because he’s the only reason
she came at all.
She takes my hand
to lead me outside.
Her skin is cool and soft
and it calls a memory.
I’m a little kid,
holding on tight
to my mom so
I
don’t
get
lost.
This Range Rover
Is extra, extra big.
I have to really climb
to make it up inside.
Aren’t these things supposed
to go everywhere? Because, for a huge
four-wheel-drive, it’s pretty fancy.
The tall man in the driver’s seat
turns, pushing a strand of super-
long gray hair off his ski-tanned face.
You must be Trace, he says. Your
mom’s told me so much about you.
Somehow I doubt that, but
at least he’s got the right name.
“And you’re Rory Davis.
She didn’t mention you, but
everyone knows who you are.”
I started to tell you last time
we talked, but you interrupted me.
Sure. My fault. How Mom.
Am I supposed to apologize?
I’ll change the subject instead.
“When can I see Will?”
Not for a while, says Mom.
He’s still kind of out of it.
“How long are you staying?”
A couple of days. We’ll be
looking into some rehab
programs for your brother.
“Rehab? You mean,
like, drug counseling?”
I’ve been talking to your dad.
We agree an inpatient situation
would probably be best for him.
At least they’re talking,
I guess, but I don’t much like
what they’re discussing.
“You mean like a hospital.”
Something like that, though
he wouldn’t be confined to a bed.
“But he couldn’t leave.”
Will is sick, Trace. He needs
serious help he can’t get at home.
I Always Believed
Pills were to make you
better. I never thought
they could be a sickness.
One question nags at me.
“Was it intentional, Mom?”
We still don’t know. He’s not
talking about it yet.
That might take a while,
says Rory Davis. And he
might not even be sure.
“How could he not be sure?”
Sometimes you forget
how much you’ve ingested.
“How do you know?”
Because I’ve been there.
I’ve been sober for six years.
Recovery is possible, but it requires
a strong desire to succeed.
“I hope he wants to.”
We all do, Trace. He’ll need
our support for sure. We all
have to be there for him.
But That Doesn’t Mean
Mom plans to stick around.
She stays long enough
to find a rehab place for Will.
It’s in California, close to the beach.
Rory (I get to call him that
now) says the atmosphere
is important. And Mom agrees.
It’s a beautiful place.
“How long will he be there?”
It’s a six-month program.
“Six months? What about school?”
Summer vacation starts
in a couple of weeks. After
that, he’ll have classes there.
“But why so long?”
Opioid dependency is tough
to beat, explains Rory.
He’ll need a lot of professional
help to understand why he started
using in the first place.
Plus, he’ll be far away from
the people he’s been buying from.
People Like the Vampire
The idea is, by the time
Will comes home,
those dealers, as Mom
calls them, will have
moved on. Hopefully
all the way to jail.
Rory and Mom are going
to drive Will to the rehab
center. They pick him up
from the hospital on Saturday
and stop by the house so
he can pack some stuff
and say goodbye.
Everyone wanted to be
here, but Will insisted
it just be Dad and me.
When he comes in,
he’s pale as paper,
and his hands tremble.
Rory said he might be shaky.
His body is fighting him,
demanding the pills
he can’t have anymore.
I want to cry. But I’ll act
cool. “Hey, Will.”
Uh . . . Hi.
“You doing okay?”
Been better. But I’ll survive.
That is the point. “Good.
Where’s Mom and Rory?”
They went to gas up the SUV.
I’ve only got a half hour,
so I’d better start packing.
“Lily already washed
and folded your clothes.
They’re on your bed.”
I don’t mention how she
and Dad went through
everything in his room
to make sure he didn’t
have any pills stashed.
Where’s Dad?
Just as he asks, the lawn mower
snarls and a green perfume
floats through the window.
“Out back. Want me to get him?”
When I’m finished.
I Trail Will to His Room
Not that he asked me to.
Spying on me?
I could say something
mean, or make a joke.
But I’m honest when I
tell him, “I only get to see
you for a little while.”
You saying you’ll miss me?
I turn my head
so he can’t see the hot drip
of tears, and I cough, “Uh-huh.”
He opens the suitcase
that’s sitting beside the bed,
starts filling it with socks.
“Don’t forget your Jockeys.”
Underwear. Check.
“Hey, Will? I’m sorry.”
For what?
I’ve had time to think
about this. “For not noticing
sooner. And for not saying
something right away
when I finally did.”
Why didn’t you?
“I wanted to protect you.”
That’s not your job, little
brother. Refuse the guilt!
A hint of a sense of humor.
Shades of the old Will.
“But . . . what could I have
done? To stop you, I mean.”
He quits feeding clothes
into his suitcase. Flips his dark
hair, which has grown too long,
off his forehead, out of his eyes.
Listen, Trace. You can’t stop
anyone who’s determined
to go down a certain path.
You can tell them you think
it’s wrong. That you’re scared
for them, even. But you can’t
stop them because decisions
like that are totally their own.
The best you can do
is keep loving them.
That Will Take Time
To process completely.
Time I don’t have right now.
What I know for sure
is “I love you, Will.”
I know. You, too. I always
have. I’m sorry if I ever
made you feel otherwise.
The pills made me forget
about the pain, but also about
the things that were important
to me. Especially the people.
“Hey, Will. Are you scared?”
Yeah.
That makes me scared for him.
Funny, I don’t get scared
very often. Once, though . . .
“Remember that time
we were snowboarding
and took a wrong turn?
We ended up at the top
of a really steep run.
I was afraid to go down it.
Remember what you said?”
He thinks a minute. Nods.
I said sometimes you have to
have faith in yourself, step over
the edge, and take the plunge.
“I did. Actually, I put my faith
in you. I took the plunge. I fell.
But I picked myself up and made it
to the bottom. Then we went
back up and took the run again.”
And you fell again.
“But I didn’t the next time.
I figured out my mistakes
and corrected them.”
Yeah, well, you’re pretty
smart. For a dumb kid.
“So, you took a wrong
turn. You can fix it.”
But now I see.
I can’t.
Will Goes to His Closet
Digs around, returns
with a favorite pair
of Adidas, and swaps
them for the fancy Nikes
he has on his feet.
“What are you doing?”
He shrugs. The Adidas are
more comfortable. Anyway,
I was wearing the Nikes when . . .
They rode in the ambulance
with him. “Right. Hey, Will?
I’m glad you didn’t die.”
Me, too. I think. We’ll see.
That doesn’t make me feel
better. But it does make
me glad he’s getting help.
My eyes travel across
the room, to the black
case standing in one corner.
“Will they let you bring
your guitar, do you think?”
I don’t know.
“You should see.”
Maybe you should pawn it
for the money I owe you.
Guessing he could tell
me where the nearest
pawnshop happens to be.
Also guess I need to forgive
him. Like, all the way.
“I’ll make you a deal.
Take your guitar and you
don’t have to pay me back.”
I don’t get it. Why?
“Because music is medicine.
And also because if Mom
never gives you anything
else, she gave you that.
And it’s special.”
He’s not convinced.
Time will tell, I suppose.
But when he puts his suitcase
next to the front door,
he puts his guitar case beside it.
Dad Comes In
Decorated with sprays
of fresh-cut grass.
Getting hot out there,
he says. You’re lucky
you’ll be near the water
for the summer.
Not sure how much time
I’ll get to spend at the beach.
Well, at least you’ll have
the ocean breeze.
I think this is what’s known
as small talk. It’s what you do
when you’re scared you might
say something wrong, so instead
you discuss the weather.
Outside the window, I see
the Range Rover pull up against
the curb. “Mom’s here.”
Dad walks Will to the door.
Gives him a giant bear hug.
You can do this, son. Don’t
hesitate to let me know
if you need anything at all.
Sure, Dad.
“Hey! You should have Rory
Davis autograph your guitar.”
Brilliant idea. “Just don’t pawn it.”
Dad looks kind of horrified,
but a small laugh escapes Will.
No pawnshops where
I’m going, Trace.
The bell rings.
I open the door.
Mom steps inside.
For one small moment,
the four of us are together.
For one small moment,
it’s like she never left.
One tiny moment.
Dad tells Will he loves him.
Will tells Dad he loves him.
Mom tells me she loves me.
“Love you, Mom.
You too, Will.”
Dad and I
Stand at the open door,
watching them go
until the Range Rover
turns the corner and
disappears from sight.
“Will’s going to get better
now, right, Dad?”
Listen, Trace. If you ever again
think something’s wrong, you keep
telling me until you’re sure
I understand what you’re saying.
“Okay.”
Promise?
“Promise.”
I make a promise
to myself, too.
I will never cover for Will
again, or for anyone else.
At least not over
something this big.
Some secrets
shouldn’t be kept.
As We Close the Door
And retreat inside, my phone
buzzes in my pocket.
The message is from Cat:
How’s Will?
I text back:
On his way to rehab.
Looks pretty good.
Says he’s scared.
How are you?
Worried for him.
Glad he’s alive.
Anytime you want
to talk, I’m here.
Thanks, Cat.
I kind of want to hang
out with her now.
Maybe go to the batting
cages or something.
Having friends is one thing.
Having friends who stick
by you, no matter what,
is everything.
It’s Sunday Afternoon
Eight days
since Will
almost died.
He’s gone.
But he’ll be back.
Still, his room is empty.
And so is a space inside me.
There’s a hole, a hollow,
and it won’t be filled
until he returns,
wanting to stay alive.
I’ve got friends.
Family.
A decent next-door neighbor.
Even a part-time dog.
All of them are good to me.
But Will is my brother.
I’m on the couch, studying
for finals. Dad sits next to me.
There’s a game on soon, he says.
And later Lily’s coming to dinner.
I want to talk to you about
something before she gets here.
“Good or bad?”
Good, at least I think so.
I put my book on the coffee
table, look at Dad, who’s all
serious. “What is it?”
I’ve been thinking about buying
a diamond ring for Lily.
But only with your permission.
I swallow hard. “You want
to get married. And you
want me to say it’s okay.”
I think you know how I feel about her.
She and I have been talking.
We want to become a real family.
But only if you want that, too.
Just a month ago I would’ve
said no. In fact, I probably
would’ve yelled it. I could use
a little time to process, though.
“Can I think about it?”
Dad smiles. Of course. Take
as long as you need. I mean,
not like years or anything.
I Take My Schoolbooks
Back to my bedroom,
put them on my desk.
Sit in the chair by my window.
I see Mr. Cobb opening
his garage door, think of
his Corvette beneath
her custom cover, and
his words float into my mind.
Becky is the love of my life.
Well, there was one other . . .
Becky is still there for him,
but she’s just a car, even if
she is super-duper special.
The “one other” is gone now,
and he can’t ever have her back.
Some things you can’t fix,
no matter how much you want to.
He must get awful lonely.
I wouldn’t want that
for Grandpa.
I’m glad he has Clara.
I wouldn’t want that
for Dad.