Tammy—not Dr. Sorenson because she just wants us to chat—asks me how I feel. It’s her favorite question.
Matthew was a lunatic.
How does that make you feel?
I watched little kids die.
How does that make you feel?
He beat Kevin to death right in front of me and then made me dig his grave.
How does that make you feel?
Honestly, Tammy, I feel scared and happy and mad and sad and all of that at the exact same time. And I’m really freaked about leaving the hospital and its warm beds, fluffy pillows, three meals a day, nurses checking on me, and security guards on the doors.
The doctors are freaked too. I heard one of them telling Heather I should stay longer so they can make sure the antibiotics are working, my stomach is handling food okay, and my wounds are healing. She reminded him she was a nurse and could do those things and still get me back to the hospital for follow-ups. He finally agreed to the discharge as long as she kept bringing me back to talk to Tammy.
Psychiatrist—a medical doctor who diagnoses and treats mental, emotional, and behavioral disorders.
Which means they think I’m crazy.
I figured Tammy would object to me leaving, too, but she didn’t. “I think going home will be good for you. Your own bed. Your own space. How does that make you feel?”
Argh.
“I don’t belong there.”
“Why do you say that? Where do you belong?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t deserve to be there.”
She’s wearing one of her bright knit sweaters. This one is purple and green with giant blue snowflakes. I guess they’re supposed to make you feel happy, but I find them distracting. She leans forward with her notebook clutched in her lap. “Don’t you want things to get back to normal?”
“Normal? Why do I get normal when they don’t?”
“Ah. Sounds like you’re feeling some survivor’s guilt today.”
We’ve talked lots about this. Damn straight, I’m suffering from survivor’s guilt. I’m alive, and they’re all dead. All those little kids. I can’t even remember all their faces. Or their names. I’ve tried. They were scared and hungry and tired. He did awful things to them, and now they’re dead. And I can barely remember some of them, just like I can’t remember my past.
The hiker too. A nice guy tried to help us, and all it got him was dead.
Mostly, I feel guilty that I survived and Kevin didn’t. What if Matthew had beaten me to death instead? He was right—it was my responsibility to make sure everyone followed the rules. Never let them see you. If Matthew had taken it out on me, then Kevin would still be alive, recovering in a hospital room with his family around him and going home.
Kevin knew the rules. He called out, but it was my fault. I should have stopped him. Maybe if I had, we both would have escaped and survived.
“Kevin deserves to be going home. Not me.”
“You deserve this, Jaxon. You’ve earned it.”
I know she’s wrong. I haven’t earned it at all. But they take me home anyway. We slip out one of the back entrances and past the dumpsters to Connor’s waiting pickup truck. We drive around the building, and they point to the main entrance and laugh. A pair of sheriff’s department cars are parked there with the doors open, as if they were going to pick someone up. Reporters and cameramen crowd around them, taking pictures and shouting questions.
Decoy—Something used to draw attention away from another.
We drive through some neighborhoods of small one-story houses with front porches and sidewalks, all looking more or less the same to me, until we pull into one of the driveways. A bundle of brightly colored balloons is tied to the mailbox. A sign proclaiming “Welcome Home, Jaxon!” is staked in the front yard.
Inside the house, Heather says we should relax in our room while she heats a casserole for a big celebration lunch. “Don’t worry. We have enough food to last ’til kingdom come. I think everyone in town brought something over.”
Connor pushes open the door to his room—he keeps saying “our,” but I can’t do that yet—and we go in.
He scoops a wadded-up T-shirt off the floor and tosses it into a basket then sits on the bed pushed up against a wall by the window. Tennis shoes and boots are on the floor. The desk between the two beds has a laptop and a pile of comic books. His bed has a red-and-black patterned quilt. The pillow sticks out from underneath it. He waves his arm around. “So what do you think?”
Posters are tacked to the light-blue walls. The first one that catches my eye is a bright-red car flying down an open highway. “Wow.”
“That’s a Lamborghini.”
“You going to get one?”
He laughed. “Sure. With my next raise.”
“Is that a friend of yours?” I point to a guy with a white-and-blue jersey, holding a football.
“Cam Newton? We don’t exactly hang out, but he’s cool.”
“And…” I point at the next poster, a guy in shorts, shooting a basketball.
“Stephen Curry. Also not a friend.”
“And him? Does he play sports?” A guy in blue jeans leans against a pickup truck.
“Blake Shelton. Plays awesome music.”
“Is she your girlfriend?” A beautiful woman with long blond hair thrown seductively over her shoulder.
“Carrie Underwood? In my dreams.”
I study the posters. “Where do you get all of the pictures?”
“Mostly at a consignment store downtown. We can get you some.”
I nod slowly. “I don’t know people like this.”
“They don’t have to be people. Maybe we can get you a sunrise coming over the mountains. I’ve seen some like that down there.”
I walk over to the closet and run my hands down the clothes. The closet is full of his jeans and shirts and hoodies and coats. “Whose clothes are these?”
“Mine.”
“All these are yours?” I’ve never had more than a pair of pants and a shirt, and they had to last until he remembered to get something else, which wasn’t often.
“You can try them on if you want. I’ve got old stuff in there too small for me. Maybe they will fit.”
I look over at him sprawled in the bed. He’s not big like Horace back at the hospital, but he’s still tall and muscular. I’m just short and skinny. I don’t see how any of his stuff can fit me.
“We can find you clothes down at the consignment store too. Or the Walmart out by the interstate. Don’t worry. Plenty of room in the closet.”
I walk over to my side of the room and touch the bed with my hand. It has a picture of a guy holding what looks like a sword. I point at it and look at Connor with a question on my face.
“Star Wars. You used to really like it.”
I walk over to a small bookcase with little kids’ picture books and action figurines. I pick up one who looks just like the guy on my bedspread.
“Mom didn’t want to change everything.” He leaned back against the wall. “I guess I didn’t, either. We even kept all your pants and shirts in those drawers.”
I sit down on the bed and look around.
“Don’t worry, Jax. We can change it all. Get you stuff. Make it home again.”
Connor’s side of the room grew and evolved over the years. My side, however, is as lost as that little kid was ten years ago. It tells me again how little I belong here.
Connor’s nice. I like him, really, but he’s not a brother to me like Kevin is.
Was.
We shared the darkness together. Brothers of the dark.
But here I am. Missing my brother and gaining one at the same time.
It’s not right.
I don’t belong here.