Thirty-three
Sadie
Ben has been extremely hard to be around these past few weeks. He has been weaning himself off the harder drugs, causing his attitude and irritability to be at an all-time high. He’s been snapping at the boys and Nick—even me. Sometimes me more than anyone since I’m the one by his side day and night. We have made no progress on him letting me go to therapy with him, but he says soon. Every time, the answer is soon . When will soon come?
He’s been taking the anxiety pills that his doctor prescribed and doing an hour of therapy three times a week. But there is something missing. Something isn’t clicking for him, and it’s not from lack of trying. He works so hard. Subconsciously, he has a wall deep inside that he can’t see over, but he hasn’t figured out yet what that is.
Today, he’s been eerily quiet. The first time he said anything more than good morning was five minutes ago when they started sound check. They’re playing Salt Lake City, and I’m worried Ben isn’t going to be able to put on a full show. In fact, if I were a gambler, I would put money on him storming offstage. If this rehearsal is any indication, they might as well cancel tonight’s show.
“That sounds like fucking shit, Eric. Tune the D string, fuck, man.”
I swallow, keeping quiet in my chair. Nick sits next to me with his lips tight as well.
“Sorry, B,” Eric apologizes, walking lightly on Ben’s eggshells.
“Is this my fault, Nick?” I question, my voice low as Ben warms up his vocal cords.
“Sadie, he needs this. We all need him to get better. You should be proud.”
“Hardly. I see it already.”
“See what?”
Bringing my knees to my chest in the tiny seat, I answer. “The quiet resentment. He thinks that I’m doing this because I think what he’s doing is wrong, but I’m doing this because I love him, and I don’t want something bad to happen to him. I don’t want to lose him, Nick,” I admit, watching Ben as he messes with his earpiece.
“We know that, Sade, we do. That’s why we all let him do what he wants to us. We know he’ll be better one day, and it’ll be worth putting up with all this.” He smiles, and I give a forced one in return. I sure do hope that’s the case.
* * *
“Nick! Where the fuck are my black jeans? I can’t find shit!” Ben yells from the back of the bus. Standing in a rush, I urge Nick to let me go instead. I briskly move past the bunks and into the back.
“Which ones, baby?”
“Fuck! I don’t know!”
“Let me look.” I instantly start looking through the clean clothes I washed for him at our last stop. “Here are your pants.” The jeans are at the bottom of the stack I folded a few hours ago. I lay them out on the bed next to his Chucks. When he doesn’t move, I turn around and see him watching me.
“What?” I question.
“I need it.” His voice is low, his chest not as red as it was when I first came back here.
“Okay. What can I do to help you, baby? You’re doing so good, let’s not give up,” I soothe, crawling on my knees to his side of the bed. I kiss from his happy trail all the way up to his heart. His breathing is ragged and uneven, his fists clenching repeatedly at his sides. “Ben, you have to relax. You need to calm down; you can’t be like this onstage. What can I do to help? We can cancel the show. You say the word, and I will cancel it.” I start to rub his shoulders. I can see how hard this is on him. If it’s hard on me, I can’t imagine what being inside his head all day every day is like.
“I don’t know. I feel violent, Sadie. Like I could punch a wall straight through.”
“Do you want us to get you some gloves and a standing punching bag? We can do that,” I coo, hearing Nick enter the room.
“Hey, man, we got to hurry up. We go on in ten.”
I close my eyes and gulp.
“Fuck off, man! I’m talking to my girl right now. Why don’t you give me a fucking minute!” His hands grip my hips, and I look over to Nick.
“Nick, it’s okay. We’ll be out there. Let me have a minute with him.” Nick shakes his head, pausing for a brief second before leaving us again.
“Why can’t they understand me, Sadie!” Ben yells, lifting his hands to his head and running them through his hair.
“Shh, baby. Why don’t you let me take care of you? Hmmm?” I come off my knees to sit on the bed. Placing both my feet on the floor, my legs on each side of his, I kiss the dip of his V , my hands working on his belt buckle and zipper. I want him to relax; I can’t imagine what he’s going through. I’ve done quite a bit of research on his IED, and the empath in me can’t help but want to take it all away. If I could take all his trauma on my shoulders, even only for a day so he could have a brief moment of reprieve, I would. Without question.
I wish I could break through to him and not struggle with the guilt eating at me daily. I feel terrible because I feel alone. I’ve spent all this time trying to help him, and I’ve lost a bit of myself in the process, but he’s worse off. It pains me to know that I’m selfishly thinking about myself at a moment like this.
I wish I had the words to help the sleepless nights and the nightmares. I wish that my arms could give him the comfort he needs when he shakes in his sleep.
I wish I wasn’t always drowning in his troubled waters, all so I can keep his head above them.