She nods, writing. “I heard. Want to tell me what happened?”
Not really. I really just want to pretend like this is all a bad dream. In one moment I went from having everything I ever wanted back again to the scared, terrified girl I was last year. I took one step forward and three steps back. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately.”
“Nightmares?” Linda asks.
I nod, shying away from her stare.
“I thought we were past those?” she questions, jotting down notes.
I sigh. “So did I.”
“What happened, Bryce? You were making such great progress. Your mother was telling me how amazing you were doing at the salon. What changed?” Linda presses me.
I saw Robbie. Only, I’m not sure if it was real or a hallucination. I know how crazy I sound, and I can remember the way Ben and Felicia stared at me that night. I don’t know if I can handle anyone else looking at me the same way. I used to tell Linda everything. She was my equivalent to a friend. Someone I trusted. But I know how disappointed she is already in me. If I tell her I saw Robbie at Side Bar on Halloween, she may want to have me committed. It doesn’t make sense that he would still be in town, after everything. The police have been looking for him for over a year, following dead lead after dead lead. If he was smart, he would be half way across the country, not in the same city he committed the crime.
I shrug, remaining silent, lost in my thoughts.
Linda continues writing, her shoulders slouching in defeat. After an eternity of silence, Linda decides I’m a lost cause and packs up to leave. I stay rooted in place.
“Well?” I hear my mother ask beneath the closed door.
“Something happened, and she’s reverting back to her old ways,” Linda replies. “I fear it is only going to get worse.”
“Well, what do you recommend?” my mother asks in a worried tone.
“I think I need more sessions with her. I think we need to double them up.”
Right after my attack, I used to see Linda three times a week. And then, once she felt like I was making progress, she reduced the sessions to once a week. I feel hopeless. I’ve worked so hard to gain my freedom back, and he has once again stolen it from me. I fear that I’m never going to be able to escape the hell he’s put me in. I fear that I will never be fully healed.
Eleven: Hidden Feelings Surface
“Bryce, I’m worried about you,” Linda says, setting her pen down on her notepad. “Your mother says you haven’t left your room in over a month. She says you’re barely eating and judging by the way your clothes are fitting, I’m going to take her word for it. You don’t look healthy.”
I pick at my fingernails, keeping my eyes averted from her judging gaze.
“I don’t even know if me being here is helping anymore.” She sighs. My eyes fall on her. She looks defeated, at her wits end. “You haven’t spoken to me in weeks. I think this may be our last meeting together.
No! my mind screams. Although I’ve been depressed and distracted, Linda has been my only form of human contact besides my family. I don’t want to lose her. I want to tell her I’ll be better. I want to convince her to stay…but I can barely find the motivation to get out of bed most days. I have no energy and sometimes, I think everyone would be better if I wasn’t around.
Linda stands, packing her notepad and pen into her briefcase. “Bryce, I want you to know that I am always here for you. Just because I won’t be coming around any longer, does not mean that you can’t reach out to me, day or night, whenever you feel ready to talk again.” She walks over to me, gripping my shoulder and squeezing it lightly with her hand. “Take care, Bryce.”
I watch her walk out, remaining mute. She opens the front door wide, looks back at me one last time, and then exits. I sigh deeply as I watch her go. Why can’t I just be normal?
My mother peeks her head in, grinning at me. I can tell she is holding back. She has been ever since I stopped coming out of my room. I wonder if she thinks I’m a lost cause. “How did it go today?” she asks.
My eyes lock with hers as I stand. “Linda quit today.”
“She what?” my mother cries.
I shrug. “She quit. She doesn’t think there is anything she can do for me.”
My mother’s eyes widen. “Can she do that?”
I nod. “I think she just did.”
My mother steps further into the room, her brown eyes trained on me. “Honey, you need to talk to someone; to me, your father, or even Tyson.”
My heart clenches when she says his name. I break her stare and look away sadly. “Tyson doesn’t want to be friends anymore.”
My mother’s face wrinkles with confusion. “What? No, that doesn’t sound like Tyson.”
I stifle a sob. “Oh, but it is.” I brush past her out to the hallway, and then race up the stairs to my room. I close the door behind me, pushing my back up against it, and sliding to the floor slowly. I can see it in all of their eyes—judgement. I know they think I’m a nuisance, a letdown.
* * *
2 Weeks Later
Knock, knock.
Knock, knock.
I’m not deaf. I can hear the knocking, but I’m too tired. Maybe if I just close my eyes again, they will give up.
“Bryce?” I hear the door creek open and the familiar voice ask.
Shit. I grab the comforter closely and pull it up over my head, sliding down underneath it.
I hear footsteps and then feel someone putting their weight on my bed by sitting down on it. I grip the comforter tighter over my face.
“Bryce,” he says again softly, but this time I feel a hand rubbing over my body atop the blanket. My whole body tenses when I feel his touch.
He sighs and then removes his hand.
“Look, your mom asked me to stop by. I know we haven’t talked in a while, but she is worried about you.” I’m dying to see what he looks like. It’s been a little more than a month, but most days I feel like I am losing parts of him; forgetting him. I roll over so that my back is facing him.
He shifts on the bed. “What happened?” he asks so quietly I have to strain to hear it. I swallow, my heartbeat speeding up. “Why won’t you talk to me?” I can hear how hurt he is by his tone.
I can’t bear to see the disappointment in his eyes. I’ve been dealing with my mother and father’s already…I can’t bear to let him down. They all deserve better than me. Someone who can function normally. Someone who doesn’t live their life in constant fear. It would be better if I wasn’t holding them all back.
“I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me,” Tyson warns. After several moments of complete silence I hear him sigh loudly, the extra weight on my bed being lifted. “You’re better than this. The Bryce I know may not be the strongest, but she never gives up. You’re giving up.”
My heartbeat continues to thump deeply in my chest.
I hear my door close moments later. He left. I throw my cover off quickly, running to the window just as Tyson opens our front door. He walks out with his head held low, looking defeated. I wanted nothing more than to talk to him, but after our conversation the last time we spoke, it didn’t feel right. He is trying to move on with his life, past me, and if he gets tangled in my drama, that will never happen. I feel disappointed and lost. Tyson still must care about me because he bothered to come out at all. What if I was wrong to push him away? What if I’ve been a coward this entire time?
* * *
I’m awoken by frantic knocking on my door. I open one of my eyes slightly, glancing at my bedside clock. My eye fights to adjust to the darkness when my mind registers the bright numbers. 2:45 a.m. My heart begins pounding roughly. I throw my comforter and sheet off of my body and rush to the door, opening it. My mother is standing on the other side, her long wavy brown hair disheveled with bloodshot eyes. She doesn’t have to bother saying a word, her facial expression says it all. Something is desperately wrong. My stomach plummets and I can feel the knots forming
inside.
“Tyson,” my mother gasps.
The moment his name leaves her lips, I’m fully awake. “What about Tyson? Is he okay?” There is apparent worry and fear in my voice.
Her face is fallen, appearing sympathetic.
“St. Joseph’s,” my mother says the familiar hospital name.
I feel like I’ve just been shot up with adrenaline. I am running around my room like a chicken with its head cut off, throwing on new clothes and shoes, and then grabbing my cell phone and purse. I can’t think about the fact that I am leaving the house for the first time in a month. The only thing I can focus on is my best friend’s condition. My mother didn’t give me any details, just the tip that he is in the hospital.
When I arrive at the hospital, I am led into the waiting room where Tyson’s friends and family are congregated. I recognize Tyson’s mother instantly. I’ve seen a couple of pictures of her through Tyson, but her facial structure and her long wavy hair make her look like his older sister.
“Joanne?” I ask, reaching my hand out to grab her shoulder gently.
She spins around, her eyes trailing me from top to bottom. Her eyes are red and puffy, a combination of no sleep and crying, I’d wager. Confusion spills across her face, and she tries to connect the dots.
“I’m Bryce,” I offer with a hesitant smile.
“Bryce,” she says with a long exhale of air. “I’ve heard so much about you. Tyson really thinks highly of you.” She wraps her arms around me tightly, pulling me into a hug. It’s a little close for comfort, but it’s nice.
“What happened?” I ask, my eyes darting throughout the full waiting room. I wonder if anyone has seen him.
“He was at home. Someone rang the doorbell. When he opened the door, they opened fire,” his mother says, her eyes glistening. “His own house.”
My heart begins pulsating quickly as I think of how unsuspecting Tyson would have been, and how terrified he would have felt after being struck by the bullets. “Who would want to hurt Tyson?” I ask incredulously.
She shrugs, sighing. “This person knew exactly where he lived and didn’t hold back. They intended to kill him. This was pre-meditated and malicious.”
I nod stiffly. “How bad is it?”
“He’s in surgery now. He lost a lot of blood.” Her facial expression is full of sorrow. I’m sick to my stomach with worry. He better pull through this.
* * *
I’ve been sitting here for hours. I can barely keep my eyes open, but I’m terrified that if I give in, I’ll miss an important update. My conscience won’t allow me such a luxury as sleep. My eyes widen as I see an important looking hospital employee come out in blue scrubs. He is middle-eastern, probably in his forties, and looks just as exhausted as the rest of us. Everyone’s eyes and ears perk up as he approaches Tyson’s mother and father. I stand up, inching toward the group now surrounding him.
“Tyson made it out of surgery. He is stable. He had a collapsed lung, lost a lot of blood, and has a few blood clots, but his recovery is promising,” the doctor tells us.
Tyson is okay. Thank God he’s okay…
“When can we see him?” his mother asks.
“He is on a lot of pain medication right now and could use his rest. I’d say give him a couple of days to come around.”
I don’t need to be told any more. I feel confident enough now to go home, clean myself up, get some rest, and come back in a day or two. After saying my goodbyes, I make my way out to the parking garage and head back home.
All I can think about is our last conversation on his porch and how badly it hurt when Tyson said he couldn’t be around me anymore. I’m starting to question my feelings now. I’m beginning to confront my fears.
I take a seat inside my car and let my thoughts take over.
Have I been stupid for turning Tyson down? Have I been a coward? I can’t deny that he makes my life better. He is the light in my darkest of days. I’m terrified to lose him. He makes me a better person.
I love him.
I gasp, throwing a hand over my mouth in complete and utter shock.
So, that just happened…
Twelve: Caught
I expected to have a run-in with my parents when I got home, as it is well past their working hours. What I did not expect to see was my therapist, standing beside them. I can smell an intervention from miles away. I’m enraged. This is what is important to them right now? While Tyson is laying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life? My mother has an awkward smile plastered on, and I can read her guilt. My father remains stiff and rigid, unwavering. And then there’s Linda. She looks conflicted.
“Is this really happening right now?” I ask, bitterly. I can expect this from my father, but my mother? I feel betrayed.
“Bryce, we are here to help you,” my mother says softly.
I chuckle. “Right,” I reply, sarcasm dripping from my voice.
“Come on in, Bryce,” Linda says from the couch.
I walk slowly into the living room, the heat from the eyeballs on me, scorching. “Please, take a seat,” Linda instructs me.
“No, I think I’d rather stand,” I say, crossing my arms across my chest.
Linda nods. “That’s alright too.”
“You do know that Tyson is in the hospital right now, correct? And that I’ve been there for the past eight hours? I just want to sleep and then go back.” I pause for a second, and then realize I’m not finished. “Look, I know exactly what this is, and I appreciate it, but I’m fine.”
My mother’s face falls. “Bryce, you haven’t been fine in a very long time. We just want to help you get back to normal.”
I glare back at her; a mix of emotions are rising up from the depths. I’m angry, I’m hurt, but worst of all, I miss him. Talk about Stockholm syndrome. I feel dirty; I feel cheated.
“My boyfriend who I thought loved me, knocked me out, poured gasoline on me, and set me on fire because he found out that I wanted to leave him. The police never found him, and I’ve never felt safe. I’m sorry I’ve been having trouble adjusting to life after that. I didn’t know there was a specific healing period.” I can’t help the tone of my voice, it’s hurt and quivering. “He tried to kill me. I’ll never be the same person ever again.”
Their faces hold matching expressions: pity. “Just let me get some rest so I can go back to see Tyson, and then I will find somewhere new to live.”
My mother jumps to her feet. “Bryce, we never said you can’t live here.”
I glower back at her. “No, you didn’t, but I think it’s time I move out. I’ve been a nuisance far too long.”
My father stands, puffing out his chest. “Now Bryce, don’t be silly.”
I stare him down, my eyes cold and firm. “It’s time for me to grow up. Throw me in the deep end, see how long I can keep my head above water.”
Linda doesn’t dare interrupt our squabble, instead she just sits back and watches it all go down.
“Fine,” my father says, although glaringly unhappy. “Go on.”
I don’t waste another second, instead just run up the stairs and to my room. I know I am overreacting, but it’s not the time nor place to be focused on my issues. Tyson is fighting for his life. That is what is important. It’s been all about me for the past year. It’s time to shift the focus.