8. THINKING OF YOU （I DRIVE MYSELF CRAZY）
8
THINKING OF YOU (I DRIVE MYSELF CRAZY)
NSYNC
JACK
My head pounds in a steady rhythm. I can’t lift my face from beneath the pillow blocking the light from outside. I wish I had the wherewithal to shut my blinds, but any movement, no matter how simple, isn’t possible right now. I don't know how long I've been here like this, but I know it's nowhere close to waning. This happens less and less lately, but when it does, I’m incapacitated for the unforeseeable future.
The banging starts again, and I realize that it isn’t just in my head, but at the door too. I say a silent prayer that whoever’s out there will either give up or break in but, for the love of everything, stop their insistent hammering on my door.
The sound finally stops, but a wave of nausea hits. I drag my body as far over the edge of the bed as possible, grab the trash can waiting there, and lose the contents of my stomach inside.
“Whoa, Jack.” Owen rushes around the bed, coming to my side and lifting the trash can closer to my mouth. He knows it's me, because for whatever reason, my counterpart doesn’t experience this particular side effect. Lucky guy.
“What can I do, man? Did you take your meds?”
I groan and hope he understands it means I haven’t.
“I’m gonna grab them, okay? I’ll be right back.” He takes the trash bag out, replacing it with another at the bottom of the bin, and then I hear the faint sounds of him rummaging around in my bathroom.
My family have all taken turns seeing me like this at different points since my accident. It’s another humbling factor of my specific TBI that I can’t seem to escape. I need help. It may be infrequent, but it’s necessary.
“Here ya go, bro.” He returns, slipping the pills into my clenched fist. I tip them into my mouth and accept the water and straw he brings to my lips. “Bad one, huh? I haven’t seen you like this in a while.”
Vaguely, I have the sense that I try to shake my head in thanks, but I don't think it translates.
“You’re welcome, man.” He squats down beside the bed, and though my eyes are closed and my head is buried under the pillow again, I can tell he’s at eye level. “Take another sip. It's always better if you’re not dehydrated.”
Opening my mouth without looking, I wait for the straw again and take a long sip of water before he pulls it away. We’ve been here before, so it's all par for the course.
“I'm gonna whip up some eggs for when the meds kick in, okay? I'll come right back.”
He softly walks out, and I'm left to wait on the meds to do their job. The ringing in my ears and a painful pulse are still present in my head, along with the dark thoughts about how long I might have to live this way.
I’ve never been one for self-pity, but during moments like these, it’s becoming more difficult not to wallow a bit. When I can feel every particle of fabric scratching like sandpaper against my skin. When my breath smells like death and the steady rhythm of my heart aligns with the throbbing sensation at my temples. My every thought painfully zeroes in on the discomfort I can’t ignore.
My little brother, who should be living his own life, will spend the rest of the day here looking after me, and if it wasn’t him, it’d be one of our parents or Winnie.
I feel emasculated, but thankful for all they sacrifice. Angry, and yet gloriously grateful to be alive. My therapist calls it a conflicted emotional state. Dad, a retired preacher, says it’s an opportunity to depend on something other than myself. A season of prayer.
I say, whatever it is, I’m tired.
It isn't long before exhaustion takes me under, offering me rest as a reprieve from the pain.
At some point, Owen pads softly back into the room and rests a heavy hand on my back before draping a weighted heating pad there in its stead. I’m not sure how long it’s been, but the room doesn’t feel like it's spinning right now.
“Heat good?”
“Y… yes,” my voice cracks, but I’m able to speak.
We have a protocol. Heat and weight on my body, cold packs on my eyes when I can take it. So before I can even say a word otherwise, Owen slips the familiar, cool, nylon face mask over my head and eyes. The combo of meds, the blanket, and the mask bring almost instantaneous relief. If history is any indication, I’ll be here for the rest of the day and maybe tomorrow, but at least I don’t feel like my brain is splitting in two anymore.
“Better?” Owen asks, keeping his voice low and soft.
I nod once. “How…?” My throat feels dry.
As if he can tell, Owen puts the straw back to my mouth and holds it there while I take a few more sips.
“Greg called Winnie when you didn’t come downstairs this mornin’. She has a twelve hour client at the parlor and couldn’t get here fast enough. Figured you’d rather me than Mama or Dad.”
Nodding again, my other senses start to slowly return. My brother’s foot taps gently on the floor, always moving and active. The sweats I slept in last night are soft but suddenly too warm to be wearing any longer. And like it has for weeks now, the faint smell of fresh baked bread and butter drifts in from next door.
I really should have the vents to this old building looked at, because that smell seems to permeate every nook and cranny of this place any time Dinah bakes down below. I feel like she's inadvertently infiltrating my home just as swiftly as she has my thoughts.
“You've been asleep for a while. Since right after I got here,” Owen continues, slipping his body onto my bed. I picture him with his legs stretched out and criss-crossed, staring at the ceiling fan above. “It’s four o’clock now, so Greg is likely closin’ up the shop early. He’s a good kid. A little too moony-eyed at Winnie, but who isn’t in this town?” He chuckles to himself.
“Was there a trigger this time?”
“Music.”
I knew volleying songs back and forth with Dinah the other day would most likely lead to this, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. I wanted to make things right, and since speaking face-to-face with her has gone about as smoothly as a root canal performed by a toddler, I hoped speaking in Dinah’s language would ease the tension between us.
“Ah, man. That sucks.”
“What about practice?” The sudden emotion in my throat is hard to suppress. Owen shouldn’t be here today. He has practice daily and preseason games start soon.
“I’m where I need to be, Jack, alright? They’re just testin’ the new guys this week anyway. I’ll hit the gym early tomorrow.” He places a hand on my back again, patting it gently. “I grabbed some of those Bacon Parmesan Pretzel Bites from Dinah next door while you were asleep. Thought they’d be a good recovery snack.”
Next door. I hate that my first real, clear thoughts are of Dinah and my brother. Wondering what their date was like. What did they do? Did she have a good time? Did he kiss her pretty pink lips before dropping her off. At her door. At a decent hour. And nothing else.
“How was your date?”
Perfect. I haven’t managed to open my eyes yet, but I’m still capable of unreasonable jealousy when it comes to Owen and the girl next door. I have a massive headache, zero self-control, and a huge—and growing—Dinah problem.
“Date? What date?”
“Nevermind.”
My eyes are closed, but I wish I could disappear. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. Owen chuckles again, and it annoys me more than the sweatpants currently suffocating my legs.
“Oh… yeah, that date.” He whistles low and shifts his weight on the bed. “Well, it was at the batting cages. Lots of fun. Mama and Dad met her. Winnie, too.”
They probably loved that. Though I know our mom has secretly always hoped it would be Brooke that Owen ends up with, bringing Dinah to meet them is a big deal. If I know her at all, she probably already has his and Dinah’s wedding stationary picked out.
My hands tighten into fists. I want to know every detail and none of them at all.
“Lots of helping her swing the bat. Subtle touching. Talkin’. You know how it goes.”
I grunt an acknowledgement but have the sudden irrational urge to kick Owen out of my house and stuff my face with those pretzel bites he mentioned. I’m feeling marginally better and worse all at once.
“And,” he continues when I don’t say more, “ YOU and Dinah seemed to really hit it off… until she found out about, well… you.”
“What?” I slip the cover from my eyes and am immediately disoriented by the small burst of light. Wincing, a sharp pain lances through my skull.
“Hey, hey, hey, man,” Owen tsks , sounding an awful lot like our dad, and slips the mask back over my eyes. “Keep it on, and I’ll tell ya all about how it went, okay? I'm guessing you haven't read your notes yet, because if you had, you'd know it wasn't me who took Dinah on a date.”
I haven't read the notes yet. I only remember waking up before the sun with blurred vision, my ears ringing, indicating the migraine was coming, and a dizziness that kept me from getting out of bed.
“ He asked her out?”
Owen sighs. “I don’t feel like I need to remind you of this fact, but you are him, man. Even if you don’t want to acknowledge it. But, yes, Jackson took Dinah on a date three nights ago. But, from what you —”
“He,” I moan.
“Fine. What he told me, it didn’t go so well once Mom and Dad spilled the beans on your unique situation.”
I blow out a breath of relief, only for Owen to push me gently with his elbow.
“What’s your problem, man? Dinah seems great. She’s funny and cute and—” He releases a low groan. I hate it. “Have you had the Breakfast Bites? I’m there every morning, and let me tell you what, that girl can bake.”
“What’s your point, Owen?”
“My point, big brother, is that she’s amazing.”
I swallow and shrug off the heated blanket. It’s suddenly too much.
“I know she is.”
“And? You should lock that down. Take her out. Put a ring on it.”
“No. It doesn’t matter how amazing she is. A girl like that deserves more than—”
“Than what, Jack? Than you? She’s interested in you, man. Everyone in town has been talkin’ about the two of y’all after the opening—”
“That was him , not me. ”
“And…” he says more pointedly, “she’s had your flowers on her counter for over a week. And don’t even try to play coy with me. I know the difference.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. You were given a bad hand, man. It was my—”
“Don’t, Owen.” I grab for his hand, the mask hiding any embarrassment I might normally feel holding my baby brother’s hand. “Please.”
“It wasn’t my fault, but it was my game. My pitch. My team. And since then, man, you’ve stopped… living. You’re just existing. Just making it through your day or days—or whatever it is you two have—and pretending like the other doesn’t exist. You’re wasting your life, Jack.”
“This isn’t a life.” My hands find my temples as we repeat the same argument we’ve shared countless times over recent months. “It isn’t a life. There isn’t a future here. Not when there’s no rhyme or reason to who she’d wake up to every day. Whether I’ll be amicable and the town golden boy or”—I gesture down my body, still laying flat on my stomach, and feel how ridiculous it must look—“me. She could end up with me. And him thinking he can have any kind of future—or anything—with her is selfish. Because she is amazing, and she deserves better.”
Owen sighs again, and I know he won’t argue any further. He can’t. Not when he knows it's the truth. Instead, he squeezes my hand and pats my back for a final time. “I’m sorry, Jack. I really am.”
Owen and I eat our weight in pretzel bites, quietly stewing in our earlier conversation. The mood becomes further stilted when Owen jokes about really asking Dinah out as soon as he leaves my place for the night. Rather than punch the teeth out of his smug grin, I gently remind him to stop by Brooke’s house to give her all the details of said date.
That shuts him up.
Though he’s never admitted it to me, it isn’t hard to see that the way Owen looks at Brooke goes far past what he claims is only friendship.
Our standoff with one another is only made better by quite possibly the best take on a bacon-cheese combo I’ve ever tasted. Dinah really is a wonder.
On pretzel bites alone—if I were any other man—I’d have half a mind to march next door and propose to her right here and now. Instead, I play it cool until Owen knows I’m well enough to leave me alone.
He promises to be back in the morning before the gym, and though I want to argue, I can’t. If history is any indication, I’ll need help again tomorrow.
“I put your pills right here.” Owen gestures to the side table where he’s set up a station of fresh water, apple sauce packets, and the newly frozen gel mask.
“Thanks, Owen. I’m…” I run a hand over the scruff along my jaw. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to do this, but I’m thankful.”
“I love you, Jack. We all do.” With a tight-lipped nod, he glimpses around the darkened room again, ensuring everything’s in order, and slips quietly out of the room.
I sleep fitfully, waking for meds, to drink water, or to slip the heating pad and eye pads off intermittently. And when I dream, they’re filled with flashes of my hands running along lightly freckled arms until they meet softer, gentler hands at the end of a bat. Of strawberry blonde hair wisping into green eyes. And then, the sound I hear most nights, the splitting crack the moment a bat makes contact with a ball.
When I’m pulled from sleep by a soft, consistent knock at my door, I slit one eye open to peer at my clock.. It’s just after six. Too late now for Owen. Maybe he sent Winnie in his stead, a resoundingly disheartening prospect. I love my sister, but quiet time—which I desperately need to recover—is not in her vocabulary.
Grabbing my glasses and another round of meds, I totter to the door, keeping the lights out. And as if I’ve summoned her in my sleep, Dinah waits outside my door, hand mid-knock and startled concern on her face.