The thought of becoming a personal pharmacy gives me even worse anxiety. And if you’re fearful of being too zoned out to drive, then how is doping yourself up going to make it any better? Wouldn’t that make it worse?

  Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway. The train will go from point A to point B and so on. I won’t have to worry about anything other than fulfilling Tyler’s unfinished business. I’ll leave a letter for my parents so they won’t flip out and report me as a missing person, then I’ll deal with the aftermath of my actions when I get back.

  I won’t think about it until then.

  I won’t think about what will happen when I do fulfill Tyler’s unfinished business, either.

  Glancing at the framed photo of Tyler and me, his arms circling my waist, his cheek resting on top of my head, my smile bright and beaming, I feel the loss of him so deeply my breastbone aches.

  If this works, and Tyler’s able to cross over, then the end of this trip will be my last goodbye to him. I look down at the map, Santa Rosa Beach circled in red. The last destination of our trip. We were going to stay there for a few days after traveling the country—our wind down stop. The knowledge of it steals the air from my lungs, and I can’t catch my breath.

  Tyler hasn’t returned yet, and I’m starting to freak. What if he can’t find his way out of the darkness this time? What if he’s already lost, already forgotten me?

  “We gotta go, Sam!”

  The panic gripping me heightens with the shrill ring of my mother’s voice. Like hitting a wall, I remember my session. Crap. I was hoping to get out of it, but I forgot to tell her I wasn’t feeling well. But really, this will be my last meeting with my psychiatrists until I get back. And then I’m sure they’ll just have me committed. I can pull it together for one afternoon.

  With one last look around my room, hoping Tyler will appear, I kiss my hand and touch the photo of Tyler, then close the door behind me.

  Sun-glinting cars rush by us on the highway, the hot June sun reflecting off their shiny surfaces and glaring in my eyes. I plunder through my bag and dig out my sunglasses. Trying to stay focused on my meeting, I mentally recite what I’m going to say to Dr. Hartman—what she needs to hear to believe I’m improving. My thoughts keep returning to Tyler, though. Wondering where he is. And Holden. Stressing if he’ll really go through with my plan.

  My mom reaches for the stereo knob to turn up the volume. Gold Dust Woman blares out of the rattily speakers. I roll my eyes, but can’t complain, even if listening to Stevie Knicks every time we’re in the car makes me want to crack my head against the window. She’s not only driven me to every one of my sessions, but everywhere else for the past five months.

  I lean forward and lower the volume. “Have you heard from Dad lately?”

  Her large sunglasses obscure her eyes, preventing me from reading her expression. But she can’t hide the slight dip of her mouth, her hands gripping the wheel tighter.

  “Sorry, baby,” she says. “He has a real important client to take care of this week.”

  I nod, averting my gaze out the window. “Just wondering.” It’s pretty shitty of him, the way he abandoned her, making her deal with all this on her own. I’d like my dad to be around to comfort her when I leave, so she’s not worrying alone. I feel sick to my stomach thinking about her pacing the house, calling my shrink, trying to get an armed force to hunt me down.

  But I know his job is important (where would the world be without marketing managers?) I keep telling myself that he’s not really running from me. Bullshit. I glance back at my mom, the guilt eating at me. Maybe while I’m gone he’ll come back, and then she’ll have her husband again.

  Any way I look at it, it’s for the best. Everyone will get something out of this trip.

  As we walk into the wellness center, I’m told I can go straight in. My mom takes a seat and picks up an outdated magazine. I’m flying solo for this one.

  I claim my usual spot, the fluffy blue chair that swallows me as soon as I sit down.

  Dr. Hartman is changing it up today, sporting a red dress suit and black heels. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders in loose waves instead of the tightly cinched bun she usually wears. I raise my eyebrows, and she laughs.

  “I have a date after my five o’clock.”

  Go her. “That’s nice.”

  Her light mood doesn’t last, and soon she whips out her all business persona. “So, Sam, you started your medications yesterday?”

  “I did.”

  “It’s too early to tell, I’m sure, but has there been any change?”

  Flipping through my mental notes of side effects from my medication pamphlets and the websites I Googled, I say, “I’ve been more tired.” Not tired. More tired. I’m always tired. “A bit antsy. And I haven’t seen Tyler since noon.” Which is the truth. But it’s not due to the meds (obviously they’ve disintegrated and are now floating around the sewer system), but I don’t think she wants to hear my latest theory about how Tyler’s energy is fading and a black hole is trying to steal him from me.

  Our first ten minutes are the usual: diet, exercise, family, outings. Then she comes out of left field. “I want you to make a list of things you’d like to accomplish.”

  Seems like a simple enough request. I shrug. “Okay. I can have one for you the next time I come in.” In about two and half weeks.

  She smiles. “This probably won’t be as easy as you think, Sam. I want a list of things you’d like to experience, goals you want to achieve, that has nothing to do with your life with Tyler.”

  I feel my brow furrow. Anger bites my chest.

  “You’ve been stunted emotionally,” she continues, “in more ways than one. Being engaged at such a young age, especially during college, when most are experimenting has inhibited your emotional growth.”

  “I think I’m pretty mature for my age,” I say, my irritation rising at her condescending tone.

  “Oh, you are. I couldn’t agree more. But since Tyler’s death, all progress has shut down. Tyler was such a vital part of who you were . . . are, that losing him has been like losing a huge part of you.”

  It’s like she opened up my brain during our last session and jotted down notes for this one. I can feel my heart-rate speeding, shoulders tensing. “I think that’s an obvious observation.”

  “Indeed.” She nods. “You’ve been with Tyler your entire life. You’ve always identified yourself with him. But now, you need to discover who Sam is away from Tyler. College is all about self-discovery. I’d like you to take full advantage of it. Get you back on a course to finding out who you are, what interests you have, and thinking about your future. Experiment and discover your independence.”

  “You want me to go back to college so that I can have sexual escapades and experiment with drinking and drugs.” I sit forward, cock my head. “Okay. First on my list, kiss a girl.”

  “Funny, Sam.” Her frown line deepens between her eyes. “It’s not for me. Stop thinking that doing anything in this treatment is for me. You have to be willing to take the steps for you. I’m just offering suggestions to help along the way.”

  My mouth opens, ready to unleash, ready to tell her that I already know exactl
y who I am and what my future will be. But I stop. Something in my mind clicks, like puzzle pieces fitting together.

  Dr. Hartman doesn’t know it yet, but she’s just given me the perfect out.

  “I think you’re right.” I smile, and it’s not fake. “Finding my independence is just what I need to do right now.”

  My eyelids slip closed, heavy with sleep, and I snap them open. The Clockwork Orange poster pinned to my wall blurs as I fight to stay awake.

  All the books have one thing in common, claiming spirits mostly appear at night. I haven’t prayed in a long time, but I find myself whispering in the dark, asking whoever might be hanging out in the clouds to give Tyler the strength to fight the darkness.

  I was so angry earlier today when I went to meet his father. I sent Tyler away with harsh words and evil glares. It’s been so hard, seeing him and having my world shift, but he’s had it much worse. I should’ve listened to him. Should’ve stayed with him.

  I whisper “I love you” to the gloom, and before my eyes shut a final time, I feel his presence. Warmth spreads through my body as a dim white light begins to glow beside me. I hold my breath, watching as Tyler’s features come into focus.

  My breath whooshes out in relief. “I was afraid you were gone,” I say, feeling a hot tear roll down my cheek. My pillow catches it, and the next one.

  I open my hand between us, my palm turned up, and Tyler rests his translucent hand over mine.

  “I’m still here. I won’t leave until you’re ready.”

  Later, I’ll question his words. But right now, I lie beside him, our hands phantom linked as one, and accept the comfort his spirit brings.

  HOLDEN

  Sam’s late. I look around the cemetery, tapping the crowbar against my leg, feeling like I’m being punked. Maybe she changed her mind. Shit, I hope so.

  I battled with what I’m about to do all night, tossing and turning, the stupid motel bedsprings digging into my spine. I can’t believe I agreed to steal my brother’s ashes for her. But looking into her sad eyes, desperation and heartache written all over her face—I couldn’t deny her anything.

  My father should’ve been more reasonable. If he cared at all about what Tyler probably wanted, he’d have given them to her himself. Hell, he should’ve offered to fly her around the country so she could spread his ashes.

  But the family mausoleum is all he cares about. He spent a fortune on it so we could have this grave site that makes us look more important than we are. I sure as shit won’t be buried in it. I almost laugh. As if he’d extend an invitation now.

  Birds chirp, tree branches rustle, and the muscles between my shoulder blades tense. Besides the sounds of nature, it’s quiet here. Too quiet. No one visiting this early. Even so, we probably should’ve planned this for night. Keep it real, like the grave robbers we are.

  I mentally go down the list of my criminal record, wondering how this will impact me. Most of my offenses are sealed in my juvenile file, but I had one misdemeanor on my adult: vehicular negligence, reduced from vehicular manslaughter. And from there, my lawyer got the charges dropped completely.

  The judge didn’t even give me probation for the accident that caused my mother’s death. I guess if they were going to charge anyone, it would’ve been the deer. But he escaped. Allegedly. Still, I’m sure if I’m caught pulling this shit now, he’ll question his ruling. Maybe he’ll be harder on me this time around.

  Bringing out my phone, I start to Google “punishment for grave robbing” when I hear someone clear their throat. I look up and see Sam.

  My heart vaults in my chest, and I swallow. She’s beautiful. Her hair has been recently dyed; no more blond roots. A heavy fall of long black layers covers one shoulder, and a wide streak of turquoise has been added to the middle of her bangs, which are now trimmed just above her eyes. The neck of her tee reveals a glimpse of tatted stars. She’s wearing her tiny diamond nose ring again, and her tight T-shirt and skinny jeans reveal all her curves.

  Fuck.

  “You look good,” I say, pushing my phone into my pocket.

  I swear I see her blush, just the slightest tinge of pink dusting her cheeks. “Uh, thanks. I thought it’d be better to look somewhat decent if I’m going to travel. Well”—she looks herself over, smiling—“my decent, anyway.”

  My mouth stretches into a grin. The fact that we’re smiling in such a sad environment doesn’t go unnoticed. But for two people who’ve had life kick the shit out of them, I suppose this place is as comfortable as any.

  Sam’s gaze finds the mausoleum, and her smile falls. She hikes her backpack higher on her shoulder and starts toward it.

  I step in front of her, and she looks up. “Are you sure?” I ask. I want her to change her mind. I want her not to be suffering from whatever it is she’s suffering from. Delusions, voices, psychosis, are what the gossips are saying. I want them to be wrong. But I can’t help wondering whose voice is telling her to do this.

  I don’t want to admit whose I think it is.

  Her gloss-coated lips press together, and she nods. “I am. It’s what he wanted.”

  A small sense of relief washes over me that she at least used the past tense this time. I can work with that. “All right.” I step aside. “Let’s become felons.”

  Breaking into a mausoleum is a lot harder than I thought. I guess it would’ve been easier to walk into my dad’s house and just steal the damn key. But I don’t ever want to go back in there—not ever.

  With a groan, the wooden door gives and flies open. The crowbar slips, and the sharp edge catches my palm. The tool clatters to the granite floor. “Shit.” Holding my hand, I squeeze my wrist as red oozes past the surface of the broken skin.

  “Damn, are you all right?” Sam lowers her head to inspect the wound, holding her hair back.

  I pump my hand a couple of times. “Yeah. I’ll wrap it later.”

  “Oh,” she says, swinging her black backpack in front of her. Then she digs through and pulls out a tiny shirt. One of hers.

  “No. It’s fine.”

  “Stop. It’s just a shirt.” She reaches for my hand. “Let me see.”

  As her fingers graze the top of my hand and around the edges of my palm, I try to keep my thoughts pure. I’m standing next to my brother’s freakin’ ashes, for shit’s sake. But Sam’s delicate touch triggers heat, want, feeling. And something painful.

  “I’ll do it,” I say, taking the tee from her hands.

  She releases it and steps back, as if she’s ashamed of her own actions. Or maybe she just remembered that she hates me. Either way, I finish dressing the cut with the tiny scrap of white tee while she looks around, as if making sure we’re still alone. Then she steps into the granite enclosure.

  Filling my lungs with warm air, I roll my shoulders back and follow her inside.

  The noticeable dip in temperature sends my defenses up, and the staleness sucks every bit of air back out of my lungs. I’d say it feels like a crypt in here, but that’s not even funny to me. And when my eyes land on the wall with my mother’s engraved name, disturbing images that have haunted my dreams bang against my vision, stealing all light from the room.

  “Holden?”

  Sam’s voice is distant and dark. Dark as the void trying to pull me under.

  I blink, then drag my gaze across the small room until I find her face. Ashen and worried. “I’m fine,” I say, even though she didn’t ask. “Let’s hurry. Probably not a good idea to make it our hang out.”

  She wrings her hands, like she’s again having second thoughts, and walks over to the slab holding Tyler’s urn. My stomach knots. I hate that my brother—all six feet of him; all of everything he was in life—can fit in such a small container.

  Sam lugs her backpack to the floor and dives in, coming up with a jade and silver satin-covered box. “Will you help me?”

  I want to tell her that I already have, that I’ve already committed a major felony for her—but I don’t. Tamping
down the unease roiling in my stomach, I command my feet to move until I’m beside her, then I lift the urn from the slab. The top is easy enough to open, and when Sam nods, I pour—with trembling hands—half of my brother’s remains into her box.

  I feel like I should ask for forgiveness. But I’ll save that for later.

  Sam silently watches the ashes fill the small box. Then, “I couldn’t speak at his funeral.”

  I know this, because when I finally worked up the courage to go back into the church—steering clear of my father’s pissed off glare—she wasn’t there. After she ran away from me, she didn’t come back. “You could say something now,” I offer.

  For a minute, it looks like she’s debating it. “No,” she says, and her gaze flicks to mine. “Not here.” She leaves her statement unfinished, but I get what she’s saying. She wants to say her final goodbye on the road, in her own way. Away from this hollow shell.

  After we make sure everything looks untouched, like no grave robbers or unhinged girlfriends have busted into the place, I seal the door back up. Then I follow Sam out of the graveyard. I follow her after she tells me goodbye. And when she thinks she’s being slick . . .

  I follow her.

  SAM

  My nervous system is about to shut down. I know it is. I suddenly regret not taking Dr. Hartman up on her offer for anxiety meds.

  I’d be chewing those bitches like Gummy Bears right now.

  The train station is loud and dirty, and smells like rotten eggs and farts. I’m told that’s just the smell of the paper mill coming downwind, but I’m not so sure I believe that. This place is filthy. And I swear people are staring at me. Like they know I’m carrying my stolen boyfriend in my pack.

  I keep peeking over my shoulder, waiting for Mr. Marks or the cops to come barreling in. I switch seats again, not sitting in one place longer than five minutes. Maybe if I keep moving around time will go by faster, and my train will be ready to board.

  Checking my phone again, I curse. I still have fifteen minutes.

  I left early this morning by cab. The note I wrote my mother sits on the kitchen counter by the coffee maker. Last night, I almost told her. I’d curled up with her on the couch while she was reading one of her mystery novels (she loves them almost more than she loves watching Law and Order), and I just laid my head in her lap. Like I used to do when I was a kid.