THAT NIGHT, I TRY TO SLEEP.
“It’s going to be hard,” Tyler warned me earlier. “You’ll have a really rough time with it the first night.”
I thought he was crazy. I never have a hard time sleeping. If I can sleep through the baby noise, I can sleep through anything, right?
Right?
I’ve got a blanket of Will’s and a picture of Mom and Dad and one of Jesse’s hockey pucks. I’ve spread them out on my dresser, like a shrine to my misery.
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, my arms around my stomach, wondering if I’m going to throw up. Or if my appendix is about to burst or something.
In true melodramatic fashion, there’s a storm outside. I don’t mind the thunder, but the quiet moments in between drill into my skull. If silence could break bones, I would shatter right now, into pieces of stomachache and blueprints and desperation.
I pull on some socks and pad down the hall. The nausea fades the farther I get from my bed. I tap on Tyler’s door and call his name, softly.
He opens up, his hands over his lips like he’s about to yawn, or cough. But he doesn’t do either.
I shake and stamp my feet against the ground to remind me where I am. My toes hate this.
“You’ve gotta stop,” Tyler says. “One of the nurses will come. They’ll hear you up.”
I’m so, so cold.
“Just tell me everything’s okay,” I say.
“Everything’s okay, Jonah.”
“You’re okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“And everything’s okay?”
“Yeah. I promise.”
Tyler guides me back to my room. My stomachache is starting to ebb, and I feel content in this quiet way.
Maybe because it’s so. Quiet.
No coughing and snoring and wheezing from stuffed-up Jesse. No parents screaming at each other, or baby screaming back.
Just me.
Here.
Dark room.
Cold mattress.
Cold Jonah.
I sing just to make noise until I finally fall asleep.
thirty-three
AND MY BOY HIMSELF STICKS HIS HEAD THROUGH my door at about four the next afternoon, two days before Halloween. “Knock knock,” he says, like a little geek.
“Jesse!” I drop my book and leap on him. “You’re not supposed to be up here!”
“I snuck up. There’s crappy security in this place, you know that? You could totally just come home if you wanted.” He disentangles himself from my hug and holds me at arm’s length. “How the hell are you, brother?”
“I’m okay. You look . . . fuck, you look fantastic.”
He smiles. “I’m pretty good.”
He has color and clear eyes and no hives. He’s got a sad mouth but his lips aren’t swollen. So he looks incredible.
“Have you been living at home?”
He laughs. “Yeah. It’s just been a good day.”
“You’re eating,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m eating.”
“That’s good, man.” I slap him on the back. “Glad to hear it.”
“I knew you would be.”
On the way to the elevator, we run into Tyler and Stephen. “Guys,” I say. “This is my brother.”
Tyler says, “What’s up, man?” Neither he nor Stephen is a hand-shaking kind of guy, which saves Jesse his usual awkward I-can’t-touch-you explanation.
Jess smiles as we head toward the elevator. He has his hands in his pockets and kicks the linoleum. He’s nervous, but more politely than Mom and Dad were. “This isn’t so bad.”
“Nah, it isn’t. I should kidnap you for the weekend and you can crash with me. My room’s big enough.”
“Yeah, hopefully you won’t be here long enough to consider that.”
I hit the down button. “So how’s shit at home?”
He shrugs. “Not awful, actually. Naomi’s over all the time. She misses you. I think Will does too. He’s even louder than usual. Mom and Dad both came, you know. Got a sitter. I wanted to bring him, but Mom and Dad still don’t want him outside.”
“Heard from Charlotte?”
He makes his I’m-sorry face and shakes his head.
“She’ll come around,” I say.
“Of course she will.” He squeezes my shoulder. “No doubt, man.”
Leah gets onto the elevator with us just before the doors close. Anyone thicker than her probably would have gotten stuck. “Who’s this?” she says.
“This is Jesse. My little brother.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says.
He’s so cute around pretty girls. “Nice to meet you.” He points at the buttons, his cheeks getting pink like he’s a cartoon. “What’s on the third floor?”
“Don’t know,” I say. “We never go up there.”
Leah says, “I have it on good authority that’s where they do the electroshock therapy.”
I elbow her. “Don’t scare him.”
He scoffs. “I’m not scared.” As we walk off the elevator and part ways with Leah, he mumbles, “She seems nice.”
“You could get with her, no problem. She’s nice and clean. Doesn’t eat.”
“I don’t want her. She’s way too skinny.”
Mom and Dad sit in armchairs by the doors, like they’re afraid to venture too far inside. They’ve dressed up. I appreciate Jesse extra hard, in his dirty jeans and T-shirt.
“Hey,” I say, and hug them.
“How was your first night?” Mom won’t stop touching me—my arm, my face, my hair, like she hasn’t seen me since I was a kid.
“It was fine. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m really fine here.” I smile at Belle as she walks through the lobby, cuddling some tiny stuffed bear into her chest.
“Do you know her?” Dad asks, and he says it more gently than I expect.
“There’re only, like, six other kids here. I sort of know everyone.”
“What are they like?” Mom asks.
“They’re fine. Really. Everything’s fine.”
“When can you come home?” Jess says.
My tongue expands with pity and fills my whole mouth, and I can’t talk.
Dad examines my pajama pants and ratty T-shirt. “Do you need more clothes?”
I manage to swallow. “No, no, I’m fine.”
“How’s the doctor?”
“He’s all right. We had our first session this afternoon. Doesn’t talk about much. He mostly just makes me put together puzzles and watches me and stuff. It’s like ADD testing.”
Jesse sneezes a few times and I look at him sideways.
“Everything’s okay,” I say. “We have art every day. And we play basketball outside.”
Jesse’s red ears twitch up. “Basketball?”
“Uh-huh. I mean, I’m mostly just limping around, but . . . it’s cool. And I’ve got lots of books. How’s school?”
Jesse smiles. “Mr. Roskull got a toupee.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“The counselor spoke with Jesse,” Mom says. “Wanted to know how you’re doing.”
Jess swipes his nose. “And I told her you were fine. Which he is. I saw his room. He hasn’t torn up the walls or bled everywhere. Look at him.” He waves his hand from the top of my head to my shoes. “No new broken bones. He’s fine. Bring him home.”
Dad looks at the floor. “Jonah, you understand—”
“Yeah, I do. Stop, Jess.”
He’s tearing up, and I can’t tell if he’s crying or it’s allergies. “I don’t believe this.”
“Calm down.”
Mom and Dad just sit there, bouncing their eyes between Jesse and me.
He starts coughing.
“Look, take him home,” I say, my stomach hurting. “They air-freshen like crazy here. It isn’t good for him. He shouldn’t be here.”
Jess clears his throat. “I’m okay.”
Yeah, he was
okay before he got here. But now . . . it’s not like I think he’s on the brink of death, but his voice is stuffed up and his eyes are getting red and those throat-clearing noises are just too hard to listen to. He can’t belong here. He can’t belong at home, and he can’t belong here. He can’t belong anywhere I am.
“Look at him,” I say. “He needs to get out of here.”
Mom and Dad gather their coats, and I pull Jesse to the side to say good-bye. “Come home,” he says.
“I will. Look,” I say, and my voice goes all on its own. “Come visit on your own, okay? So we won’t have to deal with them. And we’ll stay outside.” I fish a tissue out of my pocket and hand it to him. “More fresh air, less air freshener.”
He laughs, and his throat sounds wet. “Okay. Look . . . please get home ASAP. We need you, all right?”
“You’re doing great. Look at you.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t care. Come home.”
Yeah, but I care, you idiot. Someone has to look out for you.
They all trample out, Jesse behind with his hands in his pockets, and I collapse into one of the armchairs. Mackenzie watches me from the desk.
Tyler perches on a chair beside me. “Was that your brother?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm.” He stretches his legs out. “He didn’t look sick.”
“Yeah, I know.” I nod. “He might be better without me.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Trust me.” I push my hair back. “I don’t want to.” But I’m running out of other options.
thirty-four
STEPHEN SAYS, “COME ON OUT. WE’RE HAVING A crazy-kid party.” He clings to my door like it’s all that’s keeping him standing.
“Mmmm.” I put my hands in my hair. “I don’t really feel like it.”
“You’ve been in your room for hours.”
What am I supposed to say? I’ve been sick to my stomach ever since Mom and Dad and Jesse left.
Stephen sits at the foot of my bed. “Leah says your brother’s cute.”
“Yeah. He’s good-looking when he’s healthy.” I stretch my legs out. “I just . . . I don’t know if I should go home.”
“Like now?”
“Like when they let me out.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My brother. He never looked that good when I was at home.”
“You can’t seriously think that your being here is making him better. You’ve been here for, like, a day. And aren’t you guys close?”
I shrug, because “close” isn’t exactly the word.
He shakes his head slowly. “Come into the lounge.”
“I’m not feeling really social.”
“Yeah. You’re depressed. You think we don’t know depressed? Come on, Jonah.”
I pull on a pair of socks and follow Stephen to the lounge. All the chairs are abandoned and everyone’s crashed on the floor, flopped on top of one another in a big teenage pile.
“Hey, Jonah,” they chorus.
I crawl into the mess and rest my head on Belle’s shoulder. She pats it like I’m a good dog, and I think about Charlotte.
“Tyler’s telling us a story,” she says.
Tyler shifts. “So, yeah . . . that’s kind of why I hate my stepfather. I kind of blame him.”
“You can’t blame him for your going psycho,” Leah says.
“What, and you don’t hate anyone for your . . . you know.”
“Of course not. It’s my fault. No one made me stop eating.”
Belle’s shirt rides up and I see all the cuts above her hips. My stomach turns flip-flops.
“What about you, Jonah?” someone, everyone asks.
I close my eyes and tell them about the car accident, and after the car accident, and after after the car accident. . . .
They all suck in their breath.
“That sounds fucking awful.” Tyler rolls onto his stomach.
“It’s sort of hard to remember the really bad parts.” Of the accident. Of all of it.
He says, “Doesn’t it hurt? Breaking your bones?”
Talking about it is this weird type of freedom. “Totally, yeah, but there is that adrenaline rush.”
Stephen nods.
“So that’s why you do it?” Tyler says.
I laugh. “I don’t know if I should be giving you guys any self-injury motivations.”
They laugh too.
“Come on, Jonah.”
I shake my head.
Tyler concedes. “But you do have a reason, right?”
“Yeah. Oh, definitely have a reason.” I stare up at the ceiling. My heart throbs as I breathe. “I just didn’t always know what it was.”
Belle squeezes me.
I’m in my room by curfew, but the rest of everybody is wandering the halls. Some nurse starts yelling, and they yell right back. I smile into my Confucius biography.
“Good day?”
I look up and Mackenzie’s grinning at me, blood-pressure cuff dangling from one hand.
“It got better kind of suddenly.”
She tightens the cuff, then lets it go. I’m aware of my heartbeat again. She says, “Eighty over fifty. Still low. Are you sick? You’re kind of pale.”
I shake my head. “Feel like listening?”
She sits cross-legged at the foot of my bed. “It is in my job description.”
“I saw my little brother today, and just . . . I don’t know. Started thinking.” I pick up my book. “Do you know anything about Confucianism?”
She shakes her head.
“Oh. Well, I’m kind of into it. Anyway, there’s this idea—the main idea, actually. It’s that the family is the smallest possible unit of measurement. Like, you can’t divide a family into the individuals. Not really. Because every decision, every problem . . . it’s all within the family. It’s all shared. You’re born, and you’re born into part of this organism. You’re like parts of a cell, working to make the whole thing better.”
She says, “You can kind of divide everything into that.”
“What?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Family. Friends. School.” She shrugs. “Here. You’re always a part of something. It’s never just you. Anyway. You were talking.”
“It’s okay.” I tighten my lower jaw, and the wire pulls. “For me . . . see, I’ve got this really sick little brother.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t want to make it sound like this is all about him, like he’s messed me up or something. And I don’t want to make it sound like this is sudden. He’s sixteen now. . . . He’s been sick since he was born. But he’s done all he can to keep himself healthy. He avoids what he’s allergic to, and he works out all the time, and he tries to have a normal life, like, he tries really hard. He does all he can to make himself stronger. He’s reached his limit. He’s done his part—for himself, for the whole family unit.”
“He can’t get well?”
I shake my head. “No cure.”
“That’s awful.”
I swallow. “Okay. But. If our family is really the smallest unit, then every time Jesse’s sick, we’re all sick. His pain is our pain. So if he can’t get better . . .” I wave my broken wrist. “I’m the next best thing. I get hurt, and I heal. And I get stronger. And my strength is Mom’s strength. Is Dad’s strength. Is Jesse’s strength.”
“That’s . . .”
“I know it’s kind of crazy.”
“It’s adorable, Jonah.”
I rest my chin on my knees. “I miss him.”
My eyes flick toward my door and there’s Tyler, Belle, Leah, and Annie, their mouths all popped open in surprise. Or understanding.
thirty-five
WHEN I REPEAT THIS EXPLANATION TO THE psychologist the next day, he’s less impressed.
“But, Jonah,” he says. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Small-minded Western thinkers.
“There’s got to be something else you can do, if you wa
nt to support your family,” he says. “Something that doesn’t involve self-injury.”
“I try,” I insist.
“I know you do.”
“No, you don’t.”
I stare above at the wall over his ergonomic chair. The clock on the wall is exactly the same shape as his head, but the face is less serious. More interesting.
I wait until I’m calm enough to speak, and I say, “I’ve tried everything.”
“I know it must look like—”
“No. I’ve tried everything.”
“Breaking your bones is obviously not the answer, Jonah.”
“Yeah. I’m aware. I’m aware that it didn’t work.”
“So what’s your new plan?”
This is a snide question, so I don’t tell him about how I have to leave my family organism, break out firmly and finally. I don’t tell him that I’m a parasite, and I’m ruining them. That my functionality is tearing them to pieces.
He doesn’t deserve to know. And it’s not as if I want to talk about it.
He’s back to his shrink speech. “The trouble with self-injury is that you develop a pattern of behavior. It’s not enough to simply say that you’re going to stop hurting yourself. What we need to do is construct an alternate outlet—a separate pattern of behavior that you follow instead.”
“I can stop breaking,” I say, fully aware that I sound like an alcoholic. I can stop drinking whenever I want. . . .
He says, “Jonah.”
People do this—say my name strong and forceful, like the two syllables and a serious look will give them some sort of power over me. It’s just a name. It’s not like it means anything.
He says, “Jonah. You can’t go home until you work with me.”
He’s working off the assumption that going home is my goal.
“Where’s Leah?” I say.
“Hmm?”
“We haven’t seen her this morning. She wasn’t at breakfast or lunch.”
“I don’t know anything that I can share right now.”
I glare at him and scratch the knee of my jeans.
“So, what are we going to do here, Jonah? Are you ready to start constructing some new behavior?”
I say, “I don’t know anything that I can share right now.”
He writes something on his clipboard, and I hear applause in my head. Jonah: 1. Mental Health: 0.