Chapter 24 （Chemo）Therapy #2
Who does that?
I’ll tell you who—the kind of guy who was raised to be a sociopath.
To clarify, I would never do that to a baby bird.
That I did it to my little brother is something else I have to learn to live with, because I can’t turn back the clock, no matter how much I wish I could.
On a Wednesday over a month after that awful night, I think I’m doing better.
I’m hanging in there. Some days are better than others, but I keep going—sometimes for no other reason than West wants me to.
The playoffs are coming up. The Rangers are doing great, and West keeps me busy.
He keeps me in the loop. He brings me back into the fold. It’s a start.
I even sat down last week and had a long talk with Helen after Saturday dinner.
I apologized to her for possibly making her regret telling me what she did, and I gave her the longest hug I’ve ever given anyone in my life.
She told me she loves me and said she’d do it all over again, and I told her I hoped like hell that’s true.
What that conversation told me was that to her, at least, I was worth the trouble.
Now, four weeks into the fall semester as I’m putting my sandwich for the next day into my lunch bag, my brother calls me. I don’t recognize his voice.
“It’s Connor,” he says.
Something loud happens in my brain when he says it. A head on collision of trains. Something that roars and crashes. Then my other ear starts ringing.
“Are you there? Archer?”
“Yeah.” I have a sudden urge to lie down on my bathroom floor.
“Is this a bad time?”
“I uh…umm…” I clear my throat. Twice or maybe three times. “No.”
My voice comes out raspy and weird, so I cough and clear my throat again. Finally, I lower myself to the floor, my back against the refrigerator, with no idea what to expect. I don’t do well in uncharted waters.
“Is this too weird?” he asks.
“No,” I lie. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. I just want to say I’m sorry—”
I shut my eyes. “Don’t.”
“For everything I put you through. Everything I put Tristan through. I'm really, extremely sorry.”
“Please don’t.” I cover my eyes with my hand. An apology from him is too much.
“I don’t have a lot of time to talk, and I wish I could ease into this better because I know we may as well be strangers, but the truth is I still love you. So much. And I’ve been missing you for the longest time.”
The phone slips in my grip because my palm is sweating. I’m sweating everywhere. It’s starting again. It’s been two weeks since I’ve thrown up, but it’s coming. There’s no way to stop it.
If it’s possible to choke on shame, I’m about to do it.
That’s when West walks in.
I don’t know what the hell he’s doing at my house, but here he is like a fucking miracle. He takes one look at me and holds out his hand for the phone. I give it to him, pick myself up off the kitchen floor, and get to the toilet just in time.
After a while, I notice he’s with me again, sitting with his back against the bathtub, scrolling his phone. He’s quiet. He sees me see him, and he reaches out a hand to pat me on the shoulder. “Better?” he asks.
I nod, standing up to rinse my face and mouth before sitting down next to him. The cool porcelain tub on my damp shirt gives me a chill.
“You’ve gotta do something different, brother. This thing you’re doing—not working so great,” West says.
“No kidding. What are you doing here?”
“I saw the Bat Signal.”
I almost laugh. “Seriously.”
“I hadn’t heard from you today. I was headed to the bar, and I thought I’d stop by—make sure you were okay.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s nothing,” he says.
Maybe, maybe not.
“What’d you tell him?” I know he didn’t hang up the phone when I handed it to him.
“That you weren’t feeling good. Stomach flu.”
“Did he buy that?”
It’s West’s turn to laugh. “I think so.”
“Where is he?”
“Some place called Rivershore. He said it was like a rehab.”
“Is he okay?”
“He sounded all right. I wouldn’t really know.”
“Neither would I.” I sigh, exhausted. I lean my head back until it hits the rim of the tub.
“You know, it’s not too late for you two,” he says.
“I don’t know about that.”
“You don’t think you could have like—a do-over?”
“A do-over?”
“He reached out, right? Hey. You’re not who you think you are, brother. You might be damaged, but you’re not broken.”
“Your mom talked to you?” I ask.
“Who you are has never been a secret to me. She just didn’t know how to talk to you about it.”
I scowl at him. “You knew?”
“Sure I did. She spun it like we were long lost twins. I’ve never been as excited to see anyone or as nervous as that first day at Cardigan when you came into our room. I do remember one thing, though, from when we were little.”
“What?”
“You couldn’t pronounce her name. Called her Nellen. Then Nell.”
“She introduced herself to me as Nell on Parents’ Weekend.”
“Of course she did, brother. She wanted you to remember, too.”
“Jesus.” I kick out at his foot. “Why did you never tell me?”
“I don’t know. If you think about it from my perspective, it was a little embarrassing. The first time I called you brother, you looked at me like I was a freak.”
I take a long look at West now, the strong features of his face as fierce as they’ve always been, but soft and familiar in their steadiness. “It just surprised me.”
He keeps his eyes trained on his dark phone screen, smudging the surface with his thumb. “It’s how I felt,” he says quietly.
“But I was such an asshole.”
“You’re still an asshole.”
“And you’re still here.”
“I know I’m no picnic either. But I know you pretty well, and I know you think you’re doing the right thing by your brother and Tristan—taking yourself out of the equation, but what you’re really doing is the same thing you did when you got home, and not to rub salt, but look how that turned out.”
Shame hangs my head because I know he’s right.
“If your brother ever mattered to you, he needs to know. He deserves that. His life hasn’t been anyone’s fairy tale.”
“And that’s my fault too.”
“Fuck, dude. If you think you owe him an apology, then you need to say you’re sorry. Step up to the fucking plate.” He gestures toward the toilet, his sleeve brushing my face. “You can’t keep doing this.”
“Okay.” I say, pushing his arm back down. “You’re right.”
When I get to Rivershore on Thursday, it’s almost six. A short woman wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a badge on it shows me to a visiting room that opens up onto a deck where other residents and visitors hang out, smoking cigarettes and catching up. It’s a nice place. Lots of natural light.
I wait on a couch inside. I’m not sweating, but I’m nervous. Now that I know the amount of damage I can do to Connor, it makes this potentially one of the most pivotal conversations of my life.
He comes down the stairs with a frown on his face, looking out at the deck before he sees me.
He has on jeans and a black zip-up hoodie with his hands jammed into the pockets, meeting each other in the middle, one holding the other.
As small as he is, he’s striking, as always, even with very little hair and no eyeliner.
I stand, drawing his gaze. He freezes for a second, and I think I’ve made another huge mistake by showing up here unannounced.
But then he takes off in something like a run.
On that leg that was hurt so badly he almost didn’t make it, he’s running.
And he’s not running away from me but toward me.
He doesn’t slow down until my arms are around him, and his feet are off the ground.
It isn’t joyful. There aren’t any smiles or laughs.
There’s heavy breathing and a grip that won’t let up.
It’s the reunion we should have had four years ago.
There’s grief in it and regret. And finally, some forgiveness.
“I missed you,” I whisper. It’s not the apology I planned, but it’s truer than anything else.
When I set him back down, his eyes are filled with tears.
A couple slip out, dripping down his cheeks. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Don’t cry, bud.” I wipe his face with my fingertips, somehow knowing this time he won’t bat my hands away.
“I’m sorry. I know. I’m a mess. Watching people cry all day kind of wears on you after a while. When in Rome…”
I take a step back, still unsure where I stand with him. “These are good tears?”
He sniffs loudly and runs the cuff of his sleeve across his nose. “These tears are relieved as fuck. I can’t believe you came. I thought I was gonna have to track you down when I got out of here so I could say all the things I needed to say—”
“You don’t need to say anything.”
“Well, you might not need to hear anything, but I definitely need to say some things. Will you come outside with me?” He nods his head in the direction of the patio door.
I follow him, surprised at the glimmer of his personality shining through—it’s like I’ve never even met him before. I guess I technically haven’t.
The smoking deck is enclosed by a waist-high concrete wall. We walk to the corner, and Connor lights a cigarette, looking off into the tree-covered neighborhood just west of downtown. The sun is already setting. Another summer’s almost gone.
“How long have you been here?” I ask, to head off whatever it is he thinks he needs to say.
“Three weeks. I was in a psych unit for a little while. They let me come here to deal with my ‘Xanax problem’,” he says, the last words laced with sarcasm and bracketed with air quotes.
I look at him, not understanding.
He picks up the question on my face. “I don’t actually have a Xanax problem, but it got me in here, so I went with it.
I wasn’t ready to go home.” He takes a drag off his cigarette and stares out into the trees.
Size-wise, he looks as delicate as ever, but his jaw is lifted, squared to the world, his eyes alert and vibrant.
“How long do you have to stay?” I ask.
“It’s voluntary, but they pretty much decide when it's best for me to make my re-entry. I’m thinking maybe another week or so.”