Page 49 of The Time It Takes
They gave him medications for his depression and anxiety, but those could only do so much. He tried physical therapy, but eventually, it just got too expensive, and he had to stop going. Sometimes I was glad that I was young when he passed away and could only remember the best parts. I remembered him always showing up—always being around. Ben was five years older, so I knew he lived with the truth.
Our mom used to be a wonderful mother. She used to cook us dinners. We’d go for walks on the beach, and she’d cheer us on as our father taught us how to surf. That was probably why it hurt more when she left. I was young when I watched my father perform in his first surfing competition. I remembered him winning and the pure joy on his face as he surfed.
It was kind of ironic for the thing you love to also be the thing that killed you.
He had a wild soul and I always thought that was what scared Ben the most—I inherited all of it. I wonder if Ben knew he scared me too.
Times like this were when I wished my mother was around. I couldn’t sleep. Instead, I stayed on the couch and found myself checking on Ben every hour. My eyes ached from the number of times I stood there staring at his chest to make sure he was still breathing.
He was all I had, and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him too.
We were supposed to be in this together. I hated that it had taken me so long to realize he’d been battling something alone.
Eventually, I got up and started cleaning the house as I waited for him to emerge from his room.
Three hours passed before the house was spotless. It was almost noon, and I was starting to worry again just as I heard the click of his bedroom door opening.
His hair was disheveled and the dark circles under his eyes spoke volumes. His eyes briefly touched mine, but he said nothing. I knew guilt was starting to surface and I let him feel it. He padded across the room and once he was in the kitchen, I heard him open the fridge and pour water from the Brita into a glass.
I sat on the couch, waiting.
He must have chugged down the entire glass because I heard him filling it up again—unless he was just buying more time.
When he finally emerged back into the living room, he paused, watching me closely as he brought the glass up to his lips.
“We need to talk,” I told him assertively.You’re not getting out of this easy.
He nodded stiffly before taking a seat on the recliner across from me. He remained silent and I fought the inner conflict of wanting to reason with him, but not wanting to start an argument.
I forced my voice to remain calm. “Why didn’t you tell me that Mom stopped sending money?”
His fingers tightened around the glass, but he shrugged. “I didn’t want you to worry about it.”
“Why?”
“You’re just a kid,” he breathed, his tone exhausted. There was so much pain behind those words that it made my stomach sink.
“I stopped being a kid the moment she left us. You know that.”
“It doesn’t matter.” His voice hardened. “You’re still my responsibility and I’m fucking up.” He set the glass down and dug the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. “I’m a fuck up.”
“You’re not a fuck up,” I whispered. I bit back the anger toward my mother. I hated her so much right now, but my love for my brother overpowered all of it. “We’re each other’s responsibility. She leftus. She’s the fuck up, Ben.”
When he looked at me again, his eyes were red. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” he croaked, shaking his head. “I was stupid.”
“You were,” I agreed, tapping my fingers against the couch.
He snorted at that and the air around us lightened a fraction. I studied him closely and thought back to all the nights I wondered where he was. It hurt to know the truth, but that didn’t stop me from being thankful for it—thankful that Sadie called me.
“How long have you been using?”
I could tell my question bothered him. He flinched like I’d landed a physical blow. “A while.”
“When did it start?”
“Willow—”
“I need to know,” I urged. “Please.”
