A Not So Typical Love

by Tristen Rowen

  "What are you getting at, Tim?" he said. "Just say what you want to say."

  "I'd like you to sell me this house and this property." There, I said it, something I had been dying to say for a long time. "I know it's been in the family for years and..."

  "It's my house, too," he cut me off. This house and land had been his grandparents and passed down to his parents, then finally to Art. I was sure the house and property would be given to me and Jordan upon his death, but that could be many years from now and it wasn't like I wished for his death.

  "You don't really live here, though, do you? Sell me the house. You owe it to us."

  "I don't owe you anything," he said. "You're an adult. Go buy your own house. I know you can afford it. Besides, you're getting married. Wouldn't you and Kelly like to buy your own place? Don't let Jordan dictate your future."

  "This is Jordan's house," I said. "He loves it more than you ever did."

  "You need to let him go," Art said. I was getting really tired of hearing him say that. "I'm telling you he's..."

  "I won't ever let him go, alright? He's my brother. I'm the only one who gives a shit."

  "You know that's not true," Art said. "I just know there's just so much we can do for him. You deserve to live your own life, start your own family. He's your brother, not your son. I know I've made a lot of mistakes. Maybe I shouldn't have suggested you become his guardian. Maybe I should have had him placed in a home."

  "You tried," I reminded him. "I wouldn't let you."

  "Yeah, I remember," he said. "I was never strong like you. I don't know where you get it from." He paused for a few seconds.

  "I haven't given up on him. His medication's been increased. Hopefully that will help. I think he'll be okay." I had to believe he'd be okay.

  "This isn't a movie or TV," Art said. "It's reality."

  "He fell in love and I never thought that would happen," I pointed out, realizing we had drifted off topic. "Jordan loves this house," I reiterated. "More than you do. Maybe you need to let us both go."

  "Someday you'll snap and he'll be too much for you to handle. Don't go feeling guilty because you have to do what you have to do."

  "Just go. Have a nice time teaching at Oxford," I said, bringing my mug to the sink, adding it to the mound of dishes.

  "How does Kelly feel about staying here after you're married?"

  "Kelly will do whatever is best for Jordan," I said, which was the truth. As a school counselor, she worked with students similar to Jordan. Maybe that's what drew me to her.

  "What if I don't want you and Jordan living here anymore?"

  "Then I'd consider you a real heartless bastard," I said. "And I never thought you were heartless." I considered him a lot of things, but never that. He paid for all of Jordan's education and doctors and health insurance...things that parents should do. He'd given him a very nice monthly allowance that I put in a savings account for him...a very nice, generous allowance actually. Maybe he did it out of guilt, but he didn't entirely walk away from all of his fatherly responsibilities. And he planned on paying for the rest of his education, including medical or graduate school, wherever Jordan wanted to go. "Have a safe flight," I said. "I have to get to work, then I'm going to see Jordan."

  Art was gone by the time I got home that evening.

  Ever since Jamie left, he must have called and texted everyday. He left several texts and messages on Jordan's phone and when Jordan didn't respond he'd call me.

  Jordan hadn't changed much since that time, so I really didn't have any good news to share with him. Jordan was trapped in his body, in that horrible state he was in, uncooperative, not speaking to anyone. He ate and drank, but barely. Although the doctor increased his medication, it would take weeks to see any results.

  In desperate need of a haircut, Jordan's curls were all knotted and matted. His hair was so bad I was afraid I'd have to shave it off. He'd kill me if I ever did that to him.

  "Sit up," I said. "I need to cut your hair. Come on. Sit up."

  As usual, he ignored me. Grabbing his arm, I pulled him upright, forcing him to sit up on his bed. "I'll try not to cut off too much, but it's gotten kind of wild." He didn't put up a fight, none whatsoever as I brought the hair clippers to his head. I almost wished he did put up a fight. "I asked Art to sell me the house," I said in-between clips. "He didn't give me a real answer so I know he doesn't want to. I don't get why he keeps coming back, do you? I know it's his house, but he doesn't really use it, does he? He's never really lived in it, not since I was little, anyway." Even though Jordan didn't respond, I was sure he could hear me. "I closed the pool last week," I said, changing the subject. "I can't believe it's September. I don't know where the summer went. I think I'll have Jamie take care of the pool next summer, too. He did a good job. What do you think?" No reaction; nothing.

  Jordan's head tilted down, his eyes focused on the heap of dark curls. I cut it short, like a buzz cut all around, leaving the top longer and curly.

  "It'll grow back," I said to Jordan. With his hair so short, he looked older, especially since he hadn't shaved in weeks. I always had a hard time picturing him shaving since he never let me teach him. One day he just decided to borrow my shaver, which he continued to do whether I let him or not. It drove me crazy and he knew it. With his short hair, his dark brown eyes were more prominent, so big and so brown. I could understand how Jamie fell for him.

  "I was kind of jealous, you know," I said, sweeping up his hair. "Because you were always the better looking brother. Hey, we all knew it. And I thought, oh shit, you're going to get all the girls. Funny, huh? Now I'm thinking, man, you could get any guy you want. But, you know, Jordan, you already have a guy. You have a great guy. Jamie's perfect for you. You know that, right?" Even though he didn’t respond or react, I continued to speak. "Jamie would go nuts if he saw you now," I said, ruffling his hair. Usually he hated when anyone touched his hair, but he seemed so indifferent, so apathetic to everything. I'd rather him shove or spit than do nothing. "I mean, he'd go nuts in a good way." Ignoring me, Jordan lay back in bed, curling up in a ball. "I don't know what you think you're accomplishing by sleeping and lying in bed all the time. Maybe you should pick up your phone, listen to music or maybe read all the texts Jamie's sent you." He didn't budge, not like I expected him to although I hoped he would. I was starting to think I'd really lost him.

  By the end of my visits with Jordan, I was ready to pull my hair out.

  "I'm going to pick up your textbooks this week," I said, heading to his door. "I'll visit again in a couple of days."

  "Which version of Landslide do you like the best?" Jordan suddenly asked from his bed.

  "Huh?" I asked, his voice catching me by surprise.

  "Which version of Landslide do you like the best?" he asked again. "Fleetwood Mac, Smashing Pumpkins, or Dixie Chicks?"

  "Hands down Smashing Pumpkins," I said matter-of-factly, trying to remain neutral in my reaction until I figured out where Jordan was at. One false move or word and I could send him right back into himself.

  "I knew you'd say that," he said.

  "What made you think of that song?" I asked.

  Continuing to lay there on his side, he shrugged a shoulder. "I think I like the original the best."

  "Interesting," I said.

  Landslide. There was a reason why he'd been thinking of that song. There was always a reason and I wondered how long the song had been playing in his head before he found the energy or nerve to ask me about it. Something triggered in himself that led him to speak, to ask me that question.

  Visiting hours were just about over and for once I wished they weren't. Jordan seemed like he was suddenly in the mood to talk.

  "Visiting hours are over," I said. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

  "I thought you weren't coming again until the end of the week," he said, proving that he had heard every single word I said to him.

  "I won't visit if you don't want me to," I said.

&
nbsp; "Do what you want," he muttered, which wasn't much of an answer, but at least he spoke.

  "Okay," I said. "See you tomorrow then." I had a feeling he really did want me to visit tomorrow. One thing I knew was that I hadn't lost him.

  Pictures of You

  Jordan

  That fourteen year old boy, Lucas, cried all the time, day after day, sitting in the corner of the room. I just wanted to shout "Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" But speaking was too hard for me these days. Either I just didn't have the energy or I couldn't find my voice. Counselors sat next to him, trying to console him, telling him lies by saying "everything's going to be okay." Nothing was ever going to be okay. Lies. All lies. I was older and maybe even wiser than most of the patients here. I was almost a college graduate at nineteen (soon to be twenty) while every other patient here was in middle school or high school. I didn't belong there. In fact, I didn't belong anywhere.

  We all sat in a room that resembled a classroom, attempting to do our schoolwork. I was only there because I was told I had to be in that room with everyone else. I didn't need a tutor; I was perfectly happy doing my own schoolwork in my room by myself. In the beginning of my stay here, counselors let me stay in my room, but then they kept harassing me and harassing me until I gave in to their demands. Tim told me the doctor increased my medication. Maybe the medication helped me get out of bed and speak and obey the counselors’ commands.

  I hated taking medication. I hated being different, but there was nothing I could do about it.

  Shut up....shut up....I held my head, covering my ears, as Lucas went on and on. He just wouldn't stop. I couldn't stand it, so I got up and headed to the door. And then there was that other kid who wouldn't sit down. This kid walked and walked, pacing all over the place like he had a running motor inside him. In the back of the room, two teen girls argued back and forth. Last week one of the girls punched the other girl in the stomach. I wanted them all to just shut up.

  "Where are you going, Jordan?" the head counselor, Marjory, asked, a black woman from Haiti. She spoke with a thick French Creole accent and wore long braids in her hair and eyeglasses that were at least two inches thick. This room was way too loud and noisy, so chaotic I was about to explode. I didn't know what to say to this counselor. "Are you okay? Can I get you anything?" she asked me. Standing at the door, I pulled at my hair...what was left of it, anyway. Tim cut most of it off except for the top.

  My own counselor, Megan, showed up right before I was about to really lose my mind. She was only a little older than I was, twenty-three or twenty-four. She would have looked younger if she didn't wear so much make-up. Her make-up sometimes distracted me. She liked to wear purple and shimmery eyeshadows with lots of mascara. Her lips were usually painted a deep maroon. Once she wore pink lipstick, which caught me off guard so I wanted nothing to do with her that day. Her reddish brown hair was short and she had this habit of tying the sides up with little barrettes.

  "Hey, I was just coming to see you," she said in that annoyingly chipper voice of hers. "Come with me. Let's chat."

  I hated to "chat," but I nevertheless followed her to her little office. For a few minutes I wandered around, pulling at my hair until she told me to sit down. Megan always tried to get me to talk when I didn't want to talk...just like Tim except her job was to get me to talk. Reluctantly, I plopped down on one of the uncomfortable chairs in her office.

  "Your hair looks nice," she said. "Did Tim cut it?"

  Who else would have cut it? What a stupid question, I thought, folding my arms across my chest.

  "How are you doing?" she asked.

  "Fine," I said because I knew that's what I was supposed to say.

  "You seem stressed," she said like she knew me so well. She had only known me a month.

  "I'm fine," I repeated. "It was loud in there, that's all." Even though I didn't look at her, I felt her eyes on me.

  “You seemed to handle yourself very well,” she said. “It was too much for you, so you chose to leave. That's good."

  So what?

  Megan was silent for a minute, contemplating what stupid question she wanted to ask me next. "Tell me about Jamie," she finally said.

  Oh no. Not this again. She had been after me since the beginning, trying to get me to talk about Jamie. Summer was over. What's done was done. I messed things up really bad. I shouldn't be with anyone. No one. I said all those awful things to him, but he wouldn't give up. He wouldn't let me go as evidenced by all the texts and emails he sent me. I wasn't sure if I'd ever be able to face him again.

  My heart hurt and all I wanted to do was cry at just the mention of his name.

  "He's your boyfriend, right?" Megan said. "Jamie...he's your boyfriend?"

  He was my boyfriend, I thought to myself. I chose not to answer her. There was no way I could ever go back to him.

  I shouldn't be with anyone. I'm meant to be alone. Forever alone.

  "I know you have a voice," she said. "We've all heard it." I ran my hands through my newly cut hair. My hair hadn't been this short in a long time...maybe not since high school. In my nervous habit, I continued to pull the top of my hair. I didn't want to think about Jamie. Jamie Perron, who was in England. Jamie. Jamie...how could I have said those things to him? These thoughts ruminated over and over again in my mind. I couldn't talk about him. Instead, I chose to speak about someone else other than Jamie.

  "I haven't seen my mother in a long time," I finally said, more to appease my counselor so she would leave me alone. "I usually visit twice a month. I've never gone this long without seeing her. She probably hates me now like everyone else."

  "What do you mean 'like everyone else?' Who do you think hates you?"

  Everyone, I thought although I really didn't know a lot of people. Everyone...my mother, Art, Tim, and Jamie. I was sure they all hated me. I was more trouble than I was worth.

  "Everyone," I muttered.

  "Who's everyone?" she asked again.

  Pausing a minute, I fought back my tears, overcome with guilt, regret, and shame. I wondered about how different Tim's life would be without me. I was sure it would be so much better. He never had a normal childhood. As a teenager, he had more responsibilities than most adults. Ever since I was born, he was always the one who had to deal with me and now I was stuck in this hospital with no end in sight. For all I knew they were going to keep me here forever. No one told me anything and I didn't ask.

  "I miss my mother," I said. "She left when I was ten and never came back. She lives in a group home. Did you know that?"

  "Yes, I know," she said. "You'll get to visit your mother soon." Swallowing back my tears, I shrugged.

  "I don't want to be like her," I said.

  "Your brother told me she had a stroke," she said.

  "Yeah, but she was sick before that," I said. "But at least she talked. She'd sing to us, she'd make brownies with us...with me, anyway...and now...well...she's not the same. I haven't heard her voice in years."

  "It must have been very hard for you...for both you and Tim."

  Talking was exhausting. Even though Megan wasn't done with me, I was done with her and made my way out of her little office.

  "Where are you going, Jordan?" Megan asked. "Come back. Sit back down."

  Ignoring her, I left and went straight to my room that was no bigger than a closet, my jail cell. I deserved to be in jail. Sitting on my bed, I held my head in my hands. Whether I wanted her to or not, Megan showed up, standing in my doorway.

  "That's you, isn't it?" she asked, pointing to the sketch hanging above my desk. Even though I noticed it weeks ago, I only took it out recently. Someone packed it in my suitcase, hiding it under my clothes. "Did Tim draw that?"

  I quickly glanced at her because how could she be so stupid?

  "No, it wasn't Tim," she said. "Whoever drew that was definitely in love with you. Jamie?"

  I didn't want to talk about Jamie.

  "He's an artist?"

  Not answering
, I took out my phone and put my headphones on. Within the first verse of The Cure's Pictures of You, I decided to say something.

  "He's an art teacher," I said. "He's in England for the school year. Some teacher exchange thing."

  A selfie of me and Jamie popped open on my phone. I inadvertently (or subconsciously) opened it. In the photo Jamie and I were lying shirtless in the field of sunflowers, either before or after we did it. Oh yeah...he let me do it to him...Megan entered my room and got a glimpse of the photo.

  "That's a beautiful photo," she said. "Did you take it?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "He's very handsome," she said.

  "Yes," I said, my entire body longing to be close to him, to touch him and hug him, to feel his skin against mine. My shoulders shuddered thinking about him. "He's beautiful," I said. "And he's gone."

  "But not forever, right? He's coming back."

  I didn't want to get into it with her. Before the tears came, I needed her to leave. Giving her a hint, I curled up on my bed, staring at the selfie, listening to my favorite Cure song. I wished I had the strength or courage to text him or something, but I didn't. I turned up the volume so I didn't have to listen to Megan anymore. I was done.

  ***

  Just two weeks ago, I turned twenty, which officially made me the oldest patient at this hospital. Tim bought a marble birthday cake (because marble was my favorite) and we shared it with the other patients. He also got me another t-shirt, one of the Clash because he said I didn't have one. Today Tim brought me a burger and fries as well as a chocolate frosty from Wendy's because I was always complaining about the food at this hospital. I didn't ask him to bring me anything; he just did it. I was a horrible brother, a horrible boyfriend. I dipped a fry in the frosty as my mind wandered off, guilt-stricken and wondering why Tim stuck around all these years. Tim deserved better.