“Why don’t you ever do anything with J-Dog?” I ask, standing up straight and turning to face her. “Do you ever go out? I never see you together outside of school.”
“Oh,” she says. “Yeah, it’s basketball season, so . . .” She shrugs like she doesn’t care, but her eyes give her away.
“So after basketball season, you’ll go out more?”
“Well.” She laughs lightly. “Then baseball starts.”
“Summer?”
“Golf. His dad’s a pro. Jason caddies at the club. And then there are the guys, his friends.”
I just look at her. And I feel really bad. I do. Because even though I want her so bad my balls are turning blue, I realize, in this moment, that she’s my friend. She’s like my first real friend since I got my life back. “I’m sorry,” I say. And I really mean it.
“S’okay.” She laughs a little, and it sounds hollow. “Sometimes I’m not sure why I keep waiting around for him to be done with everything else.”
I nod, and it’s a soft moment, all quiet and contemplative. “You know where to find me if you get lonely.” And I feel half desperate for saying it and half like I’m actually figuring out how to be a good person, all at once.
“I know,” she says. She leans in for a hug, and I can feel her warm sigh down my shirt collar.
Thursday comes, and after school, we all pile into
the car to drop off Gracie at Grandpa and Grandma’s while the rest of us go to see Dr. Frost. “She’s hot,” I say to Blake as we settle into the backseat. He doesn’t respond, but I see him smirk a little.
Dr. Frost asks to see Blake and Dad first, since she hasn’t met them. She thinks that will help put us all on a fair playing field. So Mama and I sit in the waiting room, paging through magazines. Not talking. Just waiting. I look up at the ceiling fan, which is going slowly, and I picture a helicopter crashing down into the room.
That would get me out of this.
Finally, Dr. Frost comes to get us.
I flash Blake a look when I walk in, as if to say,
Didn’t I tell you she was hot?
but his arms are crossed over his chest and he’s stone-faced, staring at the carpet. Dad sits next to him and isn’t smiling.
It feels a little weird. I glance at Mama, giving Dad a puzzled look. He frowns. We sit down on the sofa, facing Blake and Dad, and Dr. Frost sits in her chair.
“First, I already said this to Blake and Paul,” Dr. Frost says, “but I wanted to say it again. I think it’s terrific that you all are here and trying to work out some of these issues. You have a unique situation that comes with a unique set of problems, and this is new for all of you. So we’ll work through this together the best that we can, all right?”
I nod and picture the happy family in my head, the one I want to be a part of. Something good warms up my insides when Dr. Frost talks like this, and I feel like I can do whatever it takes to have that.
“Great,” Dr. Frost says. She looks at a notepad in her lap. “First, Ethan, I know this is hard, but I’d like for you to recount some of what you told me about your years with Eleanor, so that Blake and your dad can hear them firsthand.”
I take a deep breath. I wasn’t expecting to have to relive the last session. Mama grabs my hand and squeezes it, but I pull away—it’s distracting.
And I do it for Dr. Frost. I tell it all again. But I don’t look at Blake. I don’t want to see how he reacts. I pretend I’m talking just to Dr. Frost, and I actually get through it without going into hysterics, which is a total relief.
“Thank you,” she says. “Now, Blake, your turn. Why don’t you say what’s on your mind, like you did earlier, before your mom and brother came in.”
My stomach flutters.
Blake shifts in his chair.
“Blake?”
He shakes his head. “I changed my mind,” he says. “I don’t have to say it. I’m not going to. This is stupid.”
I look quickly from Dr. Frost to Dad to Blake, and then I glance at Mama, who is trying to act calm, but I can see her gripping the sofa arm. Her fingernails are white.
Dr. Frost addresses Blake. “No, you don’t have to say it. I think it would be a good idea if you did, though.”
He shakes his head. “No. I really don’t think so.” He gets up. “I’m going to the waiting room.” And then he walks out and shuts the door, hard, behind him. Dad gets up and goes after him.
Mama and I watch him go. And I can’t help it. I get a lump in my throat.
“Dr. Frost,” Mama says, “is Blake . . . can you tell us what . . . ?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t. But I’m sure you can tell he’s dealing with some anger issues. He just needs to work through them.”
I look at my knees and think about our messed-up family. And really, for the first time, I don’t think it’s me that’s so messed up.
That night, Dad and I work on my bedroom again, and it’s almost done. The weekend should do it, he says. We don’t talk about the session, but Dad gives me a hug before he turns in, which is different. And good, I think.
I open up the vents, and as I drift off to sleep, I hear the soft sounds of Mama and Dad talking in their bedroom upstairs. The ceiling creaks above me as I imagine them walking around the bedroom, getting ready for bed.
I am almost asleep when I think I hear Dad say, “Blake doesn’t believe it’s really him.”
My eyes spring open and my stomach muscles
seize up.
“What?” Mama says, incredulous.
“He says he doesn’t understand how anybody can just forget the first seven years of his life. He listed about fifteen things he remembered from when he was seven or younger before Dr. Frost cut him off.”
Mama’s voice gets louder. “Did she explain that it’s normal? Did she tell Blake that it’s common for abducted children to be so traumatized that they forget where they came from? That they often become attached to their abductors as if they are parents?” Mama’s fuming, rattling off her clinical facts like she memorized the textbook, and she’s loud enough that I wonder if Blake can hear her too, from his bedroom, if he’s still awake.
“Shh,” Dad says. His tone rumbles above me but I can’t make out what he’s saying, except for occasional phrases: “. . . talk about it without judging him,” and “. . . I don’t know how long it’ll take . . .”
I can’t breathe. How could Blake say such a thing about me? He thinks I’m a fake? Why is he doing this? He has no idea how awful it feels not to remember him. To hardly remember anything. To think it’ll all come back to me, but it just doesn’t, and it makes me feel so lost.
The usual massive panic crashes into me. I bury my face in my pillow to shield the noise as my body goes out of control and shudders in pathetic, hysterical laughter.
At breakfast, I can’t even look at Blake. It doesn’t
seem to bother him—he’s been ignoring me for days already. Now the animosity is completely mutual. I feel like somebody beat me up. I can’t believe it. I’m grateful for Mama, who gives me an extra-long hug before I head out the door today to the bus stop.
There’s a game tonight. Cami says she’s going, of course. And of course, I am not.
On the bus, Cami’s talking about some English paper she’s writing, and then she pauses midsentence like she’s just seeing my face for the first time. “What’s wrong?”
I look at her, and hell if I don’t almost start bawling. God, she’s just so sweet to even notice. I smile instead and get a grip. “Nothing,” I say. I don’t want to risk any chance of Blake overhearing. I don’t even think I can say the words out loud, they sound so bad.
“No,” she says. “Something’s wrong. You look terrible. Are you sick?”
I shake my head. “Not physically.”
Cami rolls her eyes. “Look, don’t play this game. Just tell me.”
“I can’t talk about it now,” I say. “Too many people around, okay?”
“Oh,” she says. “Okay. This weekend sometime?”
I smile. “Yes.”
She slips her hand in mine and squeezes, and then she lets go. “I’ll text you.”
J-Dog stops by my table at lunch and harasses me about going to the game tonight, but I just give him a look and he backs off. “Sorry, man. It’s not like it’s going to happen again, you know.”
It’s not funny. I don’t know if it ever will be.
At the end of the day, I find out that I tested out of all freshman classes. I’ve got to take geometry with the sophomores, but that’s not nearly as bad as algebra with the freshmen. Same with English and history, but I can take summer classes to catch up to the other juniors if I want. At this point, anything that keeps me away from Blake is a good thing, even summer school. I picture him introducing me to strangers as his fake brother, or announcing it at a basketball game or something. Which is stupid for me to worry about, but my gut seizes up just thinking about more Blake drama—it’s like a reflex.
I wonder how long our feud is going to last?
I walk Cami home, and we’re just talking, but I know she’s got to get ready for the game. “If you’re bored after,” I say, “you can just come around back to the lower-level slider door. I’ll see you, or hear you if you tap the glass. You know, if the game is done early and you don’t have other plans.”
“Or tomorrow,” she says. She looks guilty, like she doesn’t want to tell me she’s finally going out with her boyfriend for once after the game. It’s kind of sweet, really.
“Tomorrow’s fine, too. You’ll text me,” I say, remembering. “Absolutely. Have fun tonight.”
She gives me this deep-eyed look. “I wish you would come.”
I look at the driveway. “Can’t. Gotta finish my bedroom. Almost there—I want to paint in the morning and move my stuff in. I’m tired of sleeping on the floor.”
“Why haven’t you brought your bed downstairs already?”
“Just to piss off Blake after he threw all my shit out into the hallway. Keeping him inconvenienced for as long as possible.”
She laughs. “Sounds like he deserves it. What’s up, anyway?”
I study her face. “You can’t tell anybody. I’m not supposed to know.”
She nods emphatically. “Promise.”
“Blake thinks . . .” Ugh, I can’t say it. I take a breath.
“What?”
“He doesn’t think I’m really his brother. He doesn’t think I’m Ethan.”
Cami stares. “Are you kidding me? What the hell is wrong with him?”
“He’s having a tough time,” I say, and for a second, I almost feel bad for him.
“I had no idea,” Cami says. “I just thought he was jealous.”
“Yeah, there’s that, too,” I say.
“You
have
been getting a lot of attention lately, but still.”
“I know, right?”
She shakes her head, the little balls at the top of her wool hat jiggling. “I’m sorry, Eth. That must feel like total crap. What did your parents say?”
“They don’t know I know. I heard them talking after we went to the shrink yesterday.”
She gives me a quizzical look.
“Family shrink. To help us all deal with everything.”
“It’s good you’re going. Seems like you’re doing better now that you’re back in school, right?”
I grin. “It was kind of a rough start. Getting smoother.”
“So smooth that you want to go to the game? Sit with me?” She bats her eyelashes.
My jaw drops. “You are evil,” I say. “Flirting behind your boyfriend’s back.”
She tilts her head and smiles. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“Evil. I’ve got to go. Work on my room. Yeah.” I take a few steps backward, just getting one more look at her, and then I turn and fly down the street to my house.
When I get home, I find out that Dad took a half day and has all the sanding done and the walls primed for paint, which is extremely awesome. I think they are feeling pretty bad. Mama didn’t even yell at me for not calling after being five minutes late getting home.
I let Gracie help me paint while Dad gets the hinges on the doorframe. I actually know how to do this task. Ellen and I painted one of the crappy apartments we lived in. The landlord got some light pink paint really cheap and said if we painted, we could move in right away and he’d take some money off the rent. So we did it. Here, it’s basic tan, no frills, no fancy colors. Gracie gets her footie pajamas on and then stays up late “helping,” and Mama brings us pizza so we can keep working.
By eleven, the paint is drying, the drop cloths are picked up, the floor is clean, the baseboards are up, and the nail holes are puttied. Gracie’s asleep on my quilt over by the pool table, and I have a bedroom. It’s huge and I love it. I grin at Dad and he claps me on the back. “Thanks, Dad,” I say. “This is awesome.”
He smiles. “We’re getting there.”
As Dad puts paint supplies away and takes care of the brushes, I pick up Gracie to take her to her bedroom. She’s a little lump in my arms, sucking her thumb even though she’s not supposed to anymore. It’s cute. She wraps her other arm around my neck, her head on my shoulder. Never waking up.
Mama’s asleep on the couch, a book on her chest and the TV on low. Blake’s door is cracked open and his light is on, and I’m tempted to take the bed apart tonight and set it up in my room, but I know Dad’s tired and so am I. One more night on the floor won’t kill me. I walk into Gracie’s dark room and lay her down, tucking her in under the blankets. She’s zonked. It makes me happy, you know? To see a little kid all asleep like that, all peaceful, sucking her thumb, her hair a big frizz-mop. . . . It’s so calming. I look at her for another minute, feeling all Zen and smiling, and then a shadow hits the doorway.
I look up and it’s Blake, glaring at me, shattering the peace with the look on his face.
“You stay away from her,” he whispers.
“Fuck off.” I leave Gracie’s room, closing the
door, and Blake is already down the hallway ahead of me, disappearing into his room. I hesitate at his door, and then realize how not worth it that is. At eleven p.m., with Mama asleep and Dad having spent so much time helping me with my room, I figure avoiding controversy is best.