by Mia Kerick
I’m used to her saying stuff like this but it still sends shivers up my spine.
“You quit your job at the Quik-Mart last month—admit it Jason—it was because you were afraid somebody would pull a gun on you, which honestly concerned me, too. And you just sit here on the couch day after day—no job, no girlfriend…. You aren’t even seeing Kendrick and Dan from high school, and they’re your best friends.”
Were my best friends… before I met Ginny.
Next she’s going to dismiss my therapy as “expensive and totally ineffective.” I know the woman well.
“And that psycho-babble-doctor you’ve got… Dr. Jeffries… well, don’t get me started on him.” A blob of brownie batter flies off the spoon she’s waving and lands on my knee. I just leave it there because who really cares? “If seeing that head-shrinker was doing you any good, honey, you’d be all better by now.” Her tone suddenly turns from nagging to sweet. “Stay here in Wilson, Jase, and let your Mama take care of you….” She leans down to caress the side of my face, but I turn away.
“Mom….” She doesn’t understand PTSD, which is what Dr. Jeffries says I have, but then I don’t either. Still, I try to control the sharpness in my voice. This isn’t my mother’s fault. “I’m getting better. Just give me some time.” I get up from the couch and head to the bedroom where I spend ninety percent of my life, thinking if I make it one hundred percent I won’t have to deal with Mom anymore. Solitary confinement actually sounds tempting.
My room has turned into my escape from the past and present, and it’s starting to look like I’ll be spending a lot of my future in here. It’s become the only place I feel safe—from crazed gunmen and Mom’s draining lectures. For crying out loud, I was at a college performance of Hamlet and I was nearly killed; I’m no dummy and I realize the risk of working at a convenience store. They’re robbed at gunpoint all the time. Some enclosed places—like stores and trains and, of course, movie theaters—are just too hard for me to face. I can’t go through the pain again, so it isn’t worth the risk.
For a while, I thought my symptoms fell under the category of “normal stress response to a traumatic event.” In fact, the feeling of emotional numbness started the second time Dom tried to kill us. Then there were all of the nightmares and the way I replayed the two life-threatening events in my head, time and again. All of this is normal, I was told by Mom and my high school friends who came to see me. But when the “normal response” refused to go away, or even diminish over the passage of time, I knew something was wrong. Like messed-up-in-the-head-big-time wrong.
I left school right after the second attack. Batcheldor College allowed any student who was having severe emotional difficulties with regard to the theater shooting a pass on final exams. I left as soon as I got checked out at the hospital and was declared “fine.” Then I went home to the loving arms of my overprotective single mother. Thankfully, my roommate packed up my stuff in the dorm room because I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I retreated to Wilson, New Hampshire, and the safety of home.
I never even reached out to say goodbye to Liam, who saved my life and most of my sanity… repeatedly. I’m not sure why I left without saying goodbye. It’s just what I did. I’m almost certain I did it for the same reason that I never allow myself to think about him. Never. Too much pain associated with his memory. Not to mention too much confusion.
Once in my room, I stop in front of the full-length mirror and glance at my reflection. My jeans are barely hanging on to the curve of my ass and my T-shirt looks two sizes too big. Technically, I’ve been starving myself. It’s not really intentional—I’m just never hungry anymore.
I’m starting to realize that running away has not been successful in helping me to avoid pain. Yeah, I’d avoided certain physical reminders—the school buildings and the college town, people like Liam who bring back the memories so vividly—but I soon started having flashbacks that were as real as the shootings, themselves. Just like the night of the theater shooting, time is again standing still for me. But now weeks have passed me by, months even, and it feels as if the shootings just happened yesterday. And like another shooting could happen at any moment. I guess pain that hasn’t been dealt with follows you wherever you go.
I throw myself down on my freshly-made-by-Mom bed and try my hardest not to think, but the more I try to keep my head blank, the more intrusive the thoughts of the attacks become.
Something’s got to give. I can’t go on like this.
My cell phone rings. It’s a sound I have come to dread, as on the other end is always someone I have no interest in being interrogated by, like high school pals who just don’t get the new Jason who doesn’t ever want to leave his house. I don’t recognize the number, which means it could be a random reporter doing a news story on mass shootings. I need to relive that experience like I need another hole in my head. Ugh, so not funny. But on the off-chance it’s the girl who’d been in a terrible car accident that I gave my number to, from the PTSD support group at the clinic Dr. Jeffries encouraged me to join, I know I have a responsibility to answer. I do so reluctantly.
“Jase?”
I’m pretty sure I know the voice. And for a split second, I experience a sensation of relief, just like the one I’d had when I learned that the final gunshot, on the day Dom had tracked us down at the hotel to kill us, had been Dom taking his own life and not ending Liam’s. “Yes, this is Jase.”
But I have no doubt at all who’s on the phone when he blows out a breath and allows his trademark sigh. “Just calling to… to… like….”
“To check in on me?”
“Well, yeah. I guess… something like that.”
“I’m still alive and kicking. No crazed gunman has taken me out since we last saw each other.” I hope he can hear the smile in my voice, even if it’s a fake smile.
“Well, that’s good.” He isn’t buying my false sense of joviality; somehow I’m certain of this.
How does he know me so well as to hear the lie in my voice on the phone, when we’re barely more than strangers?
“I want to see you, Jase. And I’m going to Massachusetts on Friday, for a weekend on Cape Cod. I want you to come with me.”
Liam Norwell is probably the most direct reminder of the worst two nights of my life that I can possibly think of. “I… I’ve got to work.” I lie to him with some difficulty.
Silence.
“And I don’t think my mom is ready for me to go anywhere yet.”
“’Kay.”
“Plus, I… I don’t think I’d be too much fun to hang out with. I’m not exactly a barrel of laughs these days.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
I want to see him. I need to. I wish he’d plead with me, or insist that I go with him. Order me to do it, like he did when he forced me to stay safe on the nights we were in so much danger.
“I need to see you, Jase. This… this visit is really more about me than you.” I hear the sigh and it sounds more pained than I remember. “Will you come with me? Please.”
“When will you be here to pick me up?” Suddenly all I can see in my mind’s eye are Liam’s arms. So strong and protective and everything I needed… everything I need. For months all I could see when I closed my eyes was Dom. And now I see Liam.
7
Mom is about to lose it.
When I first told her of my plans to go to the Cape for the weekend, her response was to laugh in my face. “I’ll believe it when I see it, Jason. You haven’t moved from that couch in days except to go pee or hide in your bed.”
As she watched me pack my bag on Friday afternoon, her tune changed slightly. “So tell me about this man who is supposedly ‘rescuing you’ from your mother and the safety of your home this weekend.”
“His name is Liam Norwell, Mom. He’s the guy who saved my life.” Twice.
Mom couldn’t think of anything negative to say to that.
She became more direct when
I sat down on the chair by the window, watching for Liam to pull up in his Charger. “What makes you think that just the sight of this young man isn’t going to send you emotionally right back to where you were in April? Tell me that, young man?”
That time I had no smart comeback.
And finally, when his car pulls into the driveway, Mom asks me, “Are you sure it’s a good idea to miss your Sunday afternoon support group meeting?” She’s always tried to tell me that the PTSD support group is a colossal waste of my time so I know that she’s grasping at straws because she’s scared for me to be out of her sight.
“Mom, I love you and I’ll call you when I get to Cape Cod. Have a great weekend.” Before I step out the front door, she grabs me and hugs me and clings to my shoulders, and I know that she loves me, too, but she just doesn’t know how to do it in the way I need right now.
***
Liam turns all the way to the side to look at me when I climb into the car. He’s quiet, taking me in very obviously, his eyes roving from my head to my toes and then back. Finally, he says, “Your hair grew back where the bullet… you know.”
I nod, aware that I’m studying him with equal attention to detail. And then I make my big confession. “I left school and never said good bye to you.”
“Yeah, I know.” I’m surprised at how good he looks. His blond hair is standing tall and his light beard shaped into a long rectangle. And I think he’s been working out because his shoulders are bulkier and his biceps are bigger beneath his black Coldplay T-shirt than I remember. When I look at him, I’m surprised that I’m not reminded of my fear and pain, but instead I’m reminded of the strength he offered me and the warmth I felt when he held me. Which is also surprising, but for totally different reasons.
“I’m sorry for that, Liam. I appreciate what you did for me. I wouldn’t be here if not for you.”
“The feeling is mutual.” When I look at him curiously, because I did nothing to save him, he adds, “I’ll explain that later this weekend.”
Still parked in my driveway, we sit in silence. I just lean back in my seat and take in the secure feeling I get when I’m with Liam that I didn’t even realize I’d missed. “I’m glad you called.”
Liam shrugs with what seems to be discomfort, and says, “Well, I guess it’s time to get this show on the road.” He backs out of the driveway and I fight the urge to reach out and touch him.
What’s going on with me?
This is the first time since April that the idea of going forward with my life seems tolerable. It’s like seeing him, and having him beside me, gives me hope. My response to him is quite unique, and I don’t think it’s just because of that one night we messed around… and acted like we were more than just friends. But now isn’t the time to question my feelings. Maybe I should just follow along behind Liam, like I did back in April when chaos reigned. Maybe he’s going to save my life for the third time.
***
After several hours of driving with the bare minimum of conversation, we arrive at the little cottage near the Bourne Bridge. It’s just after nine o’clock at night. The place is nothing spectacular; a modest 1970’s beachfront cottage with what I imagine are spectacular views of the bay in daylight. The exterior is rustic and some may say it had seen better days, but the feeling of escape in this little house is palpable. The interior is just what I expected based on the outside: couches draped in floral sheets that look like they belong to somebody’s blue-haired grandmother, tables covered in plastic tablecloths, and Your Visit to Cape Cod types of magazines stacked up in old-fashioned wooden wracks.
“The parents of my buddy at work own this place. They rent it out for most of the summer, but there was a last minute cancellation for this weekend so they offered it to me.” Liam places the pizza we stopped and picked up on the plastic-lined kitchen table and I place the case of beer beside it. “They’re great people. Wouldn’t let me pay a cent.”
“That was nice of them.” I look around at the unfamiliar environment and wait to experience the anxiety I have become accustomed to when in new places that has plagued me ever since the shootings. But despite a chill of wariness, I’m relatively fine. “Where’s your summer job, Liam?”
“I work in a pub on the ocean in Lockwood, my hometown in Maine. Mostly I do the heavy lifting, janitorial work, and the upkeep of the building. Not too glamorous but I like it.”
I can picture big and burly Liam lugging around beer kegs and cleaning the floors using a 26-quart janitor’s rolling bucket with a mop sticking out of the mop wringer. “So you don’t cook?”
“Nah, they don’t trust me too much in the kitchen. My buddy, Tommy, is the main fry cook, and his Dad tends the bar. He’s got a couple of younger sisters who do the serving and bussing, and his mom does the books.”
“They keep it almost all-in-the-family.”
“Yeah, except for me. I’ve worked there since I turned sixteen. The Dewey’s take care of me.”
The fact that he never mentioned his own family hits me as strange but I don’t ask him about it. I wonder how the Dewey’s feel about Liam’s multiple brushes with death this past spring. But I offer him some truth instead of asking him personal questions. “I stopped working about a month ago. Just couldn’t cope with being behind the counter in a convenience store, you know?”
Liam drops his duffle bag on the floor and relieves me of my backpack, putting it carefully on the floor beside his bag. “Yeah, I feel yah.” I think he actually does get it, too. “Sit down and I’ll serve you.” The little cottage has an open floor plan, and he gestures toward the couch in the living room area.
“A guy could get used to this treatment.” I walk to the couch and sit down, all the while watching as Liam searches the cupboard for plates, and then stacks them and some beers on top of the pizza box, and comes to where I’m sitting.
“Well, go ahead and get used to it… for the weekend, at least. You’re my guest and I’m gonna treat you right.” Our eyes meet and I feel a zing of human connection that I haven’t experienced since I last saw him. He winks and breaks the spell. We dive into the pizza.
“I haven’t been this hungry in a long time… it’s good.” I’m suddenly ravenous and shove the pizza in my mouth with a gusto I thought I’d lost forever.
“You look like you dropped a few pounds, man. So go on and chow down.” I can tell he wants to ask me why I’ve apparently been starving myself but he plays it cool and resists. I’m sure he hopes I will voluntarily explain my near-skeletal state, yet I have no explanation. I just haven’t been very hungry lately.
We eat in silence and when the pizza is gone, I get up to take the plates to the sink. “You’re my guest, man. Sit down and drink your beer. I’ll go get us a couple more.”
When he returns with the beers, the lighthearted atmosphere is gone and I know that the time to talk has come. I want so desperately to know how he’s doing in the aftermath of the shootings, and if he feels as alone and scared and numb as I do, but I’m a closed-off kind of guy. I can’t bring myself to ask. I lift my beer to my lips and wait.
“I’ve thought a lot about you, Jase.” He sniffs and then rubs his nose. “I can’t stop thinking about you, to be honest.”
“What do you mean?”
He shakes his head and runs his huge hands through his blond hair. “I don’t quite understand it… you know, what’s going on in my head. But I figure I’ve got to be thinking about you so much because I need to know how you’re doing. I must need to know you’re okay, or something. Right?”
I nod. What he just said makes sense, although it isn’t how I handled my stress. I’d simply blocked him out of my mind along with every other reminder of the spring shootings. “If you want to know how I am, honestly, I’ve seen better days.”
“I had a feeling about that….”
“It’s hard for me living at home. It’s like I’ve got one foot stuck in a rut. My mom doesn’t want me to go back to Batcheldor at all because o
f what happened, and part of me wants to stay at home and attend the school in my town. But another part of me knows that if I don’t go back to Batcheldor College, I’m going to find myself stuck in a rut so deep I can’t get out.”
“Well….” Liam brushes his beard with his hand, evidently deep in thought. “Well, let’s see if we can’t get you out of that rut this weekend. ‘Kay?”
His words are upbeat, but he’s not smiling. And I’m confused. Liam confuses me. “Why are you doing all this for me?”
“We’ll talk about that later this weekend, I promise. But right now, how about if we just try to find some comedy on TV and suck down some brews and kick back?”
Despite being mildly curious about Liam’s reasons for looking out for me so attentively, I’m more relieved to be experiencing this reprieve from my own emotional torment. Something about Liam’s mere presence has me breathing easier, and I like it. “Sure. Sounds like a plan to me.”
We drink all night. And most people would think that a lot of talking would accompany all that drinking but no, we quietly watch stand-up comedy and then an old black and white war movie, and then we find an 80’s Big Hair Band Countdown to the Top Rock Ballad, which pretty much gets us to sunrise.
“Wanna go to the bedrooms and crash?” Liam asks, when the sun starts to peek in the window. “I’ll take one of the bunk beds and you can have the room with the double bed.”
“Why can’t we just stay here and sleep?” I’m drunk, but not too drunk to know that tomorrow I can blame my suggestion to sleep together on having indulged in too much booze. My typical cop-out.
We’re still fully dressed, shoes and all, sitting on either end of this lumpy floral beast of a sofa that’s probably older than both of us put together. Upon my suggestion, he slides down on its outside edge and pats the spot between him and the back of the couch. “Join me, won’t you?”