Chapter 43
It's quiet,save for the rhythmic beeping coming from the heart monitor.
The door to his hospital room has been left open, but we're far enough from the nurse's station, that except for the occasional sound of passing footsteps, or a distant voice over a loudspeaker, it's so silent I can almost imagine we're someplace else.
Like his bedroom.
Or mine.
Sniffing, I scoot my chair closer to his bedside, my gaze dragging from the machine showing his steady heart rate, back to the face I just can't seem to bear to look away from for more than a few seconds. Not since I got here twenty minutes ago.
His nose wrinkles, ever so slightly, and I straighten in my seat, holding my breath.
He's been asleep since they let me in his room. But every now and then he makes a sound, or moves the slightest bit, making me wonder if this is the time he'll finally wake up.
According to Sherry, he was in and out consciousness when the ambulance arrived early this morning—minutes after she'd administered the Narcan. When he first arrived, they had to intubate him, but fortunately he'd started breathing on his own within a couple hours.
Then and only then did they move him upstairs, and allow visitors aside from his mom.
I told Waylon to go first, after Gavin had his turn, but he just shook his head and said, "I can't…I can't see him like this. I'm sorry."
And then he was gone, with Ivy racing after him.
It's evening now. Late enough that the sun has already started to set, bathing the room in shadows. Sherry had stopped in a few moments ago, and said he'd probably be waking up soon. She gave me a small, tired smile, and asked me to call her when he does.
There's a sniff, and a low moan, pulling me back to the present once more, and then my gaze drops to where the hand hooked up to the IV clenches and releases near his thigh.
He stills, just as I do, as if realizing there's something there. Just before he can tear it away with his other hand, I lurch forward, and catch the wrist not hooked up to a machine just in time.
"Hey," I say in a hush. "Don't do that. It's okay."
His eyes fly open, swinging to mine, and my lungs stall at the sight.
I wet my lips, and slowly ease away from him, sitting back down, not tearing my gaze from his bleary, dilated eyes.
"Jer?" he barely manages to scrape out.
Swallowing tightly, I nod. "Yeah, I'm here."
His face creases, and he shakes his head.
Clamping my hands together so tight my bones creak, I tell him, "You're in the hospital. But you're gonna be okay."
Is he though?
His frown only deepens, as if he heard my doubts. "I–" He starts coughing, and I quickly grab the cup of water on his table, and a straw.
"Here," I murmur, helping him bring it to his lips. His fingers tremble, and he scowls when the IV gets in his way. "Slow, okay?"
He does as I say, and when he leans away from it, I set the cup back down, and go to stand. "I'm gonna get your mo?—"
"Wait."
Clenching my fists, I ease back down, and meet his confused gaze.
He looks so lost…more lost than I think I've ever seen him.
And try as I have been to avoid taking in too many details as he laid here unconscious, now…now I can't help but see just how rundown he looks. Skinny and ragged and devoid of something I can't quite pinpoint. Like a light in him has been snuffed out.
If it weren't for the shaggy, wavy light brown hair curling around his ears, and the pale blue irises peeking out around his pupils…I almost wouldn't recognize him.
His chin quivers, and he says, "Phoebe?"
I clamp my jaw and nod. "She's fine." I pause. "Well, as fine as any twelve year old can be after finding her older brother seizing and choking on his own vomit."
His eyes widen, growing watery.
I open my mouth to say sorry, but close it at the last second.
Because the last thing I am right now is sorry.
Chin quivering, he nods, and if I'm not mistaken it's…it's gratitude I see reflected back at me.
"Did you do it on purpose?" I ask him, point-blank.
His mouth opens, closes, and…and something in me dies at the guilt etched across his face. My face hardens, and I spit, "Fuck you."
"That's not…" When his voice fails, he clears his throat, and tries again. "I didn't do it to kill myself." He quickly shakes his head. "I don't…I don't know what happened. I just…"
"You just what?" I grit out.
His chapped lips shiver. Shrugging a shoulder, he lowers his gaze and says, "I don't know."
"And I think you're lying."
He swallows with an audible click, and winces.
"They had to stick a tube down your throat. To help you breathe."
Sucking his cheeks in, making them look even hollower than they already are, he nods.
"You're lucky your Mom had Narcan in the house."
He whispers, near soundlessly, "I know."
I stare at him.
His eyes lift to mine, searing me with their intensity—their silent pleas for something…understanding? Forgiveness? Hell if I know.
"I know," he says again.
And it hits me. He did do this on purpose…but not to die. To be saved.
"Mason…" My voice breaks.
"I'm so sorry."
I scrunch up my face, shaking my head. "How could you?"
"Jer—"
"Did you even, for one fucking second, think about what this would do to me? What if no one got to you in time? What the fuck were you thinking?"
His eyes brighten impossibly more.
I claw fingers into my chest. "You and my parents are all that keep me going sometimes."
Tears well, dampening and darkening his lashes.
I'm not really sure where this is all coming from, but whatever dam had been keeping them back seems to be well and truly demolished. My face bunches and I shake my head. "I can't lose you too. I hate you so much right now, but I can't—I can't—" My voice stutters out into gasps, and I cover my face.
There's a sniff, a creaking of the bed, and then fingers are curling around my wrists, over my sleeves.
At first I resist, but after the third tug, and the most broken, soft utterance of my name I've ever heard— "Jeremy." —I let him lower my hands.
He searches my burning eyes, almost like he's waiting for something.
And I stare back, waiting for him to look away.
He frowns, brows stitched together. "I think I…I had a dream…"
I snort softly. "Oh?"
"Yeah…but I…I can't remember…"
"Cool."
"I'm…I'm sorry."
I shake my head.
"For scaring you, I mean. For…for hurting you. For everything, I'm…I'm sorry."
Jaw working, I shrug, not sure what to even say to that. He did hurt me. He should be sorry. And it's not okay. So what the fuck else is left?
I stare down at the fingers still circling my wrists, and I wet my lips.
He falls back against the bed, but doesn't release my wrists, just holds them on his lap, making it so I have to scoot closer until I'm all but leaning over the bed.
He blinks up at the ceiling and swallows a couple times. "Fuck."
"Mason…"
A long moment passes, before he chokes out, "Yeah?"
"You made me promise you once, that I'd…I'd never hurt myself again."
He tenses, and his gaze snaps to me, widening, then down to my wrists.
"I didn't," I quickly say, but he's already shoving my sleeves up. Rolling my eyes, I flip my hands over, fighting a shiver when he traces the insides of my wrists with his thumbs. "See?"
With the exception of some faint scarring, there's nothing there.
"You haven't…"
"Not since that day."
His eyes lift to mine.
I search his gaze. "Will you promise me the same?"
A slight frown forms between his eyes.
"You'll stop. Get clean. If not for you, then do it for me."
He presses his lips together, bleaching them of color. His jaw trembles something fierce, just like the fingers that still trail my wrists, and he nods jerkily.
"Say it."
"I promise," he rasps.
I nod, resisting the sudden intruding impulse to make him pinky swear—spit on it.
We haven't done that since we were kids… Izzy, me, Mason, Waylon…
"Jer…did you mean it? What you said that night, in your kitchen. Did you…are you sure?"
I stare at him for a long beat. "I don't feel her. I feel nothing."
His fingers retreat, and he thrusts his head back in the pillow, glaring fiercely at the ceiling like he could ward off the impending tears through sheer force of will alone.
"Mason," I say quietly, but firmly.
He shakes his head.
"Look at me."
His jaw ticks, and I can practically hear his teeth mashing behind his hollowed cheeks. Finally, he does as I say.
"Maybe…maybe it's for a reason." My chest spasms, and I take a deep breath, giving myself one last chance to debate whether or not this is the right thing to do. I spent hours in the waiting room, replaying through these last couple years, wondering how we went from two seventeen year old kids sharing doubts about the future…
To this.
"If she was dead, I'd feel that, right?" I blurt, my voice hitching.
His eyes widen, flaring brightly.
"I've never felt her." I press a hand to my chest. "My entire life. Not like how she said she could feel me—sense me." I shake my head. "Why would that change now, when she's the furthest away from me she's ever been?"
He sits up a little straighter, and while a piece of me withers at the hope rounding his eyes, the rest of me?
Well the rest of me is also clinging to every word that falls from my lips, because up until this moment, I never let myself even consider just why I've been so numb. And yeah, it's…irrational, and maybe a little convoluted. Hell, selfish.
But if this is what Mason needs…
I lift a shoulder. "If she really did die, I think I would've felt that."
This time, a tear manages to escape, spilling down his cheek. "Y-yeah?"
I nod. "I mean, it makes more sense than this…this emptiness I feel. If she was dead, I'd be in fucking agony, right?" My voice cracks as a sad, shaky smile breaks across my face
The sound that bursts out of him is half-sob, half-laugh.
Shaking his head, he tips it back, blinking rapidly up at the ceiling as his breathing quickens, growing more unsteady by the second. I dart my gaze between him and the heart monitor that starts beeping faster, and say, "Hey, it's okay."
"I-I know. I j-just?—"
Scooting forward, I grab his wrist, being mindful of the tubes and wires, and say, "Hold your breath."
He does immediately.
And just like every time this has happened, I talk him through it.
"Five seconds, okay?" I wait for his jerky nod. "Give yourself five seconds. Feel the burn…feel it all."
He wets his lips, and then seals them together, neck tendons straining, nostrils flaring as he closes off his airways.
And I count aloud for him, rubbing my thumb over a spot on his forearm. His skin is cool and clammy to the touch. And even though he's holding as still as can be, there's a faint tremor to his limbs that is unmistakable, telling us both that the worst of withdrawal is still yet to come. Hell, it's only been hours.
And still, he holds his breath, waiting until I tell him to exhale.
"Five—"
He gasps, and the heart monitor goes a little crazy as he coughs.
"And let it go," I whisper.
Minutes pass as he collects himself.
"I need to get your mom," I tell him, and again go to scoot back, when he stops me.
"Wait." With jerky movements, he brings his hands together, feeling around his fingers. His eyes widen, and dart around. "The ring. Where's the?—"
Frowning, I shake my head. "I don't?—"
He sits up and looks over to where there's a bag on the counter along the wall, next to the sink. "There. My stuff."
Oh.
I go grab it and bring it back to him, helping him get it open. He digs through it, ignoring his phone and wallet. When he finds what he's looking for, he stills, his shoulders slumping with something like relief.
"Here," he says tiredly, extending his clenched fist.
I open my hand, and he drops the ring I let him borrow over a year ago into my waiting palm. For a moment I just stare at it—at the silver star surrounded by red and blue.
"Mason…"
He swallows with an audible click, and flops back against the bed. "I think it's…time I…learn to…be strong on my own," he pants.
I blink, and clench my fingers around the ring, the metal cool against my clammy skin.
Mason's eyes are screwed shut when I look up at him, and he looks a little more ashen than he did a second ago. Like that mini panic attack and burst of movement wiped out whatever energy he had, that was keeping him upright.
I slide the ring on my middle finger—it's still too big, so I have to make a fist to keep it from sliding off. Digging out my phone, I'm just about to hit Call on Sherry's contact, when I pause.
"Mason?"
He cracks an eye open.
I give him a nod. "Whatever it takes, okay? You tell yourself whatever it takes to survive." A beat. "I need you."
And if that means staking residence in this limbo—committing to a delusion, a pipe dream, hope…
Then so be it. For him. Whatever keeps him here.
Whatever it takes.
His jaw solidifies, sharpening, eyes blazing back at me. And a hard swallow works its way down his throat.
He nods against the pillow. "Just gotta…hold my breath and count to ten, right?" He wets his lips. "Every breath after that…it'll be a little easier."
My mouth twitches, and tears build behind my eyes. "Yeah, that's right," I choke out.
"I'll see ya when I get out," he says.
And I realize, just like I did earlier, how intentional all this was.
Why it had to get to this point, I have no idea, but what's important is we're here. Rock bottom. There's only up from here.
"Yeah, Mase Face. You'll see me when you get out."
He grins, and another tear slides down his face.
And without another word, I turn away, taking Mason's shield with me, and praying he'll survive without it.