Chapter 29 Rachel
"Rachel, I need you to check the emergency line."
Gramps never calls me, so when he does, I know something’s wrong. "What’s wrong?" I jump up off my couch, where I’ve been in an alternating state of reading and sleeping for the better part of the evening.
Jet lag sucks.
My phone has been on "Do Not Disturb," and the only reason Gramps’s call made it through is because I have three numbers that bypass that setting. Only two will ever ring my phone again.
"A call came in, and we need you to handle it."
"How am I supposed to handle it? You want me to call the guys and assemble a crew? Do you want me to video it? Why is it such an emergency? Are you sure—"
"Jesus, Rachel, just listen to the damn message." Gramps disconnects.
He didn’t have to be so snippy.
I call our number and then press the prompts that lead me to the mailbox. I’ve got a yellow legal pad and pen ready to write down details, as well as my laptop opened up. I’m ready to work.
The minute I hear Tyler’s panicked voice, the pen drops from my hand. I replay the message. And then I replay it again. I want to save it forever.
Or I could, you know, just call him back.
Indeed, there is a string of missed calls and text messages from Tyler. Whoops.
I dial his number.
"Rachel! Are you okay?" His voice is full of panic.
"Yeah, I’m fine. I hadn’t turned my notifications and ringer back on."
"I’m so sorry I didn’t check in sooner. I stayed up the entire flight back working on editing videos, and then I crashed. Like, I was so out of it. I woke up, and I couldn’t get a hold of you, and I didn’t know if you were safe—"
"TJ. Tyler, stop. Take a breath. I’m fine.
I get it. That flight was brutal." I want to mention that we didn’t get much sleep the night before either, but I promised him it would stay in Vegas.
I won’t even mention it. He doesn’t need to know I’ve been obsessing about our time together.
I made a promise to him, and I’m going to keep it. "What do you mean you didn’t sleep?"
"I’m an idiot. Everyone’s already told me that."
"No, you’re not. I wish you would stop saying that. You say it a lot." For a man with so much physical perfection, he’s awfully hard on himself.
"I speak the truth. Dumb jock here. Never pretended to be anything else."
I wish we were having this conversation in person so I could hug him. I could ask him to come over, but I don’t want him to think I’m clingy and trying to manipulate him.
"Why do you say that?" I have to know what’s made him like this. His family is perfect, the kind I dreamed of being a part of when I was a kid. Why is his self-esteem in the crapper?
"Because it’s the truth. Look at my family.
Joey’s the clever, funny one. Nicky’s boy genius.
He’s a Harvard freaking lawyer, for Pete’s sake.
And then there’s me. I barely got through school.
I can barely read. I mean, I can read, but it’s hard.
Like a lot of effort, and then by the time I get through, I can’t remember what I read.
I say stupid things all the time. I do stupid things all the time.
God had to make me pretty and athletic because He didn’t give me any other decent traits.
I literally can’t do anything other than play soccer, and when that’s all done, what will I have? "
Until this moment, it never occurred to me that people with perfect lives have issues too.
"I don’t want to be stupid. I … I just don’t have a good brain. So I make bad decisions. Lots of bad decisions."
Like sleeping with me. He doesn’t come right out and say it, but he doesn’t have to. I can infer his meaning. I clench my eyes together and will the tightness in my chest to dissipate. I’m curled into my ever-favorite fetal position on my couch.
"Rachel? Are you still there?"
I didn’t realize how long I’d been quiet for. I sit up a little. "Yeah, I’m here. You seem like you needed to vent, so I was letting you have the conch."
"The what?"
"The conch. You know, like from Lord of the Flies?" As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to shove them back in. He just said he can barely read, and there I go referencing a book. I don’t want him to feel any smaller than he already feels, but I undoubtedly did.
"Oh yeah. That." His tone is flat.
Shit.
"You know," he continues, "thinking back, that was probably the last book I read. I liked the movie better, but that’s because it was easier for my brain to process. And that says a lot, considering it was in black and white."
Relief flows through me. If he’d been talking about the early ’90s movie version, it might be a dealbreaker. The 1960s version is critically acclaimed both as a film and a book adaptation. "Normally, I’d fight anyone who says the movie is better than the book, but that’s one answer I’ll accept."
He laughs. "I’m glad to have your approval."
I approve of everything you do, especially everything we did in Vegas!
"Duly noted." Something occurs to me. "You know, I saw this ClikClak once, and the person was talking about how they were late-diagnosed dyslexic, and that explained so much about all the trouble they had in school growing up. I don’t know anything about it, but maybe it’s something to look into? "
He’s quiet for a minute. Then another minute. Then another one. "TJ? Tyler?" I ask quietly. "Are you okay?"
"Lemme call you back." He disconnects abruptly.
Shit. I overstepped. I shouldn’t have said anything, especially when I don’t know anything about the topic. I should learn a lesson from this. I’m better off alone than trying to be with people. They’re all just going to leave me anyway, so why put myself through this in the meantime?
About fifteen minutes later, he texts.
TJ: Can you come over? Or I can come over to you. Can I come over? What apartment are you?
Me: 3108
About three minutes later, there’s an abrupt knocking on my door. I stand on my tiptoes to look through the peephole. I’ve seen too many TV shows where the unsuspecting young female pulls the door open, only to find a serial killer or mobster on the other side of the now wide-open door.
"It is you," I say, opening the door.
Tyler does not smile in return. His hair is a mess, standing straight up as if he’s been pulling it to attention.
He steps in, not looking directly at me. He looks up and down, over and around. Anywhere but at me. I place my hand on his arm. "TJ." I correct myself. "Tyler. What’s going on?"
Finally, he meets my gaze. "I need to call my mom, and I want you here for it. I need you with me. Okay?"
"Okay." I nod. I have no idea what’s going on, but if he needs me, I’m here for him. It’s what friends do.
He dials his mother, his phone on speaker. He’s yet to sit down, instead pacing around my apartment.
"Oh, Tyler, to what do I owe this pleasure? Do you need something? I’ll be down tomorrow to grab your laundry. You know I always get it on the Tuesday after an away game."
"Ma, when I was little, did you have me tested for dyslexia?"
There’s silence on the line. Tyler looks at me before repeating, "Did you have me tested for dyslexia?"
"Well—"
"Jesus, Ma. Rachel told me about dyslexia. I just looked it up. Reading a paragraph and forgetting what I’ve read. Having trouble decoding. Remembering words and sounds. Letters jumping around on the page or in the word. All of it. It sounds like me."
"Yes, we had you tested."
I suck in a gasp, hoping she doesn’t hear.
"Ma, how could you not tell me? Didn’t you see me struggling?"
"Of course, we knew it was hard, but we figured you’d be okay, and you were. They said that your IQ was normal."
With those words, Tyler melts onto the couch, his knees giving way, and stares at the phone. Utter devastation washes over his face.
"Actually," his mother continues, totally unaware of the bomb she’s dropped on her son, "if I remember correctly, your IQ was a little higher than the average. About the same as Nicky. Higher than Joey, but don’t tell him that. So we figured you’d be okay.
You just had to work a little harder. It was good preparation for the rest of your life.
If everything comes easy, you never learn to push through. "
"I’m not stupid?" His face is breaking in pain. I sit down next to him. I’m tempted to slide my arm around his shoulders and hug him to me, like they do in movies.
But this isn’t a movie. This is real life, and his entire sense of being has just been shattered open, and I don’t know what to do for him.
"No, of course not, honey," his mom coos. "Why would you say such a thing?"
"Um, maybe because Joey and Nicky are constantly telling me I am."
"You know your brothers are just picking on you. That’s how boys are. They think it’s funny."
His face is so hard right now. "Well, it’s not. I gotta go."
"Tyler, don’t hang up. We need to talk." The desperation in his mother’s voice is evident.
"No, Ma, I gotta process this. It’s a lot. I … I’ll talk to you later."
He disconnects, and we sit there for a moment. I’m not sure what to say or do. I try to think of how Gram would help me when I’d start to spiral. Quietly, I admit, "This is a lot to deal with."
He looks over at me, his eyes red-rimmed. "Did my mother just use the ‘boys will be boys’ excuse for my brothers?"
I nod.
"And did she just admit that she and Dad knew I had … dyslexia," he stumbles over the word, "but kept it from me to make me tougher?"
I could offer a hundred excuses. I’m sure they’re out there if I tried to find them.
But the truth is, I have no idea what his parents were thinking.
It’s not my place to say. So I say the only perspective I’m qualified to share.
"It’s obvious that your parents love you and your brothers so much.
I don’t know them that well, but I would bet that everything they’ve done, they did to protect you, to help you, and to nurture you.
It might not have been the right thing, but the intention was right. That’s got to count for something."
"So I’m dyslexic?" he asks. I don’t think he’s looking to me for an answer. I have none to give. He runs his hands through his hair again. Then, he unleashes.
He’s ranting and raving, pacing back and forth.
There are enough curse words coming out of his mouth to make a sailor blush.
He’s carrying on, and I half expect him to either start throwing things or drop to the floor, kicking his feet like a toddler.
He finishes with, "God, a simple diagnosis and …
now what? How do I deal with this? How can a few words about my brain change my whole life? "
His words, though innocent in intention, are a punch to my gut. He’s not thinking about me, which is understandable. This isn’t about me or my sister. Yet, when you’re struggling to put one foot in front of the other, it’s hard not to view the world around you in relation to yourself.
With the flip of a switch, he’s been thrown into the grieving process.
What no one tells you is that moving through the five stages isn’t linear.
I’ve spent most of the year in the depression phase.
Through meeting Tyler and his friendship, I’d finally moved on to acceptance.
Yet here I am, with the mere utterance of thoughtless words, back in the anger phase.
I’m angry for Tyler and at Tyler all at the same time.
He doesn’t know how good he has it. Yes, his parents messed up big with this one, but they care.
They care so much. That is such a gift. Not all parents care.
They messed up, but they tried their best. And yes, he’s been told his brain is different, and his life will change from it.
But dyslexia isn’t terminal. It’s not going to put him in the grave in eight short months.
He’ll continue to be alive and kicking, and my sister will still be dead.