Текст книги "Triangle: The Complete Series"

Автор книги: Susann Julieva

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my hands and knees, but I’m shaking so badly that I can only make it halfway there. I curl up on my

side, still crying, still screaming, still begging for someone to come help me.

But no one does.

* * *

After breakfast, we’re herded into a line in front of a single window in the hallway. When I get up to it,

there’s a guy sitting there with a tray of cups and a computer printout.

“Wrist,” he says to me, like I’m supposed to understand what he’s talking about. He’s waiting for me

to respond, but I can’t seem to remember the right answer, if I ever even knew it. “Wrist?” he says again

and points at me. I look down, trying to figure out what he’s pointing at, and see my wrist that has the

bracelet on it.

Oh.

I stick my hand out towards him, and he reads something off the bracelet. With a nod, he grabs one

of the cups and holds it out for me. There’re a couple of pills rolling around in the bottom of it, and I

just stare at them until he holds out a larger cup, this one filled with water. He watches as I take it too,

then just waits, staring at me.

I realize he’s waiting for me to take them, so I tip them all into my mouth and use the water to wash

them down. When I’m done, he asks me to open my mouth and looks inside, apparently making sure

I’ve taken them all.

I feel like I’m in some bizarre new dimension, and I still can’t figure out how I got here.

* * *

My first meeting with “Doc” is that afternoon. Or at least the first meeting with her that I remember.

Another nurse comes to get me around 2 in the afternoon, and leads me to a door that looks like every

other door here, only this one doesn’t have a window in it. The nurse just tells me to go in, so I push the

door open a little, not quite expecting what I see.

The room is filled with books, a couch, some chairs, stereotypical shrink’s office. Which is what this

is, I guess. There’s a woman sitting behind a big desk, typing on a computer, which she stops when I

poke my head in. She’d be hot if she weren’t a few years past that, but she’s still not bad. She’s got dark

blonde hair that’s pulled up, and she’s wearing a white coat that I guess means she’s one of the people in

charge here.

“Nick,” she smiles a little when she sees me, “come on in. We’ll see how you’re doing today.” Like

everyone else, she talks to me like I should know who she is. Like she knows who I am.

* * *

“Yes, Mrs. Bancroft, we’ll take good care of him. See if we can’t get him back on the right track.”

There’s a long line of hard plastic chairs along one wall, and I’m sitting in one about halfway along.

My mom is talking to this woman that I can’t see very well because she’s right in front of one of the

huge windows, and the sunlight makes it nearly impossible to look at her. It’s coming through and

reflecting off her hair, and I try to see how long I can stare at the way it turns all shiny and sort of gold.

“Just fix it so that I don’t have to deal with this again, and I’ll be happy.” That’s my mom, her voice

is familiar enough that I know it without even looking over. I hear her shoes clicking on the hard floor

as she walks away.

The woman still standing next to me sighs, and I hear her talking before I realize she’s talking to me.

“Let’s get you to your room then, Nick.” I look up at her again and end up staring into the sun.

“Okay.”

* * *

I sit on Doc’s couch as she tries to fill me in on some of the stuff I don’t remember. Stuff like how long

I’ve been here (17 days), that I was at County Hospital before this (3 days), that I’ve been on some

serious meds since then (because of my “suicide attempt”), but not until after my body went through a

massive withdrawal period (from what, no one’s exactly certain, even me), that I’ll be here for at least a

month (possibly more), and that Doc’s reduced my dosage of meds now because we need to talk about

some stuff (and the meds make me too spaced out to do much more than sit and stare at people like a

giant creep).

She finishes what she has to say and waits for me to start talking, but I don’t want to. So we sit there

for nearly 10 minutes without either of us saying anything. The truth is, I don’t really feel like talking to

her. I feel like yelling. Shouting at the top of my lungs for her to let me out of here. But I just don’t have

the energy for it. She seems fine with that though, so we just sit in silence.

I’m not used to silence. I’ve avoided it in the past. It’s kind of hard to escape here though. My mind

wanders as I stare at her wall, and for the first time in a long time I’m sober enough to follow it.

Granted, I don’t really like where my thoughts take me, but there’s nothing here that I can use to escape

them.

I look up a few times and nearly say something. Each time Doc looks at me and raises her eyebrows,

but each time I just shake my head and go back to thinking.

* * *

When we’re done, Doc sends me back out into a main area where people are sitting and doing things

like putting puzzles together and working on some sort of craft project, I guess. I don’t have anything

better to do, so I sort of wander around the room, watching them. Some of them look up when I walk

by, but most of them ignore me. Like they’re already used to me. I wonder if I’ll ever catch up with

everything I can’t remember, or if I’ve lost that time forever.

I look at the tables they’re all sitting at, the different colored paper, the glue, the bits of glitter and

red and green. I look around the room and notice some lonely looking paper chains already hanging

high up near the ceiling. On one wall, someone’s hung up a giant paper tree covered in people’s names

and circular decorations. One of them has my name on it (“Nick K”), written in that familiar spiky

handwriting that I’ve had since I learned to write.

I don’t remember making it, but I can’t ignore the proof that’s hanging on the wall right there in

front of me.

The way everything is arranged sparks something in my mind, and I try to add up the days through

the fog that’s starting to clear but still clinging to me. After a fight with my own brain, I finally

remember something that Doc just told me. When everything comes together, it’s the one thing that

stays clear.

I’m in rehab for Christmas.

Chapter 2

London Boys

DANNY: It’s December, and I’m really not feeling up to ivy and mistletoe and all this shit. Lilah’s idea

of a perfect Christmas involves Aspen, après-ski, and excessive amounts of alcohol. It’s always the

same talk, the same people, the same routine, and I get bored off my head just thinking of it.

“Come to Europe then,” Andrea says one afternoon after rehearsal when we’re all settled at Cafe

Plato. One of the many good things about Andie is that she seems to have an older brother or cousin in

every city and country you could ever possibly want to visit.

“I might,” I answer vaguely, but she shakes her pretty head.

“I’m not suggesting. It’s set, you’re coming with me.”

“I am?” I smile a little, but I’m feeling exhausted and my heart isn’t in the friendly banter. I know

that she can tell.

“Yup. You might as well accept it, Danny. You have no choice.”

Her deep green eyes focus on my face, and I look away. Andrea’s family has been doing business

with Lilah’s for generations, or so it seems. Her mom and Lilah have always enjoyed pretending to be

the best of friends. In truth, they never gave a shit, but that’s high society reality for you.

I remember us kids sneaking around the house one day, and we peeked through a half-open door and

found Walter, Andie’s dad, making out with Lilah. Not long after the divorce, but Andrea’s folks were

still married then. We never threw a huge tantrum or anything. I think we just left and continued with

whatever we were playing.

Later this evening, standing outside Andrea’s dorm after she’d decided that I was to walk her home,

she drops her cigarette and neatly puts it out with the tip of her shoe while looking at me.

“It’s that boy, isn’t it?” she asks calmly, in that voice that tells me there’s no getting around this

conversation. “That Foley, that school paper guy?”

Damn. “Who?” I manage to sound bored, and she arches a fine, perfect eyebrow.

“That means yes, then.”

“Andie, I really don’t wanna…”

“…talk about it. I know. You never do.” She studies my face for a long moment. “I just thought

you’d like to know that there’s some stupid talk going ‘round. It’s been noticed that you haven’t exactly

been… dating for a while.”

That’s a polite way of saying that I haven’t been shagging my brains out. I half-smile to myself. “So

what? Let them talk. It’s not like I care.”

“Yes, but maybe I do. Maybe I don’t like it when people are talking behind my friend’s back.” She

pauses. “Behind my oldest and probably best friend’s back,” she corrects herself solemnly. I can’t help

but smile.

“Andie…”

“Shush. You don’t have to explain anything. But you’re coming with me for the holidays. We’re

gonna spend Christmas with Aden in London, and New Year’s in Paris with Nate. How does that

sound?”

“Not bad at all.”

“See? I know what’s good for you. You’re gonna be fine.”

The way she says it, I’m willing to believe it. I’d really like to. I’m fed up with feeling like this. I

don’t even recognize myself anymore.

* * *

First stop: London, England.

It’s snowing. Soft, gentle, massive snowflakes dancing through the air like in one of those

completely overdone Christmas movies that I know would make James gag. I’d love to see that. Tie him

to the bedposts and force him to watch “It’s a Wonderful Life”. Now that would be something. I’d have

a good laugh.

James Foley. I’m trying to think of him in an objective way, as I would of someone I don’t really

know. I don’t think it’s working all that well, because after all, this is has turned out to be a three person

trip. Andie, and I, and him. He’s here, not physically, but in my head, on my mind, all the time. He’s in

things that remind me of him, and he’s in everything that doesn’t. Fuck if I know how to handle this

shit.

There are still odd moments when I could kill for a smoke, even though it’s been weeks since I quit.

And every so often I catch myself staring off into space, not thinking anything, just blank. I’m not doing

anything else, so I let Andie drag me through one crowded store after another. There are no pantomimes

on Leicester Square this time of year, and somehow I miss them as I stare out the window while we

have our lunch at Pizza Hut.

Back outside, the streets are buzzing with Christmas shoppers and tourists. All the windows are

decorated in red, white, silver, and green, and there’s that special excitement of the holiday season in the

frosty air.

Andie disappears in the changing room section of Selfridges, and I sit down beside a tired dad

waiting for his wife and kid with at least five huge shopping bags huddled around his feet. A little girl is

leaning against the wall opposite of me, chewing on her little fingers, and staring at me like I’m the

most fascinating creature on earth. I crack a smile, and she giggles bashfully. Good to know that I

haven’t lost my touch with the ladies just yet.

Then we’re on the move again, making our way down another one of the big shopping streets,

snowflakes landing softly on our eyelashes, melting and leaving fake tears. Andie spontaneously

decides to buy me a suede jacket that I really like, and I’m starting to feel a bit more with it as we stroll

along.

She turns to stare after a hot young thing with an ass to die for that passes us somewhere on Regent

Street. Noticing that I’m looking after him as well, she chuckles softly. “I swear, London has the highest

percentage of pretty boys in the world!”

I grin. “You know I’m practically a Londoner, right?” If you believe Grazzo, thanks to a little sex

accident, baby Rizzo was conceived in this city.

“Oh, you would have to be!” She laughs, shifts some shopping bags to the other side, and takes my

hand in hers. It’s just one of those moments when nothing big happens, but everything’s perfect, and

somehow you’re feeling warm inside and whole.

We continue towards Piccadilly Circus, and suddenly stop at the same time. For a long moment, we

just stare, because it doesn’t feel real. There’s a poster showing a guy with a sax who looks like my

clone, only older by about twenty-five years. And my stomach just drops into my knees. “Shit.”

“That’s so totally not a coincidence. It’s tonight.” Andrea squeezes my hand as she takes a closer

look at the ad. “Hey, do you wanna go?”

Apparently Grazzo’s in London, for a concert in a legendary Blues club where I’ve seen him play

before. Many years ago. Maybe too many.

Looks like we have it all: Christmas, snow, and a son the prodigal dad could return to. If only he

wanted. If these things mattered to him.

* * *

“Dan, my man! Now that’s a surprise!” Backstage after the show, Grazzo pulls me into a tight, warm

bear hug, and doesn’t let go for a while. His stubble’s still so familiar against my cheek; he smells of

expensive Whiskey and that same old aftershave. And for a moment, I’m a five-year-old again, absurdly

happy to be home, because home is where dad is.

Over his shoulder, I can see Whitey grinning and winking at me. “Now if it ain’t Little Grazzo!

How’s life been treating you, kid?”

“Not too bad, can’t complain.”

“Good, good. How’s the old lady?”

“Married, or so she was when last I checked.”

The old clarinet player laughs, his voice like gravel. “Goin’ through them husbands quickly, ain’t

she, Graz?”

My dad pulls back and just shrugs with a grin. “What can I say, I’m hard to replace.”

“Impossible to replace,” a tall, anorexic blonde in a short dress purrs, and steps to Grazzo’s side, her

bony hands all over him. Another model he picked up after a show, no doubt. She’s got to pinch him to

be introduced.

“Danny, this is…” (short hesitation as he tries to recall her name) “…Nadja. – Nadja, my wayward

son, who prefers acting to making use of his real talent, music.” He says it with that grin, but I know

he’s only half-joking. He’ll never stop bugging me about it, but I’d actually be disappointed if he did.

It’s the only time when he feels like a father to me, not just like any old buddy of mine.

“And oh my god, Andie? Geez, is that you?” He’s finally spotted the one childhood friend I have

that he could possibly remember. Andrea’s leaning against the wall beside the door, unused to the chaos

of an aftershow room full of crazy musicians.

“Look at you, all grown up, and what a beauty!”

This is the first time I’ve ever seen Andrea blush. The cold, removed goddess turned into a school

girl – damn, it takes a lot. Grazzo’s giving her his infamous grin, and seeing this, Anorexic Nadja turns

on the spot and runs off slamming the door. Sadly for her, no one even looks up. You know my dad, you

know lady drama.

I can see that Grazzo’s unrivaled charisma is still doing the trick. I know what’s coming next. He’ll

invite us to come along and hit the town. We’re gonna have a blast with the old crew, we’ll drink hard,

we’ll have a laugh, we’ll drag out memories and all the old stories, and everything will be just like way

back then.

And then, eventually, he’ll just disappear. With some chick who’s that much more interesting than

the son he hasn’t seen in years. Might even be Andrea getting lucky tonight. And he’ll be gone just like

that, without a word, without so much as a “see ya”. He always does it. He’s brilliant at completely

leaving you behind.

All of a sudden I’m feeling sick to my stomach. There’s not enough air in this buzzing, crowded

room, as I realize that it’s really me being the clone here, not him. I look at Grazzo, and I see myself, in

twenty-five years. The Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up. Still the same, still messing around, always the

same old tricks, never pausing to think, or care. A great buddy, but a horrible friend. And the worst

father. Is this really who I’m bound to be?

Pathetic. But here we go again. Merry fucking Christmas, dad.

* * *

Next stop: Paris, France.

Paris is just as gray and ugly as any city in wintertime, but I don’t mind. We’re out for a walk on the

boulevard along the Seine late at night, having left Grazzo and London behind with only a few minor

scratches. There’s no snow in Paris, and I think it seems more real without it.

“You need to get laid,” Andrea states matter-of-factly, out of the blue, right after a half-hearted

conversation about a new restaurant at the Champs Elysees.

“I do,” I agree, and smile a little when she takes my arm and leads me down the steps to the

riverbank. It’s foggy, and freezing, but I don’t mind the cold, because the scenery’s pretty, and it’s

peaceful. I can just make out the shape of Notre-Dame in the distance, looming over the river like some

dark, ancient creature. And for a moment, I feel like I’m out of time, hovering in the middle of eternity,

and life below is small, and simple, and incredibly easy. For the first time in weeks, I can actually feel

my body.

“You have to try and forget Foley,” she says after a long moment of silence.

“D’uh.” I give her a look. “Why do you think I’m here?”

“Fine, so stop your brooding. It’s getting old.”

“Hey, I don’t brood, okay?” I grin vaguely.

“Alright, Mr. Touchy-Feely. Don’t be offended.”

I look at her for a moment. I’m not offended. I’m nothing, really. I know it’s all I have been lately.

And yes, it’s high time to get over that.

“Andie? How about you shut up, fetch us a cab, and get me drunk quick?”

“Hallelujah!” She laughs with relief. I can tell that she’s been dying for words like these, after

having spent all this time dealing with that strange version of myself that’s so different to who I used to

be.

I grin at her. “I need a nice piece of ass tonight.”

She laughs again. “With a head and a body attached?”

“Either way.”

“You’re such a slut,” she states fondly.

* * *

And there he is, right in the heart of Paris. Clearly the nicest piece of ass this side of the Seine. We’re in

the city’s trendiest club, it’s New Year’s Eve, and he’s perfect. A friend of Nate’s, French Boy whose

name I forget, all dark hair and pouty lips, seriously pretty, and looking like he could be one hell of a

shag. He calls me Daniel in that thick French accent, and it sounds all wrong, but I don’t care enough to

let him know.

“You speak French very good,” he tells me.

“Yeah,” I grin. “And your English sucks.”

He laughs and drags me onto the dance floor, and then I get swept away, and it’s all perfume and

sweat and bodies pressing against mine, and the DJ’s a damn god.

And James is still there, behind my back, somewhere in the crowd, stalking me. All I want is to

forget. I want to have him removed, erased from my memory. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind-me

already. Because by now, I hate the bastard, and I miss him, and I hate him more for missing him. I’m

still not feeling like myself, not like anyone else. I’m drifting, headed nowhere, and right now, I really

just don’t care.

The world can go screw itself. James can go screw himself. He can go cut himself, get some new

scars, slit his wrists, he can bleed to death. I don’t care. One of these days, I really won’t give a shit

anymore.

A couple of Caipirinhas later things get kind of blurry, the laughter gets louder, everyone gets wilder,

talking is no longer necessary, and French Boy who completely abuses my name is all over me.

I’m actually having a good time, and surprisingly I don’t mind being touched, for the first time since

James… or Keller… Shit, man, for the first time in a while. When the hell did my life get so

complicated? But the thought escapes me before I have time to ponder, because now there’s hands,

warm fingertips, gentle like feathers, teasing, tempting, sliding underneath my shirt…

French Boy takes a long drag on his cigarette, leans in and kisses me, giving me a taste of his smoke.

And I find myself not minding at all. The kiss is slow and deep, and sexy, and his breathing accelerates

as he presses up against me. I like the needy little sounds he makes, I like the way he tastes, bitter

alcohol mingled with lime and something sweet, and I think I definitely want more of this.

Then it suddenly hits me, and I realize that I’ve got it all wrong. It won’t make me exactly like

Grazzo just to leave James behind. It’s okay to do it. It’s necessary to do it. There’s no way around it,

really, unless I want to spend the rest of my life in misery. All this time, I was walking away from god

knows what. Not from James. Not really. I think I was walking away from myself, from who I really

am. And suddenly I don’t remember why I was doing that in the first place. Why I ever wanted to

change. Why the hell would I need to change? I was fine before I met James. I was better than fine. I

was myself. And even if being myself is being like Grazzo in some regards, so what? I am my father’s

son. And if that’s seriously screwed-up, so be it. I don’t need to justify myself. And if James can’t

handle the way I am, then screw that son of a bitch.

And before I even know what’s happening, it’s back just like that: my usual energy, flooding my

body in a heartbeat. Like it had never left me, like it was merely taking a nap. And this is it. Here, right

now. Live it. Love it. Do it. All I have to do is to let myself fall. All it really takes is for me to finally let

go off all that bullshit that’s been dragging me down. And then I simply do.

I can tell the difference immediately. I can tell from the submissive little moan escaping French

Boy’s lips as he gladly lets me take over. Hey there. I’m back. I’m here. I’m ready. Good ol’ Danny

Rizzo is back in the game.

Barely two minutes later, we’re fucking in a narrow bathroom stall with a broken lock. It’s got a

French quote written on its wall that makes me grin:

Mieux vaut faire, et se repentir,

que se repentir, et rien faire.

– It’s better to do something, and regret it,

than to regret, and do nothing.

How about that? A perfect motto for the new year I think has just started. Literally, with one hell of a

bang.

Chapter 3

Lost And Found

NICK: There is nothing more depressing than a bunch of addicts and crazies trying to make it through

the holidays. Trust me.

The doctors and nurses tried to get people to make decorations and hang them up in the main room,

but no matter how much they try, it still looks like a hospital. A hospital with pieces of sad paper on the

walls. It would have been better if everyone just ignored that it was the end of December and let us go

on with our lives.

But, like Doc told me one day when I was complaining about it, the point of being in here is to get

us ready to go back “out there”, or some shit like that, and if “out there” is having Christmas (or

Chanukah, or Kwanza, or whatever the hell people are having), then we need to have it in here too.

Nevermind the fact that it’s messing with everyone’s heads. Because who wants to be stuck in the

hospital for Christmas?

Not me, that’s for sure. I don’t want to be here no matter what day it is, but I don’t have much of a

choice. It doesn’t matter if I want to be at some holiday party, drinking eggnog with everyone else. Or

maybe just the liquor that goes in the eggnog. Finding a “present” from Marc and going off to share it

with some pretty girl or guy. It doesn’t even matter if I just want to be anywhere but here.

And as if the shitty decorations weren’t enough, we’re having a “holiday party” for families to come

and visit. They can bring presents (as long as the nurses check them first for “contraband”) and there’s

fruit punch and cookies, and everyone’s trying to pretend like it’s not messed up, like it makes sense to

have a holiday party where half the guests can’t wear shoes with laces and where doctors hover over

everyone. Like it’s normal.

But maybe it is normal. Because, just like normal, I’m sitting on the side watching everyone else

have a good time. Alone, of course, because who would come visit me here? Certainly not my family.

Not that I really blame them too much. Both Mom and Dad have their new families to be with.

“Nick.”

I’m slouched down in my chair, arms crossed over my chest, trying to hide from the rest of the room,

and I have to look way up to see Doc’s concerned face looking down at me. Concerned. Great.

Concerned usually means some sort of heartfelt discussion is in my near future.

She sits down next to me and watches the other guests with me for a while. There’s a group in front

of us that looks like they’re having the best time in the world. Laughing and joking and hugging. It’s the

dad that’s in here, and he annoys the hell out of me. He’s here because he was driving drunk and hit

someone. I guess the person’s okay, but this was part of his court sentence.

The only thing is that he’s all religious and shit, so he wants to save everyone else’s soul. Like

mine’s even worth saving. But he’s tried sitting me down three or four times in the two and a half weeks

I can remember to tell me that “God loves me” and that I’ll be able to leave all my problems behind if I

just turn my soul over to “Him”. Like that’s really helped him out of his problems. The nurses have told

him to stop preaching at people, but he still tries.

And now here he is with his family. His wife and his two perfect kids. And still annoying the hell out

of me.

I’ve completely forgotten that Doc’s sitting there until she clears her throat a little. She still looks

concerned when I glance over at her, and I just cross my arms a little tighter.

“I sent invitations to both of your parents. I’m sure they’re just running a little late…”

I can’t help laughing at her. I know she’s met Mom (I can sort of remember that if I try real hard), so

I can’t understand how she can keep thinking that my parents are just “running late”. I shake my head at

her and hear her sigh. I know she’ll bring this up at our next meeting, but she’s not going to talk about it

in the middle of a party.

Some party this is turning out to be.

***

The first time Doc mentioned “family therapy” I knew it wasn’t going to go over well, and the lack of

an appearance at our holiday “party” just reinforced that. My mother is not a woman that appreciates

being pulled away from her usual schedule. And my dad, well, he’d probably agree to come and then

forget about it. I’ve seen it happen before. Not with therapy, but with enough other things that I guess

I’m pretty much used to it by now.

Doc told me not to worry about it too much. That behind all the anger, parents just want their kids to

be okay. I told her that she’s never had to deal with my parents.

I was already warned, so it’s not a total surprise when I walk into Doc’s office and see my mother

sitting there. Also not a surprise is the fact that she’s talking on her cell phone. Doc’s not here yet, and

mom barely acknowledges I’m in the room, so I sit in my usual chair and wait.

Eventually mom finishes her call, closing the phone up with that little snap that I always hate. It’s

just plastic on plastic, but something about the sound gives me shivers. I should tell Doc about it. She’d

probably think that it’s “interesting.”

Apparently I have super powers now, because just thinking about Doc brings her into the room.

Pretty cool, especially since I was getting sort of twitchy just sitting here with mom ignoring me in

favor of her PDA calendar.

“Mrs. Bancroft, thank you for coming today. Unfortunately, it seems that Mr. Kell-”

“Is a no-show. I’m not surprised. Remembering things about his family never was one of his strong

points. I was always the one needing to rearrange my time. Speaking of, how long do you expect this to

take? I need to pick up Daisy from her Kinderplay group in half an hour.”

I have to smile a little, even given the situation. Doc looks completely stunned. I’ve seen mom do

this before, fly in and take everything over without any thought for who’s actually in charge. She’s a

force of nature. I probably should’ve tried to warn Doc a little more, but then I wouldn’t have the fun of

seeing her look like someone smacked her with a board, and I have to get my kicks somehow in here.

“Mrs. Bancroft, I thought that I’d mentioned in our phone conversation that this is a slow and ongoing

process. We can’t even begin to work on anything in less than half an hour. Nick needs-”

“Nick needs? Isn’t that what I’m paying you for? To figure out what he needs and to fix him so that I

don’t have to do this again. Really, doctor, I’m very busy, and I just don’t have the time in my day to

drive down here and sit in a little room doing this. Why don’t you do whatever it is you do, I’ll pay for

it, no one else will need to know we went through this, and we’ll all be happy.”

She gets up and starts putting on her coat. I can see Doc working on a protest, but I don’t think it’s

going to do much good. I knew this wasn’t going to work.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me doctor, I need to go pick up my daughter, drop her off at the sitter, and

then get back to work. I can’t just sit here all day; I have better things to do.”

“Oh that’s right, mom. Run off and spend time with your perfect job and your perfect family and

pretend I don’t even exist.”

It’s the first time I’ve said anything since I walked into the room, and she finally turns and looks at

me, almost surprised that I’m even here at all. To be honest, I’m a little surprised myself, that I finally

decided to say something.

“Sometimes Nick, I wish you didn’t.”

No matter what I’ve been feeling myself, hearing her say it practically sucks the oxygen out of the

room. It’s a struggle to find the air to say anything else, and when I do, it comes out as a whisper.

“Well maybe if you wish hard enough, one of these days it’ll come true.” My breath catches in my

throat the second I get the words out, and I wonder if maybe we wouldn’t have all been better off if I’d

ended up taking a little more that night. My ears are ringing and I can only partially hear that Doc’s

trying to say something. My vision is fine though, and I can see mom picking up her things and walking

away.