Callum
TWENTY-NINE
NOW
Ginny called to check in with me and the only reason I answered was because I knew they’d show up on my door if I didn’t, and I wasn’t ready for people to see me. She wasn’t convinced that I was as okay as I said I was, but she didn’t press the matter either.
What I loved the most about her was that she never made me talk about shit that I didn’t want to talk about. She called and asked if I was okay, and if I needed anything, and when I said yes, I was and no, I didn’t, she let it go.
Yesterday I’d listened to her talk for more than an hour about some new show she was hooked on, and then again last night she’d talked about some kind of internet drama she’d been keeping tabs on.
I appreciated the conversation, even if I didn’t participate much.
It helped me feel connected to something other than my grief.
Though I wasn’t sure what exactly I was mourning.
Was it Sam? Or was it the life I could have had? Was I still grieving the loss of Damien, even though we’d found each other again?
His calls had gone unanswered. So had his texts.
Maybe that made me a jerk, but I couldn’t make myself care about it too much. If I let something in, I’d have to let it all in, and the weight of my feelings might kill me. Dramatic? I wasn’t so sure.
I still couldn’t fathom having to get up one morning, get dressed, and go to work like everything was fine. But I couldn’t just stay home and rot in bed the way I had been doing.
It was a good thing Damien had shown up days ago and not now, when I hadn’t showered in days and was still sleeping on the same sheets because I told myself they smelled like him.
They didn’t. But a guy could dream.
I rolled over, something I did every so often, and unplugged my phone.
Ginny would be calling again soon, the second check-in of the day.
Zeke tried to check in, but he was shit on the phone.
He’d get as far as asking if I was okay, and then he’d sit there in silence.
But he did send me at least a dozen supposedly funny memes a day.
So that counted. He did his best, but Ginny was the communicator.
Zeke was just the pretty face—Zeke’s words.
Right on cue, my phone rang and I answered it. Despite my best effort to sound lively, I still sounded like a perpetually exhausted robot.
“Ginny. Good evening.” The fact that she’d already called me once today was the only reason I knew what time of day it was.
“Are you still in bed, Callum Weeks?” Her previously patient voice had a no-nonsense tone to it. “I know I can’t bully the depression out of your body, but you could at least spend some time on your feet.”
“Standing is overrated.”
“And showering?”
My silence spoke volumes.
“Cal,” she said softly, clearly trying a different approach with me. “Listen to me very carefully. Are you listening?”
“I’m listening.”
“Get out of bed. Pull the sheets off. Get in the shower. Eat a real meal.”
“Because that will magically make everything better?”
Ginny scoffed. “Fuck no. But you’ll have a clean body, a clean bed, and a full belly, and that’s better than being stinky, sad, and hungry.”
“I hate you,” I told her, though there was no force behind the words. No truth. It was like I was playing Opposite Day where I hate you meant I love you and fuck you was my way of saying thank you.
“Get up.” Ginny’s voice was gentle but serious. “Seriously, Callum. Zeke and I can come out there and stay for a few days if you need us to.”
“Ginny, I love you, but please don’t. I’m getting up. I’m pulling the sheet off my bed as we speak.”
“Liar.”
“Okay, but how about I promise that by the next check-in that I’ll have completed the mission?”
“Can I trust you?”
“Probably not, to be honest.” I laughed unexpectedly and when it went on for too long, I realized that Ginny wasn’t laughing with me. Or at all. I forced myself to stop. Had I sounded like I was losing my shit? Maybe I was.
“Callum…”
Suddenly, I threw the blankets off and climbed out of bed.
“I’m up. I’m up and out of bed.” I yanked the blanket off the bed and let it pool on the floor.
Next, I stripped the fitted sheet, not bothering to separate the pillows or the top sheet.
I bundled everything up and dragged it to the washer and dryer.
“I’m up and out of bed. I’m going to start my laundry now, and then I’ll shower.” My bones were made of lead, and the thought of trying to strip my shirt off was almost more than I could handle. “Why are you so mean to me?”
“Oh, honey, this is what love looks like. This is me not letting you wallow in misery like you planned to do.”
“How—”
“Please, Callum. I know what depression looks like. I know what it feels like. I understand how heavy it is. Get undressed and get in the shower.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
“Did you want to Facetime me and make sure I wash behind my ears?”
“Don’t tempt me. You know you’re cute as a button. Just shower. I’ll order you something to eat.”
“Ginny, no.”
“Too bad. If you don’t want me to look after you, then you need to start looking after yourself again.”
She ended the call, and for a second I stood there, still holding the phone to my ear. Then I was walking to my bathroom. The thought of just stepping into my shower fully clothed crossed my mind, but wet clothes were almost impossible to take off.
I stripped slowly, keeping my mind carefully blank by focusing on Ginny’s instructions. Shower. Change sheets. Eat food. Shower. Change sheets. Eat food. It kept all the other thoughts at bay while I scrubbed the filth from my body. When I was clean, I didn’t let myself linger in the shower.
Changing my sheets took all my remaining energy, and by the time I was done, I was thankful that Ginny had ordered dinner for me and had it delivered to my front door.
It arrived just as I was finishing up, and I retrieved the bags and instead of eating in bed like I had been doing, or eating handfuls of shredded cheese while standing in the middle of the kitchen, I took my dinner to the living room.
Ginny had ordered from a Thai place that she knew I liked, and she’d gotten me enough food to last me a couple of days. I snapped a picture of the order after I spread all the containers out on the coffee table and sent the photo to Ginny.
Then I sent a selfie of me with my wet hair as proof of life.
I hated that she’d been right about the shower, which meant she was going to be right about the food and the clean bed.
I opened the Pad Thai and practically inhaled half before I stopped to see what else there was to eat. Eating had kickstarted my appetite, and I realized how ravenous I was. It was easier to think with some food in my stomach and days of depressed funk washed off my body.
Ginny was right. She was often right. And if I asked her what to do, she’d tell me to get it over with. The only way to deal with something was to face it.
Later.
Definitely soon but not right now.
At that moment, all I wanted was to eat until I burst. Eating was remembering that life still happened when I was busy floundering. Eating was acknowledging that I still had a meat suit to care for, even on hard days.
The first time I’d had a real depressive episode, I hadn’t known what was happening.
But Zeke had. Zeke had clocked me from a mile away because his mom had struggled with her mental health and he knew the signs.
The withdrawal from your social circle. The lack of energy.
I mean, it was also pretty obvious when I didn’t get out of bed for three days that I wasn’t just sad.
The way Zeke had scraped me off the floor of despair and held me up while I put myself back together wasn’t something I took for granted. Unless I wanted to end up back there, I was going to have to do something I didn’t want to do.
I was going to have to open that fucking envelope.
Soon.
I ate. And ate. And ate a little more. And finally I put the containers away and wiped the coffee table down, and when I’d run out of things to procrastinate with, I went to my dresser and retrieved the envelope.
It looked innocuous enough. A plain white rectangle with my name scrawled across the front. It felt thick, like maybe there were a couple sheets of paper in there, and I wondered what Sam could possibly have to say to me after all this time.
I’d tried to reconcile that with when he’d been sick, but he’d not wanted much of anything to do with me. My olive branch had been all but thrown back in my face. After that, I left him alone. I respected the fact that he wanted his space while he fought his cancer.
When he went into remission, I thought maybe that would be the time.
I slid my finger under the corner of the sealed envelope, then ripped it down the side. My hands trembled when I pulled the papers out of the envelope.
I didn’t unfold the paper right away because I wouldn't be able to erase what I was about to read and I didn’t think, after all this time, that Sam would’ve offered me some kind of closure.
The pages shook when I carefully unfolded them.
I hadn’t expected closure, but I hadn’t expected him to drop a bomb on my whole existence.
There was no note. No final goodbye. Not even so much as a fuck you, Callum.
The truth was right there in front of me, but it seemed like a lie. Like a horrible joke he’d decided to play on me from beyond the grave. It didn’t even make sense, but it was right there in black and white.
Sam wasn’t my brother.
Sam’s parents were my parents, but they weren’t my parents.
I wasn’t… oh, God…
The world tilted and I braced my elbows on my knees, staring at the paper in disbelief.
I wasn’t related to my own family.
Who was I?
And then another question popped into my head. Had Damien known?
Nausea made me clamp my lips shut and breathe raggedly through my nose as I tried desperately to hold it together.
It had to be fake.
Right?