Chapter 42 James
Routine. I hate that mother fucker. My brain, though. My brain thrives on it and suddenly in the space of twenty-four hours, the safe and predictable life I’d crafted for myself fell apart.
I have no job.
I have no ability to stop fucking crying.
I have no Cory.
The right thing was done. I know that, but tell that to my feet. The ones who can’t stop pacing twenty-four-seven.
Or the tender skin around my nails that now bleeds as much as my heart that is shredded beyond repair.
Or Dylan, who can sense his Jamie isn’t right, so he’s not right.
Or Faith, who like me, is so thrown by the sudden change in all our lives she’s more distressed, has retreated back in to herself and cried more each and every night than she did when we lost Dad.
Or my brain, that is obsessively picking apart and analyzing every micro-moment looking for one where is all went wrong, which is stupid and pointless because I know what moment was the very second I hoped for more. The second I said yes to becoming a Bear.
I don’t want to be this person anymore. I don’t want to think … obsess over everything, or feel everything as intensely as I do. I don’t want the supermarket lights to hurt my eyes and the sound of keys jingling, or a mysterious rattle somewhere within my vicinity, to drive me fucking insane.
I don’t want to think about him all the fucking time.
Since Dad died, actually no, since Brandon left and the practice screwed me over, I’ve tried to pull myself together. To rise above it all. I have. But the weight if it all keeps sucking me back under.
I’m just done.
I’ve not spoken a word in weeks and begin to fear I my remain silent forever. I just don’t know to find the words. Like my hope, they’ve just … vanished.
For someone like me, grumpy, rigid, controlling, second chances don’t come around easily.
Hell, first chances don’t. And that’s why this whole fucked up situation confirms my opinion on the cruelty of existence.
A life, a universe that would dangle a perfect, pretty man before my eyes like a crystal spinning on a string.
A man who was capable of loving all the parts of me reflected back to him, all the hidden evils even I couldn’t, and then it take him away.
Yeah, that’s not for me.
Six weeks later
“Jamie. You either have to find a new job, make up with, then have mind-blowing phone sex with Cory, gag, or—”
“Cory and I broke up, remember. That’s exactly what you wanted me to do and I did it. You were right, I was wrong. I was stupid you were smart. He’s gone, I’m here. Now leave me alone, Faith.”
Mumbling under her breath, Faith throws my weighted blanket at my head. She misses ‘cause she sucks. “No. I will not leave you alone. I love you. Dylan loves you and we need you. I’m sorry you’re hurting but, yes, in the long run, I do believe this will be for the best.”
“Okay, sure Doctor Plum. But since I’m kinda sleepy, do me a solid and wake me when that long run’s over.” I roll to my side and bury my face into the tiny gap between my mattress and the wall.
Crinkling beneath my pillow is the reason for my latest self-pitying slump.
Doom scrolling as I attempted to sleep two, maybe three nights ago, I came across an article covering Cory’s PR visit to Montreal.
For some stupid reason, I printed a photo he looked particularly delicious in and studied every pixelated inch of it for hours.
Wasn’t my wisest decision. Sadly, not my dumbest.
“Jamie, I know our life is not what we had planned, but it is our life. You are a vital part of it, so please, Jamie. Get up, have a shower, then come and have pancakes with Dyl and me. I can’t miss work again today.
” Much to my relief, Faith clomps up the stairs, leaving me to wallow in my own filth. Just as I want.
Or maybe not.
Cunning as she is, she leaves the door to my dungeon open, meaning I can hear every clatter and clang she makes, and the squeal Dylan releases when Faith loudly pronounces I’m joining them for breakfast.
“That’s right, Dyl. Jamie’s finally coming. Thank you for pulling out his chair. I’m sure after three days, he’s as excited to see you, as you are to see him.” Dylan’s happy clapping seals the guilt she absolutely intended me to feel. I may be able to ignore her, but Dylan is another matter.
After washing off my stink with the bare minimum effort, I dress in a ratty old tee and sweats, take one last look at Cory’s pic, then tuck it back under my pillow before I kiss it again.
Dylan’s smile is worth the herculean effort. As is the sight of him pulling out my chair. It is not my chair though. It’s Dad’s.
“You want me to sit in Dad’s chair?” Dyl hums and taps the timber three times, as Faith slots between us, depositing a short stack covered in bacon and syrup. “He’s been pointing at it for every meal. I thought it was the usual, where’s Dad thing, but I guess not.”
Teary-eyed, I stare at the seat that has been empty for months. It’s just a chair, I tell myself, but all of us here, crowded around it know that’s not true. Dyl taps it again, then scoots around the table to take his place beside me. “Okay, Dyl. I’ll sit here.”
“Excellent.” Faith claps as she returns to the stove. “Since you’re up, you’ll be able to make it to your doctor’s appointment.”
Syrup drips down my arm as I drop the fork I’d just picked up. “What doctor’s appointment?”
“The one I booked for you. Now hurry up and eat. You’ll need to shower again before you leave. You smell like a dead rat.”
“Faith’s been concerned, but your blood work is fine, as is your ECG. Now, you can both ignore the grief and heartbreak over your dad, and your recent job loss and the breakup Faith told me about—“
“Faith has a big mouth, and I am not heartbroken—” I one hundred percent am.
“And you can devalue the work you’re doing with Dylan all you like, James, but that multiplied by carer’s burnout—which is real, before you say it—is enough to have anyone struggling to function.”
I roll my eyes, and have the distinct impression Dr. John Lappin wants to sleep me on the back of the head in punishment.
One of my dad’s best friends, he’s been our family doctor since we returned to Boston, so I wouldn’t put it past him. Not only for being sassy but because he’s sick of me. I’ve been in his office at least once a week since … since Cubby left.
“Dad cared for Dylan for years and he never burned anything other than every piece of toast or steak he cooked.”
“You think so, do you?”
“I know so.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I lay back on the stretcher like I’m in an emperor’s robe, not just wearing a thin paper gown, boxers and socks.
In response, John tilts his head to the side, a slow smirk spreading as he scoots the wheely stool he’s on over to his desk.
Muttering under his breath, he searches through his drawers.
“Uh-huh. Here it is. Your dad had me keep this here for you and Faith because he knew there was a chance Dylan would be living at least part time with one or both of you one day.” He wheels back to me then hands me a manila folder stuffed with crinkled papers.
“As your physician and trusted friend, I hope you accept what I’m about to say in the loving and supportive, compassionate way that it’s intended.
You’re a fucking hypochondriac pain in my ass James, as so was your dad.
Read.” The folder is thrust in my direction, a few papers flittering their way to the ground as I scramble to gather them while lying down.
“What are you talking about? Dad was the most mentally ‘I got my shit together’ kind of guy I ever knew. Also, should I be seeing this? Medical records are confidential, John.”
“I’ve been a doctor longer than you’ve been alive, but thank you for the patronization, James,” he says, delivering the whack to the head I’ve been expecting. “Most of these aren’t medical records, and for those that are, in there you’ll see I have your dad’s written consent to share.”
Juggling papers between my right hand and elbow, I use my left hand to push myself up into a seated position. “Dad really wanted me to see these?”
“He did, Son. I’ll give you a moment to read through them. Just call if you need me, I’ll be in the next office making a call.”
Leaving me metaphorically lodged between happiness and crapping my pants I open the folder and take out a fist full of what look like handwritten letters. The first being dated maybe six months after Mom died.
John,
Thank you for helping me with the property hunt. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to know the house is in a great school district, and that it and the yard will be safe for the kids.
In your last letter you expressed such implicit confidence in my ability to do this all alone, but I really think you’ve made a gross overestimation.
Everyday, it feels like another piece of my heart has broken off and floated away.
Faith spends her days telling me she’s fine, and her nights crying because she thinks I can’t hear her.
Jamie has not ability to hide his emotions and just cries all the time, and Dylan keeps sitting beside or pointing to Heather’s chair like he’s waiting for her to come home.
I don’t know how she did it, John. How did she manage all three kids, and school and their appointments and Dyl’s meltdowns and medications? I genuinely fear I’m screwing up so badly, they’ll be taken off me or I’ll drop dead from a heart attack and leave them orphaned.
Come to think of it, this pain in my chest, and shortness of breath is truly troublesome. Perhaps when we arrive, you can give me a full work over?
Christopher
Good lord, he’s me.
Tears fill my eyes and I continue to read, but only fall when I find one email dated back when I quit hockey.
He insists he doesn’t want to play this season, but I know he’s quit for Faith and Dylan.
For me.
I’m so damn proud of Jamie, and I want to tell him he doesn’t need to sacrifice what he loves.
That somehow, I’ll find a way for the burden of it all not to land on his shoulders.
But it breaks my heart to admit to you that I can’t, John.
Even with your generous offer of assistance.
I’m drowning in debt, there’s more out of pockets for Dylan’s supports everyday, and hockey, while it’s hie’s dream, just isn’t an essential right now.
All Heather and I wanted is for them to be happy and in love like we were, and to have successful careers. He’s only a kid and I’ve already failed him. I’m failing them all.
I can only hope he will forgive me one day.
A similar theme runs through each thing I read.
Dad was just as overwhelmed as I was. And not just when we were kids.
There’s notes here, copies of emails and texts that show Dad struggling to get help for Dylan.
Evidence of his quest to grant Dylan the right of independence.
Records of almost monthly medical tests, searching for answers to what ailed him, and notes John left insisting he was healthy.
It was anxiety. He was burnt out right to the end of his life and I never knew.
A knock on the door draws my eyes from an application Dad had made for Dylan to receive funding for an independent living complex designed for adults with autism.
It’s a place I know well, Dyl has stayed there for respite weekends several times.
He loves it and poor Dad had all but begged for permanent funding five times and each was rejected.
“Fuck I hate this,” I sob, wiping my cheek with the sleeve of my hoodie. “I wish he was still here, John. I’d tell him he never failed me, or Faith or Dyl.”
“He knew that in the end, I think Jamie. He was so proud of Faith becoming a professor and of you for pivoting to study physiotherapy.”
“I’m glad he got to see some of his wishes fulfilled before I went and fucked everything up.”
“You didn’t fuck everything up. You just fell for the right person at the wrong time. He’d still be proud of you, Jamie. He wanted you to be happy in every aspect of your life, and that includes your love life.”
I rub my chest, my tattoo almost burning beneath my fingers.
Balance, playing through my mind over and over.
I need to right myself. To find some balance. To make Dad proud, and I think I know where to start. Crinkling, my gown slips from my shoulder as I roll from the bed and start dressing.
“Please don’t talk about my love life, not only because it’s weird, but because I’m done with that shit. I have no time for men, especially not now that I have a mission.”
“Ten minutes ago, you thought you were on your death bed, now you’re off on a quest? Are there eight other members of your fellowship hiding in here?”
“No, and yes. I can’t do much about a boyfriend when the only one I want is out of reach, but I’m getting my job back, and I’m getting Dyl into that place, John. I swear.”