two are born to cross: their paths, their lives, their hearts
if by chance one turns away, are they forever lost?
I knew this time would come. Eventually someone would get the idea that a little intervention was called for, and give it the old college try. I didn't think it would be him, though. Maybe the others elected him to be their representative; after all, I'd be less likely to bite his head off. But that didn't really make any sense. I expected Irene—no one ever won a fight with her and lived to tell the tale.
I wished I could just break down and confess, but if I told them what was really going on, I'd be in more trouble than if I just let them believe what they want to believe. Then again, I thought, maybe a stay in a mental facility might be nice. Three meals a day, maybe some sedatives…
When he asked for a ride home after the show, it seemed like an innocent request.
We drove in silence for most of the way, with the radio keeping us company, together alone. When I stopped sleeping, edges became sharper, which tended to make driving even more of an adventure than it already was. I felt hypersensitive, trigger happy, ready to swerve at the slightest hint of trouble in the road. I intently studied the road ahead of us for foreign objects or stupid animals testing Darwinism.
He broke the appropriately-unspoken no talking rule. Or maybe I spoke first.
"What?" I said, trying to seem understanding, but it came out sharper than I'd intended. I bit back the urge to instantly apologize.
"I didn't say anything." He was, perhaps understandably, defensive.
"I'm sorry," I conceded. "I'm just… you know… off my game lately. A little paranoid, apparently. I mean, I don't know if you've noticed." I laughed bitterly.
It was quiet then, until he spoke up, as if he had been practicing: "Actually, I kind of wanted to talk to you about that."
"Yeah, listen, I know, I've heard it already from your mother and everyone else."
"She talked to you?"
"Well, no. But she didn't have to. I know what you all think is going on, and I want you to just trust me when I tell you that that's really not the problem. But I promise, I'm working on it, so just let it rest, okay? "
Another pause. He asked very quietly, as if someone might overhear, "What is going on, if it's not what they think?"
I caught the opportunity to take the conversation in a different direction, and I jumped at it. "They?"
"Yeah, you know, my mom, the band, the roadies…"
"I know who 'they' are. Are they the only ones who think that?"
"More like I'm the only one who doesn't, really," he admitted.
This quiet declaration of faith softened my defenses considerably. I genuinely considered telling him the truth. But that just wasn't an option. Being honest about what was going on would just make me seem even more crazy than everyone already thought I was, and even if a stint in a straitjacket might not be the worst fate imaginable, my confession would certainly break that faith I suddenly found so admirable.
"Well," I said finally. "I appreciate that, Carey. Thank you."
"You're avoiding the question, though," he pointed out.
"Yeah." I tried a smile.
"Well, even if it is true," he said, trying again to coax out the truth, "I just want you to know that we're all, you know, supportive, and we really do just want to help."
I just laughed. So here it came, and what was I supposed to do now? Even if I were to tell someone about what's really going on, why would it be him, and not Irene, or even my own kids? I shook my head in an attempt to clear it and kept my mouth shut as we pulled into the driveway of his house. I turned the lights and then the engine off and looked at him expectantly, but he seemed to have no intention of moving.
I continued to stare at him, a challenge. He said nothing and didn't bother to meet my gaze. Finally I looked away too and we sat there as it began to rain, the drops hitting the car like sudden gunfire. Everything seemed heightened in the state I was in; sound, feeling, light, darkness, taste… everything was magnified, and nothing felt real.
My fingers began to itch for a cigarette, so the urge to get him out of the car became even stronger, but I couldn't bring myself to just say "get out." I'd let him say what he wanted to say; I just wished he would hurry up.
We sat and stared in opposite directions, as I became more and more anxious for him to leave. I was working up the nerve to issue that command when I felt his hand cover mine. A simple touch; in some cases, completely impersonal, like a sympathetic banker or a dentist or a cashier. Somehow, my breathing returned to normal and my heart slowed, and even the itch dulled.
"Look, I'm just saying that if you need someone to talk to, I could be that person, that's all." He took his hand off mine and I heard the door lock slide open.
"Wait," I said quickly. He paused and looked back. "I'll tell you." He slammed the door again, and then it was his turn to wait.
So I took a deep breath, and I told him about the dreams, and that I hadn't been sleeping because I knew one day I wouldn't wake up. I even told him about you.
The only explanation I can come up with for this sudden burst of disclosure is that being like this removed a lot of my usual inhibitions. Maybe I would have turned that inner angst into a song in the old days. Now, I find myself indiscriminately spilling my guts to someone barely old enough to buy alcohol.
I know that description is unfair. And it wasn't exactly indiscriminate. At the time, he was the only person I would have even considered telling. His response is probably why. It was perfect. Sympathetic. Understanding, if not completely convinced. But firm in the conviction that I should stop avoiding sleep.
"It was probably just a completely random kind of thing," he assured me, and I wished I could believe that. But what did he know about it? Instead of offering a rebuttal, I just smiled. "I'm serious, though. I could steal some of my mom's sleeping pills, if you want," he offered.
"That's okay," I said. "I'm really not ready to go through that again tonight, you know? Just in case."
"You can't run from it forever."
I nodded, although I wasn't sure I agreed. "Listen, Carey, it's important that you don't tell anyone about this right now, okay?"
"Of course."
Of course. What else would he do but keep my secret? His loyalty was strangely touching, a nice respite from the anger and depression that was so pervasive the rest of the time. "Thank you."
"Yeah," he said, smiling a little again. "I should go in now, they'll wonder what's keeping me."
"Yeah," I agreed. He opened the door and began to get out, but turned back suddenly, sliding back inside and closing the door. "What is it?"
Impulsively, he leaned across the seat and kissed me, forcefully. I was too surprised to respond, and after a few seconds, he pulled back and seemed to examine my face for a clue about what I was thinking. It must have looked pretty bad, because he immediately said, "I'm so sorry," and got out again, without looking back this time.
"What was that?" I said aloud, and sat there in the dark for quite a few minutes before starting the engine again.
I headed back to my empty room with the sincere intention to forget about it, whatever it was.
(yet I still wonder, is there a point to what we do?
'cause I kind of doubt that there is something more besides you)
- - -
Cowboy Junkies, "Something More Besides You"
