Chapter 8 #2
Any time that I could feel myself starting to spiral, I would sneak out to the pool and throw myself into the deep end. It was like force-resetting my brain. Feed it a concentrated dose of controlled fear and let it come back to reality.
I imagine that I’m lying on the ocean floor, letting the tide take me out into deeper water, dragging me down until there’s nothing left but a vast darkness that swallows me whole.
My mind paints the picture of the life being sucked out of me as the salty water fills my lungs, replacing all of the oxygen inside and not leaving room for any air to come back in.
I don’t want to die.
At least, I don’t think I do. I just need to push myself as close to that edge as I can. I need the terror to bring me back from the darkness clawing at the walls of my mind before it gets too deep inside and takes over its host.
By the time I hit four minutes, my lungs start to burn and I stop counting, but I still don’t come up for air. I’m not scared enough yet. It won’t work yet.
Come on.
Just a little longer.
After another minute, I release all of the air that I’d been holding, sending a thick stream of bubbles up to the surface as I empty my aching lungs. My chest starts to tighten and my heart rate picks up as my body becomes desperate for a breath of oxygen that I won’t give it.
I bring my hand to my chest, clutching at the fabric of my shirt with a white-knuckled grip and silently begging for the release that I need.
Get scared, damnit!
I can feel it right at the edge of my mind; the fear that I need. I’m so close to it, all I have to do is hold out a little bit longer. Push through the screaming pain in my chest until my nervous system lights up and I can grab onto the fear with both hands to use it as my life raft.
The sudden feeling of something grabbing my arms startles me, making me gasp, and I suck in a mouthful of water as I’m yanked past the surface of the water, coughing and gasping for air.
“What the hell are you doing?!” My dad’s voice pours into the room past the sound of running water.
I lean over the side of the tub, hacking until the water is cleared from my lungs, and I angrily shove away the hand that still rests at my shoulder. “Why are you in here?” I demand.
“Because you weren’t answering me and there was water all over your hallway, Emmett! What the hell were you doing?”
The floor around us is covered in water, enough that all of the mats are soaked through and there’s a pool of it leading out of the door and into the hall.
I suck down several lungfuls of fresh, waterless air while he reaches in to pull the plug from the tub’s drain and shut off the flow of water.
“I was resetting,” I finally tell him.
“Is that code for trying to drown yourself?”
“It’s a bathtub, Dad,” I snark. “I could have gotten out.”
“Then do that,” he orders as he stands, “and get into some dry clothes.”
With a sigh, I brush a hand through my dripping hair and step out of the tub, trudging down the hall toward my room as my feet splash against the water on the floor, and I dig through my dresser for a fresh t-shirt and some joggers.
I toss my soaked-through clothes onto the floor next to me while I change.
A knock sounds at the door a few moments later, followed by Dad asking, “Are you decent?”
“Yup.”
The door opens and he storms into my room, heading straight for my closet. I watch half-stunned as he pulls hangers off of the rod, tossing the clothes onto my bed in a small pile.
“Anything you need for school, grab it,” he demands, his voice clipped.
“What the hell are you doing?”
For a second, he stares at me like he thinks I might have actually lost my mind; as if he’s not the one who barged into my house and didn’t bother to get any context.
..not that that would have helped all that much.
He’s a great dad, but he doesn’t get this.
He can’t. He’s never had to dangle his feet over the edge to be sure that he doesn’t want to jump off of it.
He’s never seen my darkness before. Up until now, I’ve done a good job at masking it, for the most part. I’ve kept it at bay for years. But now that he’s gotten a glimpse of it...
“You are coming home.”
What?
“Dad—”
Curling his hand into a fist, he says, “Save it.” I don’t think he’s ever been this mad at me before.
There’s a vein sticking out of his neck that makes me worry his heart’s about to explode or something, for Christ’s sake.
“I don’t care if it was ‘just a bathtub’ or ‘just a few hours’ at a nightclub.
I. Do. Not. Care, Emmett. You’re being reckless and you need help.
So get whatever else you’re going to need and get your ass in the car. ”
“I need privacy,” I tell him. “And so do you.”
“What I need,” he grits, “is for my son to grab his things so that I can get him home and get him through this.”
As much as I hate it, as badly as I want to argue, I know that if I don’t do as he asks, he’s just going to be up my ass even more.
First, it was a copy of the house key. If I don’t give him this now, he’s going to move in here instead and then I really won’t have any space for myself.
I know he’s only doing this because he’s worried, but that doesn’t mean I have to agree with or like it.
Half an hour later, we’re speeding down the road in his Bentley, and neither of us is making a move to speak to the other. I’m pissed at him for the intrusion, and he’s pissed at me for…well, I don’t actually know what he’s pissed at me for, but he’s not talking.
It isn’t until we finally pull into his massive garage that he turns to me and asks, “What were you resetting?”
“My brain,” I tell him. “I go under and wait until the fear hits, then I come back up and I’m reset.”
“The fear…?” His brow creases. “Do you do that often?”
“I used to,” I admit, “at the old house.”
Dad twists the key and pulls it from the car’s ignition, and a thick, heavy silence falls between us that hangs in the air for long moments. “You were in middle school at the old house. Were you trying to—”
I shake my head, trying to brush off his rising concern.
“The first time it was an accident,” I assure him.
“I don’t remember why I was even out in the yard, I think I was mad at you for something.
I fell in the pool, hit the bottom, and the fear hit.
By the time I got back out...I don’t know, Dad, I was reset. ”
“Were you planning on coming back up tonight?”
“I think so.”
“Okay.” His chest heaves with a deep sigh and he gives me a pat on the thigh, nodding his head. “Let’s get you settled in. Tomorrow, we can talk about next steps.”
I nod in agreement and follow him out of the garage with my bags in hand, and into the house. We round the banister and up the stairs, passing through the long hallway that leads to one of the four upstairs bedrooms.
The girls’ and Davis’s rooms are on the lower level with another spare, and dad and Rowan are in the room nearest the stairs; so I’m grateful when we walk toward the farthest room, tucked away into its own little alcove.
I’m getting the privacy that I wanted, but also the bedroom furthest from any of the bathrooms in the house; I’m sure that’s not by coincidence.
Tossing my bags onto the guest bed waiting for me, I kick off my shoes and drop down onto the mattress.
“So, how long am I gonna be on house arrest?” I ask, trying to make a joke, but Dad’s not in a laughing mood. It isn’t until now, under the overhead light from the ceiling fan, that I really notice the droop in his shoulders and the tension in his jaw.
I hurt him again.
“Until I’m not worried about you picking up a bottle or taking a dive when something is wrong,” he answers. “Breakfast will be on the table at seven. You will be there on time and you will eat.”
“Dad…” I sigh. “I know you have to tell Ro, but—”
“I won’t tell anyone else,” he promises.
I offer him a tight smile and a lazy salute, waiting for him to leave so I can unpack all my crap, but he stops at the doorway and turns around, taking a few strides toward me, and he wraps his arms around me in a crushing hug.
It’s quick, no more than a few seconds, and he claps me on the back as he breaks the embrace.
Then he heads out the door, half-shutting it behind him just like he used to do when I started bringing girls home and he wanted to tell me without words that I had better not be getting into trouble under his roof.
I chuckle a little at the memory as I turn the knob and slowly press the door into the latch, trying to keep it from making any sound.
·
Everyone is staring at me.
Dad looks at me as if I’ll wither and die in front of him if he takes his eyes off of me.
Rowan stares as if pieces of me have fallen off; like I’ve cracked down the middle and need to be glued back together.
Macie stares in confusion, not understanding what I’m doing sitting at the breakfast table with them.
And Sarah stares because that’s just what she does.
She’s the only one at the table acting normally.
“Breakfast is good,” I comment, poking at my food with my fork. “Is this the bread you made?”
“No,” Ro answers. She’s as uncomfortable as I am. We all are. “That was the chocolate sourdough. I can get you some.”
“No, I—” I let out a sigh. “Never mind.”
I eat about a third of my food in the time that it takes everyone else to finish theirs.
I never have much of an appetite when I go dark like this, but if I don’t eat something, everyone will worry too much about it.
Rowan and Macie work together to clear the table, and Dad sits across from me with his elbows braced on the table and his fingers interlocked.
He stares at me some more for a long time before speaking.
“I want you to see a therapist.”
“No.”
“Emmett, you’re imploding. You need help,” he urges.
Leaning back in my chair, I tell him, “I don’t need to pay some quack to tell me that I’m screwed up because my mommy doesn’t love me. I can figure that one out all on my own.”
Pain flashes across his features, and for a second, I catch a glimpse of the guy that I saw on that tape; eighteen years old, broken, and just trying to do what he can for his kid. For that second, I feel like a prick for snapping at him.
“Rowan’s seen a therapist. Macie meets with one once a week,” he tells me. “It’s been really helpful.”
“I don’t need a therapist,” I insist. “I just need…time. I came home, I’m participating, just give me time to sort through it.”
I don’t know why I can’t give him this. It shouldn’t matter whether I believe in the stuff or not, I should be able to just agree to it and do something to make him feel better. He gave his whole life for me, I should be able to give him an hour with a stranger, but I just can’t do it.
With a heavy sigh, he says, “You’ll eat your meals with us, you’ll ride with Rowan and I to work, you’ll tell me where you’re going, what you’re doing and who you’re going to be with should you leave the house.”
“Okay,” I nod.
“If I call you, you answer. If I send you a text message, you respond. You called this house arrest, and that is accurate,” he explains, picking up his mug of coffee.
“Okay.”
I think this might be the closest to grounded that I’ve ever been.