"I'm crazy, Ash," he said, and I sat on the bed with him, felt sad for him. Crazy. He had been acting crazy, and it wasn't just an act. These doctors and psychiatrists had confirmed it, had given him medication and all of that to try and fix it. I couldn't get over the new calmness. He used to be calm like this. It was like visiting someone after a fever had broken.

"If I'm sick like they say I am, I'll be dealing with this for the rest of my life," he said, "shrinks and medications,"

The rest of his life. God, that seemed so final. Bipolar. It wasn't a phase he'd outgrow, it wasn't a reaction to some specific life event. It was a disease and it was for the rest of his life.

I didn't know the dangers then but I would. I'd read about it at the library and on the internet after I left him there in the care of the medical professionals. I'd learn of the dangers the psych medications could have in the long run, the risk of kidney failure, the side effects, the adjustments that would need to be made. I'd learn about the ongoing treatment and therapies and medications and the danger of drug use/abuse, the risk to jobs and relationships. I'd read about what predisposes one to the mental illness. Maybe the abuse by his father and the trauma of his parents' deaths triggered it. Maybe those things were the match to the wick.

I laid down next to him, and I couldn't help but notice how pretty he was, how handsome, how sad in this hospital bed. He seemed sweet in the flannel pajama pants and soft T-shirt, white socks. Vulnerable. I could protect him. I could love him and be there for him, I could find him under all the manic behavior, the fever bright eyes, the talking, the racing ideas. I could be there to pick him up when he fell.

"You can go," he said, turning away from me, "I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to leave,"

It was a challenge. I wouldn't leave. I'd stick by him, I could adjust to this new reality. Because I loved him. I loved his creativity and his gentleness, his everything. If it included bipolar then it did. I swallowed hard and turned his face back to mine.

"I'm not leaving, Craig," I said, and he smiled softly, the hope creeping back into his eyes.

Out in the hall Joey was waiting to see him. I could tell by the redness of his eyes that he had been crying, and that gave me pause. This was serious, maybe more serious than I wanted to believe at that moment.

"He seems better, doesn't he?" Joey said, looking for affirmation.

"Yeah, he does," I said, agreeing eagerly.

He does.

0000000000000000000000000000000

I was home the day I knew Craig was leaving the hospital. It was one of those days, the sky achingly blue, the air clear. This would be fine. I wasn't worried. I knew he was going home and I thought I'd just let him adjust, I wouldn't go over right away. I'd see him in school soon enough.

"Ashley," my mother said, her voice that worried firm that it had been since Craig had barreled back into my life.

"Yeah, mom?"

"Doesn't Craig come home from the hospital today?"

"Yeah," I busied myself with the dishes, with clearing the table and wiping it down.

"Are you going to go and see him?" I could feel her looking at me, but I looked at the table, at the wet sponge in my hand. I could feel the cool air from the open window, I could feel the sun on my face.

"No. Not today,"

"Good," she said, too fast. I let it go. I knew she had no love for him. What did I expect? He'd broken my heart last year and I was so upset, so depressed that suicide had honestly entered my thoughts. My mother knew that. She'd never forgive him. Now this. He was too much for her, and I supposed I could understand. But she should try to see my side of it. I loved him, and love wasn't just about loving someone when it was easy, when it was convenient.