Ten - Ethan
I try and enjoy the sunshine as I lean up against the pub's exterior wall, but my leg is irritatingly restless and keeps bouncing up and down. Dillon is late, as usual. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother showing up on time when we make plans - I should know by now that Dillon runs perpetually to his own schedule. Even if he shows up now he would probably still be breaking some sort of record for the earliest he's ever made it to meeting up. It wasn't so bad when I patched things up with Matt and I used to have him there to kill time with, but somehow I doubt Matt would accept a drinks invitation right now.
It's weird having Matt and Dillon not talking, and I'm hoping I can get more comprehensive updates from Dillon on the situation. When Matt and I fell out over Rochelle, Dillon was always running in between the two of us, trying to convince us both to forgive the other. Once I remember he actually invited us both to the cinema without the other's knowledge. He scored three opening night tickets to the latest Star Wars, something we were always obsessed with as kids, and neither of us were willing to turn the ticket down when we saw the other there. We ended up persuading Dillon to sit between us, but it was still one of the most awkward experiences of my life. I'd give anything to be in that theatre right now, and to lean forward to throw popcorn at Matt's head like we used to do when we were little. Matt has this amazing talent for catching any food you throw at him in the mouth. Dude has crazy reflexes - I guess that must be an immortal thing. I wonder if I threw food at Arkarian's head if he'd be able to catch it as neatly.
My hands tap the tabletop in time to the cheerful Irish music peeling out through the open pub doors. The sun shines brightly overhead and I pull my baseball cap lower over my eyes to try and block the glare. My sunnies were discovered this morning tragically deceased at the bottom of my school bag, and they are already sorely missed. Seamus's is an Angel Falls institution, but no matter how popular they become with the young (and therefore poor) drinkers of the town they seem to be hellbent on giving us all heatstroke. If you aren't baking outside under the sun and wishing dearly for sun umbrellas, you could always chance the inside with it's shade and interior that hasn't changed since the eighties, including a sweltering lack of air conditioning. These two factors should really count against the pub, but it's also the only place in town where you can get a pint for under six dollars.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out, naively hoping for a text from Dillon - possibly containing an apology for his tardiness - but it's Isabel, confirming my attendance at her birthday barbecue this weekend. I text back that yes, of course I'm coming, and stash my phone away again. Christ, Isabel is going to be seventeen. Only a year left until she relocates to Arkarian's chambers to live with him - or at least, I assume that's the plan. I suppose she could squeeze an extra couple of years out of the outside world, but people might start to notice something when she hits her mid-twenties. The mid-twenties, if my cousins Ellie and Mike are anything to go by, are when most people get their first wrinkles. Co-incidentally that's also when Mike and Ellie both had their first kids with their respective partners, but I'm sure that's unrelated. I, however, found my first grey hair this morning at the grand old age of eighteen, so I might move into Arkarian's chambers myself to hide away from the world before Isabel can even pack her room up. I wonder if Isabel will go grey. I never really thought to ask Arkarian exactly how his hair turned such a bright electric blue - did he get blue hairs instead of grey? Maybe I will live long enough to see what colour Isabel's hair goes after all. I hope it's a really obnoxious shade of bubblegum pink. She'd hate that. It would be hilarious.
My phone buzzes again, and this time it's my dad checking in on me. Still no Dillon. I let my dad know I'm fine and glance over my shoulder longingly through the open door of the pub. I'm roasting alive and craving a drink. Maybe I should head in and grab a glass of water. I look around and see a couple of other people lingering near my table, eyeing it up. If I move I'm definitely not going to be able to keep our seats. For fuck's sake Dillon, where are you?
A part of me feels secretly grateful for Dillon being late. Anything that can delay our impending conversation has to be a good thing. I take a deep gulp of sticky, humid air, trying to keep myself calm. My throat feels like it's closing up already. I reach back into my pocket and this time take out the now crushed box of medication I received from the doctor earlier today. I could take one now, but the doc said they wouldn't start to work for a couple of weeks after continuous use, so it would be a wasted endeavour when I'm already anxious. Typical, the one thing I can't just pop round to Isabel's to get a fly-by healing for. I pop a tablet out anyway and dry swallow it, pulling a face as I do so. Better to start now than delay it, I guess.
"Did you just dry swallow that tablet? Gross, dude."
My head snaps back up and I see that Dillon has somehow managed to materialise at my side without my noticing. He looks significantly less hot and bothered than I must do, with fashionable-looking sunglasses perched on top of his messy blonde hair and a tight t-shirt hugging at his chest. He even has the audacity to not have a single visible sweat patch. Bastard.
He arches an eyebrow. "You done checking me out?" he asks.
"Just wondering how long it's gonna take you to Hulk out of that t-shirt. You sure it's tight enough? I don't think I can quite count all four of your chest hairs."
"So you were checking me out," Dillon snickers, sitting down opposite me. "You ordered yet?"
I shake my head. "The table is being closely monitored," I stage-whisper, looking pointedly over at the guy in a navy Yankees baseball cap who is unsubtly inching closer and closer to the table, waiting for an opening. He blushes and tries to play his creeping off as trying to get into the shade of one skinny street sign.
"Sweet. I'll buy the first round. If anyone tries anything - unleash hell," Dillon says merrily, getting back up and wandering casually through the open doors of the bar.
Inside I see Luke, the owner of Seamus's - who, by the way, I don't think has ever been to Ireland once in his life - nod at Dillon in recognition. Dillon is probably the only reason that Luke even keeps the old line of alcohol-free beers in the bottom corner of the fridge at this point, and I'm sure, if it wasn't for Dillon's frequent patronage with various different girls, that he would rather use the space up with a more exciting beer.
I'm forever surprised by Dillon's willing frequenting of pubs and bars, given his parent's alcohol problem. He even loves the taste of beer and ales, much to his disappointment, but usually stays away from them, preferring to drink alcohol-free beers or soft drinks instead. I've never seen him drink more than a half-pint of lager shandy, and that was on Christmas Day last year. Even at raging house parties Dillon stays sober, although he still manages to be the life and soul of parties most of the time.
He emerges after a few moments balancing a tray with a few drinks on it. He sets it down on the table between us and passes me not only my pint, but mercifully another pint glass filled high with ice and crystal clear water, a bright pink straw sticking out of it.
"I love you," I say sincerely, grabbing frantically at the glass. How I manage to resist dumping the whole thing over my head is nothing short of a miracle. Seriously, it takes Arkarian-level restraint.
Dillon watches me closely, picking at the skin around his nails nervously. "Well that's a good sign."
"What is?"
"That you still love me. We're still friends, then? Even after…" he trails off, leaving Rochelle's unspoken name hanging in the air between us.
I nod and shift awkwardly in my seat. Another deep gulp of ice water later, followed swiftly by a sip of ale, and I manage to force words out of my mouth.
"Of course we're still friends."
Dillon's face breaks into a relieved grin. "Mate, I can't tell you how good that is to hear."
Truthfully, this is something I've had to think long and hard about over the past few weeks. Could my friendship with Dillon really survive this? If he hadn't freaked out over Rochelle accidentally burning him, she never would have run off in the first place. She might still be here. Then again, how was Dillon supposed to know that his reckless accusation would have such shitty consequences? Am I really prepared to lose one of my life-long best friends because of a senseless tragedy. No. That's not fair. The only person to blame is dead, and I hope he's rotting in hell.
"You sure we're good?" Dillon asks again, interrupting my train of thought. He's still smiling, but he looks a little more nervous again, still picking at the skin around his nails.
I hesitate, and even though it's only for a second Dillon picks up on it immediately.
"I swear I didn't know that that would happen. You have to believe me, Ethan."
"I do," I reply, nodding. "It's just… it's been a lot to process."
"Yeah."
"But I really don't blame you, Dil," I add hastily.
"Well that would make one person who doesn't," he replies bitterly. He catches himself and laughs uneasily. "Sorry man, I didn't mean to make it about me. It's just been a bit shit recently with everyone else."
"Yeah I heard," I reply sympathetically.
Dillon raises his eyebrows and pulls his sunglasses down to cover his eyes. "Is it as bad as I think it is then?"
"I dunno, it's not like anyone has really said anything to me…"
"I sense a 'but' coming, and it's not in a good way."
"People were a little bit off when you came up in conversation the other day," I admit.
"The other day?"
"We went down into Veridian the day before yesterday - trying to salvage some Atlantean tech after everything else took a skydive off of the Citadel without a parachute," I explain. "And, yeah, I sensed that there was some tension."
Dillon sighs and doubles over, resting his forehead against the table. "It's been fucking horrible," he confesses. "Everyone is convinced that I'm secretly a traitor. Matt has been keeping me in Athens pretty much every night for debriefings and interrogations, and I'm pretty sure he's having me followed."
My jaw drops. I knew people were suspicious of Dillon, but I had no idea it was really that bad.
"That's bullshit!" I exclaim, drawing the attention of a couple of the surrounding tables. When I continue, it's in a much lower voice. "Rochelle tested your loyalty herself," I whisper.
"I know! But Matt is on some sort of power-mad rampage. And, let's be real, I'm not exactly his favourite person after everything that went down with Neriah. I'm an easy target."
Dillon doesn't move his head, but manages to manoeuver the straw in his water glass down underneath him and take a sip.
"He can't just keep interrogating you, though," I argue. "If he thinks you've broken any of the Guard rules, then you deserve a fair trial."
Dillon rights himself again and scoffs, taking a swig of his beer. "Yeah, I don't think that'll be happening any time soon." I can't see his eyes through his sunglasses, but although his face is turned towards me I sense that he isn't looking directly at me. He's unusually rattled. "I really am so sorry. You have to believe me, Ethan."
I reach out across the table tentatively and pat his hand. "I do, and I know you are. Rochelle was doomed from the start. She was destined to die. If it hadn't have been you it would have been something else. It was one thread that couldn't be unpicked."
"Thread?"
I shake my head. "Don't worry about it. Anyway, I'm sure Matt will cool off eventually, and if you need someone to testify on your behalf, you know I've got your back."
"Thanks, man. I mean it. At the rate everything is going right now, I may have to take you up on that."
We sit quietly for a moment sipping at our drinks, and I allow my gaze to wander past Dillon to the other couple of tables around us. I recognise a few people from school at the table furthest from us, including, I realise with a jolt, Chloe Campbell, who has clearly already clocked me and is scowling in my general direction. Apparently she isn't quite over our unceremonious break-up a few months back, which is fair, to be honest. I was only dating her because I knew she liked me and I was doing everything I could to not fixate on Rochelle. Come to think of it I deserve a lot more than a scowl for my behaviour. If a guy screwed around with Isabel or Neriah like that I would flatten them in an instant (although I would most likely lose in a fight against either Arkarian or Matt). I awkwardly look over at another table, hoping that Chloe hasn't realised that I've seen her.
The table on the other side of the doors is occupied by a hipster-looking couple covered head to toe with tattoos, hunched over the guy's phone and assuring each other in hushed tones that, yes, what they are squinting at is, in fact, very cool. Another group sits on the same side as us, maybe a couple of years older than we are, talking about their various universities that they are currently home from.
It's amazing how, even when my world has stopped turning, everyone else's continues to do so. Part of it is maddening, and I want to scream out for everybody to stop. How can everything just carry on without Rochelle? Don't they know that she's gone?
I suck a quick breath in and try to centre myself again before I can start to spiral. I wonder if I'll ever really feel normal again. Speaking to Jimmy made me feel a little better, but I never really took the time to ask him about stuff like that. Yeah I might live a life, but will it ever really feel like my own?
I don't even realise that I'm staring off into space before Coral Becket crosses my line of sight. She's in one of her bright summery tea dresses, with a smart blazer comically thrown over the top in what could only be Coral's rough approximation of 'business attire'. She runs Angel Falls' public art gallery and museum, which usually means that she is free to wear whatever she wants, but today I guess that she's got a meeting. Her curly blonde hair is stuffed back into a ponytail, a large carrier bag is looped around the crook of her arm, and a croissant hangs out of her mouth as she walks, glued to her phone, almost straight into a signpost. She catches herself before I can shout over at her to look out, only catching her elbow on the post. She's rubbing her elbow and muttering something that I can only assume is a string of curse words when she looks up and spots me.
"Ethan!" she calls, apparently delighted to see me. I've always liked Coral - the woman is pure sunshine. Frankly I don't know where Matt and Isabel get their grouchy dispositions.
Coral jogs over and I note as she approaches that she's also thrown on a pair of runners to compliment her tea dress and blazer. Instead of her usual brightly coloured shoes though, she's opted for a plain white pair. Business runners. She falters slightly as she catches sight of Dillon, who is craning his head around to see who called my name, but quickly composes herself again. For a second her reaction confuses me, but then a familiar sinking feeling settles in my gut.
Oh no. Did Isabel get a chance to speak to Dillon?
Before I can give Dillon even the tiniest bit of a heads up, Coral is at our table giving us both warm hugs by way of greeting. She stashes her croissant, unwrapped, in the white messenger bag that she has slung over her shoulders, and I try not to cringe as I think of all those pastry flakes exploding everywhere.
"Oh, it's so good to see you both!" Coral exclaims, clasping both of her hands together.
Dillon and I gesture at the same time to one of the empty chairs next to us but Coral politely declines, shaking her carrier bag at us. "No, thank you boys, I'm just using my lunch break to pick up Isabel's birthday present. I need to be back at the gallery in ten minutes."
"What did you get her?" I ask - partly because I'm genuinely curious, and partly because I'm desperate for inspiration. Isabel's birthday is on Saturday and I've been so busy trying to keep myself held together that I completely forgot to buy her a present. Some friend I am.
Coral lets out a nervous laugh and peers uncertainly into the bag. "Well, it's a little bit of a weird one… but it is what she asked for…"
"Isabel's a weird person," Dillon says, nodding sagely.
"It's a dress," Coral says flatly.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"It's what she asked for!"
I glance down at the bag warily, hardly able to believe that inside is a dress that Isabel asked for. I've only ever seen Isabel in a dress on missions. What kind of dress would Isabel even wear? The concept of her in an elaborate cocktail gown, wobbling around in high heels like a nervous deer stumbles into my brain and I struggle to keep a straight face.
Dillon, however, doesn't hold back and starts cackling. "Isabel? In a dress? That's gonna be hilarious!"
"She's never dressed up for a date?" Coral asks, dumbfounded.
"Um… no? Not to my know-" Dillon starts, before I give him a swift kick under the table.
"Not that you've noticed. But honestly, Coral, Dillon isn't exactly the kind of guy who notices things like clothes or haircuts," I interject hastily. "And Isabel isn't really the dressing up type."
I try and shoot meaningful glances over in Dillon's direction but he continues to sit blank-faced, clearly not picking up on what I'm trying to convey.
Coral, mercifully, hasn't noticed anything is amiss, instead squinting down at Dillon's alcohol-free beer bottle. "No…" she says distractedly. "Well I suppose it will be nice to see her all dressed up for a change."
"Yeah," Dillon agrees lamely, still clearly bewildered.
"Dillon…" Coral begins before trailing off, making every attempt to look him in the eyes and look as un-awkward as possible.
"Ms Becket…?"
"I don't know if Isabel has told you but… I know. About the two of you."
Dillon's eyes widen dramatically and he hastily pulls his sunglasses back down to try and mask his shock. He nods slowly before looking over to me helplessly, then back at Coral. "No," he says slowly. "She hadn't told me. About us. That you know, I mean."
"Oh! Well… this is awkward!"
You have no idea, I think to myself. This whole interaction between the two of them is quickly becoming like a very grizzly car crash that I can't seem to look away from. Not for the first time, I curse Matt and Isabel's stubbornness. Of course they haven't dealt with this yet. They've probably spent the last two days arguing between themselves over who has to tell Dillon because "it wasn't me who said we were dating" and "no, but you're the one who keeps going on overnight trips to the mountain that we have to explain." Idiots.
"No, no! It's not awkward. Really!" Dillon laughs, putting on his best charming smile. He's apparently managed to overcome his initial shock and has decided to roll with the situation. "I mean, Isabel just said she wanted to keep it low-key so…"
"Cat's out of the bag now," I say flatly.
"Well, anyway, you're welcome round the house any time, of course. It would be nice. To get to know you better I mean," Coral says. She smiles at him kindly but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Damn, does even Coral not like Dillon? Coral literally likes everyone, to the point where it's her weakest point. She's a terrible judge of character.
"I know you've been spending a lot of time at your house…" she continues, trailing off. Ah. There it is.
Dillon also picks up on the unsubtle insinuation, and he fidgets uncomfortably in his seat. His parents' alcohol problems have plagued his entire life, just like a huge chunk of Coral's life was marred by her ex-husband's problems. She doesn't want Isabel to be in that kind of environment ever again. Her tone isn't unkind, however, and she reaches forward to gently pat Dillon on the shoulder.
"I know how hard it is," she says softly. "You always have been welcome at our house, and you always will be."
"Thank you," Dillon replies quietly, a rare note of sincerity in his voice.
Coral pats Dillon a few more times as she bids us her goodbyes, apparently now five minutes late for her meeting. She totters off down the road, swinging the bag containing Isabel's dress into several passersby as she turns to re-issue the invite for Isabel's birthday barbecue this weekend. As she rounds the corner, Dillon rounds on me.
"What. The. Fuck?"
I throw my hands up in exasperation and lean back up against the pub wall. "Yeah, I know. I know."
"Well I don't know anything, so please, fill me in, why don't you? Since when am I dating Isabel?"
"Apparently Coral noticed that Isabel has been disappearing at night and her cover with Neriah fell through, so Matt said that she was seeing you."
"That's crazy!" Dillon exclaims, drawing irritated looks from the hipster table who are now sharing earbuds and listening to what I can only assume is the coolest new music that we haven't heard of. "That's crazy," he repeats, lowering his voice. "Why not just say that she's dating you?"
I shake my head and spread my hands open wide with a shrug. Pretending to date anyone right now, even Isabel, would definitely be painful, but I totally understand why everyone is operating under the assumption that it would be me that Isabel would be paired up with. Still, a part of me is relieved not to have to undergo the pretence.
Dillon whips out his mobile, shaking his head. "Hey, can I get Isabel's number? I don't have it," he says as his thumbs tap their way rapidly across the screen, composing a text message. His perplexed expression has been replaced by one of reserved amusement, a sure sign that he's about to wind Isabel up like a vintage clock.
I give Dillon the number and watch him type for longer than seems necessary for a text message. A couple of times he shakes his head and deletes what he's writing. Finally, he leans back in his seat and takes a swig of his beer.
"Ok, how about this?" he asks, passing his phone over to me.
Hey love of my life. Can't wait to see you this Saturday boo. When can we next hang and make out? Should probably be before your barbie so I can brush up on my tongue technique xoxo Your teddy bear
I sigh and hand Dillon's phone back to him, shaking my head.
"Teddy bear?" I ask.
Dillon grins and winks at me. "It's what Amy Lynch used to call me."
"Gross. You're the worst."
"What? I can't text her like 'Hey why did you and Matt tell your mom that we're dating?'. What if her mom sees the text?"
"And what if her actual boyfriend sees that?" I ask pointedly, gesturing across at Dillon's phone screen.
Dillon rolls his eyes before pressing send. "Somehow I don't think Arkarian goes through Isabel's phone. I doubt he even knows what a phone is."
I shush him and cast a furtive glance around us, checking to see if anyone is listening in to our conversation. The war may be over, but Arkarian's name could still catch the unwanted attention of any lingering Order members who may be hanging around. Fortunately nobody seems to have paused their conversation at Dillon's words - although Chloe Campbell is still intermittently sending me death glares. Luckily, she's too far away to have heard what Dillon said.
As we're finishing up our drinks and preparing to leave, Dillon's phone buzzes again and Isabel's name flashes up on his screen.
"'Who is this?'" Dillon reads aloud, peering down at his screen. "Damn, how many people does Isabel have a fake dating scenario going on with?"
He types his reply as we stand and grab our bags. By the time we are halfway down the street my phone buzzes with an angry message from Isabel, telling me off for giving out her phone number to people without her permission. I sense that she's only angry because it's Dillon, but I don't bother arguing. At this point I've got to work on my own issues before I work on her problems with Dillon - I'm stretched too thin as it is.
We part at the bottom of the road by a trendy new cafe that only opened a month ago. They've set up a 'community board' outside, but instead of cheerful flyers notifying Angel Falls residents of community groups and local events, the board is covered with missing posters. Some of the posters have been half torn off by grieving families as the bodies of their loved ones have been recovered from the forest; but most of them still remain jostling for space. Even from a distance I can easily spot Rochelle's face smiling out at passers-by. Her step-mom, Melissa, must be putting them up around town. Christ, she doesn't even know.
Dillon catches the direction of my gaze and gives my shoulder a squeeze.
"You okay, man?" he asks, his voice soft.
I nod dumbly, tearing my eyes away and focusing them instead on Dillon. I give him a wan smile. "I'm coping," I reassure him.
We give each other a tight hug as we say our goodbyes. I force Dillon to promise me before he leaves that he will try and make peace with Isabel in time for her birthday. He winks at me and laughs, which is the closest thing to a promise I think I'm going to get out of him for now.
My walk home is uneventful, spent mostly cycling aimlessly through podcasts and praying that one will catch my interest. Anything to try and keep my mind off of Rochelle and poor Melissa, still looking for her step-daughter - a lost cause. I've never met Melissa myself, only seen her around in passing, occasionally picking up and dropping off Rochelle at school. It would be weird for me to just drop by, wouldn't it? Just to be there to comfort her… to share in our mutual grief…
I shake my head. Matt would be furious if I did anything out of the ordinary whilst the Guard is trying to figure out what to do with Rochelle's body. Going to see Melissa would raise unnecessary suspicion, especially considering that I've already already been questioned once by the police regarding her disappearance. The police seemed satisfied with my answers in the interview, given that nearly fifty people went missing that day, but I don't want to seem like I preemptively know that Rochelle isn't coming back alive.
Rochelle's body is still being held by the Guard. Initially I think there were plans to have Rochelle interred at the same temple that will be built in the place of the Citadel, but it was eventually decided that, to give Melissa a chance for closure, she would eventually be returned here. Her body is being kept now only temporarily, to await a ceremony being held in her honour at the temple, alongside the deceased immortals.
Stop thinking about her, I scold myself as I walk through my front door. You'll only get yourself worked up.
"It's me!" I call out. I hang my bag up on the hooks near the door. "Anyone home?"
"In the living room!" my mom's voice replies from down the hall.
I wander over to the living room and find her curled up on our sofa, tv in the background playing one of her favourite soap operas. She's surrounded by thick, heavy-looking textbooks stacked on the coffee table and the arm of the sofa. Since my return from the Underworld and Sera's subsequent moving on to the afterlife, my mom has begun to use her newly-found mental stability to train as a counsellor. It's a smart move for her, and I'm really proud she's using her pain to do something positive for others.
My mom has been a stay-at-home mom since before I was born, but she was always planning on going back to school once Sera and I were both in school full-time. Sera's death fell just as she was starting to look at schools, only back then she was looking at business school, planning on going into finance. It's hard to imagine my mom as a ruthless businesswoman pinching every penny, but a kind and caring counsellor helping other people going through a rough time? That's the mom I know.
"How's it going?" I ask, gesturing at the books.
Mom sighs and runs a hand through her hair. "I suck at this."
"You do not suck at this."
"Oh, I think I do. I'm too old for homework. I hated it when I was your age and I still hate it nearly twenty years on," she laughs. Her laugh isn't self-pitying, it's one of genuine amusement. "I can't believe I'm doing this willingly."
"Worse. You're paying thousands of dollars to do it," I say.
At this mom slumps back in her seat dramatically and groans. She moves a couple of the textbooks next to her onto the coffee table and pats the now empty cushion seat.
"Sit," she instructs, and I do so.
Once I'm sat she ruffles my hair and then uses the same hand to pull me into a one-armed hug. I feel strangely small in her arms, even though I'm a good half-foot taller than her now.
"My little boy," she hums softly, more to herself than to me.
"Are you gonna let me go?" I ask, wriggling uncomfortably.
"Nope. I birthed you, you are mine to torture as I please."
I laugh and we sit together like that for a while, our attention occasionally drifting over to the terrible soap on the tv. I can't make much sense of it, but it appears that two girls have been swapped at birth and now the birth daughter of the other family is posing as their daughter's best friend in order to get close to her biological family. Wild. And also strangely familiar.
"Didn't they do this story already?"
"It's a rerun."
"Why are you watching soap opera reruns at two-thirty on a Wednesday?" I ask.
"There was nothing else on."
"Maybe this," I point at the tv, "is why you're struggling so much with your homework."
Mom shifts in her seat to stare down at me. "I'm sorry, remind me who is the parent and who is the child in this family?"
I use this opportunity to finally wriggle free and flatten my hair back down. "Your generation has no respect," I grumble under my breath.
"Hey before you get up, I want to talk to you," Mom says.
I lower myself back down onto the sofa, unease brewing in my stomach. "What have I done?"
"Nothing! I just wanted to know how your doctor's appointment was!"
Tension eases off my shoulders slightly as I shrug them back.
"It was fine," I reply. "He put me on Zoloft."
"Oooh I hated Zoloft," Mom replies with a wince. "Made me yawn constantly for the first two weeks, and when I wasn't physically yawning I was suppressing the urge to." Her face softens as she looks back at me. "Do you think you're going to be ok?" she asks gently.
I nod and shrug at the same time, which is actually a pretty accurate representation of how I'm feeling at the moment. I will probably be fine eventually, but I don't know how long that's going to take, and I don't think I will ever really be the same again. I don't fully understand how to put that into words. I don't want to burden my mom just as she's finally starting to do so well.
"Oh sweetheart," she sighs, wrapping her arms around herself. "I think we need to talk."
My stomach twists. "What about?"
"Your mental health. My mental health. Your father's mental health. Ever since Sera… sometimes I think that we're cursed. I thought- I hoped- that you were going to get through this all unscathed. When you were little, after Sera died, you had this strange story about what you saw that day. You said that a giant monster had killed her." She pauses, trying to gauge my reaction. I carefully keep my face as neutral as possible, trying to project the image of someone hearing all of this for the first time. All of this is supposed to be out of my head by now. I'm supposed to be cured. This was never supposed to be real.
"For a while," my mom continues, "it really looked like you were losing your mind. Your dad and I were both suffering with grief too, but your little mind physically couldn't handle it. You would have night terrors and talk obsessively about the monster, saying it would come for you next. But then one day, after nearly a year of doctors and medications and therapy, everything suddenly started to get a lot better with you."
Since meeting Arkarian and joining the Guard, I think to myself. The Guard saved my sanity, and my life.
"I didn't understand it at first but I suppose I understand it a lot more now. I had a similar thing happen to me when you finally came back off of the mountain. It was like this fog had lifted. I could finally move on. Maybe I just needed a really good scare to put things in perspective. I'd already lost my daughter, I wasn't going to lose my son. And I… I wasn't going to let you lose me either." Mom grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly. She exhales slowly, before taking a deep gulp of air back in. I know what she's working herself up to saying, and even though I already know it, I'm dreading hearing it directly from her.
"When you started to get better, it was like a huge weight was lifted off of our shoulders. But then that was when things finally started to hit home for me and your dad. We had spent so long worrying about you that we barely took our own time to grieve. Then everything hit us all at once. Your dad fell into a deep depression. He was miserable almost every day. I was also diagnosed with depression, and PTSD." She snorts. "PTSD. As if I'd been in a war. I didn't even know back then that you could get PTSD if you weren't a veteran.
"At least your dad was consistent. Always unhappy. Me, I was constantly up and down, the tiniest little thing setting me off. I lived like that for thirteen years. I just couldn't seem to get better no matter what I did. I would have a good week, and then one night go to sleep and hear Sera screaming for me in my dreams. That misery, that hopelessness… it was all I saw stretching out ahead of me until the end of my days. It felt like it was never going to change. Sometimes I still wonder if I'm going to fall back into it. It's been months, the longest I've ever gone with without a panic attack, or the nightmares. And somehow whilst your father and I went lower and lower, you managed to grow up."
Mom reaches across to me again and strokes my cheek with her thumb, smiling at me sadly. "You had a horrible childhood," she says quietly. "With terrible parents."
"No, I didn't," I argue softly.
"Yes, you did. Neither me or your dad were there for you as much as we should have been. And it's okay to be angry about that. You deserved better. You grew up having to take care of the two people who should have been the ones taking care of you. I will have to live for the rest of my life knowing that I failed you. I felt like I was a terrible burden on you and your dad. At least he was always functioning. Sad, but functioning. He could get lost in his work, make enough money to keep us comfortable even when I couldn't hold down a job. He was always taking care of me on my bad days, and making sure at the very least you got to school on time when you were younger, and that we were both eating. I began to think that you would both be better off without me. If I wasn't around, you wouldn't have to worry about caring for me. You were growing up, and I felt like I was ruining your life and any chance that you had at future happiness.
"Ethan- do you remember, before you went on that hike with Matt and Isabel, that I was supposed to go on a retreat?"
I nod dumbly.
"Well, I was… I was almost certain that I was going to end things there," my mom says quietly, tears steadily making their way down her cheeks. "I really thought that things would be better then. I could be with Sera and you and your dad could build whatever life I was preventing you from having."
I'm crying too now. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and pull my mom into a tight hug. "I'm so glad you're still here," I tell her. "I love you so much. You're not a burden, Mom. You're my favourite person. And if things ever do get bad again, I don't care. I've got you. And I want you in my life, sad or not."
Mom quietly sobs into my arms for a few minutes, clutching me closely to her. After a while she pushes away and grabs a tissue from the box on the coffee table. She dabs at her eyes, then gives a shaky laugh.
"You're such a sweet boy. Please, I don't want you to worry. Like I said, when you disappeared that really put everything into perspective for me. I would never think about doing that to you ever again. And if I ever do, next time I swear I will speak to someone about it. I'm only telling you this because I want you to know that no matter what you're going through right now- I understand. Your father understands. We've failed you in the past, but we won't do that again."
"Does Dad know?"
My mom nods. "I told him. On the day I was due to leave for the retreat. I wasn't going, obviously. I broke down and told him."
She finally falls silent, fidgeting nervously with the sleeve of her shirt and looking at me expectantly. I sit there quietly, digesting everything she's told me.
"I'm glad you told me," I say at last. Taking her hand back in mine. "I'm not going to do anything like that, I swear. But now, if I ever do feel like that, I know that I can talk to you. And I'm glad about that. I'm glad I have you."
"You've been through so much, and I'm so proud of the young man that you're becoming."
I feel a blush spreading across my cheeks. "I'm nothing special."
"Yes, you are. More than you know."
I'm special in a very different way than you think.
I sigh and shift in my seat. If I can't talk to my mom, who can I talk to? She knows what it's like to lose someone that you love.
"I loved her," I say quietly.
"Who?" Mom asks, giving my hand another squeeze.
"Rochelle. I really loved her, and we never got a chance to be together."
"You still might."
I look her directly in the eyes and shake my head. "They're pulling bodies off of the mountain every day, Mom. It's only a matter of time until they find her's. She's not coming back."
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I don't think that you should totally give up hope, though. You came back, maybe she still can too."
"Yeah, maybe," I agree in defeat.
I can't tell my mom that I know that Rochelle is dead. I don't want her to think that I'm responsible, even though I partly am.
