The Truth About That Summer

eighty-seven

I never should have left.

The thought pings around my head like a pinball, a familiar sense of guilt threatening to cloud everything else that's replaced it recently.

Months later and I'm back here again, maybe before I'm really ready to be. I should've went to bed that night instead of the bus station. Saved us all the hassle.

I'm still beating myself up when a doctor strides down the hall towards us. I almost jump from my chair, until I see that she's just headed to the nurses station, not to the waiting area. Disappointment floods over the guilt for a second.

Hospital sounds buzz in my ears, the squeaks of rubber soled shoes across the floors, machines whirring, people talking, crying. Waiting.

I don't like it.

If I hadn't left, I wouldn't be here right now, waiting on a doctor to tell me good news.

Because it has to be good news. It has to be, it has to be, it has to be. My foot taps the tiled floor rapidly.

I should've been here.

My gaze drifts from the important looking physician in her crisp white coat to the expectant faces practically burning holes through my skull.

My parents sit side by side across the waiting room from where I'm sitting. Dad keeps stroking Mom's hand, somehow managing to look at me more intently than he has in years while poorly pretending to read a magazine. Mom is all but falling out of her chair, trying to lean in closer to me, even though I'm way across the room.

I meet their eyes quickly before checking the time on my phone.

We've been here, waiting, for half an hour. I've been able to hold them off this long.

I stare at the doctors back, willing her to turn around and talk to us. To tell us something.

Mom leans in closer, "Dylan?" she tries, grabbing my focus again.

Meeting her eyes directly, I shake my head. "Not until I see Grams."

The way she looks at me, like she's chomping at the bit, ready to bulldoze her way in... I hope she doesn't. I had time to think about this on the bus ride back, I have a plan. An order to how I want to do this. She'll give me that, after everything.

I check the time again.

I stare down the hall, the faint chemical smell of the hospital stinging my nose, and rest my head on the wall behind me.

I couldn't have stayed here. I had to leave.

I don't remember much about my first day at the social services center - the one Luke sent me a link to. It's all a bit of a blur.

Someone must've asked why I was seeking them out, what they could assist me with. I must've shown them the support group sign-up confirmation email.

I must've filled out paperwork of some kind. I must've waited for someone to meet with me, since I had just walked in, no prior appointment scheduled. I hadn't thought to call ahead.

Luckily, someone was available. A young woman - younger than I thought shrinks were supposed to be - named Jacquelyn. She said she often went by Jax, if I was comfortable with that.

I wasn't comfortable at all. Living hurt. Breathing air, eating food, simply existing took more effort than I knew how to handle.

I told her I'd call her Jax.

Jax must've asked me some questions and I must've answered them. I didn't have it in me to deny how poorly I was doing anymore - that took too much effort, too. So I told her everything, both versions of the story.