2. Callum
Callum
PTSD is the bitter aftertaste of tragedy. Something you can’t just wash out of your mouth. And after eleven years of it, my tastebuds are completely numb.
At least therapy gets me out of the house.
“And what would you like to be different in your life right now, Cal?” Dr. Jain gently asks.
Everything and nothing.
“I just want my family to worry less about me.”
I’m twenty-seven years old. And they treat me like I’m still that terrified teenager, yelling out for help I know won’t come.
She hums thoughtfully and peers over her tortoiseshell glasses. “So, what goal can you set for yourself over the next week? Remember, let’s focus on something specific.”
I mull it over as my gaze sweeps across her office. The light blue walls with the oceanic art that I could recognize in the dark. The small succulents on the shelves, her degrees on the wall, and the beige furniture. My gaze finally settles on the box of tissues I’ve never used.
Part of me wants to say the “right” thing, something I know Dr. Jain will readily approve of. The other part of me is sick of lying to therapists and to myself. I want to get better. I’ve always wanted to get better. It’s just really, really hard.
“My sister invited me to her boutique’s grand opening afterparty. I guess I could go to that and stay for an hour. Be present for Cait.”
Dr. Jain smiles, crinkling the fine lines around her eyes. “That’s a wonderful goal, Cal. I look forward to hearing all about how it went in our next session. Consider journaling after and writing down how you felt.”
I throw her a look, and she gives me a knowing grin. She’s well aware of how much I hate journaling. Freestyle writing isn’t my thing. Checklists and scoring grids are where I’m most comfortable.
Dr. Jain sets down her notebook. “Are you ready to listen to another voicemail?”
I swallow. After finally listening to the first one in January, it doesn’t hurt any less, but it does feel the slightest bit easier.
Even though my jaw still clenches, my hands don’t get clammy, and I stopped having a panic attack following each voicemail after month three.
Each message played is a five-pound weight off my back.
“Sure. We can listen to one.” My voice comes out higher than normal.
“You’re making great progress, Cal. You might even want to consider listening to a voicemail on your own, outside of our sessions.” She picks up her mug on the side table, taking a sip of tea.
My stomach lurches at the suggestion. Sometimes, I wish I could listen to them all at once. Get it over with. But I know myself, and I’m not there yet.
Shaking my head, I mumble, “I’m not sure I can.”
“And that’s completely okay.” Dr. Jain nods reassuringly. “Whenever you’re ready, then.”
I retrieve my phone from my pocket and study the little divots in the case, the tiny crack in the glass.
I got a new number years ago, mostly to avoid constant check-in calls from old acquaintances, but I couldn’t bear to give up my former line, the one with years of inconsequential text messages between two people who saw each other every day.
I enter the passcode, and a picture of my family lights up the screen.
Frozen in time, from over a decade ago. My parents’ auburn hair was darker then.
Cait’s rocking a neon orange bucket hat, which she’d probably burn today, and Carter’s oddly muscular for a fourteen-year-old boy.
The twins are kindergartners—cheesing for the camera instead of their current teenage pouts.
And Christopher, our token blond, looks as switched-at-birth then as he does now.
The only trait he shares with the rest of us is the first letter of his name.
Their smiling faces give me a boost of encouragement as I navigate to my phone app. But when I see the red series of digits in my voicemails, my throat goes dry. I stare at the phone number I have memorized, though it’s no longer saved as a contact in my phone.
“Deep breaths, Cal. Like we practiced,” Dr. Jain gently reminds me.
I inhale deeply and exhale slowly, trying to focus on how far I’ve come. The number in the corner was much higher and more daunting last year.
I don’t listen to them in order. There’s just certain ones—certain dates—I can’t bring myself to confront. This message was left two years ago.
Bracing myself, I click play and put my phone on speaker. The inviting voice that fills the room is one I’m extremely familiar with.
“Hi, Cal, it’s Tammy.”
“And Jeff!”
“We heard you moved to a new place. Congratulations! Your mom said you’re in the townhouse development off Main Street? Not too far from our place, as you know. We’d love to see you soon. It’s been so long, and we miss you, buddy. Maybe you could stop by? Or we could. Whatever you want. Take care.”
Dr. Jain waits patiently after the message stops. I’ll talk soon, but right now I close my eyes, focusing on my breaths.
After a few minutes, I unclench my teeth and make eye contact with her. “Okay. It’s done.”
She sets her mug down on the side table and picks up her notebook again. “Another one down. How do you feel?”
“I feel okay. I feel better than I felt the last time, which was better than the time before. I think it’s getting… not easier emotionally, but easier to hear. If that makes sense.”
“That makes sense.” She takes a quick note. “And that also brings us to the end of our session. Great work tonight, Cal.”
I stand and gather my things, giving one last glance at the box of tissues. “New box design this week. How many do you go through?”
Dr. Jain smiles. “I buy wholesale.”
* * *
“So, how are you… really?” Carter waggles his eyebrows, dramatically emphasizing the “really” like his master’s degree is in psychology and not kinesiology.
“For fuck’s sake, Carter, which Understanding Trauma book did you pull that one out of?”
He grins, the freckles on his face scrunching as he bends over to spot me. “What? I can’t ask how my big brother’s doing—really?”
My family means well, and I love them fiercely.
Ma and Dad were the ones who got me into therapy at sixteen, and my siblings have always been gracious during my particularly dark spells.
By the time I left for college, I’d found meds that worked for me and learned to endure my new normal.
When my therapist announced his retirement, everyone supported my decision not to continue therapy.
And eight years later, after realizing that enduring isn’t exactly thriving, my family once again became my biggest champions on my journey to find someone new. Though even with Dr. Jain in the mix, they treat well-being check-ins like they’re an Olympic sport—and the Galvins are going for gold.
“As always, I’m fine,” I grit out, pressing the barbell up one last time to finish my set.
Grabbing the bar from me and helping me rack it, Carter dramatically feigns concern. “Uh oh. The podcast said that if your loved one says ‘fine,’ they may be on the brink of a mental breakdown.”
I sit up and grab a towel. “Or they might just not be the type to wax poetic about their feelings to their annoying brother.”
He clutches his chest and staggers backward, wiping beads of sweat dripping down his pale skin. “You wound me.”
I place my elbows on my knees, resting for a moment, and take a closer look in the mirror.
My gaze snags on the undereye bags from yet another night of tossing and turning.
Stubble covers my usually clean-shaven face.
I finger comb my wavy hair back behind my ears. Probably time for another haircut.
“Man. Maybe getting four hours of sleep is something I was only able to do in my early twenties. I look rough.”
Carter rolls his eyes. “Please. Rough or not, I have it on good authority your chin alone has its own fan club. Remember Priya? She almost ditched me on the spot when your dimple showed up to my gym’s grand opening.”
I snort. “I wasn’t interested in her.”
“You’re never interested, period. And thank fuck for that. You’d be absolutely dominating at the bars if you’d ever leave your townhouse.”
My laughter echoes throughout the empty gym. Carter specifically schedules me early in the morning when his facility’s closed. And while some mornings feel a little more obligatory than others, exercise really does seem to prevent my PTSD from taking control of the day.
“We wouldn’t be going for the same girls anyways. You’re still a little baby.” I punch him in the upper arm as I stand, but his stocky frame barely moves.
“I’m barely younger than you, and I’m a business owner. I pay taxes.” He raises an eyebrow. “Would a baby pay taxes, Cal? Hell, I’m the one with the graying sideburns. Is a side effect of your medication hair growth and vitality? I might need to get some for myself.”
“Shockingly enough, better hair is not an off-label use of anti-depressants,” I deadpan. “And I’m pretty sure my meds are the last thing you need. You’d probably agree to board a rocket ship to Mars after one dose.”
“Nah, I’m not famous enough to be an astronaut. Celebrity status is a requirement to leave the atmosphere these days.” Carter takes a swig of his morning protein shake. “How’s your job going? Any rats lately?”
“Eh, only one.” I shrug. “Turns out he was the chef, so I didn’t dock any points.”
He cracks up, nearly spitting out his shake. “Oh, the Health Inspector has jokes now.”
A towel comes flying, and I catch it just before it can smack me in the face.
Carter returns to trainer mode. “Time for a cool down. Arm stretches for thirty seconds each.”
I move my arms across my body, holding each elbow with the opposite hand. “So, are you going to Cait’s grand opening party?”
His eyes widen to saucers, and he takes a step toward me. “…Why? Are you thinking about going?”
Carter is the life of every party. When he’s not in personal training sessions with his clients, he’s living it up at our local club scene. Work hard, play hard is not only a motto for him—it’s a lifestyle. His zest for life is almost contagious.
But going places isn’t really my thing. My thing is really five things: going to the gym, going to work, going to therapy, going to Sunday family dinner, and—my favorite of all—going home.
I swing my arms at my side before moving my hands behind my head, pushing my chest out. “Um, yeah. I want to support Cait.”
“That’s great, bro.” He slaps me on the back.
A nervous breath gets lodged in my throat. “Do you, um, think they’ll be there?”
Carter tilts his head in sympathy. “Nah, Cait wouldn’t invite them to this kind of thing.”
Nodding, I drop my arms and shake them out.
“Proud of you.” He squeezes my shoulder.
It’s hard not to cringe at the surprised encouragement. I wish I went out more, but socializing is exhausting. I’m constantly anxious that I’ll do something weird and ruin everyone’s night.
“What time are you getting there?” I ask.
“I can pick you up at six.”
I know he’s only offering because he (rightfully) thinks I’ll bail. But between my promise to Dr. Jain and my desire to show up for my family when it counts, I won’t be skipping this one. Plus, I don’t need a chauffeur—I need an exit plan.
“No need. I’ll drive myself. I promise I’m going.”
Carter leans forward, his discerning gaze narrowing for a moment, before he straightens and smiles. “She’ll be thrilled.” He groans. “Shit. I just remembered I agreed to help set up for the party.”
“Well, your Galvin responsibility is assembly. And moving heavy stuff.” I clear my throat. “Shirk your family responsibilities and face the wrath of Ma and Dad.”
He rolls his eyes. “Please. Their wrath manifests as withholding vanilla wafers for dessert.”
“And it’s a chilling threat, Carter. You’d forgo the greatest boxed cookie of all time to avoid a house responsibility? I truly believe if food scientists ground up Nilla wafers and packed the crumbs into a time-release capsule, it’d cure my PTSD.”
He throws me the same boyish grin I’ve seen a million times since childhood. “Well, Doctor, you have connections in the food industry. Get on it so we can all get off your mopey ass.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling at Carter’s shit-talk.
One of my favorite things about him is his carefree attitude with me.
He never treats me like I’m someone to be handled with care.
At its core, our relationship has stayed the same, even after everything that happened.
I prefer it to the pity stares from old acquaintances at the grocery store.
“For the last time, I’m not a doctor. You’ve got to stop saying that. Impersonating a medical professional is an actual crime.”
He brushes me off with a wave of his hand. “Whatever. You’re close enough. You do check-ups.”
“On restaurants. And hot dog stands.”
“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to, bro.” Checking his watch for the second time, he frowns. “I need to restock the convenience area before we open. I have a fuckton of strawberries-and-cream flavored protein bars that won’t move.”
I grimace. “Yeah. Because those taste like chalk.”
“You know what they say, Cal: some people’s almost-expired chalk is other people’s emotional support protein bar.” His focus locks on me, suspicion flooding his expression. “So, I’ll see you at the party then… Right? If you’re still planning on going, of course.”
My eyes roll so hard they almost fall out of their sockets. “Ask me again, Carter.”
“Ask you what?”
“‘How are you, really?’”
Carter blinks. “Why?”
“Because I’m no longer fine.”
He shoves me so hard I fall back on the bench.