3. Rae
3
RAE
Then
I made a wrong turn.
Actually, I made several. A left when I should have gone right. Taking the fourth exit on the roundabout when it should have been the third.
“I fucking hate roundabouts,” I sigh, making a U-turn in the middle of the street to get back to the counterproductive circle that should have just been a normal intersection.
“You’re going to get yourself killed, Rae,” Dee warns, her voice spilling through the speaker of my phone, which is nestled in between the two large Diet Cokes we slurped down on the last leg of our road trip. “You won’t be much good to Will if you’re laid up in the hospital beside him.”
“I’m not going to be laid up beside him.” The reassuring statement feels like a lie when it’s punctuated by the blaring of a horn belonging to a pickup truck that looks more like a tank. The driver of said tank leans out of his window and flips me off, cursing me for ignoring the yield sign and pulling out in front of him. I don’t make a habit of engaging with men in large trucks that are meant to compensate for their small dicks, so I peel off and pray that he doesn’t follow me.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Your driving is going to get you killed one day,” she mutters, echoing a complaint I heard every other minute during our eleven-hour drive from Manhattan back to New Haven.
“My driving got us to New York and back, didn’t it? What did you contribute exactly?”
“Fire playlists,” she tosses back, not missing a beat. “And gas money.”
“We both put in gas, girl.”
And it took almost every dime the two of us had saved from years of babysitting and working odd jobs to cover the trip we’d been planning for half our lives. We’d done everything we said we were going to—walked the streets of Manhattan with slices of greasy pizza in hand, attended an open class at Steps on Broadway, took one of those cheesy tours where you sit on the top of a double-decker bus to see the sights while someone lays facts about the city over a hip-hop beat, and went to every show we could afford to see.
Broadway, off-Broadway, and off-off-Broadway too.
It was the best time. The kind of time I needed after spending eight months watching my mother die a slow, painful death, surrendering every ounce of her life to the hell that is breast cancer.
And now, with every mile I put between myself, Dee, and the goodness we found in the streets of New York, I can feel the happy fading. Shifting. My world turning slowly upside down with thoughts of hospital rooms and IV lines dripping saline into veins of a tired body curled under stark white sheets.
Once upon a time, that was Mommy, and now it might be Will. My brother. My best friend. The only family I have.
“What if he dies?”
“Stop being dramatic, Rae. Will is not gonna die!”
“But he’s in the hospital.”
“Yeah, and he called you himself and told you as much!”
Even through the anxiety and frustration burning a hole in my stomach, I can acknowledge the truth of that statement. Will did call me. He timed it just right, too. My phone started playing the ringtone I designated for him as soon as we pulled up at Dee’s house. Since we’d been updating him on our location every hour on the hour, per his request , I figured he knew I’d made it to Dee’s and just wanted to know how long I was going to stay over.
But what he’d actually called to say was that he wouldn’t be home when I got there. Not understanding the gravity of the admission, I joked about him finally getting a life when I was out of town. He went quiet on me, the way he always does when he needs to say something but doesn’t want me to worry. It took me longer than it should to get him to spit it out, and even then, it was in bits and pieces of reluctant information that I put all the way together when I heard a nurse come in and ask him if he was sure he didn’t want something for the pain.
That’s when my ears tuned in to the noise in the background. The opening and closing of doors. The faint chatter of voices over the intercom, paging doctors, calling codes. The melody of a hospital I’ve spent more time in than I care to admit.
“I’m still scared,” I admit, pushing the words past the lump in my throat. Now that I’m turning into the hospital parking lot, it’s fully formed. Large and imposing as it presses against my windpipe, strangling me with worse-case scenarios and flashes of every Grey’s Anatomy episode I’ve ever seen.
“You can be scared, Rae, but don’t let your feelings stop you from seeing the facts.”
Her dulcet tone reminds me of her recently disclosed plan to pursue a career in psychology. We always planned to chase our dreams of principal roles in acclaimed ballet corps together, but apparently, Dee had a change of heart while she was away at school, completing her freshman year. She came clean on our last night in New York because she didn’t want the trip to end without me knowing the truth. I tried not to be bitter about it—my best friend giving up on our lifelong dream, being left behind by yet another person in yet another facet of my life—but it was a hard pill to swallow. And now life is forcing me to swallow another one that’s all chalk and dust with jagged edges that cut and scrape on their way down.
“Thank you for the advice, Dr. Dee.”
“Dr. Dee,” she muses. “I like the sound of that.”
“I bet you do. It makes it sound like you’re about to write a prescription for some dick.”
“Rachel Renee Prince! Are you actually making dick jokes while your brother is on his deathbed?” She gasps, and I can practically see her hand on her chest in false indignation.
Cutting the ignition, I grab my purse, keys and the duffel bag full of clothes I didn’t wear in New York and hop out the car.
“He’s not on his deathbed,” I remind her, double-clicking the lock button on my key.
“Exactly. That’s exactly right. Now make sure you remember that when you see him.”
I stop short just outside the entrance and push out a calming breath. “I’ll try. Bye, Dee.”
“Bye, babe. Text me if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
Ending the call, I rush inside the hospital, bypassing the information desk and heading straight to the elevator because I wouldn’t let Will hang up with me until he gave me his room number. The seventh floor is pretty quiet, which I guess is technically a good sign as far as hospitals go, but it still gives me the creeps. Will’s room is lively, though, buzzing with conversation and positive energy that flows between my brother’s hospital bed and around the room, looping through the small spaces left between the bodies of the group of men and women standing shoulder to shoulder around his bed.
I pause just inside the threshold and place a hand on my hip. “Are you seriously running a meeting from your hospital bed?”
Everyone turns to look at me. None of the faces are familiar, but I suppose that’s the point of Narcotics Anonymous—the anonymity.
“That you, Rae Rae?” Will asks, humor making his voice light. The group of people surrounding his bed part like the Red Sea, creating an unobstructed path of sight that allows me to see the large smile stretched across his face. Annoyance rolls through me in a fierce wave. Seconds ago, I was worried about him dying, and now I’m contemplating killing him myself.
“How many times have I asked you not to call me that, Wilson?”
“ Wilson ? Will is short for Wilson ?” One of the men asks, hiding a smile behind his hand when Will glares at him. The glare shuts the man right up and puts an end to the meeting. One by one, the group of recovering addicts say their goodbyes and filter out of the room, leaving Will and me on our own.
We’re used to it.
Since Mommy died, it’s been that way. Me and Will watching TV on the couch, neither of us brave enough to sit in the recliner she loved so much. Will and me eating dinner at a table set for six. Two orphans holding each other close after having everything else ripped from their hands.
“Stop looking at me with those sad eyes, Rae. I’m not dying.”
I drop my duffel on the floor beside the chair I’ll be sleeping in tonight and climb onto the bed. There’s not enough room for the both of us, but Will still moves over so I can curl into his side. His arm loops around my shoulder, and he holds me close, dropping a kiss on the top of my head.
“How was New York?”
I slap his leg, and he laughs, which makes me smile. “Tell me how you ended up in the hospital.”
“My appendix burst. They had to remove it.”
“When?”
“Friday night. I was running a meeting and nearly passed out from the pain.”
“And no one thought to call me? You didn’t think to call me?”
He squeezes me tight, pulling me in closer. “I didn’t want you to cut your trip short.”
There’s no point in telling him I wouldn’t have because we both know that would be a lie. If he had called me to say he was in the hospital, I would have dropped everything to get to him as soon as possible.
“When are you going to be discharged?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, as long as I get through the night without running a fever.”
My hand immediately goes to his forehead, and he leans into my touch, indulging my need to verify his temperature. “You’re not feverish now. Did you run one last night?”
“It was low grade and broke in the middle of the night. I’m fine,” he assures me, moving my hand away.
“And they still let you have visitors? What if it’s the start of an infection?”
“I wasn’t going to miss a meeting. Addicts need consistency, Rae, you know that.”
I do know. For the last five years, I’ve listened to him preach the gospel of routine and recovery to the people he sponsors while actively implementing it in his own life. He’s more disciplined than some dancers I know, and that’s saying a lot because there are a lot of ballerinas who can put Marines to shame.
“Someone else could have run the meeting.”
My words come out muffled, rolled into the blurred edges of a yawn. Dee and I got on the road early, like while the moon was still in the sky early, and now that all the adrenaline and fear from worrying about Will has faded, I’m ready to crash.
“Tired?” he asks.
“A little.”
“You should head home and get some sleep.”
I sit up, pinning him with a hard stare. “We both know I’m not going home.”
The look he gives me is just a reflection of mine, and in a mere second, we’re locked in a staring contest reminiscent of the ones we used to engage in when I was younger. Will is ten years older than me, but he never made me feel like the annoying little sister, not even when I wanted to settle every argument and debate by seeing who could go the longest without blinking.
My eyes are burning from being open for far too long, but I refuse to lose. He’s already spent two nights in this hospital by himself, and I’m not going to let it turn into three. Victory comes in the form of a twitch in Will’s right eye that pulls his eyelids shut for a split second. We’ve been playing this game long enough for me to know that this counts as a blink, and I pump a celebratory fist in the air as I hop off the bed. Will rolls his eyes as I plop down in the recliner.
“Like I said, I’m not going home.”
“Your back is going to hurt like hell after you spend a night in that chair.”
“My back will be fine,” I insist, letting the footrest out and crossing my arms over my chest.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he says, leaning back against the pillows as a familiar quiet settles between us. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too, Will.”
“Tell me about your trip. I want to know everything.”
Despite the exhaustion settling deep in my bones, I give Will a detailed recount of the days Dee and I spent in New York. He listens intently, the way he always does when I talk, and asks questions that keep the one-sided conversation flowing until my heavy eyelids refuse to stay open any longer.
The room is dark when I come to, groggy and confused about where I am and what exactly has woken me up. At first, I think it’s Will or a nurse coming in to check his vitals again, but he’s asleep and we’re alone. After a moment, I realize the sound that’s woken me is Will’s phone. It’s on the counter next to the bag of clothes someone must have brought him from the house, vibrating loudly, threatening to wake every patient on the floor.
Will stirs, his face scrunched together in a pained expression that reminds me he hasn’t taken anything except Tylenol since the surgery. I overheard the nurse say he’s been restless all weekend, hardly sleeping. Now that he’s resting, I don’t want to let anything interrupt it, so I move fast, crossing the room and taking the phone into my hand to silence it. Once the ringer is off, I stare at the screen. It’s a little after three in the morning, and the phone is still ringing, which means the person on the other end of the line is likely in the middle of a crisis.
And in Will’s world, a crisis means relapse.
I cradle the phone in my hands, a nervous rush of energy sweeping down my spine as I envision one of my brother’s sponsees in a dark room somewhere, a phone in one hand and the tools of their own destruction in the other. He always tells them that they can call him at any time. More than once, I’ve watched him leave the house in the middle of the night, his jaw clenched, shoulders set in determination, hands ready to pull someone from the depths of addiction. I glance at Will, knowing that if I wake him, he’s likely to pull the IV out of his arm and leave this hospital with me and the entire nursing staff protesting.
The phone keeps ringing. Every vibration forcing my eyes to linger on the screen, to memorize the letters that make up the name of the person on the other end of the line.
Hunter Drake.
Someone’s son. Someone’s brother. Someone’s friend. Someone who needs Will’s help but will just get me instead.
Without thinking, I answer the phone, and my hands shake with the fear of inadequacy. I’m not equipped for this. I could make whatever this Hunter guy is going through worse. The thought echoes in my mind, amplified by the silence filling my ears.
“Will? You there?”
Hunter Drake is remarkably calm for a man in crisis. His voice is deep. A dark, riotous melody that wreaks havoc on my already pounding heart.
“Will’s not—I mean, it’s—” God, I can’t get my words together. How is it that I’m supposed to be helping this man, and I can’t even form a sentence? I clear my throat. “Sorry, Will isn’t able to come to the phone right now.”
“Is he alright?”
“Are you ?” I blurt.
The line goes quiet again, and then Hunter laughs. It’s not a joyful sound. The edges are sharp, the center bitter.
“What’s your name?” he asks, and that’s when I hear it, the forced intention pressing down on each word, how hard he’s working to keep the lazy lilt of drug-induced euphoria from showing in his voice. I heard Will’s voice sound like that once when I was ten, and he showed up to my birthday party high. Mommy forced him to leave, and then she went in her room and cried while Dee’s mom, Emma, led everyone through the Happy Birthday song.
“Rae. I’m Will’s sister.”
“Didn’t know Will had a sister.” I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything at all, which is just as well since Hunter continues talking. “Can you give him a message for me?”
“Hold on a second. Let me get a pen.”
“You won’t need a pen. It’s a short message.”
There’s a finality to the statement that has me glancing at Will, hoping he’ll wake up and save me from this conversation and Hunter from whatever it is that’s troubling him, but his eyes are still shut tight.
“Why don’t you give him a call tomorrow?”
Hunter clicks his tongue. “Because I won’t be here tomorrow, Rae.”
My heart twists in on itself as the true meaning of his words settles inside my chest. A deep, harrowing sorrow pools in my stomach. The sensation of grieving someone I don’t know before they’ve even gone. And Hunter is going. I hear the intent in his words, feel it in the silence on his end of the phone.
“Where are you going to be tomorrow, Hunter?”
He sighs, and it sounds like he’s got the entire world pressing down on him, squeezing all the air out of his lungs. I imagine he must feel that way if he’s thinking about ending his life.
“Not here. Can you just tell Will that I—” he pauses, and I imagine his lips pressed together into a hard, hesitant line. That hesitation gives me hope, makes me think that maybe he isn’t as sure as I thought he was.
“Where are you?” The words spill past my lips in a rush. Hurried. Hopeful. “Maybe I can send someone to help you.”
“There’s no help for me, Rae.”
“That’s not true. You called Will because you thought he could help, right?”
“No, I called Will to say goodbye.”
There goes my heart again, turning into knots of anguish for a perfect stranger. My mom always said I felt deeply for other people. That the world’s problems weighed heavy on my heart. For as along as I can remember, she’s referred to me as a gentle soul. Kind. Empathetic. Never a harsh word or a raised voice. Which is why nothing about my response to Hunter makes a bit of sense.
“Well, you’ll have to wait to tell him yourself because I’m not going to pass along your message. After everything Will has done for you, I think he deserves more than a phone call, don’t you agree?”
I don’t have a clue in the world what Will has or hasn’t done for Hunter, but I can imagine. My brother is the kind of person who gives everything he has to the people he cares about, and as one of his sponsees, Hunter fits the bill.
“You’re probably right, but this is the best I can do, okay?”
Defeat casts a shadow over his words, bathing them in a darkness so thick and dense I feel it covering me as well. Any smart person would take a step back to avoid being engulfed by it, but I feel myself inching forward, reaching into it. Whether it’s to save Hunter or lose myself, I’m not sure.
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“I can assure you it is.”
More silence. Another lung-emptying sigh filled with sadness that spells the end of this conversation and, if I let him go, the end of Hunter’s life. I bite my lip, searching for something to say. My heart is telling me to keep him talking. My brain is screaming for me to wake Will. My mouth has a mind of its own.
“Have you eaten?”
“What?” he asks, an incredulous huff of amusement following the question.
“Have you eaten?” I repeat, like it makes total sense to ask someone in Hunter’s state of mind about their eating habits.
“You think I want to die because I missed a meal?”
“No, but I do know you shouldn’t make any big decisions on an empty stomach.”
“So if I told you I had a five-course meal before I got high for the first time in two years and came up on this roof, you’d be okay with me stepping off of it?”
The image he paints makes my blood run cold. It’s so vivid, so raw, so terrifyingly specific I’m stunned into a brief silence. Hunter chuckles, and it’s a dark, condescending sound that tells me he thinks I know nothing about the kind of pain he’s in. I resent that laugh and the assumption it represents. Pain is a familiar bedfellow of mine. The physical torture of dancing on open blisters and ingrown toenails. The emotional agony of holding my mom’s hand while an oncologist explained that the chemo regimen she’d been following for months hadn’t so much as slowed down the cancer.
It doesn’t come from the same source, but pain is pain.
“Did you?” I ask, finally finding my voice.
“Did I what?”
“Have a five-course meal before you relapsed?”
“No, Rae, I didn’t, and I don’t think anyone would care if I left this world with an empty stomach.”
“I would. I would care.” My declaration gives him pause, and I use it to my advantage, choosing to fill the space with an offer I hope he won’t refuse. “Which means you should let me buy you a meal.”