Sometime later, I finally make it back to the house. Uncle Ted and a few other relatives have set up camp in the den. My parents corner me in the laundry room.
“What the hell happened?” Dad asks, adopting the same no-nonsense tone of voice he uses with his patients. “Your mother and I are concerned.”
Concerned. I hate the ambiguity of that word, the way it echoes back to moody teachers and slave-driving swim coaches. I’m concerned about Avery’s ability to balance swimming and schoolwork. I’m concerned about Avery’s adjustment to high school. I’m concerned about Avery’s low self-esteem . . .
“I don’t have PTSD.”
He swallows hard, momentarily thrown by this response. “No one said you did.”
“You think that’s what it is, though. I can tell.”
He searches my face again. No one in this household tosses that word around lightly; my grandfather had what came to be known as PTSD, a product of his time spent in Vietnam. He put a bullet in his brain when my dad was five. “Avery,” he finally says, “we’d like you to see someone. That’s all.”
“Who?”
He glances at my mom, who nods to confirm her approval. I wonder how many times they’ve rehearsed this conversation.
“We were thinking about Rachel Shriver.”
“Who’s that?”
“One of my colleagues at Mass General. She specializes in . . .” He takes a breath, skipping over that Unspeakable Word. “Issues like yours.”
“What kind of issues?”
For the first time ever, he struggles to produce a response.
Mom rubs my arm. “Don’t be defensive. We’re just trying to do what’s best for you.”
“Rachel knows how to handle this,” Dad adds.
“This what? You’re not even telling me what you think is wrong.” I pull my hood off, even though that makes the circles under my eyes more obvious.
“I made an appointment for you on Friday.” His initial hesitation evaporates in the setting of renewed paternalistic conviction. “You will be there, whether you want to go or not.”
“Dad—”
“This conversation is over.”
“Lee’s coming in on Friday! What am I supposed to do, make him sit in the waiting room with a bunch of schizophrenics?”
“Do not make light of this, Avery. I’ve seen what can happen to people like you.”
“I’m not gonna shoot myself.”
I’ve gone too far. His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t say anything. The silence is even worse than the sting of an unwinnable argument. The silence tells me I’ve upset him, disrespected him, and, worst of all, disappointed him.
I brush by them and run upstairs. My muscles feel fluid again, my toes and fingers working in finely tuned coordination. That leaves the damage that no one can see, the demons that no one can tame with operations or physical therapy. And I know, deep down, that Rachel Shriver can’t quiet them, either.
In the end, I decide not to face any of it. I stay in my room for the whole night, while our curious relatives mill about the house and my parents make excuses for my absence. Only Edward, the youngest of my older brothers, dares to come upstairs. He knocks on my door just before midnight, soft and somehow comforting. He doesn’t come in—just whispers a quiet “Merry Christmas,” then descends the stairs in the telltale pattern of a natural athlete. The next morning, I find his gift outside my door: a new swimsuit, cap, and goggles, for the ones I lost on the plane. His card reads: Some things never change. Love, Edward.
All I can think is, Yes, Edward, they do.
•
The day after Christmas, Edward pounds on my door at dawn. “Time for a run!”
I’m awake, but that doesn’t change my distaste for early mornings. “Go away,” I mumble.
“Not going away!” He opens the door a crack and tosses a pair of dirty running shoes inside. They land on the hardwood floors with a heavy thump.
“That’s not going to convince me!” I yell after him.
“Then Dad’ll take you to the ER for the day. You can deal with all the hungover Santas.”
Ten minutes later, I’m outside. The temperature is in the teens, with a biting wind that pricks my eyes. When we step off the porch, the dry chill takes me back to other things, other memories. Edward senses this and takes my hand, which he hasn’t done since we were kids. “You’ll be all warmed up in no time,” he says. “Trust me.”
I was never a runner. The rush of air against my face always made my eyes water—not that I was ever running fast enough to experience any great rush of anything. The rumble of cement under my feet made my bones ache, and every misstep turned into a stumble. Swimming suited me much better. In the water, I always felt at home.
But I have to admit, this isn’t so bad. Edward has always run with the grace of a gazelle and the focus of a marine, but today, he falls into a gentle pace beside me. The air warms up a bit, or maybe that’s just the blood in my veins. The sky is a pale robin-egg blue, the bluest it gets in December. Partially melted snow lines the sidewalks, shoveled aside to make way for a steady stream of pedestrians. For now, it’s all ours. Brookline sleeps alongside its residents, awaiting the brunt of mall traffic later this afternoon.
Edward gives me plenty of time to find my stride, and much to my surprise, it finally happens as we cross into Allston. When Edward starts talking, I’m shocked to discover I can answer him without gasping for air.
“So,” he says, the hint of a smirk on his face, “had enough of Mom and Dad yet?”
I smile at this, relieved by the question. Edward gets it; he grew up with them, too. “I’d say that’s a true statement.”
“They mean well, but they go about things the wrong way sometimes.”
“Yeah.”
“Most of the time.”
“Especially Dad.”
Edward nods, but he seems distracted by a memory. “I didn’t ask them about you. Figured it’s your business if you want to talk about it.”
We round the corner onto Commonwealth Ave and continue our charge toward the Charles River. The occasional early-morning riser—those of the nubile, female variety—steals a look at Edward, whose lean frame and natural stride have always turned ladies’ heads. He’s a professional athlete, after all.
“I’m quitting the team,” he says. I trip on a curb, and he rights me with one swift motion without breaking stride. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I breathe, but it’s hard to get the word out. Edward’s quitting?! I thought I’d hear about my dad’s conversion to naturopathy before Edward quit playing baseball. “Why . . . How . . .”
“I’m not enjoying it anymore.”
“Enjoying it? You make like a billion dollars a year.”
He smiles, but it’s missing something. “Six-point-four million, actually. And you’re right, no one plays pro sports for fun. At least, not strictly for fun. The money is king.”
“You don’t like the money?”
He laughs. “Money isn’t everything.”
“Dad would disagree.”
“Believe me, I know.”
“You told him?”
He nods. “Christmas morning, actually. Not the best timing, but it’s hard to get his attention on a nonholiday.”
A thousand thoughts flood my mind, none of them coherent. “Wow.” I dodge the next curb, though I’ve lost all sense of direction at this point. “So what’s the plan now?”
“I dunno. I’ve got a few things cooking.”
“Wow.”
“You keep saying that.”
We come to a red light, and Edward slows to a full stop. For the first time since we left the house, we’re standing face-to-face. His eyes are a bright, familiar green, full of boyish wonder. It’s no surprise he’s devoted most of his life to a game. “Why, Edward? Why now?”
He sighs, his breath fogging white as the wind whips around us. “Because I want to make a difference. Do something I love—and not just for me but for somebody else. Life’s too short to pursue selfish interests.”
“Baseball isn’t selfish. You love it.”
“I do love it. But something’s been missing for a long time.” The light turns green, but neither one of us moves. “Plus with my shoulder these last few years, always playing in pain . . . it’s just not worth it anymore. I gave it a good go, and now I’m ready for other things.”
“A good go? Edward, you’re amazing. I see kids all over the place with your jersey on.” Liam, for example. The image of his bloodstained jersey flutters to mind, then fades away.
He laughs. “Probably got ’em from the sales bin.”
I roll my eyes, but he doesn’t see it. We start up again, a slow return to our previous pace. A renewed blast of cold air greets us as we come upon the Charles River. It finds the water, too, churning the surface with a savage anger. I turn away from the river, focusing instead on the blacktop under my feet.
“Did my, um, experience have anything to do with this?”
He slows but doesn’t stop. I’ve shaken his stride—a first. “To be honest, yes. It had a lot to do with it.”
“How so?”
“I thought you were gone.” His voice falters, but I can’t tell if it’s from fatigue or something else. “I thought . . .” He finds his stride again. “I know it’s cliché, but I realized how short life is. How unpredictable it can be.”
“So what are these things you’ve got cooking in LA?”
He shakes his head. “I’m moving back to Boston, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“When?”
“Spring, if I can manage it. I have to sell the house, break up with the girlfriend—”
“You have a girlfriend? You never tell me anything anymore.”
“Sorry, lame joke.” His guilty grin makes me laugh. “No girlfriend. But I do have to sell the house.”
It’s been so long since any of us lived at home—or even in the vicinity of home. After high school, we all fled to the West Coast: Los Angeles, Seattle, San Francisco. As Edward says, it’s easy to move away; it’s harder to come back. Temporary situations become permanent. Relationships complicate things and change priorities. Career goals dictate the future. At school, most rising juniors spend the summer on campus, doing internships that put them in a good position for senior year and beyond. I’ve already had a dozen offers. Everyone wants to work with Avery Delacorte, Plane Crash Survivor.
It would be nice, though, to see Edward more. To talk to him when the world feels like it’s closing in on me, as it so often does these days.
“So what about you?” he asks. “Any big plans on the radar?”
“Aside from going back to school?”
“Are you going back to school?”
I shrug. “I feel like I’ve worn out my welcome around here.”
“Nah. Dad’ll put you to work if you stick around.”
“Great,” I mutter.
“You know you secretly like it.”
“Medicine? With Dad? It’s like boot camp that never ends.”
“Uh-huh.”
We run in silence for a long time. My knees ache, but it’s a purifying kind of pain. With each stride, it feels as though I’m banishing a period of permanent stasis. I never thought Boston would be the place for this to happen, especially in December. It’s cold; it’s miserable. Everything’s gray. And yet, when we round the corner onto our street, I’m ready to run another mile.
Our house pulses with a cozy wintry light, inviting us in. We go in through the back, so as to spare my mother’s hardwood floors. Edward kicks off his shoes and rubs his hands together to warm them. As he tosses my hat and gloves into the dryer, I can’t help but think that for the first time in weeks, my house doesn’t feel like a cave. It feels like a home.
“Thanks,” I say. Thank you for the present. For the run. For not asking questions. For being my brother.
“No problem,” he says.
Then he hugs the crap out of me, and I’m grateful for that, too.