Chapter 11
Asher
“How are the people in the group selected?” I asked while jogging down the stairs toward the kitchen. My mother was standing by the coffee maker, pouring herself a cup.
“Good morning to you, too,” she said, smirking.
“Good morning,” I returned.
She hadn’t been home when I got in after the group yesterday, so I hadn’t had the chance to ask. Curiosity had eaten me alive all night. The group was nowhere to be found online, other than a note about it being new inside Western Hospital and that you needed a doctor’s referral to become a client.
“So?” I pressed, prying again when she didn’t immediately answer.
She smiled at my impatience. “Why do you want to know?”
Subtle annoyance built up after finally asking, “Why are you dodging the question?”
She sighed, went back to her coffee mug, and walked toward the kitchen island.
Setting the mug down, she leaned across it for support.
“Candidates come from a range of backgrounds, mental health disorders, with most having suicidal tendencies within the last year. It really does depend. But it’s not up to me to discuss each client—you know that, right? ”
I nodded, understanding how important confidentiality was to her. “I know,” I said, “I’m just curious because the group members all seem so…different.”
Nodding, she confirmed exactly that. “Right—that’s the point. Each person is there because their therapist or physician has deemed they need something like this—something to release the underlying issues, something to really tug at that drive, that desire to live.”
She spoke with such passion it made me admire her even more.
“So…is there anyone in this program who has to be there? Like, is it mandatory for them to attend?” I tried to ask the questions without truly asking the questions.
My mother knew there was something more I wanted, but also knew she couldn’t divulge the information.
“I’m not certain about this specific group, but sure—there are programs out there where attendance to a group such as this might be mandatory.”
That was all I needed. Lennon had to be in a program—an assisted suicide program—that required her to attend this group. More questions surfaced, but my thoughts were interrupted as the door crashed open.
Two winded men entered—my father and Wyatt—fresh from a run. Jealousy pulsed through me, sharp and instinctive. I urged myself to suppress the feelings, but it was a constant challenge for me.
Still catching his breath, my dad laughed. “Man alive, keeping up with you is going to outright kill me.” Wyatt laughed, too, bent over with his hands on his knees. “Yeah, you and me both.”
When Wyatt noticed me standing at the kitchen island with Mom, his smile brightened. “Hey, Ash! Didn’t realize you’d be up this early!” He probably didn’t mean anything by it, but the dig landed anyway. My illness has me sleeping in later these days—much later than normal.
I exaggerated a glance at the clock. “It’s 9:00 a.m. Not exactly early,” I quipped. The words came out sharper than I intended. I wanted to punch myself for sounding like an asshole. It wasn’t his fault his heart worked the way it was supposed to.
He pressed his lips together, and the guilt washed over me. “I’m sorry, man. Didn’t mean to be short,” I followed up.
He waved me off. “It’s all good. No harm, no foul.”
My dad must have felt this was an opportune time to speak. “Ah, you wouldn’t want to go anyway. He’s too fast a runner to make it enjoyable.”
I nodded, trying to let it slide. He didn’t mean anything by it, but everything lately felt like something I had to brace myself against.
The truth was, I would want to go. I would want to push myself. I want to run fast. I’d want to race Wyatt and actually stand a chance. But the fact that I couldn’t—the fact that I had the desire, the will and want to do to those things, destroyed me inside that I fucking couldn’t.
Sensing the tension rising, my mother cleared the air. “Who wants breakfast?”
She moved to the oven and opened it, revealing a spread of eggs, toast, and sausage she’d made for everyone. The mood shifted as we all drifted into familiar roles—setting the table, grabbing plates, helping her finish.
“I may as well move back into my old room since I’ve been here every damn day this week,” Wyatt joked.
I laughed. “Yeah, then we can game in the basement all hours of the night like we used to.”
The air felt lighter now—conversation flowing, food filling our stomachs, the kind of comfort that made everything that’s happened disappear briefly.
As she crunched on a piece of bacon, Mom asked, “So, are you getting excited for the marathon? It’s coming up quickly.”
Wyatt nodded. “Yeah, looking forward to it being over so I can train normally instead of having such heavy kilometre days. Sometimes it takes too much time out of my day.” He paused as he chuckled. “There’s just not enough hours to do everything I need to sometimes.”
It was true. Some days he ran for hours. If I remember correctly, he was in the ballpark of fifteen miles now, maybe more. Even at my peak athletic physique, that was substantial.
“When do you go back to work?” my father asked.
He was having a good day today. Sometimes he could be rigid, short-fused.
Decades as a police officer had jaded him, but now that he was an inspector, he was a little less unbearable to be around.
How my mother had tolerated him all these years was beyond my understanding.
We shifted into talking about Wyatt’s career as a general surgeon.
He was still fairly new, but he was talented—undeniably so.
We all knew it. Wyatt was always going to do great things; the drive and smarts were there from day one.
Lately, though, jealousy had been creeping into me like a slow infection I couldn’t shake.
I found myself constantly on the defensive when he spoke.
I knew he didn’t mean anything by talking about his accomplishments.
I knew he didn’t mean anything by telling me about his successes in life.
And even though I was younger, I had been more successful than he was at his age.
If life hadn’t detonated on me, I could have been in the NHL—backed up by a veterinarian degree.
There was no doubt I would have made it.
I was so fucking close. That unfinished dream still gnawed at my insides like something feral.
Growing up, even with our comparable smarts, things just came easier for me.
Wyatt had to grind in ways that I didn’t.
So listening to him speak about his surgeries while he sat there flushed from a run, something bitter and impulsive rose up in me.
I don’t know why, I just needed to. I wanted to have something that he didn’t.
Something he wanted, but didn’t have. I needed to have something of my own to share that he couldn’t take from me.
Allowing my impulsive urges to take over, I cut him off.
“I met a girl.”