Chapter 30 TJ
Rachel has gone rigid, sitting on her couch next to me.
I sink back, suddenly depleted of the strength needed to overcome gravity.
Her couch is infinitely more comfortable than mine.
"Where’d you get your couch?" I ask. It’s easier than talking about what just went down.
I’m pretty sure I acted like my nieces during their terrible twos phase.
I’m not sure if I’m still livid or embarrassed for acting like a spoiled toddler.
"It’s a Bob-o-pedic from Bob’s Furniture," she answers, her voice robotic.
"It’s comfy." I scrub my hands down my face. "Did that just really happen?"
Rachel doesn’t say anything. She’s staring off into space.
"Rach? You okay?" I sit up. She doesn’t look so good.
Finally, she whispers, "I’m processing."
"Right." I don’t move. "Processing what? How my parents lied to me my whole life? How they kept a … a mental defect from me?" I know my words aren’t accurate. But hell, words have never been my strong suit. Now at least I know why.
I also neglect to ask her if she’s processing my childish behavior.
Rachel is still and calm. Like, freakishly still and calm. "Tyler, I think maybe you need to deal with this in private. You don’t need someone you barely know getting all up in your business. Maybe it’d be better if you left."
She’s kicking me out? Now? "Rach." I swivel to face her, taking her hands in mine. "Rachel, I just found out that my entire life is a lie. That my family betrayed me. That—"
Rachel stands up, pulling her hands from mine. She hugs them tightly around her chest and turns to look out the window. I have no idea why she’s acting like this.
"Rachel—"
"Tyler, please. I’m trying so hard right now, but I don’t know how much more I can take." The words strain coming out of her mouth. "But I can’t say what I’m thinking, either. You’ll hate me for it."
"I think you should let me be the judge of that, because I can’t think of anything you could say that would make me hate you." She’s probably going to rant about my parents. I won’t hold it against her. They deserve to be ranted about.
She turns around, her face ashen. I raise my eyebrows to encourage her to start.
She sucks in a deep breath and then says, "My rational brain is having a war with my irrational brain. I don’t know that either side will be the victor.
" Her eyes are huge right now. She rolls her lips into a flat line for a minute. "This is about you. What you’ve experienced your whole life, and what—and how—you found out about it. It’s about you and your relationship with your family.
I understand that it’s upsetting. I know that, but I can’t be upset for you.
I’m too upset at you, which is stupid. I know this isn’t about me.
It’s not. So I’m trying not to say anything until I can regain that perspective. "
She’s upset at me? "What? How? Why? None of that makes any sense."
Rachel’s voice is so quiet I can barely hear it. "I know it doesn’t, but I’m angry that you’re this upset when it’s just dyslexia."
"Just dyslexia?" If my eyes bulged any more, they’d pop out of my head. Just dyslexia? Where does she get off?
"It’s not glioblastoma. It’s not terminal brain cancer.
You’re not going to have seizures. You’re not going to puke your guts out and lose your hair from the chemo.
You’re not going to lose motor function and the ability to see.
You’re not going to die. You’re going to keep living.
Your mom is going to keep taking care of you.
You’re going to keep playing soccer. You’re going to keep cruising through life, never knowing how lucky you are. "
In an evening full of shocks and surprises, this was not anything I’d even have remotely expected.
"I’m sorry that I feel that way, but that’s where I am right now. So, have a nice life, I guess." She walks toward the door and pulls it open. "Thanks for everything. I do appreciate it."
"You’re kicking me out?"
She falters. "Don’t you want to leave?"
Her words aren’t making any sense. "I … I don’t understand. Why would I leave?"
Her gaze darts around the room. She’s looking anywhere but at me.
"Rachel? Do you want me to go?"
She shakes her head. "But why do you want to stay?"
"Um, cause I’m having a super shitty day, and I want to talk to a friend about it." I think about what she said. "And my friend is going through shit too, and I want to be there for her. Two things can be true at the same time. We can work on them together. It’s what friends do."
"You’re not mad at me? I’m a terrible person for even thinking … for making this about me and my experience. Don’t you want to leave now?"
There’s a lot to unpack in that statement, and I’m in no place to do it.
My brain hurts; it’s so full of conflicting thoughts and emotions right now.
I gingerly sit back down on the couch. It really is comfortable.
"Can we have a quick recap, just so I’m not confused as to what’s going on here?
" I think I understand, but there’s a piece missing that’s making it not make sense for me.
Rachel remains by the door, but she allows it to close gently.
I take this as a yes. "I’m upset that my parents withheld the fact that I’m dyslexic, allowing me to struggle my entire life.
They let me think that I was stupid and worthless because I couldn’t keep up academically with my brothers.
Knowing them, they thought they were doing what was best for me, but they may have done more harm than good. That’s where I’m at, agreed?"
Rachel nods.
I continue, "And while you see that perspective, this whole situation, especially me talking about my brain, is triggering for you because your sister died of brain cancer and, from what you’ve told me, your parents are not in the picture.
So while you can understand that I’m mad at my parents, it’s still infinitely better than any interactions you have with your parents. Am I correct?"
Another nod. She’s staring at the floor as if it holds all the secrets of the world.
"And you understand that your reaction to me right now is a little skewed because you’ve just lost your sister, and you want to be supportive, but you still have your feelings, and you’re trying to work through them.
" I don’t wait for a response before I continue.
"So, if that’s what’s going on, why do you want me to leave? That’s what I don’t understand."
Finally, she looks up at me, tears shimmering in her eyes. "I don’t want you to leave. I expect you to leave."
These words are like a knife to my heart. She expects me to walk out on her.
In a voice so faint I can barely hear it, she whispers, "Everyone leaves me."
I’m off the couch and crossing the small room before I can stop myself. I pull her into me, pressing her tightly to my chest. My arms engulf her, and I kiss her forehead. "I’m not going anywhere."
"That’s what they all say."
I hold her tight, feeling her body slump into mine.
My chin is on the top of her head. She seems so small.
I wish I could use my body to protect her from all the hurt she’s endured in her past. "I mean, physically, I do have to leave at some point. I still have a job to do, and unfortunately, I can’t do it remotely. "
I feel her body shaking against mine.
"Are you laughing or crying?"
Rachel sniffles. "A little of both."
I pull back slightly so I can look at her.
Her eyes are red and puffy, and her face is slick with tears.
"We can fight, not that that even was a fight. You had feelings, which you’re entitled to.
You also showed a tremendous amount of self-awareness in your feelings, which I think is interesting.
People usually have no idea when they’re being self-centered.
Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. I’m one of those people."
"I’ve always had to be more aware. When I was growing up, I thought it was something I was saying or doing that was making Mom leave.
Or that I was unlikeable—unlovable—and that’s why she always chose her boyfriends over us.
If I just did better, or was better, or was more quiet, or took up less space, then she’d love me too.
I mean, if my own mother doesn’t love me enough to stay, then why would anyone else? "
I can see why she was upset with me and my reaction toward my parents. To her, it’s like complaining that your wagyu steak dinner is slightly overcooked when the person next to you is eating SpaghettiOs.
Number ten on her list is to forgive her mother. When I first read that, I couldn’t imagine ever being so mad at my mother that I would not be able to forgive her. Today, I understand a bit more.
"Do you ever think you will be able to forgive your mom?" I ask.
Rachel shakes her head. "Maybe, at one point, I could have forgiven her for leaving us when we were little. She was young herself, and she didn’t know what she wanted from life.
People make mistakes. But I can’t forgive her for not being there for Richie.
She only came to see her one time after she got sick.
Toward the very end, when Richie couldn’t see anymore and could barely speak.
She was only semi-conscious. That’s when Mom breezed in.
But then, at the services, there she was, playing the role of the distraught mother. "
I wouldn’t be able to forgive that either. "Do you think Richie wrote the list before your mom came to see her?"
Rachel pulls out of my arms. She cocks her head, considering. "She would have had to. There’s no way she was still writing by the time Mom came."
"So Richie thought she was going to die without seeing your mom, and yet she still wanted you to forgive her. I wonder why."
Rachel starts walking aimlessly around her apartment. She finally ends up in the kitchen, where she pours herself a glass of water. "You want anything to drink?"
"Water’d be great. I still feel dehydrated from Vegas and the flight."
Rachel sets the water pitcher down and looks at me. "Was that really only yesterday?"
It feels like a million years ago.
"In about three days, your body will get back on schedule. Speaking of which, I am going to have to leave soon, but it’s not because I’m deserting you. I have to eat and get to bed at a decent hour. I need to sleep in my own bed tonight."
Rachel says, "I understand. I … I’ve never been good at long-term relationships of any kind. I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up. I had Richie, who was all I needed. She wasn’t just my sister. She was my very best friend. But she still left me, too." Her voice is so small.
I move to her again, taking her in my arms. She fits into me so perfectly. "Rachel, I’m guessing if Richie’d had a choice, she wouldn’t have left."
"I know. I know it wasn’t her choice. And Gram and Gramps kicking me out wasn’t to hurt me. It was to help me. Kind of like your parents. Good intentions, shitty results."
I look around. Her apartment is still newly lived in.
There isn’t artwork on the walls, and there are a few boxes here and there.
I wouldn’t call her totally settled yet.
"Seems to me like you’re taking steps to build a life.
You picked out one hell of a couch. You made a new friend. You’re accomplishing Richie’s list."
"I’ve made two new friends. Ophelia and I really hit it off. I may have to pretend to be your girlfriend so Ophelia and I can do WAG events together. She’s a lot of fun."
The voice inside me is yelling, "You don’t have to pretend!
" It’s all I can do not to kiss her again or sweep her up in my arms and carry her to the bedroom.
That would most certainly complicate the situation.
I want Rachel to be with me for the right reasons, not just because she was swept up in complex emotions.
I want her to want me like I want her. Simple as that.