Some good news and some bad news (or good news and good news, depending on how you look at it): First, the chapter following this one—chapter 21—will officially mark the completion of this story…and it's going to be the epilogue, so in a way, this is the last "main" chapter. I want to thank you all for the spectacular reviews; they've really inspired me and kept me going. :)
And that brings me to my second bit of news: the story's not over yet. Yes, you read right—the story's not over. There's going to be a SEQUEL! I capitalized for emphasis, in case you're wondering. ;) A few chapters back I came to realize that, with a story this intricate, I'd eventually reach a point where I just wouldn't be able to add in all that I wanted to. I've since reached that point, and find myself looking at three choices: A) say "to heck" with the rest of the story and let you all imagine whatever you wish; B) make this story a lot longer than 21 chapters (which is out of the question, btw); or C) write a sequel. I'm opting for C.
Just so you all know ahead of time, the sequel will be titled Boy, Reinvented and it will take place one year after the events of this story. :) I must give fair warning though: don't get too excited yet. It won't be posted for a while (I'm still sorting out ideas for it). In the meantime, I'll be working on my two other stories (see my profile :P) as well as posting my very first oneshot (because I'm so determined to have at least one under my belt).
Disclaimer: As you all know, I don't own The Suite Life series.
It was raining the day Cody came back to Fairoaks, which hardly seemed fitting as he was feeling rather good about being there and had it in mind what he planned to say to George upon seeing him. He'd thought long and hard about his second visit and was quite certain that he could straighten out his and George's relationship; after all, George wouldn't say no to sex jokes…or ramblings about authority. And Cody had plenty of both to spare.
As Cody sprinted towards the main building's front entrance from his mother's car, using an old magazine to shield the top of his head from the downpour (since he'd foolishly forgotten an umbrella), he risked a glance in her direction, smiling confidently at her concerned, distorted face behind the drenched window. She didn't feel comfortable with letting him drive yet, but had agreed—somewhat reluctantly—to drop him off at Fairoaks for an hour to visit "an old friend."
He couldn't tell if she was smiling back, but he hardly cared. It was too late for turning back anyhow.
The asylum's lobby still smelled like pumpkins, and as soon as he'd past the threshold, the smell wafted to his nose, making him almost swoon. It was exactly the same as he remembered it. If he didn't have such horrid memories of the place, the familiar fragrance might have seemed welcoming to him. But alas, it merely served to send a shiver up his spine.
Margaret O'Donnell, the lady sitting behind the front desk, recognized him. "Back again?" she inquired, the tight skin of her face stretching like rubber across the balls of her cheekbones as she smiled in greeting. "And who would you like to see this time?"
Cody was taken aback by her question. Who does she think I want to see? Dr. Thompson? "Same person I saw last week," he answered. "George Tanner."
Margaret O'Donnell raised an eyebrow. "George Tanner?" she mused. "I'm afraid that's impossible."
"Why?" wondered Cody.
Margaret looked as though he'd told her he wanted to see a ghost—or a nonexistent person. "Haven't you read any of the obituaries in last week's papers?" she wanted to know, sounding as though she was criticizing him for not doing so.
"Um, no," Cody replied. "I'm honestly not big on reading newspapers. I kind of protest them because, well, practically nobody reads them anymore, and too many trees are cut down to print them."
Margaret shook her head disapprovingly. "Kids!" she groaned. "What is the world coming to?"
It was a rhetorical question so Cody didn't respond to it. Instead, he waited for her to tell him what reading obituaries had to do with visiting George.
When she did, her tone was condescending: "George Tanner is deceased."
Cody felt himself go numb. Wait…what? Did I just hear her right? It sounded like she said George is "deceased"—as in, dead. But, that can't be right. No, she must have said "diseased." He must be sick with something.
But that doesn't explain the obituaries.
"So…what does he have?" he asked, overcome by a desperate need to bank on the idea that George was simply ill.
He waited anxiously for her answer.
Margaret shot him a baffled—if somewhat peeved—look. "Are you trying to be cute?" she snapped. "Is this your idea of a joke?"
"A joke?" Cody nearly laughed. "No, see, I wasn't going to start joking until I saw George." Keep thinking positive, keep thinking positive. Best case scenario, best case scenario. George is just sick, just sick. Diseased, diseased. "I don't mind if he's contagious, honestly. I'd like to see him anyway. Can I please go to the visiting room?"
The look on Margaret's face transformed from one of puzzlement to one of worry—one that said, "Oh dear, he's gone off the deep end." "Are you sure you're feeling alright, Mr. Martin? Perhaps someone should have a look at you."
"No, no, I'm fine," Cody said assuredly. "I just really want to see George. If I absolutely can't, would it be okay if I, um, left a message for him? You know, to let him know I came."
Margaret shook her head, partially in disbelief and partially in confusion. "Sir, either you heard me wrong," she told him earnestly, "or you should speak to one of our psychiatrists immediately."
When Cody looked at her with disdain, she added, loudly, "I said George is deceased! You do know what 'deceased' means, don't you?"
Cody's heart skipped a beat. Deceased? Deceased? George is deceased? Actually deceased, as in dead? No…no, that can't be. "N…no. No, you must be mistaken. You must have him mixed up with someone else. I said George Tanner." Cody thought it might help to describe him: "Tall, thin…has dark, curly hair…stays in room 312. My ex-roommate."
"I know perfectly well who you were talking about," Margaret clarified. "And I am telling you, Mr. Martin, he is deceased—dead, in case you didn't know. He was removed from the premises a week ago, on the day he died. He's no longer here, sir, and you can no longer see him." A small hint of sympathy shown in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry."
Cody gazed at her for a long minute, trying determinedly to find some ounce of deceit in her mannerisms. Or some measure of uncertainty. When he found none, he had to look away. He shifted his eyes down towards the carpet, trying to sooth his muddled mind by concentrating on its color. All the while, Margaret's words etched themselves into him. The word "deceased" wedged itself painfully into his head, and no matter how many times he tried to remove it, he couldn't.
Finally, he spoke, his voice barely more than a mutter: "Can I speak to Jenny please?"
Margaret hadn't heard him. "What?" she asked, leaning forward. "Speak up. I can't hear you."
He said louder, "Can I speak to Jenny? Jenny Kroft?"
"Jenny Kroft?"
"Mm-hmm, she's a nurse here," Cody said. "Can I see her?"
She'll tell me the truth. I can rely on her. Everyone else here I just can't trust.
"She's busy right now, and she won't be on break for another twenty to twenty-five minutes. Are you sure you want to wait that long? Maybe you should go and come back later."
"No," Cody refused. "No, I think I'll just sit here and wait for her…if that's okay."
Margaret shrugged. "Whatever suits you. I'll contact her."
"Thanks."
As Margaret went for the phone at the side of her desk, Cody took a seat and began to wait.
He waited, and waited, and waited.
At one point, he thought an hour had passed, but when he turned his head and glanced at the clock on the far wall, he saw that it had only been ten minutes. He started to get antsy. His leg started to shake uncontrollably and his stomach began to hurt. His esophagus closed the way it did when he was on the verge of crying. "A lump in the throat" was the common way to describe it, but it felt much more like a shard of glass.
The word "deceased" replayed in his head, over and over again: "Deceased, deceased, deceased…"
Like a meditative mantra.
Like a requiem.
Eventually, he couldn't take the pain anymore and went for a drink of water at the nearest fountain. It tasted like tar but he was grateful for the wetness, as it seemed to wash away the sore heap in his throat.
As he continued to wait, he continued to be haunted by the word "deceased."
I'll never be able to think of that word the same way after today.
And finally, once twenty-two minutes plus what felt like an eternity went by, the door to the left of the front desk opened and Jenny Kroft—looking lovely as ever, yet tired and distraught—walked out. When she spotted Cody, she flashed him a welcoming smile, but he could easily tell that it was masking another emotion: a negative one. Cody tried to read it, but he couldn't make out whether it was sadness or perplexity.
Maybe it's a mixture of both.
"What brings you here?" she asked upon approaching him. Slowly, as if she were fragile and prone to break, she sat herself down on the chair next to Cody's.
Cody got the hint that, deep down, she already knew the answer to her question. But he responded anyway: "I'm here to see George. I visited him last week, and he and I kind of got into a fight, so I came back here to apologize."
Jenny's expression morphed into what was clearly sadness.
"But there's one problem," Cody went on, thinking it best to explain his situation entirely. "The lady up there"—he pointed towards the front desk, where Margaret O'Donnell sat staring at her computer screen—"Ms. O'Donnell, she said that George was…deceased. As in…" I can't even say the word now. God help me, what's wrong? "…you know."
"Cody, I don't know how to tell you this." Jenny looked down at her hands, gazing at them as though what she had to say was written on them. "Last week, George—he, he killed himself. He'd been hiding his Depakote for days and no one knew about it; we only found out after the autopsy."
Cody gagged. Autopsy?
"We don't know why he did it—I've been wracking my brain ever since. But, uh, he's…he's dead. Cody, he's dead. He died in his room during the night, from an overdose." A tear trickled down Jenny's cheek. "I'm so sorry. He must have meant a lot to you for you to be coming back here to see him…but, he's gone."
Cody stared at her for a long while, mute and motionless, his brain frantically trying to sort through what she'd just told him. George? Dead? Overdose? Hiding Depakote? It was all too much. "Bullshit."
He stood up, looming over her, staring down at her as though she'd just stabbed him in the back. "Bullshit! What's this all about Jenny? Why are you lying to me? Why would you say something like that? George isn't dead! He can't be dead. He's a fighter!" Flecks of his spittle hit her in the face. "Are you afraid I'll get him released? Is that it? Do you think my seeing him is a bad influence? If that's what it is than you're just like all the other assholes who work here! I guess they got to you, didn't they? I guess they trained you real well, huh? Deep down, you're just as bad as them—trying to deceive me, trying to throw me off, lying through your fucking teeth!"
"Cody, stop!" Jenny said once he'd paused long enough to allow her a chance to speak. "I know you're upset, but you're not making any sense."
"Mr. Martin!" Margaret O'Donnell added.
Cody didn't pay her any heed. "Don't play dumb with me, Jenny! I know that tactic! You know what I'm talking about; don't even think about pretending you don't!"
"Cody— "
"Where's George, Jenny? Where is he? I want you to cut the crap and take me to him…NOW!"
"Mr. Martin!" Margaret O'Donnell repeated, standing up from her chair as though she planned to jump over her desk and restrain him.
Jenny raised her hand to stop her from taking action. "It's okay," she said. "Really, I've got this under control." Then she herself stood up and leaned in toward Cody. "Come with me."
Cody wondered why she didn't say anything to defend herself, but he didn't ask her; he was far more interested in seeing George than he was in rekindling their friendship. After this, he would never speak to her again. He would never even see her again. He could forgive her for being naïve and making unwise decisions, but this little charade—telling him that George was dead, actually dead—was inexcusable. How could she do that?
Why would she do that?
She was supposed to be trustworthy. She'd been his one and only friend among the faculty of Fairoaks—an "insider" in the realm of authority.
But for whatever reason, she had changed.
Perhaps it's some sort of defense mechanism that she's constructed to help her deal with what happened to her—the attempted rape. I bet walking down the hall where it took place is agonizing. I bet seeing Mr. Willner is worse.
But whatever. I don't care. It doesn't account for why she told me that George is dead. I don't get her motives. And I don't have to.
She must think I'm stupid. George isn't dead. He wouldn't commit suicide. Sure, I was capable of doing that, but not George. Not the rebel.
Jenny opened the door to the main hallway and held it for Cody to pass through first. When they were both on the other side and it closed behind them, she began walking speedily down the length of the hallway. "I'm going to take you to the room," she said.
Cody knew which room she was talking about: room 312. George's room. His former room.
They walked. They turned the familiar corners, went up the squeaky elevator, trudged through the many different hallways, and came to the oh-so-memorable Rosenberg Hall. As they walked down that hall, Cody all of a sudden felt cold—as though an invisible force had rid the area of all its warmth. His heart was pounding so hard, he could pin-point each pulse in his temple; his hands became clammy; his breaths, irregular.
Calm down, calm down. No reason to be nervous. It's just George. It's just your old buddy.
Damn it, calm the fuck down! Why are you so tense? Are you afraid he hates you now? Are you afraid he won't forgive you?
Yes…among other things.
There it was. The metal door, the 312 on the wall next to it. Oddly, it looked ominous—like a warning, or a threat. A "Do Not Enter" sign; an order to "Turn Back."
Cody swallowed sour vomit as it crept up his esophagus. His intestines were as good as severed. He breathed. Breathed again.
He looked over at Jenny, who crossed her arms at him and said, "Well?"
"Can…can I go in?" His voice was so scratched it sounded meek.
"No," she replied. "Not anymore. Only patients and nurses are allowed in the rooms, but I promise you, nobody's in there. Don't believe me, call for George."
Cody brought his fist up to the door, ready to knock, but paused. An overwhelming sense of dread took over him—similar to what a child feels when they're about to ask their parents for something obnoxious but already know that they're going to say no.
He made himself knock, out of dignity—out of need. Knock, knock…
There was no answer.
He did it again.
Still, no answer.
He must be sleeping. He always was a heavy sleeper—that is, except for the nightmares. Oh dear God, George, please be sleeping.
He knocked again, this time accompanying it by a timid "George?"
Nothing.
"George, do you hear me?"
Still nothing.
"Are you asleep? Wake up, George." He raised his voice. "Wake up!"
Nothing again.
"George, it's me…Cody. I came to see you again. Look, I understand if you're mad at me; I said some things you to that I shouldn't have. But I came back to apologize. I'm sorry, George. If I could take it all back I would. George?" Cody knocked again, harder. "George?"
He looked briefly at Jenny, hoping to find some level of encouragement in her—some level of assurance that, despite what she'd said earlier, George was in there and he could hear him.
There was none, but he couldn't believe otherwise. "George...George, listen, I want to make things right between us. I want us to forgive each other and move on, and tell jokes like we used to. The fact that I'm out here means nothing, George. I'm still the same old me—the same guy you told to 'stick it to the man.' Remember when you asked me about my brother, Zack?"—a tear slid down his face at the memory—"Remember when you asked me if he had my back and I said yes? Well, you'll never guess what he did. He marched right into this place and he told people off! He really did. And not only that, he was going to flatten my doctor! It was all because of what happened to me. We stuck it to the man, George. We let the man have it."
Jenny started crying softly, but Cody didn't turn to look at her. Another tear escaped his eye.
"Talk to me, George. Please…"
There was just silence from inside the room.
"Fuck, George, say something!"
He hit the door again with his knuckles, receiving more silence from within.
"George…?"
He knew that George wasn't in there—that Jenny and Margaret O'Donnell were telling the truth, that George had been in some overlooked obituary, his name present for no one to care—and that talking to a closed door wouldn't change that.
Nevertheless, he wasn't able to stop himself. In an instant, he began knocking furiously. Incessantly. Banging his knuckles against the door's hard, metal surface in frenzied hopelessness. His heart and soul drowning in anger and devastation.
Jenny, worried that he would harm himself, tried to grab his arms and pull them towards her. "Cody," she said softy, "Cody, that's enough."
Cody pushed her—literally pushed her—away. "Fuck you!" he shouted. "Leave me the fuck alone!"
From behind doors further down the hall, he could hear patients stirring in their rooms, wondering what was going on. But he didn't care. He didn't give a damn.
"George! George, please…please answer me!" Cody yelled at the door, rejecting all sense and reason. "Please be alive! You have to answer me. These people think you're dead, George! They think you killed yourself! They want me to believe that—they want me to believe you left me!"
He knew what he was saying was illogical. Of course the people at Fairoaks would know if one of their patients was dead. But Cody didn't care about logic at the time. He couldn't.
He was bound to his irrational hope.
"George…" he was openly crying now. "George…please! I can't believe you would die on me! I need you! I love you!" He'd never before realized the truth of those words, or the gravity to them. But now, after screaming into an empty room at a corpse that had surely been buried by now, he did.
"I'm invisible," George had said. "No one cares about me."
No one had ever loved George.
"I love you, George!" Cody repeated, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I love you, I love you, I love you…"
Jenny pulled him from the door—carefully, ever so carefully—and leaned him against her chest.
He lost his footing and toppled to the floor, bringing her down with him.
"George, you can't leave me!"
She scooped him up in her arms, and together they crumbled into a mass of sobs.
…
George's tombstone was small—one of those flat markers that sat horizontally in the ground and were easy to step on.
Most of the others surrounding it stood up straight, at least two feet in the air, and were engraved with poetry, Bible texts, and personal oaths of sympathy. Not George's. His only had a name and year range: George Tanner, 1990 – 2013.
The others were adorned with decorations such as flowers, crucifixes, and ceramic angels. George's wasn't. His had nothing like that at all.
But his did have something the others didn't—a boy named Cody Martin standing over it.
Cody was grateful to Jenny for telling him where George had been buried. He'd apologized to her for losing his temper and not believing her, and she had forgiven him and told him to let it go. Before he left Fairoaks, she'd given him one last hug and a kiss on the cheek.
They both promised to keep in touch.
George's tombstone made Cody want to cry. It looked so out of place. So inadequate. It practically screamed, "Here lies a poor sap that nobody cared about!"
Cody wondered if George's mother and sister knew he was dead. He wondered how they'd react if they did know.
He'd come to the cemetery for closure—for some feeling of resolution. But looking at George's grave wasn't giving him any of that. Just a bad case of depression. He tried to think of something to say, but no words felt appropriate under the circumstances.
What can you say to a friend who killed himself and left you behind to be consumed by grief?
Finally, he decided to be honest—to speak nothing but the raw, unembellished truth: "You know what, George? You really pissed me off. I thought I was your friend. Friends know better than to leave friends behind. I know we had an argument, but that's no excuse."
He sat down and began picking at the grass. He didn't want to stand; he wasn't sure if his weight could hold him up. "Part of me understands," he continued, twiddling a blade of grass in his fingers. "Part of me knows why you did it. Why should you have trusted me to come back after what we said to each other? You said so yourself, you've never had a real friend before. It's just…"—he swallowed to keep his voice from breaking—"it's so hard, you know? I want to be angry at you; I want to hate you. But I can't. You were never loved the way you should have been. I get that. You were never able to trust anyone. You thought you lost me, so you didn't want to live anymore."
Cody couldn't deny that he understood George. He understood George the same way that George had understood society. He knew what really propelled him to kill himself: lack of trust. George had never been able to be trust people. Everyone he trusted had ended up letting him down. Losing Cody—or the belief that he was losing Cody—was what had thrown him over the edge. A lack of Depakote in his system certainly hadn't helped him, but it made no difference in the long run because his life was no longer worth living anyway.
The heart can only take so much. Then it's had enough.
Cody stole a quick sideways glance at Zack, who was waiting for him in the cemetery parking lot with his back against his car and his arms and legs crossed. He had a worried expression on his face. He hadn't been too keen on Cody visiting his friend's grave so soon after his death. He had no disdain for George himself as he didn't know him, but the idea of Cody seeing his tombstone so early had concerned him. Cody's mind was in a fragile state right now; anything disheartening had the potential of being too much for him.
It had taken a lot of talking on Cody's part to get his big brother to drive him there. A lot of encouragement and reassurance. It'd been a pain in the ass trying to convince Zack that he was stable enough to handle it, but in a way, Cody was grateful for that.
It said so much about Zack.
"I know what you needed, George," Cody said, turning back toward the grave. "For the longest time I couldn't figure it out, but now I know—what you needed was someone to have your back. Someone to stand next to you. Like a brother."
Cody's chest heaved with pain as he said what he said next: "This is so fucked up, George. It's so twisted. I never realized what death could do to a person until now. I never understood the…pain." He tried to think of a better word to use—a more descriptive word—but none came to him. "Pain" seemed to be the only word that fit. "And you know what the most painful part is? The knowledge that I'm just as guilty as you. I'm just as guilty as you, George. What I did to the people I care about—my mom, my dad, my friends, my brother…my own twin brother…" His eyes welled and he choked down a sob. Zack would have had a cow if he saw him lose it. "…I, I just can't…"
Cody wrapped his arms around his middle, holding himself steady as the weight of his faults hit him. He felt like he was going to collapse. His head started spinning. His vision blurred. His heartbeat sped up.
"Oh God, George…I can't breathe…I can't breathe!"
He couldn't help himself. He bowled over, his face impacting the ground, and began to hyperventilate.
Zack was by his side in an instant, rubbing his back, stroking his hair, and saying, "Ugh, I knew this was a bad idea! Come on, let's get you up."
He pulled Cody to his feet and walked him to the car.
They were going home.
…
Silence overcame the twins as they sat in the car. Cody laid his head against the passenger seat and turned his face toward the window as Zack started the engine and moved the gear shift down to Drive. Neither one of them had any desire to speak. However, it was only minutes before Zack let out a firm but contrite "You should never have come here."
"No, I'm glad I did," Cody disagreed. "I needed this." He felt somewhat like a hypocrite in saying that but he knew it was the truth.
Zack looked at him doubtfully but didn't comment. "Are you alright?" he asked instead.
Cody nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm alright. I just need to get a hold of myself."
"I'm sorry about your friend. It must be hard."
Cody wasn't sure why, but those words came as a shock to him. Perhaps it was because Zack never knew George. He's sorry for my loss. In a way, it's his loss too. Whenever I'm sad, he's sad. "He was a real special person, you know? He taught me so much. He made me see life in a different light."
Zack didn't know but he nodded nonetheless, taking Cody's word for it. "How so?" he wanted to know.
"I can't explain. There aren't words."
There was another moment of silence in which Cody tried to dull his pain by breathing and counting. It didn't work. The pain was just too strong.
"He killed himself, Zack," he finally said. "He left me…intentionally. And it hurts so bad! It's like, I can't breathe. All this pain is smothering me." And I can't give into it or else I'll die.
Zack's response broke his heart: "Now you know how I felt."
Oh God Zack, please don't say that, Cody inwardly implored. The very notion of that is too much for me.
Zack noticed Cody's horrible grimace and instantly regretted his words. Even though he was just being honest, he couldn't stand to see Cody so hurt. "I'm sorry, bro," he said remorsefully. "That was uncalled-for."
Cody shook his head. "No, you were right," he argued sadly. "I did this to you. What I'm feeling now, I made you feel. Only worse." His voice cracked without his ability to stop it. "I'll never forgive myself for that."
"Cody, man, it's not the same," Zack said. "It's nowhere near the same." He took his right hand off the wheel and briefly placed it on his brother's shoulder. "Don't you worry about me. I still have you. So long as I have you, I'll be okay. You just worry about yourself." He removed his hand from Cody's shoulder and placed it back on the steering wheel. "Look at it this way, Codes—your friend is resting now. He's sleeping. He's at peace."
Sure, thought Cody, and would you have been able to tell yourself that had I died?
Zack was able to assess what Cody was thinking judging by his expression, and he grew quiet again.
"I know," Cody remarked. "He is sleeping. It's just…there's so many things I wish I could tell him. So many things I should have had the chance to say. I should have been able to apologize to him."
Zack was most interested in his last sentence. "What do you mean?" he questioned.
Cody took a deep breath, controlling himself. He did not want to reminisce on this, but now he had no choice. "George and I had a fight before he died."
"What was the fight about?" Zack was even more curious.
"About…about him knowing me."
"Knowing you?" Zack mused. "He'd just met you like a month ago."
"I know, but…he claimed he knew me. He said my whole life was a fake."
Zack took his eyes off the road and braved a short, hard stare at Cody. "Did you tell him about why you were sent to that place?"
Cody knew what he was talking about. "Yeah."
"You probably shouldn't have done that. That guy, George, he may have been a cool dude and all but, you should have kept in mind that he was sick—he was mentally unstable. It's not smart to tell people like that personal stuff."
Cody shook his head. Zack didn't understand; he'd never met George.
A silence that was awkward befell the twins.
Zack broke it: "What else did he say to you during the fight?"
Cody thought back, recalling the agonizing details of the confrontation. "He…he told me what kind of a person I am. He told me how I got this way."
"How could he possibly know?" Zack's tone was indignant. "He couldn't presume to know you. He had no right to say any of that."
"But he was right, Zack." True words. Very true words. "Everything he said was right."
"How was it right?"
Cody looked at him. "I'm dead."
"What?" Zack asked incredulously.
"Dead," Cody repeated. "I'm dead."
"What do you mean you're dead? You're sitting right there."
"I know, but I'm dead…on the inside."
"You mean emotionally?"
Cody didn't answer his question. "I killed myself a long time ago," he said.
"You didn't kill yourself, Cody. You tried to, but you failed."
A pause. Cody looked pleadingly at Zack. "I'm so sorry, man. Everything I did was wrong."
"Don't worry about it, Codes," said Zack, wanting this abrupt turn in their conversation to be over. "Let's just get home."
It wasn't over. Far from it.
They say the truth will set a person free. And Cody was desperate for freedom. "Zack? There's something I have to tell you."
Zack waited, clearly a bit peeved that Cody refused to drop this but willing to hear whatever it was he had to say. That was what brothers did, after all.
"Remember the last time you came to visit me at Fairoaks? On the day I got sedated?"
"Of course I do."
"And remember what you said to me, about what I did?"
Zack remembered perfectly well what he'd said: "You didn't blow your chest out because of some fucking whore who couldn't appreciate you. I know you better..." That, as well as other things. He braced himself, anticipating what Cody was going to say next. He nodded in response to his question.
"You and I both know that Brianna"—saying her name no longer bothered Cody—"wasn't the real reason why I tried to…"
"Yeah," Zack confirmed, his voice a mixture of understanding and conviction as the new Zack and the old battled for the driver's seat in his head. "I always knew that."
"She was just a factor—a small factor that was easy to blame. She was a problem for me, but the truth is, I've been having problems for a very long time." Cody took another deep breath. This was hard, but he had to go on. He owed it to George, to himself, and to Zack to continue. There was no turning back now. He'd reached the point of no return.
Blurt it out, his conscience demanded. Blurt it out. You'll feel much better if you do. "It's all because I'm a twin." There, it's out. But…why don't I feel better? Why do I just feel worse?
Because the truth hurts. Don't you know that by now?
Zack was bewildered. "WHAT?"
"Zack, ever since we were little," Cody explained, "people always compared me to you. I was always the 'nerdy' one, or the 'annoying' one, or the 'uninteresting' one. I was always just…your little brother."
"You are my little brother, Cody," Zack intervened.
"That's not what I mean," Cody said. "What I mean is, I was always just 'the younger twin,' or 'the boy who looks like Zack.' I didn't have an identity. I was just an add-on to you! A clone with your DNA!"
"Cody…!" Zack gasped. Involuntarily, he began to speed up. The speed limit was 40 and he was going about 57.
Cody knew his brother was hurt, but that didn't stop him. He felt himself flare with anger. And as the anger grew, his words came pouring out of him: "I messed everything up, Zack. I've been messing everything up since we were kids—my life, your life, the lives of the people we love…everything. I turned my whole existence into a lie. I've been lying to myself since God knows when!"
"Wh-how?" Zack was thoroughly confused. "What are you talking about?"
"I changed myself, man! I changed myself so I could be different from you! You were the star of basketball, so I decided I sucked at it; you were good at hitting on girls, so I convinced myself I had no chance; you hated school, so I made myself love it. Do you understand? Everything I am—everything you know me to be—is because of you!"
"Wait, you're blaming me?" Zack sped up some more. He was going over 60 now.
"No!" Cody intoned. "I'm blaming myself. I refused to see myself for what I was, so I made myself, Zack! I constructed myself into who I thought I wanted to be. But you know what? I hated it. I fucking hated it! What I really wanted was to be like you. I always wanted to be like you, Zack. You were my hero."
Zack desperately did not want to cry, but before he could prevent it, he started to. "Cody," he said through an unsuppressed sob, "bro, I am not worthy to be anyone's hero. Least of all yours. All the times I mistreated you…"
"Zack, none of that ever mattered to me! I always knew you didn't mean it. In fact, I loved you for it. You were a real brother to me!"
"You deserved better than me, Cody. I was an awful brother to you."
Cody couldn't believe that Zack would so much as think that (let alone say it). "What was so awful about you? What did you ever do that was so bad…?"
"I left you, Cody!" Zack yelled, crying even harder. "I left you when you came to me for help! You needed me, and I left you! For the longest time, I thought the person I was angry at in all this was you. I blamed you for ruining everything. But now I see that it was my fault from the beginning. If I had been half the brother I should have been…then none of this would have happened. If anyone needs forgiveness, Cody, it's me."
Don't cry, Cody. Don't cry. Be strong for Zack now. Be strong for the both of you. "Zack, listen to me…what I did to you, that would have happened no matter what. Because it was me, Zack. It was all me. All you did was trust me when I shouldn't have been trusted, and try to go on with your normal life. My being such a fuck-up is not on your shoulders. It never was, and it never will be. Don't hate yourself for that, okay?"
Zack couldn't drive anymore. He was crying too much. As soon as he saw a shoulder off the side of the road, he pulled into it and stopped the car.
Once the car was in Park, he leaned against the steering wheel and cried into it.
Cody scooted across his seat and wrapped his big brother in a tight embrace. It was his turn to be the protective one. "It's okay, buddy. It's okay. I'm here," he whispered. "I've got you."
Zack turned from the wheel and buried himself against Cody. His arms enfolded him in return and he sobbed for a good, long while. "You know what the funny thing is?" he said once he'd calmed down enough to speak.
"What?"
"I always wanted to be more like you."
Then they both burst into a stream of tears.
Zack cried in Cody's arms and Cody cried in Zack's arms, and they both cried together. Shamelessly.
Eventually they should have collapsed from exhaustion, but they didn't.
They shared each other's strength.